Sacred Pie

I’m listening to my new favorite Christmas carol on repeat. So far I’ve heard about nineteen different bands and soloists give their best to the traditional song. I love Christmas carols particularly more than most other types of songs, and each year I nurse a secret favourite. When all is right with the world, I get to sing it with a big group of people on a cold evening while we gather around a piano with mugs of mulled wine. So far, the world hasn’t been all right yet. But I’m waiting, because I’m pretty sure the experience will be divine. Until that day, I sing quietly enough that my neighbors don’t beat on the wall and tell me to shut it up. 

When I lived in Phoenix, I learned to be amazed when I heard any reference to Jesus, or 'traditional' Western spirituality. It just isn’t done much outside the Bible Belt, and even increasingly less so in those states these days. You will hear people say that this is a good thing, and it is. You will hear people say that this is a bad thing, and it is. I think whenever we lose a piece of our own history, even in the teaching if not believing, we become diminished. We aren’t as rich, as full, or as entire. But I also know from experience that it is wrong when an elite group of masochistic narcissist religious zealots try to enslave us to their own ideas of what Jesus was trying to do. 

In the end, though, this all gets a break at Christmas time. Only the angriest elves don’t want ‘Away In a Manger’ played on the radio. Only the most zealous of the zealots don’t want to admit that Santa Claus is part of the Christmas culture. Most of us, it would seem, allow more to pass through our mental sieves during the holidays. We remember the time that we played a donkey in the Nativity play, and don’t hold ill will against those who still do so. We recall our grandmother reading the story from Luke 2, and we hear the passion in her voice for a history that was alive in her present day. It doesn’t always have to be about ourselves, in other words. It is enough that a song would make someone smile. It is enough that for now, the kids sit on Santa's lap and are delighted with the world. There are other days to learn about war, about suffering. I don't have to steal someone's happy because I don't agree. The Elf on the Shelf, for example. I simply do not understand. We have enough to remember during the season without the likes of a small impish intruder to attend to each and every morning. But if you like it, I wish you well and don't mind if you post pictures and make songs. Who knows? Maybe one day I'll join in. But we won't know unless we give room for both sides. 

In many ways, we live in a time that eschews history. Or perhaps we are very selective about the history that we cling to. Some feel safer in the 1950’s, and so they call it the Golden Age. Others think we should bring back the Renaissance, and all would be well. We are all right and all wrong, as naturally we would be. History and the lessons we learn from it are subjective. The only real danger would be to not learn anything at all. We cannot assume that we have the monopoly on truth and goodness and beauty and all the ways it is to be experienced. Why do I say this? I can never see a sunset in Mesopotamia. I don’t know the way Schubert’s music sounded when it fell on eagerly listening ears for the first time. We all have our own idea about what is important, what is good, and what is beautiful. We can argue about it, and we do. You would think that the human race would be doomed to further fracture their own kind until we have nothing in common but our DNA.

The exception once again sits in front of us all as we eagerly await the fullness and joy of the Christmas season. Everything, from pumpkin pie to awkward claymation, becomes something sacred and special. The rituals we play through from year to year become something almost holy, because they connect us with the years gone by. I can’t watch Christmas Vacation without hearing my dad’s maniacal laugh. I cannot see a Christmas tree without wanting to spend the evening under it, swapping secrets with my big sister. I now have one grandparent gone, and I see him sitting on the couch, opening his gifts at 80 years old, still somehow like a child, hoping for a train. I’m connected with these events, and one even might say with these people, forever.

I don’t know what I’ll be doing in 2013, where I’ll live or who I’ll spend the holidays with. But I know that I’ll think fondly of this year and all the memories of trying to find an affordable tree for a small Irish apartment. I’ll laugh because I made cornbread stuffing out of the most hideous ingredients, and that my family was nice enough to eat it so we could have a traditional experience. My memories will connect me in a way that physical space cannot. My heart, my ears, and even my nose will tell me that Grandma Scott is still making biscuits and apples, even if it has ceased to be tangible. Her house might not be beautiful to you, or real. But during this season, most of you would smile as I relive times gone by. I will do the same for you. I can allow your mom's pie to be the best, as I claim the same of my aunt. We can both find the beauty in our own experiences without having to challenge the result. 

I think that we all secretly long for the season of Christmas, and my ideas on why change all the time. I think we crave the stability and security of times gone by, perhaps even times we never experiences. While we don’t live in the past, and hopefully don’t try to, we are looking forward into the complete and total unknown. The only assurance that things will  continue is our continued practice of the things we know. I know with certainty that my children’s children will know the names and faces of my own grandparents. I know this because my grandparents have made sure that I know the names and faces of their own ancestors. They have linked me with the past I can no longer physically experience, and so pulled themselves forward into a future they won’t physically inhabit. It is immensely comforting, at least in my mind. 

I don’t want to walk around with locket-sized pictures of my extended family tree, however. Instead I keep them in my heart and on my walls and think of Ma’am Lucy when I try to make pie crust, and of Grandpa Jerrell when I see a barrel of old-fashioned candy. It is enough to live this way, for most of the year. I am delighted when I have a thought of a cousin's childhood haircut, of a sheet of burned cookies that made me cry and my children laugh. They bubble up somewhere from the unconscious, as they are content to live there most of the time. But every now and again, we pay our dues to those places and people. It is only right, as a farmer reckons with his overlord. 

There used to be a widely celebrated holiday for celebrating the one who have left us, and for remembering their lives and likeness. Some think of such practices are morbid, but some probably haven’t lost a friend or a father. Death holds no fear when those we love have passed through. It is no longer uncharted territory, even if it is unfamiliar. This is the reason people travel to see the lands of their ancestors. We want to stand in a field and say that our great, great, great-grandfather planted this grass and it is mine somehow too, in a way I don’t understand. My heart leaps when I stand in this field, and it ceases to do so when I walk a mile in a different direction. This place has been held for me, if even just to stand and marvel at the gifts of wonder, of family, of belonging. We can belong to places we've never seen. We can yearn for people we never knew. We can then trust more firmly that the other places they have traveled will feel just as safe, be it unto death and beyond.

Christmas can’t be all about the past, though. It is only a portion of the experience. What else, then? Why do we yearn for the same songs and the same food and the same everything? What else would posses us to actually want to watch the terrible Frosty the Snowman movie? It is painful, but we have to do it. The voices don't stop until it is accomplished. Much like kissing a hairy aunt (not that I have any) we know it must be done. Might as well get it over with and try to find the humor as we do so. 

We want to experience magic, even if we call it something else. I don’t mean Harry Potter, although I would be very happy to experience his sort. Wonder, peace, love, gratitude, I think these feelings all fall under the umbrella of my description. We want to experience these overwhelmingly massive feelings more than we want to eat or even breathe. I can go several days without thinking about being thankful, but then when I do, I physically feel better for it. Not for thinking, ‘Yikes, I’m so glad I don’t look like that ugly lady’ but ‘Oh, how grateful I am that I can walk and breathe on my own. How amazing is it that I can read and have thoughts and enjoy chocolate? The world is indeed an amazing place, and I am grateful to be here.” But if you post that kind of thing on Facebook every day, you would lose most of our friends. Sad, but true, and I might be the first to drop you. It just isn’t acceptable to talk this way all the time. When people constantly remind us that we are lucky to process oxygen, we get the feeling that we are quite naughty to enjoy sitting in front of a movie with a basket full of buttery popcorn. We should focus on the important things, we tell ourselves. Popcorn isn’t important. Right? We can spend our money better. We don't have to have a tree, do we?

Take a look at Christmas again, and the days that lead to its arrival. We are thankful for our family, because we don’t always get to see them. We are thankful for the buttery popcorn that our grandfather eats while we watch a Christmas movie, because it matters. He matters, and what he does matters, and it wouldn’t be quite the same if things were different. We don’t practice tradition to stay in times gone by, but to remind us of how we arrived at the present. We don’t keep things the same 'just because' either, but change as the years change who we are. I don’t want an American Girl doll for Christmas this year, because my tastes and needs have changed. But I still want a present, and I still want it wrapped in pretty paper, and I still feel queasy when I open the box. 

Christmas ties us to the past, pulls us to the future, and fills us with the sentiments that our very soul craves to experience. It would be wondrous indeed to live the whole year through with these thoughts in mind. I don’t think it is possible, though. I think someone would go mad with the excess of feelings. Just like the pumpkin pie, it isn’t meant to be enjoyed without abandon. In small measures, in consistent applications, and not in a deluge of abundance should we eat pie. 

Just so can we stretch our insignificant tiny hearts to embrace the whole world at once. You cannot live at the pinnacle of exhilaration any more than you can live in the valley of the mundane. We forget who we are, though, and forget to breathe the heady air of the frosted mountains. Like a swimmer coming near the surface, we kick and push towards the coming breath that will give us the ability to endure and appreciate what comes next. This is why we love Christmas, child or adult, religious or non, dreamer or poet or scientist.

My cure for the world, therefore, is the thorough immersion into the Christmas season. It worked for Scrooge, and it can work for you too. 

If you find that your rusty heart is resistant, go bake a pie. It always helps. 

*All art by Normal Rockwell, master genius

Other pictures are the blogger's family, doing Christmassy things, and they belong to history. 

The Goose Is Getting Fat - TAKE TWO!

I wrote this four years ago on Thanksgiving, and though it isn't 'new', it will still do for today. I wish you a very happy Thanksgiving.

Christmas is coming, the goose is getting fat
Please put a penny in the old man’s hat.
If you haven’t got a penny,
Then a ha’ penny will do.
If you haven’t got a ha’ penny,
Then God bless you!

My grandmother used to say this to my sister and I when the days grew colder and cranberry sauce moved to the front of the supermarket aisles. As we got used to the lyrics through the years (despite not really knowing what they meant), she would replace the words with variations of putting hundred dollar bills in Grannie’s hat. (No, that is not a typo. Yes, we really do spell it this way and I didn’t make a hideous possessive apostrophe catastrophe.)

Talitha and I went to a Montessori school for many years. I liked it, despite the bad rap that it gets from more formidable anal-retentive education fanatics. I’m under the impression that all people learn differently, and that different learning styles require different learning environments. But I digress. I’m not writing a paper about education. Back to the fat goose!

At Montessori Academy we shared the lunch table with some really interesting kids. They were post-hippy children, conservative children, homeschooled then Mommy get a job children, music industry children, and then the occasional oddball like my sister and I who were none of these things and yet all of these things. Well, in the midst of all this alternative learning, we got to sing all manner of songs. We lifted our sweet, slightly off-key soprano voices to songs that I’m quite sure are not sung at other schools. We might have sung about illegal drug use and the evils of free economy. We also sang about Hanukah and Christmas, despite that those songs specifically mention religious beliefs. If the Hindus had a song that could be accompanied by a guitar, we would have sung it, because that is the kind of environment it was.

We also learned a song that talked about putting a penny in the old man’s hat. Like many of the songs I learned under the tutelage of Mrs. Melton, I don’t know that I’ll ever forget the simple tune. I know the states in alphabetical order and the state tree of Tennessee because of her little jingles. Symbolically, she linked hands with my mother’s mother and taught me about a goose getting fat. For some unknown reason, I needed to understand something about a ha’ penny (which can also be translated as half or hay, depending on your version).

It is only tradition and repetition (are they the same things?) that causes my thoughts to turn to this little verse at the time of year when cider and hot chocolate are added to my daily diet. I think of Grannie and Mrs. Melton and, for some reason, the goose that is getting fat. My dad made us eat goose one year. He was beyond delighted that we had a Christmas goose. I wish I didn’t remember the smell. Is it any wonder that poultry frightens me?

Well, I’ve been thinking about that ditty because of the time of year, but also because of the climate of the country. Where there once was plenty, there now is not. We cannot yet claim famine, as that would be dramatic in the extreme. But for the first time in a long time, Americans are thinking that it might not be a good idea to just ‘throw it on the card’ and deal with it later. Really, it is a good thing. And yet, like the first few days of going on a diet, it really hurts.

Austin and I put away a bit of money each month for Christmas. It isn’t much fun to do in January, but it feels great in November. I usually start making lists in September, listing potential gift ideas, approximate prices, favorite colors, sizes, and anything else that might be pertinent to choosing The Perfect Gift. I compare online, noting price difference, shipping options, bonus buys, warranty information…everything. I write it all down. I usually forget where the various lists go, but I write it down nonetheless. I don’t prepare so much as prepare to prepare.

So in theory, we were prepared for The Giving Season. And then, as we looked faaaar into the future, we saw a problem. Austin’s younger sister is getting married in January, and it goes without saying that we will be there. Be it fate or fuel, the prices for airline transportation have positively skyrocketed. Gone are the days of the $99 one-way fare between Nashville and Phoenix. We watched fares for awhile. I stalked the various airline websites until I found what appeared to be an unbeatable deal. And really, I haven’t seen a better price since. But at 1,600.00 USD, our Christmas fund was more than depleted. It was shell-shocked, weather-worn, and completely gone.

On one hand, I was relieved. We obviously wouldn’t be able to buy Christmas presents this year. There would be no way to buy small tokens for all those whom we usually give presents. And so…we would simply have to be our own gift. Not because we wanted to be cheesy, but because it was all we had to offer. The plane tickets were to be our gifts to ourselves, our kids, and our family. Austin and I told ourselves that it truly would be enough to sit with our various family members and have chocolate fondue. We could watch movies, play games, sit in the hot tub, and laugh, drink, and be merry. I have to admit that in my head I saw us tucked into a sleigh, covered with ermine blankets and happily ignoring the raw red cherries that the icy wind was painting onto our cheeks. Scratchy mittens, soft scarves, heavy boots filled with winter dew….silver tankards of spiced ale, hot cocoa with lovely pools of melting cream and marshmallows…warm breath blown onto cold, chapped hands. Yes, this would be a Christmas to remember!

On the other hand, I looked behind me at the Horrible Christmas Of 1991. Luckily, I’ve blocked out most of it. But let’s just say that all I got was a black hat. And that doesn’t symbolize anything. I got a black hat. And though as a parent I understand, appreciate and sympathize with how much harder it is to provide for your kids than they can possibly imagine, I also….got.a.black.hat. That might have been the defining moment of my future gift giving issues. (Although there are many other memories vying for that distinction) I’ll be the first to say that Christmas is not about presents. But I’ll also be the first to hold up a black hat if you tell me that it doesn’t matter if you don’t give your kids a Christmas present. (Yes, for the sake of argument, I did actually receive a present. But I challenge you unless you have ever been the proud Christmas recipient of a single black hat.) I must admit that I saw my home in the holiday season of 2008, cold and sparsely decorated. There were lights on the tree, but they had burnt out weeks before and therefore just looked like cable wire wrapped around the forlorn little plastic branches. (Sigh) Crusty pieces of days old bread…sad little eyes that came down to find that Santa didn’t visit them…instant cocoa. This would be a very sad Christmas.

We sat down with the kids and had a lovely little talk about What Makes Christmas Important. We explained that although we have (had) Christmas money, we needed to spend it (and more, don’t tell Dave Ramsey) on tickets to fly to Phoenix. Being the sensitive, lovely little souls that they are, Moira and Sabra agreed that it would be just fine to forego the usual shiny package swap. Actually, they were downright giddy about visiting family that they miss so much. To be fair, Sabra still probably has no idea what we are doing for Christmas and very well might be pissed off when her stocking hangs empty on Christmas Morning.

Moira is very very very very sensitive about every every every every thing. And no, I’m not over exaggerating. As with most of us, her best asset is also her worst. In this case, sensitivity came in handy. She put my mind at ease by almost over reasoning. After all, she soothed my troubled soul, family is more important than a new toy. She would rather be hugged by her aunts than get More Plastic Crap in her stocking.

As the days went on and she had reassured herself, her dad, her sister, me, her animals, her grandparents, her teachers, and anyone else who would listen, I did feel better about the whole Grrrr I’m A Bad Parent Who Isn’t Going to Give Her Kids A Present This Year Issue. And I also started putting away my change, Austin’s change, pennies I found on the street, and even dollars that should have been spent on flour and eggs. My plan was (and is) to split the money a week before Christmas and buy each of the girls one present. That way they will have something to open, but will also remember that presents aren’t the most important thing about the holiday. They will see family, sing the lyrics of old carols, and remember that the day is about so much more than can ever be understood by the human heart.

Well, I’m sorry to say that I have gone a bit off course. I did mean to talk about the kids and presents and my ridiculous mental images both bad and good. But if you will excuse me for a few paragraphs more, I’ll attempt to tie this up and even curl the ends for you.

When we talked to our family and friends about this season and the fact that we would be giving them a hug and a warm cuppa but little else, we were shocked, sad, and yet oddly happy that almost everyone we know is in the same boat. Shocked because it is just like us (me) to not notice other people and what their situation is. Sad because it isn’t exactly fun to know that everyone else is staring at pennies on the street and wondering if they should become a bounty hunter for the holidays. Oddly happy because we weren’t alone, they weren’t alone; we were all facing the same reshaping of a most beloved holiday. We were all going to have to be creative and content and that was just the end of it.

All the while, in the ipod of my mind, played the song about the goose and the hat.

I asked my mom if she knew what it meant. After all, she is a good resource on All Things Strange in Appalachia. Surely she would hold the key to the extreme wisdom of hay pennies and fat geese.

She said no, she didn’t really have such a key. It was just an old saying that probably was self-explanatory. This made me mad because I hate it when things aren’t complex. If you are wondering why I don’t like you, now you know. I love hidden meanings, deep ponderous thoughts that jump out at you like a 3D picture after you have mentally stared them down for hours.

True to my nature, I planned on thinking about the overly simple proverb at a later date. I have a list in my purse that tells me to look up the history of the saying, to find who penned it first and why. I haven’t done so yet. As I sit here typing, I have no internet to help me out with this task. So I’m going to go out on a limb and interpret it for myself (and for you, the always patient reader).

Christmas is coming, the goose is getting fat
Well, that really does have to be obvious. It sets the tone, gives us an idea of what is going on. I might say that ‘Christmas is coming, I am drinking cocoa’ or ‘Christmas is coming, Target is getting busy’ or maybe ‘Christmas is coming, my neighbors are very tacky in their choice of seasonal ornamental lawn art’.

Please put a penny in the old man’s hat
For me, this conjures images of red buckets and cheap Santa suits that ring bells and tell you to put your money IN THE BUCKET! Some people get irritated by them, but I don’t. It might be because I’m better than everyone else or because I simply like the (sadly) seasonal idea of helping other people. It could also be that my mom used to work for the Salvation Army and I feel somewhat connected to those cold, tired bell ringers. I don’t know if they get paid to stand there in the slush and compromise the integrity of their hearing by incessantly clanging the brass instrument. Even if they do, it isn’t much. And they do it because it hopefully helps people. So how could I interpret this for the modern reader? Well, as I have noted, it means to give a little bit to people who need it. We really should remember those less fortunate all year round, but we don’t. We are horribly selfish (or at least I am) on the 4th of July when we buy fireworks and there are people who haven’t had dinner in several days. But for some reason, the glittering, all consuming magic of Christmas makes us look not with pity, but with charity and understanding on those around us. So…I’m going to go with ‘Please put a five dollar bill in the Salvation Army bucket’.

If you haven’t got a penny, then a ha’ penny will do
More of the same, except that this allows that perhaps the giver is herself in need. Interesting juxtapose here. The giver is asked to give, but the giver is remembered as a fellow traveler. Perhaps the giver has had dinner this week, but maybe her kids don’t have shoes that fit or a coat that reaches all the way to their wrists. It also reassures us that whatever you have will be sufficient. If you don’t have a penny, even a portion of that will be accepted and appreciated. No sacrifice is insignificant, despite how the sacrifice feels. ‘If you haven’t got a five dollar bill, then a few quarters will do.’

If you haven’t got a ha’ penny, then God bless you!
Well, if you don’t have a few spare quarters to put in the red bucket, then you have some much bigger problems at hand than not being able to help others. You cannot, at this time, help yourself. And for that, you need simply to be blessed. Hopefully that blessing will come in such a way that you find yourself warm, fed, and loved. I know that overall our country looks down on those without money. I whine and complain about not being able to buy the things I want or do what I want to do when I want to do it. But I have always been warm, always fed, always loved. My sister and I used to change this line to ‘if you haven’t got a ha’ penny then get out of here!’ This still makes me laugh, though it also makes a wee bit sheepish. I prove my own point. So here’s what I would say: ‘If you haven’t got a few quarters to give, then God bless you. And here’s where God will start: I’ll give you a few quarters of my own.’

So as I cross this little article with red ribbon and knot it overtop green shiny paper, hear this:

In a time of plenty, in a time of want, in a time of uncertainty and yet determination, I’m getting nothing for Christmas. And I have to say, I haven’t ever felt better. I’m still looking for pennies on the sidewalk, because Sabra has made it very clear that she wants a black baby doll from Santa and I am rather under the impression that she should have such a gift.

I cannot say that I fully understand what is going on around me in my country. People are going insane and building bunkers in their backyards. Wall Street apparently sucks, though I was never good at math anyways so I don’t claim to have any idea of what anybody is talking about. My sister’s husband is going to sleep somewhere in the Middle East without watching Sponge Bob with his daughter. My husband’s father still won’t be here this season, and that fact is still astonishingly surprising.

But I have what I need to do what I need to do. I feed my kids food, I put them to bed in a bed, and I send them to school with a coat that fits. I don’t have these luxuries because I deserve them or because I’ve worked harder than people who don’t have their own bed.

I’ve been the old man with a hat, and so many people have given me their pennies.

Hopefully, I can always remember to do the same. It might be a five dollar bill; it might be a few quarters. It might even be a Styrofoam cup of instant cocoa. What is important is that I give, no matter how the sacrifice feels.

And now this package is all wrapped, tied and adorned. I’ll put it under my tree to look at as the season progresses.

I hope you do the same.

Finger Lickin' Politickin' - Part One

Fall is here. You can smell the leaves and the pumpkins and the politics.

I'm going to talk about something that irritates me, and it isn't leaves or pumpkins. In the end, it isn't politics either, though it flirts with that category on a daily basis.

You can be on either side of any fence and still participate in the topic I'm going to address. This isn't related to one political party.

I am dismayed at the level of knowledge, and ability to obtain knowledge, in regards to the upcoming presidential election. We all laugh at the "Average Joe' interviews on shows such as Jay Leno, in which idiotic Americans confidently answer that George Bush Sr. is running for office this term. I watched a clip of Americans talking about who won the debate....between the two candidates' wives. Not only was this funny in a wow-how-stupid way, but the worst part of that video was they didn't pretend to have any issues at stake. There was no pretense that Michelle was better because of her thoughts on military issues. Nobody pretended that Ann was better because she cared more about women's rights. One lady liked Ann Romney because "she is classy and dresses nicely". One man liked Michelle Obama because "she seems more real". Those can be true, and certainly are legitimate ways to talk about a person. They are not, however, grounds for winning a debate, even if that debate is fake!

I find it difficult to enter into conversations about political events, or even political ideas. This isn't even due to the lack of knowledge, but the lack of discussion. I fear that many of my fellow Americans do not know how to process information, share information, and compute that information into an idea. We are content to receive a pre-made thought, and call it a day. We want microwaveable political debates, without the fuss of chopping and measuring and getting our minds all disorganized. If we cannot discuss and debate the issues that our country faces, we cannot solve any issues. A wise person can hear any point of view without feeling threatened. A wise and gracious person can even hope to learn something from such an exchange.

As (according to me) we don't want to actually talk about issues, we only need to know a few things in order to size up a candidate, friend, or baby-sitter. These are the hot button issues, the biggies, the 'do-not-proceed' checklist.

Why should we bother to talk about education, when the fabric of morality is at risk of being torn asunder due to the presence of illegal immigrants? You've heard it, I'm sure. I heard this gem from the lips of Sunday School teachers: "I would be all for top-notch education for our own children, but I don't want to waste my hard-earned money on teaching some other children...some different children. I'd rather use my own money to teach my own kids." *I replaced the word she used, Mexican, with the word different. She was trying to use it as an insult, which she is clearly too ignorant to know isn't possible.)

Gives you that warm, fuzzy feeling, doesn't it?

In my world, there are only Two Defining Issues of American Politics. If any sort of political conversation is taking place, you can expect for people to share ideas about foreign policy. HAHA! No, no you cannot. Instead, you will be required to give your thoughts on the following:
1. Gay marriage
2. Abortion

When I say you will be required to give your thoughts, what that means is you are required to be vehemently opposed to these topics in all ways. In fact, you feel uncomfortable even talking about it for too long. You just want to know that everyone is of one mind, that we should eradicate sex and the nasty questions it elicits from a human society.

NOTE TO SELF: Review the idea that both of these 'core' issues relate to sexuality, and wonder just how steeped in Puritanism we still are. We are obsessed with sex in a backwards way. We crave what we loathe, and while we excuse such feelings in ourself, to a degree, we will see the witches burned at the stake.

I am overgeneralizing. One must, you see.

I do not have the heart to address the first Defining American Issue. This issue isn't a vague faceless vote to me. It has names, and faces...familiar, lovely, kind faces.  I know my mind, and I am content with what I find. You are free to know yours.

As for the second issue, well. Here we go!

I find it nearly impossible to reduce a candidate to their stance on abortion. Is it important to know where they stand? Absolutely. It is just as important for me to ascertain their feelings on health care and education. These things matter to me, not only because they touch my life but because they are related.

I feel that it is against nature to insist a child must be brought into the world, and then insist that the further breath and bread of that same child is not your responsibility. I am totally fine with the idea of being pro-life. I would describe myself as being in this category. However, 'life' is not usually the issue that hangs in the balance in these discussions.

We talk about when life begins. Pro-lifers generally say it begins at conception. Pro-choicers generally say it begins at birth. It is a discussion worth having. Again, I know my mind and you can know yours. But we don't need to know when life begins to know if we are pro-life, or if we are not.

The word 'life', and the idea of being 'for' it, has not ever been equal to the idea of being born.

I find it disgusting for someone to say that a woman must give birth to her child, and that this woman must then find ways to educate, feed, house, and clothe this child. If the woman looks at her life and her society and sees that she will receive no help, no food, no medicines or kind words even, then perhaps she is attempting to make a loving decision by not bringing the child into further existence.

I know, some of my readers are flat out pissed. Please just keep going.

If Governor or Senator WhoDernIt says that a life lived in abject poverty and crime is better than no life at all, I would challenge said Senator to conduct an experiment and see just how lovely those life circumstances truly are.  When you have no strings to pull or steaks to eat, how bright and shiny are your dreams? Do you see your grandmother in need of cancer medications she cannot afford and think how blessed you are to take part in this miracle called life? Do you feel the gnaw of hunger in your belly and believe the words of the television preacher who says that God wants you to prosper? Is this what 'pro-life' means?

Surely, not all cases are such dire ones. We certainly don't want to talk about the ugliness of poverty. What of the middle-class mother who has a child by man who isn't her husband? What life is there for her? Suddenly faced with divorce and splitting up her older children, she is faced with not only the life of an unborn child, but the life experience and quality of many other people. Say what you want about not getting into these situations. They exist, and they exist on your street and in your home. If you want to play Perfect Princess, you go right ahead. Nobody believes that crap anymore. Are you, a 'pro-life' advocate, ready to hear this woman cry and grieve in the middle of the night? Will you help her move? Will you baby-sit her children when she needs to go to work? If not, you need to seriously reconsider your stance on the issue.

Let's go to another level. Surely, in a high-class, rich and famous kind of lifestyle, these things can be dealt with. Sometimes, they can. Teenage girls go on long holidays, babies are whisked away in the middle of the night, and graduation day finds that no one is the wiser. But what if your stubborn daughter wants to keep her offspring? What if she doesn't want to hide her 'problem', and pretend that nothing has happened? What then, indeed, when faced with giving up her secured future or her child, she chooses the child? You suddenly have a high-bred girl stealing out into the night, onto the street or floor of someone's home, to repeat the cycles we've already discussed. Does she have support? The nice clean manicured women in the nice clean clinics promise to help, but where are they when the baby screams for 10 hours? Will they play grandmother, since the real one is too busy playing bridge and planning pro-life rallies?

Life does not mean birth. They are related, but they are not the same. When we speak of those who have received an outlook of being in a constant vegetative state, we often say that they have no 'quality of life', and therefore removing life-saving devices is not an evil but a courtesy. Few people want to know that their life has been extended just to lie in a bed while tubes carry drool and waste to chambers beneath the earth.

I struggled with these thoughts for years, trying to make them make some sense to someone other than family members who are thankfully smart enough to connect the dots I spew erratically. And then, in a blessedly shiny YES moment, I read a quote from a Benedictine nun. Sister Joan Chittister is an author and speaker, and was a Prioress in Pennsylvania for a number of years. I love what she said, as it succinctly says what I feel. I guess I could have started with the quote, but then you'd have stopped reading. Cheeky of me, isn't it?

"I do not believe that just because you're opposed to abortion, that that makes you pro-life. In fact, I think in many cases, your morality is deeply lacking if all you want is a child born but not a child fed, not a child educated, not a child housed. And why would I think that you don't? Because you don't want any tax money to go there. That's not pro-life. That's pro-birth. We need a much broader conversation on what the morality of pro-life is."

Isn't that fantastic? Even if you are pro-choice, you should be able to agree with such a statement. It is, after all, far more consistent in thought than the simple insistence that children must be born. If life is to be insisted upon, then life must be given. You cannot withhold the tools to enhance and encourage life, if you insist on its presence. 

Once the child is living and breathing and eating in your world, it exists as part of your eco-system. Like it or not, the fact remains that you are, indeed, your brother's keeper. If you are not prepared to bring more children into the world, regardless if they come from your own body, then don't be so hasty to insist that it happen. 

The only pro-life advocates I want to hear are the kind that offer to watch children. They volunteer to help you assemble a swing set. They slip a bag of groceries on the porch of a single dad. They don't judge circumstances, they share experiences, and truly accept people simply because they have a beating heart.

This is a platform I'd be thrilled to support. It wouldn't be Republican, and it wouldn't be Democrat and sadly wouldn't be welcome in most churches.

It would, however, be right.

The Chubby Shrimp Frube

It is the first day of September.

Today is the one month mark for us, from when we left home. The weather has been really nice, especially after the crazy heat of Nashville. We've enjoyed wearing sweatshirts and boots, and even splashing in a few puddles. We are told that the novelty will wear off, and I'm sure it will happen. For now, however, the absence of sweat betwixt every crevice is quite refreshing.

We've had quite a nice time thus far, getting to know the city in bits as we travel hither and yon to find towels, a toaster, a doctor. Galway is a nice place, for however long we call it home.

We've also had a hard time, and I find it hard to explain. The girls miss their friends and their bed and the familiarity that home provides. I miss those things as well, but mostly I mourn the life that we left behind. Life, we know, doesn't always turn out the way we planned. When plans change, for good reasons or no, the result is a death of one way of life. Over dramatic? Perhaps, if I was just referencing a change in schedule. But this is much, much more. I'm quite happy with the decisions we've made that you may or may not be privy to. I'm content with a new direction for my family, one that will allow us to be ourselves and not cater to the whims of spiritual popularity. And yet, the change in direction causes me to wonder if it is the last few years that held little purpose, or the following ones.

Isn't that fun? Don't you feel lighthearted now? You will soon, never fear.

I went to Dunne's (grocery) last week to buy some bread. Moira and I put on our jackets and braved the windy night to get some space. We love our apartment, but sometimes there are too many feelings and too few rooms, and one needs a chance to go outside and be windblown. The thoughts of the preceding paragraphs were on my mind as we walked. I could tell that Moira was near tears, and that her thoughts would be close enough to my own. I was pretty sad, she was pretty sad, and we were headed to the store. Perhaps we'd pick up some ice cream, as it is a known depression-deterrent.

We were trudging through the store when a strange word flashed across my path. It stood out among the many packages, which is really quite a feat when all the packages are foreign to me. Aunt Jemima is not here, nor is Uncle Ben or the Quaker's oat man, and it is quite the visual assault to take in all these new boxes and fonts.

I laughed out loud and Moira looked up from examining the floor tiles. I told her what the strange word was, and we both laughed. It felt pretty good in that moment, just to laugh at something nonsensical. She wanted to see this for herself, so we walked back to the aisle and saw this:

"Frubes!" I laughed, trying to speak quietly. "They have something called Frubes!"

Moira laughed so hard that people looked at us. "Mom!" She could barely breathe now, "It comes in pouches!"

We stumbled through the next few aisles, stopping to bend over and laugh silently, which now had nothing to do with trying to be polite. It was just so funny, and particularly in light of our recent funk. 

We were discussing all the humor that Frubes can conjure when we were then delighted to find this gem:

For only one Euro, you too can have Black Pudding Chubb! 

We were now in desperate need of a bathroom, as the word 'chubb' was too much after the hilarity of the pouches of Frube. We were highly inappropriate, and no doubt immensely undignified as we attempted to find where Dunne's hides their butter. Along the way, we pointed out the funny unfamiliar names, and rhymed everything we could with the word 'chubb'. A few poems may have been made, but I cannot vouch for their genius. 

Moira and I paid, came home, and had some ice cream. We shared our findings, and had a good laugh about the funny differences between cultures. We now keep an eye open for such things that can be photographed, and I do my best to remain nonchalant as I snap a quick picture. 

The gummy candy selection is interesting. I've had amazingly tasty jelly snakes, which really is quite the same thing as a gummy worm, whatever the name. However, the presence of candy foam shrimp is something I haven't yet grown used to. I've seen this in several places, so thus the picture. At first I was convinced it was an oddity sweet, like gummy severed heads or kumquats. But the shrimp keep appearing, leading me to believe that they are more normal than I first believed. Perhaps they are like the scary orange circus peanuts that all Southern children found in the purses of their grandmothers. While I don't like circus peanuts, I don't think they are particularly strange. I've never thought to take a picture of them while shopping for bread, at any rate.

This raises an interesting question about the way we are conditioned. I don't notice circus peanuts on a shelf because, in my experience, they are 'normal'. Frubes and Chubby pudding jump out at me, because, in my experience, they are 'different'. 

I don't mind people laughing at things in my own culture that are 'different'. When a visiting European friend was alarmed at what went into biscuit gravy, and declined to eat it, I had to stop and think about how gross it kind of is. I ate it anyways, because Jesus ate white gravy.

Coming from a different perspective might help further illustrate my thoughts. 

Shortly after arriving in town, I went to Boots to buy shampoo, soap, and lotion. There were a few familiar bottles, a few familiar names. But the prices...not so much. I don't use Blandi hair care, but I also don't use Suave. I normally buy such things at Target, so it wasn't a stretch to assume I could buy such things here. And in the end, I did. But I found the process mildly fascinating. I was astounded that one could buy Toni&Guy shampoo for less than Aussie shampoo. If you don't know shampoo, let's say that I discovered you could buy a Jaguar for less than a Honda. It was weird. I kept rechecking, looking around at other brands to see if I had lost my ability to read...and it remained that some 'cool' brands in the U.S. were cheaper than the 'not as cool' brands. 

I'm sorry to say I was a bit lost. How would I know what to buy? Independent as I might consider my opinions, they are still largely fashioned by the society in which I've read, watched, and listened. If all shampoos were equally priced, how would I know what to buy?

At home, if something says 'European' or 'Made in London', the cool factor is increased. We naturally assume that they know what they are doing, are far more posh than we are, and know how to dress/eat/wash/live. Sometimes, many times, that might be true. But often still, it is not. If England wants to export their rubbish soap to America and charge extra, it still should be rubbish soap. 

Between the foamy shrimp, the shampoo at Boots, and a healthy dose of skepti-pessimism, I'm left to wonder what is normal, what is good, and what is simply rubbish chubb. 

HobNobs and Broomsticks

While we waited for our Internet/television/phone service to be installed, I read. I clocked about 1000 pages, most of it on a Ken Follett book. I love to read, always have, and I was surprised to find that after many days of reading, walking, reading, unpacking, reading, wishing for hot water, reading,  I could no longer look at a book. I just wanted to watch something.

We are extremely fortunate that our furnished apartment has a DVD player. We were going to just use our computers for movie watching, but really...this has been quite lovely. Isla gets to watch Peppa Pig, which I've realized is her hot bath/glass of wine/whatever soothes you. And, when looking at my book made me want to physically harm Ken Follett, it meant that I could watch a movie instead of do more laundry.

European and American DVD players are different systems, if you didn't know that already. I only learned it on my last trip to Ireland, when I was thinking of buying my kids a movie that hadn't yet been released in the states. A salesman let me know that it would be no good, and he was right.

We brought our U.S. movies to watch on the computer, but to use the Euro player, we would need Euro movies. I know, the word 'need' is terribly misleading and makes me feel guilty and think of poor children in the rain forests. But as I have not yet taken a (purposeful) vow of poverty, I'll choose to not feel guilty. Mostly.

I found some lovely 5 Euro DVD options, and got a few for the kids. One of them was from 1994, practically the dawn of time, but Sabra liked The Little Rascals nonetheless. It's amazing what they'll be entertained with when most of their stuff isn't around.

Good heavens, I'm long winded. All I need to say is that I got to choose a movie for Austin and myself. The choices were...interesting. Rambo, porn, movies in other languages I don't speak or pretend to...and I walked away disgusted, thinking that I would have to whittle a flute for the evening's amusement. As I turned toward the registers, I saw a flash of yellow and a familiar face.

I'd wanted to see this movie, The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel, but I never did, nor did I hear any reviews. It could have been a bust, but Judi Dench has never ever let me down. If this movie was stupid, I'd have to endure Austin's taunts and rants that I choose bad movies. I bought it, and didn't bother to look at the price. I knew it wasn't 5 Euro, but I really, really did NOT want to watch Rambo or whittle a flute. I willed it to be fabulous. 

This movie is about a group of older Brits, who for various reasons go to a long-term living accommodation in India. It is a fabulous movie, so go rent it. I won't give anything away. But just know that they, of course, encounter the differences in culture that such a trip would reveal. 

The only person who is unwilling to the hotel is the character Muriel, played by Maggie Smith (may she live forever). She needs a surgery and is outsourced by her English doctor to India. She is torn between the thought of waiting months for her surgery, and going to India. As she notes, it is "full of Indians."

We see Muriel go through airport security with packets of her favorite foods. She chooses pickled onions and other nasties, HobNobs, HP sauce, and good English tea. These are staples to her, and most of her culture even. They would be for an American something akin to Doritos, Betty Crocker, Oreos, etc. Perhaps you don't eat them everyday, but if you know you won't see them for awhile...suddenly they become like gold. *HobNobs are delicious, by the way. Go get some at the local Publix 'British food' section. Think of me. In fact, do it while watching the movie. 

She basically hoards them throughout her stay, even using them as currency among her fellow Brits. The other hotel guests are enjoying, but often distressed by, the spices of a foreign kitchen. HobNobs, one could say, are Muriel's comfort food. Why does this matter? At one point in the film, she is given an extremely generous gift by an 'untouchable' woman. She has no way to say thanks, they don't even speak the same language. So, she gives her a pack of her precious HobNobs, pulling from the limited supply of her slim link to home. 

This really stood out to me, even though I'm living mostly among familiarity. People look mostly like me, we dress mostly the same, we mostly speak the same language...it isn't as much a stretch as, say, India. But there is far less culture sharing than I previously had assumed.

When you take into account the number of small references that pepper your own vocabulary --Where's the beef?--you realize that you miss huge chunks of other cultures. It isn't as if you don't know the language as much as you don't know that you don't know many, many things.

I had tea with a friend last week, and offered her some Cadbury Fingers. She took some and said, in a weird way, that 'one might lead to another.' I had no idea until I was putting the box away, hours after she left, that it was the slogan of the biscuits. She had given me a version of 'once you pop, you can't stop' and I had no clue.

I don't know the slogans, the mascots, the shows that all kids grow up watching. Despite the shrinking of the world by both press and global warming (ha! just needed to say it) the world is still not a large glob of 'same.' I don't eat curried goat. If it were served to me, I would. But I'm not going to cook it or probably desire it. In fact, I just looked up curried goat images and feel slightly nauseous.

These things add up tremendously, and catch you off guard. Social cues are often subtle, and the clues aren't always there. The clues are somewhat hidden in the collective library of millions of moments, built across a number of lifetimes, landing on the doorstep of today. I have to delve into the history, the fables, the songs, as well as the food, the television, and the sports to have a clue of what is going on. Someone who is new to my own country wouldn't necessarily understand a reference to Sesame Street or Play*Doh. It doesn't mean they don't speak my language. It means there is much, much more to communication. This keeps coming back to me, and I find it fascinating/irritating.

I came across some 'American' food in a specialty candy store a few days ago. Moira and I actually screamed when we saw Cinnamon Toast Crunch, sold for the equivalent of 12 dollars. There was all kinds of familiar things, with scarily high prices. We bought root beer for over 2 dollars a can, and an NINE DOLLAR box of macaroni and cheese. We won't be doing this much, obviously. But it was nice to see something familiar, even if it used powdered cheese.

When you feel lonely or isolated, you will cling to almost anything. It might be root beer, it might be HobNobs, and it might be your grandmother's tablecloth. It feels silly to be excited about American cereal. But the desire for home and connection is very strong. I was reminded of it when I visited West Virginia with my dad. People just want to feel that somewhere, somebody claims us. When life tosses you hither and yon, you keep pictures of your girlfriend in your breast pocket. When someone dies, you still celebrate their birthday. When you move and move and move again, and even when your house burns, you keep your grandmother's tablecloth and feel that it will be ok in the end because the connection still exists. We just want to be anchored to the people, places, and times that we love.

There's nothing wrong with sneaking some HobNobs, so long as it doesn't spoil your ability to sample the curried goat. So we'll try eating beans for breakfast. We'll switch the word 'popsicle' for 'ice lolly'. We will try to switch to Celsius temperatures and kilometers per hour. And, when we feel lonely or disconnected, we can go buy nine dollar macaroni.

Prostitutes and Church Ladies

A few weeks ago, I read a book called Chasing Francis. It is one of the 3,467 books my dad has recommended to me this year. I knew it was a story that wove in the ideas and teachings of St. Francis, and while I do find him to be an interesting saint, I didn't put it high on my very long list.

My dad kept telling me I'd like it, I kept nodding and agreeing that I would indeed get around to it. He then told me that it was about a pastor of a mega church who suddenly finds that he has no idea what the ruddy hell is going on. (My paraphrase, I'm sure my dad would like me to note.) This pastor, named Chase, goes on a forced sabbatical and tries to find meaning in the life he has carved out for himself thus far.

Honestly, any book that wants to poke fun at 'Churchbucks McJesus Godhut' is up my ally right now. I may or may not be working on my own. Anyways, I read it.

It is a thought-provoking, informative, easy and yet intelligent read. If you have any interest, or even disgust, with spiritual life on the assembly line, you should buy a copy.

The book presents many topics of discussion, and my dad has been working his way through them on his blog. You can catch up at Pastor Dan Scott's Blog . I give you permission to click that link, and then minimize the window and finish up here.

Back again? Excellent. Let's carry on.

A woman named Maggie attends Chase's church. A former drug addict, ex-con kind of gal, she has a fun time acclimating to the church environment. Chase recalls how difficult it was for Maggie, and how hard she worked to be part of the community. In one of my favorite parts, Maggie drops the 'F' bomb in front of a church elder and has no idea that it is controversial. But the church took her and her daughter in, and thus was rocked when the young girl tragically died. It was traumatic for the community, but especially for Maggie and for Chase. Maggie needed answers that Chase quite simply couldn't give.

This starts the domino effect that sends Chase off to Italy to figure himself out with the help of mozzarella, Francis of Assisi, and lots of red wine.

The relationship between Chase and Maggie continues, with each confiding ideas and fears in the other. You see where this is going, right? By the end of the book, they are 'together', though still not quite sure what that means. It is a nice twist, and not a cop out, as these things sometimes are. It may seem that the author was just trying to make us feel better for Chase, and have us confident that his life will return to 'normal' soon enough. Instead, I think it is a final lesson.

I knew early on that the two would end up together, and I also knew that this was the most fictional part of the book. There is no way in Evangelicaland that this kind of woman would be allowed to date this kind of man.

Can't you see the headlines? "Local Pastor of 18k Dates Former Prostitute" - His congregants gather for prayer and intercession, page 2.


In the church world, this relationship would never, EVER, be allowed. It took me a few weeks to fully understand why, and tonight it suddenly hit me.

The church has a class system.

I touched on it a few months ago when I compared church to a royal court. Those in favor, those not in favor, the politics, the subtlety, the fools. But this goes a bit deeper.

You've heard the phrase, "once saved, always saved". I'd like to borrow and tweak that a bit. "Once a liar, always a liar." "Once an unwed mother, always an unwed mother." "Once a crack addict, always a crack addict." "Once too poor to pay the rent, always too poor to pay the rent or be on the church board or maybe even teach a class."

In short, once you step through the doors of most churches, you are greeted with this:
"Welcome to church! Jesus forgives you, but we never will."

How many times have you heard someone talk about how so-and-so ran off with so-and-so but now God got ahold of them and they are 'on fire'? How many times did the so-and-sos get asked to join a marriage class? Did they ever get to *gasp* help teach it?

Do we even need to talk about the joke that is 'secondary virginity'? Jesus forgives you, but when Bubba Joe wants to get married you can present him with this secondary virginity. Because being forgiven by the God of the cosmos isn't good enough. Nope, I need a back-up forgiveness card to show fellow church members. What's the secondary version of killing someone or stealing money?

Church is just so weird.

Maggie would have been welcomed, of course. She would have been told not to drop any more 'F' bombs. She would have been given a hanky to cover her too-short skirt. But she also would have heard many times that her past didn't matter, that she was a new person and the old didn't have to dictate the new. But never, ever would anyone have thought to tell her she couldn't date The Most Pure Pastor. No, Maggie would have, should have known. After all, Maggie was in a different class.

Some former pimp, perhaps. Maybe some guy who struggles with gender confusion or used to be a pervert. Same level, same class. This would be acceptable. Oh, the testimony they would have. They could adopt crack babies and go on T.B.N.

But the pastor? The leader of the flock? With a broken, loud, unruly sheep? That's actually a sin. I know it is in the book of something or other....something about yokes and oxen and your body is a temple or....something. What? Those verses have nothing to do with that stuff? Well....'F' bomb.

If you cannot abide the thought of your child mingling with kids from one parent homes, you are perpetuating the church class abomination.

If you cannot accept an adulterer as your friend, you are buying in to a hideous lie. If you still call them an adulterer, you are just plain embarrassing to humanity.

Real forgiveness, and thus real acceptance comes from ONE SOURCE. That source is not, has never been, will never be you. Those that cannot accept others live in the torment of not understanding their own forgiveness.

We see this outside the church, but oh how magnified it is inside our newly refurbished, highly expensive, state of the art walls.

Politicians who are the angriest at immigration issues are found to have come here illegally.

Senators rail against family division while they entertain seven mistresses across the country.

Anti-homosexual legislation written by those who...whoops....are secretly homosexual.

We love to yell and point and frown and judge. It takes away, for one small second, the guilt and hate and shame we carry towards ourselves. How convenient, and how easy to look with disdain on someone who is wearing last year's Easter dress, instead of address the issue with myself that I'm feeling ugly. Push someone down, and I automatically go up. The pecking order must be observed.

When I was a freshman at Belmont University, I took an Old Testament class. It was all repeat stuff, types of covenants, who begat Ishmanidibidad, and the awkward skipping through Song of Solomon. On the last day, however, my professor read from the book of Hosea. This was not repeat. It was absolutely new to me, in idea and presentation. My prof, whose name I have forgotten, wept openly as she read the story about the prophet who married a hooker. Gomer was her (unfortunate) name and she couldn't deal with the acceptance Hosea gave. It was, my prof said, a real love story. He just loved her, and from hunting her down in danger and carrying her off to safety, he just loved her. There was no 'you used to' or 'if it weren't for me'.

People say that this story is an illustration of God's love for his people. But all good stories illustrate truth, and don't have to be about God to teach about God.

I like to think that in the midst of tribes and higher ups and lesser downs and untouchables that pepper the pages of the Old Testament, God was beginning to make a point. The point is driven home many years later when Paul wrote that 'there is now no longer Greek nor Jew, male nor female, slave nor free.' When you walk in the light of forgiveness, you have only one class. There are no other options. You are God's.

Does it matter if you are male or female, physically speaking? Of course. Will your doctor need to know that you have an STD? Yes. God's forgiveness and class eradication doesn't erase all the lovely lines he drew for you, or some of the ugly ones you drew for yourself. If you murdered 87 people, we aren't going to let you host a church hunting expedition. You can be offended, but if you are a mature believer who has true class, you probably won't be for long.

Jesus pissed off tons of people because he evened the playing field. Access to God wasn't solely based on education or money or pedigree. It was based on heart, on faith, on trust. This means that some will be educated, some will be poor, some will be well-connected. But these aren't the things that link you to God. They are just part of the journey, for good or ill.

In all major revolutions, the 'lower' classes get to the breaking point and demand change at the point of a knife. Should they, shouldn't they? That's a separate topic. But they arrive at such an impasse because they have been so oppressed. Shoveling coal, licking boots, starving, having no say, all while the fat ladies powder their hair and sew pearls onto fans. Work and situation can be drastically different and yet hold no difference. Coal miners can be as happy and fulfilled as the fat ladies. But when the fat powdered lady sneers at the coal on your face, the injustice becomes unbearable. Hardship can be survived. Disdain, however, rarely can.

The atrocities hoisted upon various ethnic groups in America's past are sobering at best. When I tried to explain why Martin Luther King, Jr. was so important, my kids were confused. They kept asking why black kids wouldn't be allowed in a soda shop. Why would someone's skin color matter? They were baffled. I'm baffled, and I've seen much more prejudice than they have. It is embarrassing to hear a much older person use words that are now considered highly offensive. It no longer matters if it was normal in their day. Old dogs have to learn new tricks unless they want to go for a long ride in the country.

What will my great grandkids be baffled about? Will they look at the era in which I've lived and wonder how we were so stupid, so close-minded and mean? What new tricks will I have to learn in order to better understand and engage with the world around me? What words or ideas will I have to trade in to better love my fellow human beings?

I am disgusted by the class system that is present in the church. I am terrified of what it means. I am embarrassed to be associated with such a group. Like it or not, when a crazy Christian says something ignorant about God's wrath and a tornado, this reflects on you. We get lumped together because we have something in common. How many times have you seen a television report about a Muslim-connected bombing and thought, "oh, I bet they aren't all like that"? I don't want to be connected to people who are mean at best and evil at worst. I don't care what you call yourself. If you lie and cheat and steal and oppress and ridicule, you are not operating in almost any religion, let alone Christianity. What to do? If you can't join them, beat them!

The only thing that will win the class war is, ironically, class.

Rise above, don't give in, don't get caught up in the petty stupidity that most Christians are content with. The world is too beautiful for you to sit inside and count your silver cutlery. God made mountains and rivers and human hearts and the best way to say thank you is to enjoy them. Try your hardest to love someone the way God does. Prostitute? No biggie, you can lead the purity class. Don't have new clothes? Who cares! You can still be on the exalted platform. You used to wear white hoods and burn crosses? You are welcome here, you are loved here, you can heal here.

Is it hard? Abso 'F'bomb lutely. But it is the right thing to do. How dare we take the love and forgiveness of Christ and turn it into a club of merit and hierarchy?

It can be easy to get caught in the middle. After all, we could have some reservations about a kleptomaniac being the church treasurer, even if we are operating outside of the church class system. But if you are honest, if you are loving, if you know God, you will come to know your real motives. A shepherd keeps the sheep safe out of love. He does so with care for their well being and growth. He does not, however, choose sheep to be on his 'sheep' list and keep them at arms length because they aren't as pretty as the others.

If you find yourself weighing past snares against current roles, you have to deal in honesty to determine which side you fall on. Are you acting in love or operating in class assery? It can be difficult.

If you lose your way, drop the 'F' bomb the next time you find yourself in a room full of fat powdered ladies.

There's nothing like a good bomb to clear the air and begin again.

JWDW - Jesus Would Do What?!

Pop Christian culture makes me itch.

I don't mean slightly irritated, needs some lotion kind of annoyance. 

No, oh no. 

Full on hives and raw chafe. 

I'm using the term 'Pop Christianity' because it sounds as deep and fulfilling as pop music. I don't know if it is a real term, but I'm ordering my own private world. (Extra points if you get that little heehaw.)

What is it, exactly? 

Have you ever seen a Testamint? That's a pretty fantastic example. 

I'm pretty sure we don't need commentary, but on the other hand, it is kind of asking for it. 

My first thought is the switcheroo from the letter 'T' to a cross. Seriously? Because this change makes the name more like what Jesus would want? On one hand, whatever...they are trying to show in an understated way that they are a Christian company. On the other...I wonder if maybe it makes God a little miffed to see a pictorial representation of the salvation of the world on a pack of breath fresheners. 

What's the point of this product? Is it really for breath?

Breath mints, aside from their frequent inclusion of really nasty ingredients, are neutral on the emotional scale. They are like toilet paper: helpful when needed, otherwise just...an object. I daresay that few people think often on breath mints and their mark on the world. They just sit there, on your tongue, and either deliver that weird sour taste that oddly makes your breath worse or so much mint that your tongue wants to die. 

The world is full of breath sprays, candies, lozenges, little nasty films related to Fruit Roll Ups, not to mention gum and pocket toothbrushes. I highly doubt that there was a gaping hole of need in the area of quick breath fixers. We have to look for a different reason.

Maybe the mint companies are owned by liberals. We'll show them. We won't buy their stuff and then they will see whose God is the Lord. It worked when we boycotted Disney, right? We showed them the love of Christ and how to bow to Our Monopoly On Right. Bring it, Listerine. Brrrrrring it. 

Sadly it wasn't these things. It was purposeful, thought out, marketed, tested, and funded as a way of spreading the gospel. On a mint. Despite my eye-rolling, I'm not making fun of the people who made them. I am, however, questioning the culture of thinking that led them to believe in the need for such a product. 

Why, oh why did someone think....HEY! I've got it. All those nonbelievers and hostile haters? They've just been waiting for a mint! Jesus will give them halitosis one day which will lead them to ask a Christian In The Know for a breath mint. Bam! I hear an altar call. 

When I think of the times I share mints, gum, or other breath altering substances, I think of my husband/kids/friends that have coffee breath and need a freshen up. I think of too much garlic and a blind date. I don't think of the lepers in Calcutta. I don't think of grateful drug addicts who just needed a breath mint lifeline in order to change their wicked ways. I don't think of random people in the mall that look like they don't know Jesus because they don't look like me.

When I see these mints I just KNOW that someone has rolled down their window at the side of the road, leaned out and waved over a homeless man. In my mind the driver tells the man that he can have this mint and be blessed. He won't, however, be receiving money, because he'll probably just spend it on beer and perpetuate his own cycle of abuse. The driver leaves feeling so good because truth has been shared, as opposed to food or money.

Testamints. Good grief.

I don't know how to end this. I'll go brush my teeth, to ensure that I don't ever, ever need a breath mint.