If you haven't heard, the American economy is in somewhat of a pickle. There exists only a handful of tyranical, evil-spirited humans we call "the rich," and the rest of us are innocent and struggling. Wouldn't it be just wonderful if someone could take the money from the rich and give it to those who REALLY deserve it? Like me?
Read this article if you want to learn more about what awful, stingy, horned monsters the wealthy are....
Or, allow me to describe the preschool version of the same issue which plays itself out in front of me on a daily basis:
Little Johnny walks into school with a brand, new toy. Most of the other kids admire it from a distance--telling Little Johnny how cool it is and maybe asking to touch it. But, Tiny Tim doesn't want to look or touch. He wants to HAVE the toy. And, luckily, he's armed with the Buzzword of Most Classrooms...
"Miss Amanda, Johnny won't share!!!"
Now, perhaps if I were power-hungry, I would enjoy the opportunity to solve this problem. After all, my preschoolers--like American voters--cannot fix issues themselves. (Right?) They need some sort of authority to step in and make things fair, because they aren't capable of making their own decisions. It's a good thing preschoolers have teachers and Americans have politicians to take control. And, since the definition of "fair" is NOT "keeping whats yours" but rather, "surrendering whenever Timmy is mad," I would force Johnny to share.
However, I am not power-hungry, and my aim is NOT to educate a bunch of co-dependent, open-handed future citizens. Instead, I usually reply:
"Tiny Tim, if you work hard when you're a grown up, you can make lots of money and buy a cool toy like that for yourself."
-----
The adult buzzwords are similar to the classroom's. SOME teachers would force Johnny to give up his toy in the name of the righteous principles of "sharing," just as some politicians act swiftly at the mention of "poverty," the "poor economy," or the "wealthy class." The unbalanced wealth in America is causing many citizens to buy the argument that what we really need is a strong, authoritative teacher to yank the toys away from the wealthy and give them to the deserving, struggling Tims.
Except for one thing. In America, we have the right to be selfish.
Morally, I spend a lot of time talking about the evils of self-obsession and looking-out-for-number one. In fact, I believe selfishness is the single most destructive problem in civilization. But, if even God Himself will not force us to do right--but, rather, gives us the freedom to love ourselves more than others--why do we believe Washington should be the Moral Police? Do we really want to give politicians control of the money--trusting THEM to make the "fair, balanced" decisions?
If I were a kajillionaire, I like to believe I'd be generous. As a God-fearer who wants to obey the command to care for the poor, the widow, and the orphan, I hope I would give endlessly. Even now, as a person who isn't starving, I try to keep my pocketbook open when confronted with the needs of another. But, it's none of my business whether Kobe or Madonna or Trump are charitable with their money. God doesn't force me to love my neighbor, and I can't force them to love theirs, either.
As adults in a free country, Americans are NOT helpless, as I implied earlier, and we do not need somebody to regulate our finances, even when we disagree with the financial choices of another. In a free country, anyone can start a business, make a killing, and keep the entire haul for himself, if he wants--no matter how much Tiny Tim wishes that person would share.
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
Saturday, December 4, 2010
My Background--the Neighborhood
My youth minister once told Tim and I we were the most “normal” homeschooled kids he knew. He didn't know the meaning of the words “politically correct." For that matter, I think he enjoyed making waves with offensive stereotypes like that. But his comment was rooted in the fact that homeschool families are notorious for over-protection. Not all, but many of them live in the country and go to very small churches, where it's difficult for their kids to find friends the same age. The homeschoolers my youth minister complained about were head-smart, but they didn't have real-life experiences. What he meant by his comment was that my brother and I, in contrast, didn't lack exposure to the real world. And, if that's true—if there was anything “normal” about us—I credit the time we spent getting in trouble with our hoodlum, public-school buddies.
In my neighborhood--the downtown area in a city of 50,000 people--kids we had never seen before would show up on their bikes, play our games for a few weeks, and then never be heard from again. A boy named Clinton—who said his different-colored eyes came from the time a policeman threw him down the stairs—never answered questions about where he lived. But, we still played football with him and listened to his dirty jokes until he just stopped coming around. Another kid, a girl with a bowl-cut whose name escapes me, rode up one day with a huge gash on her leg, blood trickling down and collecting in her sock. I tried to look her in the eyes while she said something about the Icecream Man, but I finally asked if she needed a band-aid. “Huh? For this?” And she wiped the blood off with a leaf. I was deeply impressed by her strength and would have become a follower if she had shown up more than a couple times.
But there were seven of us not allowed to cross Taylor Street who formed a core-group for years. Three sets of siblings lived on the same block: my brother and I, Calvin and Wesley, and Drake and Ian, plus, when Cory visited his grandmother, he joined the clique. We all became friends the year the school system put the new bus stop in front of my house. Tim and I liked to sit on the corner after school and wait for the “normal” kids to come back. For the first few days, they stared at us suspiciously as they jumped out of the bus and headed home, but eventually, one of them asked the burning question:
“Why don't you go to school?”
“We do,” I explained. “Our mom teaches us at home.”
“Do you get to wear your pajamas?”
“Sometimes.”(long pause)
“Wanna play football?”
From then on, we did virtually everything together, especially when it came to defending our “property”—the Kingdom that spanned our entire block, from Taylor to Mulberry St. and from Leeds to Lindsay. It was a small territory, but the alleys formed a perfect X in the middle, making it a prime piece of land we felt was prone to attacks. We constantly rehearsed battle tactics using hand-drawn maps, code names, and whatever weapon-like objects we found in garages and figured nobody would miss. If a member of our army stood on each corner of the block and a fifth person parked a bike on the manhole cover where the alleys crossed, the signal from our walkie-talkies reached everybody.
Nobody stepped foot on our soil without our knowledge, and one of two things happened when a stranger crossed that line.Sometimes, as in the case with Clinton and the short-haired girl, we would invite the newcomer to join our ranks and hand him or her a walkie-talkie. However, some undefinable process offered other invaders worse luck. Usually, we would discover that the unknown kid was a notorious trouble-maker in another neighborhood, known for stealing bikes and smashing pumpkins. But even if he or she had a clean record, Calvin, the oldest among us, had the power to label him or her “stupid,” which was an equally good reason for war.
“Get off our property!” one of us would bellow.
“Make me!” This was the standard reply, but, fortunately, Wesley would be ready for it:
“You can't stay here.”
“Can, too. I got rights.” If the kid had been around the neighborhood awhile, he may even use the word “constitution” in his retort. We respected that kind of knowledge, but we had a comeback for it as well.
“Well you're a loser, loser, double loser, as if, whatever, get the picture, duh...”
This was my stone to throw because I was best at memorizing the really cutting insults.
“You are times ten!”
At this point, I may have handed over the reigns to my apprentice, Drake, for the classic: “You're a super-sonic-idiotic-brain-disconnected-ding-dong-double-decker-dork.” But, if we got this far in the battle, we knew we had a worthy opponent. Therefore, Calvin may have broken out the big guns:
“If you don't leave, I'll go get my dad.”
All of us from the block knew that Calvin and Wesley's mom actually was much scarier than their dad. But, historically, kids from other neighborhoods used their dad's names to settle fights. This was a strategic move on Calvin's part.
“Whatever, you're stupid,” the enemy would say as he turned to leave. And all of us would throw our remaining assaults at his retreating back.
“Yeah, and don't come back!”
“Maybe Mommy will make you feel better!” etc.
When we grew tired of scouting and defending, the block allowed for great games of tag, and we turned its ragged sidewalks into bike ramps. Also, if we were lucky, our parents would give us permission to take the alleys past Lindsay Street to Village Pantry, where we bought our candy cigarettes. (Since then, ethically-concerned adults have insisted they be renamed “candy stix,” but I trust that kids still know how to use them.) Though glass-littered and full of potholes, the neighborhood was a dream playground, and we never missed the chance to meet in it every day after school. We'd ride, pretend, and fight for hours until the streetlights came on, or until Mom whistled for us—a sound that could be heard well outside the Kingdom.
I haven't seen any of them in years. A small civil war erupted after my brother broke a tree branch over Wesley's back, but I don't think that alone ended our adventures. A short time after that, there was a fire in Calvin and Wesley's house which killed their mother. Tim and I were home, as usual, when we heard the sirens stop very close. We saw Calvin and Wesley's bus pull up right next to the ambulance...but we didn't know what to say to the boys, so we didn't say anything ever again. And even though their dad repaired the house, we just never repaired the group.
Still, what we had was special. And whether or not it made me “normal,” there's no question my childhood friends helped shape who I am. Something about skinned knees and bare feet on asphalt make a kid grow up right. A little trouble and some candy cigarettes are good for the soul. The seven of us weren't meant to chase enemies off our land forever—it was bound to end at some point. But every time I see kids riding bikes, I smile and wonder which one delivers the best insults or bleeds without crying. It's comforting to know there's a new generation out in the neighborhood, getting a proper education.
In my neighborhood--the downtown area in a city of 50,000 people--kids we had never seen before would show up on their bikes, play our games for a few weeks, and then never be heard from again. A boy named Clinton—who said his different-colored eyes came from the time a policeman threw him down the stairs—never answered questions about where he lived. But, we still played football with him and listened to his dirty jokes until he just stopped coming around. Another kid, a girl with a bowl-cut whose name escapes me, rode up one day with a huge gash on her leg, blood trickling down and collecting in her sock. I tried to look her in the eyes while she said something about the Icecream Man, but I finally asked if she needed a band-aid. “Huh? For this?” And she wiped the blood off with a leaf. I was deeply impressed by her strength and would have become a follower if she had shown up more than a couple times.
But there were seven of us not allowed to cross Taylor Street who formed a core-group for years. Three sets of siblings lived on the same block: my brother and I, Calvin and Wesley, and Drake and Ian, plus, when Cory visited his grandmother, he joined the clique. We all became friends the year the school system put the new bus stop in front of my house. Tim and I liked to sit on the corner after school and wait for the “normal” kids to come back. For the first few days, they stared at us suspiciously as they jumped out of the bus and headed home, but eventually, one of them asked the burning question:
“Why don't you go to school?”
“We do,” I explained. “Our mom teaches us at home.”
“Do you get to wear your pajamas?”
“Sometimes.”(long pause)
“Wanna play football?”
From then on, we did virtually everything together, especially when it came to defending our “property”—the Kingdom that spanned our entire block, from Taylor to Mulberry St. and from Leeds to Lindsay. It was a small territory, but the alleys formed a perfect X in the middle, making it a prime piece of land we felt was prone to attacks. We constantly rehearsed battle tactics using hand-drawn maps, code names, and whatever weapon-like objects we found in garages and figured nobody would miss. If a member of our army stood on each corner of the block and a fifth person parked a bike on the manhole cover where the alleys crossed, the signal from our walkie-talkies reached everybody.
Nobody stepped foot on our soil without our knowledge, and one of two things happened when a stranger crossed that line.Sometimes, as in the case with Clinton and the short-haired girl, we would invite the newcomer to join our ranks and hand him or her a walkie-talkie. However, some undefinable process offered other invaders worse luck. Usually, we would discover that the unknown kid was a notorious trouble-maker in another neighborhood, known for stealing bikes and smashing pumpkins. But even if he or she had a clean record, Calvin, the oldest among us, had the power to label him or her “stupid,” which was an equally good reason for war.
“Get off our property!” one of us would bellow.
“Make me!” This was the standard reply, but, fortunately, Wesley would be ready for it:
“You can't stay here.”
“Can, too. I got rights.” If the kid had been around the neighborhood awhile, he may even use the word “constitution” in his retort. We respected that kind of knowledge, but we had a comeback for it as well.
“Well you're a loser, loser, double loser, as if, whatever, get the picture, duh...”
This was my stone to throw because I was best at memorizing the really cutting insults.
“You are times ten!”
At this point, I may have handed over the reigns to my apprentice, Drake, for the classic: “You're a super-sonic-idiotic-brain-disconnected-ding-dong-double-decker-dork.” But, if we got this far in the battle, we knew we had a worthy opponent. Therefore, Calvin may have broken out the big guns:
“If you don't leave, I'll go get my dad.”
All of us from the block knew that Calvin and Wesley's mom actually was much scarier than their dad. But, historically, kids from other neighborhoods used their dad's names to settle fights. This was a strategic move on Calvin's part.
“Whatever, you're stupid,” the enemy would say as he turned to leave. And all of us would throw our remaining assaults at his retreating back.
“Yeah, and don't come back!”
“Maybe Mommy will make you feel better!” etc.
When we grew tired of scouting and defending, the block allowed for great games of tag, and we turned its ragged sidewalks into bike ramps. Also, if we were lucky, our parents would give us permission to take the alleys past Lindsay Street to Village Pantry, where we bought our candy cigarettes. (Since then, ethically-concerned adults have insisted they be renamed “candy stix,” but I trust that kids still know how to use them.) Though glass-littered and full of potholes, the neighborhood was a dream playground, and we never missed the chance to meet in it every day after school. We'd ride, pretend, and fight for hours until the streetlights came on, or until Mom whistled for us—a sound that could be heard well outside the Kingdom.
I haven't seen any of them in years. A small civil war erupted after my brother broke a tree branch over Wesley's back, but I don't think that alone ended our adventures. A short time after that, there was a fire in Calvin and Wesley's house which killed their mother. Tim and I were home, as usual, when we heard the sirens stop very close. We saw Calvin and Wesley's bus pull up right next to the ambulance...but we didn't know what to say to the boys, so we didn't say anything ever again. And even though their dad repaired the house, we just never repaired the group.
Still, what we had was special. And whether or not it made me “normal,” there's no question my childhood friends helped shape who I am. Something about skinned knees and bare feet on asphalt make a kid grow up right. A little trouble and some candy cigarettes are good for the soul. The seven of us weren't meant to chase enemies off our land forever—it was bound to end at some point. But every time I see kids riding bikes, I smile and wonder which one delivers the best insults or bleeds without crying. It's comforting to know there's a new generation out in the neighborhood, getting a proper education.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
My Background--Tim
I'm not even going to attempt to explain my absence.
Okay, really quickly: Chicago Trip, Texas Trip, Thanksgiving, House projects. I apologize sincerely to those who enjoyed the first installment of my personal soap opera and desperately craved more. Today's trip down memory lane includes a summary of Life with Tim (the "Difficult Child" as I referred to him in the previous post). I feel it necessary to mention that Tim is a very different person as a man than he was as a boy. Currently, he's in Iraq with the Air Force and one of the most respectful, driven, and well-rounded individuals I know. But, growing up, he encountered plenty of rough times--which impacted ME in various ways as well....
----
We drove past the topless bar on Markland almost every day, and Mom was frank with 6-year-old Tim when he asked about the bright pink building. She said: it's not a good business because women take their clothes off. Another day, while riding with our dad, Tim tried to relate this knowledge.
“Daddy, Mom says that's a place where ladies dress up naked.”
Dad wanted to laugh, but he knew better. Likewise, we hid our amusement when we found out Tim, at 10-years-old, thought the guy who fell off the wall was called “Humpty Dump-Me.” And we forced blank expressions while he recited spelling words or read from textbooks, just to make sure he didn't mistake a smile for a joke at his expense. Tim was a sensitive little boy.
One day, during a not-uncommon screaming fit, Mom told Tim to go to his room until he could calm down. He yelled something back, gasping for air between sobs, and Dad stepped in to attempt reasoning.
“Buddy, just take a break and sit on your bed for awhile. You always get so worked up.” But Tim was already out of control, and he wasn't about to let Dad tell him what he “always” did. Clenching his fists at his side, his entire body heaving, he took a deep breath and bellowed:
“Well, you never, ever, E-VER!” My parents waited for the rest of his accusation. But when they realized he was finished, they looked at each other and burst into laughter. Big mistake. Tim flew into his room and slammed the door, rattling the windows and knocking a picture off the wall. Within seconds, toys were being dumped and flung against his bedpost, and he was kicking his closet door. Even across three rooms, I heard the thuds and shrieks of Tim's outrageous temper.
Right on schedule, the doctors diagnosed him with ADD. But, as far as my parents were concerned, the doctors simply informed them Tim was a boy—perhaps shorter-fused than most, but simply wired for energy. They were given a bottle of blue pills to manage him, which required a couple hours of fighting just to get down his throat. Even still, the medication didn't improve things. Sure, it made Tim lethargic, and he no longer had the stamina to scream and throw things. But the hate never left his eyes. He wanted nothing to do with family or with the happiness and affection associated with it, and he would say as much—scream it when he skipped a pill.
Then he grew up. At least, his body grew up. The house enjoyed quieter days than when Tim was in grade school, but this is because, as a teenager, he often stayed out with friends. Reports of his well-being had to come indirectly, through the rapid disappearance of food and overpowering scent of cologne in the morning. But when we did see him, we tried to be warm. Mom and Dad faithfully attended football and soccer games, attempting to speak love in Tim's language. Had we continued this way, more or less leaving him alone, he would have been content. But our parents knew he wasn't doing homework, and they constantly asked their jobless son where all his new stuff was coming from. During these confrontations, the tears would begin to form in his eyes and his temper would spiral away.
It was the first of June, Tim's 16th birthday, when Mom and Dad spelled out his options: bring your grades up over summer school or there will be no sports next year. Tim's point was semi-valid. “Coach said he could work something out so I can play if I get a paper signed.” And this was despite the school's policy stating that athletes had to maintain a C-average or be benched. But, Mom and Dad explained to Tim that school rules and home rules were different And they promised to call the rule-bending coach to make sure Tim didn't play unless he studied harder. The bedroom door slammed, several pictures fell off the walls, and I could hear Tim swearing three rooms away.
Mom often said she couldn't handle it anymore, but this time, she demanded my dad call the police. I saw disbelief on his face for only a second before he composed it again. Mom continued, “You call them and tell them we have an insane teenager, and tell them he's violently out of control.” Dad hesitated for another minute, but then we heard the sound of glass shattering in Tim's room. Dad dialed.
“Yes, I could use an officer at 1103 W. Taylor. We're not sure what to do with our teenage son right now.” At that moment, Tim came down the hall, holding his right hand to reveal a gash between his fingers at least an inch wide--causing blood to stream past his elbow and drip on the carpet. “And, we're going to need a paramedic, too.”
I hid in the stairwell when the police pulled up, but I could smell leather boots and foreign fabric softener from there. The crackling radios and strange voices didn't let me pretend it wasn't happening, so I listened to them. Straining, I could hear the EMT's tell Tim he'd have a pretty big scar, and one of the officers asked him why he punched the mirror.
“They just make me angry,” Tim said in a low voice, sobered by the pain and commotion.
“There's nothing wrong with being angry, partner. You just have to deal with it better.”
Another officer said, “Look, son, we're gonna go ahead and take you to the juvenile jail for booking. That way, if there's ever a problem again, we have you in the system.” And Tim spent his birthday in the police station. As the officer made his way out the door, holding my baby brother's arm, he spoke into his radio. “10-16, just a domestic disturbance.” His nonchalance infuriated me. I couldn't believe he summed up our nightmare in so few words—that the police had a code to label my family's crumble.
Two years later, Tim was picked up for shop lifting, and a few days after that, our parents kicked him out of the house for good. Dad, the reasonable one, put all of Tim's belongings in garbage bags on the porch. Then he locked the door and went to bed. I went to bed, too, but I didn't sleep. The house seemed empty and cold without my brother, even though he wasn't home much anyway. It was different when he wasn't even welcome there. Mom and Dad had been hardened by the Difficult Child, and they didn't care if he was sleeping on a bench somewhere. But, I wanted to march into their room and plead his case. I knew he had burnt through all his extra chances, but I didn't want to let it go. I contemplated sneaking to unlock the door, even if it was just a temporary fix. But I laid there and cried instead. Tim was never, ever, E-ver coming back.
----
Okay, so it only FELT like he never would come back. But, as I said in the beginning, he only needed some time to mature. Tim moved in with a friend's family and got a job. Then, after highschool, it suddenly occurred to him that he "didn't want to rot in Indiana" like his friends, partying and getting into trouble with no real direction. So he joined the Air Force and never looked back.
Anyway, I tell this story because, years later, I'm actually really glad God allowed me to experience the irrational, emotional tantrums of my little brother. Now, in my job at the daycare, I'm responsible for calming and teaching children (mostly angry little boys) who exhibit the same behaviors Tim did. In fact, sometimes the similarities between my students and my brother downright floor me.
But, I've never felt intimidated by the violent outbursts or unpredictability of relating to a Difficult Child. It's almost homey, in a way. Or, maybe what I mean to say is my first instinct--rather than fear or anger--is a sense of sisterly protection and sympathy when one of my students has a really bad day.
Finally, and most importantly, growing up with Tim has taught me the number one thing that keeps me returning to work when others might quit. I know, since I've seen it in my brother, that there always remains hope for the most unhappy, out-of-control little boy to grow into a truly impressive man.
Okay, really quickly: Chicago Trip, Texas Trip, Thanksgiving, House projects. I apologize sincerely to those who enjoyed the first installment of my personal soap opera and desperately craved more. Today's trip down memory lane includes a summary of Life with Tim (the "Difficult Child" as I referred to him in the previous post). I feel it necessary to mention that Tim is a very different person as a man than he was as a boy. Currently, he's in Iraq with the Air Force and one of the most respectful, driven, and well-rounded individuals I know. But, growing up, he encountered plenty of rough times--which impacted ME in various ways as well....
----
We drove past the topless bar on Markland almost every day, and Mom was frank with 6-year-old Tim when he asked about the bright pink building. She said: it's not a good business because women take their clothes off. Another day, while riding with our dad, Tim tried to relate this knowledge.
“Daddy, Mom says that's a place where ladies dress up naked.”
Dad wanted to laugh, but he knew better. Likewise, we hid our amusement when we found out Tim, at 10-years-old, thought the guy who fell off the wall was called “Humpty Dump-Me.” And we forced blank expressions while he recited spelling words or read from textbooks, just to make sure he didn't mistake a smile for a joke at his expense. Tim was a sensitive little boy.
One day, during a not-uncommon screaming fit, Mom told Tim to go to his room until he could calm down. He yelled something back, gasping for air between sobs, and Dad stepped in to attempt reasoning.
“Buddy, just take a break and sit on your bed for awhile. You always get so worked up.” But Tim was already out of control, and he wasn't about to let Dad tell him what he “always” did. Clenching his fists at his side, his entire body heaving, he took a deep breath and bellowed:
“Well, you never, ever, E-VER!” My parents waited for the rest of his accusation. But when they realized he was finished, they looked at each other and burst into laughter. Big mistake. Tim flew into his room and slammed the door, rattling the windows and knocking a picture off the wall. Within seconds, toys were being dumped and flung against his bedpost, and he was kicking his closet door. Even across three rooms, I heard the thuds and shrieks of Tim's outrageous temper.
Right on schedule, the doctors diagnosed him with ADD. But, as far as my parents were concerned, the doctors simply informed them Tim was a boy—perhaps shorter-fused than most, but simply wired for energy. They were given a bottle of blue pills to manage him, which required a couple hours of fighting just to get down his throat. Even still, the medication didn't improve things. Sure, it made Tim lethargic, and he no longer had the stamina to scream and throw things. But the hate never left his eyes. He wanted nothing to do with family or with the happiness and affection associated with it, and he would say as much—scream it when he skipped a pill.
Then he grew up. At least, his body grew up. The house enjoyed quieter days than when Tim was in grade school, but this is because, as a teenager, he often stayed out with friends. Reports of his well-being had to come indirectly, through the rapid disappearance of food and overpowering scent of cologne in the morning. But when we did see him, we tried to be warm. Mom and Dad faithfully attended football and soccer games, attempting to speak love in Tim's language. Had we continued this way, more or less leaving him alone, he would have been content. But our parents knew he wasn't doing homework, and they constantly asked their jobless son where all his new stuff was coming from. During these confrontations, the tears would begin to form in his eyes and his temper would spiral away.
It was the first of June, Tim's 16th birthday, when Mom and Dad spelled out his options: bring your grades up over summer school or there will be no sports next year. Tim's point was semi-valid. “Coach said he could work something out so I can play if I get a paper signed.” And this was despite the school's policy stating that athletes had to maintain a C-average or be benched. But, Mom and Dad explained to Tim that school rules and home rules were different And they promised to call the rule-bending coach to make sure Tim didn't play unless he studied harder. The bedroom door slammed, several pictures fell off the walls, and I could hear Tim swearing three rooms away.
Mom often said she couldn't handle it anymore, but this time, she demanded my dad call the police. I saw disbelief on his face for only a second before he composed it again. Mom continued, “You call them and tell them we have an insane teenager, and tell them he's violently out of control.” Dad hesitated for another minute, but then we heard the sound of glass shattering in Tim's room. Dad dialed.
“Yes, I could use an officer at 1103 W. Taylor. We're not sure what to do with our teenage son right now.” At that moment, Tim came down the hall, holding his right hand to reveal a gash between his fingers at least an inch wide--causing blood to stream past his elbow and drip on the carpet. “And, we're going to need a paramedic, too.”
I hid in the stairwell when the police pulled up, but I could smell leather boots and foreign fabric softener from there. The crackling radios and strange voices didn't let me pretend it wasn't happening, so I listened to them. Straining, I could hear the EMT's tell Tim he'd have a pretty big scar, and one of the officers asked him why he punched the mirror.
“They just make me angry,” Tim said in a low voice, sobered by the pain and commotion.
“There's nothing wrong with being angry, partner. You just have to deal with it better.”
Another officer said, “Look, son, we're gonna go ahead and take you to the juvenile jail for booking. That way, if there's ever a problem again, we have you in the system.” And Tim spent his birthday in the police station. As the officer made his way out the door, holding my baby brother's arm, he spoke into his radio. “10-16, just a domestic disturbance.” His nonchalance infuriated me. I couldn't believe he summed up our nightmare in so few words—that the police had a code to label my family's crumble.
Two years later, Tim was picked up for shop lifting, and a few days after that, our parents kicked him out of the house for good. Dad, the reasonable one, put all of Tim's belongings in garbage bags on the porch. Then he locked the door and went to bed. I went to bed, too, but I didn't sleep. The house seemed empty and cold without my brother, even though he wasn't home much anyway. It was different when he wasn't even welcome there. Mom and Dad had been hardened by the Difficult Child, and they didn't care if he was sleeping on a bench somewhere. But, I wanted to march into their room and plead his case. I knew he had burnt through all his extra chances, but I didn't want to let it go. I contemplated sneaking to unlock the door, even if it was just a temporary fix. But I laid there and cried instead. Tim was never, ever, E-ver coming back.
----
Okay, so it only FELT like he never would come back. But, as I said in the beginning, he only needed some time to mature. Tim moved in with a friend's family and got a job. Then, after highschool, it suddenly occurred to him that he "didn't want to rot in Indiana" like his friends, partying and getting into trouble with no real direction. So he joined the Air Force and never looked back.
Anyway, I tell this story because, years later, I'm actually really glad God allowed me to experience the irrational, emotional tantrums of my little brother. Now, in my job at the daycare, I'm responsible for calming and teaching children (mostly angry little boys) who exhibit the same behaviors Tim did. In fact, sometimes the similarities between my students and my brother downright floor me.
But, I've never felt intimidated by the violent outbursts or unpredictability of relating to a Difficult Child. It's almost homey, in a way. Or, maybe what I mean to say is my first instinct--rather than fear or anger--is a sense of sisterly protection and sympathy when one of my students has a really bad day.
Finally, and most importantly, growing up with Tim has taught me the number one thing that keeps me returning to work when others might quit. I know, since I've seen it in my brother, that there always remains hope for the most unhappy, out-of-control little boy to grow into a truly impressive man.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
My Background--Early Life
Without difficulty, I can point to specific events in my past and tell you how they contribute to my beliefs today. I have sad stories, frustrating stories, and stories that prove I have always been bossy, opinionated, and ever-so-selfish. But I love telling all of them just the same.
So, since I'm forever telling you WHAT I believe, I'd like the chance to give you the whys...
Let me tell you a story.
I was born in Kentucky.
My memories of my life then look like a half dozen still-shots, much more brief and random than the "video" memories I devoloped later. I see the pictures very clearly in my head, even though I was younger than three when I snapped them.
It puzzles me to explain what caused these few, unimportant seconds to stay in my mind. I can't figure out why I still remember the guilt from accidentally shattering a jar of my brother's baby food, or the day I discovered a strawberry Mento under my parents' waterbed—how I popped it into my mouth without blowing the germs off. From these and other "photos," I remember Grayson, Kentucky.
My parents were a couple of kids pursuing bachelor's degrees when they decided to add marriage and two babies to their four-year plan. I was born first, when Mom and Dad were 21, and they sold the title to their only car to my grandfather for money to pay the hospital and bring me home. Without question, we were poor, and it would have forced Mom and Dad to drop out if mysterious bags of food had not showed up once in a while, a little money at other times. Their bare needs were met this way, as well as through my mom's thriftiness. We lived on bare necessities--nothing extra. And that's why entertainment was my responsibility.
I began my role as a living toy shortly after word got out that Dad had one of the first private computers on campus. He was a computer junkie before it was cool, and our living room quickly filled with needy college students carrying their as-yet-untyped papers. And the college atmosphere was just what I needed to play my part as a two-foot doll, spouting facts and songs for anyone who pulled the right string...that is to say, provided any sort of acknowledgment whatsoever.
My language was far advanced--Mom says I spoke well before I was a year--and I became accustomed to praises for it. The students who came to type their papers were wonderful fans. I could count on them to request my best songs and gush over me at the appropriate times. It was the beginning of a life-long love of theater and language arts.
But it was just a short period before self-awareness spoiled a few things. I performed and was loved in Kentucky until I started wondering what others thought of me (and frequently concluded they thought negatively). This was before the Difficult Child was born and before I became a "homeschooled freak." I wasn't nervous about what I had to offer back then, before I learned to blow the germs off Mentos. As a two-year-old, I shared my talents and bared my soul without weighing consequences or questioning my significance. I can only guess what started my shift toward self-consciousness....
---
"The Difficult Child" was a title Tim shouldered before he could walk. He cried—screamed, as if in pain—for days at a time, wearing away at the sanity of our parents until their exhausted minds suggested violence. The little temptations frightened them, but no one could blame their mental instability. The crying only stopped when a sympathetic friend took Tim out of the house for a couple hours, allowing Mom and Dad to sleep themselves back into control.
By the time he reached grade school, most of our family was convinced he had anger management issues. Doctors found no abnormalities, but Tim turned hateful at the flip of a switch. At these times, he loathed affection as if our parents' love suffocated him. In their frustration, teachers often reinforced Tim's behavior with labels like “thick-headed” and "impossible." And, yes, he was....difficult. But, as adults heaped big helpings of “stubborn” and “impossible” on his plate, he only proved you are what you eat by fulfilling their negative expectations of him. Later judges and police officers called him “impossible,” too. It was bound to happen.
Yet, Tim's delinquency was the best thing a child like me could hope for.
People constantly compared my brother and I, calling me the well-behaved academic and Tim the unruly athlete. But, when a little girl well knows she is the Good One, there are plenty of opportunities for her to exploit that position...
TO BE CONTINUED...
So, since I'm forever telling you WHAT I believe, I'd like the chance to give you the whys...
Let me tell you a story.
I was born in Kentucky.
My memories of my life then look like a half dozen still-shots, much more brief and random than the "video" memories I devoloped later. I see the pictures very clearly in my head, even though I was younger than three when I snapped them.
It puzzles me to explain what caused these few, unimportant seconds to stay in my mind. I can't figure out why I still remember the guilt from accidentally shattering a jar of my brother's baby food, or the day I discovered a strawberry Mento under my parents' waterbed—how I popped it into my mouth without blowing the germs off. From these and other "photos," I remember Grayson, Kentucky.
My parents were a couple of kids pursuing bachelor's degrees when they decided to add marriage and two babies to their four-year plan. I was born first, when Mom and Dad were 21, and they sold the title to their only car to my grandfather for money to pay the hospital and bring me home. Without question, we were poor, and it would have forced Mom and Dad to drop out if mysterious bags of food had not showed up once in a while, a little money at other times. Their bare needs were met this way, as well as through my mom's thriftiness. We lived on bare necessities--nothing extra. And that's why entertainment was my responsibility.
I began my role as a living toy shortly after word got out that Dad had one of the first private computers on campus. He was a computer junkie before it was cool, and our living room quickly filled with needy college students carrying their as-yet-untyped papers. And the college atmosphere was just what I needed to play my part as a two-foot doll, spouting facts and songs for anyone who pulled the right string...that is to say, provided any sort of acknowledgment whatsoever.
My language was far advanced--Mom says I spoke well before I was a year--and I became accustomed to praises for it. The students who came to type their papers were wonderful fans. I could count on them to request my best songs and gush over me at the appropriate times. It was the beginning of a life-long love of theater and language arts.
But it was just a short period before self-awareness spoiled a few things. I performed and was loved in Kentucky until I started wondering what others thought of me (and frequently concluded they thought negatively). This was before the Difficult Child was born and before I became a "homeschooled freak." I wasn't nervous about what I had to offer back then, before I learned to blow the germs off Mentos. As a two-year-old, I shared my talents and bared my soul without weighing consequences or questioning my significance. I can only guess what started my shift toward self-consciousness....
---
"The Difficult Child" was a title Tim shouldered before he could walk. He cried—screamed, as if in pain—for days at a time, wearing away at the sanity of our parents until their exhausted minds suggested violence. The little temptations frightened them, but no one could blame their mental instability. The crying only stopped when a sympathetic friend took Tim out of the house for a couple hours, allowing Mom and Dad to sleep themselves back into control.
By the time he reached grade school, most of our family was convinced he had anger management issues. Doctors found no abnormalities, but Tim turned hateful at the flip of a switch. At these times, he loathed affection as if our parents' love suffocated him. In their frustration, teachers often reinforced Tim's behavior with labels like “thick-headed” and "impossible." And, yes, he was....difficult. But, as adults heaped big helpings of “stubborn” and “impossible” on his plate, he only proved you are what you eat by fulfilling their negative expectations of him. Later judges and police officers called him “impossible,” too. It was bound to happen.
Yet, Tim's delinquency was the best thing a child like me could hope for.
People constantly compared my brother and I, calling me the well-behaved academic and Tim the unruly athlete. But, when a little girl well knows she is the Good One, there are plenty of opportunities for her to exploit that position...
TO BE CONTINUED...
Saturday, October 30, 2010
Ultimately for our Good
We had a firedrill at the daycare the other day. It may have scarred my youngest student for life.
One minute, all my kiddos were sitting around the table, waiting for me to serve lunch, and the next, the buzzer was blaring and the bright strobe light was flashing. Never mind that it only made noise for about two seconds--as is customary to distinguish between a drill and a real emergency. Those were the worst two seconds of a certain almost-three-year-old's existence.
First, he cried. And immediately after exiting the building, the questions started:
"What was that?!"
"It's called a firedrill, Buddy. The sound means it's time to go outside for a few minutes."
"WHY?!"
"We are practicing in case there is a fire."
"A fire?"
"Yes, if it was a real fire, we would be safe outside. But this is just practice."
"It was loud!"
"Well, it's all done now. And we will go inside and have lunch in a minute."
moment of reflection
"Miss Amanda, what was that noise?!"
I can say, without exaggerration, that this child worried and questioned longer than any other child I've ever had to console. It consumed him for hours! First, it dominated the conversation at lunch:
(eyeing the red alarm box on the wall) "Is it doing it again?"
"No, sweetheart, it's all done for today. There is no fire, and practice is over."
"I saw a light!"
"Yes, but it's finished now."
"What WAS that?!"
"You tell me, since we've talked about it already. What was it?"
"It was a loud noise!!!"
"And what does the noise tell us?"
(another student responds with, "It means we go outside for a few minutes.")
Concerned three-year-old says: "I don't like it!"
And, it continued to plague him during our pre-nap story.
Me: "....but the pig cried, 'Not by the hair on my chinny chin chin.' And the wolf became angry."
Three-year-old: "I heard a loud noise."
Me: "It's all done now...'I'll huff and I'll puff...'"
Even an HOUR AND A HALF LATER, as I tried putting him down for his nap, my little worry wart said, "I don't like the loud noise, Miss Amanda."
"I know, Buddy. I don't like it, either. But it's there to keep us safe..."
"Is it all done?"
"Yes, Little One. We will have another firedrill in a month. But, for today, it's all over."
"But, I don't like it!"
"The alarm keeps us safe--even though we don't like the sound. But you don't have to worry about it anymore right now. You can sleep. I promise."
And with much, much effort, he finally settled down.
----
This scenario is why I have no trouble believing in God despite the pain and suffering in this world. No, I'm serious. Because saying that a loving God cannot coexist with pain is like saying loud, scary firedrills cannot occur in the classroom of a teacher that loves her students. If I was concerned about my three-year-old, I would abolish firedrills altogether--since they clearly affect him deeply. How can I continue allowing them monthly?
But, I propose that pain and suffering, like firedrills, are necessary discomforts. They teach us to be on our toes--and they let us know when something is wrong. And, like a scared preschool student who doesn't understand when and why the red box makes a noise, pain forces us simply to trust our teacher with the things out of our control. We wish the noise and bright light would stop altogether, but if the Teacher says it's necessary, we have no choice other than to accept it.
The sweet irony is, learning to trust a trustworthy God ultimately is more comforting than trying to regulate the pain ourselves--the same way my student would have enjoyed a more peaceful lunch and rest time if he simply accepted my words sooner.
Part 2 of the story falls along those lines. My boss came to me during naptime and said, "If the alarms go off again, we don't have to evacuate. They are just testing the sprinklers, which may spark the buzzer." Literally, I almost cried.
"There can be no 'if!' They CAN'T test them today!" I insisted. "I've been telling (Little Buddy) for hours that it's all done. And I promised! If those alarms sound again, it will ruin my credibility and have lasting consequences." I could not have imagined a worse scenario. So I prayed:
Father, the only thing that comforts me when I'm scared and out of control is knowing that You are in control. I wouldn't ask that you remove all "firedrills" from the lives of my students, but I DO ask that you keep the alarms silent for the rest of the day. I need my students to trust me the way I trust You. Please help me keep the promises I made, so that perhaps someday, Little Buddy can transition into trusting You.
The alarms stayed quiet. The little boy slept peacefully, and he seemed less traumatized in general by the time he woke up. But, most importantly, he is beginning to learn that he can believe Miss Amanda when she promises things will be "okay" (even though she won't promise to stop the firedrills forever). And soon, rather than trying to "figure out" whether the alarm will sound or worrying for hours after it's finished, he will be able to ask me--ONE TIME--if the situation is under contorl, and he will believe me when I say it is...
That level of trust make firedrills of all kinds ultimately for our good.
One minute, all my kiddos were sitting around the table, waiting for me to serve lunch, and the next, the buzzer was blaring and the bright strobe light was flashing. Never mind that it only made noise for about two seconds--as is customary to distinguish between a drill and a real emergency. Those were the worst two seconds of a certain almost-three-year-old's existence.
First, he cried. And immediately after exiting the building, the questions started:
"What was that?!"
"It's called a firedrill, Buddy. The sound means it's time to go outside for a few minutes."
"WHY?!"
"We are practicing in case there is a fire."
"A fire?"
"Yes, if it was a real fire, we would be safe outside. But this is just practice."
"It was loud!"
"Well, it's all done now. And we will go inside and have lunch in a minute."
moment of reflection
"Miss Amanda, what was that noise?!"
I can say, without exaggerration, that this child worried and questioned longer than any other child I've ever had to console. It consumed him for hours! First, it dominated the conversation at lunch:
(eyeing the red alarm box on the wall) "Is it doing it again?"
"No, sweetheart, it's all done for today. There is no fire, and practice is over."
"I saw a light!"
"Yes, but it's finished now."
"What WAS that?!"
"You tell me, since we've talked about it already. What was it?"
"It was a loud noise!!!"
"And what does the noise tell us?"
(another student responds with, "It means we go outside for a few minutes.")
Concerned three-year-old says: "I don't like it!"
And, it continued to plague him during our pre-nap story.
Me: "....but the pig cried, 'Not by the hair on my chinny chin chin.' And the wolf became angry."
Three-year-old: "I heard a loud noise."
Me: "It's all done now...'I'll huff and I'll puff...'"
Even an HOUR AND A HALF LATER, as I tried putting him down for his nap, my little worry wart said, "I don't like the loud noise, Miss Amanda."
"I know, Buddy. I don't like it, either. But it's there to keep us safe..."
"Is it all done?"
"Yes, Little One. We will have another firedrill in a month. But, for today, it's all over."
"But, I don't like it!"
"The alarm keeps us safe--even though we don't like the sound. But you don't have to worry about it anymore right now. You can sleep. I promise."
And with much, much effort, he finally settled down.
----
This scenario is why I have no trouble believing in God despite the pain and suffering in this world. No, I'm serious. Because saying that a loving God cannot coexist with pain is like saying loud, scary firedrills cannot occur in the classroom of a teacher that loves her students. If I was concerned about my three-year-old, I would abolish firedrills altogether--since they clearly affect him deeply. How can I continue allowing them monthly?
But, I propose that pain and suffering, like firedrills, are necessary discomforts. They teach us to be on our toes--and they let us know when something is wrong. And, like a scared preschool student who doesn't understand when and why the red box makes a noise, pain forces us simply to trust our teacher with the things out of our control. We wish the noise and bright light would stop altogether, but if the Teacher says it's necessary, we have no choice other than to accept it.
The sweet irony is, learning to trust a trustworthy God ultimately is more comforting than trying to regulate the pain ourselves--the same way my student would have enjoyed a more peaceful lunch and rest time if he simply accepted my words sooner.
Part 2 of the story falls along those lines. My boss came to me during naptime and said, "If the alarms go off again, we don't have to evacuate. They are just testing the sprinklers, which may spark the buzzer." Literally, I almost cried.
"There can be no 'if!' They CAN'T test them today!" I insisted. "I've been telling (Little Buddy) for hours that it's all done. And I promised! If those alarms sound again, it will ruin my credibility and have lasting consequences." I could not have imagined a worse scenario. So I prayed:
Father, the only thing that comforts me when I'm scared and out of control is knowing that You are in control. I wouldn't ask that you remove all "firedrills" from the lives of my students, but I DO ask that you keep the alarms silent for the rest of the day. I need my students to trust me the way I trust You. Please help me keep the promises I made, so that perhaps someday, Little Buddy can transition into trusting You.
The alarms stayed quiet. The little boy slept peacefully, and he seemed less traumatized in general by the time he woke up. But, most importantly, he is beginning to learn that he can believe Miss Amanda when she promises things will be "okay" (even though she won't promise to stop the firedrills forever). And soon, rather than trying to "figure out" whether the alarm will sound or worrying for hours after it's finished, he will be able to ask me--ONE TIME--if the situation is under contorl, and he will believe me when I say it is...
That level of trust make firedrills of all kinds ultimately for our good.
Friday, October 29, 2010
Risen From Apes
I took a long hiatus from television this past month, but I managed to see part of a talk show today, during which a husband tried to convince his wife to "just accept" his girlfriend of five years and adopt an "open relationship." Let's all share! True to form, and in the same fashion as the Tyra incident, the audience flew into an uproar at the situation.
But, in my opinion, the husband and the guest author who supported him made the more logical arguments, based on the beliefs of our culture. If it had been a formal debate, the husband gets the trophy.
The guest author had written a book about "negotiating infidelity," in which she recommends couples draw up a contract regarding permissive extra-marital affairs. Example: "You can visit strip joints and look at porn, without meeting my wrath." Or, "You can have sex with other women, as long as you don't cuddle afterwards." Supposedly, this prevents that pesky "cheating" technicality. She says, if your man has needs and urges, a loving mate would make allowances for him to fulfill them. And, obviously, the husband agreed whole-heartedly while the studio audience booed and hissed.
But, here's the argument, made by this author, which temporarily disarmed those in the room: "We are risen from apes, not descended from a fairy tale. Why do we expect monogamy?"
Silence.
Because--if there is no God--we shouldn't expect those we love to act anything more than animals.
So here is my ultimatum, readers: By all means learn the art of selflessness and becoming a servant if God is on His throne. Help your neighbors, love your spouses, and kill the prideful, self-loving part of your spirit, as an act of worship to the Lord. Show restraint and will-power in honor of the Prince who turns life into a fairy tale. And please, keep reading my blog to learn how I'm doing (or not doing) in this area, if it inspires you to do the same.
But, if there is no God, don't let me rain on your parade. Don't listen to my rants about education and the government and anything else which is sure to end with a conclusion about what your responsibility is. Why take responsibility? Why control yourself? Why conform to social restraints, like monogamy and trustworthiness? God's existence or nonexistence affects everything, and if you've decided He's a myth, then go hog wild.
And I sincerely wish you luck and the least amount of pain possible as you try to extract love and kindess from other apes like you.
But, in my opinion, the husband and the guest author who supported him made the more logical arguments, based on the beliefs of our culture. If it had been a formal debate, the husband gets the trophy.
The guest author had written a book about "negotiating infidelity," in which she recommends couples draw up a contract regarding permissive extra-marital affairs. Example: "You can visit strip joints and look at porn, without meeting my wrath." Or, "You can have sex with other women, as long as you don't cuddle afterwards." Supposedly, this prevents that pesky "cheating" technicality. She says, if your man has needs and urges, a loving mate would make allowances for him to fulfill them. And, obviously, the husband agreed whole-heartedly while the studio audience booed and hissed.
But, here's the argument, made by this author, which temporarily disarmed those in the room: "We are risen from apes, not descended from a fairy tale. Why do we expect monogamy?"
Silence.
Because--if there is no God--we shouldn't expect those we love to act anything more than animals.
So here is my ultimatum, readers: By all means learn the art of selflessness and becoming a servant if God is on His throne. Help your neighbors, love your spouses, and kill the prideful, self-loving part of your spirit, as an act of worship to the Lord. Show restraint and will-power in honor of the Prince who turns life into a fairy tale. And please, keep reading my blog to learn how I'm doing (or not doing) in this area, if it inspires you to do the same.
But, if there is no God, don't let me rain on your parade. Don't listen to my rants about education and the government and anything else which is sure to end with a conclusion about what your responsibility is. Why take responsibility? Why control yourself? Why conform to social restraints, like monogamy and trustworthiness? God's existence or nonexistence affects everything, and if you've decided He's a myth, then go hog wild.
And I sincerely wish you luck and the least amount of pain possible as you try to extract love and kindess from other apes like you.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
A Few Quotes Just to Buy Time Until I Get Myself in Gear and Post Like I Mean it Again
Yes, now THIS officially has been the longest interval without a blog post.
But these last couple of weeks haven't been bright and shiney. Instead, trouble in paradise. I tried service and selflessness. I also tried nagging and complaining. But, unlike with most of my stories of trouble, arguing, impatience, and other marriage-related adventures, I've yet to find the moral. In fact, sharing the details at this point would easily become a rant session rather than a humble tale of conviction, because there hasn't been a "good wife lesson" to learn in the end. This time, Friends, I have not been the wrong-doer.
Therefore, until my husband starts a blog about journeying in selflessness (he could call it "School, Lack-of-Sleep, and Other Tickets to the Dog House") I can't give any specifics. The only thing I've learned at this point is that the people who love you best also have the ability to hurt you most. And that's a depressing topic for a blog.
So, rather than talking about goings-on in my current life--and since I have some pretty great stories from my growing up years--I'll be asking you to "let me tell you a story" more this week. And maybe I will post regularly again?
And, in the meantime, here are some quotes to keep you occupied:
Parent (to a boy in the corner): Are you in trouble over there?
Boy: A little.
Parent: Why are you always getting yourself into trouble?
Boy (shrugging): It's just my thing.
Teacher-to-another-teacher (while a three-year-old listened): We'll have someone come in to cover your shift this afternoon. But could you stay until 9:00, and..."
3-year-old (to me): 9:00?!
Me: 9:00?
3-year-old: I don't know what that means!!!
5-year-old: I'm going to be Spiderman for Halloween.
Me: I thought you were going as Ironman.
5-year-old: No, I like Spiderman....or Lightning McQueen.
Me: I see.
5-year-old: I'll be Superman for next Halloween.
Me: You're already thinking about next Halloween?
5-year-old: Yes, because my minds keep changing!
But these last couple of weeks haven't been bright and shiney. Instead, trouble in paradise. I tried service and selflessness. I also tried nagging and complaining. But, unlike with most of my stories of trouble, arguing, impatience, and other marriage-related adventures, I've yet to find the moral. In fact, sharing the details at this point would easily become a rant session rather than a humble tale of conviction, because there hasn't been a "good wife lesson" to learn in the end. This time, Friends, I have not been the wrong-doer.
Therefore, until my husband starts a blog about journeying in selflessness (he could call it "School, Lack-of-Sleep, and Other Tickets to the Dog House") I can't give any specifics. The only thing I've learned at this point is that the people who love you best also have the ability to hurt you most. And that's a depressing topic for a blog.
So, rather than talking about goings-on in my current life--and since I have some pretty great stories from my growing up years--I'll be asking you to "let me tell you a story" more this week. And maybe I will post regularly again?
And, in the meantime, here are some quotes to keep you occupied:
Parent (to a boy in the corner): Are you in trouble over there?
Boy: A little.
Parent: Why are you always getting yourself into trouble?
Boy (shrugging): It's just my thing.
Teacher-to-another-teacher (while a three-year-old listened): We'll have someone come in to cover your shift this afternoon. But could you stay until 9:00, and..."
3-year-old (to me): 9:00?!
Me: 9:00?
3-year-old: I don't know what that means!!!
5-year-old: I'm going to be Spiderman for Halloween.
Me: I thought you were going as Ironman.
5-year-old: No, I like Spiderman....or Lightning McQueen.
Me: I see.
5-year-old: I'll be Superman for next Halloween.
Me: You're already thinking about next Halloween?
5-year-old: Yes, because my minds keep changing!
Saturday, October 16, 2010
Let Me Tell You a Story (Things I Got from Mom)
A professor once made the statement: "If you say you have a story, everybody will start listening." Whether the audience continues to listen depends on whether the story is any good. But ears perk up for, "Let me tell you a story."
So, let me tell you several stories about things Mom did when I was growing up:
I like to depict my brother, Tim, and I as semi-wild street hooligans--since we spent so much time barefoot, outside, and forming our own brand of 5th-grade martial law in conjunction with the other neighborhood kids. When Mom was tired of "She stuck her tongue out at me!" and "He hit me!" she would boot us into the fresh air, where we settled disputes with a jury of our peers (or sticks and rocks).
We rode in a bicycle gang, smoked candy cigarettes, wiped the blood off our knees with leaves, and threatened to call our dads if an "enemy" from another neighborhood tried to breach the permimeter of our territory. In truth, I probably owe much of the fact that Tim and I didn't become one of those socially-inept homeschoolers to our "secondary education" with the other barefoot punks on the block.
But, that said, my mother wasn't content to let our grammar suffer, or to watch her children take up a more serious brand of smoking anytime soon. She was a teacher--gosh darn it--and she was going to teach us something. And the day she referenced Stuart Little, with no comprehension from her two darlings, helped make up her mind.
"You don't know Stuart Little? He's a mouse, guys!...Well, not a mouse. He's a boy who looks exactly like a mouse."
(blank stares)
"He has human parents and everything."
(no response)
"One day he even gets caught in the curtains...and, oh, forget it. We're going to the library."
I was an early reader and probably could have read Stuart Little myself. But Mom made it a night-time ritual to read several chapters aloud, and sometimes, when we were lucky, she would read during the afternoon while she nursed the baby. When the story was over, I enjoyed a feeling of closure that was both satisfying and disappointing. Every good story leaves you wanting more. But I was in luck since Mom borrowed Charlotte's Web after returning Stuart. (That's right all you movie watchers. The films had nothing to do with eachother, but did you know E.B. White wrote both of the books? Thanks for the info, Mom!)
We read all summer--well, Mom read, and we listened enthralled. Even my "ADHD" brother closed his eyes and pictured the panicked Mrs. Little, searching for Stuart while he was missing, and the evil cat intent on having his master for dinner... And I got a little misty-eyed at the thought of a tiny pig being drowned in the river by Fern's daddy. (Spoiler: The pig is spared...several times, as it were.) It was such a peaceful, entertaining, and educational time, we read The Indian in the Cupboard series next--four books in all. And THEN we read the Boxcar Children, beginning to end. (Or rather, we read to somewhere in the middle of the series before discovering the library was missing one of the books, and we requested they order it to complete their collection. THEN we read to the end.)
I hear my mom at the daycare from time to time--when I say things like, "you just went potty, so lay back down and take your nap" or yesterday, when I swear she possessed my body and said, "I don't have to give you a reason for everything."
But, I had a flashback to the Summer of Books earlier this week, while I read to some of the kiddos in my class. As I said "the end" and one little girl removed her fingers from her mouth long enough to say "read another one" it occurred to me these stories easily could stay with my students forever...
Mom taught me to pause in the right places and to use different voices for different characters, (without distracting from the story). But, most importantly, she taught me that everyone likes a good story long before that professor told me so.
---
Yesterday, while on the phone with Mom, she shared a different kind of story with me about a volunteer in the toddler room at church--who recently allowed a man she met on the internet to move in with her.
"I asked her if they were living together," Mom told me. "And, when she said 'yes,' I told her I needed her to step down as a volunteer, since her sin is not a grey area in the Bible."
Apparently, this lady grew angry immediately and began shouting at my mother:
"I just can't believe it! In a place where I'm supposed to be accepted, you're going to judge me?! It's none of your business what I do in my personal life, but Christians are the worst for judging people...etc, etc....I'm going to find a church that will accept my choices." And out she stormed.
Oh, tough one. If there is one thing of which Christians have been rightly accused in the past, it's being judgemental--unforgiving of sinners. And I wondered how my mom responded to this difficult issue. After all, there is a verse in the Bible that says, "Judge not lest you be judged."
But, when the lady contacted her again later, Mom calmly gave her explanation, "You probably will find a church that let's you continue to sin, but it will not be a Bible-following church. All of us mess up, and it's wrong for Christians to hold your past sins over your head. God hates this type of judgement. But when a supposed believer continues to cling to his sin--in the present time--then Christians have to make a judgement call. We have the Book of Rules, and there are specific guidelines for dealing with someone who blatantly ignores those rules--they are to be judged by the leadership. And, when they still won't repent, they are asked to leave."
This explanation makes me proud. Christians are allowed to judge?! What's more--they're supposed to? From the perspective of a generation holding banners that read "It's my life" and "who are you to get involved?" the term "judge" is the ultimate offense. And many churches have begun to agree that judgment is bad and it's none of our business.
Here's the rub: no innocent person ever subscribes to a don't-judge-me defense.
When you're innocent, you're free to deny the accusations. Or, a guilty person may realize their mistakes and FIX them--rendering them "innocent" yet again in the eyes of God. But only a sinner, trapped in a corner, would turn the blame toward the whistle blower instead of repenting.
Consider, no defense lawyer in his right mind would appeal the jury with a speech beginning, "None of you were directly affected by my client's murders--so it really is none of your business. Besides, all of you have made mistakes before. Who are you to judge?" The answer is, the jury of American peers was created to judge, and the church has a responsibility to issue a verdict to its own members, too. Christians should not tolerate selfish, hard-hearted sin any more than our society tolerates its own rule-breakers.
And I learned that from my mom.
So, let me tell you several stories about things Mom did when I was growing up:
I like to depict my brother, Tim, and I as semi-wild street hooligans--since we spent so much time barefoot, outside, and forming our own brand of 5th-grade martial law in conjunction with the other neighborhood kids. When Mom was tired of "She stuck her tongue out at me!" and "He hit me!" she would boot us into the fresh air, where we settled disputes with a jury of our peers (or sticks and rocks).
We rode in a bicycle gang, smoked candy cigarettes, wiped the blood off our knees with leaves, and threatened to call our dads if an "enemy" from another neighborhood tried to breach the permimeter of our territory. In truth, I probably owe much of the fact that Tim and I didn't become one of those socially-inept homeschoolers to our "secondary education" with the other barefoot punks on the block.
But, that said, my mother wasn't content to let our grammar suffer, or to watch her children take up a more serious brand of smoking anytime soon. She was a teacher--gosh darn it--and she was going to teach us something. And the day she referenced Stuart Little, with no comprehension from her two darlings, helped make up her mind.
"You don't know Stuart Little? He's a mouse, guys!...Well, not a mouse. He's a boy who looks exactly like a mouse."
(blank stares)
"He has human parents and everything."
(no response)
"One day he even gets caught in the curtains...and, oh, forget it. We're going to the library."
I was an early reader and probably could have read Stuart Little myself. But Mom made it a night-time ritual to read several chapters aloud, and sometimes, when we were lucky, she would read during the afternoon while she nursed the baby. When the story was over, I enjoyed a feeling of closure that was both satisfying and disappointing. Every good story leaves you wanting more. But I was in luck since Mom borrowed Charlotte's Web after returning Stuart. (That's right all you movie watchers. The films had nothing to do with eachother, but did you know E.B. White wrote both of the books? Thanks for the info, Mom!)
We read all summer--well, Mom read, and we listened enthralled. Even my "ADHD" brother closed his eyes and pictured the panicked Mrs. Little, searching for Stuart while he was missing, and the evil cat intent on having his master for dinner... And I got a little misty-eyed at the thought of a tiny pig being drowned in the river by Fern's daddy. (Spoiler: The pig is spared...several times, as it were.) It was such a peaceful, entertaining, and educational time, we read The Indian in the Cupboard series next--four books in all. And THEN we read the Boxcar Children, beginning to end. (Or rather, we read to somewhere in the middle of the series before discovering the library was missing one of the books, and we requested they order it to complete their collection. THEN we read to the end.)
I hear my mom at the daycare from time to time--when I say things like, "you just went potty, so lay back down and take your nap" or yesterday, when I swear she possessed my body and said, "I don't have to give you a reason for everything."
But, I had a flashback to the Summer of Books earlier this week, while I read to some of the kiddos in my class. As I said "the end" and one little girl removed her fingers from her mouth long enough to say "read another one" it occurred to me these stories easily could stay with my students forever...
Mom taught me to pause in the right places and to use different voices for different characters, (without distracting from the story). But, most importantly, she taught me that everyone likes a good story long before that professor told me so.
---
Yesterday, while on the phone with Mom, she shared a different kind of story with me about a volunteer in the toddler room at church--who recently allowed a man she met on the internet to move in with her.
"I asked her if they were living together," Mom told me. "And, when she said 'yes,' I told her I needed her to step down as a volunteer, since her sin is not a grey area in the Bible."
Apparently, this lady grew angry immediately and began shouting at my mother:
"I just can't believe it! In a place where I'm supposed to be accepted, you're going to judge me?! It's none of your business what I do in my personal life, but Christians are the worst for judging people...etc, etc....I'm going to find a church that will accept my choices." And out she stormed.
Oh, tough one. If there is one thing of which Christians have been rightly accused in the past, it's being judgemental--unforgiving of sinners. And I wondered how my mom responded to this difficult issue. After all, there is a verse in the Bible that says, "Judge not lest you be judged."
But, when the lady contacted her again later, Mom calmly gave her explanation, "You probably will find a church that let's you continue to sin, but it will not be a Bible-following church. All of us mess up, and it's wrong for Christians to hold your past sins over your head. God hates this type of judgement. But when a supposed believer continues to cling to his sin--in the present time--then Christians have to make a judgement call. We have the Book of Rules, and there are specific guidelines for dealing with someone who blatantly ignores those rules--they are to be judged by the leadership. And, when they still won't repent, they are asked to leave."
This explanation makes me proud. Christians are allowed to judge?! What's more--they're supposed to? From the perspective of a generation holding banners that read "It's my life" and "who are you to get involved?" the term "judge" is the ultimate offense. And many churches have begun to agree that judgment is bad and it's none of our business.
Here's the rub: no innocent person ever subscribes to a don't-judge-me defense.
When you're innocent, you're free to deny the accusations. Or, a guilty person may realize their mistakes and FIX them--rendering them "innocent" yet again in the eyes of God. But only a sinner, trapped in a corner, would turn the blame toward the whistle blower instead of repenting.
Consider, no defense lawyer in his right mind would appeal the jury with a speech beginning, "None of you were directly affected by my client's murders--so it really is none of your business. Besides, all of you have made mistakes before. Who are you to judge?" The answer is, the jury of American peers was created to judge, and the church has a responsibility to issue a verdict to its own members, too. Christians should not tolerate selfish, hard-hearted sin any more than our society tolerates its own rule-breakers.
And I learned that from my mom.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
How DO You Become a Grandpa?
Could this be the longest I've ever gone without posting? AAAAAND I neglected my Wednesday letter, too? Hm.
Well, you probably think I've been laying around with a massive headache and sour stomach which made the thought of looking at the computer almost unbearable--but that was just one night. Instead, I've been spending extra time in the daycare. And that means: Quote Time
(at lunch) 3-year-old: "I need....uh....May I have...uh..."
(anticipating, I hand him a spoon)
3-year-old: "But, I need something to poke AND scoop."
Me: "I see feet that are moving too fast in the classroom!!"
4-year-old girl: "Feet, you are getting me in trouble."
5-year-old boy (no context whatsoever): "Miss Amanda, where do you go to become a grandpa?"
----
Well, you probably think I've been laying around with a massive headache and sour stomach which made the thought of looking at the computer almost unbearable--but that was just one night. Instead, I've been spending extra time in the daycare. And that means: Quote Time
(at lunch) 3-year-old: "I need....uh....May I have...uh..."
(anticipating, I hand him a spoon)
3-year-old: "But, I need something to poke AND scoop."
Me: "I see feet that are moving too fast in the classroom!!"
4-year-old girl: "Feet, you are getting me in trouble."
5-year-old boy (no context whatsoever): "Miss Amanda, where do you go to become a grandpa?"
----
Yes, the daycare produced a few hair-pulling moments this week, as we now have a classroom full of children in very different stages of development--forcing the teachers to switch hats constantly.
For instance, take Student A, who has autism and lately becomes aggitated over any hint of noise. So, I try to maintain the peace. In a room full of preschoolers. Some having special needs. Maybe you get the picture? (If not, imagine loud, happy sounds from some kids followed by loud, unhappy sounds from Student A.) Combine this issue with Student B, who doesn't realize just how large he is and further interprets crying as a signal that the distressed individual needs a giant bear hug/choker hold. ("Now, now Student A. Just let me squeeze your neck between my massive forearms, and everything will be better.")
Then there's my little guy with the death wish. He's non-verbal and doesn't seem very aware of his surroundings, but I still believe we'll hear his first sentence at any time. And it will be: "can someone point me to the most dangerous thing in the area so I promptly can give my teacher a heart attack?" Some of his favorite things: light sockets, moving swings, stuffing entire rolls in his mouth (alongside the half-chewed fish and carrots), and stealing toys from the notorious Biters and Hitters of the group. Today, he saw Student B laying on the floor, absentmindedly kicking his legs and thought Those enormous tree-trunk feet look like they could smash my little skull--I should lay directly underneath them. And so he did.
I deal with these things all while keeping in mind who likes milk and who likes juice, who eats finger foods, who takes a bottle, and who's tube fed, changing diapers, and scratching backs during naptime.
So, forgive me for my hiatus. I've been a little busy maintaining order, encouraging, scolding, and answering questions. Which reminds me: if you want to be a grandpa, you have to be a dad first. And if you ever hope to do THAT, I suggest avoiding the daycare scene for awhile.
:)
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Write-a-Letter Wednesday, Defining Femininity
Dear Ms. Reynolds,
I agree that gender wars get us nowhere, and that arguments about whether men or women are more powerful need to end. However, your ultimate definition of feminitity leaves something to be desired.
We must make a distinction between the "feminist" viewpoint used when studying women's issues in the arts and society and the more personal definition of "what it means to be female." But, since you mention "accepting" and "expressing" your own feminitity in the article, you seem to be dealing with the latter. This is why your generic definition, with its intentional gender-neutrality, concerns me.
You are correct in saying feminitiy has little to do with clothing and style. Not all women are great nurturers, and--in many cases--we cannot make generalizations about what a "real" woman says or does. But neither can you champion any ideal which sounds good to you and announce that it's feminism.
According to you, feminisim is any "mindset that venerates both the individual and the community." Then you say that anybody--man or woman--can join the feminist cause. But this only suffices if we disregard the root word "female" altogether. You simply chose a random attribute and claimed it for women everywhere. It would be similar for me to declare "Special Education Teacherhood" is "the act of being totally awesome." Come, one and all! Anyone can be a special education teacher, if you agree with being awesome!
Sorry, it doesn't work that way.
Definitions come from the person who starts a movement. The inventor--the creator--gets to patent and define the creation. And that is why I let God tell me what's feminine.
Feminity is:
I agree that gender wars get us nowhere, and that arguments about whether men or women are more powerful need to end. However, your ultimate definition of feminitity leaves something to be desired.
We must make a distinction between the "feminist" viewpoint used when studying women's issues in the arts and society and the more personal definition of "what it means to be female." But, since you mention "accepting" and "expressing" your own feminitity in the article, you seem to be dealing with the latter. This is why your generic definition, with its intentional gender-neutrality, concerns me.
You are correct in saying feminitiy has little to do with clothing and style. Not all women are great nurturers, and--in many cases--we cannot make generalizations about what a "real" woman says or does. But neither can you champion any ideal which sounds good to you and announce that it's feminism.
According to you, feminisim is any "mindset that venerates both the individual and the community." Then you say that anybody--man or woman--can join the feminist cause. But this only suffices if we disregard the root word "female" altogether. You simply chose a random attribute and claimed it for women everywhere. It would be similar for me to declare "Special Education Teacherhood" is "the act of being totally awesome." Come, one and all! Anyone can be a special education teacher, if you agree with being awesome!
Sorry, it doesn't work that way.
Definitions come from the person who starts a movement. The inventor--the creator--gets to patent and define the creation. And that is why I let God tell me what's feminine.
Feminity is:
- No better or worse than the counterpart, masculinity (Gal. 3:28)
- Marked by a gentle and quiet spirit, though this doesn't mean the woman must remain timid and quiet in personality. (I Pet. 3:4)
- Hard-working (Prov. 31, 1 Tim. 5:10)
- Self-controlled, dignified, and not over-bearing or aggressive (1 Tim. 2:12)
- And, characterized by a certain shape and key mannerisms. There are elements of softness, flirtatiousness, and even sexiness to the female, but all in their proper places. AND, there are certain clothes and types of body language which are clearly female. (1 Cor. 11, and many others)
Sure, I'll jump on board with your goals for benefitting "both the individual and the community," but I won't call that femininity. It has nothing to do with what it means to be a lady. Instead, when you ask the Author of Womanhood for a definition, you don't have to fear specifics. When there is no political or social agenda on the line, you are free to explore womanhood much more honestly.
Respectfully,
A loud and proud woman with a soft and quiet spirit in Indiana
Saturday, October 2, 2010
He Made Me Kill Me
Ellen, Tyra, Oprah, and your local news anchors all want you to hop on board and stop teen bullying. With several headlining teenage suicides being broadcasted the last few weeks, the philanthropists are waging war against the teasing that causes these deaths.
Wait, causes them? As in, "The bully made him commit suicide?" Are we, the public, really accepting that conclusion and writing checks for various End Bullying campaigns?
If so, why have we abandoned the age-old playground chant, "sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me..."?
Look, I'm not condoning the bullies' actions. And, if I ever catch my kids being rude or taunting, they certainly will hear an earful. However, bullies have been around forever, yet the suicide rate in this decade is higher than ever. Could it be this generation of teenagers is less mentally stable than the one before, and maybe they haven't been taught to handle stress properly?
I don't think that's a crazy assertion, if you consider other headlines. These days, parents march into the classroom and chew out a teacher if they don't like the curriculum. This is a generation which prefers to file lawsuits for "pain and suffering" or "defamation of character" rather than letting things go. And, most worrying, these kids are represented by lawmakers who would love to make "hate speech" illegal--which means punishing anything that offends a minority group.
All of these scenarios speak a very loud message: if you don't like what's being said, STOP IT HOWEVER YOU CAN!
Americans--and possibly the world in general--have lost the ability to ignore anything. Our skin is so thin you can see our chicken-hearts beating right through it, and we cry "no fair!" whenever our panties twist. I talked in a previous post about our tendency to use laws to fight our moral battles, and this is a similar situation. Except--though we theoretically could outlaw the building of mosques should we so choose to defame the Constitution--no number of laws will ever stop "hate speech."
As we become more sensitive and less adept at ignoring things, the list of "inappropriate" or "offensive" things will grow. Newspapers and authors of books will be sued for statements which historically were protected by free speech and press. And, really, it isn't hard to imagine a day when opinions like "homosexuality is wrong" or "Jesus is the only way to Heaven" fall into categories like sexual and religious discrimination. Your beliefs could be illegal.
If you've read this blog since the beginning, you know I place high priority on individual responsibility. When we learn to control ourselves and take care of others, we'll make the biggest impact on our little worlds. But that leaves no room for blaming others. You can't point fingers at teachers when your kid can't read. You can't waste time holding grudges or--worse--letting them fester until you simply must take them to court. And you can't buy the statement, "The bully will make me kill myself."
My heart goes out to the families of the teens who took their lives. But these anti-bullying campaigns, with their star power and ample air-time, remain misguided. Instead, we need to cultivate strong individuals who know how to shrug off negativity and ignore the jerks muttering "hate speech."
Wait, causes them? As in, "The bully made him commit suicide?" Are we, the public, really accepting that conclusion and writing checks for various End Bullying campaigns?
If so, why have we abandoned the age-old playground chant, "sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me..."?
Look, I'm not condoning the bullies' actions. And, if I ever catch my kids being rude or taunting, they certainly will hear an earful. However, bullies have been around forever, yet the suicide rate in this decade is higher than ever. Could it be this generation of teenagers is less mentally stable than the one before, and maybe they haven't been taught to handle stress properly?
I don't think that's a crazy assertion, if you consider other headlines. These days, parents march into the classroom and chew out a teacher if they don't like the curriculum. This is a generation which prefers to file lawsuits for "pain and suffering" or "defamation of character" rather than letting things go. And, most worrying, these kids are represented by lawmakers who would love to make "hate speech" illegal--which means punishing anything that offends a minority group.
All of these scenarios speak a very loud message: if you don't like what's being said, STOP IT HOWEVER YOU CAN!
Americans--and possibly the world in general--have lost the ability to ignore anything. Our skin is so thin you can see our chicken-hearts beating right through it, and we cry "no fair!" whenever our panties twist. I talked in a previous post about our tendency to use laws to fight our moral battles, and this is a similar situation. Except--though we theoretically could outlaw the building of mosques should we so choose to defame the Constitution--no number of laws will ever stop "hate speech."
As we become more sensitive and less adept at ignoring things, the list of "inappropriate" or "offensive" things will grow. Newspapers and authors of books will be sued for statements which historically were protected by free speech and press. And, really, it isn't hard to imagine a day when opinions like "homosexuality is wrong" or "Jesus is the only way to Heaven" fall into categories like sexual and religious discrimination. Your beliefs could be illegal.
If you've read this blog since the beginning, you know I place high priority on individual responsibility. When we learn to control ourselves and take care of others, we'll make the biggest impact on our little worlds. But that leaves no room for blaming others. You can't point fingers at teachers when your kid can't read. You can't waste time holding grudges or--worse--letting them fester until you simply must take them to court. And you can't buy the statement, "The bully will make me kill myself."
My heart goes out to the families of the teens who took their lives. But these anti-bullying campaigns, with their star power and ample air-time, remain misguided. Instead, we need to cultivate strong individuals who know how to shrug off negativity and ignore the jerks muttering "hate speech."
Favorite Thing in the World
At the daycare, we sometimes ask the kids an open-ended question and write down exactly what they say, in the name of creating our own version of Kids Say the Darndest Things. We also like displaying the cute quotes for other staff members, parents, and visitors to enjoy.
Past questions include:
Past questions include:
- What do you know about money? (sample answer: "You have to get a job and you can buy food and toys.")
- If you were a dog, what would you do? (sample answer: "I would chew my mom's shoes.")
- What do you want to talk about today? (sample answer: "I like to watch Cars at Grandma's house because I like Lightening McQueen...and, Miss Amanda, that is NOT how you spell 'lightning.'") Yes, my spelling was corrected by a five-year-old. However, in my defense, this kid is a prodigy!
So, a couple of days ago, my coworker asked our morning group of three students, "What is your favorite thing in the whole world?"
The list of answers, in its entirety:
- "Ketchup"
- "A horn"
- "Sharks, because they have those pointy noses."
A couple of years ago, we had students who gave more proper answers--like "mommy and daddy are my favorites" or "I am thankful for my house and toys." But our current kiddos are very young, not to mention unfamiliar with being asked questions. And they don't know yet what they're "supposed" to like more than anything. As Luke said, "They just said the thing they happened to be thinking about at that moment!"
So, that got me thinking. Is that so bad? Is "ketchup" a worse answer than my own, "Gee, I can't pick just one?" Or, would it be right for me to give the culturally sanctioned answer ("God and my family are most important to me"), when I don't act that way very often? Maybe the three-year-old answered more honestly, since he actively--and very noisely--appreciated that horn all afternoon.
Anyway, who says your favorite thing in the world can't change with your mood? Why can't we really appreciate those pointy-nosed sharks one minute and go back to loving our mommies and daddies a few seconds later? Wouldn't life be more exciting if everything we touched or thought about became our "favorite things in the world" for just those few moments?
It's thanks to my preschoolers I realized how much I LOVE my frosted flakes every morning. And, that same day, I pointed several staff members toward the women's bathroom insisting, "You have to try the soap! It's the best smell in the world!!" (Yes, I even told a male coworker he needed a sniff.) Before my kids shared their favorite things in the world, I spent too much time trying to narrow down a really good answer to the question. But maybe it doesn't demand a well-thought-out, philosophical response the way most grown-ups assume...
Now, I'm off to cook some eggrolls. I think they're my new favorite things in the world.
Friday, October 1, 2010
To the Regulars at the Sports Bar, and all others in the vacinity at 2:30 this morning
Most of the time, these blog posts center on ways I've succeeded or failed on my personal quest to be a better wife, teacher, friend, and neighbor.
But I didn't get enough sleep for that kind of humility today. Instead, let me present you with:
Three Ways YOU may be able to Serve ME Better
But I didn't get enough sleep for that kind of humility today. Instead, let me present you with:
Three Ways YOU may be able to Serve ME Better
- If you own a dog whose barking annoys you in the wee hours of the morning, do not send it outside, where it will annoy me, too.
- If you are a regular at the Sports Bar across the street, and you simply must get obnoxiously drunk every Thursday and Friday night, and if you must scream everything you say to "Mike" (who is two feet away from you), and if you still think you're sober enough to drive home, please at least avoid parking directly in front of my house. May I suggest the driveway five or six houses down, where the dog is barking?
- AND, if you own a car with a "system" for turning the bass line of any song into a drill, please drive your vehicle off a cliff.
Thank you.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Write-a-Letter Wednesday, the Thursday Edition (Dear Brothers)
**My 21-year-old brother, Tim, is serving in the AirForce--currently stationed in Iraq. My other brother, Andrew, is eleven-years-old, and taking the Middle School scene by storm... I would have written to them yesterday, but my evening filled unexpectedly. So, here is the Thursday edition of Write-a-Letter Wednesday**
Dear Brothers,
Maybe you don't care at all what your big sister has to say about you. But I brag about you all the time. I talk about you at work; I share stories with my friends; and--not so secretly--I'm a little hopeful my first baby is a boy, and that he's just like the brothers I love so much.
Tim: you were everything a younger sibling should have been. You made fun of my clothes and hair. You hit me when mom wasn't looking. And do you remember that time I tried to show you my new dress pants and you peed on them?... Trust me. It happened.
But we had some moments where we were a good team, too. (And I don't just mean the times we were at Indiana Beach.) I remember building with K'nex and Legos long after we were supposed to be asleep. There were road trips where we would get slap-happy, and Mom would threaten our lives if we didn't stop laughing. Of course, that just made it even funnier. And I hope you know--if you're planning anymore flights over the neighbor's fence--you still can count on me to throw my weight on the other side of the teeter-totter when you say, "Go."
Honestly, I never would have fancied you a military man, when we were building bike ramps in the alley and spending our dimes at VP. But I am very, very proud of you.
Drew: You won't understand how I feel about you until you have children of your own someday. That's what you were to me: my baby. You were a living doll for me to dress and feed and bathe, and I LOVED filling your mind with all the facts it could handle. You tried to be an annoying little brother. (The first time Luke ever visited our house, you told him, "My sister is on a crush with you!" and then ran away giggling.) But I was rarely angry with you. Instead, you fascinated me with how clever you were.
You must have been two years old when Dad and I heard you humming several songs from Zelda--perfectly on key. And, around the age of five, you opened my cardoor and said, "After you m'lady." Do you remember when we used to have "cuddle parties" in the playroom? I bribed you and Tabby with pizza and a movie, but my favorite part was curling up on the daybed in a little human pile....
Both of you are funny, and you know it. You're quirky, but it suits you well. And both of you have sweet and sensitive sides, too. My prayer is that you will take your attractive personalities and use them to show the world what it means to be real, upstanding men. But, to do that, you must be willing to do what's "hard" and not just what feels good. That means putting away boyish things like toys and games, in favor of getting jobs and protecting your families some day. It means learning there are more important things in life than what you "want" or even what you "need." And it means using your minds to ask tough questions instead of accepting everything the world tells you is true.
At some point, you'll need to wonder, "Why am I here?" and "What am I supposed to do now?" But I want you to know I'm here to talk about those things, if you want... Or, if you just want to build with Legos or play a little Zelda, I'm here for that, too.
I can't wait to see what else God has in store for both of you, and I'm looking forward to being a part of it.
I love you so, so much!
~Big Sis~
Dear Brothers,
Maybe you don't care at all what your big sister has to say about you. But I brag about you all the time. I talk about you at work; I share stories with my friends; and--not so secretly--I'm a little hopeful my first baby is a boy, and that he's just like the brothers I love so much.
Tim: you were everything a younger sibling should have been. You made fun of my clothes and hair. You hit me when mom wasn't looking. And do you remember that time I tried to show you my new dress pants and you peed on them?... Trust me. It happened.
But we had some moments where we were a good team, too. (And I don't just mean the times we were at Indiana Beach.) I remember building with K'nex and Legos long after we were supposed to be asleep. There were road trips where we would get slap-happy, and Mom would threaten our lives if we didn't stop laughing. Of course, that just made it even funnier. And I hope you know--if you're planning anymore flights over the neighbor's fence--you still can count on me to throw my weight on the other side of the teeter-totter when you say, "Go."
Honestly, I never would have fancied you a military man, when we were building bike ramps in the alley and spending our dimes at VP. But I am very, very proud of you.
Drew: You won't understand how I feel about you until you have children of your own someday. That's what you were to me: my baby. You were a living doll for me to dress and feed and bathe, and I LOVED filling your mind with all the facts it could handle. You tried to be an annoying little brother. (The first time Luke ever visited our house, you told him, "My sister is on a crush with you!" and then ran away giggling.) But I was rarely angry with you. Instead, you fascinated me with how clever you were.
You must have been two years old when Dad and I heard you humming several songs from Zelda--perfectly on key. And, around the age of five, you opened my cardoor and said, "After you m'lady." Do you remember when we used to have "cuddle parties" in the playroom? I bribed you and Tabby with pizza and a movie, but my favorite part was curling up on the daybed in a little human pile....
Both of you are funny, and you know it. You're quirky, but it suits you well. And both of you have sweet and sensitive sides, too. My prayer is that you will take your attractive personalities and use them to show the world what it means to be real, upstanding men. But, to do that, you must be willing to do what's "hard" and not just what feels good. That means putting away boyish things like toys and games, in favor of getting jobs and protecting your families some day. It means learning there are more important things in life than what you "want" or even what you "need." And it means using your minds to ask tough questions instead of accepting everything the world tells you is true.
At some point, you'll need to wonder, "Why am I here?" and "What am I supposed to do now?" But I want you to know I'm here to talk about those things, if you want... Or, if you just want to build with Legos or play a little Zelda, I'm here for that, too.
I can't wait to see what else God has in store for both of you, and I'm looking forward to being a part of it.
I love you so, so much!
~Big Sis~
Monday, September 27, 2010
"You Should Put This on Your Blog"
Yesterday, Luke says, "I have something for your blog."
He then proceeds to flip through the pictures on his phone and produces this.
Me: Uh. I don't understand what this has to do with Turning Selfish into Service. I don't even know what it is.
Luke: This is the logo on a box of hairnets at work.
Me: ???
Luke: I think it looks like a thug.
Me: ???
Luke: It's supposed to be gender-neutral and not race specific. But, I can tell exactly what his face looks like.
Me: Is that right?
Luke: Yes, so I drew it on there and took another picture....
As for what this has to do with service, not much.
But how could I NOT put this on my blog?
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Write-a-Letter Wednesday, Dear Sisters
*Preface: My little sister, Tabby, turned 15-years-old yesterday. And my sister-in-law, Megan, and I have been talking a lot about life and love, as she has been dating her boyfriend for eons now. I guess she figures if anyone can commiserate it's the one who dated her brother for over four years!...No, wait. I don't mean to insinuate that I dated MY brother. I dated Megan's brother for over four years. And then we got married--Megan's brother and I. That's how we became sisters-in-law. Megan and I.
My point is, I'm stationed way up here in Fort Wayne, while both of my sisters are in Kokomo, and I kind of miss those little buggers. So, here is a letter full of sisterly love, for the lovely lady siblings of mine.
Dear Tabs and Megz,
For whatever reason, I'm really craving some girl time right now. I had a daydream yesterday involving me, the two of you, and Panera Bread for some soup. That sounds like a lot of fun to me, and I think the reason for that is two-fold:
My point is, I'm stationed way up here in Fort Wayne, while both of my sisters are in Kokomo, and I kind of miss those little buggers. So, here is a letter full of sisterly love, for the lovely lady siblings of mine.
Dear Tabs and Megz,
For whatever reason, I'm really craving some girl time right now. I had a daydream yesterday involving me, the two of you, and Panera Bread for some soup. That sounds like a lot of fun to me, and I think the reason for that is two-fold:
- I'm finally starting to eat stuff other than crackers, and I feel like celebrating with an overpriced broccoli and cheese breadbowl.
- It finally has occurred to me that I don't need to find a homeless kid or register with Big Brothers, Big Sister to mentor a young adult. I happen to be a sister already.
I was trying to explain to one of my prayer partners exactly WHY I've felt down and depressed lately, and he suggested I needed more rest. He said, "I've had four or five people call me this week asking for counsel or advice, and sometimes we just need to turn off the phone to take care of ourselves!" But, that's when I realized I have the exact opposite problem: I hardly invest in people at all. And, unfortunately, that includes my own family members.
Well, the boys will get their turn next week, when I write to them. But I'm taking this chance to speak to my sisters--as the not-much-older, not-much-wiser, but still interested (and opinionated) older one.
Tabby: I'm soooooo thrilled with the kind of person you've become. Mom says you're really busy with soccer, honors classes, piano, etc. But I'm excited because I know you can handle it, and you've arrived at that point where your trials just make you stronger instead of breaking you down. (That's what this blog is all about, and you are practicing it already!) Most girls your age annoy me because they are totally self-centered, emotional, and generally clueless about life. Plus, even if they know they are self-centered, emotional, and clueless, they don't care--as long as their hair looks good.
Thank you for not being that way. You're funny, well-rounded, mature, and I don't worry about the things you "get in to," because you appreciate clean entertainment. AND, I'm proud of the way you seek God's will for your life. It's the Heavenly perspective that will keep you from falling into the shallow problems your friends may.
The only thing about which you should be concerned is finding a man who can handle your big, intimidating personality. It may be hard to locate that mate who can challenge you and lead you, when you're so strong on your own. And, since you've experienced the love of Christ, your standards are high already.
But, I'm so excited to help however I can as your love life becomes more serious. And I want to have talks about colleges, careers, the stupid things your friends do, and a whole lot of other stuff, too...
Megan: I am SO glad we get along. It's easy to take that kind of thing for granted--mostly because you're the kind of person who everybody likes. But, take my word for it (as somebody who has been known to rub people the wrong way): not all in-laws like each other!
The fact that you have been keeping me up to date and trusting me with the details of your life means a ton. And, though you're probably inflating my ego in dangerous ways, I want to thank you for letting me share what I've learned about wifehood, finances, and the spiritual tests which come with both. If I can tell my stories and make things a little easier for someone else, it almost makes me glad for my problems. Almost.
You're very sweet, Megz. You're driven and passionate, and you have a logical, practical head on your shoulders. As we've discussed, the biggest problem for logical, practical people like us is taking those leaps of faith. And I'm proud of you for beginning to face your fears in the name of trusting God. I CANNOT WAIT to see the ways you're blessed because of it. (Okay, and I'm also looking forward to whining with you when things get frustrating. ha! As you know, life won't be peaches and cream all the time, and.....misery loves company!)
Sometimes I really, really wish I lived a little closer, so I could spend more time with both of you! (By the way, there is a Panera in Kokomo, right? This could be turning into a full-blown craving.) Truthfully, I've been missing you guys...
Both of you are special individuals, who aren't afraid to be different as long as you're walking in the truth. And that's a beautiful thing. I want you to know I'm here to help however I can. And my house always is open, although you would need a ride, Tabs, and both of you should be prepared to use a paintbrush if you came in the next couple weeks. I would love the chance to take a little credit for the great women you have become, so please ask me questions! ;)
And, know that I love you both.
~Mandy
Friday, September 17, 2010
The Meeting--an Addendum (and Other Assorted Updates on Life)
So, on Wednesday I told you I've been feeling pretty awful. Technically, I'm not sick. Pregnancy isn't a disease. But I AM cursed with "perfect attendance sickness," which makes any ailment much, much worse.
In two and a half years, I haven't called off from work--but that's not to say I've been well enough to work every day for two and a half years. Wait, I just remembered. I took off ONE DAY after a would-be field trip to Chicago was ruined by a blizzard and a nasty, firey crash with a semitruck, effectively totalling three university vehicles and incinerating my favorite wedge heels.
But again: one day off. A trip to the ER, prescription for Vicodin, and several assisted trips to the bathroom later (seatbelts save lives--not hips), I was back in the game.
So, you can't bring me down. And, true to form, I've been keeping all of my appointments this past week, too. I even went to church on Sunday, just to prove I'm SuperMom, unphased by a migraine, churning tummy, and muscle fatigue, and even though I sat in a rocking chair in the appropriately named "cry room" through most of the service.
But, I bring this up because I mentioned on Wednesday that--even though I'm not getting house work done, or finishing my writing assignment*, or updating my blog--at least I'd be able to back out of a meeting I didn't want to attend! Good plan. Didn't happen.
This actually was less of a meeting and more of a "focus group" conducted by the CEO of a company here in town. I was linked with this woman last summer, when I was completing my internship, and there were several things that became apparent right away:
But, she described a different woman, too: "I know another lady whose various illnesses have left her immobile from the neck down. She must spend 20 hours a day or more lying flat on her back, hooked up to oxygen. But, do you know what she does with her time? She looks at the ceiling, where someone has written the names of her children to aid her failing memory, and she prays for them over and over until she falls back to sleep. What a legacy!"
I agree, the second woman is leaving a legacy. In fact, she's doing more with her time than the mother-in-law who still is able to walk around, talk, and change channels on the television.
Even though I've heard comparison stories like this before, I was convicted this time. For one thing, I've been sitting around--alone--watching a lot of TV this week. But, I;ve been a fan of vegging out and being lazy for many years, even before I was "supposed" to be selfish because of the baby. It doesn't take long for me to spiral into depression, after days and days of looking out for #1, and that's why I started this blog. I wanted to talk about the things that will make for a good, quality life. I wanted to discuss lasting purpose and leaving a legacy.
It really scared me to picture myself as a 90-year-old, still living life to suit myself. Still not taking my own advice and doing something worthwhile with my time. Still finding ways to indulge my laziness and numb the depression that results.
Luckily, there was a very easy suggestion for changing unwanted behaviors so that we can grow into accomplished and pleasant old people and not angry, wasted bodies. Change your thoughts. For instance, instead of thinking, "I wish my alarm wasn't going off right now," I could be thinking, "God bless my day." Instead of, "These kids are driving my crazy, " I could pray, "Thank you for this job." And, instead of, "I'm sick and tired of being sick and tired! Lord, when can I feel better again?" I could ask, "Give me the strength to do just one thing that impacts somebody today." Or maybe: "Thank you for the chance to prove I'm your servant no matter what."
I'm selfish and lazy. Truly, I am. But I'm excited for the chance to exercise my beliefs and change my thoughts at this crucial time: when I don't necessarily feel like it.
Wow. Long post. I guess the level to which I feel better is directly related to the number of words I use...
Thanks for reading all the way to the end, you Trooper you. And, for a reward, you are invited to talk with me if you need anything (prayer, advice, or something more physical), because I'm totally serious about my desire to serve right now. Thinking about me is exhausting and depressing. Please give me something else to do...
Toodles!
*Look, my first ever footnote. I wanted to let you know I'm writing for Ken Davis now! Someone actually wants to buy my words! And, if you don't know who that is, just trust me that it's a nice break. If you Google his name, you'll see he gets at least 14 O's all to himself. Yeah!
In two and a half years, I haven't called off from work--but that's not to say I've been well enough to work every day for two and a half years. Wait, I just remembered. I took off ONE DAY after a would-be field trip to Chicago was ruined by a blizzard and a nasty, firey crash with a semitruck, effectively totalling three university vehicles and incinerating my favorite wedge heels.
But again: one day off. A trip to the ER, prescription for Vicodin, and several assisted trips to the bathroom later (seatbelts save lives--not hips), I was back in the game.
So, you can't bring me down. And, true to form, I've been keeping all of my appointments this past week, too. I even went to church on Sunday, just to prove I'm SuperMom, unphased by a migraine, churning tummy, and muscle fatigue, and even though I sat in a rocking chair in the appropriately named "cry room" through most of the service.
But, I bring this up because I mentioned on Wednesday that--even though I'm not getting house work done, or finishing my writing assignment*, or updating my blog--at least I'd be able to back out of a meeting I didn't want to attend! Good plan. Didn't happen.
This actually was less of a meeting and more of a "focus group" conducted by the CEO of a company here in town. I was linked with this woman last summer, when I was completing my internship, and there were several things that became apparent right away:
- This woman is hard-working and God-loving.
- She knows her business, which is advising other CEOs about their human resources.
- She is a very encouraging person, who appreciates my "writing strengths" because, in her words, she "is too scattered to write clearly."
- She is very scattered--and she doesn't write clearly.
So, as an organized, clear thinker, it wasn't easy to spend lots of time in the office. AND, her highly emotional personality can be exhausting. (I'll post a link to my story about another meeting I had with her one more time, just in case you've missed it.) SO, now that you've read this account, you can understand why I planned to excuse myself from this "focus group." Even I can't understand why I didn't.
And, more baffling still is the fact that--as I was driving home after the meeting--I was glad I went!
First of all, my stomach really settled while I was there, and I was able to eat a scoop of mashed potatoes and two cookies from the bar! So I was feeling positive already! But also, I was pleasantly surprised by the number of things I was able to learn being smack in the middle of a group of 60+-year-olds answering the question, "What have we done with our lives?"...
Even the infamous CEO was especially clear-headed while she shared her perspective on the "final season of life." She told about her mother-in-law, who is 94 and still doing the exact same things she's always done. Since she doesn't get along with anybody, she retreats into her bedroom and numbs herself with CNN or another television program. Now, her movements are slower than they were and she is forced to accept help with some activities. But she does the same KINDS of things. She still defaults to the same, poisonous thought patterns. She still thinks her life would be better if she were totally alone. And, when she IS alone, she mutters bitterly to herself and waits for the hours to go by.But, she described a different woman, too: "I know another lady whose various illnesses have left her immobile from the neck down. She must spend 20 hours a day or more lying flat on her back, hooked up to oxygen. But, do you know what she does with her time? She looks at the ceiling, where someone has written the names of her children to aid her failing memory, and she prays for them over and over until she falls back to sleep. What a legacy!"
I agree, the second woman is leaving a legacy. In fact, she's doing more with her time than the mother-in-law who still is able to walk around, talk, and change channels on the television.
Even though I've heard comparison stories like this before, I was convicted this time. For one thing, I've been sitting around--alone--watching a lot of TV this week. But, I;ve been a fan of vegging out and being lazy for many years, even before I was "supposed" to be selfish because of the baby. It doesn't take long for me to spiral into depression, after days and days of looking out for #1, and that's why I started this blog. I wanted to talk about the things that will make for a good, quality life. I wanted to discuss lasting purpose and leaving a legacy.
It really scared me to picture myself as a 90-year-old, still living life to suit myself. Still not taking my own advice and doing something worthwhile with my time. Still finding ways to indulge my laziness and numb the depression that results.
Luckily, there was a very easy suggestion for changing unwanted behaviors so that we can grow into accomplished and pleasant old people and not angry, wasted bodies. Change your thoughts. For instance, instead of thinking, "I wish my alarm wasn't going off right now," I could be thinking, "God bless my day." Instead of, "These kids are driving my crazy, " I could pray, "Thank you for this job." And, instead of, "I'm sick and tired of being sick and tired! Lord, when can I feel better again?" I could ask, "Give me the strength to do just one thing that impacts somebody today." Or maybe: "Thank you for the chance to prove I'm your servant no matter what."
I'm selfish and lazy. Truly, I am. But I'm excited for the chance to exercise my beliefs and change my thoughts at this crucial time: when I don't necessarily feel like it.
Wow. Long post. I guess the level to which I feel better is directly related to the number of words I use...
Thanks for reading all the way to the end, you Trooper you. And, for a reward, you are invited to talk with me if you need anything (prayer, advice, or something more physical), because I'm totally serious about my desire to serve right now. Thinking about me is exhausting and depressing. Please give me something else to do...
Toodles!
*Look, my first ever footnote. I wanted to let you know I'm writing for Ken Davis now! Someone actually wants to buy my words! And, if you don't know who that is, just trust me that it's a nice break. If you Google his name, you'll see he gets at least 14 O's all to himself. Yeah!
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Write-a-Letter Wednesday, Dear Readers #2
Hello, Readers.
I had big plans to write a letter to my little siblings, imparting sisterly wisdom for today's Wednesday tradition. But looking at this computer screen is making me want to throw up.
Later this week, I wanted to talk about dating and engagements, and how two people can "know" they're ready for marriage.... But, the success of this plan will depend on my health as well.
Good news: I'm supposed to be at a meeting tonight, which I may legitimately be able to skip due to the circumstance! NOTE: this meeting would be with CEO, Mr. CEO, and the focus group, all mentioned here.
But, the nasty headache and queasiness also causes me to neglect my blog. (And neither will they allow me to watch TV, read, or generally do anything apart from curling up in the fetal position and whining.) It's official: I would go to the stupid meeting if it meant feeling better.
Anyway, I wanted to offer an explanation, as well as a, "Hey, I'll be back. Don't quit on me. I love you! I still have things to rant about or ponder with you!" Ugh. But the more I add to this message, the more the screen spins....
~Amanda~
I had big plans to write a letter to my little siblings, imparting sisterly wisdom for today's Wednesday tradition. But looking at this computer screen is making me want to throw up.
Later this week, I wanted to talk about dating and engagements, and how two people can "know" they're ready for marriage.... But, the success of this plan will depend on my health as well.
Good news: I'm supposed to be at a meeting tonight, which I may legitimately be able to skip due to the circumstance! NOTE: this meeting would be with CEO, Mr. CEO, and the focus group, all mentioned here.
But, the nasty headache and queasiness also causes me to neglect my blog. (And neither will they allow me to watch TV, read, or generally do anything apart from curling up in the fetal position and whining.) It's official: I would go to the stupid meeting if it meant feeling better.
Anyway, I wanted to offer an explanation, as well as a, "Hey, I'll be back. Don't quit on me. I love you! I still have things to rant about or ponder with you!" Ugh. But the more I add to this message, the more the screen spins....
~Amanda~
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Life Isn't an Amusement Park
Yesterday, I was reminiscing about the trips my family used to take to Indiana Beach every summer. (For those not from the Midwest, Indiana Beach is the poor man's Cedar Point or Six Flags...there are booths and rides and a waterpark, all proving "There is More Than Corn in Indiana." But not much more.)
Anyway, when were were young, my brother, Tim, and I thought this little amusement park was the best thing ever. We loved our vacations to the lake, and our parents took us to the fair most years, too. But we couldn't afford tokens or tickets for carnival rides. That is, until we took company-paid trips to Indiana Beach.
I remember the first summer we both measured more than 48 inches tall--enough to ride the crowd-pleasing Cornball Express. As soon as we got off the roller coaster, we would hop the rails and jump right back in line.
We always whined when it was time to stop for lunch with my dad's coworkers. Luckily, the tent in which we pic-nicked was close to the "Kiddie Land" section of the park, and Mom and Dad usually gave us permission to explore those rides on our own, while they finished talking with friends. (During this part of the day, our goal was to get our saucers to spin the fastest...and then we really regretted stopping for lunch.)
One sumer, at the end of a long day full of walking and riding and swimming, I distinctly remember looking at Tim and saying, "Hey! We didn't fight once all day!" And he responded in equally pleased amazement. "That's true! What a good trip!"
My parents laughed at our observation, but it really was an accomplishment to us. When we were home, under ordinary circumstances, my brother and I would bicker at least a couple times a day. Sometimes we would play football or ride bikes with friends, which helped keep the peace a little longer. But arguments were so common, it surprised us when we got along for more than a few hours.
Really, we notice this same phenomenon at the daycare, and we plan our schedule accordingly. When the big kids are at school, we allow the well-behaved young kids more free-choice time. But, as soon as the schoolagers come back, we have snack on the table, followed immediately by outside time. The more we cram the afternoon with activity, the less opportunity they have to fight.
This is typical of kids. But I know adults who still require this accomodation. They need plenty of excitement and out-of-the-ordinary distractions just to play nice with their spouse or kids. These are the same families who buy Big Kid Toys, like vehicles, videogames, and expensive vacations, because they know fewer arguments ensue when all brains are numbed with activity. And when life steers toward monotany--as it's bound to do--nobody knows how to get along.
The problem is, life isn't an amusment park. Even with tons of money and attempts to keep busy constantly, it's impossible to create excitement all the time. And, if you need some type of adreneline rush just to keep the peace in your family, something isn't right. Maybe it's time to grow up.
It's easy to get along when you're having a good time. But, it takes a selfless person--an adult--to play nice with others in all circumstances.
Anyway, when were were young, my brother, Tim, and I thought this little amusement park was the best thing ever. We loved our vacations to the lake, and our parents took us to the fair most years, too. But we couldn't afford tokens or tickets for carnival rides. That is, until we took company-paid trips to Indiana Beach.
I remember the first summer we both measured more than 48 inches tall--enough to ride the crowd-pleasing Cornball Express. As soon as we got off the roller coaster, we would hop the rails and jump right back in line.
We always whined when it was time to stop for lunch with my dad's coworkers. Luckily, the tent in which we pic-nicked was close to the "Kiddie Land" section of the park, and Mom and Dad usually gave us permission to explore those rides on our own, while they finished talking with friends. (During this part of the day, our goal was to get our saucers to spin the fastest...and then we really regretted stopping for lunch.)
One sumer, at the end of a long day full of walking and riding and swimming, I distinctly remember looking at Tim and saying, "Hey! We didn't fight once all day!" And he responded in equally pleased amazement. "That's true! What a good trip!"
My parents laughed at our observation, but it really was an accomplishment to us. When we were home, under ordinary circumstances, my brother and I would bicker at least a couple times a day. Sometimes we would play football or ride bikes with friends, which helped keep the peace a little longer. But arguments were so common, it surprised us when we got along for more than a few hours.
Really, we notice this same phenomenon at the daycare, and we plan our schedule accordingly. When the big kids are at school, we allow the well-behaved young kids more free-choice time. But, as soon as the schoolagers come back, we have snack on the table, followed immediately by outside time. The more we cram the afternoon with activity, the less opportunity they have to fight.
This is typical of kids. But I know adults who still require this accomodation. They need plenty of excitement and out-of-the-ordinary distractions just to play nice with their spouse or kids. These are the same families who buy Big Kid Toys, like vehicles, videogames, and expensive vacations, because they know fewer arguments ensue when all brains are numbed with activity. And when life steers toward monotany--as it's bound to do--nobody knows how to get along.
The problem is, life isn't an amusment park. Even with tons of money and attempts to keep busy constantly, it's impossible to create excitement all the time. And, if you need some type of adreneline rush just to keep the peace in your family, something isn't right. Maybe it's time to grow up.
It's easy to get along when you're having a good time. But, it takes a selfless person--an adult--to play nice with others in all circumstances.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Child Worship
Do you want to baffle your nonChristian friends? Or, maybe you, dear reader, are not a Christian.... Prepare to be baffled.
Try saying: "Children should not be the most important thing in a parent's life."
Oh, there is "no love like a mother's love" for sure. And it's unbelievable how much I've fallen for my little pea-sized baby already. But I'll never say he/she is "my reason for breathing," and there always will be two things more precious to me: my relationship with God and my relationship with my husband.
I know. I'm a monster.
Luke and I were watching Tyra today. (I'll wait for you to stop snickering............) And, the topic of the show was "mama's boys." In true talkshow fashion, there was plenty of drama between fed-up girlfriends and the meddling mother's who won't let their sons grow up. The audience sneered and hissed when a mom told her 26-year-old son, "You can live with me as long as you want because you're my baby. I'll always cook for you and clean for you, and no one can care for you like your mama."
But, the part that raised my eyebrows was when Tyra stepped in and "explained" to one of the women why her relationship with the son was wrong:
"You mentioned that your son is your everything, and that's okay. You're right that your children should be the most important thing in the world. They should be your everything. But, not, like....everything, everything. He is supposed to grow up and be a man at some point. And you can still love him. He can be your number one priority without making him priority all the time..... Does that make sense?"
Oh, yes. Perfect sense. Enlightened perspective. Basically, women can worship their children. But not....worship, worship.... right?
See, everybody recognizes it's unhealthy for a mom to obsess over her 30-year-old child, but they can't articulate why. And this is because society says women are supposed to obsess over their babies--for awhile. It's perfectly acceptable for an otherwise proud, confident, talented woman (who'd die before saying, "I need a man to complete me.") to state willingly that she has no value apart from her offspring. In fact, this makes her a good mom.
But, when the nest empties, is it any wonder why she either latches on to her adult children or spirals into deep depression? Her job is over. There is no greater purpose left for her. She has peeked at 40 or 50.
This is why I say, adamantly, "Those kids never should have been your 'everything, everything' at all."
Luke told me today he's been having the same dream lately--in which something goes terribly wrong at the time of our baby's delivery. The situation is so dire, he has to choose between saving our child and saving my life. Do you know what he said to me?
"In my dream, I grab the doctor by the collar and scream, 'Make sure my wife lives.'"
It's a tough situation to imagine. I pray my husband never, ever, ever has to play out his dream in real life. But, with that kind of conviction, is there any doubt he loves me more than anyone else on earth? And what better way to love our children than to bring them into a home where Mommy and Daddy can model a stable, committed, LOVING relationship?
We worship God. And the next most important thing to both of us is the other. This isn't cruel. Instead, I pray our kids will learn how to cultivate a healthy relationship with their spouses by watching me and Luke.
The "mama's boy" situation is a case of misplaced affection. The family bonds have been distorted. The priorities are out of order. Children are the most selfish people on the planet--and pouring your best energy into them will leave you drained with no hope for a refilling. This is why God instructs the husband and wife to care for eachother's needs first, so there would be something left for the kids.
I'm fully prepared for my babies to take a lot out of me. If I thought God was teaching me selflessness before....I'm just bracing myself for the sleeplessness, the messes, the level of patience I'll need to be a 24-hour caregiver for once.
But I'm so thankful to have a God and husband who will love me even after my child-rearing days are over. As long as I worship the Creator, and not His gifts to me, I'll be shown His purpose for my life which extends even beyond my status as a mother.
Try saying: "Children should not be the most important thing in a parent's life."
Oh, there is "no love like a mother's love" for sure. And it's unbelievable how much I've fallen for my little pea-sized baby already. But I'll never say he/she is "my reason for breathing," and there always will be two things more precious to me: my relationship with God and my relationship with my husband.
I know. I'm a monster.
Luke and I were watching Tyra today. (I'll wait for you to stop snickering............) And, the topic of the show was "mama's boys." In true talkshow fashion, there was plenty of drama between fed-up girlfriends and the meddling mother's who won't let their sons grow up. The audience sneered and hissed when a mom told her 26-year-old son, "You can live with me as long as you want because you're my baby. I'll always cook for you and clean for you, and no one can care for you like your mama."
But, the part that raised my eyebrows was when Tyra stepped in and "explained" to one of the women why her relationship with the son was wrong:
"You mentioned that your son is your everything, and that's okay. You're right that your children should be the most important thing in the world. They should be your everything. But, not, like....everything, everything. He is supposed to grow up and be a man at some point. And you can still love him. He can be your number one priority without making him priority all the time..... Does that make sense?"
Oh, yes. Perfect sense. Enlightened perspective. Basically, women can worship their children. But not....worship, worship.... right?
See, everybody recognizes it's unhealthy for a mom to obsess over her 30-year-old child, but they can't articulate why. And this is because society says women are supposed to obsess over their babies--for awhile. It's perfectly acceptable for an otherwise proud, confident, talented woman (who'd die before saying, "I need a man to complete me.") to state willingly that she has no value apart from her offspring. In fact, this makes her a good mom.
But, when the nest empties, is it any wonder why she either latches on to her adult children or spirals into deep depression? Her job is over. There is no greater purpose left for her. She has peeked at 40 or 50.
This is why I say, adamantly, "Those kids never should have been your 'everything, everything' at all."
Luke told me today he's been having the same dream lately--in which something goes terribly wrong at the time of our baby's delivery. The situation is so dire, he has to choose between saving our child and saving my life. Do you know what he said to me?
"In my dream, I grab the doctor by the collar and scream, 'Make sure my wife lives.'"
It's a tough situation to imagine. I pray my husband never, ever, ever has to play out his dream in real life. But, with that kind of conviction, is there any doubt he loves me more than anyone else on earth? And what better way to love our children than to bring them into a home where Mommy and Daddy can model a stable, committed, LOVING relationship?
We worship God. And the next most important thing to both of us is the other. This isn't cruel. Instead, I pray our kids will learn how to cultivate a healthy relationship with their spouses by watching me and Luke.
The "mama's boy" situation is a case of misplaced affection. The family bonds have been distorted. The priorities are out of order. Children are the most selfish people on the planet--and pouring your best energy into them will leave you drained with no hope for a refilling. This is why God instructs the husband and wife to care for eachother's needs first, so there would be something left for the kids.
I'm fully prepared for my babies to take a lot out of me. If I thought God was teaching me selflessness before....I'm just bracing myself for the sleeplessness, the messes, the level of patience I'll need to be a 24-hour caregiver for once.
But I'm so thankful to have a God and husband who will love me even after my child-rearing days are over. As long as I worship the Creator, and not His gifts to me, I'll be shown His purpose for my life which extends even beyond my status as a mother.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Write-a-Letter Wednesday, Dear Best Friend
(I haven't blogged for several days, and I just don't have the soundness of mind to search cyberspace for something thought-provoking today. Instead, here's a letter demonstrating the kind of mood I'm in, as well as my remarkable capacity for servanthood, of course.)
Dear Michelle,
I just called you and left a voicemail, but you must be at work. I ask you, how am I supposed to book a flight to see you in a month if I can't ask the questions on my mind? And that's not one of the questions I was going to ask.
But, really, you should feel loved because flying to Texas, by myself, is not something I would do for just anybody. It's kind of like driving four hours as a surprise, on a whim, after a mere 30 minutes of packing. Whiiiiiiiiich means this is the second time you've inspired this home-body to do something relatively crazy! You're welcome.
Oh, and perhaps you've noticed I haven't blogged anything for days, either? Yeah, I haven't had the time or the energy between taping/painting and being driven into a deep depression at the site of my home. It seriously has crossed that special line between clutter and filth, and it's all I can do not to break down and hire a professional to finish the flooring AND a maid to clean afterward. There's old mail, paint-filled rags, cardboard and plastic jugs which haven't made it to the recycling bin, tools everywhere, and not a single piece of furniture in the correct spot.
Yet, here I am, taking the time to write my best friend. Yes, indeed, feel special. And don't get the idea that I'm simply hiding here in computer land to escape that drowning sensation. I've only been online for two and a half hours....
Okay, okay, I'll stop the guilt trip. (Trip! Get it?!)
I mean, this is going to be a fun adventure south of the Mason-Dixon--regardless of any nervousness I feel. And everybody should be a little crazy before they have kids, right? (This is not the time to point out that taking a plane trip is not, technically, the definition of crazy.) But I want you to know I'm looking forward to it, and that--should you choose to move to Texas--I would prepare myself to take this journey many more times in the future. Just for you.
Don't move to Texas.
Call me soon so we can proceed with this unusual conversation. I think I've taken the dialog as far as it will go, acting as both parties. And that's not good if I hope to continue my avoidance behavior. I'd appreciate if you dial and hit "send" just before I take the lid off the paint can. Please? It's the least you could do since....you know. :)
With anticipation for an actual chat,
~ME~
Dear Michelle,
I just called you and left a voicemail, but you must be at work. I ask you, how am I supposed to book a flight to see you in a month if I can't ask the questions on my mind? And that's not one of the questions I was going to ask.
But, really, you should feel loved because flying to Texas, by myself, is not something I would do for just anybody. It's kind of like driving four hours as a surprise, on a whim, after a mere 30 minutes of packing. Whiiiiiiiiich means this is the second time you've inspired this home-body to do something relatively crazy! You're welcome.
Oh, and perhaps you've noticed I haven't blogged anything for days, either? Yeah, I haven't had the time or the energy between taping/painting and being driven into a deep depression at the site of my home. It seriously has crossed that special line between clutter and filth, and it's all I can do not to break down and hire a professional to finish the flooring AND a maid to clean afterward. There's old mail, paint-filled rags, cardboard and plastic jugs which haven't made it to the recycling bin, tools everywhere, and not a single piece of furniture in the correct spot.
Yet, here I am, taking the time to write my best friend. Yes, indeed, feel special. And don't get the idea that I'm simply hiding here in computer land to escape that drowning sensation. I've only been online for two and a half hours....
Okay, okay, I'll stop the guilt trip. (Trip! Get it?!)
I mean, this is going to be a fun adventure south of the Mason-Dixon--regardless of any nervousness I feel. And everybody should be a little crazy before they have kids, right? (This is not the time to point out that taking a plane trip is not, technically, the definition of crazy.) But I want you to know I'm looking forward to it, and that--should you choose to move to Texas--I would prepare myself to take this journey many more times in the future. Just for you.
Don't move to Texas.
Call me soon so we can proceed with this unusual conversation. I think I've taken the dialog as far as it will go, acting as both parties. And that's not good if I hope to continue my avoidance behavior. I'd appreciate if you dial and hit "send" just before I take the lid off the paint can. Please? It's the least you could do since....you know. :)
With anticipation for an actual chat,
~ME~
Saturday, September 4, 2010
Dance with Me
That's it, precisely, exactly, everything I've been trying to say on this blog. He summed it up completely. But, Dr. Timothy Keller went further by helping me understand exactly why selfishness is so destructive, and why love and service are all that matters. Who knew it all hinged on the doctrine of the Trinity?
But, it makes so much sense now: If God were unipersonal (just one), then He would have to be egotistical and only concerned about the individual. As a single God, He would have to love Himself, to glorify Himself. He would be "selfish."
But, because God is three-in-one, He displays perfect love and perfect selflessness within His three persons. Forever, the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit have been pouring out themselves and lifting up the others, in what Dr. Timothy Keller calls a "dance."
I was feeling tired and a little queezy today. My living room still is half-finished, and it's hard to clean the toilet and do the vacuuming when those things make such a small dent in the overall mess. Bored, depressed, and a little unmotivated, I decided to check out one of the sermons recommended to me by my highschool science teacher, Heather Mackinnon.
Best. Decision. This. Week.
Dr. Timothy Keller brought me back to the point--the bottom-line of life. And if only you and I could wrap our heads around this concept in practice, there would be no reason to continue my blog. About forty-five minutes after I dragged myself to the computer to listen, I feel affirmed, loved, and inspired to move. I'm motivated to dance around my house with a dust cloth and a song of praise, because I'm part of a Heavenly dance. I know a little piece of the secret. And I want you to dance, too.
(Thanks, Miss Mack, for recognizing my heart and sending a relevent message to cultivate it!)
But, it makes so much sense now: If God were unipersonal (just one), then He would have to be egotistical and only concerned about the individual. As a single God, He would have to love Himself, to glorify Himself. He would be "selfish."
But, because God is three-in-one, He displays perfect love and perfect selflessness within His three persons. Forever, the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit have been pouring out themselves and lifting up the others, in what Dr. Timothy Keller calls a "dance."
I was feeling tired and a little queezy today. My living room still is half-finished, and it's hard to clean the toilet and do the vacuuming when those things make such a small dent in the overall mess. Bored, depressed, and a little unmotivated, I decided to check out one of the sermons recommended to me by my highschool science teacher, Heather Mackinnon.
Best. Decision. This. Week.
Dr. Timothy Keller brought me back to the point--the bottom-line of life. And if only you and I could wrap our heads around this concept in practice, there would be no reason to continue my blog. About forty-five minutes after I dragged myself to the computer to listen, I feel affirmed, loved, and inspired to move. I'm motivated to dance around my house with a dust cloth and a song of praise, because I'm part of a Heavenly dance. I know a little piece of the secret. And I want you to dance, too.
(Thanks, Miss Mack, for recognizing my heart and sending a relevent message to cultivate it!)
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Write-a-Letter Wednesday, Dear God
Dear God,
I tried to write to You yesterday, but I got interrupted. And, since I have the Wednesday letter on my mind, and since I have things to say to You, and since I've delayed our conversation long enough, here I am.
My mood has been all over the place, and--as I anticipated--the transition in which pregnancy has thrown me is affecting my habits. For some reason, when something big happens in my life, my alone time with You gets knocked out of whack first. In this case, I'm spending a lot of time sleeping. And, during the few hours I'm awake, I feel an overwhelming need to work on house projects and run errands, which leaves little time to be still. I'm sorry.
Thankfully, because of the life you're knitting inside me, I haven't reverted into the usual pattern of depression that follows a streak of selfishness. My soul can't help praising you every time I think about the miracle you're performing right now, and the baby makes You hard to ignore. Even when I'm trotting to the bathroom and replacing my beloved salty foods with veggies, I'm awed and excited by the fact that you know this child already. You've chosen me to be its mother. This event helps me see Your presence in my life.
But, I'm not happy with the very little time I've set apart for You. It's not enough to make a quick request for safety in the car or to say "Thank You" as I'm drifting to sleep at night. Even my daily Bible reading is more habitual than spiritual, and I need much more of You than that. I need you so badly I don't even understand it myself.
Today, I saw an article in a Christian periodical that was called "Is God a Dictator?" and I couldn't even read it. Maybe it was You who whispered in my ear:
What difference does it make? Dictator, Permissive Parent, or President, it doesn't matter. Those who wonder these things are missing the point."
Asking whether You're a dictator is like convincing the world that hostile aliens are coming to kill us all and writing articles called, "Do you think they will have blonde hair?" It doesn't matter!Lord, Your impact on this world is much, much bigger than Your leadership style. If You are there, in your all-powerful, unimaginable, perfectly-loving glory, You can rule however You want.
If I really understood your character, I would shake. If I could wrap my mind around your very existence--if I could recognize that You are more significant and life-altering than a host of planet-destroying aliens--I would not struggle to make time for You. I would fall on my knees and beg You to show me just one more glimpse of Your face. I would, at the very least, stop painting walls for a few minutes a day to tell You there is no meaning to my life unless You're in it.
Dad, thank you for waiting patiently for me to call when I'm suffering from self-absorbtion. Thank You for showing up and blowing me away every time I look for You. You're a big deal; YOU are the point. Please help me pass this test and walk closely with You, even though life has been turned upside down. Show me another glimpse of Your face, and I will worship You forever.
In the Holy name of Jesus I ask,
Amen
I tried to write to You yesterday, but I got interrupted. And, since I have the Wednesday letter on my mind, and since I have things to say to You, and since I've delayed our conversation long enough, here I am.
My mood has been all over the place, and--as I anticipated--the transition in which pregnancy has thrown me is affecting my habits. For some reason, when something big happens in my life, my alone time with You gets knocked out of whack first. In this case, I'm spending a lot of time sleeping. And, during the few hours I'm awake, I feel an overwhelming need to work on house projects and run errands, which leaves little time to be still. I'm sorry.
Thankfully, because of the life you're knitting inside me, I haven't reverted into the usual pattern of depression that follows a streak of selfishness. My soul can't help praising you every time I think about the miracle you're performing right now, and the baby makes You hard to ignore. Even when I'm trotting to the bathroom and replacing my beloved salty foods with veggies, I'm awed and excited by the fact that you know this child already. You've chosen me to be its mother. This event helps me see Your presence in my life.
But, I'm not happy with the very little time I've set apart for You. It's not enough to make a quick request for safety in the car or to say "Thank You" as I'm drifting to sleep at night. Even my daily Bible reading is more habitual than spiritual, and I need much more of You than that. I need you so badly I don't even understand it myself.
Today, I saw an article in a Christian periodical that was called "Is God a Dictator?" and I couldn't even read it. Maybe it was You who whispered in my ear:
What difference does it make? Dictator, Permissive Parent, or President, it doesn't matter. Those who wonder these things are missing the point."
Asking whether You're a dictator is like convincing the world that hostile aliens are coming to kill us all and writing articles called, "Do you think they will have blonde hair?" It doesn't matter!Lord, Your impact on this world is much, much bigger than Your leadership style. If You are there, in your all-powerful, unimaginable, perfectly-loving glory, You can rule however You want.
If I really understood your character, I would shake. If I could wrap my mind around your very existence--if I could recognize that You are more significant and life-altering than a host of planet-destroying aliens--I would not struggle to make time for You. I would fall on my knees and beg You to show me just one more glimpse of Your face. I would, at the very least, stop painting walls for a few minutes a day to tell You there is no meaning to my life unless You're in it.
Dad, thank you for waiting patiently for me to call when I'm suffering from self-absorbtion. Thank You for showing up and blowing me away every time I look for You. You're a big deal; YOU are the point. Please help me pass this test and walk closely with You, even though life has been turned upside down. Show me another glimpse of Your face, and I will worship You forever.
In the Holy name of Jesus I ask,
Amen
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
From Civil Rights to Selfishness
My nap was ruined today because I made the mistake of visiting a website devoted to "feminist blogs." And, these ladies weren't just discussing how to tell off your bigoted boss or the best way to light bras on fire. No, they were talking about politics--specifically the "inequality" which still exists and "reproductive rights" (read: freedom to kill babies) which they deserve.
By the time I had read two or three headlines, I was too worked up to sleep. I tried to relax, but I kept daydreaming about slapping a self-absorbed feminist--right in the middle of her speech about empowerment of anyone fortunate enough to be born with ovaries.
What bugs me is the mindset behind this particular brand of feminism, which also plays a role in Black Power struggles and the political demands coming from lower-and-middle class folk. All of them have the same mantra: "I deserve________." The philosophy stemmed from the Civil Rights Movement, when the blacks of this nation were correct in saying, "I deserve equality." But, the mindset has been polluted badly since then. Now, simple pride in your race, gender, or sexual orientation has become an elaborate form of selfishness.
I wrote along these lines for a class once. And, since I don't have time for a lengthy post today, you get to read that recycled piece.
_______
***I'm writing an essay on the African American response to 'failed policy' from 1970 to the present for my black history class. So far, I've enjoyed the class, and the way the black culture evolved and thrived despite oppression is pretty remarkable. However, now that we're looking at the contemporary era, I'm getting frusterated. It's becoming more clear to me how the entire nation shifted from support of EQUAL rights toward the self-absorbed "My Rights" mess we're in now. Here's what I'd LIKE to say in my paper:
The Civil Rights movement was a beautiful point in history because a group of oppressed people banded together and slowly helped abolish unjust laws which had been keeping them from pursuing happiness. This process is what the forefathers intended when they proposed “a government run by the people,” and blacks—along with other minority groups who caught the movement's spirit—proved U.S. citizens COULD change policies that didn't work.
But, I'm afraid much of what has been labeled “unjust” and “failed policy” since then has resulted from Americans of all colors mistaking the right to pursue happiness for the right to have a government which makes them happy.
I don't think most people understand that the Civil Rights movement is inspirational because of how unfair America's laws were at the time. The Movement was necessary because segregation and discrimination were legal, which clearly unleveled the playing field and contradicted the Constitution's guarantee that all men have the same shot at being happy. However, much of the dissatisfaction and controversy today comes from people with that same Civil Rights Spirit, carrying a very different message. The groups are just as angry at the government and just as determined to get results, but instead of saying, “I want my fair chance at a good life,” they're complaining, “Washington hasn't made my life good yet!”
It was during the seventies that oppressed people started coming out of the woodwork and--here's what gets me--ARGUING over whose troubles were worse! Feminism began to flourish, but when white women appealed to black women as "sisters," black women said whites didn't really know suffering because of their priveledged race. Then, black feminists created the NBFO to discuss the issues specifically affecting their race and gender. But, less than a year later, the poor members were unhappy, saying the organization only dealt with middle class trouble. AND the black lesbians claimed the organization ignored gay rights.
So, who needed more advocacy? Blacks? Women? The poor? Gays? When reading this part of the textbook, I'm really confused about who to feel sorry for. Usually the "heros" are much more clear, such as Martin Luther King Jr. who encouraged his race to endure hardships peacefully, always asking for the same simple thing over and over and over, until blacks couldn't be ignored. But when it comes to the 70's, I've just decided not to feel sorry for anybody.
The fact is, it's much easier to support a group like MLK's which has a clear strategy and is willing to die for the cause than it is to support several groups of whiners. I guess the biggest question I have is, what else did they want the government to do? If everyone is being oppressed, isn't no one being oppressed? Doesn't that mean the playing field is level, which gives everyone the same chances? Do these groups really believe that straight, white men have ZERO troubles and are single-handedly responsible for the problems of every body else?
The only solution would be passing laws which intentionally held white men down and gave a special boost to anyone who felt unfairly treated. (Then again, I guess we call that "affirmative action"). And, I suppose the government could give loads of money to places where the Church should be stepping in. (We could call it 'Welfare.') And, maybe it would appease the people who just need recognition if we establish holidays like Gay Awareness Week or Black History Month.
Please excuse my sarcasm, Dr. Kneeland, but you see, I believe very strongly that laws do not change people's hearts and minds. So, if feminists, gays, African-Americans, and even straight, white men are asking the government to force "equal" treatment on a national level, if they're asking the government to hand them jobs and guarantee housing, if they're asking the government to keep making laws and setting up programs until oppressed people are happy, every policy will be a failed policy. _____
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