Sleep Positions and Twisty Spines

Found this at 4haks and thought it was interesting: Sleep Positions Indicate Personality Traits. None of them really describe me. I'm a sprawler. I generally start out laying on my side in the "foetus" position, and then roll over, throw one leg over my husband (who spends all night inching away from me to try to free himself), throw the other leg over the edge of the bed, squeeze my pillow up into a little ball in my arms, and then lay my head, face to either side, onto the bed (no pillow). I'll tell you what that makes me... A chiropractor's nightmare. Between the sprawled out sleeping positions, the occasional racquetball mishap, and sitting at a desk all day every day at work, I think my spine is taking on the shape of the Rockin' Rollercoaster at MGM Studios. I always worry during praise and worship at church that someone will mistake my back-cracking and neck-popping for some kind of awkward attempt at a naughty dance move. So, G. C. C. folks, if you're out there-- be aware: My gyrations are goal-oriented, not demon-inspired. :-) But anyway...

Ooh, ooh! Look, guys!

Saturday, my family went to the zoo with an old college buddy of mine and her family. Fun! For those of you who have no idea what I look like, here's a rather unflattering picture of me being assaulted by a lorikeet that was about to rip my ear off. (There is, as of November 13, a better picture in my profile.)



Anyway, the picture is neither here nor there, just an afterthought, really. The point of the zoo story is my youngest son, who went from exhibit to exhibit in a complete and total state of absolute enthrallment. He'd go up to an exhibit and peer curiously in... As soon as he laid eyes on whatever marvel was there to be seen, he'd burst out into yelling-- "OOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHH! OOOOOHHH!! Look, guys! Look!"

Today, I was listening to the History Podcast (as I do every time they release a new one), and it was a broadcast of Griddlecakes Radio's latest Griddlesode. All I can say is, "OOOOHHHHHH! OOOHH!! Listen, guys! Listen!"

Choice

Yesterday, while sitting in my car in the Fuji Express drive through waiting on my tofu teriyaki, I was listening to NPR's All Things Considered (one of my favorite shows). This story about a young woman (Laurel Snyder) whose mother named her after the clinic where she almost had her aborted, came on, and spoke to my heart. If you get a chance to listen in, it is well worth the few minutes it will take.

For years, I've had trouble explaining how I feel about unexpected pregnancies and the choices we talk about as if they're political statements, rather than the expression of personal hopes and dreams. For me, the opportunity to make that choice came into my life in 1996.

My first real dating, fall-in-love experience was with a guy a good bit older than I was (16 years). I was in college, already struggling with my grades, my life, and my emotions due to a series of stupid lifestyle choices I was making. Everything in my life felt like it was spinning out of control, and he seemed to stand pretty solid and settled in the midst of everything I felt I was missing in my own life. He was older and "more mature" than most of the guys my age (who were mostly involved in frat parties, stupidity, and their own egos). He had a real career, was a real business guy, yet at the same time was a real southerner. He grew up the son of a country hellfire preacher, and had gone on to Emory to get two bachelors degrees, a masters degree, and was ABD for his PhD. He was good conversation, good fun, and a good friend, or so I thought.

And then came the phone call when he didn't come home from work. I thought I was calling his parents... and everything came crashing in on me, and nothing would ever be the same. After the nightmare began, I went through 4 years of back and forth, more lies, not knowing the truth, being strung along, dropping out of school, and not really knowing what I wanted anymore. And somewhere in the middle of that chaos, my first child was conceived. I was 20.

From the time I learned I was expecting, I was just that-- expecting a baby. It wasn't a medical condition; it was a complete and total changing of my life forever, and I knew from the moment I learned I was pregnant that I wanted this child. I knew, somehow, that this child was special, even though so many of my friends from college thought I was crazy for not getting an abortion.

I spent a lot of time during my pregnancy trying to figure out what I had to do for my child and myself. I spent weeks on end at the Convent of St. Helena, living in the guest house. By day, I tended to daily chores, helped with yard work, took Eucharist, Bible study, and prayed all the daily prayers. Every night, I would curl up on the couch in the guest house with a cup of hot tea and a book from the library-- Julian of Norwich, Catherine of Siena, Hildegard von Bingen, Thomas Merton-- anything... just something to help me make it through. I remember the curious faces of neighborhood kids sneaking up to the building, hoping to catch a glimpse of a real, live nun, and startling when they saw my growing belly, asking, "where's the nuns?" I wrote letters to my son's dad, to his family, to my family... letters that never were sent... letters to help me heal my heart.

None of it was easy. There were many tears, and many nights where I felt I didn't really want to be a mother yet, that I wasn't ready, or that I didn't have what it takes (emotionally, physically, financially) to provide for a child. I alternately doubted myself, hated myself, comforted myself, encouraged myself, believed in myself, and kicked myself in the ass for ever believing anything my son's dad ever told me. I had volunteered for a couple of years as a telephone counselor for a local suicide hotline; I ended up moving in with another of the phone counselors I had met-- someone who, like me, had been through an unplanned pregnancy as a young, single woman, and who had spent nine months being pummeled with a Bible in a home for unwed mothers. She and her husband offered up their spare bedroom, and I became a part of the family.

Just before my angel was born, I moved into a tiny, one-bedroom apartment, ready for the first time to give it a go on my own. I set up a crib in the livingroom and a bassinet in my bedroom, and thought I was ready.

Somewhere in my eighth month of pregnancy, I was driving home from work in the rain, singing along to some Eric Clapton song that reminded me of my son's dad, when my car was rear ended, thrusting my car into the rear of another car. I went into labor early, and little man was born 5 weeks early. He was a BIG boy to be so early-- 7 pounds 8 ounces-- but group B strep got into his blood, and when he was a few hours old, he quit breathing. At 16 hours old, he was on a ventilator taking 600 breaths per minute, and his tiny blue body was shaking with the force of the machine. He still wasn't getting enough oxygen, though, and we went with a risky (especially at the time) procedure called ECMO, with all its complications and all the fears that went along with them. It was 4 weeks before I got to hold him again, and almost 2 months before I got to bring him home. Only then could we really begin the process of learning to be a family of two.

My son changed my life in ways I couldn't begin to describe. Self-destructive things I used to do when it was only my life I was ruining were no longer options where his life was concerned. Relationships that were not great, but good enough for me, were not good enough for him. I quit thinking about how much better the world would be without me in it-- I now had someone for whom to be strong. I took my life from the hole it had fallen into, and began the long crawl out into becoming a decent human-- a functioning member of society. I moved to where I was more than a one-day drive from my son's dad (to make it easier to get him out of my head), and got back into college. I graduated from college in 2002 with a 3.95 upper level GPA (because I wasn't just going for me; I was also going to make a better life for him). He gave me all the motivation I needed to get my life back on track.

And then there's his life. I don't believe I've ever seen a more intelligent, gentle, sweet-spirited, brilliant, funny, deeply sensitive, beautiful child. He is so compassionate, and so loving; I can't imagine the world without him in it.

I read things sometimes about choice, making abortion more accessible, and the devastation having a child can wreak upon a young woman's aspirations, career, and education, and all I can think about is how little I knew before having my child about what real love was. I think about how unprepared I was for the blessing I was about to receive, and how it wasn't really until he was a few years old that I began to understand how powerfully he had transformed my life. I think of how easy it would have seemed for me to have made a different decision, and how much I would have been missing without ever even knowing it. I think about all the legitimate reasons I could have had to not have my child.

We tell women that as single mothers they will give up their education, give up their careers, and give up the social/dating life that most girls their age have. I imagine that if we supported single mothers, helped them to find ways to go back to school, and worked to create a society in which dating was a more healthy, trust-based process to begin with, that we could reduce the abortion rate without ever marching in the first rally or passing the first law. It never should have been reduced to a mere political issue to begin with. Unplanned pregnancy is a deeply personal situation in which too many women find themselves, and one in which support from family, friends, and caregivers can go a long way towards taking away the fear that often guides women's decisions. A fear-based decision, whatever that decision, is unlikely to be a decision that changes a woman's life for the better, and the decision about whether or not to have a child is far too important to make lightly. You won't know what that child could bring into your life until much later...

Grief

It's amazing how a number of well-intentioned, very loving and supportive people can take a situation in which you feel devastated and alone and make you feel even more miserable and heartbroken than you ever could have imagined.

Note to my friends: If I die an untimely death as a result of a freak accident, grieve. Be sorry. Be sad (for a while, anyway), and do what you need to start the healing process. Love my family. Support my family. Go to see my family to offer your condolences. And then go home, or at least go away.

My husband's aunt died last Wednesday night when a shotgun her husband was carrying into the house accidentally (as of 12/15/05, the investigation is still open) discharged. She was pronounced dead on the scene, and her husband and children both said that she died praying. She was the youngest of 4 children, an incredibly forgiving and dedicated wife, and the 40-year old mother of two teenage girls still living at home.

We left our home to go be with my husband's family in Alabama the next day, and spent the weekend with the extended family in Chelsea. At times, it was almost like any other visit-- children laughing and playing together, making fun of my sister-in-law and her new boyfriend, and laughing with family over funny stories and silly mishaps. And then we'd remember what it was that brought everyone together, and there'd be tears, and some anger, and some heartache. There would be the occasional call or brief visit from old friends, co-workers, or distant family, but for the most part, it was family, together, sharing in the experience of loving someone you'll never again get to hold, hug, or pick on. It was parents remembering the child whose pigtails they fixed, whose pajamas they buttoned, and whose tiny forehead they kissed while praying for a long life full of joy for that child. It was sisters and brothers remembering first dates, teaching Sunday School to baby dolls, and late-night conversations. It was those of us who married into the family holding the hands of our beloved partners, and wishing we could make it all better but knowing that we can't. It was real love, real family, and real heartache, and it was what a grieving family is supposed to look like.

The entire weekend, we saw the husband and daughters of my husband's aunt only once. That was about all we could manage, between how stressful it was to go where they were staying, and how busy they were being kept by their church. The husband is the minister of a large church, and like many ministers of large churches who haven't learned to be assertive AND loving at the same time, he was swept up in the raging current of a church loving its minister within an inch of his life. Having worked in a large church for two years myself, I've seen it happen. A minister feels so appreciative and overwhelmed by the good intentions of church members and friends who want to do with, for, about, and around the minister, that he runs the risk of losing family, vision, and self. Before long, the pattern continues and grows, and the minister's life is overrun by people who "know what's best for him," or "know him better than anyone else," or "know that I'm one of the only true friends he has in this church." It's all hogwash, really, as ministers ALWAYS have a part of themselves that they keep separate from people in the church. It isn't that they're less genuine or dishonest or immoral; it's just that in order to maintain a family, a marriage, and some semblance of sanity, there have to be some boundaries.

When we arrived Friday afternoon to visit with the husband and girls, there were over 75 people at the home where they were staying. As it turns out, there were about that many people (or more) at the home from early in the morning until late into the night every single day since the death, and continued to be that many there over the weekend. Instead of coming to pay their respects and then going home to give the grieving family space, people were staying at the home all day, eating all three meals there, sitting in corners all over the house visiting and talking and laughing. Various family members, as they arrived, were greeted by church members in very unusual ways, including the offer of prescription tranquilizers at one time, and the announcement that "we're really going to have a good time tonight" at another.

And hiding in one of the bedrooms where he could visit peacefully and quietly was the husband. Mostly alone in his grief, with the few family members who could make it through the circus to get in to see him and the girls, looking like someone held captive. And the two girls-- who needed more than anything to be with family, to be allowed to cry, to be given the space to come to terms with the reality of the situation-- had been thrust into a 5 day long youth group social, unable to find the solitude to process the feelings rushing through them. You could see it in their eyes-- that they were swept up into the drama and without a moment of peace. Watching them try to navigate their emotions and surroundings in the middle of a never-ending church social, I was even more appreciative of the way those of us not involved in that particular church were allowed to grieve-- not alone, but not smothered; not overwhelmingly morbid, but without feeling the need to be chirpy and churchy; not around people who knew our loved one only as a devoted minister's wife, but around those who knew her as that PLUS so much more. The husband and girls deserved that. Their mother would want them to have that. Coming from such a close-knit family herself, she would want them to be surrounded by a small but loving group of family members to cry together, laugh together, and remember how much she loved all of them.

I hope I live a long life. I hope that by time I die, I'm so old and happy that everyone breathes a sigh of relief that my old carcass is no longer taking up space, air, and good casseroles at family gatherings. I hope my kids are grown and married, and that lots of little grandkids will run around, giggling awkwardly, at my funeral, and I hope that nobody shushes them when they loudly squawk that grandma's body looks freaky with that overly pink makeup on. I probably will look freaky, even if it's only the kids who'll have the honesty to say it.

But if, by some chance, that's not the case, and I die the kind of tragic death nobody expects or wants to believe, please give my family the space to grieve. Let my parents, siblings, kids, and their families come together, laugh about what a bossy weirdo I was, smile when they talk about how much I loved my husband and children, and cry when they remember the little girl who had such big dreams. To my friends: tell my family how much you loved me and how much you support them, and then find somewhere especially for my friends where you can be to comfort each other. Giving family the space they deserve to grieve together honors the one who has moved on and shows your integrity.

You monkey with your template one too many times...

And then you're sorry you didn't take that web design course in college.

It'll be fixed soon.

Edit: OK, we've got the sidebar back! Woo-hoo! Now, I just need to figure out where my expandable posts went. Not much longer!

Final edit: Ahhhh... Expandable posts. Told you we'd be back in business soon!

Haloscan

Hmmmm... Let's give haloscan a try for comments.

Let me know what you think.

Re-Adolescence

I think I'm getting a little closer to the root of my 30-year-old funk. It's the same thing my husband went into a funk about when he turned 30, and I made fun of him relentlessly from my 27 year old perch of safety.

It goes a little like this:
Approximate age at which Jesus was crucified: 33
Age at which Thomas Jefferson penned the Declaration: 33
Age at which Napoleon crowned himself emperor: 35
Age at which Julian of Norwich received her revelations of divine love: 30
Age at which Origen took over the Christian Catechetical School at Alexandria: 17
Approximate age at which Luther posted his theses to the door: 34
Approximate age at which I realized I've done very little with my life and need to get on the ball: 30

I think I've pinpointed what it is I need to do; I also realize it will be at least 2 years before I can do it (for a variety of family reasons). But the realization is there, and that is a start to the gradual restoration of my sanity.

Why are we enemies until proven otherwise?

In my short 30 years on this earth, I have discovered a few things about the way people tend to treat each other. Not all people, mind you, but a good number of people I've encountered.

1) They expect you to think just like they do, and they often get angry when you aren't a mental carbon copy of them and/or their friends.
2) They make lots of assumptions about you based on what little glimpse they get into who you are. These assumptions are usually more about who they are than who you are, when all is said and done.
3) Once they've put they're assumptions about you out there, they will usually defend those positions vigorously even past the point when they realize they might have jumped to conclusions. Backing off of the original position is seen as indicating weakness.

Let me start by saying that I can, at times, be as bad about this as the next guy. I'm having a bad day, feeling that someone thinks Southerners are stupid and ignorant; I've heard a few too many redneck jokes for the day, and then someone says something that rubs me the wrong way, and all the sudden they're an idiot, a bigot, and certainly not a real Southerner. And because I've got my mother's sharp tongue, I'm more than happy to launch one sarcastic attack after another until I feel I've cut them down to size (or until I feel better, whichever happens first). Usually, in real life, this attack takes place either in my head or when I debrief my husband (poor thing) before bedtime. Online, however, it's easier to do it "out loud."

Then, after the attack is over and the frustration is out on the table, I start to feel this tiny twinge of guilt that creeps into my being and gnaws at my heart. I realize that perhaps I may have been projecting a bit of my own feelings-- that maybe I overreacted a bit, and that perhaps the other person isn't the ignorant, raving loon I first thought them to be. That's an awkward place in which I sometimes find myself. But I do find myself there-- meaning that there' s a level of self-awareness involved. I may have allowed one ignorant, raving loon to temporarily turn me into an ignorant raving loon, but I generally realize when I've gone down that path, and do my best to turn it around as well as could be expected.

Those of you who have known me in real life know that I'm highly sensitive, deeply compassionate, and that I really love people-- talking with them, being with them, learning from them. I love discussion, especially with people who are equally well-intentioned in presenting arguments and beliefs that differ from my own. You know that I come with my share of baggage (as does everyone), but that I'm honestly and openly working through my junk. You know that I can self-absorbed at times, lacking self at others, and that I think most people are genuinely just doing the best that they can with what they've been given, even though it's hard to see it sometimes.

Those of you I have only met online-- you have no idea who I am any more than I know who you are. I do believe that friendships can develop without face-to-face contact, but in any kind of relationship, there is a period during which you hold your judgments while simply getting to know one another better. You read my blog and post thoughtfully from time to time; I read yours and post thoughtfully from time to time. Like a fox being tamed by a Little Prince, we develop a familiarity with each other, and a trust, and over a period of months, we each come to an understanding of who the other is. It becomes a real relationship, with real concern for each other, and we have earned the right to speak frankly to and about each other. It is not a right granted freely. And once we reach that point, it is still not granted with free reign to say whatever we want without regard for the others' feelings or beliefs. That is how relationships are, when they're allowed to develop in a healthy way. Mutual respect. Mutual compassion. Mutual honor.

And the lack of these kinds of sensitivity in interactions, while more prevalent and noticeable online, is not relegated only to our anonymous postings, in which we allow the unhealthy feelings and thoughts we usually mitigate to flow freely and recklessly. We do it in real life, too. Someone inadvertently cuts us off in traffic, and we react as if it was an intentional behavior, meant to hurt or harm. Someone in front of us at the grocery store has lost his or her credit card, and we feel the anxiety welling up within us, clearly drawing the line between who is and isn't like us, or on our side, or whatever.

What has happened to us, really? When we can't even give someone we don't even know the benefit of the doubt, what hope do we really have to grow as individuals and as a society?

I'm not perfect. Far from it. But I'm working on being a better human, so that I can be a part of a better society. I pray, meditate, exercise, study, and reach for what I know will lift me up and allow me to become a better vessel for God's love. And hopefully, with God's help, over time my life will more and more closely reflect the ideals about which I feel so passionately.

The overall creepiness of getting older

I just reconnected with an old high school friend, and I have to tell you-- I don't feel 30. What's up with that? In my mind, I'm still young, edgy, and hardcore. In reality, I've gotten soft in a few places and flabby in others, and I've become far too concerned with playing the mom/teacher/adult part that all my edges have rounded out considerably. Personally, I think that aging is a fabulous thing, but getting old just bites. I love the fact that at 30 I know so much more and get so much more than I did a decade ago, and I love that at 40 I'll know even more, and that by 70 I'll be a regular ol' babbling encyclopedia of old lady wisdom. But losing that individuality, that edge, that funk that made you who you were when you were first realizing exactly who "you" is, well that just stinks.

I wonder sometimes what would happen if I just up and decided to reclaim it. Can you really get it back once you've let it go? What if tomorrow, I went to the school where I teach wearing funky cords, a babydoll shirt that says something far more cool than I can think of right now, and a pair of Doc Martens-- what would happen? What would my co-workers think? Would they think I was faking edgy, when in reality I think I've been faking Donna Reed for the last 8 years? Would the students think Ms. Christy had completely lost her mind and was doing the cheesy 30-year-old pretending to be 18 thing? And how, exactly, does one do edgy at 30 without looking absolutely ridiculous? Please comment and tell me, because I hate feeling that I've landed in some kind of schoolmarmy box.

Here's the conundrum: Little brainy girl is timid and weird. Around 11th grade, little girl decides she's tired of trying to please everyone else and develops her own style. Not quite grunge, not quite punk, not quite preppy, not quite hardcore-- this porridge was just right. She finds other oddball friends who each have their own style, and around each other they are happy, accepted, and unafraid of weird. Little girl goes off to college and continues with unique style, which develops and grows into something even more delightful. At 20, girl finds out she's pregnant with a little boy, and starts to wonder what this means. Over the next 5 years, girl starts to conform more and more to what she thinks a mother is supposed to be, and in the course of this transition, she loses who she was--so much so that girl makes a lot of stupid choices, having forgotten who she is and what she believes. Girl gets carted all over an emotional rollercoaster for a few years by people and groups with whom she's become involved during her destruction-of-identity period, and by the time it's all over, girl genuinely does not know who she is anymore. She looks back at what she was about to become, before everything derailed, and knows she can't rewind time and start over (much as she would like to sometimes). But she wonders if there's any way to bring a little of the old, unique, unafraid her back into the older, wife-and-mom blob of mellowness she's become.

Can I get an amen from the thirty-somethings in the house?

I LOVE my children, and they are my world! My family is the most important thing in my life, next to my relationship with God, and I would never want to sacrifice my family for selfish reasons. Few things annoy me more than parents who abandon their children while trying to find themselves and live their own lives, but I wonder-- must they be mutually exclusive? Can I really bring a little zing back into my life without it making me a bad mother, wife, or Christian?

When I was edgy before, I was not living a lifestyle that I'd like to live now. Maybe that's why I find it so hard-- I feel I have to turn my back on EVERYTHING I was then in order to be who I want to be now-- someone who is wholesome, loving, and pure of heart. But then I'm only half a person, leaving years of my life stuffed into a closet. Surely there's a better answer. I just haven't found it yet.

So, friends who know me in real life-- if you one day see me wearing argyle knee socks, velvet blazers, leather pants, or some combination thereof, rest assured that I haven't lost my mind. I'm just going through that bizarre re-adolescence that most thirty-somethings I know at some point have to face. Bear with me.

Drowning in Puppy Love

Today, in my 5th-6th grade music class, I had to break up a hand-holding love-fest with my teacher/mom "this-evil-stare-will-only-last-so-long-before-I-break-down-and-kill-you” glare. Truth be told, the two kids are two of the cutest, sweetest kids I’ve ever seen, and I think it is absolutely adorable that they are having a little lovey-dovey cutesy crush-fest. However, my music class is not the place for it, even if it’s on a day we’re watching a movie.

After school, I went on to my regular job (bookkeeping for my dad’s office) and went about my day. Until around 6:30 pm, that is, when it occurred to me that my oldest son is now in 4th grade, and will be in the 5th-6th grade class next year. Within the next two years, my son may be celebrating his own lovey-dovey cutesy crush-fest. The mere thought made my heart race and my breath get wheezy. My baby, who I didn’t get to bring home from the hospital for two months, who I nursed back to health for over a year, and who was the light of my life during the time when I didn’t know if I’d ever find anyone to love... holding hands, with a girl. A GIRL, for crying out loud!! Lovey-dovey!! My baby!!

Sheesh, I’m getting old. Those of you reading this over the age of 20-- do you remember the first time you held hands with someone? Your first kiss?Do you remember how absolutely whacked out your first few “relationships” were? My first kiss was a neighborhood boy named Michael. I was 12; he was 15. His sister, Stephanie, was one of my good friends. And I had the BIGGEST crush... on his best friend, Jason. Every time I’d go over to Stephanie’s for a sleepover, my mom would freak: “You stay away from that Michael boy.” As if I actually liked him anyway. Even when he stood on my front porch with the world’s largest stuffed animal for hours, begging for me to come out and talk-- to rethink dumping him-- I just wasn’t interested. Even when he wouldn’t leave my porch, and my next door neighbor, Donna, called to see if I knew “that guy on the porch,” I wasn’t interested. He did exactly what I had hoped he would-- opened a door into greener pastures. And when I kissed the second guy I ever kissed, it was Jason. Mission accomplished.

Then there was Brian. His dad owned a bunch of local A & P grocery stores, and he was working as a cashier “to learn the value of a dollar,” something all rich dads try to impress upon their kids, I guess. “Hello, is this Christy? This is going to sound crazy, but I was the cashier at the A & P when you went shopping with your mom today, and I heard her say your name and got your phone number off of her check-- so, um, do you want to go out sometime?” I was 15 and a total nerd at my own school-- far too geeky, gangly, freckly, brainy, and self-deprecating to be of use to anyone-- and Brian went to another school in town. After several months of flowers, candies, teddy bears, nice dinners, gentlemanly behavior, and scooting around town in his little white convertible, I had had it with cutesy-cute nice guys. “I can’t go out with you today-- I’m, uh..., sick. Yeah, sick. The flu. It’s bad. Sorry!” Thirty minutes later, Brian was at my home, loaded down like a pack mule with get well cards, flowers, balloons, and teddy bears. I think my mother was more in love with him than I was.

It isn’t that I was some kind of heartless vixen. Truth be told, I was probably one of the biggest nerds in the school. I was one of those lonely kids in the gifted program who didn’t fit in with the preppy rich honors students, and wasn’t creative enough to fit in with the artistic honors students. I didn’t play the guitar or piano, couldn’t draw worth a crap, and my parents wouldn’t let me dress all “morbid-kid-listening-to-the-Pixies” like I wanted to. I’d feel poetry so deeply, but somehow when I went to put it onto paper, it sounded so.... so.... so high school. Trite, contrived, and appallingly boring. I had an artist’s soul and no real medium. So, I stuck with what I could do, and filled my time with band, math team, academic team, French club, and a variety of other school activities that didn’t require good looks, money, or profound talent. And I definitely avoided boys. I simply didn’t know what to do with them at that point. I’ve been married for almost six years, and I still sometimes wonder if I know what to do with them.

Given the form my early college relationships took, I guess that by contrast my first few relationships look pretty tame and desirable, even with their superficial intensity and lack of understanding of what real relation-ship entails. And I guess on some level, there are lessons learned in those first few relationships, but what kinds of lessons? Sure, you learn a bit about how to communicate, how to make someone feel special, loyalty, and romance. But you also learn a lot about how not to communicate, how to break someone’s heart, violations of trust, and anger. You manipulate, fib, test boundaries, violate boundaries, play with emotions, and walk the edge of pseudo-intimacy, all the while thinking it’s real. Older people tell you it isn’t real and to treat it as ephemeral, and you think they’re so old and stupid-- they just don’t get how it feels to really like someone. When you’re that age, you have no idea how well they really do get it. I’m 30, and I think I get it (at least as well as a 30 year old can). I get that playing in-love is cute and fun, and I get that it puts kids into situations that can snowball into situations they aren’t ready to face. I get that it can teach valuable relational skills, and I get that (unreigned by caution) it can teach patterns of self-destruction that take a lifetime to unlearn. And I definitely get that my son, followed shortly by my daughter and my other son, are not far from dipping their toes into the waters of intimacy with the opposite sex.

And I guess that’s okay. Toe-dipping, touching the water to test the temperature, letting it run through your fingers a bit.... That’s all okay. But I hope that’s all they do until they’ve given themselves time to grow up a bit. The love boat doesn’t come stocked with life preservers, and it’s far too easy to get in over your head. Relationships between adults are tricky enough; there’s no need rushing into that trickiness.

I hope my two little classroom lovebirds are crazy about each other. I hope they bring each other lots of happiness for however long they’re together. I hope they enjoy how delightful a pure, friendship-oriented crush can be. And I hope beyond all hopes that they keep it nice and simple for now, avoiding the teenage melodrama that somehow often finds a way to creep in and destroy something innocent and healthy. One day, there will be a time for something more. But for now, they have childhood to finish. There will be plenty of time for a nice swim.... later.

Just a little self pity and anger...

For those of you who would prefer to see me as happy, well-adjusted, and living the good life, close your browser and go home. Now.

Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

I’m on the outside looking in at someone else’s happy life.

Ever feel that way ?

I don’t even know what the divorce numbers are now-- what is it-- half of all marriage end in divorce, huge numbers of kids living away from at least one biological parent? Pretty sad. Most of them living with moms, only seeing their dads as custodial agreements agree. There are so many kids who see their biological dads either as absentee jerks who can’t seem to get it together, or get to watch from the outside as dads move on to find their own happiness.

I’ve never been divorced. But my oldest child is from previous relationship. He’s the joy of my heart and the delight of my life. He is so completely precious, brilliant, compassionate, pensive, and special that I can’t imagine anyone not wanting to be deeply a part of his beautiful life. His father, when he was conceived, was going through a divorce that existed only in his heart and mind and lies. He was stupid, and a liar, and manipulative. After his real divorce, he went through a few years of just plain being stupid. He would come to visit our son only when he knew I wasn’t seeing anyone. He was regular as ex-lax when it came to paying child support-- anything to keep me away, and keep me from pursuing a deeper relationship between him and our son. And he saw his child once every 12-24 months, when I made it convenient.

The standard script goes a little something like this:

Me: Hey, we’re going to be coming through Atlanta next weekend on our way to Birmingham. Would you like to get together and see ____?

Dad: Oh, let me check... Yep, I have a 9:30 business meeting, but I bet I could work you in for an 8:15 breakfast at Shoney's. I just won’t be able to stay long.

I’m really not making that up. That is how the past 5 visits have been arranged (the only 5 visits that have happened in the past 6 years, just as a note). There have been promises of visits, last minute cancellations, and other lies and let-downs.

6 years ago, I married an amazing man with awesome integrity and a gentle spirit. I never told my son to call him “Daddy;” it just happened over the first year we were together. He is (like me) a child of divorce, and is the father of all three of my children, nevermind the biology. He’s incredible, and I could never express how thankful I am to have him in my life, and our sons' lives. Whenever my oldest’s biodad would cancel another visit, tell another lie, or make another excuse, I had two comforts. First, my son has a dad, even if the biodad is a sorry excuse for a human. Second, I comforted myself in the knowledge that biodad has made life choices and career decisions that have simply created in him someone who is not capable of being a dad. He wasn’t able to be a dad to his first 5 children or to our son; he’s just not dad material, which is a sad and sorry state for him to be in, given that he has fathered so many children. So many precious moments he’s missing-- so many sweet kisses and bedtime giggles and dinner table stories. I’ve tried to mitigate my anger all these years by telling myself that he is just not dad material. He’s a rotten dad, he’s finally realized it, and he is cutting loose and moving on.

Sometime early in 2005, we had scheduled another extremely convenient lunch date for our son to see his biodad. It was cancelled 3 hours before the start time because (surprise surprise) “non-dad material” biodad and his “career-minded, doesn’t want children” third wife were in the hospital, welcoming a new baby. I thought he was insane, having another kid to neglect, and we didn’t hear from him again for months. When he did eventually call, he told me about the web site where our son could see pictures of his new baby half-brother (the half-brother he will probably never see, if the current pattern keeps up).

When I went to the site, expecting a few portraits, instead I found tens upon tens of pictures of a beautiful, happy, loving, joyful family. All these years of his misery, I’ve been praying for him to be happy, thinking that a more emotionally healthy and happy biodad would be in the best interest of our son. And now I was sitting at the computer looking at biodad’s happy, healthy family, and had never felt more pain. If he had it in him to be a dad, even a sort-of bad one, but an involved dad nonetheless, then WHY HASN’T HE BEEN DOING IT ALL THESE YEARS? WHY ISN’T HE DOING IT NOW, FOR HIS LOST SON????
..........

Today, my dad hurt my feelings. A little hurt-- tiny like the point of a needle-- touching the balloon of pent-up heartache and anger that’s been building for a while. I don’t remember my parents ever living together. My only childhood memories of his involvement in my life (up until I could drive and go to visit him myself) were that he sent a little over $200 a month for child support, even when his income increased far beyond what it was in 1980, when that amount was determined; that I saw him 2-3 times a year, most years, and that we did lots of fun stuff when I’d go to be with him; that he didn’t protect me from the step-brother who was thankfully only in my life for a short time; that he could play songs on the guitar that made me laugh; and that I always liked his third (and current, and last) wife a lot, even though they didn’t invite me to their wedding. I still idealized him in the way that daughters do when they don’t live with their fathers, and thought he hung the moon because he never hit me and his house was big and old. I had a step-father, too, but we never got along [{---understatement], and it wasn’t until I was an adult that I fully came to appreciate that he did love me, but in his own way.

At 18, when I went through a particularly angry phase, I couldn’t stand either of them, to be honest-- my step-father for being who he was, and my father for coming in after 18 years of being (in my eyes) a non-parent, suddenly ready to be the dad that he never had been. By 21, I loved them both very much, although there will always still be moments of hurt and confusion, and many tears cried (some of the inherent risks of being part of a family). I’m 30 now, and I understand that everyone is human; everyone is going to have times when they inadvertently hurt someone else. But it still hurts, even after quite a few years.

And when my dad hurts me, like he did today (certainly without meaning to, and probably without even realizing he had), it reminds me what it feels like to be on the outside looking in at someone else’s father-of-the-year. I’ve never lived in the same town as him until the past year, and I’ve never been around his family quite as much to see what they’re like. We’re learning how to live near each other again, how to work together, and how each other operates. And maybe the hurts are happening now that I managed to escape with 25 years of scheduled visitation and weekend get-togethers. And when it happens, it makes me do a little mental housecleaning and sorting out of old memories.

For example, here’s a few things my stepfather has never done:
Told me it would cramp his lifestyle to have me living with him.
Told me I couldn’t come to something he was doing because it was family only.
Made me feel like I was in any way not a part of his family.

He’s done things that made me hate him when I was younger, so much so that I sometimes (in the angst of my teenage frustrations) envied kids who had the guts to kill their parents. But he has always been unhestitatingly, unreservedly, and unapologetically my dad. There has never once been a single thing he has offered my brother and sister that he didn’t offer me, never a thing they were invited to that I wasn’t, and never once a time that he withheld something from me that he had to give. I don’t think I ever told him enough how much I love him; I was too busy expecting him to be something he wasn’t. Expecting him to somehow be something for me that even my own biological dad wasn’t.
...............

Every parent has flaws. There isn’t a single one of us who doesn’t at some point say or do something to or about our children that hurts them deeply. There isn’t a single one of us who has found the book or video that explains how to raise a child. None of us has cornered the market on being a perfect parent, and none of us, no matter how idealized or hated we may be by our children at times, has cornered the market on being a bad parent, either. We’re all a little bit of both, depending on the time of day and the mood of the moment, and we’re all living this same human experience in the best way we think we can.

I love both of my dads, neither more than the other. The older I get and the more I live as a mother, the more I realize how important they both are to me, and how much power they still wield to comfort or break my heart. I’m a grown woman, a wife, and a mother to my own children, and yet somehow, in spite of my best efforts and against my better judgment, I’m still in love with my dads. I wish they could see that.
.............

I’m on the outside looking in at someone else’s happy life
watching the parents I never had raise the child I’ll never be...
Feeling lost, trying hard,
still trying to do enough be enough love enough
(like a stupid little girl that thinks she can fix her parents by just being good)
yet knowing all along that it’s all just a ruse
and I’ll always be looking in from the outside.

Value

Like all good upscale rednecks, I love ebay. Who'd have thunk that people would buy up all my old junk-- junk that my hubby has been begging me for months to give up. I was a hoarder, and letting go of things (clothes, knick-knacks, past hurts, grudges, and the like) has never been my forte. Ebay sure has turned my life around! After that first round of stuff went for a good bit more than I expected, I couldn't wait to get home to see what I could get rid of next. "Who are you, and where did you put the hoarder I used to be married to?" he asks. Frankly, it's a mystery to me, too.

So, I've begun acquiring things... Family say things like, "I hear you sell on eBay. I have about 300 old records in jackets I've been wanting to get rid of. If I give you 50% of the take, will you sell them for me online?" Ahhhhhhhhh... another fix for my addiction. Sure, I can sell them.

Now, I'm sitting at my computer with a pile of records-- Louis Armstrong, Mahalia Jackson, Marian Anderson, old RCA Victor albums that are as heavy as bricks-- and I have no idea what to expect from them. It's hard to assign arbitrary value to something whose value is so clearly subjective to begin with. Or is it?

Our society is whacked out when it comes to how we value things and people. We pay top dollar for gas-guzzling uber-SUVs, but we won't pay for technologies to make cars less gas-guzzly. We pay movie stars bazillions of dollars for prancing around for a few months, being cute, hitting the talk shows to promote their latest flick (because we all know that hype sells better than artistic integrity); and yet we pay the people who take care of our children-- our lives, our legacies, our nation's most precious resource-- the smallest amount to which they'll agree. We complain that the cost of living is killing us, and yet some ya-hoo somewhere pays thousands for a piece of toast that looks like the Virgin Mary. [Note to self: patent a wafflemaker that mass-produces religious images ASAP.]

We don't get value any more than we get how to really get along. It just seems to be beyond us. When so many people allow themselves to be so easily swayed by popular culture and media hype, the capitalist thing to do is take advantage of the stupidity of the masses. We offer ourselves up willingly as consumers of frivolity, and then complain that life's meaning seems so vague and empty. Go figure.

I did an exercise with my youth group, back when I was a youth director. It went a little something like this. Get a handful of paper cups, and label each cup with something you spend time on each week. One cup might say "sleep;" another might say "internet." Other cups might represent school, work, friends, family, prayer, hobbies, TV... You get the picture. Then take 168 pennies-- these represent the number of hours you have in each week. Now put into each cup as many pennies as the number of hours you spend on that activity in an average week. After you've placed all your pennies, line up your cups from highest to lowest numbers of pennies. Are they now in order of your priorities and values? If not, why not?

Let's just say it was a pretty depressing exercise then, and probably still would be for me if I were to do it again today. It's just not in our society's makeup to give the most time and value to those things that truly mean the most to us. Sad, really. Not that I'm doing it right, but at least I recognize how much better I could do. At least I'm trying.

I went to a little rinky dink fall festival on Saturday-- you know, the kind of festival where the directions say, "Take Hwy 25 to Ware Shoals. You'll see us when you get into town." We rode the "Trackless Train" driven by the freaky carnie-type guy. We played "Hillbilly Skeeball" with tennis balls on a homemade plywood game table. We listened to what has to be the most awful gospel band I've ever heard. And we had the most wonderful time together as a family. I didn't earn any money, win any awards, or make any headlines, but the memories made and time together was worth far more to me and to my children than anything else I could have done with a Saturday afternoon. The value to me could not have been higher.

So, I guess to someone, somewhere, my Statesman Quartet album will be worth a buck or two. And that's alright, as far as I'm concerned. It's all about priorities.

A New Buddy!

The Thinking Southerner has added yet another thinking southerner to its arsenal! Please welcome aboard Mick Ayres, one of my family's closest friends, and someone I've admired since I was a wee little tyke, when he first wowed me with pennywhistle performances, clawhammer banjo, and the most delightful tall tales that led me want to be just like him when I grew up.

Mick Ayres was born and raised in the deep South near Pawley's Island, South Carolina and has kept the Atlantic Ocean within arm's reach ever since.

Today Mick, his wife and two daughters live near Hilton Head Island where he entertains tourists with tall tales, a bit of fiddling and some serious tune-knocking on his banjo. He is a master at snoozing in a hammock with a glass of tea in hand...hasn't spilled a drop in years.

Of course, like every true southern gentleman, Mick is deeply concerned about the depletion of our nation's common-sense reserves.

Glad to have you, Mick!

Rowing Alone from Dictatorship to Democracy

I just want to give this guy a hug. Or send him a present. Or something.

It seems he set out to break the record for the fastest west to east crossing of the Atlantic by rowboat, but ended up setting a new record for the slowest, almost doubling the number of days he had initially hoped to beat. Bless your heart, Mr. Hicks. I can only imagine that you must be at least a little bit disappointed, but you did it! Two months into your journey, you knew you weren't going to beat the 62-day record, but you kept going. And now, 124 days after leaving the North American shore, you're home. It may have been a pretty dumb idea to start out on such a journey in the first place, but you did, and when the original schedule started to fall apart, you stayed the course.

I guess there's not a whole lot of other places you can go in the middle of the Atlantic, when you realize your journey isn't going according to plan. You just have to keep rowing, and make sure you stay on course. It may take a little longer than you had hoped, but if you stop in the middle of the Atlantic, you're screwed.

You know, I never supported the war in Iraq. I supported the war in Afghanistan against the Taliban, but can't bring myself to see what has happened in Iraq as directly related to 9/11 or terrorism. Was I president of the Saddam Hussein fan club? Of course not-- he was a coward, a murderer, and a dictator. But there's far too many cowardly, murderous dictators in the world for the US to take out in one war. Does that make me a liberal? I hope not. Does it make me un-patriotic? I don't think so. I love America and all that it is, has been, and can be. Do I support democracy, and would I want democracy for all the people oppressed and frightened by their dictatorial governments? Yes and yes-- everybody deserves freedom. I'm just not yet convinced that it is the role of our military to enforce democracy worldwide.

But the war has been started, and an entire regime has been dismantled. So many of our soldiers have given their lives in this war to ensure that the Iraqi people experience real democracy. The whole world has seen the United States government promise that we'll be there every step of the way. We've rowed out into a very precarious position, but the only option is to go forward. If we turn tail and head back for home, we've failed our nation, the citizens of Iraq, and our military; if we stop short of the goal we will have dishonored those men and women-- fathers, mothers, sons, daughters, husbands, and wives-- who have given their all in the name of democracy and freedom. There is no rewind button, only forward (even if it isn't so fast). We have to press on, as efficiently and quickly as is feasible, and pray that with patience and strength, we will finish this race, albeit some time later than originally hoped.

You see, with a task so large, whether it be rowing the Atlantic or re-developing an entire nation's governmental and economic structure, you have to be at least a little bit crazy to think you can do it expediently. Neither one strikes me as the kind of thing you can rush, nor are they things in which you can dictate an arbitrary schedule. You cannot predict and schedule the behavior of insurgents and a newly-formed government any more than you can schedule ideal weather for a trans-Atlantic crossing. Nature is nature, even when it is human nature, and nature carries an inherent element of the unexpected and uncontrollable.

We could stop our part in the war now if we wanted, but the war wouldn't end just because we stepped out of it, anyway. We have to keep our promise. We have to finish the race we've started. And when we do, we may not feel the exuberant joy of a record broken, a prize achieved. We're too far behind our intentions for that. But we will celebrate completion, and there will be resolution and closure. That's the only way it will ever be over.

Cyclist Fear and Selfish Idiots

For those of you who have never seen me in real life, let me just tell you that I could stand to lose a few pounds. I'm not "please-oh-please-become-a-contestant-on-the-biggest-loser" big, but more like "holy-crap-I-really-am-thirty" big. A little lost around the middle, a little shrinkage in the chest, and a little lift in the backside, and I'd be pretty hot (again). But anyway...

So I've decided to get my big ol' rear in shape. I have a membership to the YMCA, but so little time, between my jobs and kids and hubby. But as of 2 weeks ago, I am the proud owner of a bike, a helmet, some glasses (so my pinguiculae won't be bothered), and an armband radio. I've been riding to work (5 miles, up and down hills) 3 days a week, and once I can do that without feeling an impending heart or asthma attack, I'll start riding back home, too.

Being on a bike, you're a little more aware of your surroundings than when you're in a car. You think about more, get a little more "Zen and the Art of Motorcyle Maintenance"-ey, and are constantly hoping that the day's car-drivers are nice, patient people. I've discovered that there are three different kinds of car drivers I encounter:
1) People who move over, possibly into the other lane, and it isn't a big deal.
2) People who move over, possibly into the other lane, and glare/honk/give the finger.
3) People who make a point of moving over as little as possible, just so they can make sure you know they're annoyed by your presence.

Now, dear reader, if you are in group one-- you are an angel and a blessing, and a contributing member of the human race. If you are in group two-- be a twerp if you like, as long as you don't hurt anyone. If you're in group three-- you're an idiot, a slug, and a shame on the human race.

It got me thinking about our fast-paced, me-first culture, and what a real shame it is upon our society that we have allowed ourselves to become so self-consumed. Someone in front of you is driving a little slower than you, they're a stupid granny keeping you from where you're going. Somebody chooses to ride a bike to work in a city where it is illegal to ride on sidewalks, and they're in your way, slowing you down, and they deserve to be frightened for screwing up your day. You feel a little depressed, and you wonder what is wrong with you, why is this happening to you. Did you ever think that perhaps everything isn't all about you after all? Perhaps you didn't plan well enough to leave on time to get to work; nobody is intentionally holding you back. Perhaps the reason you're feeling down is because our society is so whacked out that we think everything should always go our way all the time, and when it doesn't we act perplexed and hurt.

Maybe part of the reason you're glaring is because you wish you could get out of your box a little more. Maybe you're stressed out and angry because you've convinced yourself that's all you can be. Maybe that's what your parents were like, or somebody else you knew, and you just grew up thinking that random outbursts of temper and stupidity are normal. Here's a clue: they aren't. They make you look like a complete fool, and could not only hurt the person you're lashing out against-- they could hurt you in the long run.

Whenever somebody gets ahead of you in life, whether it be in their car, on their bike, in your office, or in some other area of your existence, get a grip. Act like a human. Don't be a baby. And for Pete's sake, pretend you have some self-control.

Miss Clairol and Squeaky Clean Christians

I rented a great movie the other night-- Woman Thou Art Loosed. I've passed it in Blockbuster about a million times, but have always hestitated to rent it. Frankly, I'm all squeaky-cleaned out. As someone who never grew up in church, I always saw Christians and other church people as a bunch of head-in-the-clouds hoity-toities with no idea what it was like to live in The Real World, where Really Horrible Things can happen. When you hear about a movie, song, or TV show that is Christian-inspired, you can usually assume a few things:
1) Nobody will cuss.
2) Nothing remotely gritty will happen.
3) Anybody who does bad stuff will be stereotypically portrayed as an evildoer.
4) Somebody who was an evildoer will find Jesus, thus becoming squeaky-clean, super-happy, and bleached-blonde pure.
5) All loose ends will be neatly tied up, thus proving that if you turn to Jesus, you will never have a bad day again.
6) Chances of sucking are relatively high, as a good number of people throw artistic integrity and creativity out the window, trusting that the moral fortitude will provide all the necessary credibility.

So, renting a movie by Bishop T. D. Jakes was not high on my to-do list, particularly when the movie title sounded a bit chick-flicky and my husband would vomit if I made him watch it.

Sweet husband went out of town over the weekend, so I figured, what the hey. It may be stripped of any real grit and intensity, and it may feature extended discussions of romance, haircolor, and dreamguys, but maybe it will be okay for a night alone.

When I'm wrong, I admit it. This was one of the most intense, gritty, real-life, real-issues, speaks-to-me, put-it-out-there, what-it's-really-like-to-be-a-Christian movies I've ever seen. It's about paying for your sins, learning to look to a future you never thought you deserved, and realizing that forgiveness involves more than coming to the altar and declaring yourself to be free from your past. It's about the silly and pretentious ways we puff ourselves up for others, and how highly we value looking the part when it comes to sanctity. It's about self-sabotage and self-aggrandizement; and it's about stepping into the presence of God wretched, hateful, fearful, and bound, all the while reaching for the peace of mind and love you'd never before experienced.

And it really made me aware of how very rarely we see church people honestly portrayed as struggling the way I'm sure they must. Don't get me wrong; I'm not saying that all church people are former crack-addicted, child-molesting wife beaters. But everyone has their pasts, and everyone's present is speckled with questions and gray area. This is what it is to be human. And some church people-- many more than you would ever think-- DO have seriously intense sinful lifestyles in their pasts. Jesus invited prostitutes to the table 2000 years ago; they're still taking Him up on the offer.

So why do we so rarely see this accurately portrayed in Christian media? For that matter, why is this so rarely acknowledged by the congregations of our churches? Full and public self-disclosure doesn't have to be a requirement to become a member of the church; Internal honesty about who we, the church, are does.

To those of you who look at yourselves wondering if someone like you could ever be accepted in church-- you already have been by the One who matters the most.

And to those of you who are so doggone saved that you can't even relate anymore to the YOU you used to be-- get over yourselves and get real. Jesus came to save us and to wash us clean-- NOT to bleach us beyond human recognition. You may think that you've covered your tracks and that everyone sees you as a pure work of God, but trust me, your roots are showing.

Confederate Flag Brouhaha

(Forgive me if this post is off-kilter. I just spent 45 minutes typing the original post, only to lose it without saving-- AAAAAAAGHHH! It will be impossible to capture the original spirit of the post, but I will try, because I love you, and because I'm so darn stubborn.)

Thank you, The State for demonstrating the way that the whole argument over the Confederate flag has become ridiculous.

For starters, the flag over which they are fighting is not the Confederate Flag, it is the Confederate battle flag. The first flag of the Confederacy looked surprisingly like the flag of the United States. It had 3 red and white stripes, representing the 3 states of the Confederacy that were original states in the United States, and a blue background in the corner with stars representing all Confederate states. Check it out:



The Confederate battle flag, which most people know, was only created later to avoid confusion on the battlefield caused by the similarities between the Union and Confederate flags. The First National Flag of the Confederacy is a much less divisive emblem, and one which (shamefully) many of the "proud southerners" claiming to want to honor the memory of their Confederate ancestors would not even recognize. Consider yourself better educated than more than half of our legislators and most of the writers for The State.

Now to the Sons of Confederate Veterans...

It is a fact that the Confederate battle flag was raised over the South Carolina State House during the height of the Civil Rights movement as a slap in the face of social progressivism and the movement for racial equality. The battle flag has been emblazoned on the bumper stickers, t-shirts, and tattooed arms of loud and proud southerners for decades. Often, it accompanies some sort of racist slogan like, "I Wish I'd Picked My Own Damn Cotton." Ironically, the ancestors of most of these rednecks most probably did pick their own cotton, as it is likely to be a miniscule few descended from the plantation class. Don't get me wrong-- I myself descended from a long line of southerners who picked their own cotton and tobacco and whose only whipping post was the occasional misbehaving son or daughter. But I'm not inviting public scrutiny into the possible hypocrisy of my racist declarations when compared to the reality of my lineage.

It is a fact that the Confederate battle flag, however noble its origins, is now a symbol that inspires mixed reactions among Americans. While it is a symbol that our Confederate ancestors honored, it has since been hijacked by racists and bigots, in addition to the few Confederate descendants who are genuinely wanting to honor their ancestors. The United Daughters of the Confederacy uses the First National Flag of the Confederacy in its insignia, and in so doing has avoided the whole "heritage vs. hate" dichotomy. Why must the Sons of Confederacy march carrying the Confederate battle flag when there is an option with fewer negative connotations?

My ancestors fought under the banner of the Confederate battle flag. They also stood teary-eyed, gazing proudly on the first national flag of the country they were defending. I feel no betrayal in my choice to honor the flag that more purely represents the ideals on which the Confederacy was founded-- the ideals my ancestors held so dear. If I can honor them and honor my heritage without bringing up in others reminders of the fear, anxiety, and horror of racism, then I am willing to do so. That best exemplifies the Christian compassion I'd like to think my ancestors would have wanted for me. The fact that the SCV cannot see this, and in so doing, is driving away the less-radical descendents of Confederate Veterans is sad. It simply promotes the popular misconception that all who honor their southern heritage are stubborn, narrow-minded, uneducated, backwoods rednecks masking their racism under the guise of historical preservation. I want no part of that.

Shame on The State for promoting ignorance, and shame on the Sons of Confederate Veterans for putting obstinant "tradition" above the best interests of the organization.

More on Old Dudes

Like my picture? You know, the old dude sitting on the ground, pondering. I wonder if he ever could have known that in the year 2005 his son’s son’s son’s sons’ daughter would be sitting around pondering about him. On a computer. In a blog. That complete strangers around the world could read. I bet he would have liked that!

That old dude is my great-great-great grandfather, William. He was a CSA veteran, rumored to be the only one in his family to survive the War between the States. He’s the enigma of my father’s genealogical line—The One beyond whom we cannot find ancestry. His father died when he was young, and his mother quickly remarried, so there are not (at this point in my research) any records existing of who his father was (none that weren’t destroyed when the South was burned). Thank you, General Sherman. Your march took away something from generations to come that can never be given back.

You might wonder why it matters. I sometimes ask myself that, during moments of frustration when the records lead me to another dead end. After all, my present is my joy and my future is my focus. I have three beautiful children, a husband who should be canonized for putting up with me, and a family I love. I’m working on building my own legacy by improving myself, supporting my husband, and by loving my children and teaching them the values, morals, and scriptural truths they will need to build their own legacies.

Still, there’s something to be said for knowing who started this whole sh’bang that became my life. They’re pieces in the history of my state and country that make so many distant and faraway things seem so present. I can understand the Great Depression from reading about it in a history book; I can experience it through the eyes of my Great-Grandma, or my husband’s Granny’s childhood. I like to watch The Patriot and read about the founding and founders of our nation; but knowing that my ancestors Enoch, Thomas, and others gave their all to create a nation built on freedom and opportunity fills my spirit with pride in their accomplishments and in my country.

I can watch documentaries about the War between the States, or read historical writings, and these things help me to get it, for sure. But when I learn that my ancestor, who never owned any slaves, fought bravely to defend his nation, a nation that lasted only four years, because he wanted to preserve the agricultural, locally-governed, southern heritage in which he believed… That melts my heart. To see that his heritage has been hijacked by a handful of small-minded fools, that his battle flag was commandeered in the 60s by hateful bigots, and that very few people even remember that there was a small, fledgling country that issued its own money, operated its own government, earned international recognition, and made illegal the importation of slaves—these things weigh heavy on me.

I think about the things that I hold so dearly to be right—freedom, harmony with nature, the primacy of the family in social life, racial equality, gender equality, the importance of education, and the power of prayer. What will these things mean to my children’s children, and to the generations to come? Will they know that in 2005, a woman sat down at her computer, challenging them to remember?

My dreams for the future of my family extend so far beyond just my children. In learning about my ancestry, I’ve become acutely aware that in building strong children, I’m building for their children as well. You don’t leave a legacy in one generation. You build it throughout eternity.

My father is Thomas, and his father is Arthur, and his father was Roy, and his father was Lonnie, and his father was William. My mother is Tina, and her mother is Louise, and her mother was Victoria, and her mother was Maggie. They loved their children and grandchildren, and they would love my children and grandchildren and would want me to raise them right to continue the beautiful legacies in which even they were only a part. I’m doing my best…

Katrina and Old Jerks

I grew up in the South. Not just the South, but Deep South, where everything is fried, preferably in bacon fat, and where there's only one kind of tea. For the last 8 years, however, I've lived on the west coast of Florida, with lots of transplants from all over the country, and with a very different sort of atmosphere/attitude/society/mojo than in the real south. I guess it kind of grew on me, although (in the end) it is why I longed to move back home.

Just over a year ago, I relocated back into the Deep South. Small town. No real mall nearby. Except the old one with mostly dead stores whose only purpose is to have its parking lot cruised by teenagers in low-riders every Friday and Saturday night.

So far, I've maintained some standards. I haven't been to a mud boggin or tractor pull, although I did go to bull-riding last February. I've tried to maintain some of my healthy eating habits, although it's been tough. I've tried filling my children with some of those lofty sociological concepts about genetics, social justice, race, gender, and history that I learned in an anthropology class long ago. And I've never been in a fight with a toothless old man at Wal-Mart, until last week.

Ever since Hurricane Katrina hit, our local stores have had booths set up outside by "Hearts with Hands," a local aid organization collecting items to fill a tractor trailer that they will send to hurricane-devastated areas. They have shopping lists with the kinds of items that might be needed, and you may (if you like) pick up a few items while in the store to drop off on the way out.

As I was walking into Wal-Mart, I decided that today would be the day I pick up a few items on their list. I went to pick up a list, only to be slowed by a toothless old dude, repeatedly saying, "Huh?" quizzically, almost as if to annoy the lady staffing the booth. Finally, I collected my shopping list, and started to head inside the store.

The old man puttered through the doors with me, and then turned to me, as if he thought I would surely be in agreement with him, and said, "Well, I think I've just about heard enough about that damn hurricane."

Not usually one to let a snide comment go by without contributing one of my own (a fault, I'll admit), I turned to him and shot back, "Yeah-- I bet all those people who live there have just about heard enough about it, too!"

Not ready to give up, he snorted, "Well, they've got nobody to blame but THEMSELVES."

By now, my eyes were red and steam was rising off my cheeks. I wanted to shout obscenities and call him the meanest names I could come up with, even if it meant making up a name or two. Instead, I turned to him and snarled, "You know what, I hope it happens to you one day, SIR!"

I am officially becoming a redneck, I think, and I'm not sure what to think about it.

In any case, it made me realize how easy it is for us to judge someone we know nothing about. I grew up in a coastal region of South Carolina, and lived for a few years in a beach town in Florida. I survived Hugo in SC, and Charlie in FL, and helped with numerous other relief efforts along the years. I remember what hurricane evacuation alerts meant when we were kids. They meant that a couple of my friends whose parents were nerds evacuated, and everyone else stayed. They meant that my parents and all their friends got together in the home of whoever had the sturdiest house with a keg of beer, some candles (just in case), and some board games. They meant that we got a couple of days off of school, during which time we could row our pool floaty boats down the streets, or ride bikes in knee-deep water. They meant that some goofy government official had gotten his panties in a wad again, usually over nothing.

I remember, as an adult, living on the Florida coast during quite a few storms. Every time a storm alert was issued, the city was a buzz. I'd go to the store to pickup some dinner, and have to wait in line behind the horde of crazies that had cleaned out all the bread, water, and batteries in the Tampa Bay area. Then I'd go home, and watch the news as nothing happened. A little rain, some minor street flooding, and an occasional branch blown off a tree.

It's no wonder people find it difficult to take seriously the government that cries hurricane at every deep-bellied sneeze in the gulf.

Fast forward to Katrina. So much blame, so many people to lay it on... Still, EVEN IF the mayor had issued a mandatory evacuation days in advance, there's no guarantee they all would have (or could have) left. EVEN IF the governor had coaxed the National Guard out of their bunker at the Convention Center, there's no guarantee they could have established order. EVEN IF FEMA had been competently managed by someone whose experience extended beyond horsing around, and IF the president had laid his pretty little feet on New Orleans soil sometime BEFORE 12 days after the hurricane... there are no guarantees that these things would have fixed it. But one thing is for sure: I can never lay blame on someone who didn't, couldn't, or wouldn't leave at the first breath of a hurricane warning or evacuation. I've lived coastal too long.

Nobody deserves to have their home demolished, or their family members lost or killed, or their babies starved or poisoned by unclean water. Nobody deserves to have their daughters raped while they wait for help. Nobody deserves to be blamed at a time that they've been victimized by the ferocious power of nature and are at their weakest moment ever. They need our help, now, not our judgment. And the same people who would say that it is not the government's place to provide that help need to step up to the plate and support private efforts to take care of our nation's citizens.

Old dude, you done pissed me off. But I feel sorry for you and your sad, sick little way of thinking.

The Pressured Hearts of Women

I often find myself thinking that other women have it more together than I do. Especially sharp women. Beautiful women. Women whose hair shimmers with golden highlights, and whose shoes have no scuffs. Their makeup is flawless; their nails, glossy like fine porcelain, remain unnervingly un-chipped. These women carry nice handbags, and their children (if they have them) wear smocked things and shiny shoes and know how to play without getting dirty or being loud. They intimidate me, and I find myself terrified at the thought of trying to befriend them.

Don't get me wrong-- I'm not exactly shabby. I clean up nicely anyway, and can look just as nice, just as put-together, and can convince my children to bathe and groom and wear shoes that match. It's not much, I know, but it's a start. But I've always felt as if I wasn't quite as good as those women. I've never had super-strong self-esteem. My business requires me to network with those women, and I tend to build it up in my head that they are unapproachable. Their lives seem too perfect for me to think I could have anything to offer them, and their apparent success (in business, parenting, or beauty) makes me wonder if they would accept me as a person.

We attend a church in which altar calls, hands-on prayer, and faith healing is the norm. It is not unusual for the pastor to call for those desiring healing-- sometimes even naming specific ailments-- to come forward for the church's prayers. Often, the call is offered two or three times before the first person takes that step, slowly moving forward toward the front of the church. From there, a few people might come forward, and miracles start to happen.

Recently, in church, the pastor gave an altar call for anyone dealing with the pain of depression and anxiety. Expecting the usual trickle of believers, I was overwhelmed to see the flood of people who poured down the aisles and toward the front of the church. In the crowd were a few men-- tall, short, different colors and backgrounds-- but the majority who came forward were women. Gorgeous, beautiful, put-together, bright, and precious women stood shoulder to shoulder, 3 rows deep, across the front of the church. Flawless women I had seen before but been too intimidated to approach held hands with recent immigrants who prayed in broken English for God's hand upon their lives. Foster mothers and teenage daughters and women whose children had left this life far too soon-- all gathered in the sisterhood of pressured hearts and sunken spirits.

Why do we do this to ourselves? What is it about women in our society that we willingly offer ourselves up to the artificial and hurtful standards of our society? Isn't it enough that we regret we will never live up to the just and objective measures of integrity, compassion, and love? Must we also measure ourselves against arbitrary measures of beauty, social standing, and "thinness"? I live for the day that my daughter will grow up, look herself in the mirror, and be pleased, just as God is pleased in her. My beloved child, in whom I am well pleased, how could you ever let your heart be troubled when all of life is at your fingertips, waiting for you to claim your God-ordained blessings?

There is so much more to life than worrying and sorrow. There is so much that we are called to do through our unique spiritual gifts. God does not choose us by our outer beauty, social status, or material success. Neither, apparently, does depression. But we can choose who and what we accept as our guide, our truth, our north star. I choose God.