I was walking my dog this morning and thinking about the fact that I've been a bit negligent with the blogging. I was trying to decide what to write about because there are always a million blog topics swirling around in my brain...but the trouble with all of them is that they're kind of heavy, or involved, or something. It looked like today would be another day when I had too much to do to try to unwind any of those topics and write about them.
But walking the dog is a great time for thinking through things, which is what I was doing when I realized we'd been standing in one spot for a while. The dog was sniffing about furiously and finally I realized it might be the right time to pay attention. That's when I saw the disembodied rabbit's foot at my feet. I gave Bear a good yank and basically leapt over the foot, doing my best to drag him with me before he decided to help himself at the sidewalk buffet.
This got me thinking about the differences in what country dogs and city dogs encounter on an average walk. Fortunately, Bear is not obsessed with finding snacks when we're out and about. We can step around dead bats and birds, and rabbit legs too apparently. I appreciate this about him. Deeply.
Because when we lived in DC and later in Chicago, we had a dog who ate anything he could find. The dog was well fed, but that seemed to have no impact on his obsession with finding discarded "treats." He was like a vacuum cleaner for the city sidewalks. Half-eaten sandwiches, hot dogs, and fries were all fair game. Not to mention chicken bones. That dog could find and ingest a chicken bone faster than I can say chicken bone. Of course, none of these sidewalk delicacies could hold a candle to the time when he licked human vomit off the ground. I assure you, that little encounter resulted in my obsessive scanning of the sidewalk in front of me. It also got me wondering whether you could wash a pet's mouth out with soap, or at least some mouthwash.
Of course, it's good to have such an orally fixated dog in front of you when you're leaving your apartment on a hot summer evening and there's a rat on the steps outside your building. Then said animal can snatch up the rat, give it a good hard shake, and kill it on the spot, saving you the horror of a giant DC rat running across your sandaled foot. Which did, in fact, happen to a friend of mine one muggy summer night in DC. Fortunately, she was a few steps ahead of me and the rat ran over her foot and not mine. I know. I'm a true friend.
The rats rule that swampy town (and no, I'm not talking about the politicians). But that makes me wonder if the overpopulation of rats in DC is one of God's little inside jokes.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Opening Day
Opening day. Sunny and 72 degrees. A Little League parade. Two baseball games. What more can you ask for?
Here's a poem I wrote a few years ago after my oldest played in his first little league all-star game -- the pinnacle of a boyhood dream come true. His first at bat, a ball hit down the left-field line. Some people take pictures; I write poems. Without the poem, I would have forgotten the joy of it by now.
In July’s thick heat
you taught me
the shape of hope
is a boy of ten
set
in the batter’s box
it is the swing of a bat
a body unfurled
for one breath
extended
it is the arc
of a ball over third
and your expectant face
upturned
Here's a poem I wrote a few years ago after my oldest played in his first little league all-star game -- the pinnacle of a boyhood dream come true. His first at bat, a ball hit down the left-field line. Some people take pictures; I write poems. Without the poem, I would have forgotten the joy of it by now.
In July’s thick heat
you taught me
the shape of hope
is a boy of ten
set
in the batter’s box
it is the swing of a bat
a body unfurled
for one breath
extended
it is the arc
of a ball over third
and your expectant face
upturned
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Ten Years
Ten years ago today, a boy died. We loved him deeply. Like a son. His grave is a short walk from the house where we now live. If it wasn't raining a cold rain today, I would walk up there and sit for a while. I would remember. I would cry.
First I would remember the boy as he was when I met him. I spotted him on the very first day we went to a new church. I knew that in some way we would be connected. Our lives would intertwine. In fact, he became like a son to us. This boy with love on his face and worship in his heart. Exuberant, passionate guitar-playing evangelist boy. In time he brought his friends to us, wanted us to help him take care of the lost souls he collected at school. This I do remember. He was that boy.
Until he got lost. The demons came calling. Their wicked long fingers grasping at him. He opened the door and let them in. They came to steal his life, and that they did. It took years, agonizing years. He became a different boy. Manipulative. Untrustworthy. Rebellious. Stubborn. Addicted. Afraid.
After he died, I heard he had become afraid to get high alone, knew he was taking his life in his hands. Knew he lived on the edge of a knife. Knew it. We all knew it. For years we tried. Begged. Pleaded. Cried. Prayed. Oh, how we prayed. Loved. Let go. Held on. Did it all over again.
It was never enough. That boy died of an overdose in his bedroom in his parents' house. His father found him there on the morning of April 15. Sometime after I heard the news I saw a vision in my mind. The light of God shone on their house that night. Jesus sat in the boy's bedroom. Patiently waiting to take his son home in his arms. I saw Jesus sitting there. I know He came for him. I know it. I hope I know it.
I felt such guilt. Like I had failed this boy. Then God gave me a dream. The boy forgave me. There was more to it. After the dream, I wrote this poem:
I hold you now in arms made strong
your body and limbs, unwieldy
your head thrown back
reveals dark bruises
Gingerly I kiss each one
my lips searching for the root
of all that pain
In my hands I hold out
your long arms
and with my fingertips I gently probe
those small blue holes
that some would say
tell the whole story
but we know are just a fraction of the truth
Long ago I let your hand slip through my fingers
now, only in my dreams
do I hold you like my babies
Because His arm was not too short to save
He holds you now
in arms stronger than mine will ever be
Let it be so.
First I would remember the boy as he was when I met him. I spotted him on the very first day we went to a new church. I knew that in some way we would be connected. Our lives would intertwine. In fact, he became like a son to us. This boy with love on his face and worship in his heart. Exuberant, passionate guitar-playing evangelist boy. In time he brought his friends to us, wanted us to help him take care of the lost souls he collected at school. This I do remember. He was that boy.
Until he got lost. The demons came calling. Their wicked long fingers grasping at him. He opened the door and let them in. They came to steal his life, and that they did. It took years, agonizing years. He became a different boy. Manipulative. Untrustworthy. Rebellious. Stubborn. Addicted. Afraid.
After he died, I heard he had become afraid to get high alone, knew he was taking his life in his hands. Knew he lived on the edge of a knife. Knew it. We all knew it. For years we tried. Begged. Pleaded. Cried. Prayed. Oh, how we prayed. Loved. Let go. Held on. Did it all over again.
It was never enough. That boy died of an overdose in his bedroom in his parents' house. His father found him there on the morning of April 15. Sometime after I heard the news I saw a vision in my mind. The light of God shone on their house that night. Jesus sat in the boy's bedroom. Patiently waiting to take his son home in his arms. I saw Jesus sitting there. I know He came for him. I know it. I hope I know it.
I felt such guilt. Like I had failed this boy. Then God gave me a dream. The boy forgave me. There was more to it. After the dream, I wrote this poem:
I hold you now in arms made strong
your body and limbs, unwieldy
your head thrown back
reveals dark bruises
Gingerly I kiss each one
my lips searching for the root
of all that pain
In my hands I hold out
your long arms
and with my fingertips I gently probe
those small blue holes
that some would say
tell the whole story
but we know are just a fraction of the truth
Long ago I let your hand slip through my fingers
now, only in my dreams
do I hold you like my babies
Because His arm was not too short to save
He holds you now
in arms stronger than mine will ever be
Let it be so.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Holy Thursday
I love liturgy. I love the church year. I love incense and crosses and lovely churches built from stone, quiet and cool in summer. I love prayers written by others, written for me and others to pray. I love to stand and kneel. To confess collectively. To respond collectively. The communion of the saints.
Some people feel like that's not real worship. That a pre-written prayer is no prayer at all, but I assure you it is. Liturgy arrived in my life just when I needed it, simultaneously broadening and deepening my prayers and my experience of God.
Every year at Easter I miss this most desperately. What's the celebration of Easter without the preparation? Without Holy Thursday and Good Friday? Without spending some real time remembering -- as a community -- that Jesus washed his disciples' feet, was betrayed by someone in his inner circle, and suffered beatings and indignities and a gruesome death? I feel that the joy of the resurrection is cheapened when all that preceded it is not collectively acknowledged.
When I was in college I found a church that was just the right place at just the right time. That spring I attended my first Holy Thursday service. Part of the service was something called the veneration of the cross. The priests carried in a large wooden cross and placed it on the floor. After communion we were invited to go up to the cross and sit beside it and pray or place our foreheads directly on the cross. I did the latter. I can't even tell you what happened that night. I can only say that it was an experience that profoundly affected me. I think I cried for hours afterwards.
There are times when the liturgical prayers or the Nicene creed just flood my mind and come alive. I love these words because they illuminate truths that I would not have thought of on my own, express thoughts and feelings I didn't know I had. Remind me of the real ways I'm falling short. Here is part of a prayer of confession for Holy Thursday.
Merciful God, we confess that so often our discipleship has been weak...
when we have failed to serve as Jesus served;
forgive us.
When we have failed to love one another as Jesus loves us;
forgive us.
When we have been happy to proclaim our devotion to Jesus with
our lips and then denied him by our actions;
forgive us.
Merciful God, empower us by your Spirit to be steady and true
to you in every time of trial; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen
Peace be with you.
Some people feel like that's not real worship. That a pre-written prayer is no prayer at all, but I assure you it is. Liturgy arrived in my life just when I needed it, simultaneously broadening and deepening my prayers and my experience of God.
Every year at Easter I miss this most desperately. What's the celebration of Easter without the preparation? Without Holy Thursday and Good Friday? Without spending some real time remembering -- as a community -- that Jesus washed his disciples' feet, was betrayed by someone in his inner circle, and suffered beatings and indignities and a gruesome death? I feel that the joy of the resurrection is cheapened when all that preceded it is not collectively acknowledged.
When I was in college I found a church that was just the right place at just the right time. That spring I attended my first Holy Thursday service. Part of the service was something called the veneration of the cross. The priests carried in a large wooden cross and placed it on the floor. After communion we were invited to go up to the cross and sit beside it and pray or place our foreheads directly on the cross. I did the latter. I can't even tell you what happened that night. I can only say that it was an experience that profoundly affected me. I think I cried for hours afterwards.
There are times when the liturgical prayers or the Nicene creed just flood my mind and come alive. I love these words because they illuminate truths that I would not have thought of on my own, express thoughts and feelings I didn't know I had. Remind me of the real ways I'm falling short. Here is part of a prayer of confession for Holy Thursday.
Merciful God, we confess that so often our discipleship has been weak...
when we have failed to serve as Jesus served;
forgive us.
When we have failed to love one another as Jesus loves us;
forgive us.
When we have been happy to proclaim our devotion to Jesus with
our lips and then denied him by our actions;
forgive us.
Merciful God, empower us by your Spirit to be steady and true
to you in every time of trial; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen
Peace be with you.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
The Fine Art of Distraction
Sometimes it's the small things that can lift your spirits or help you forget how cranky or blue you're feeling. Here are some things that almost always make me feel better:
1. Wind. The other evening I took the dog for a walk in the wind, and I felt so much better. This has always worked for me. The sound of the wind rushing in my ears drowns out the thoughts in my head and just helps me forget whatever needs to be forgotten. At least for a while.
2. The right movie. When I am stressed or miserable or depressed, sometimes a romantic comedy can do the trick. Notting Hill. You've Got Mail. Music & Lyrics. That kind of thing. Nothing that requires me to do much thinking. And nothing that would ever make me feel worried, stressed, or sad. Those movies are for other times.
3. "Reality" TV. This is always a homerun if I'm feeling badly about myself. For instance, lately my ongoing battle with feeling like I'm failing has been rearing its ugly head. Now, one could argue that I should meet this head on and deal with the issues that are causing me to feel that way. Or, I could just watch Wife Swap and instantly feel a whole lot better.
4. Walking the dog. Even if it's not windy. Another great way to empty my brain and think about other things. Like birds or flowers or trees, which always make me feel better.
5. Getting lost in a good book. This works when I can find a good book. And lately I just can't. I take out millions of books from the library. Read 50, 75, 100 pages, but then I just don't care about the world the author has created. It's just not worth the effort. I stop reading, and the book goes back to the library -- hopefully before I start racking up fines.
I'm feeling pretty fine at the moment (other than the aforementioned feelings of failure), so I'm not certain what got me thinking about this. I guess I was thinking about someone else who I think could use a bit of distraction herself. Distraction can work for the minor things that plague my mind and heart, but it's a handy tool during the worst of times too. The show 24 started soon after my mom died. I was instantly hooked. Still am, but that's another story.
Do you try to distract yourself when you're feeling sad or angry or worried? What works for you?
1. Wind. The other evening I took the dog for a walk in the wind, and I felt so much better. This has always worked for me. The sound of the wind rushing in my ears drowns out the thoughts in my head and just helps me forget whatever needs to be forgotten. At least for a while.
2. The right movie. When I am stressed or miserable or depressed, sometimes a romantic comedy can do the trick. Notting Hill. You've Got Mail. Music & Lyrics. That kind of thing. Nothing that requires me to do much thinking. And nothing that would ever make me feel worried, stressed, or sad. Those movies are for other times.
3. "Reality" TV. This is always a homerun if I'm feeling badly about myself. For instance, lately my ongoing battle with feeling like I'm failing has been rearing its ugly head. Now, one could argue that I should meet this head on and deal with the issues that are causing me to feel that way. Or, I could just watch Wife Swap and instantly feel a whole lot better.
4. Walking the dog. Even if it's not windy. Another great way to empty my brain and think about other things. Like birds or flowers or trees, which always make me feel better.
5. Getting lost in a good book. This works when I can find a good book. And lately I just can't. I take out millions of books from the library. Read 50, 75, 100 pages, but then I just don't care about the world the author has created. It's just not worth the effort. I stop reading, and the book goes back to the library -- hopefully before I start racking up fines.
I'm feeling pretty fine at the moment (other than the aforementioned feelings of failure), so I'm not certain what got me thinking about this. I guess I was thinking about someone else who I think could use a bit of distraction herself. Distraction can work for the minor things that plague my mind and heart, but it's a handy tool during the worst of times too. The show 24 started soon after my mom died. I was instantly hooked. Still am, but that's another story.
Do you try to distract yourself when you're feeling sad or angry or worried? What works for you?
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Proud Papa, Redux
Today my oldest son was inducted into the National Honor Society. It was not an April Fools' joke. :) But it did get me thinking along the lines of what it takes to feel proud of one's children. Again.
Quite frankly, I'm really disappointed with my sons' school this year. This is our eighth year there, and we will not be returning. All of this to say, it's nice that my son was inducted into the National Honor Society today -- I'm happy for him, but I don't feel particularly proud of him. Sure, his average is above a 90 and that's great...but he did that without working for it. I think it's wonderful that he's so smart, but that's a gift God gave to him.
On the other hand, I had the opportunity to swell with pride over Son2 this weekend. Here's what happened. He auditioned for a part in Oliver, which is being staged at our local community college theater. To audition he had to sing, which is really not his thing. He can actually sing well and he has loads of fun with Karaoke Revolution on the playstation...but singing all alone in front of a few adults -- not his thing. He just couldn't find his confidence. He almost couldn't sing it for me and his dad. A few hours before the audition, our children's pastor was going to help him, but Son2 couldn't get anything to come out when he tried to sing for him. So sad. He was just paralyzed with fear. I thought he'd give up. Not go to the audition.
But he did go. He went in and sang. He forgot some words, and that made him sad. I am sad that he is sad about that, but I am just so proud of him. Could not be more proud. He was truly terrified, but somehow he didn't let that stop him. He stepped past those fears and gave it a shot. How did he do that?
I guess all of this goes to support what (I think) I said previously -- that I'm more likely to feel proud of my children's character than their accomplishments. If Son2 does get into the musical, I won't feel any more proud of him than I already do. And if Son1 worked his butt off to get Bs and Cs, I'd probably feel more proud of him than I do today. (Don't get me wrong -- I'm not one of those impossible to please parents. I am pleased with him and his good grades. I'm just more impressed by overcoming something or by hard work than by simply doing what comes easy -- even if it's straight As that come easy.)
We should know by the end of the week about the musical. I fear he won't make it, but I certainly hope he does. This particular little dude could always use some things that go his way.
Quite frankly, I'm really disappointed with my sons' school this year. This is our eighth year there, and we will not be returning. All of this to say, it's nice that my son was inducted into the National Honor Society today -- I'm happy for him, but I don't feel particularly proud of him. Sure, his average is above a 90 and that's great...but he did that without working for it. I think it's wonderful that he's so smart, but that's a gift God gave to him.
On the other hand, I had the opportunity to swell with pride over Son2 this weekend. Here's what happened. He auditioned for a part in Oliver, which is being staged at our local community college theater. To audition he had to sing, which is really not his thing. He can actually sing well and he has loads of fun with Karaoke Revolution on the playstation...but singing all alone in front of a few adults -- not his thing. He just couldn't find his confidence. He almost couldn't sing it for me and his dad. A few hours before the audition, our children's pastor was going to help him, but Son2 couldn't get anything to come out when he tried to sing for him. So sad. He was just paralyzed with fear. I thought he'd give up. Not go to the audition.
But he did go. He went in and sang. He forgot some words, and that made him sad. I am sad that he is sad about that, but I am just so proud of him. Could not be more proud. He was truly terrified, but somehow he didn't let that stop him. He stepped past those fears and gave it a shot. How did he do that?
I guess all of this goes to support what (I think) I said previously -- that I'm more likely to feel proud of my children's character than their accomplishments. If Son2 does get into the musical, I won't feel any more proud of him than I already do. And if Son1 worked his butt off to get Bs and Cs, I'd probably feel more proud of him than I do today. (Don't get me wrong -- I'm not one of those impossible to please parents. I am pleased with him and his good grades. I'm just more impressed by overcoming something or by hard work than by simply doing what comes easy -- even if it's straight As that come easy.)
We should know by the end of the week about the musical. I fear he won't make it, but I certainly hope he does. This particular little dude could always use some things that go his way.
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