If you're new to the Word of the Year concept and want more information, please read this post and this post. Then come back to here and join the fun for 2012!
I've been ruminating on a word for 2012, and I've found it, thanks to my friend Betsy.
My word for 2011 was Learn. Since it's impossible for me not to learn, I feel quite successful and hope the rest of you who chose words last year feel successful, too. Remember, it doesn't matter if you did a lot with your word or just a little. If your word made you act or feel or think at all, you succeeded. There are no grades here, no pass/fail, as with more typical New Year's resolutions.
Words of the Year inspire.
If you want to be inspired by a word this year, choose carefully and post it in the comments here. There's no deadline, and I'll remind you periodically to choose a word and to put it into action. How you act is entirely up to you and your word. With Learn, I read and researched topics that interested me, listened to NPR, and subscribed to some new magazines...all things I would have done anyway, but my word made me more conscious of how much I learn and how good it makes me feel.
This year, my word is Gratitude. Like Learn, Gratitude is a natural choice for me. I spend a lot of my time in prayer expressing gratitude to God and a lot of time writing about gratitude for this blog. In the past few weeks, I've bumped into discussions of gratitude with freakish frequency, and this morning I opened an email from my friend Betsy with a link to this video, and suddenly, I had my word for 2012.
I will be inspired by Gratitude.
What word will inspire you this year?
Showing posts with label gratitude. Show all posts
Showing posts with label gratitude. Show all posts
Friday, January 6, 2012
Sunday, July 3, 2011
Grateful for Freedom
Yesterday, The Gratitude Campaign posted a request on Facebook asking people to share the aspect of freedom for which they are most grateful. Surprisingly, one popped immediately to my mind--usually I have too many favorites of things like this for any one to stand out. I mean, how in the world do you prioritize the rights to freedom of religion, freedom of speech, and freedom to be as stupid as you want as long as you don't hurt anybody?
Then, this morning, I was over at Lowering the Bar and saw this shocking bit of succinct reporting:
"Blogger: restaurant's food was "too salty." Owner: You have slandered me. Judge: Go to jail for 30 days and pay this man $7,000. Blogger: I regret living in Taiwan."
Yeah. I don't regret having been born in the United States, where there's no danger of being sent to jail because you complained about poorly prepared food.
I thought it would be fun to have my readers share whatever most-cherished freedoms pop into their minds. You don't have to be an American to enjoy wonderful freedoms, either, though I suspect if you share on this post, it's unlikely you live in Taiwan.
Here's what I wrote on FB yesterday on the Gratitude Campaign page.
"Freedom of movement. I drove to Maryland and back to Ohio without once having to show papers, stop at a checkpoint, show ID. I saw military vehicles and police along the way and felt pride and comfort in their presence, not a bit of fear or anxiety."
Your turn! Unlike on FB, however, here you aren't limited to a few lines. Write an essay if you're moved to do so. I'll read it.
Then, this morning, I was over at Lowering the Bar and saw this shocking bit of succinct reporting:
"Blogger: restaurant's food was "too salty." Owner: You have slandered me. Judge: Go to jail for 30 days and pay this man $7,000. Blogger: I regret living in Taiwan."
Yeah. I don't regret having been born in the United States, where there's no danger of being sent to jail because you complained about poorly prepared food.
I thought it would be fun to have my readers share whatever most-cherished freedoms pop into their minds. You don't have to be an American to enjoy wonderful freedoms, either, though I suspect if you share on this post, it's unlikely you live in Taiwan.
Here's what I wrote on FB yesterday on the Gratitude Campaign page.
"Freedom of movement. I drove to Maryland and back to Ohio without once having to show papers, stop at a checkpoint, show ID. I saw military vehicles and police along the way and felt pride and comfort in their presence, not a bit of fear or anxiety."
Your turn! Unlike on FB, however, here you aren't limited to a few lines. Write an essay if you're moved to do so. I'll read it.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Negative Self Talk
This blog isn't a place for negative self talk. In fact, while I occasionally use my stupidity and poor situational awareness for comic effect, the central thesis of Questioning my Intelligence has three parts: nobody is perfect, we shouldn't take ourselves so seriously, and choosing a healthy, positive, and hopeful perspective on life does more for your happiness than anyone or anything else can.
A few weeks ago, when I picked up the lawn mower at the repair shop, I approached the service desk cheerfully. What a beautiful day! My thoughts were full of gratitude for the repair person who had the skill to fix our mower and for George who does the mowing. Two people stood behind the counter: a woman on the phone and a man standing a few feet from her. I aimed for him.
He gave me a sheepish smile and said, "You want to talk to her."
I smiled back and said, "Oh?"
"Yeah," he said, still sheepish. "I'm just a dumb truck driver."
How do you respond to that? I searched my brain for some way to spin his words that would help him feel better about himself...or at least let him know that I don't see truck drivers as dumb. Nothing came in the moment that didn't sound pretentious or condescending.
The difficulty, you see, is that I know how life has treated him to get him to the point where he would say something like this to a total stranger. Not specifics, of course. I don't know when or from whom his self-esteem took such a beating. I do know the type of negative words he's heard from others that wore him down and gave him the body language of a beaten puppy. I know the feelings of shame, inadequacy, and self-loathing. I know exactly what it feels like to hate yourself.
And no stranger on the other side of the counter can change those feelings. All a stranger can do is say a few words that contradict the feelings and point in another, more positive direction. These words will likely be ignored, like a single drop of rain in the desert. Just perhaps, they will fall on ground lightly seeded with hope and will eventually sprout and grow. In the moment, however, I was simply overwhelmed by the arid climate of this man's heart, smiled at him as compassionately as I could, and moved down the counter to the woman.
Even with my fairly healthy self-esteem, I suffer momentary return trips to the desert of negative self talk. I think, "You'll never be able to pull that off." Or, "What have you forgotten today, missy?" Or, "How can your house be such a mess. You're just a housewife and still can't get it right." These days, as soon as I'm conscious of these thoughts, I get out my watering can and do my best to drown them. Mostly, I succeed and am grateful. There was a time when my desert was much too big for the watering can to work.
As usual, my brain thought of something I could have said...ten minutes too late. Remember that episode of Seinfeld when George thought of the perfect comeback too late and fretted over it for the entire half-hour? When he finally said those tardy words, they sounded utterly ridiculous.
Life moves on.
Here's what I wish I had said to the man who saw himself as just a dumb truck driver: "Sir, you are not just anything. You are a beloved child of God."
Life moves on. My ill-timed comeback is useless for the truck driver, but perhaps, just perhaps, for someone reading this today, the timing is perfect.
"You are not just anything. You are a beloved child of God."
What sort of negative self-talk do you engage in? How do you fight it?
A few weeks ago, when I picked up the lawn mower at the repair shop, I approached the service desk cheerfully. What a beautiful day! My thoughts were full of gratitude for the repair person who had the skill to fix our mower and for George who does the mowing. Two people stood behind the counter: a woman on the phone and a man standing a few feet from her. I aimed for him.
He gave me a sheepish smile and said, "You want to talk to her."
I smiled back and said, "Oh?"
"Yeah," he said, still sheepish. "I'm just a dumb truck driver."
How do you respond to that? I searched my brain for some way to spin his words that would help him feel better about himself...or at least let him know that I don't see truck drivers as dumb. Nothing came in the moment that didn't sound pretentious or condescending.
The difficulty, you see, is that I know how life has treated him to get him to the point where he would say something like this to a total stranger. Not specifics, of course. I don't know when or from whom his self-esteem took such a beating. I do know the type of negative words he's heard from others that wore him down and gave him the body language of a beaten puppy. I know the feelings of shame, inadequacy, and self-loathing. I know exactly what it feels like to hate yourself.
And no stranger on the other side of the counter can change those feelings. All a stranger can do is say a few words that contradict the feelings and point in another, more positive direction. These words will likely be ignored, like a single drop of rain in the desert. Just perhaps, they will fall on ground lightly seeded with hope and will eventually sprout and grow. In the moment, however, I was simply overwhelmed by the arid climate of this man's heart, smiled at him as compassionately as I could, and moved down the counter to the woman.
Even with my fairly healthy self-esteem, I suffer momentary return trips to the desert of negative self talk. I think, "You'll never be able to pull that off." Or, "What have you forgotten today, missy?" Or, "How can your house be such a mess. You're just a housewife and still can't get it right." These days, as soon as I'm conscious of these thoughts, I get out my watering can and do my best to drown them. Mostly, I succeed and am grateful. There was a time when my desert was much too big for the watering can to work.
As usual, my brain thought of something I could have said...ten minutes too late. Remember that episode of Seinfeld when George thought of the perfect comeback too late and fretted over it for the entire half-hour? When he finally said those tardy words, they sounded utterly ridiculous.
Life moves on.
Here's what I wish I had said to the man who saw himself as just a dumb truck driver: "Sir, you are not just anything. You are a beloved child of God."
Life moves on. My ill-timed comeback is useless for the truck driver, but perhaps, just perhaps, for someone reading this today, the timing is perfect.
"You are not just anything. You are a beloved child of God."
What sort of negative self-talk do you engage in? How do you fight it?
Friday, April 22, 2011
Words, Words, Words about Easter
"Take with you the joy of Easter to the home, and make that home bright with more unselfish love, more hearty service; take it into your work, and do all in the name of the Lord Jesus; take it to your heart, and let that heart rise anew on Easter wings to a higher, a gladder, a fuller life; take it to the dear grave-side and say there the two words "Jesus lives!" and find in them the secret of calm expectation, the hope of eternal reunion." John Ellerton
Monday, March 21, 2011
Gratitude Journal #82
Today, I am grateful for my friend Karen D, who was also my instructor for Stephen Ministry. Karen makes teaching look effortless (I know it is not) and inspired me, taught me, encouraged me, and handed me tissues through 50 hours of training. I'm just so grateful to be blessed with her friendship!
Today, I am grateful for my partner in learning and new friend, Barbara G, a woman of deep faith, great humor, and ready smile. God knew what He was doing when he threw us together into Karen's class.
Today, I am grateful for the end of the beginning of Stephen Ministry training. From here on out, it's on-the-job training!
Today, I am grateful for my husband. For so many reasons, he's spectacular.
Today, I am grateful for a taste of spring. Mother Nature, no doubt, still has winter weather to throw at us, but that's okay. I've tasted spring, and it is good.
What are you grateful for today?
 |
| Karen blessing me. |
 |
| Barabara and I |
Today, I am grateful for the end of the beginning of Stephen Ministry training. From here on out, it's on-the-job training!
Today, I am grateful for my husband. For so many reasons, he's spectacular.
Today, I am grateful for a taste of spring. Mother Nature, no doubt, still has winter weather to throw at us, but that's okay. I've tasted spring, and it is good.
What are you grateful for today?
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
How Do We Get to a Happy Place?
I’ve shared my happy-place birth story before, but it bears repeating here given my recent thoughts on happy places.
When George and I took childbirth class, our teacher was a German woman with a very deep, heavily accented voice. At one point, she ordered us to "exp-herience da relax-A-tion." Her voice was so not relaxing that George and I started to giggle. She suggested we find our happy place and meditate on it during labor. My happy place was a North Carolina beach, with steady, peaceful waves lapping the sand and pelicans flying and a Scot in full Highland dress playing his bagpipes to the rising sun.
I actually experienced this very scene on an early morning beach walk years before, and it was so incredibly peaceful. Well, and sort of weird with the kilted Highlander, but then, the best blessings in life often are a little weird.
Ahhhh, relaxation.
Fast forward to labor. It hurt so much that I could not find my happy place. Every time I closed my eyes to conjure that Scot by the waves, the only image my brain could pull up was of the Pacific coast, specifically some cliffs we'd visited near San Francisco in 1988. In my mind I went back to that overcast and gloomy day, with waves crashing violently against the cliffs and, oddly enough, a German voice-over shouting "Exp-herience da relax-A-tion!"
This was not my East Coast happy place at all. I could not get to my happy place because my giant watermelon-size uterus was teaching me a whole new definition of pain. I begged for the epidural man, who quickly came and took all the hyperventilating pain away. I loved him and would have married him if I weren't already having someone else's baby. God bless the epidural man.
And that is how I flunked natural childbirth. Whatever.
Still, the idea of a happy place intrigues me. What exactly is a happy place? Is it a literal place or can it be something more metaphorical? Do we need a happy place to be, well, happy?
Real places are important formative influences in our lives, and I’ve lived in a lot of different places. Since age five, I’ve lived in Tifton, Georgia; Charlotte, North Carolina; Durham, North Carolina; Sacramento, California; Oscoda, Michigan; Abilene, Texas; Wichita, Kansas; Columbus, Georgia; Boise, Idaho; Rapid City, South Dakota; and Springboro, Ohio.
That’s eleven towns in nine states over thirty-nine years. Not all of these were happy places for me. Oscoda and Abilene stand out as the duds on the list. Oscoda was cold, tiny, isolated, and unfriendly. The nearest mall, pathetic as it was, lay over an hour away in Alpena. The Dairy Queen and movie theater closed for the winter, and the Read-More Bookstore leaned heavily on westerns, romance, and used paperbacks. As an added bonus of misery, we lived in military base housing that would have been condemned by HUD as unsuitable for homeless people.
Then there was the whole Southern-girl-stuck-in-the-Great-White-North thing. Once, in two-degree weather, I shoveled two feet of snow off our driveway and sidewalk, as per military regulations. At that same moment, George was in Key West sailing on warm, blue water and getting sunburned because his B-52 broke down there and he was stuck for two weeks waiting on a replacement part.
Life is not fair. Not fair at all.
Abilene had its own special set of icky characteristic. Primarily, it smelled like cow poop due to the huge feed lots in the area. I didn’t have a car for the six months we were there and so spent an unhealthy amount of time in our appallingly nasty apartment. I couldn’t walk on the carpet in white socks, and the sofa George rented for our six-month stay was patched with duct tape.
On the upside, however, Abilene had a decent mall and some of the best beef and Mexican restaurants in the country. The movie theaters were open year-round, and it had a Hastings bookstore (not a Barnes and Noble, but after the Read-More, I wasn’t inclined to be picky). Most importantly, Abilene was warm, so I had a chance to thaw out after almost three years in Oscoda. In fact, in comparison to Oscoda, Abilene was paradise.
That’s when I decided icky was very, very relative.
Of all the places we lived, Boise was our favorite. Nestled in the foothills of the Rockies, Boise was beautiful in a sage brush and cactus sort of way. We hiked and skied in the hills, and partied downtown. Boise is a largish city, the state capitol, with major medical centers, a university, plenty of movie theaters (including an indy theater that served beer and wine), and lots of fabulous shopping.
But what made Boise my happy place were the people. As always, we had the military, which often made making friends easy, and many of the folks who were stationed there were people we’d known for years. But Boise had the best civilian setting of my whole time as a military spouse.
My friends Liz and Deena and Cheryl and Randy and almost everyone I worked with at Micron made me happy to be alive. My job wasn’t all that exciting (proofreading computer memory chip specifications for weeks on end is boring), but I loved the people. I worked hard cultivating relationships, too. Every week, I asked people out to lunch, organized a monthly birthday lunch for our department, took in baked goods and left them out for anyone who wanted them.
Shared food and celebration are excellent ways to build friendships.
By living in so many different places, I learned that happy places are not really about place. Oscoda was a pit, but I lived there during a tough time in my life. I was coming out of a serious depression and not sure who I was or even wanted to be, but I knew that I was not a good little officer’s wife. We didn’t have children, so most of the other military wives had little to say to me. Those few who did become my friends (hi, Carrie and Sharon!) were people who also didn’t comfortably fit the tidy mold of officer's wife. Putting a young woman in the midst of self-discovery and recovery in a small town with extremely limited resources wasn’t healthy. Or happy.
Over the years, however, I learned that almost any place can be wonderful depending on what can give to it. One of my favorite songs is You Get What You Give by The New Radicals.* (I first remember hearing it in the animated movie Surf’s Up, but it’s a 1990s song. I’m really slow….) The line that stands out every time I hear it is the line that gives the song its title:
“Can’t forget we only get what we give.”
I didn’t have much to give to Oscoda. I was too raw and confused. Boise, however, came at a time when I could give and did give a lot to life. Now, our time in Ohio is similarly fruitful for me. I’m giving a lot, and getting even more in return.
I’m in my happy place. Again. Who knows where I’ll be five, ten, twenty years from now. But if I keep my head on straight and my heart open and giving, I bet it’ll be yet another happy place.
Now it’s your turn. What’s your happy place…real or imaginary? Are you there? How do you deal with longing for a happy place when you can’t go there? Is there a figurative epidural man to help you through that longing?
*You can hear the song on YouTube HERE.
When George and I took childbirth class, our teacher was a German woman with a very deep, heavily accented voice. At one point, she ordered us to "exp-herience da relax-A-tion." Her voice was so not relaxing that George and I started to giggle. She suggested we find our happy place and meditate on it during labor. My happy place was a North Carolina beach, with steady, peaceful waves lapping the sand and pelicans flying and a Scot in full Highland dress playing his bagpipes to the rising sun.
I actually experienced this very scene on an early morning beach walk years before, and it was so incredibly peaceful. Well, and sort of weird with the kilted Highlander, but then, the best blessings in life often are a little weird.
Ahhhh, relaxation.
Fast forward to labor. It hurt so much that I could not find my happy place. Every time I closed my eyes to conjure that Scot by the waves, the only image my brain could pull up was of the Pacific coast, specifically some cliffs we'd visited near San Francisco in 1988. In my mind I went back to that overcast and gloomy day, with waves crashing violently against the cliffs and, oddly enough, a German voice-over shouting "Exp-herience da relax-A-tion!"
This was not my East Coast happy place at all. I could not get to my happy place because my giant watermelon-size uterus was teaching me a whole new definition of pain. I begged for the epidural man, who quickly came and took all the hyperventilating pain away. I loved him and would have married him if I weren't already having someone else's baby. God bless the epidural man.
And that is how I flunked natural childbirth. Whatever.
Still, the idea of a happy place intrigues me. What exactly is a happy place? Is it a literal place or can it be something more metaphorical? Do we need a happy place to be, well, happy?
Real places are important formative influences in our lives, and I’ve lived in a lot of different places. Since age five, I’ve lived in Tifton, Georgia; Charlotte, North Carolina; Durham, North Carolina; Sacramento, California; Oscoda, Michigan; Abilene, Texas; Wichita, Kansas; Columbus, Georgia; Boise, Idaho; Rapid City, South Dakota; and Springboro, Ohio.
That’s eleven towns in nine states over thirty-nine years. Not all of these were happy places for me. Oscoda and Abilene stand out as the duds on the list. Oscoda was cold, tiny, isolated, and unfriendly. The nearest mall, pathetic as it was, lay over an hour away in Alpena. The Dairy Queen and movie theater closed for the winter, and the Read-More Bookstore leaned heavily on westerns, romance, and used paperbacks. As an added bonus of misery, we lived in military base housing that would have been condemned by HUD as unsuitable for homeless people.
Then there was the whole Southern-girl-stuck-in-the-Great-White-North thing. Once, in two-degree weather, I shoveled two feet of snow off our driveway and sidewalk, as per military regulations. At that same moment, George was in Key West sailing on warm, blue water and getting sunburned because his B-52 broke down there and he was stuck for two weeks waiting on a replacement part.
Life is not fair. Not fair at all.
Abilene had its own special set of icky characteristic. Primarily, it smelled like cow poop due to the huge feed lots in the area. I didn’t have a car for the six months we were there and so spent an unhealthy amount of time in our appallingly nasty apartment. I couldn’t walk on the carpet in white socks, and the sofa George rented for our six-month stay was patched with duct tape.
On the upside, however, Abilene had a decent mall and some of the best beef and Mexican restaurants in the country. The movie theaters were open year-round, and it had a Hastings bookstore (not a Barnes and Noble, but after the Read-More, I wasn’t inclined to be picky). Most importantly, Abilene was warm, so I had a chance to thaw out after almost three years in Oscoda. In fact, in comparison to Oscoda, Abilene was paradise.
That’s when I decided icky was very, very relative.
Of all the places we lived, Boise was our favorite. Nestled in the foothills of the Rockies, Boise was beautiful in a sage brush and cactus sort of way. We hiked and skied in the hills, and partied downtown. Boise is a largish city, the state capitol, with major medical centers, a university, plenty of movie theaters (including an indy theater that served beer and wine), and lots of fabulous shopping.
But what made Boise my happy place were the people. As always, we had the military, which often made making friends easy, and many of the folks who were stationed there were people we’d known for years. But Boise had the best civilian setting of my whole time as a military spouse.
My friends Liz and Deena and Cheryl and Randy and almost everyone I worked with at Micron made me happy to be alive. My job wasn’t all that exciting (proofreading computer memory chip specifications for weeks on end is boring), but I loved the people. I worked hard cultivating relationships, too. Every week, I asked people out to lunch, organized a monthly birthday lunch for our department, took in baked goods and left them out for anyone who wanted them.
Shared food and celebration are excellent ways to build friendships.
By living in so many different places, I learned that happy places are not really about place. Oscoda was a pit, but I lived there during a tough time in my life. I was coming out of a serious depression and not sure who I was or even wanted to be, but I knew that I was not a good little officer’s wife. We didn’t have children, so most of the other military wives had little to say to me. Those few who did become my friends (hi, Carrie and Sharon!) were people who also didn’t comfortably fit the tidy mold of officer's wife. Putting a young woman in the midst of self-discovery and recovery in a small town with extremely limited resources wasn’t healthy. Or happy.
Over the years, however, I learned that almost any place can be wonderful depending on what can give to it. One of my favorite songs is You Get What You Give by The New Radicals.* (I first remember hearing it in the animated movie Surf’s Up, but it’s a 1990s song. I’m really slow….) The line that stands out every time I hear it is the line that gives the song its title:
“Can’t forget we only get what we give.”
I didn’t have much to give to Oscoda. I was too raw and confused. Boise, however, came at a time when I could give and did give a lot to life. Now, our time in Ohio is similarly fruitful for me. I’m giving a lot, and getting even more in return.
I’m in my happy place. Again. Who knows where I’ll be five, ten, twenty years from now. But if I keep my head on straight and my heart open and giving, I bet it’ll be yet another happy place.
Now it’s your turn. What’s your happy place…real or imaginary? Are you there? How do you deal with longing for a happy place when you can’t go there? Is there a figurative epidural man to help you through that longing?
*You can hear the song on YouTube HERE.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
More in Lent
Years ago, when I still gave up something for Lent, I resented this time of year. Giving something up seemed to me such a pointless exercise. It didn't make me contemplate Jesus' sacrifice; if anything, it made me concentrate even more on myself and what I wanted and could not have. After I allowed myself to opt out of the whole giving-something-up thing, I appreciated the season more, prayed more, felt more connected to and respectful of the message of Lent.
Today, Ash Wednesday caught me by surprise. The lateness of Lent this year, combined with being sick the last two Sundays and missing church, made me forget all about it. At the grocery store this afternoon, a friend from church asked if I was going to the service tonight. I said no, that we never go to the Wednesday meeting. She said that she only asked because it was Ash Wednesday.
I felt stupid. What kind of almost-commissioned Stephen Minister loses track of such an important day?
Then, a few hours later, I received an email from my aunt. She wrote,
"Wendy, my former priest, gave us a Lenten challenge a couple of years back. She suggested that rather than going on a diet, or giving something up, that we add something positive to our lives in gratitude for Jesus' sacrifice. Add 5 more minutes in prayer. Add an hour volunteering somewhere every week in Lent. Add 5 minutes to the time you spend with your kids at bedtime and talk about what Jesus did for us. Add a compliment to a conversation."
I'd heard this idea before, but today it struck me forcibly as something I should actually do. It felt right and good. So I'm totally in for more in Lent. For me, it will be more time in daily Bible study and more cards sent to friends and family so they know I'm thinking of them.
Would you care to join me in doing more in Lent? Perhaps you already do this. Even if you feel a spiritual lift from giving something up for Lent, perhaps you'd like to add something positive to your life as well. Please share your thoughts in the comments!
Today, Ash Wednesday caught me by surprise. The lateness of Lent this year, combined with being sick the last two Sundays and missing church, made me forget all about it. At the grocery store this afternoon, a friend from church asked if I was going to the service tonight. I said no, that we never go to the Wednesday meeting. She said that she only asked because it was Ash Wednesday.
I felt stupid. What kind of almost-commissioned Stephen Minister loses track of such an important day?
Then, a few hours later, I received an email from my aunt. She wrote,
"Wendy, my former priest, gave us a Lenten challenge a couple of years back. She suggested that rather than going on a diet, or giving something up, that we add something positive to our lives in gratitude for Jesus' sacrifice. Add 5 more minutes in prayer. Add an hour volunteering somewhere every week in Lent. Add 5 minutes to the time you spend with your kids at bedtime and talk about what Jesus did for us. Add a compliment to a conversation."
I'd heard this idea before, but today it struck me forcibly as something I should actually do. It felt right and good. So I'm totally in for more in Lent. For me, it will be more time in daily Bible study and more cards sent to friends and family so they know I'm thinking of them.
Would you care to join me in doing more in Lent? Perhaps you already do this. Even if you feel a spiritual lift from giving something up for Lent, perhaps you'd like to add something positive to your life as well. Please share your thoughts in the comments!
Monday, January 24, 2011
In Memoriam: Reynolds Price
In the spring semester of 1986, the novelist, poet, and scholar Reynolds Price returned to teaching at Duke University after having had surgery to remove a 10-inch tumor from his spine. He taught his usual two classes: a writing workshop and a literature class on John Milton.
I sat in the front row of his Milton class.
On the first day, he rolled into class and parked his wheelchair at the large desk. Everyone was quiet. We were in the presence of a Duke legend, someone famous, someone who had a serious list of publications to his name, someone who’d been interviewed on NPR. Mr. Price—not Doctor Price or Professor Price—lived up to the legend. I’d heard stories of his wearing a black cape with red lining around campus in his younger years. He needed no such props in 1986. All he needed to do was speak.
His rich voice drew his audience in. When he read Milton, I heard the poetry. When he read his own poetry, I found a twentieth-century poet that touched me. When he described the horror of staring out a locked window at a beloved running down a sidewalk toward an unseen patch of ice, I felt that horror.
When he talked about how ridiculous Tina Turner was to be prancing around on stage in skimpy costumes at her age, I agreed with him. After leaving class, however, I realized how judgmental he had been. I thought if I had a body like Tina Turner’s at fifty, I wouldn’t mind flaunting it. But coming from a dignified man who used to strut around campus in a red-lined cape but was now in a wheelchair, the judgment fit.
And that is how he taught me an important lesson in perspective.
On the first day of class, Mr. Price laid down the rules, which included zero tolerance of tardiness and mandatory class participation. The tardiness rule didn’t bother me in the least. I, ever the geek, arrived early to every class in college. But in those days I didn’t open my mouth in class. I was terrified of saying something stupid because my father habitually critiqued my “performance” after he heard me speak in social situations. Everything I said fell short of my father’s expectations. His criticism had paralyzed me, making it impossible for me to speak up in any class, much less one taught by someone famous.
I still remember the day I wanted so badly to answer one of Mr. Price’s questions. I knew my answer was intelligent and meaningful. I knew he would appreciate it. I was sitting right in front of him as he glanced around the room, anticipating a response from one of his students. I started sweating, my hands started to tingle, and I saw stars. Literally saw stars. I had to put my head down. Another student answered the question, and I felt shame and humiliation for my weakness. Mr. Price, after all, never humiliated students for their comments, never made them feel stupid even when they were wrong. He wanted us to participate so much he made participation one-third of our grade. He wanted to hear us.
It wasn’t his fault I could hear my dad saying, “Well, that was a stupid thing to say. You really blew it.”
The space shuttle Challenger exploded that semester. I don’t remember Mr. Price’s exact words, though he spent a large portion of class that day reflecting on it. I do remember leaving class feeling a sense of perspective for the event: the enormous personal tragedy of individual lives lost, the enormous loss to our nation, and the enormous price of the human desire to take risks in search of knowledge and experience. In Mr. Price’s voice, the Challenger disaster became one more important story woven into the larger, longer, tragic, and beautifully connected story of humanity.
At some point during the semester, Mr. Price had an accident and ended up bedridden at home. The English department tried to set up a two-way sound system at his request so he could teach from his bed. This was the 80s, long before teleconferencing became routine. The sound system didn’t work right so Professor Stanley Fish, another famous Milton scholar, taught for a few days. When Mr. Price returned to class, we all breathed a sigh of relief. His warm, confident voice made Stanley Fish’s voice seem coldly intellectual, useful in its own way but hardly one to inspire a personal connection to the poetry of a dead blind man. Also, I couldn’t see Professor Fish teaching from his bed while flat on his back in pain. Mr. Price, however, really tried.
His published books include volumes of poetry, short stories, novels, and personal essays. His examination of the Gospels is on my shelf to reread as I start a year-long study of Jesus. But my favorite book of his is A Whole New Life. His clear voice communicates what it is like to become a gimp (his word) after years of striding confidently through life. In the preface, he writes,
"[The book's] aim is to give, in the midst of an honest narrative, a true record of the visible and invisible ways in which one fairly normal creature entered a trial, not of his choosing, and emerged after a long four years on a new life—a life that’s almost wholly changed from the old. The record is offered first to others in physical or psychic trials of their own, to their families and other helpers and then to the curious reader who waits for his or her own devastation…. In my worst times, I’d have given a lot to hear from veterans of the kind of ordeal I was trapped in."
I’ve kept the book like a talisman, mandatory insurance for the time of my own devastation or that of a loved one, because another thing Mr. Price taught me is that stories, if you let them, can heal both those who tell them and those who listen.
Last Christmas a dear friend gave me a book called Simple Little Words. It’s a collection of stories by people who heard a few simple, yet transformative, words at critical points in their lives. As I read the book during the Christmas break, I thought about those people who had spoken simple little words to me. Mr. Price was one of them, although his words to me were written (how fitting!) rather than spoken.
Because I knew my class participation grade was a disaster, I worked hard on my term paper and final exam. My paper was titled “The Balance of Sound and Sight Imagery in 'L’Allegro' and 'Il Penseroso.'” Doesn’t that catchy title make you want to read it? When I finished typing all 15 pages of it on my electric typewriter (because only nerds used the computer lab in the mid-1980s), I didn’t just hope it was good; I knew it was good. In fact, it’s the first paper I ever wrote that I knew was good. But was it good enough for Mr. Price?
When Mr. Price returned the term papers, I was too nervous to read the grade in front of him and went out into the hall. I saw the A first, and then I read his words. “Susan—a really elegant paper—richly attentive & clearly stated. Thank you.”
My high-school senior English teacher had told me I could write, and Mr. Price's simple little words, especially that underscored thank you, made me believe it, and they made all the negative words my father had spoken begin to fade. It took years for that story of healing to write itself, but I am grateful to Mr. Price for his words that helped me through that story.
I was one among thousands he taught in his fifty years at Duke. He did not know me, the silent one sitting right in front of him that spring semester of 1986, and I didn’t know him, not personally. But his influence changed me. He showed me how powerful a voice can be for good. He showed how personal battles—Adam and Eve’s temptation, Milton’s blindness, astronauts’ deaths, a cancer patient’s determination to keep living and writing and teaching, a girl’s search for self-confidence and a voice of her own—were part of a larger story of transformation, growth, recovery, generosity, kindness, and hard things.
Legends are people with strong voices, and Mr. Price had a very strong voice that wasn’t silenced twenty-five years ago by a 10-inch tumor. That voice isn't silent now that he is gone, either. His stories and poems remain accessible and helpful, a gift from a generous man to anyone willing to listen.
I’ll close with his words from “First Green,” a poem from The Use of Fire.
All ancient hopes are not, by nature, lies.
The dream of green does not preclude new leaves.
The fact that here in drystick winter
We long for spring, new life on limbs,
Does not mean spring will not transpire.
That intricate all-but-smoke of green
On the smallest trees at the riverbank
(Their upmost hands) is only the billionth
Promise paid—resurrection,
Frank hint of endless rounds in steady light.
----------------------------------
Today, I am grateful for Mr. Price, his life and his writing. What are you grateful for? Who touched your life a glancing blow that sent it rolling off down some useful path?
I sat in the front row of his Milton class.
On the first day, he rolled into class and parked his wheelchair at the large desk. Everyone was quiet. We were in the presence of a Duke legend, someone famous, someone who had a serious list of publications to his name, someone who’d been interviewed on NPR. Mr. Price—not Doctor Price or Professor Price—lived up to the legend. I’d heard stories of his wearing a black cape with red lining around campus in his younger years. He needed no such props in 1986. All he needed to do was speak.
His rich voice drew his audience in. When he read Milton, I heard the poetry. When he read his own poetry, I found a twentieth-century poet that touched me. When he described the horror of staring out a locked window at a beloved running down a sidewalk toward an unseen patch of ice, I felt that horror.
When he talked about how ridiculous Tina Turner was to be prancing around on stage in skimpy costumes at her age, I agreed with him. After leaving class, however, I realized how judgmental he had been. I thought if I had a body like Tina Turner’s at fifty, I wouldn’t mind flaunting it. But coming from a dignified man who used to strut around campus in a red-lined cape but was now in a wheelchair, the judgment fit.
And that is how he taught me an important lesson in perspective.
On the first day of class, Mr. Price laid down the rules, which included zero tolerance of tardiness and mandatory class participation. The tardiness rule didn’t bother me in the least. I, ever the geek, arrived early to every class in college. But in those days I didn’t open my mouth in class. I was terrified of saying something stupid because my father habitually critiqued my “performance” after he heard me speak in social situations. Everything I said fell short of my father’s expectations. His criticism had paralyzed me, making it impossible for me to speak up in any class, much less one taught by someone famous.
I still remember the day I wanted so badly to answer one of Mr. Price’s questions. I knew my answer was intelligent and meaningful. I knew he would appreciate it. I was sitting right in front of him as he glanced around the room, anticipating a response from one of his students. I started sweating, my hands started to tingle, and I saw stars. Literally saw stars. I had to put my head down. Another student answered the question, and I felt shame and humiliation for my weakness. Mr. Price, after all, never humiliated students for their comments, never made them feel stupid even when they were wrong. He wanted us to participate so much he made participation one-third of our grade. He wanted to hear us.
It wasn’t his fault I could hear my dad saying, “Well, that was a stupid thing to say. You really blew it.”
The space shuttle Challenger exploded that semester. I don’t remember Mr. Price’s exact words, though he spent a large portion of class that day reflecting on it. I do remember leaving class feeling a sense of perspective for the event: the enormous personal tragedy of individual lives lost, the enormous loss to our nation, and the enormous price of the human desire to take risks in search of knowledge and experience. In Mr. Price’s voice, the Challenger disaster became one more important story woven into the larger, longer, tragic, and beautifully connected story of humanity.
At some point during the semester, Mr. Price had an accident and ended up bedridden at home. The English department tried to set up a two-way sound system at his request so he could teach from his bed. This was the 80s, long before teleconferencing became routine. The sound system didn’t work right so Professor Stanley Fish, another famous Milton scholar, taught for a few days. When Mr. Price returned to class, we all breathed a sigh of relief. His warm, confident voice made Stanley Fish’s voice seem coldly intellectual, useful in its own way but hardly one to inspire a personal connection to the poetry of a dead blind man. Also, I couldn’t see Professor Fish teaching from his bed while flat on his back in pain. Mr. Price, however, really tried.
His published books include volumes of poetry, short stories, novels, and personal essays. His examination of the Gospels is on my shelf to reread as I start a year-long study of Jesus. But my favorite book of his is A Whole New Life. His clear voice communicates what it is like to become a gimp (his word) after years of striding confidently through life. In the preface, he writes,
"[The book's] aim is to give, in the midst of an honest narrative, a true record of the visible and invisible ways in which one fairly normal creature entered a trial, not of his choosing, and emerged after a long four years on a new life—a life that’s almost wholly changed from the old. The record is offered first to others in physical or psychic trials of their own, to their families and other helpers and then to the curious reader who waits for his or her own devastation…. In my worst times, I’d have given a lot to hear from veterans of the kind of ordeal I was trapped in."
I’ve kept the book like a talisman, mandatory insurance for the time of my own devastation or that of a loved one, because another thing Mr. Price taught me is that stories, if you let them, can heal both those who tell them and those who listen.
Last Christmas a dear friend gave me a book called Simple Little Words. It’s a collection of stories by people who heard a few simple, yet transformative, words at critical points in their lives. As I read the book during the Christmas break, I thought about those people who had spoken simple little words to me. Mr. Price was one of them, although his words to me were written (how fitting!) rather than spoken.
Because I knew my class participation grade was a disaster, I worked hard on my term paper and final exam. My paper was titled “The Balance of Sound and Sight Imagery in 'L’Allegro' and 'Il Penseroso.'” Doesn’t that catchy title make you want to read it? When I finished typing all 15 pages of it on my electric typewriter (because only nerds used the computer lab in the mid-1980s), I didn’t just hope it was good; I knew it was good. In fact, it’s the first paper I ever wrote that I knew was good. But was it good enough for Mr. Price?
When Mr. Price returned the term papers, I was too nervous to read the grade in front of him and went out into the hall. I saw the A first, and then I read his words. “Susan—a really elegant paper—richly attentive & clearly stated. Thank you.”
My high-school senior English teacher had told me I could write, and Mr. Price's simple little words, especially that underscored thank you, made me believe it, and they made all the negative words my father had spoken begin to fade. It took years for that story of healing to write itself, but I am grateful to Mr. Price for his words that helped me through that story.
I was one among thousands he taught in his fifty years at Duke. He did not know me, the silent one sitting right in front of him that spring semester of 1986, and I didn’t know him, not personally. But his influence changed me. He showed me how powerful a voice can be for good. He showed how personal battles—Adam and Eve’s temptation, Milton’s blindness, astronauts’ deaths, a cancer patient’s determination to keep living and writing and teaching, a girl’s search for self-confidence and a voice of her own—were part of a larger story of transformation, growth, recovery, generosity, kindness, and hard things.
Legends are people with strong voices, and Mr. Price had a very strong voice that wasn’t silenced twenty-five years ago by a 10-inch tumor. That voice isn't silent now that he is gone, either. His stories and poems remain accessible and helpful, a gift from a generous man to anyone willing to listen.
I’ll close with his words from “First Green,” a poem from The Use of Fire.
All ancient hopes are not, by nature, lies.
The dream of green does not preclude new leaves.
The fact that here in drystick winter
We long for spring, new life on limbs,
Does not mean spring will not transpire.
That intricate all-but-smoke of green
On the smallest trees at the riverbank
(Their upmost hands) is only the billionth
Promise paid—resurrection,
Frank hint of endless rounds in steady light.
----------------------------------
Today, I am grateful for Mr. Price, his life and his writing. What are you grateful for? Who touched your life a glancing blow that sent it rolling off down some useful path?
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Things I Learned in 2010
In no particular order, here are some things I learned (or relearned) in 2010.
One thing people can do after they lose a loved one is open their hearts to love someone new. Ask my mom, whose baby grandson was born six months after her own mother died, and ask our family, who welcomed Daisy into our home three weeks after Hoover died. The pain of loss doesn’t go away, and someone new doesn’t replace someone gone at all, but someone new helps the heart grow new love. And that’s a good thing.
When someone unsubscribes from one of my blogs, it’s nothing personal. At least, that's what I tell myself.
There are definitely more nice people in the world than mean people, though I admit some mean people can definitely screw it up for the rest of us. I’d started to doubt the general goodness of humanity while listening to regular news outlets and their sensational stories of greed, corruption, political bad boys, economic misery, and death and destruction. As an antidote to all the negativity, I made http://www.happynews.com/ my home page on my computer. I started getting a daily dose of, well, happy news. Stories of goodness, mercy, compassion, and love are everywhere in this world…if you look and listen in the right places. Ignoring the bad in the world is rather stupid, but if you fill your mind and heart with only knowledge of the bad, you lose perspective, which is a terribly important thing to have.
Rescuing wildlife makes you feel good. Releasing that rescued wildlife back into the wild after it has recovered makes you feel giddy and causes you to erupt in giggle fits for days after.
The whole Word for the Year thing is not working for me. I’m sad about this because it’s such a wonderful idea. My word for 2010 was Write, and while I did write quite a lot here and on Simplicity, I didn’t work on my book or start freelancing, which were the goals of the word in the first place. Also, my autism blog is suffering sadly from neglect. Oddly, I look back over 2010 with joy and pleasure despite this failure because I did a lot that I’m proud of. I took care of two boys, a man, and two dogs. I blogged over 233 posts on Questioning my Intelligence and over 427 posts on Simplicity. I created hundreds of cards and pushed my creative self harder than ever before. I read dozens of books. I learned and laughed and lived and drank coffee and ate chocolate. I ironed George’s shirts, made his lunches, and was his Iron Sherpa at Ironman Wisconsin. I received countless little kindnesses…even from total strangers from the Land of Internet. I cooked several meals and coordinated meals for dozens of people in our church. I finished another year-long Bible study. I spoke in church and didn’t die from fear. I mourned one very good dog and welcomed another into our home. I helped release a wild animal back into nature where he belonged. I sent a lot of cards this year, including hundreds to the troops for their use, and hopefully, each card brightened its recipient’s day.
I once heard that to be happy, every day you need to do something for someone else, something for your mind, something for your body, something for your soul, something creative, and something you don’t want to do which needs to be done. After this year, I would add that you also need to look at everything that happens to you and everything you do through a prism of love. I used to think the best prayer ever was “This, too, shall pass.” It’s pretty useful, isn’t it? Now, however, I think the best prayer ever is “Lord, make me a blessing to someone today.” Maintaining this loving perspective on life twenty-four/seven is pretty much impossible (at least for me and probably for any other mostly normal human being), but it’s amazing how transformative it can be. At least, it makes ironing shirts much more pleasant, which can only be a good thing.
When you have an impulse to do something nice, don’t over-think it and wimp out. Just do it.
For the past 11 years, since I became a stay-at-home mother, I’d felt my life made very poor copy in our annual Christmas letter. The day-to-day of caring for two boys just isn’t that interesting; you can only say so much about diapers and potty training and gymnastics lessons and school. For the past two-and-a-half years, I’ve written that mundane life into this blog, making it funny (I hope) and universal, and showing just how meaningful and important it is. This year, my children reached ages that require less daily dependence on me, and so I branched out and started some new things, such as the Mark’s Finest Papers Design Team (for creative development) and Stephen Ministry training (for spiritual and interpersonal development). To varying degrees, both adventures have been life-changing in wonderful ways. Who knows what 2011 will hold, but it’s bound to be interesting!
Next week, I'll post a new Word of the Year. I think. At least I'll give all of you who have more success with your words a chance to share your word and commit to it for 2011. Have a very safe and happy new year's celebration!
One thing people can do after they lose a loved one is open their hearts to love someone new. Ask my mom, whose baby grandson was born six months after her own mother died, and ask our family, who welcomed Daisy into our home three weeks after Hoover died. The pain of loss doesn’t go away, and someone new doesn’t replace someone gone at all, but someone new helps the heart grow new love. And that’s a good thing.
When someone unsubscribes from one of my blogs, it’s nothing personal. At least, that's what I tell myself.
There are definitely more nice people in the world than mean people, though I admit some mean people can definitely screw it up for the rest of us. I’d started to doubt the general goodness of humanity while listening to regular news outlets and their sensational stories of greed, corruption, political bad boys, economic misery, and death and destruction. As an antidote to all the negativity, I made http://www.happynews.com/ my home page on my computer. I started getting a daily dose of, well, happy news. Stories of goodness, mercy, compassion, and love are everywhere in this world…if you look and listen in the right places. Ignoring the bad in the world is rather stupid, but if you fill your mind and heart with only knowledge of the bad, you lose perspective, which is a terribly important thing to have.
Rescuing wildlife makes you feel good. Releasing that rescued wildlife back into the wild after it has recovered makes you feel giddy and causes you to erupt in giggle fits for days after.
The whole Word for the Year thing is not working for me. I’m sad about this because it’s such a wonderful idea. My word for 2010 was Write, and while I did write quite a lot here and on Simplicity, I didn’t work on my book or start freelancing, which were the goals of the word in the first place. Also, my autism blog is suffering sadly from neglect. Oddly, I look back over 2010 with joy and pleasure despite this failure because I did a lot that I’m proud of. I took care of two boys, a man, and two dogs. I blogged over 233 posts on Questioning my Intelligence and over 427 posts on Simplicity. I created hundreds of cards and pushed my creative self harder than ever before. I read dozens of books. I learned and laughed and lived and drank coffee and ate chocolate. I ironed George’s shirts, made his lunches, and was his Iron Sherpa at Ironman Wisconsin. I received countless little kindnesses…even from total strangers from the Land of Internet. I cooked several meals and coordinated meals for dozens of people in our church. I finished another year-long Bible study. I spoke in church and didn’t die from fear. I mourned one very good dog and welcomed another into our home. I helped release a wild animal back into nature where he belonged. I sent a lot of cards this year, including hundreds to the troops for their use, and hopefully, each card brightened its recipient’s day.
I once heard that to be happy, every day you need to do something for someone else, something for your mind, something for your body, something for your soul, something creative, and something you don’t want to do which needs to be done. After this year, I would add that you also need to look at everything that happens to you and everything you do through a prism of love. I used to think the best prayer ever was “This, too, shall pass.” It’s pretty useful, isn’t it? Now, however, I think the best prayer ever is “Lord, make me a blessing to someone today.” Maintaining this loving perspective on life twenty-four/seven is pretty much impossible (at least for me and probably for any other mostly normal human being), but it’s amazing how transformative it can be. At least, it makes ironing shirts much more pleasant, which can only be a good thing.
When you have an impulse to do something nice, don’t over-think it and wimp out. Just do it.
For the past 11 years, since I became a stay-at-home mother, I’d felt my life made very poor copy in our annual Christmas letter. The day-to-day of caring for two boys just isn’t that interesting; you can only say so much about diapers and potty training and gymnastics lessons and school. For the past two-and-a-half years, I’ve written that mundane life into this blog, making it funny (I hope) and universal, and showing just how meaningful and important it is. This year, my children reached ages that require less daily dependence on me, and so I branched out and started some new things, such as the Mark’s Finest Papers Design Team (for creative development) and Stephen Ministry training (for spiritual and interpersonal development). To varying degrees, both adventures have been life-changing in wonderful ways. Who knows what 2011 will hold, but it’s bound to be interesting!
Next week, I'll post a new Word of the Year. I think. At least I'll give all of you who have more success with your words a chance to share your word and commit to it for 2011. Have a very safe and happy new year's celebration!
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Thankful
I am thankful for...
air, and my ability to breathe it in and out so easily.
water, which makes up most of me and you and the earth in general, and flows clean out of my faucets.
food, which I will eat too much of today, and of which too many people on this earth have not enough.
clothes, to keep me warm and and comfortable, and to keep others from seeing all of me.
my home, which is very comfortable.
my family, who are loved by me and who love me.
my friends, who are loved by me and who love me.
my church family, which is such a blessing to me.
my blog readers, who are the best.
my community, which has all I need and an awful lot of what I want.
my country, which lets me say what I want, worship as I wish, and live free of harassment and fear.
our planet, which is beautiful beyond imagining and deserves more respect than she gets.
the stars, which shine with far-away light and remind me how small I am.
God, from whom all blessings flow.
Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.
air, and my ability to breathe it in and out so easily.
water, which makes up most of me and you and the earth in general, and flows clean out of my faucets.
food, which I will eat too much of today, and of which too many people on this earth have not enough.
clothes, to keep me warm and and comfortable, and to keep others from seeing all of me.
my home, which is very comfortable.
my family, who are loved by me and who love me.
my friends, who are loved by me and who love me.
my church family, which is such a blessing to me.
my blog readers, who are the best.
my community, which has all I need and an awful lot of what I want.
my country, which lets me say what I want, worship as I wish, and live free of harassment and fear.
our planet, which is beautiful beyond imagining and deserves more respect than she gets.
the stars, which shine with far-away light and remind me how small I am.
God, from whom all blessings flow.
Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Vote
I have a very good friend who is a political junky. She volunteers and makes phone calls and loves the whole process of elections. In fact, she's one of the top volunteers in our area for her party. Because her phone number is unlisted, she doesn’t get the recorded messages and misses them. She loves watching the ads on television and reading the print pieces from all the candidates. The media frenzy fascinates her. She never gets annoyed with it or tired of it.
Needless to say, this is her favorite day of the year.
My response to this media frenzy is different. In the past two weeks, our house has received a number of recorded phone calls from many different candidates. Ohio is a hot state this election, so the activity here has been intense. While intellectually I know that the recorded calls work (no candidate would pay for them if they didn’t!), they don’t work on me because I don’t listen. Yesterday, I was in the bathroom when the phone rang. I rushed to answer (you’ve all done this, haven’t you?) and it was a RECORDED political message. Grrrr.
When Newt Gingrich called my house this weekend, I hung up on him. Putting aside the entire issue of politics, hanging up on Newt was deeply satisfying. I don’t care how famous he is, he doesn’t have the right to bother me in my own home. Click. Score one for the housewife!
We don’t watch network television anymore, so we didn’t see the nasty televised ads. But I’d be tired of them if we had been watching.
I am NOT, however, tired of living in a country that regularly allows me to fill little circles on a ballot and register my opinion. On Election Day, I feel like the luckiest woman alive. I bounce happily into my polling place, full of smiles and kind words to the poll volunteers, take my ballot, go to my little cubicle, and VOTE! I’d squeal with joy if it wouldn’t distract other people.
My political junky friend and I both share this deep and abiding passion for the exercise of democracy. We don’t understand people who don’t make time to vote, who don’t exercise a right that our country’s founders fought to give us, who don’t see the point in doing something that millions of people alive today in less fortunate countries desperately want to do and can't.
Those people, the oppressed and silent masses whose voices are not heard in their own lands…I think of them on Election Day.
For my American readers, if you already voted, I thank you. If you haven’t and aren’t planning to, I urge you to get off your butt and just do it. I don’t care who you vote for, what issues you support or oppose, or what party you identify with.
You can vote.
And that makes you the luckiest human alive.
Needless to say, this is her favorite day of the year.
My response to this media frenzy is different. In the past two weeks, our house has received a number of recorded phone calls from many different candidates. Ohio is a hot state this election, so the activity here has been intense. While intellectually I know that the recorded calls work (no candidate would pay for them if they didn’t!), they don’t work on me because I don’t listen. Yesterday, I was in the bathroom when the phone rang. I rushed to answer (you’ve all done this, haven’t you?) and it was a RECORDED political message. Grrrr.
When Newt Gingrich called my house this weekend, I hung up on him. Putting aside the entire issue of politics, hanging up on Newt was deeply satisfying. I don’t care how famous he is, he doesn’t have the right to bother me in my own home. Click. Score one for the housewife!
We don’t watch network television anymore, so we didn’t see the nasty televised ads. But I’d be tired of them if we had been watching.
I am NOT, however, tired of living in a country that regularly allows me to fill little circles on a ballot and register my opinion. On Election Day, I feel like the luckiest woman alive. I bounce happily into my polling place, full of smiles and kind words to the poll volunteers, take my ballot, go to my little cubicle, and VOTE! I’d squeal with joy if it wouldn’t distract other people.
My political junky friend and I both share this deep and abiding passion for the exercise of democracy. We don’t understand people who don’t make time to vote, who don’t exercise a right that our country’s founders fought to give us, who don’t see the point in doing something that millions of people alive today in less fortunate countries desperately want to do and can't.
Those people, the oppressed and silent masses whose voices are not heard in their own lands…I think of them on Election Day.
For my American readers, if you already voted, I thank you. If you haven’t and aren’t planning to, I urge you to get off your butt and just do it. I don’t care who you vote for, what issues you support or oppose, or what party you identify with.
You can vote.
And that makes you the luckiest human alive.
Monday, June 28, 2010
Gratitude Journal #46
Today, I am grateful for a fun-filled vacation with George's family in northern Minnesota, for laughter and togetherness, for kayaks and pontoon boats, for beautiful log cabins, for wonderful food and drink, for spending time and reconnecting with extended family, for safe travels for all.
Today, I am grateful for the kennel that kept Hoover while we were gone. April, the owner, knew full well that Hoover might need to be put to sleep while he was with her, but she willingly took on the risk to provide a safe, well-known, and loving place for our furry friend. We pick him up today, and I'm soooo grateful he's still with us.
Today, I am grateful for the many volunteers who have stepped up to make meals for the Hammett family. Little Lincoln Hammett lost his 18-month battle with leukemia on the 20th. While this family struggles with grief and loss I cannot understand, I am amazed at how large a community has surrounded them with prayer and support and encouragement. Lincoln brought people together in love and care for his family, and for that, I am grateful.
What are you grateful for today?
Today, I am grateful for the kennel that kept Hoover while we were gone. April, the owner, knew full well that Hoover might need to be put to sleep while he was with her, but she willingly took on the risk to provide a safe, well-known, and loving place for our furry friend. We pick him up today, and I'm soooo grateful he's still with us.
Today, I am grateful for the many volunteers who have stepped up to make meals for the Hammett family. Little Lincoln Hammett lost his 18-month battle with leukemia on the 20th. While this family struggles with grief and loss I cannot understand, I am amazed at how large a community has surrounded them with prayer and support and encouragement. Lincoln brought people together in love and care for his family, and for that, I am grateful.
What are you grateful for today?
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Could We Spare a Few?
Mother Teresa said, “We cannot all do great things. But we can all do small things with great love.”
Our celebrity-driven, consumer-oriented, highly-competitive culture doesn’t exactly value small things. Many individuals internalize this in unhealthy ways (raising my hand here). We justify the rat race in our own minds, but instead of being clever rats, we’re really just lemmings following the crowd over the cliff.
I’ve heard well-educated, smart, privileged people say, “The problems are so big, there’s nothing I can do.” I have heard people scorn Christians who went to New Orleans after Katrina to help with the clean-up, saying they were self-righteous, just doing it to get into heaven and not really concerned about those people.
That may indeed be true for some people, but who cares? They still got down and dirty helping people dig out from the mud and sewage and nastiness. I doubt the homeowners they helped care what their attitude was...they just appreciated that someone was helping them. The government sure wasn't.
People can come up with all sorts of excuses not to do big or small things. I don’t have time. It won’t make a difference anyway. The problem is too big. That’s life. Those lazy bums just need to get jobs. I don’t know those people. Someone else will help. I pay my taxes, and government programs do enough. I’ve got enough problems of my own.
One day, my sister and I were in my mother’s front yard cleaning out our cars in preparation for trips back to our own homes. An elderly man walking by saw all the car seats and baby paraphernalia in the yard and asked if he could speak to us. His daughter had a baby and they didn’t have money for diapers. Could we spare a few?
Could we spare a few? Yes. Yes, we could.
That day, I made a promise to God and myself that I would try to pay attention to small needs. I regularly get sucked back into my own rat race, so I need structure to keep me focused on seeing the need around me. That’s one reason I go to church. Many people see churches as places of greed, hypocrisy, and self-righteousness, and sadly, they are right. Our church isn’t a center of greed like the mega-churches can be, but I see hypocrisy and self-righteousness there all too frequently. I also see plenty of people who genuinely want to help others by doing small—and even big—things every day. It’s a small church committed to missions and outreach in our community, state, country, and world. Despite its small size, our church makes a big difference with love, despite a few hypocrites and nay-sayers.
If church isn’t your thing, the internet has lots of ways to do small things. My favorite is Do One Nice Thing, a site that started as a way to perk up Mondays and is committed to bringing opportunities of giving in small ways that make a difference all week long.
Operation Write Home is big in the stamping community as a way to send homemade cards to the troops so they have cards to send home to their family and friends during deployments. Another stamper read that I sent cards to the troops and emailed me about how she wanted to do the same but her relatives discouraged her, saying there were too many scams and the cards wouldn’t make it overseas. She wanted to know how I knew for sure that my cards were getting to the troops. I replied that no one ever knows for sure in charitable giving. It’s an act of faith. But if no one had that faith, no good—large or small—would ever get done. She thanked me and said she’d rather be a person with faith that she could do some good than a person of skepticism who did no good for anyone ever.
Sending a can of tennis balls to help underprivileged kids in Colorado or $10 to Haiti or a box of cards to the troops is a small thing. It won’t change lives or save the world. But it will make a small difference with great love. We can’t all be Mother Teresa, but we can all follow her lead in our own small ways.
What are your favorite ways of doing small things with great love for your family, your community, your nation, or our world?
Our celebrity-driven, consumer-oriented, highly-competitive culture doesn’t exactly value small things. Many individuals internalize this in unhealthy ways (raising my hand here). We justify the rat race in our own minds, but instead of being clever rats, we’re really just lemmings following the crowd over the cliff.
I’ve heard well-educated, smart, privileged people say, “The problems are so big, there’s nothing I can do.” I have heard people scorn Christians who went to New Orleans after Katrina to help with the clean-up, saying they were self-righteous, just doing it to get into heaven and not really concerned about those people.
That may indeed be true for some people, but who cares? They still got down and dirty helping people dig out from the mud and sewage and nastiness. I doubt the homeowners they helped care what their attitude was...they just appreciated that someone was helping them. The government sure wasn't.
People can come up with all sorts of excuses not to do big or small things. I don’t have time. It won’t make a difference anyway. The problem is too big. That’s life. Those lazy bums just need to get jobs. I don’t know those people. Someone else will help. I pay my taxes, and government programs do enough. I’ve got enough problems of my own.
One day, my sister and I were in my mother’s front yard cleaning out our cars in preparation for trips back to our own homes. An elderly man walking by saw all the car seats and baby paraphernalia in the yard and asked if he could speak to us. His daughter had a baby and they didn’t have money for diapers. Could we spare a few?
Could we spare a few? Yes. Yes, we could.
That day, I made a promise to God and myself that I would try to pay attention to small needs. I regularly get sucked back into my own rat race, so I need structure to keep me focused on seeing the need around me. That’s one reason I go to church. Many people see churches as places of greed, hypocrisy, and self-righteousness, and sadly, they are right. Our church isn’t a center of greed like the mega-churches can be, but I see hypocrisy and self-righteousness there all too frequently. I also see plenty of people who genuinely want to help others by doing small—and even big—things every day. It’s a small church committed to missions and outreach in our community, state, country, and world. Despite its small size, our church makes a big difference with love, despite a few hypocrites and nay-sayers.
If church isn’t your thing, the internet has lots of ways to do small things. My favorite is Do One Nice Thing, a site that started as a way to perk up Mondays and is committed to bringing opportunities of giving in small ways that make a difference all week long.
Operation Write Home is big in the stamping community as a way to send homemade cards to the troops so they have cards to send home to their family and friends during deployments. Another stamper read that I sent cards to the troops and emailed me about how she wanted to do the same but her relatives discouraged her, saying there were too many scams and the cards wouldn’t make it overseas. She wanted to know how I knew for sure that my cards were getting to the troops. I replied that no one ever knows for sure in charitable giving. It’s an act of faith. But if no one had that faith, no good—large or small—would ever get done. She thanked me and said she’d rather be a person with faith that she could do some good than a person of skepticism who did no good for anyone ever.
Sending a can of tennis balls to help underprivileged kids in Colorado or $10 to Haiti or a box of cards to the troops is a small thing. It won’t change lives or save the world. But it will make a small difference with great love. We can’t all be Mother Teresa, but we can all follow her lead in our own small ways.
What are your favorite ways of doing small things with great love for your family, your community, your nation, or our world?
Monday, May 24, 2010
Gratitude Journal #42
This is today's second post; to read my initial reaction to the Lost finale, please scroll down!
Today, I am grateful for bacon.
The bucket list is complete. As you can see, for a dog who was supposed to be dead three weeks ago, Hoover is remarkably alive and happy. And fat.
Today, I am grateful that Lost is over. It was a good story well told, and now it is time to move on. Oh, the layers of meaning in that phrase move on! I think my favorite line from last night was Miles saying, "I may not believe in much, but I believe in duct tape." But my favorite moment was at the very end, when Vincent the yellow lab lay down next to Jack. So glad they didn't forget about Vincent.
Today, I am grateful for benadryl. Again. Nuff said.
What are you grateful for today?
Today, I am grateful for bacon.
The bucket list is complete. As you can see, for a dog who was supposed to be dead three weeks ago, Hoover is remarkably alive and happy. And fat.
Today, I am grateful that Lost is over. It was a good story well told, and now it is time to move on. Oh, the layers of meaning in that phrase move on! I think my favorite line from last night was Miles saying, "I may not believe in much, but I believe in duct tape." But my favorite moment was at the very end, when Vincent the yellow lab lay down next to Jack. So glad they didn't forget about Vincent.
Today, I am grateful for benadryl. Again. Nuff said.
What are you grateful for today?
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Happy Easter!
Luke 24:1-12 NIV
On the first day of the week, very early in the morning, the women took the spices they had prepared and went to the tomb. They found the stone rolled away from the tomb, but when they entered, they did not find the body of the Lord Jesus. While they were wondering about this, suddenly two men in clothes that gleamed like lightning stood beside them. In their fright the women bowed down with their faces to the ground, but the men said to them, "Why do you look for the living among the dead? He is not here; he has risen! Remember how he told you, while he was still with you in Galilee: 'The Son of Man must be delivered into the hands of sinful men, be crucified and on the third day be raised again.' " Then they remembered his words.
When they came back from the tomb, they told all these things to the Eleven and to all the others. It was Mary Magdalene, Joanna, Mary the mother of James, and the others with them who told this to the apostles. But they did not believe the women, because their words seemed to them like nonsense. Peter, however, got up and ran to the tomb. Bending over, he saw the strips of linen lying by themselves, and he went away, wondering to himself what had happened.
On the first day of the week, very early in the morning, the women took the spices they had prepared and went to the tomb. They found the stone rolled away from the tomb, but when they entered, they did not find the body of the Lord Jesus. While they were wondering about this, suddenly two men in clothes that gleamed like lightning stood beside them. In their fright the women bowed down with their faces to the ground, but the men said to them, "Why do you look for the living among the dead? He is not here; he has risen! Remember how he told you, while he was still with you in Galilee: 'The Son of Man must be delivered into the hands of sinful men, be crucified and on the third day be raised again.' " Then they remembered his words.
When they came back from the tomb, they told all these things to the Eleven and to all the others. It was Mary Magdalene, Joanna, Mary the mother of James, and the others with them who told this to the apostles. But they did not believe the women, because their words seemed to them like nonsense. Peter, however, got up and ran to the tomb. Bending over, he saw the strips of linen lying by themselves, and he went away, wondering to himself what had happened.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Picture of Health
Back in October, I asked for prayers for my sister and her premature son, Grady. Many thanks to all who took up that request; my gratitude is immeasurable. Our prayers were answered, and little Grady is now the picture of health and happiness.
Here's Grady with his mommy, who is also very grateful for all your prayers.
And here's Grady with his proud aunt, who loves him very, very much.
My mother, Lisa, and her three children visited us this week. I got my baby fix with feeding and burping and swaying and changing Grady's clothes...but not his diaper. Being an aunt is way easier than being the mommy. Grady is such a happy little guy, unless, of course, he is hungry or tired or dirty. He is also very considerate, sleeping through the night and letting my sister (and the rest of us) get some sleep.
Their visit was filled with much laughter and giggling and silliness. My favorite moment came when my mother, who is the quintessential sweet mommy type, totally got us rolling on the floor with with an out-of-the-blue wisecrack about herpes. But, really, you had to be there to appreciate that one.
Upcoming on Questioning: I'm working on a new essay for the blog about wine snobs (MUST revisit that topic because it's so rich in comic potential!), as well as an update on Hoover. Many thanks to all of you who have expressed sympathy for his situation. He's still with us and doing pretty well.
Here's Grady with his mommy, who is also very grateful for all your prayers.
And here's Grady with his proud aunt, who loves him very, very much.
My mother, Lisa, and her three children visited us this week. I got my baby fix with feeding and burping and swaying and changing Grady's clothes...but not his diaper. Being an aunt is way easier than being the mommy. Grady is such a happy little guy, unless, of course, he is hungry or tired or dirty. He is also very considerate, sleeping through the night and letting my sister (and the rest of us) get some sleep.
Their visit was filled with much laughter and giggling and silliness. My favorite moment came when my mother, who is the quintessential sweet mommy type, totally got us rolling on the floor with with an out-of-the-blue wisecrack about herpes. But, really, you had to be there to appreciate that one.
Upcoming on Questioning: I'm working on a new essay for the blog about wine snobs (MUST revisit that topic because it's so rich in comic potential!), as well as an update on Hoover. Many thanks to all of you who have expressed sympathy for his situation. He's still with us and doing pretty well.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Jack's Favorite Part
Jack: Thank you for playing ball with us, Daddy.
George: You're welcome, pal. I had a lot of fun.
Jack: What was your favorite part?
George: Spending time with my boys. What was your favorite part?
Jack: Whacking you in the head with the ball.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Random Raihala
Here are some random observations from the past week of holiday fun. Enjoy.
*George is an awesome cook.
*A small boy can create a tsunami in a bathroom and still completely deny responsibility even when there’s a witness. BTW, water stains on downstairs ceilings CAN dry to invisibility, if you’re lucky like we are.
*A random sales associate at Best Buy knew everything I didn’t about the Wii and was hugely helpful. (Dang, Best Buy should pay me for this!) Yes, we ARE the last family in our entire freakin’ neighborhood to buy a Wii. I can’t believe we’re caving on this one. Please don’t judge me.
*Our kitchen table can hold approximately 248 cook books and cooking magazines without collapsing. I kept moving the stacks to the book shelves, and my mother-in-law and George kept moving them back to the table. Like mother, like son, I suppose. Given the quality of cooking the two of them produced, I am obviously not complaining. It’s just an observation.
*The Bon Appetit Special Collector’s Edition: Provence has disappeared in our house. A reward will be offered to anyone who finds it before George expires from despair.
*Four adults in one week produce enough empty beer and wine bottles to fill up the recycling bin and make it mildly embarrassing to put the bin out on trash day. What will the neighbors think?!?
*The movie Fantastic Mr. Fox is deeply, deeply weird. Christopherson is a stupid name for a fox. I practically fell asleep, but George remembers that Whack Bat ends when someone calls “hot box.” Dudes have the oddest ability to remember stupid sports facts, even when the games are made up in deeply weird movies.
*Hiking in the woods on a sunny fall day is a combination of sheer joy (sighting a deer bounding through the underbrush) and sheer parental frustration as boys bicker (Mommy, Jack kicked me! Mommy, Nick pushed me! Don’t touch me! Mo-ohmmmm! I’m tired. I can’t take another step! It’s too steep! I want to go home!). You’d think we were force-marching them up Mt. Everest. (Give me oxygen!!!!) Papa saved the day by taking everyone to McD’s afterwards for french fries. Papa rocks!
*The microscope Nick got for Christmas last year is super cool. It has a light aimed down at the slide so you can look at opaque objects. Nick and Grandma share an interest in rocks, so they looked at Nick’s mineral collection under the microscope. There’s no humor in this, but it was highly cool, in a geeky, geological sort of way.
*When people say they don’t want biscuits, they lie.
*Bacon laid on the turkey curls up at the ends so it looks like Pippi Longstocking. Combine it with the gravy-making genius of Grandma, however, and you get the best gravy EVER IN THE HISTORY OF GRAVY. Burp.
*George tried growing a goatee over the holiday. I do not like facial hair on a spouse as it reminds me of kissing my mustachioed grandfather…can you say, “Ewwwww”? Yeah. He doesn’t care what I think on this issue, but he finally got annoyed with it catching on his pillow as he tried to fall asleep and shaved it off. Thank you, George. Now he’s either lazily not shaving his cranium or letting his hair grow out (can’t make up his mind on that one), and I pointed out that his peninsula of hair (you know, the one in the middle of the forehead that has receding coastline on either side?) has disappeared. He pointed out that it had, in fact, not completely disappeared and can be felt, though not seen, at this point. If he keeps growing his hair out, he’ll have a sad little island of hair surrounded by bare skin right on the top of his head. My increasingly gray hair seems less a problem in light of his hair woes, don’t you think?
*If you turn off the heat to open windows to air out your old-food-scented house and decide two minutes after opening the windows that it is too cold outside and a Yankee candle will have to suffice, you really ought to turn the heat back on. Otherwise, you will awaken the next morning to a 60 degree house. Just sayin'.
*Thanksgiving is a great holiday. It deserves not to be lost between Halloween and Christmas.
*As we tucked the boys in tonight, I realized there are now only 23 days until Christmas. HOW DID THIS HAPPEN!!!???!!!???
*I need a hug.
*George is an awesome cook.
*A small boy can create a tsunami in a bathroom and still completely deny responsibility even when there’s a witness. BTW, water stains on downstairs ceilings CAN dry to invisibility, if you’re lucky like we are.
*A random sales associate at Best Buy knew everything I didn’t about the Wii and was hugely helpful. (Dang, Best Buy should pay me for this!) Yes, we ARE the last family in our entire freakin’ neighborhood to buy a Wii. I can’t believe we’re caving on this one. Please don’t judge me.
*Our kitchen table can hold approximately 248 cook books and cooking magazines without collapsing. I kept moving the stacks to the book shelves, and my mother-in-law and George kept moving them back to the table. Like mother, like son, I suppose. Given the quality of cooking the two of them produced, I am obviously not complaining. It’s just an observation.
*The Bon Appetit Special Collector’s Edition: Provence has disappeared in our house. A reward will be offered to anyone who finds it before George expires from despair.
*Four adults in one week produce enough empty beer and wine bottles to fill up the recycling bin and make it mildly embarrassing to put the bin out on trash day. What will the neighbors think?!?
*The movie Fantastic Mr. Fox is deeply, deeply weird. Christopherson is a stupid name for a fox. I practically fell asleep, but George remembers that Whack Bat ends when someone calls “hot box.” Dudes have the oddest ability to remember stupid sports facts, even when the games are made up in deeply weird movies.
*Hiking in the woods on a sunny fall day is a combination of sheer joy (sighting a deer bounding through the underbrush) and sheer parental frustration as boys bicker (Mommy, Jack kicked me! Mommy, Nick pushed me! Don’t touch me! Mo-ohmmmm! I’m tired. I can’t take another step! It’s too steep! I want to go home!). You’d think we were force-marching them up Mt. Everest. (Give me oxygen!!!!) Papa saved the day by taking everyone to McD’s afterwards for french fries. Papa rocks!
*The microscope Nick got for Christmas last year is super cool. It has a light aimed down at the slide so you can look at opaque objects. Nick and Grandma share an interest in rocks, so they looked at Nick’s mineral collection under the microscope. There’s no humor in this, but it was highly cool, in a geeky, geological sort of way.
*When people say they don’t want biscuits, they lie.
*Bacon laid on the turkey curls up at the ends so it looks like Pippi Longstocking. Combine it with the gravy-making genius of Grandma, however, and you get the best gravy EVER IN THE HISTORY OF GRAVY. Burp.
*George tried growing a goatee over the holiday. I do not like facial hair on a spouse as it reminds me of kissing my mustachioed grandfather…can you say, “Ewwwww”? Yeah. He doesn’t care what I think on this issue, but he finally got annoyed with it catching on his pillow as he tried to fall asleep and shaved it off. Thank you, George. Now he’s either lazily not shaving his cranium or letting his hair grow out (can’t make up his mind on that one), and I pointed out that his peninsula of hair (you know, the one in the middle of the forehead that has receding coastline on either side?) has disappeared. He pointed out that it had, in fact, not completely disappeared and can be felt, though not seen, at this point. If he keeps growing his hair out, he’ll have a sad little island of hair surrounded by bare skin right on the top of his head. My increasingly gray hair seems less a problem in light of his hair woes, don’t you think?
*If you turn off the heat to open windows to air out your old-food-scented house and decide two minutes after opening the windows that it is too cold outside and a Yankee candle will have to suffice, you really ought to turn the heat back on. Otherwise, you will awaken the next morning to a 60 degree house. Just sayin'.
*Thanksgiving is a great holiday. It deserves not to be lost between Halloween and Christmas.
*As we tucked the boys in tonight, I realized there are now only 23 days until Christmas. HOW DID THIS HAPPEN!!!???!!!???
*I need a hug.
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Words, Words, Words for Thanksgiving Day
Thanksgiving in the United States gets lost between the hullabaloo of Halloween and the chaos of Christmas. This makes me sad because an annual celebration of gratitude is good for the soul. The daily celebration of gratitude, however, is even better.
“Feeling gratitude and not expressing it is like wrapping a present and not giving it.” William Arthur Ward
I want to express my gratitude and thank you for reading Questioning. I am incredibly grateful that you take time to stop by and share the journey with me.
Make it a wonderful day full of expressions of gratitude for family, friends, food, and fun!
“Feeling gratitude and not expressing it is like wrapping a present and not giving it.” William Arthur Ward
I want to express my gratitude and thank you for reading Questioning. I am incredibly grateful that you take time to stop by and share the journey with me.
Make it a wonderful day full of expressions of gratitude for family, friends, food, and fun!
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Grady Update
Here is a recent picture of little Grady, my new nephew who was born 7.5 weeks too early. He now weighs 5lbs, 12oz, and he's gaining about a half-pound a week. Obviously, he's doing very well. So is my sister.
Thank you all for your prayers and good wishes!
Photo by Lisa Dumont
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