The Right To Cry

As I so often do, I found myself checking Tripp Roth's website this morning to see if his mother had updated his status at all.  If you're not familiar with Tripp's story, you can check it out here: randycourtneytripproth.blogspot.com  It is, by far, the most heart-wrenching, gut-emptying, tear-jerking story I have EVER read in my life.  And I'm a sucker for a sad story, lemme tell ya.  Just ask my husband.  He often finds me in the fetal position bathing in a my own lacrimation after having read some pitiful story of an orphan with no eyes who got ran over by a truck or an elderly man with no ears getting beaten up by a thug while doing his crossword puzzles.  Those are made up scenarios, by the way, but you get my drift.

So, after this last post I decided to read some of the comments at the end that readers had left.  Of course, 99% of them were just encouraging Courtney in her daily struggles and expressing admiration for the incredible mother that she is.  There was one that particularly caught my eye, though.  It was a woman who started off her comment with "And here I am complaining because my son may have eye cancer...."  Yeah....wait, what?  Your son has EYE CANCER?!?!?  Lady, can I, perhaps, indulge you with a little compassion here?  Call me cray cray but I think you might just deserve to do a little "complaining" at the thought that your son might have eye cancer.  This isn't a scratch on his cornea that will heal in a couple of days or a misplaced eyelash that is producing monumental irritation.  This is EYE CANCER.  Please, slap the wall and kick the door.

     Now, look, I know I'm hard on myself at times, too.  I get my guilt on when I realize I've been less than grateful for the gifts I've been given.  But there is something about that woman's comment that seems to turn things on its head for me.  It bothered me.  Don't get me wrong, I think I know what she is intending and she is an incredible person for seeing another person's suffering and being able to "get out of herself" for just a bit and realize that other people have it bad, too.  TOO.  I think that's my point.  Does the fact that our sufferings sometimes pale in comparison to another person's suffering mean that our tears are somehow selfish?  Do I just need to "shut it" when my head is throbbing because, God forbid, somewhere in the world right now someone is probably being beheaded?  "At least you have a head to hurt" the popular thought goes.  Gee, why thank you.  The simple fact of the matter is, hurt is hurt.  It might not be the same degree of hurt and it might not be even in the same galaxy as another person's hurt, but you're crying just the same.  And, by golly, it's okay to cry.

     Consider the mother that, every time their child skinned their knee on the playground, she whipped out a picture of a paraplegic and shoved it in the kids face: You think you got it bad, kid?  You think he wouldn't love to be able to feel his skinned knee right about now?  Sop up the tears and get back on the slide.  I mean, if we're going to start comparing everyone's travails side by side, do any of us ever deserve to let a drop of liquid leave our reddened eye?

    And that's where it's difficult.  Because so often we complain about inconveniences and annoyances and not hurt and pain.  And the humdrum of our own litany of pity starts to bore even ourselves.   But there is a difference between complaining about an inconvenience and suffering a real hurt.  Eye cancer in your son is a real hurt.  Being cold waiting in line outside the movies is an inconvenience.  When we complain about both it starts to blend inconveniences and real hurts together and then we feel guilty about complaining about both.  Or crying about both.  We easily lose sight of the fact that it's okay to cry and talk out our frustrations, even over the little hurts in life.  Isn't there a necessary compassion for the little hurts in life?  My kids hurt themselves all the time, from little bumps and bruises to big falls and big aches.  No, they're not dying, but they are hurting.  Other people might be enduring much more at the moment but they are the ones in front of me, the ones who need my compassion now.  And to them, it IS a big hurt.  So, while I think it quite healthy to expose ourselves to the incredible sufferings of those who endure unimaginable misery, I also think that minimizing our own disappointments about life isn't the right approach.
     We all have our own pain.  Plastering a smile on your face and a nice motto of "fake it til' you make it" is a bit overused.  Just cry, will you?   Because when God came to earth, he didn't make the small hurts seem trivial.  He cured a man who had a withered hand.  Yep, that's it, a withered hand.  No, the man wasn't dying.  No, the man wasn't paralyzed.  No, the man wasn't oozing pain from every pore in his body.  But he had a withered hand, and that must have been a royal pain in the behind.  And Jesus thought it worthy of a cure.  He didn't chastise the man about all paraplegics who needed him or the people who had children on their deathbeds.  Nah, he had compassion for the big hurts and the little hurts, and so should we.  

Snopes and the Dalai Lama

     Are you all constantly getting those emails that warn, especially women, about insanely scary situations that you must vigilantly be on the look out for?  The latest I received warned about being on a deserted road (of course) and seeing a baby carseat on the side with a blanket draped over it.  So, it warns, women have stopped to see if there, indeed, is a stranded baby in the carseat, only to be overtaken by a gang and beaten to a pulp.  Who needs Criminal Minds or Law and Order anymore?  Just take a trip to your inbox and let the various scenarios induce a fear-like coma in your vulnerable brain.
     I, for one, am especially susceptible to this and every other fear tactic known to man.  I was the junior high student who listened with utter horror as the D.A.R.E. program listed the possible outcomes of a play date with Mary Jane.  I was absolutely convinced she would fry my fragile brain in her malicious skillet.  Now, in this instance, fear might have been a good thing.  I've been drug-free since the epidural wore off at birth.  No regrets here, my friend.
     But fear can be an oh-so-heavy burden when, rather than using it as a psychological tool to stay away from hallucinogenic plants, we use it to cripple our grasp on the realities of this world and the relationships we have with our fellow fearer.  Aren't we afraid enough as a society?  Do we really need people to hatch up fake stories to turn our consistent shakes into uncontrollable convulsions?  Is the nightly news just too darn cheery for some people that they start devising other forms of mental torture for those who feel a tad too safe?  Seriously, where do these things come from?
    This is where the saving gift of Snopes comes in handy.  Snopes.com is my fear-conquering, virtual friend.  Snopes is where you can look up various reports and emails of horrific stories to see if they really are true.  Gosh, do I love this website.  I looked up the aforementioned story to check out its validity and, to my sheer delight, it wasn't true.  Just another one of the million hoaxes to get us to fear gangs.  Because, you know, we need a lot  of help in that area.  If I let you into a glimpse of my fear of drugs, you can imagine my fear of those who purportedly sell them.
     I tell you all of this because a couple of weeks ago I picked up Katherine from pre-school.  Just like almost every other time I've picked her up, there was an elderly Asian man standing outside the door waiting to pick up his grandson.  James, for some reason, loves this man and always smiles at him and tries to engage the elderly man in some form of baby communication.  And, I swear, the old man is just the cutest thing alive.  His smile is almost identical to that of the Dalai Lama's. And if you don't like the smile of the Dalai Lama, well,  there's not much I can do for you.  So, anyway, the man picks up his grandson and Katherine jumps into my one free arm.  Off we go.  But this day was a little different.  This day the Dalai Lama spoke to me in his adorable little broken-English way.
"You live near here?" he asked grinning.
I was a bit taken off-guard and always get a little antsy with a question like that.  Come fear, enter in.
"Uh, yeah, kind of...we live near the lake," I responded, intentionally vague.
"Ah, yes," he replied, "you think you could bring us home?" he asked, pointing to himself and his cute little Asian grandson.
Ok, so there it was.  A request for help.  Now, let me tell you, I previously saw the Dalai Lama and his grandson trying to cross Transcontinental after school one day.  I don't know exactly how far he walks but I told myself it probably wasn't far so that I could pass him up without guilt, my van emissions blowing in his wrinkled face.  Ugh.  So, here it was.  The Dalai Lama, with his big toe peeking out of his worn shoes, asking me for help.  And you know what?  I was afraid. 
     Let me completely humble myself and tell you what entered my mind when he was talking to me.  Before I found out about Snopes several years ago, there was a story circulating around during Christmas time about a lady who had gone shopping at a mall and encountered an elderly lady in the parking lot who looked like she was having trouble getting to her car.  So, the nice lady stops to check on her.  The old lady asks if the nice lady wouldn't mind bringing her to her car.  The nice lady says 'sure.'  The old lady gets into the nice lady's car and-- boom! Come to find out it was a man dressed as an old lady with a hatchet in his purse.  You can fill in the rest.  Now, even as I type this, I kind of start chuckling.  WHO WOULD BELIEVE THAT?????  Me. Oh, the more insane a story gets the more likely I'm going to wrap my fishy mouth around the stinkin' bait.  Even as I'm drug into the boat, I'm still trying to piece together how the story could have taken place and silently vowing never to help an old lady again.  And, apparently, an old man.
    To let myself off the hook a bit, I'll have you know I didn't have a third carseat for the little boy and I didn't have the third seat in the van up.  I had a brief mental image of me loading two asian males into the back of my van like some illegal-immigrant carpool.  Agh, this story is just not getting better.
    Bottom line is, I should have helped.  Yeah, I know its illegal to drive a three-year old around without a carseat.  Well, do I let the law shape all of my decisions?  Do I always drive the speed limit?  I know the law is meant to protect, but I think there are sometimes you should let compassion override.  The Dalai Lama's feet were tired.  The little three-year old's feet were tired.  Is it much safer to cross a busy street with tired feet and little feet than to ride in a car with an excellent driver :) for a couple of blocks?  I'm not telling anyone else what they should do, I'm just telling you what I wish I would have done.
     Because I saw the Dalai Lama's face when I told him I couldn't.  And he looked tired.  And my soul became tired.  Because I let fear make my decision.  Because I couldn't bring myself to override the thought of what I "should" do and replace it with what I "must" do.  Because, when I think long and hard about it, I am very afraid that if I passed the showers one day in a locker room and saw a young boy being brutalized I might give into my fear.  I might not run over and, if need be, risk my life and everything I have to save that boy.  Because I might listen to the law that says I just need to tell my boss and not listen to compassion and do everything in my God-given power to not sleep until I knew that boy was safe.  Because little fears turn into big fears.  Because people need me to not be afraid.  Because the little boy in the shower needed someone to take away his own fears.  And the adult was too afraid.
   

A Girl and Her Daddy

Can I gloat for a second?  I have an amazing husband.  Yes, today's our four year anniversary so I'm a little loopy in love.  But, seriously, can I brag a little bit on an amazing person?  I promise I won't make this whole post on Cory but he touches on so many areas of my life, its hard not to include him in every post.  So here goes.  If you're not married, read this post with eyes wide open.  You want a guy like the guy I got.  I promise.

I'm not going to spill my guts on every other guy I've ever dated, but suffice it to say I'm truly grateful I waited for the one I married.  It wasn't easy.  Can I tell you again? It wasn't easy.  It's not easy, in this world, to hold on to your morals stronger than anything else.  To love a God who demands nothing but the best from you and for you.

It's so darn hard to believe you're worth loving.  And I'm not naive enough to believe I'm the only person who feels that way.  We all feel that way, at one time or another.  So people give up.  They settle.  I settled in many a dating relationships.  God willing, I just didn't let it get any farther than that.  I could go on and on about how screwed up the whole dating scene is out there.  Believe me, if I ever write a book, it will be on that.  I've taught too many youth, especially young girls, who just don't believe they're worth much.  And can I tell you?  It breaks my ever-living heart.  Because now I have a little girl.  She's sleeping soundly right now with her little pink bunny in her bed.  But, I know.  I know what lies ahead.  It's the reason I can't seem to tell her enough how much I love her.  How easy it would be for me to lie down on a railroad track somewhere and get run over by a Greyhound train over and over again rather than see her get hurt.  But I know she won't be immune to the seedy voices out there outside of our house, outside of my arms.  Voices that tell her having a boyfriend in high school is worth any price.  Voices that tell her she better give it up or people will think she's a prude.  Voices that try and milk every last ounce of self-esteem from her little-girl body.  It's the same voices I heard for all those year.
I didn't listen to those voices.  Yeah, I shed a couple of tears over them, but I was always way to stubborn to give in the ideals another person had for me.  And, even when it seemed unbearably heavy, I held onto the belief that there was a God that loved me even if I was alone.  Especially if I was alone.  I've been made fun of more times than I can count for not giving in to the crowd.  Maybe it's the INTJ in me, I just learned not to care.  And that love of God was literally what enabled me to walk away when I knew someone wasn't worth my time.

Then I started dating Cory.  He's not perfect and neither am I.  But you know what?  Do you know what it felt like to date someone who thought that the fact that I hadn't slept with anybody was a inestimable gift?  Do you know what it was like to date someone who encouraged me in my walk with God rather than try and rip my hand out of His?  It felt like....love.  The past four years have had their fair share of ups and downs.  Its never easy creating a family.  But it's been heavenly in so many ways.

I distinctly remember a conversation I had with a guy I dated right before Cory.  Somehow the discussion came up about, if we had gotten married, how we would handle "family planning."  You know what his response was?  "You'll take the pill."  Not exactly a great opener for a "family" discussion, huh?  My response: "I've never taken the pill before and I never will."  He looked at me like I had three heads.  Seriously, he looked like he was at a total loss for words.  I told him I would want to use NFP.  You can probably guess what his response was.  I think there was a bit of a patronizing laugh and then something like, "That doesn't work.  No, we're not using that."  I had read and studied enough to know that I wasn't going to use artificial contraception.  But here was a test.  Twenty-seven years old and you're dating a guy that you really like but he seems adamant about using contraception, something that goes against my faith.  I really struggled with this.  Inevitably, the relationship came to an end not long after that discussion.  Do you know how much I appreciate being married to a man that doesn't want me to take a pill?  That I don't feel like I have to choose between making my husband happy and making God happy?  God, I feel loved.  We've had two children in four years.  We want more.  But, you know what?  I am so blessed to have a husband who cares for me.  Who doesn't want me to pop a pill to manipulate my hormones every month so that he doesn't have to play a part in the 'family planning.'  He's with me, and I'm one lucky girl.

Back to the girl thing.  The greatest gift I've given Katherine is her dad.  Because if I ever did come upon those train tracks somewhere, I'd find him already there.  He loves his children with a fierce love.  He doesn't play golf on the weekend or go fishing, he plays with his kids and fishes them out of their tents.  He doesn't go out drinking with his buddies, he drinks make-believe tea with his daughter at her tea party.  He doesn't look for any excuse to get away, he looks for any excuse to get home.  And that's all we can do.  I can't protect Katherine from those voices.  James, either.  But I gave them a dad who will walk with me as we build these fragile lives into stubborn lovers.  Stubborn lovers who will hold fast to the hand of God as tightly as we hold onto their chubby little fingers right now as we cross the street.  Stubborn lovers who know their value and won't let anyone convince them otherwise.  Stubborn lovers who will make authentic wives and husbands someday.  Stubborn lovers who will cherish their own children, the way their father and I cherish them.    It's all I can ask for.  It's what I was created for.  I waited for Cory Howat the way God waits for each of us.  Shoving away any voice that tries to tear us down and believe the lies.
I'll gladly spend the rest of my days trying to love Cory and love God.  And because I waited, my heart is not conflicted.

My Very Cheap 2 Cents

I'm going to stick my nose where it doesn't belong and give my two cents about this whole economic issue broiling in the ever-increasing utopian society we have here.  I know, it isn't polite to talk about politics, but I have never been known to choose politeness over a darn good opinion.  And just to warn you, in most ways I don't know what the heck I'm talking about when it comes to various economic theories.  I'm as dumb as rock when people start shouting out about the deficit, inflation, and windfall gains (what? no idea what that is, but it sounds like somebody's gettin' a whole lotta money in a windfall gain- ok, just looked that up and I was right on the money $$$- it means you won the lottery, pretty much.) Ok, so forget what I just said-maybe I DO know a lot about this.  Read on for more scarily accurate takes on our fiscal fiasco.

The frustrating part about this whole situation is that I don't agree with anybody.  At least nobody that seems to make it on the CNN ticker or nightly news websites.  The Republican vs. Democratic debates seem to be so stuck on their own talking points that nothing novel is said and people like me start to tune out.  So in my frustration, I tried to come up with a title for what I believe would be the economic basis for the Utopian Society of one Molly M. Howat.  What great, catchy tagline did I arrive at?  Capitalism with a conscience.  The terrible part is that this little phrase is anything but unique.  I typed it in google and got a gagillion articles.  Damn. Not all of the articles expressed the same idea I was entertaining in my head, but they used my cute little title just the same.
Ah well, so what do I mean by capitalism with a conscience?  That I think capitalism would work if people were virtuous enough not to get caught in the materialism trap.  That, ideally, people would be so invested in social change themselves that they don't need a stinking government to tell them where to put their millions.  They could derive immense pleasure from the beating the government to the punch, so to speak.  No, I don't really believe in long-term welfare but I do know that people who are born with a thousand strikes against them need a hand up from time to time.  Or need several hands up.

I remember one time my father encountering a homeless man outside the grocery store after Mass one Sunday.  I remember the man's red, alcohol-ridden face and the dirt and grime that seemed to cover every one of his aching pores.  Dawdling behind my father for a bit, I was a bit scared of the man to tell you the truth.  So unpredictable, these homeless people, I thought in my 10-yr. old head.  I wished my father would just quickly pass him by.  But typically, dad handed out a $20 to the man and wished him the best.  We hurried on our way, joining the rest of the family in our car.  I remember one of us bringing up the question of whether or not Dad should have given money to the man, given that he would probably just buy more liquor with it.  And I remember the gist of my father's response.  Whether or not the man purchased $20 worth of alcohol was on the poor man's soul, but whether or not my father responded to a man in need, was on my father's soul.  Yes, people could shout and disagree and whine that we probably should have walked back in the grocery and bought $20 bucks worth of apples or tofu or whatever, and you can disagree, but I think the point is a profound one.  How you respond to others in need is really the only thing you need to worry about if you want to talk eternal turkey.  How others use your gifts of money, time or talent is their issue.  Sure, if you have a ham sandwich, give a ham sandwich.  But if your family is waiting on you in the car and the choice is whether to give nothing or a $20, give the $20.  Your test is over.  Your Jesus has passed by.

Lastly, of course, I have to mention that great story in Scripture.  That Lazarus and the Rich Man story that I mentioned in the last post.  A priest once said the Rich Man went to hell not because he went outside and beat Lazarus every chance he got, or spit on him as he took his daily stroll to the ancient mailbox.  Nah, the Rich Man went to hell because he didn't even notice Lazarus was there.  Aghhh......I remember crying internal tears at that point.  Because when truth convicts, it often convicts with the power of being hit by a mac truck.  The danger is not in accumulating some random evil number of Valentino purses.  The danger lies in entering that every-tempting, insular bubble of social ignorance whereby we fail to hear the cries of those who live very near.
Don't be fooled.  It's so easy to do.  I do it daily.  My world shows its pitifulness in my complaining, because I haven't allowed myself to cross paths with those who are truly suffering.  I lament about some ridiculous triviality because I haven't walked the hallways of the stench-filled nursing homes in a tad too long.  I get irritated with a lack of "me time" because I've forgotten the faces of the mentally-ill I touched in a downtown shelter.  I whine about the fake leather starting to peel off of one of my high heel shoes because the sores on the feet of the Honduran orphans I held have become too distant a memory.  Let me not kid myself.  Just like the millionaires, my heart needs to be in the right place if this society will ever change.  If I can't see Lazarus, then how will I show others where he lives?

The Annoying Disciple....Me.

Bear with me.  I so wanted to name this post the Annoying Apostle since it had the irresistible charm of starting with double A's, but I thought the more traditional among us might get their panties in a wad if I put myself as an Apostle, which is typically reserved for men.  I won't go there.  I proceed.
   In my attempt to aid my husband in attaining his Master's degree in Philanthropy and Development, I decided to read a book titled "Richistan", which supposedly is a glimpse into the lives and thinking of today's wealthy.  And, of course, if you're in Philanthropy it would serve you well to understand the inner and outer lives of those you will probably be hunting down for money for the rest of your dear life. By wealthy I mean anywhere from, I think it was $10 million in assets to the billionaire "I have so much money I can't even count it all" group.  Let me tell you, this book blew me away.  Not because it discussed the elaborate butler school that some of the wealthy use, where the house boys (and girls) learn an elaborate dance to perform as they serve you your gold-encrusted meatloaf.  Ahh, no.  I was neither impressed with the "who-can-build-the-most-ginormous-yacht" race either.  

 

     What stood out to me the most was two-fold: Apparently, according to the aforementioned house servants, one of the biggest fears of a lot of super wealthy people is....can you guess?  Murder by a jealous family member? Nah. A recession?  Heck no.  Perhaps falling off their skyscraper-high decks aboard their fantastic yachts?  Wrong again.  It's GERMS.  Germs????  Really??  I was so tickled by this.  And yet, it so makes sense.  When you have so much money and are truly living the high life, I guess it would scare the Armani pants off of you that you might get sick and die and lose it all.  Second most intriguing point of the book would be the survey which asked the super-wealthy how much money it would take to give them a sense of financial security.  To which almost ALL of them replied with an answer that was twice as much as they currently had.  So, if they were worth ten million, they said it would take twenty million to feel at peace.  If they were worth fifty million, they said a hundred and so on.  Wow.  Okay.  Wow.

   So, as with most new tidbits of information, it got me thinking.  I read somewhere where Jesus talked more about greed and the danger of material possessions more than any other sin.  Would love to have the time to count that to see if it was true.  But just off the top of my head, I think that might be right.  I can think of numerous examples of Jesus warning about money.  One of my favorite is the story of the Rich Man and Lazarus.  Oh, golly gee, how I've thought about this story in my lifetime.  Too many times to count.  I won't copy and paste it from an online bible because I know everyone just tends to skip over bible passages, but I'll summarize.  It's that whole story where the rich dude lives the good life in his mansion and Lazarus is basically dying right outside his gate.  Then, as all good things must come to an end, the rich man dies and is sent to um.....hell.  Yeah, it always seems to get my attention when Jesus tells a story and it ends with someone's rump in eternal fire.  Holy Moses!  The dude went to hell?? Really? Like, the real hell?  Then I moan and groan and let out a primeval scream that says: "AAAGGGGHHHH!!!! I don't want to go to hell!!!"

       Seriously, I would have been one of the more obnoxious disciples.  Putting myself in that biblical setting makes me sweat.  I, no doubt, would have been sitting there, my loaves and fish in my pockets for my afternoon snack.  He begins the story of the Rich Man and I, enthralled with every word, marvel at his superior story-telling skills.  Then, He gets to the end and he just figuratively condemns someone to never-ending-flames.  I gasp! I fiddle with my loaves and fish and probably let out an unintended scream.  I then start to hyperventilate as I raise my hand, hoping to be called on by the Master.  Agh! He sees me.  Oh no, He IS going to call on me.  You doofus! Why didn't you just keep fiddling with your fish?
"Yes," He calls out, "You over there with the bulging pockets full of fish and bread."
Umm....I start to get the paranoid sense that He is calling me "rich" with all my fish and bread.
"Ahem," I begin, throwing my fish and bread at random people who look freakishly thin in the crowd, "I just thought maybe, that while you were telling that awful story that, um, well, you seemed to be looking at me the whole time, and, um, I don't know, uh, well just tell me, would you???!?!?!  WHY LEAVE A SISTER HANGIN'?!?!?!?  Am I going to hell?? AM I RICH!?!?!?!"  And then I fall down in utter exhaustion over the thought of being roasted for the ages.  It's just too much.

   See, that's how I think.  I read these books about rich people where it's so obvious that there is extreme wealth and over-the-top purchases but it always creeps back in that I become afraid that I'm rich.  Why?  Because it's all so damn relative.  In "Richistan", the rich people surveyed didn't think they were wealthy because they always had someone else to point to who was more wealthy than they were.  Even the one's worth a hundred-flippin-million dollars just pointed to Bill Gates- now, HE is wealthy, they said.  Ugh.  What? I want to slap them with their wads of hundred dollar bills.  But, isn't it true?  Would you say you're one of the wealthy??  Most of us probably not, we'd just point to the people who have more money than us, just like the super wealthy do.  Only, if you asked a family of five living in a two bedroom apartment and riding their bikes to work and school, and suddenly....they're pointing at you.
    So, while I enjoyed reading the tales of those who live on Easy Street, once again wisdom whispers closer to home.  I find myself grappling once again with the biblical definition of rich, aghast at its purposely-hidden definition.  For, if it was so easy to excuse yourself from the self-examination of opulence, a lesson in self-knowledge may go away unappreciated.  I glance at a quote from my dear C.S. Lewis (a man who saved my winning personality from utter savagery-and thus, I will thank him by mentioning him in the next five hundred posts):
       “I do not believe one can settle how much we ought to give. I am afraid the only safe rule is to give more than we can spare. In other words, if our expenditure on comforts, luxuries, amusement, etc., is up to the standard common among those with the same income as our own, we are probably giving away too little. If our giving does not at all pinch or hamper us, I should say it is too small. There ought to be things we should like to do and cannot because our commitment to giving excludes them” 
  Oh dear.  It was fun mocking the rich while it lasted.  Alas, I find myself at the end only heckling myself.  It's okay.  Really.  I needed a kick-in-the-money-pants.  I'll go now, and lick my spiritual wounds.  Now, as I think about it, if I was back there, close to Jesus as He told that story, maybe it would have been different.  Maybe He would have looked at me lovingly, even smiling a little at my nervousness.  Maybe He would have called me over to sit on His lap, and taking my hand, looked into my eyes.  And maybe, just maybe, He would have said, "It's okay.  I love that you're trying.  I love that you want so bad to be good.  Work on it, keep trying.  Heaven isn't for the perfect, but for those who kept trying so hard to love Me."  And maybe I would have pulled out one of my fish and the rest of my bread, and gave it Him.

Not-So-Great Expectations

I have discovered the meaning of life.  Actually, I have discovered the meaning of a horrible life.  Does that count?  Maybe it's the C.S. Lewis in me (see previous post if this seems pompous to you), but I really do think I'm on to something here.  Something that has been brewing in my deranged head (again, see previous post if this seems a bit harsh to you) for quite some time now.  I must admit, I think people have been on to this way before me.  Dang it.  Oh well, though, at least I'm jumping on this bandwagon now.  So what is the secret to having a horrible life?  What is the gateway to unmitigated suffering?  Having high expectations.  I know, quite novel, wouldn't you say?

   But really. I'm all over this like I was all over cloth diapers last month (btw, I'm still all over cloth diapers).  Helloooooooo, expectations! You are my new enemy to conquer.  So, let me share with you how I got here.  Not that I haven't thought about this many of times before, but just recently it has really, really, really hit me how we can be slaves to our expectations of life, husbands/wives, children, churches, food, cars, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.  So, we've been passing around a nasty stomach bug in our house the past two weeks which has brought a record amount of lack of sleep.  One morning, after a particularly brutal night, I felt myself putting up the streamers for the Pity Party I was about to throw.  And this was going to be a doozie of a Pity Party.  I got myself all fired up about how James has never, and in full Pity Party mode- probably WILL NEVER- sleep through the night.  It went from bad gas as an infant, to teething, to sickness, back to teething, sickness and teething, and the list goes on.  I was stuck in this total rut of "If I could just get this gas under control!" to "Ok, when this sickness finally passes....then I'll get some sleep" to other expectations of future peace.  Now, look, I totally understand that sometimes you have to think positive thoughts and convince yourself that it WILL get better just to survive the tumult of today.  But then I started to feel like I was constantly setting myself up for disappointments.  That, rather than praying for the grace to accept whatever comes my way- no sleep, cranky kids, a husband who has to work late- I was constantly praying for my life to change.  Who am I kidding? I wasn't praying for my life to change, I was pitching a royal fit that it better change or I'm heading to Mexico.  Adios!

    I had this same thought during my stint in Central America.  During one particular nasty storm, the rest of the volunteers and I went out to the river that bordered our land.  One of the vols waded out into the river (now that I'm thinking about it, that was totally not smart) and waved as we took pictures of him in the raging waters.  Suddenly, we see a perplexed look on his face as he starts feeling around on the ground of the river with his big toes.  He leaned over at one point and came up holding part of our water system that brought running water into our house and the other houses at the farm.  I didn't exactly know what that meant....what does it mean, I asked myself, that he's holding a pipe in his hands that is supposed to be transferring water to our house?  Well, it means, dork, that you won't have running water for months.  Things got a tad nasty as the toilets couldn't be flushed, we washed the vegetables and such in the ocean, no showers, etc.  We had always washed our clothes by hand but with no running water we had to now take them all the way down to the river and wash them there.  The thing that I noticed, though, is that while this latest snafoo totally wreaked havoc in my already fragile Central American existence, the natives totally took it in stride.  The Honduran women didn't shake their fists at the heavens (although I have to admit my Spanish was really rough so there is a small chance that they were indeed screaming at God but I didn't see the usual hand motions that go with such a tirade).  They brought their clothes down to the river and found a decent rock and started rubbing.  Let me tell you, it's a good thing I saw them doing it before I tried.  If left to my own brilliant ideas, I probably would have been searching for tree bark to scrub my underwear with.  Bottom line, it didn't really phase them that much.  I'm sure they considered it such a luxury to have running water in the first place that I suppose not having it was just more of a return to normal than a total demotion in quality of life.
     I started to feel sorry for myself, not because I had to bathe with the fish, but because I realized I had so far to fall in life.  And when you have so far to fall immense fear can creep in because you are so preoccupied with hoping that you don't lose the comfort, or the money, or this or that.  And you become so preoccupied with worrying about if your car is going to break, or your refrigerator is about to go bust, or your hairdryer is going to explode and the frizzies are going to break out in a free-for-all.  You realize how much control (or a modest stranglehold) you have on things.  You realize that you may just lose the last screw in your head if the damn ants won't stay out of your food.  But the Hondurans?  Why, that's all just life to them.  Their lives were so naturally simple that they weren't as easily thrown off-kilter like I was.  My expectations of life were (and are still) so high that it had (and has) the potential to create in me a constant unrest, a constant search for more comfort, a constant search for more money, more sleep, and the addiction goes on.

  Pray for me, will you?  I want to release that hold on things.  I want to raise my kids with a simplicity that is freeing, without going totally overboard and moving to Amish country (which I HAVE thought about, albeit only briefly).  When I pray the Our Father I want to really mean it, that I depend on Him for literally everything.  And, God forbid, if my house burns down to the ground (without anyone in it), or my new Kitchen-Aid mixer goes on the fritz, I will calmly smile and realize that this is not my heaven.

My Pleasing, Psychopathic Personality

Ok, seriously, next post is going to be about something really great regarding my winning persona.  I feel like I've given myself several virtual right-hooks with some of my previous posts.  Nevertheless, I just couldn't resist one more dig at myself :)  By the way, the comics on here really have nothing to do with the subject matter of this week, I just really liked them :)
    If you're friends with me on Facebook, you may already know about the results of the Myers-Briggs personality test I took a short time ago.  For those of you not on Facebook, let me indulge you.  Cory is currently in grad school and one of the assignments a couple of weeks ago was to complete the Myers-Briggs personality test.  So, he did it, and shared with me the result: ENFP.  Unless you are very familiar with this test, you may not know that ENFP basically means you are a magnificent, charming, sparkle-in-your-teeth type of person.  And he is. So, since Cory got such an awe-inducing result with the test, I decided I could use a little pick me up during James' morning nap.  I don't know what exactly it meant that it took me three times to complete the test because I got so bored with it.  I should have known that was probably a warning sign that this thing was going to spiral downwards.  I took one of the tests online and got an INTJ.  'Hmmm....,' I thought, "what's that?"  While my lovely husband's label for an ENFP is "The Inspirer" (ok, as if that's not great enough right there), mine came up "The Scientist."  WHAT?!?!?  The SCIENTIST?? For crying out loud, I hate science!  It didn't start out well.  It didn't end well.

  Cory is apparently a 'warm, affectionate, enthusiastic' person while I give off an 'aura of arrogance.' Thank you.  It said I thrive on organization, which means I must be near death because I can't even find my keys at the moment.  INTJ's are also known to be 'perfectionists.'  Good Lord.  In relationships, we tend to struggle because we don't know how to flirt.  Gee whiz.  Of course, Cory came to my defense, being that he IS an ENFP and all.  ENFPers, apparently, are so great they even comfort those of us who are scrounging at the bottom of the personality trash can.  He challenged me to look at the bright side of my frighteningly-dull character.  We are supposed to be "ambitious and self-confident."  Hmmm....I even disagree with the parts that are supposed to be good about myself.  Plus, it irritated me that "ambitious and self-confident" are probably code words that actually mean we give off an incredible strong "aura of arrogance."  What on earth do we have to be arrogant about?
   To top it off, the website gave numerous examples of people with your same personality.  I did do a complete, internal cheerleading routine when I saw C.S. Lewis in my miserable group.  He WAS an amazing Christian thinker and writer.  Maybe this isn't so bad, I thought.  Then, a couple of lines down, it gave Hannibal Lector as another example of an INTJ.  Hannibal Lector.  Yes, the cannibalistic psychopath.  Do they list such people to humble you in case you did an internal cheerleading routine when you read C.S. Lewis?     So, we might be deep, thought-provoking writers or we might just slide right into barbarism.  Or maybe its just that if I'm having a good day I resemble Mr. Lewis, and a bad day?  Well, Mr. Lector, of course.

   Naturally, Cory and I discussed this at length.  Although, I have to admit, everything he said during that conversation was leading me to think the whole time, "Of course you would think that, you're a marvelous ENFP!!"  One of the more interesting facts we both agreed on, though, was that no matter what personality you have we all have our strengths and weaknesses.  No matter how lovely the description of an ENFP is, if we were all ENFP's we'd drive each other crazy.  I can imagine that those who cannot wait to talk to anyone and everyone would get intensely irritated if everyone else in the world loved to talk just as much as you.  Then, who would listen?  Bring in the INTJ's!! We'll listen!  We may eat you when you're through talking, but hey, we listen.  And need we say what would happen if we were all INTJ's.  Apparently, we'd have complex, profound conversations followed by ghastly barbecues.

   I've thought about this so much lately.  That the very thing that can totally annoy me about someone else, is also the very quality that makes them wonderful at the same time.  Sometimes people can annoy you because they're too controlling, but that same quality usually means they're very dependable and will help in a moments notice.  Some people may be too laid-back for your liking, but that same trait makes them good listeners or comforters in the rough times.  Cory and I strive to see this in one another. Sometimes where our personalities differ can be annoying in one another but, at the same time, the very reason we love one another.  The intense part of his personality can rub up against the laid-back part of mine.  But that intensity is the same part of him that does the dishes when I'm wiped out and takes both kids to the park to play for hours so I can get stuff done. The part of me that totally does not even see the dust bunny running alongside our baseboard in the hallway can probably totally annoy Cory sometimes.  But it's the same part of me that he loves that doesn't get too uptight and run our house like a navy ship.  Of course, we all strive hopefully for the middle.  Where I notice most of the dust bunnies and still don't grab a whistle to get control.  But that, my friends, is what marriage and friendship and every other relationship is all about.  Being able to see the good qualities in other people and being patient with the negative ones.  Understanding that we all have our highs and lows.  We're all wounded people looking for a little gentleness in life.  Thank God we all have different personalities.  If we could only learn to appreciate in others what is so different from ourselves.  THAT would be an amazing personality.

A Life Examined

     Imagine a crazed man with a gun encounters you in your home one evening as you and your sibling are chatting over hot cocoa.  Imagine he makes all sorts of threats and, in a frenzy, grabs your sibling and puts one arm around their neck and pushes the other one, gun in hand, into the side of your siblings' head.  Unable to meet his demands, he threatens to kill your sibling before your very eyes.  You shake.  Your sibling is crying.  You feel powerless as you try to reason with him.  You begin the plea for their life.

   
     That's literally what I feel every single time I read something about prenatal testing for Down's Syndrome.  Just today, out came an article about how expectant parents are going to be able to take a blood test at a mere nine weeks gestation to determine whether the child the mother is carrying has Down's Syndrome.  Most seem to cheer the news as a way in which the termination of those pregnancies will be able to happen at an earlier gestational age.  Some put the estimate at a staggering 90% of those who choose to terminate upon finding out their child has it.  I shudder.

    So how do I make the case, even if no one is listening, that my sister is worthy of life? That people just like her are invaluable insomuch as any of us are.  How do you communicate with the blind what it's like to see?  How do you put measure upon a person's mere existence?  Seriously, how would you defend any of your siblings' lives?  "Oh, you can't kill my brother! He's a good person."
    Emily Grace Meredith is the definition of good.   This is the girl who, upon hearing my other sister was having trouble paying her bills, collected hundreds of dollars worth of change over the course of several months.  She presented the money to her and merely stated, "I heard you needed some money."  One of my early memories is getting upset over something and I started to cry.  I ran to my room and shut myself in the closet.  Emily followed not too long after, only being a little toddler herself, and hugged me, sitting with me until I stopped crying.  Loving me, as always, just by being there.  Just her presence was, and is, gift enough.  I could easily make the case that Emily is a good person, much easier than I could make the case for myself.

    Or maybe you would say something more like, "Please, spare him! He has a family."  Translation: he is loved and needed.  Emily will probably never get married and have kids.  But she has us.  She is incredibly loved and, more than she knows, is incredibly needed.  Everyone has a soft spot for Em.  She is not hard to love.  She is hilarious, innocent, honest, and pure.  A glimpse of her mind is a vision of the untouched.  The wholesome.  I'll never forget when she first got on Facebook.  She is an avid LSU Tiger football fame and eagerly searched for Les Miles' profile page.  Of course, like all of us know, there are numerous Facebook pages that say they are Les Miles and have his picture as their profile pic.  Well, to Em, that's him.  So she goes to "friend request" one of the fakes and I say, "No, Em, that's not really him."  To which she replied, "Molly, I know what Les Miles looks like and that is definitely him."  Of course I started this lengthy diatribe about how people can call themselves Les Miles and put his picture up to trick people but it's not really him.  Well, she wouldn't have it.  To her, that kind of deception was incomprehensible.  Who would do such a thing?  Exactly.  And, typically, she friend requested the fake.  To see the world through those blue eyes.  To find other people's mockery and deception unfathomable.  To not be able to believe the bad because it's so far away from your own heart.  That is Emily.

     You could probably come up with a million reasons why your sibling should be spared and I could match you reason for reason.  A life is a life.  A sister is a sister.  She, along with my other sister, was maid of honor in my wedding.  She prays for me every night.  She is godmother to my brother's youngest.  She is an artist.  She loves movies.  She rides horses and hikes mountains.  She swims like a fish and laughs with abandon.  She keeps me in line and holds my children.  She is a part of my heart that stirs the deepest thoughts.  I contemplate her existence in the same vein I contemplate the very existence of God.  I love her with every fiber of my being.  I get annoyed with her like every sister should.  I challenge her, she challenges me.  I tell her she needs to exercise and she tells me I shouldn't drink beer.

     Many argue that everyone should have the right to choose whether or not they think they could handle having a special needs child.  And many understand the couple who chooses to terminate the growing life within.  I understand.  But I will never agree.  I honestly ache for the parents who could choose that.  I ache for their lack of understanding the gift they hold.  If they could only peer down the road, see past the horizon of today's sunset.  If they could name the child and feel their hug.  If they could only grasp what a life is, however broken in the eyes of a very broken world.  I ache for the siblings who will be robbed a brother or a sister and may never even know.   The difference that different life could have made.  
     It's my mother's birthday today.  60 years.  She'd probably die if she knew I told everyone that.  That's alright.  I was going to write about her but it's probably right that I write about her baby.  Her youngest.  The girl who literally changed everything for her.  For the better.  The one who gave us sight.  The one who, in her beautifully broken way, continues to lead us.  I know my sister is going to heaven.  And I know, that if I am ever so unbelievably lucky to find myself there too one day, I will enter in holding her hand.

Confessions of a Modern Eve

I don't drive a Prius.  I shop at Wal-Mart AND Target.  Often.  My 3-yr. old daughter has owned at least five Disney princess dresses and I've fawned over each one, playing the part of the Queen Fairy Godmother like the best of them.  I eat hormone-laden chicken and don't put the carcass in a compost when I'm done feasting.  The soles of my shoes are not made from recycled car tires and I take long, hot showers.  I'm more of a cheerio than I am granola.  Thus concludes the beginning of my confession.  Lest you think I work really hard to save the planet while my long skirt and long hair sways to the beat of a funky drum, I must prove you wrong.  Not for your sake, but for mine.
     Lets start at the beginning of my intent to try and reduce my rather large, rather imposing carbon footprint.  When I took the kids to Zuka Baby to buy the cloth diapers, I felt a little out of place.  And yes, I was tempted to dive on the McDonald's Happy Meal that stumbled out of the car when I opened Katherine's door.  Evil processed food.  And yes, I somewhat envied the cool calmness that radiated from the no-makeup, baby attached via a perfectly-wrapped-sling ladies that shopped amongst me.  Maybe its a lack of knowing who I really want to be, or maybe its a beautiful fluidity that keeps my personality evolving to prevent staleness.  I don't know.  But there are beliefs within me that pull to the natural, habits within me that pull to the familiar and sometimes artificial.
     Convictions are tricky.  You follow one and the temptation is to get lost in them all.  I am joyful with my cloth diapers.  Really I am, or I wouldn't have switched. The only hard part about the switch was knowing where to stop.  The wisdom of knowing that its okay to make small changes, and that if other parts of my life don't match my child's eco-friendly behind at least both sides of his back cheeks do.

     I am familiar with the thought process of feeling like there's always something more you could be doing.  But I also know that when I overwhelm myself with the "I should"'s, I lose the joy of the "I want"s.  I really want to cloth diaper.  I really do NOT want to drive two kids around in a Prius.  If we are so glum as to only point out things we should be doing or other people should be doing, we begin to follow the external laws of the un-convicted heart.  We lose the joys.  We engulf ourselves in feeling overwhelmed rather than empowered.  We descend the long staircase into the safe but smothering world of being trapped.  Safe from having to choose, but smothering from that same lack of choice.

 

 But therein lies the difficult part, being patient with the part of ourselves that haven't been redeemed.  The part of ourselves that are still very much attracted to that which is not the best.  The reckoning that you would have chosen, just like Eve, the damn apple that you KNEW would make your teeth ache for all of eternity, but you chose it anyway.  Because you were lazy, because you were hot and it looked nice and cool, because red is your favorite color, because Adam told you too, because for-crying-out-loud you were just having a bad day.  As I get older, I think less about how stupid Eve was and how I'd really like to read her the riot act one day.  I think more about how I'm really glad it wasn't me because I probably would have picked a whole bushel of apples and argued with God that if He hadn't created the apple in the first place, I would have kept my hands in my figgy pockets.  Because I know myself a little bit better now, or so I'd like to think.  Now when I read Genesis, I'm not surprised or even miffed at the sin.  Rather, I'm drawn to the mercy of God.  God didn't strike her down or even demean her ("You idiot!!" or "Really, Eve? Smooth move").  He gave her another chance.  I'd like to think she's in heaven.  That she didn't bemoan the fact that she brought down the equivalent of a rock-star curse upon all of humanity.  That she hoped, through her great fault God would bring great good.
     Even when we complain a thousand times or drive through McDonald's three times in one day (btw, haven't done this yet, but I know I'm not totally safe from doing it), we can still believe that God isn't done with us yet.  We can still believe that WE aren't done with us yet.  I can't save the planet.  I can't save my soul.  But I can make a tiny difference.  A sweet, tiny difference.

Road Rage and Other Virtues I Possess

So, I'm hoping there is some unspoken statute of limitations in marriage whereby you can blog about an event that took place without appropriate retribution or haggling from your spouse.  With this hope, I proceed.

So I ran down a guy not too long ago in his big ole' Escalade or some flashy rig like such.  I was in my mini-van, perhaps a little sleep deprived, on the way to somewhere when we encountered each other at a four-way stop.  Lovely man didn't stop and smiled as he passed us without even mouthing "I'm sorry" as he broke the law and triggered the citizen cop deep within me.  So what does the incredibly virtuous, mother of two in tow do?  Follow him, of course.  I so wanted to have one those magnetic, strobe-like cop lights to whip out of my diaper bag and throw on the roof as I totally surprise this cat with my part-time job.  I could totally visualize me pulling him over, kids wailing and I don my cop hat as I knock on his window and casually ask, "Didn't see that there stop sign, now did we?" as I smile and write a million-dollar ticket.

Actually, what happened was I did catch up with him and I didn't know what to do with him once I caught him.  He looked over, no doubt surprised at the horsepower under my hood.  I thought about trying to rev my engine but thought it would look totally lame if I accidentally hit the car in front of me.  So instead, I just gave him The Face.  Oh, my kids know The Face and I'm sure my message was loud and clear to this petty criminal.  It was a "don't mess with me, I'm having a bad day and you don't want to know what could happen" face.  The light turned green and we went our separate ways.  I'll probably never know the lasting impact I made on that man ;)

Point being, I never used to have road rage.  In fact, I was appalled at stories I read about this unfamiliar emotion.  But, what happens when you move to the city, have two kids, never get enough sleep, and encounter a cocky, never-learned-to-take-your-turn driver?  Apparently, in my case, road rage happens.  I have thought about this incident several times since it happened, most often asking myself: "How did I get like this?" But that's just it.  How did I get like this?  I became challenged in a different way than I've ever been challenged before.  Sure, it's easy not getting road rage when you're never put in a situation that requires enormous patience behind the wheel.  It's easy to be patient when you don't have kids asking you to do something for them for the five hundredth time today.  It's easy to give money in the collection on Sunday when you have plenty to share.   It's easy to be chaste when you don't have a date!  You get my drift?  The more we interact in the world, the more chances there are to be virtuous but the more chances there are to totally screw things up.  Before we revel in our virtues, it might serve us well to ask if we've ever been really challenged in that area.  I know I thought I lived a simple life, then I lived amongst the really poor in Honduras and realized I had just never been really challenged in my life in that way.  Washing my clothes on a rock?  Now that's simple.  It's also terribly difficult if you want to know the truth.  But I've done it.
Honestly, thinking about this so much can make you really depressed, like "Oh my goodness, if I sit here long enough and really think about it, I'll come to the conclusion that deep inside I'm probably a very broken person.  That, if I'm pushed hard enough, I'll break, too."  But, alas, therein lies the point.  The words of one of my favorite Scripture passages comes seeping back into my heart.  Mark 2:17 when Jesus says "It is not the healthy who need a doctor, but the sick.  I have not come for the righteous, but for sinners."  Ahhhh.......the beautiful sigh of relief.  So that's why He came.  For people who are so screwed up and who know it.  For the road-ragers.  For me.

Diaper Dilemmas

I know.  How exciting for my very first blog post: diapers.  People will no doubt be flocking to read this from all corners of the earth.  Can't help it- they're on my mind.  Plus, I think it very appropriate to blog about diapers considering the name of this blog is Poop and Poodles.  It's even more appropriate, or inappropriate, when I tell you Boo Boo (our issue-ridden part-poodle dog) ate a dirty diaper yesterday.  Ugh.

   Boo Boo, the poo poo eating "Prince"

Anyways, so I see this blog as a way to empty out the random thoughts in my head lest they exit via a weird dream during the night when I really need some good sleep.  So, rather than dream tonight that a cloth diaper and a disposable diaper are having a debate and I'm the emcee, I'll blog about it.

That's right, I said cloth diaper.  Two words I never thought I'd actually say if it wasn't preceded by "Who uses a.....?"  Yet, here we are, day #3 of decorating James' behind with some disposables and some adorable little BumGenius cloth diapers.  How did I get to this point?  I don't actually know.  I know I've read about them before, seen blog posts about them, considered them for half a second when someone mentioned that disposables are a main contributing source to landfill waste.  But I always went back to my trusty Target-brand disposables.  Then, I read this book that has gotten me thinking about a LOT of things.  I read Affluenza rather quickly, enamored with the points they were making about the tendencies of our consumer/materialistic culture and ways we can fight back against the trends of our day.  It brought me back many times to my time in Guatemala and Honduras and the struggles and the beauty of that experience.  They made a lot of good points about a lot of different subjects.  The boredom of American kids while being surrounded by an ungodly amount of toys, the obesity of our young and old while being surrounded by ungodly amounts of food, and the sheer amount of trash we unload into landfills while we consume more and more "stuff."  Ugh.

So, cloth diapering came into my mind and stayed a bit longer.  I decided I would buy three and see how it went.  Can you believe it? It has been so great!  Just goes to show how we can be so afraid of change sometimes, only to discover, when we just TRY to change for the better, sometimes its not so bad.  

                                           James modeling the latest in cloth diapers
So there.  That's the latest lesson I've learned in this motherhood adventure.  Oftentimes, change is far worse in our imagination than in our reality.  What a relief :)