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...
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
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
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)