I saw a story on the news this morning about a seven-year-old Utah boy who took his parents' car on Sunday morning and drove it several miles around town. Needless to say, his erratic driving caught the attention of police and they tried to pull him over. He kept driving. He drove all the way home and then jumped out of the car and ran into his house to hide. Imagine the officers' surprise when a kid jumped out of the driver's seat. The boy has given two different reasons for his actions. First, he said he just didn't want to go to church. But later he told his parents that he just wanted to try driving.
Now, I'm wondering...if your seven-year-old son took your car out for a joy ride, would you:
A. Ground him for four days and then take him to New York City to appear on the Today Show?
B. Ground him for almost forever and not allow him any attention for his misbehavior?
Just curious.
Friday, July 31, 2009
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
A Steep Hill
Last night I had to take my youngest to a local emergency clinic because he was not coping well with a case of swimmers ear. As we drove there, I noticed a man on the side of the road. He was standing by his bicycle, which had a wagon full of stuff attached to it. He was wearing a reflective vest, which I thought was pretty smart. He was at the bottom of a steep hill and had to climb another to continue on his journey.
An hour later (miraculously, there was no wait at the clinic!), we were on our way home. The man had made little progress. I saw him pulling the wagon up the hill by hand; a bit beyond where he was (but still only halfway up the hill) was his bicycle, waiting for him. It was going to be a considerable amount of time before he completed the multiple stages of transport for his bike and all his gear. Beyond the crest of the hill, another hill awaited him, though that one was less steep. There was a sign on the back of the heavy wagon he was pulling. It read: Homeless Artist.
Something else awaited him beyond the crest of the hill. Something he could not possibly have anticipated: the county fair. It got me thinking. Sometimes, our journey can be grueling. It can take way more time and energy to travel short distances than we ever anticipated. Years can pass in which we feel like all we're doing is trying to climb the same stinking hill. The top feels a long way off, and we have no idea what we'll see when we get there. Will another, steeper hill greet us? There is no way to know.
But sometimes we climb and climb, because it's the only thing we can do, and at the top we are greeted by the truly unexpected.
An hour later (miraculously, there was no wait at the clinic!), we were on our way home. The man had made little progress. I saw him pulling the wagon up the hill by hand; a bit beyond where he was (but still only halfway up the hill) was his bicycle, waiting for him. It was going to be a considerable amount of time before he completed the multiple stages of transport for his bike and all his gear. Beyond the crest of the hill, another hill awaited him, though that one was less steep. There was a sign on the back of the heavy wagon he was pulling. It read: Homeless Artist.
Something else awaited him beyond the crest of the hill. Something he could not possibly have anticipated: the county fair. It got me thinking. Sometimes, our journey can be grueling. It can take way more time and energy to travel short distances than we ever anticipated. Years can pass in which we feel like all we're doing is trying to climb the same stinking hill. The top feels a long way off, and we have no idea what we'll see when we get there. Will another, steeper hill greet us? There is no way to know.
But sometimes we climb and climb, because it's the only thing we can do, and at the top we are greeted by the truly unexpected.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Finally
I've been on the hunt for a good book for months. I've tried several and tossed them aside. I've read others, though not with complete enjoyment. But the search, aided by a little visit to npr.org, has finally paid off. Last night I started reading The Help by Kathryn Stockett. The first paragraph of this book reminded me that you really can love a book from the start:
"Mae Mobly was born on a early Sunday morning in August, 1960. A church baby we like to call it. Taking care a white babies, that's what I do, along with all the cooking and the cleaning. I done raised seventeen kids in my lifetime. I know how to get them babies to sleep, stop crying, and go in the toilet bowl before they mamas even get out a bed in the morning."
I read that paragraph and I knew this was a book I'd read all the way through. Thank you very much Kathryn Stockett.
My best friend is an english teacher. She has all these rules for living, and I used to live by them all. She probably lived by mine too. Probably one of her worst rules was developed in college: you had to go out at least once with anyone who asked you out. I can tell you from experience that this is probably not a good way to live. But another one of her rules may have been worse: you've got to finish any book you start. As you can imagine, a bad date takes a lot less time than reading a book you hate. Because I used to live by her rules, my ability to give up on a book after the first chapter is an acquired habit and one I love dearly. Such freedom! Now I regularly give up on books after the first chapter or two. I figure that's plenty of time for the author to grab my interest. If it doesn't happen in that time span, then there's a whole library full of options just down the road.
"Mae Mobly was born on a early Sunday morning in August, 1960. A church baby we like to call it. Taking care a white babies, that's what I do, along with all the cooking and the cleaning. I done raised seventeen kids in my lifetime. I know how to get them babies to sleep, stop crying, and go in the toilet bowl before they mamas even get out a bed in the morning."
I read that paragraph and I knew this was a book I'd read all the way through. Thank you very much Kathryn Stockett.
My best friend is an english teacher. She has all these rules for living, and I used to live by them all. She probably lived by mine too. Probably one of her worst rules was developed in college: you had to go out at least once with anyone who asked you out. I can tell you from experience that this is probably not a good way to live. But another one of her rules may have been worse: you've got to finish any book you start. As you can imagine, a bad date takes a lot less time than reading a book you hate. Because I used to live by her rules, my ability to give up on a book after the first chapter is an acquired habit and one I love dearly. Such freedom! Now I regularly give up on books after the first chapter or two. I figure that's plenty of time for the author to grab my interest. If it doesn't happen in that time span, then there's a whole library full of options just down the road.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
A Duck Tale
Last July we had the opportunity to meet a new client. They would be driving home from Washington, DC, and they wanted to get off the highway and come meet us. "Not at our office!" we said -- since it's in our house and we don't actually live in a mansion, which we're fairly certain they do. Also because our office is located across the hall from the bathroom where we keep the litter box. We said we'd take them out for lunch.
For whatever reason, I was really nervous about the whole event, which was ridiculous since I wasn't the one actually doing any work for them. Our work for them is only design work, so that's all on the husband. He, of course, wasn't nervous at all. There was no reason for him to be, so I don't know what had gotten into me. When I was getting ready, I decided I'd feel a whole lot better if I could take one of the pets with me. Animals always make me feel so much calmer. But that obviously wasn't going to happen. I had just seen Miss Potter, and the scenes where she could see Peter Rabbit and his family coming to life really affected me. I wished some cute little rabbit dressed in knickers and a topcoat could come along and sit on the table next to my lunch plate. But obviously that wasn't going to happen either.
We went to lunch and since we arrived (miraculously!) ahead of the clients, we chose a table outside, near the water. Within minutes, a duck waddled up to the table and stood right next to my chair. He stayed in place through our guests' arrival and returned after the waiter chased him away (over my protest). The duck was a perfect gentleman. No quacking. No begging. (Do ducks actually beg?) No pecking or biting. His presence made me feel so much better, and so much more like myself. The clients were kind, interesting, and amusing people. I forgot about my ridiculous nervousness. Then I forgot about the duck. The next time I looked down to give him something from my lunch, he was gone. Having performed his little act of kind service, he somehow knew he was no longer needed. Seriously. I am certain that God sent the duck. Does that make me sound utterly insane? Or just partially?
When my husband and I argue, the dog comes and sits next to me. Arguments make me feel utterly overwhelmed and undone, but when the dog comes and lays his head on my lap, I feel sort of restored.
Last night we were watching an all-star little league game. One team was about to lose to the other -- 14 to 0. Before the last out, a cat ran onto the field, dashing toward home plate. What kind of cat rushes onto a brightly lit baseball field surrounded by spectators? No cat I've ever met. I guess God and the cat cooked up that little scheme because they knew a little bit of levity was needed.
The connection between people and animals and God intrigues me. I think the connection we can make with animals tells us that there are bonds and communication that can happen without words. When you love an animal, you can feel the significance, the dignity of that relationship. And those relationships with living creatures we can't speak with teach us about ourselves and God and our place in the grand scheme of things...
For whatever reason, I was really nervous about the whole event, which was ridiculous since I wasn't the one actually doing any work for them. Our work for them is only design work, so that's all on the husband. He, of course, wasn't nervous at all. There was no reason for him to be, so I don't know what had gotten into me. When I was getting ready, I decided I'd feel a whole lot better if I could take one of the pets with me. Animals always make me feel so much calmer. But that obviously wasn't going to happen. I had just seen Miss Potter, and the scenes where she could see Peter Rabbit and his family coming to life really affected me. I wished some cute little rabbit dressed in knickers and a topcoat could come along and sit on the table next to my lunch plate. But obviously that wasn't going to happen either.
We went to lunch and since we arrived (miraculously!) ahead of the clients, we chose a table outside, near the water. Within minutes, a duck waddled up to the table and stood right next to my chair. He stayed in place through our guests' arrival and returned after the waiter chased him away (over my protest). The duck was a perfect gentleman. No quacking. No begging. (Do ducks actually beg?) No pecking or biting. His presence made me feel so much better, and so much more like myself. The clients were kind, interesting, and amusing people. I forgot about my ridiculous nervousness. Then I forgot about the duck. The next time I looked down to give him something from my lunch, he was gone. Having performed his little act of kind service, he somehow knew he was no longer needed. Seriously. I am certain that God sent the duck. Does that make me sound utterly insane? Or just partially?
When my husband and I argue, the dog comes and sits next to me. Arguments make me feel utterly overwhelmed and undone, but when the dog comes and lays his head on my lap, I feel sort of restored.
Last night we were watching an all-star little league game. One team was about to lose to the other -- 14 to 0. Before the last out, a cat ran onto the field, dashing toward home plate. What kind of cat rushes onto a brightly lit baseball field surrounded by spectators? No cat I've ever met. I guess God and the cat cooked up that little scheme because they knew a little bit of levity was needed.
The connection between people and animals and God intrigues me. I think the connection we can make with animals tells us that there are bonds and communication that can happen without words. When you love an animal, you can feel the significance, the dignity of that relationship. And those relationships with living creatures we can't speak with teach us about ourselves and God and our place in the grand scheme of things...
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Sympathy Cards
Who writes these things? Have you ever thought about how dreadful and inappropriate most sympathy card sentiments are? I ran into the grocery store this evening for five items and came out with fifteen instead. As usual. But one of the things I realized I needed was a sympathy card. We have a new and amazing grocery store in town with a huge card section, so it's not actually lame of me to look for one there.
Anyway.
It's always hard to find any kind of card with just the right sentiment, but a sympathy card is a particular challenge. Tonight I decided to reject all the God cards. They all seemed insensitive. Ironic, right? One of the cards I picked up said something like "Praying for you as God heals your heart." What? Their loved one has just died. Can't they grieve? Can't we acknowledge the black hole of their pain and loss rather than rushing them toward "healing"?
On Monday evening, my friend called me. Her seventeen-year-old stepson had had an aneurysm that morning. He was not expected to make it. This boy was a gifted athlete who had just graduated from high school. He had a full scholarship to play baseball at a college in Pennsylvania. He was in apparent perfect health. He died yesterday. Are there words for these circumstances? None could be found in the sympathy card section, but W.H. Auden struck just the right note in his poem "Funeral Blues."
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let traffic policeman wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
Anyway.
It's always hard to find any kind of card with just the right sentiment, but a sympathy card is a particular challenge. Tonight I decided to reject all the God cards. They all seemed insensitive. Ironic, right? One of the cards I picked up said something like "Praying for you as God heals your heart." What? Their loved one has just died. Can't they grieve? Can't we acknowledge the black hole of their pain and loss rather than rushing them toward "healing"?
On Monday evening, my friend called me. Her seventeen-year-old stepson had had an aneurysm that morning. He was not expected to make it. This boy was a gifted athlete who had just graduated from high school. He had a full scholarship to play baseball at a college in Pennsylvania. He was in apparent perfect health. He died yesterday. Are there words for these circumstances? None could be found in the sympathy card section, but W.H. Auden struck just the right note in his poem "Funeral Blues."
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let traffic policeman wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Superpowers
I can honestly tell you that when I was a kid I never once considered what superpowers I might or might not want to have. I never gave them a second thought. Or a first.
But the boys, at least the younger two, still talk about "powers," and which ones they'd like to have.
A few months ago, I told Son2 that if I could have any superpower, it would be the power to suck the migraines right out of his head. Hands down. This is the superpower I'm looking for.
I'd like to use it tonight, for the migraine that reared up 45 minutes ago. I would have liked to have it Saturday at 4 a.m. when he woke me to tell me he had a terrible migraine. Please. Oh please. This is the superpower I want. We have two weeks of Oliver craziness ahead of us. Late rehearsals all week. And then the performances. Then a few days off before rehearsals and more performances. It seems like a time that this superpower could come in handy. I'm just praying that God will choose to use his superpowers to keep the migraines from even being a factor in all of this.
This leaves me wondering what superpowers you would like to have. It doesn't have to be as serious as mine. In fact, I hope it's not. It could be silly. It could be completely self-serving. Whatever it is, I'm curious. If you could have any superpower, what would it be?
But the boys, at least the younger two, still talk about "powers," and which ones they'd like to have.
A few months ago, I told Son2 that if I could have any superpower, it would be the power to suck the migraines right out of his head. Hands down. This is the superpower I'm looking for.
I'd like to use it tonight, for the migraine that reared up 45 minutes ago. I would have liked to have it Saturday at 4 a.m. when he woke me to tell me he had a terrible migraine. Please. Oh please. This is the superpower I want. We have two weeks of Oliver craziness ahead of us. Late rehearsals all week. And then the performances. Then a few days off before rehearsals and more performances. It seems like a time that this superpower could come in handy. I'm just praying that God will choose to use his superpowers to keep the migraines from even being a factor in all of this.
This leaves me wondering what superpowers you would like to have. It doesn't have to be as serious as mine. In fact, I hope it's not. It could be silly. It could be completely self-serving. Whatever it is, I'm curious. If you could have any superpower, what would it be?
Thursday, June 4, 2009
I Move Things
Years ago I was talking to one of my friends -- also the mother of three boys. She told me that she'd come up with an accurate description for her responsibilities as a mother. She said, "I move things. That's all I do." It feels like all I do too. I move...
Dirty dishes into the dishwasher and out again when they're clean.
Dirty clothes into the washer. Later I move the wet clothes into the dryer and then the dry clothes out to be folded.
Food from refrigerator to countertop to oven to plate to table.
Soap and toothpaste to another surface before I scrub the sink.
Boys to school, to practice, to games, to rehearsals, to friends' houses, to church events -- and back home, of course.
Trash to the trashcan.
Clothes to the foot of the stairs for boys to move upstairs to their rooms or to the laundry room.
Mail and papers to their appropriate homes...though not always immediately.
Dust and pet hair with the help of a broom, a vacuum, and a rag.
My work as an editor can be described in the same way. I move words, commas, and periods for a living.
I find comfort in the rhythm of moving things and putting them away. The repetition of mindless tasks and the temporary achievement of everything in its place soothes me. The predictability of routine is, I suspect, my attempt to placate that little girl inside who was always having the rug pulled out from under her. The unpredictability of those episodes left their mark, and this is one way that it shows.
There are two kinds of people in the world, I think. Those who like routine and repetition and those who prefer variety and spontaneity. I am the former, my husband is the latter. Poor him.
Well, time to go move some kids to the places they need to be.
Dirty dishes into the dishwasher and out again when they're clean.
Dirty clothes into the washer. Later I move the wet clothes into the dryer and then the dry clothes out to be folded.
Food from refrigerator to countertop to oven to plate to table.
Soap and toothpaste to another surface before I scrub the sink.
Boys to school, to practice, to games, to rehearsals, to friends' houses, to church events -- and back home, of course.
Trash to the trashcan.
Clothes to the foot of the stairs for boys to move upstairs to their rooms or to the laundry room.
Mail and papers to their appropriate homes...though not always immediately.
Dust and pet hair with the help of a broom, a vacuum, and a rag.
My work as an editor can be described in the same way. I move words, commas, and periods for a living.
I find comfort in the rhythm of moving things and putting them away. The repetition of mindless tasks and the temporary achievement of everything in its place soothes me. The predictability of routine is, I suspect, my attempt to placate that little girl inside who was always having the rug pulled out from under her. The unpredictability of those episodes left their mark, and this is one way that it shows.
There are two kinds of people in the world, I think. Those who like routine and repetition and those who prefer variety and spontaneity. I am the former, my husband is the latter. Poor him.
Well, time to go move some kids to the places they need to be.
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