Hey Brain! Simmer Down!

I have mentioned before that I have a very chatty brain.  I wish I could say that all my brain chatter was intellectual, productive, or even interesting, but often it’s not.  It’s typically a whole bunch of random babble about past memories, future plans, and hypothetical conversations.  Today I wrote a lesson plan in my mind when I found 10 minutes of uninterrupted time.  This morning I had so much chit chat in my brain I had to turn on an audiobook on my car stereo just to shut up the silly brain banter. 

I wonder if I am not the only one who has a lot of noise in her life.  Really, we humans are bombarded with a lot of stimulation throughout our days.  I wonder sometimes if we have forgotten how to just sit.  Just sit and observe and think. 

I had the privilege of watching and evaluating several senior project presentations this month.  Our seniors researched every topic under the sun, wrote extensive essays, then culminated their findings into 10-15 minute oral presentations.  I have learned about the dangers of wheat, dogs that can smell disease, shift schedules of emergency/rescue workers, eating disorders, the danger of GMO’s, the harmlessness of GMO’s, and on and on.  Today I heard a presentation about how we communicate these days.  I learned that Facebook, email, and texting are the primary forms of communication.  Face-to-face communication was a teeny-tiny little smidge of conversation modes that are in use today.  Our gadgets rule us these days.  I admit that I am intrigued by the “smart phones” I see people carrying around.  I’ll bet it’s pretty fun to have a phone that is also a computer, camera, calendar, television, and general lifeline.  They look fun, they come in cool colors, and you can get the Siri app and she’ll talk to you by name!  I kind of want one.  But I know that if I had a smart phone, it would slowly take over my life.  I would be powerless to its siren charms.  I would be one of the people I see at every restaurant, mall, or park I have been to….swooshing away on my phone instead of paying attention to life. 

My Tracfone prevents me from becoming one of the tech-dependent…at least in public places, but I have already become victim to my IPad.  I get home from school, scoop up the tablet, and swoosh the night away.  Usually it starts out productive; I’m multitasking while relaxing and watching a show on TV.  I check emails and accomplish school-related tasks.  Then it becomes less productive:  Facebook, random internet searches, and (yes, I blush to admit it) my current addiction to Candy Crush.  (I am confident the addiction will end soon.  For a while it was Wordament, then Chicktionary, then Hungry Shark, then Tetris….my addictions come and go with alarming regularity).  Suddenly I look at the clock and realize that it’s 7:00, and I have work to do, kitchens to clean, pets to take care of.  Where does the time go? I lament. 

Oh yeah.  It flew away on the wings of a technological bird.  Sigh. 

Part of the problem is connected to multi-tasking.  I have realized that I don’t just sit and enjoy one activity at a time very much.  When I’m at home, I’m usually doing more than one thing at a single time:   Reading, talking with my husband, swooshing on my tablet, throwing a toy for the dog.  When I am out and about, I might actually sit on a bench and just observe.  (My cute little Tracfone doesn’t have the siren’s call that other fancy phones would have.  The poor thing usually sits snugly in my Subaru’s cubby, waiting for a phone call).  This morning I stood out in the February wind, holding the leash of my corgi mix, Noel (we call her a “Corgi Cocktail” because we don’t know what she’s mixed with).  Noel has this….quirk…where she likes to stand outside and think about things before heeding nature’s call.  So, this morning I stood in the winter “breeze” in my poorly-insulated pajama pants and jacket, waiting for her to make her move.  Noel let the wind waft through her hair, found snow to chomp (she really enjoys eating snow), and cocked her head at every rustle and creak in the forest.  I was being patient (I have progressed through the five stages of grief related to standing outside in inclement weather.  I am officially at the “acceptance” stage).  And then I heard it:  a singular Redwing Blackbird call.  In my still-sleepy state I nearly missed registering the significance of that moment.  A REDWIND BLACKBIRD CALL?  THIS CAN ONLY MEAN ONE THING – SPRING IS COMING!

Noel finally got down to business, and as I was walking into the house I realized that the three-minute morning solitude had produced quite a gem.  The Redwing Blackbird is our first harkening of Spring.  I would have surely missed that, had Noel not forced me to just stand there in the snow and BE. 

The Bible has a lot to say about quietude.  Peter noted that a woman’s truest beauty was in her “gentle and quiet spirit.”  He wrote, “…let your adorning be the hidden person of the heart with the imperishable beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit, which in God's sight is very precious.”  I think this is precious in God’s sight because it is so very good for us to experience quietness and to exercise gentleness.  I think quietude is something our souls crave.  I know I do.  So my goal in the next few months is to unplug a bit, simplify my daily activities, and find some moments of tranquility.  I came up with this idea during one of my brain’s chat-fests, so I guess not all of my brain noise is worthless.

"The Sunday Girls"

I was drawing a blank for what to write this week.  It's been a busy time at our church, as we are calling a new pastor.  My participation on the call committee has been eye-opening.  I have learned a lot.  We have been meeting with the final three candidates (one through Skype, and two who are visiting our church in person).  Last night we met with the second candidate, and I was just struck with the realization at what a wonderful thing it is to be a part of a church.  It really is an extended family.  I have learned so much from the people I have worked with on the committee; I have had wonderful conversations of people of all ages; I am blessed to know such a diverse group.  With that in mind, I am sharing with you an essay I wrote nearly 10 years ago.  It's not finished, and to be honest I am not sure where this essay is going, but it captures the essence of why Sundays are such a bright spot in my week.  I hope you enjoy it!

"The Sunday Girls"

It takes several tries to parallel park my Honda in the shade of elm trees that line the sidewalk on the west side of Christ the King Lutheran Church.  Even though it is only 10:45 in the morning, the July heat already hangs thick and heavy in the air.  “At least the car will be cool when we come out,” I say as I unbuckle the seatbelt and secretly congratulate myself for finding a spot near the entrance.  Gramma is still unbuckling her seatbelt by the time I’m out of the car and around to the passenger side to offer my arm when she’s ready.


"Waiting for this slow old lady,” she says while she swings one leg onto the curb, reaches for her black cane, and swings the other leg out.  “You’re always waiting for this slow old lady.”

            “We’re not in a hurry.”


            Gramma thrusts her cane toward the sidewalk, grips the car door, and pulls herself onto the pavement.  After she takes a second to gain her footing, she pushes the door shut.  “Lend me your arm, darling.”  I crook my right elbow, she links hers through, and we make our way into church.


            Gramma is little – “petite” is the word she likes best – and she always remarked that she wished she had my long legs, which must have come from my grandpa’s side of the family because he was so tall he had to duck to avoid hitting his head on the archway into the dining room.  But despite her small stature, Gramma was a speedy walker in her day.  When I was young we used to go for a walk every day during the summer, and neighbors would marvel at our fast pace.  At eighty-two years old she has slowed down, which has become a daily frustration for her.

            After we make our way up the sidewalk, I pull open the heavy wooden door and anticipate the cool blast of air conditioning, but the air feels the same inside as outside.  I presume that it is because of all the people gathered in the foyer after Bible study.  After answering several inquiries about the missing third member of our trio – my mom, who is spending the week at a cabin on Pend Orielle Lake – we turn toward the “tunnel” that slowly descends into the church sanctuary.  The passageway that leads into the sanctuary is lined entirely with cedar – walls and ceilings – and has a quieting effect whenever I walk the 100 feet or so before it bends like an elbow and opens into the back of the triangular sanctuary. 

If the passage is like a tunnel, the sanctuary is like the sky.  The ceilings rise maybe 40 to 50 feet up to a point just above the altar, where a large but simple pine cross hangs behind the altar.  Rock walls topped with rectangular windows flank the entire room showing glimpses of blue spruce and dark green pine outside.  The rest of the room is lined with cedar, including the ceiling.  Though it isn’t grand in size, it is grand in effect.  It’s a gasp of wide space against the closeness of the passage.  Sunlight trickles in through a thin band of skylights that run both horizontally and vertically in the roof.  From the center row of pews where we always sit, the skylights form a cross that spans the entire sanctuary. 

Gramma and I sit in our usual section while the choir practices the day’s music, though today we are two rows closer to the altar than normal.  There are only a few people seated, so we open our bulletins to read the announcements that are printed after the order of the day’s service.  I note that the first song is a little calypso number that always makes me want to dance, and I’m about to point it out to Gramma when one of the elders approaches us.  “Hey, sorry about the heat today.  The air conditioner isn’t working and it’s going to be a little warm in here.”

“Oh, we’re tough.  We can take it,” I say, and when he moves to the next group I lean over to Gramma and say, “Well, at least the car is in the shade.”

Every Sunday my mom, gramma, and I meet at a little cafe called “Down the Street” for breakfast, head to Bible study at 10:00, and then attend the praise and worship service at 11:00.  Every Sunday I eat the same thing – two poached eggs and burned white toast – and drink several mugs of Pike Street tea, which they brew to perfection.  But this Sunday I change my routine and order two poached eggs and a homemade cinnamon roll.  Three bites into the sticky plate-sized roll I groan. 

More families begin settling into the pews, most in the same places as every Sunday, just like us.  We again explain to the husband and wife behind us that Mom is at the lake (I think our little three-generation trio has become quite a fixture after all these years) but will be back next week, and then I wave and mouth “hello” to one of my students and her parents.  Gramma leans over and says, “I’m not feeling very steady on my feet today.  I hope I can get down there for communion.”  I once suggested that rather than walk down the center aisle to kneel at the altar for communion, she should have one of the elders bring communion to her pew.  “Oh no, I’m not that bad yet!”  So when Gramma expresses this fear today, I just say, “You’ll do fine.” 

Service begins and things progress as usual through the first two songs, including the calypso number (which one year ended an Easter service and caused my mom and me to not walk, but dance out of church).  Maybe it was the extra bodies, the singing, or my wiggling to the music, but man was it hot in there.  I try to act tough.  After all, church-goers 100 years ago didn’t have air conditioning. 

I don’t like to make a spectacle of myself at all.  I prefer to blend into my surroundings and watch what other people are doing, and I don’t feel comfortable breaking general rules of decorum.  So no matter how badly I want to, I don’t wave my church bulletin wildly in my face like a southern belle to cool the film of perspiration that was beginning to appear under my hairline.  Tough it out, kid, I repeat through the third and final song.

Pastor Hemingway begins the opening prayer, so I decide that while all eyes are closed in reverent prayer, I will go ahead and be that southern bell and wave my bulletin wildly, first on my face, then in Gramma’s direction.  The prayer ends and I immediately cease flailing.  To my relief we sit for the reading of the epistles, and I am glad that I don’t have to stand in front of the congregation this week to read the two sections of scripture.  Instead, I lean over to Gramma and whisper in my best southern drawl, “Why, ah feel just as though I am deep in the heart of southern Geo-ja.”  Gramma begins to giggle. 

Gramma and I have called each other “two peas in a pod” ever since I was young.  While my socially-active older sister was at her Brownie meetings, Gramma and I would “shop” at the grocery store and not buy one thing; we’d just walk up and down the aisles, looking at all the items on the shelves.  When I lived with her for a few years earning nearly a pauper’s wage teaching at a private school, we could practically read each other’s mind.  I’d come home from work and say, “How about dinner at Applebee’s?” and she’d say, “That’s exactly what I was thinking!” and we’d order the Chinese chicken salad and each have a Long Island iced tea just to be a little scandalous.  After my first long-time boyfriend broke up with me she told me about her first love and said, “When I look back, I shudder to think what my life would be if I had married him.”  I did survive.  And she was right about that, too. 

My southern belle routine isn’t that funny, but we’re both suffocating our laughter and trying to be reverent in our maroon-cushioned pew.  The giggles have us though, and our shoulders quake silently until Pastor Hemingway stands and faces the congregation to read the New Testament passage.  I sober up, stand up, and try to be an adult.  Throughout the rest of the service my feet feel clammy, so I slide off my shoes.  I don’t know how God would feel about being barefoot in church (He probably wouldn’t care much at all), but I worry that the man sitting in the pew across the center aisle will think me irreverent, so I hide my bare toes under the pew in front of me.  Each time I cross my legs a puddle of sweat forms under my knee, so I cross and uncross my legs throughout the message.  But I don’t wave my bulletin, not once. 

After the message comes communion, and when the elder nods to our row to proceed toward the altar I can feel my Gramma’s apprehension return.  Last winter she was exiting a grocery store and became frozen with fear when she attempted to cross an icy parking lot to her car.  She said, “I just stood there and couldn’t move.  And then I prayed Lord, help me to cross this lot to my car, please, and forced one foot in front of the other.  Somehow I made it to my car.”  Since that time Gramma has had trouble finding her balance and feeling confident on her feet. 

The ushers motion for each row of pews to proceed to the altar for communion.  I watch a parade of shoes this week until the usher gives us the nod.  We step into the center aisle.   Usually my mom handles this, and I know that Gramma, though she has fears, doesn’t want to appear needy.  I am in front of her, so I put my hands behind my back in case she needs to grab on.  My movement is smooth and casual, and after the first steps toward the altar I can feel her small, cool hands grasp mine.

All We Need Is Love!

Happy Valentine’s Day to you all! 

Frequently around Valentine’s Day I hear the argument that the holiday is merely hype and an opportunity for card companies to sell product and chocolatiers to make lots of money on sweet treats.  This, of course, is true.  A friend and co-worker emailed us facts about Valentine’s Day today.  Apparently around 145 million valentines are mailed and over 189 million roses are purchased every year, a total boon for card companies, floral shops, and post offices!  My favorite fact?  Over one billion (that’s billion with a “b”) is spent on chocolate each year.  This year I contributed to the job security of chocolate sellers everywhere by buying my hubby a heart-shaped box of chocolates. 

But I think the argument about Valentine’s Day being overrated isn’t entirely accurate.  I mean, I get it…we don’t need a national holiday to celebrate the ones we love.  We should be doing that every day.  But I love the way Valentine’s Day concentrates our focus on love.  We make plans for how we will surprise our loved ones.  We take time to write in a card or even create a card and write a poem.  We wander the aisle at Hallmark trying to find the perfect words to encapsulate our feelings.  We stretch our imaginations to think of new ways to say what we (hopefully) say every day:  I love you!  We reach out to our sweeties, our parents, our grandparents, and our friends with little notes of affection and gratitude.  We think outside of the heart-shaped box to find new ways to express long-standing feelings.  What is overrated about that? 

So soak up the love, gang!  Wallow in the gushy, mushy feelings; bask in the affection of your friends and loved ones.  And enjoy some sweets!

Small Struggles....Great Rewards!

If you haven’t read Victor Hugo’s Les Miserables, then you really should.  Believe me, I understand the fear and intimidation that a veritable brick of over 1,000 pages inflicts.  When I first set the book down on my desk, it made an audible “thunk.”  Despite the fact that I am morally opposed to abridged versions of any book, for the sake of expediency most of my seniors and I have been reading an abridged version of roughly 830 pages.  Logistically we couldn’t afford the number of reading days it would take to get through the unabridged version.  At 30 pages a day, 7 days a week, it will take us roughly 27 days to finish the novel….the unabridged would take us around 46 days.
 
Despite reading a shortened version, Hugo has inspired me with his stellar storytelling skills and his passion for the plight of the poor.  His elaborate novel follows the newly-released prisoner, Jean Valjean, who is on the razor’s edge of being an embittered, lifelong criminal.  After stealing bread to feed his sister and her children, Valjean is thrown into prison.  After a handful of escape attempts, his prison sentence reaches the double-digits.  When he is finally released, he despises the “system” and those in charge.  He trusts no one.  But he is brought to salvation by the Christ-like Bishop Bienvenue, who passes the light of redemption to Valjean with an iconic (and symbolic) pair of silver candlesticks.  From then on Valjean lives a life of benevolence, saving a desperate Fantine and her enslaved daughter Cosette and helping the poor.  The story follows the lives of the suffering and the villainous; we watch as characters struggle in a world that is designed to exploit the poor and reward the rich.  Some characters (the Thenardiers) turn to crime and deception; other characters (Marius and little Gavroche, for instance) struggle to live morally upright lives in spite of it all.  This novel is the story of struggle.  Some characters succumb, others sink into the mire, and still others rise above their misfortunes. 

You will find yourself in Hugo’s tale.  You will recognize your own struggles, even though this isn’t the 1800’s, and we are not in the middle of the French Revolution.  And Hugo’s writing is incredibly captivating.  Though I am a typically slow reader, the pages turn quickly for me (especially as Jean Valjean is about to be buried alive in a coffin or is trying to escape the dogged police officer Javert, or Marius is tormented by his love of an unnamed girl in the park who we know is Cosette). 

This week I found a little piece of myself in Les Miserables.  Let me set the scene for you:  Before Marius lays eyes on the young beauty Cosette, he had a fight with his grandfather.  They disagreed with each other’s politics for one thing.  For another, Marius’ grandfather had kept him from his own father, Pontmercy, due to political conflict.  Marius’ father supported Napoleon.  He even fought in the war for Napoleon’s army.  Marius’ grandfather was so opposed to this, he kept Marius away from his father his entire life.  When Marius discovered this deception, it was too late.  His father had died and Marius never enjoyed a reunion.  But he discovered his father’s devotion to Napoleon (and his father’s devotion to him…each week Pontmercy had snuck into the church to watch his son Marius sing).  Marius took up his father’s Napoleonic devotion, which caused a rift with his grandfather.  Marius ran off to Paris and lived in poverty.  He sold his possessions for food, often went days without eating, struggled to find a roof over his head, and lived like the poorest of the poor.  These experiences gave the once privileged Marius a new look at life, and an up-close view of the plight of the poor.  His sufferings made him a better person in the long run.

Hugo tells us of Marius, “For there are many great deeds done in the small struggles of life.”  This is true of Marius.  He manages to earn a law degree, he manages to find love…but I don’t want to spoil it for you.  Most importantly, Marius avoids becoming an embittered young man.  Despite his conflict with his grandfather, his “abandonment” by his father, and his extreme poverty, Marius fights for what he believes in.  His small battles don’t break him; they make him stronger. 

I’ve had some small struggles recently.  In the grand scheme, my struggles are what they call “first world problems,” really non-essential, non-life-threatening things that we who live an overall good life consider problems:  dogs not getting along with cats and chewing up innocent books, piles of papers to grade, not enough hours of sleep, car repairs…nothing mind-blowing.  But, big deals or not, the small struggles of life can be discouraging.  I should assure you that things have gotten a lot better.  In fact, just the other day I was thanking God for hearing and answering my pathetic little pleas for help.  After all, there are a lot of suffering people in the world, and the fact that my God heard my cries in the midst of all the others is quite amazing.  But I shouldn’t be surprised….He’s a creative and powerful God. 

Our struggles can teach us a lot of things if we are willing to listen.  They make us more empathetic.  We can understand the suffering of others when we ourselves have endured suffering.  Struggles make us more creative.  I’ve learned a lot about dog obedience ever since Noel has come into my life.  We have quite an impressive gate system in our house, which prevents impromptu cat chases.  And I’m crazy impressed with my successful scheme to teach Noel to poo outside.  Struggles help us forge deeper relationships.  When my husband saw that I was having difficulty, he stepped alongside me as a support system.  My family and friends offered assistance and a listening ear.  My dog Noel and I are closer now that we go to obedience school together every Saturday and learn sit, stay, heel, and come.  Yesterday I lay on the floor with her and giggled for five minutes as she stuck her nose in my ear, licked my face, and took a short nap on my hair.  Without the gray days of struggle, we can’t fully appreciate the sunshine.  They give us patience and endurance.  They often produce good fruit if we look hard enough.          

Most importantly, though, my struggles are a reminder that I need others, that I need God.  I often resist revealing my struggles to others.  I don’t want to look weak or flawed or needy.  But when I reach out to others (usually when I am at my wit’s end), I am reminded just how many friends and allies I have.  I have family to offer sound advice, friends to empathize, a husband to make me laugh, and a God who hears even the smallest prayers in a veritable ocean of prayers, and reaches out His hand to rescue me.