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Grasping at Moderation Part I: Honest Thoughts on a Religious Journey

October 17, 2012 by 7 Comments

Picture by tubagooba CC Some Rights Reserved

“The test of a first-rate intelligence is the ability to hold two opposing ideas in the mind at the same time and still retain the ability to function.” — F. Scott Fitzgerald

In May, my husband Ethan was confirmed into the Catholic church (the rough equivalent of denominational membership).  To get to know what it is that the Catholic church officially believes, I am taking an RCIA class (Rite of Christian Initiation for Adults into the Catholic church).  Throughout this class, I am constantly reminded of how Catholics aren’t well informed as to Protestant theology and vice-versa. I grew up indoctrinated with misinformation like, “Poor Catholics.  They’re good people who’ve missed the point.  They think that you can get to Heaven through works alone. It’s too bad we won’t be seeing most of them there.”

Our dentist was a Catholic and my parents really loved him. “He’s got to be a Christian Catholic,” they reasoned, “you can see the love of God in his life in the way he treats people.”  For much of my life, I thought I would make an excellent nun…if only they were Christians…

Catholic theology places great emphasis on works stemming from faith.  They take James 2:18 very seriously: “But someone will say, ‘You have faith; I have deeds.’ Show me your faith without deeds, and I will show you my faith by what I do.”

I am still Protestant, partly because I have not read the church fathers and can’t swallow the emphasis placed on Marion theology, and partly because I have not felt the leading of God that way.  However, I’m very thankful for my husband’s journey as he seeks God’s will. Perhaps I will join him somewhere down the road, and perhaps I will not.  I am trying to keep an open mind and heart.

When Ethan made this decision, we were dumb-founded at the blatant prejudice that is still so pervasive between the two factions (for lack of a better word).  We have both been treated with great hostility for his move.  People seem baffled by this dichotomy of my being in full support of Ethan’s decision while choosing not to follow him.  One well-meaning woman even rebuked me for allowing my husband to make that decision.  Hmm, right. I’m going to MAKE my husband think one way or the other…yeah, not so much.

“What is this? The middle ages?” I mused to Ethan one night while brushing my teeth. “It might give people more satisfaction if we revert to burning at the stake. I just don’t understand how two groups of people who love God can be so hateful to one another.  And honestly, I see it much more from the Protestants than the Catholics.”

“Being strong and in the middle,” a very wise older friend told me, “confuses people and makes them uncomfortable.  You are doing something uncommon by being together in your separateness. People like black and white because it’s easy to see what is right and wrong and thus, comfortable.  This is one more way that you two are pushing the boundaries.”

It’s so refreshing when friends approach me directly and straight up ask what they want to know.  The questions always start with “How is this affecting your marriage?”  When I answer that this has actually drawn us closer, a majority of people cock an eyebrow and say “really” because they assume I’m either lying or insincere.  Let me assure you I am not.

The next question is, “What about when you have children?  Then what will you do?”

Most people assume that we’re just busy people that are waiting until we get all of the fun out of the way, but the truth is, I can’t have children.  So choosing a church in which to raise our children is not a problem that will have to be solved in the near future.  All of the sudden, people get sympathetic looks on their faces and begin apologizing about prying.  I always think this is funny, because I wouldn’t have told them if I didn’t want them to know.  I have nothing to hide–it’s just the way things are.  I always had an intuition growing up that I would not be able to have kids, and well, I was right.  I’ve already raised a bunch of kids, so I know what it’s like.  I’ve had the sleepless nights when a baby is colicky or a kid is throwing up or the sheets need to be changed and the kid bathed in the middle of the night because he/she wet the bed.  I’ve had the joy of changing diapers, giving baths, tucking in at night.  I don’t feel the need to do it again any time soon.

That being said, if God wanted to do a miracle he can make anything happen and Ethan and I are happy either way. This statement  leaves people with a look of aww,-you’re-just-making-lemonade look on their faces.

Lastly, people want to know about communion.  “Won’t you miss taking it together?” In some ways, it is a little odd that we are not allowed to take communion together, but I subscribe to the fact that God is bigger than church tradition.  He’s present at both and we’re partaking in the body and blood of Christ, just perhaps not in the same place and time.  As for the transubstantiation vs. consubstantiation argument, I’ve always sided with the Catholics since I was 14 and read Foxe’s Book of Christian Martyrs of the World  (the opposite position of the book).

This is all to say, the middle is not a popular place to be, but being comfortable is not all its cracked up to be either.  Whether or not you agree with my thoughts, I challenge you to look at your own journey.  Are you in the uncomfortableness of seeking God’s will?  Is God calling you to follow him in the undefined middle?  Where has your journey led you up to this point?

Filed Under: Faith and Religion, Personal Tagged With: , , , , , , , , , , ,

End of the Week Humor

October 12, 2012 by Leave a Comment

This is an exercise on writing from a different perspective on a well-known scripture passage (2 Kings 5).  Enjoy the silliness 🙂

Dear Mr. Naaman,

  We have not been formerly introduced, but my name is Eli Sha (a.k.a. prophet of the God of Israel) and not to be confused with my friend and predecessor Eli Jah (also prophet). I feel it my duty to let you know that there has been a misunderstanding. Your master was slightly misinformed as to who might be able to help you with your malady. It is not the king that can help you, but I who will give you the aid you desire.  The king was in quite a state when he received the summons to heal you, and although he might be glad to accept the lavish gifts you sent along, he cannot heal you.  Enclosed are my references that you may verify at your convenience if you so desire. I only ask that you bring a change of clothing, an open mind and a bright smile.  There will be no payment necessary.  If you find these terms to be acceptable, please meet outside my front door, four days from now.  My home is the third hut on the left after the sycamore tree in the middle of town. 

Thank you,

         Eli Sha

 

References:

(please feel free to read about them in the local news scrolls or contact them directly)

The Widow

The Shunammite and her son

The Harpist 

 

Dear Mr. Eli Sha,

  Thank you for your speedy reply–your messenger is quite fleet of foot!  I have taken the time to review your references and was thoroughly impressed.  As I write this, I and my servants are preparing to leave tomorrow.  I do not know if the severity of my condition was adequately conveyed to you, but what health I have left is quickly diminishing.  I must admit that I am rather nervous about the journey, partially because of my physical condition, and partially for my anxiety about failure, but have high hopes.  Aside from your references, you and your god are well-known here.  Many people have told me stories about the miracles that your god does.  Again, I have great hopes.  Although you specified no payment, how can I not repay you?  I am a businessman and nothing is settled without payment.  Looking forward to meeting you face to face day after tomorrow.

  Toodiloo,

  N.

  

Mr. Eli Sha,

  I have never been so very insulted in my life!  First, you did not answer your door, but instead shouted through it.  Are you afraid that you too will contract my disease?  And to add insult to injury, you told me to dip myself 7 times in the Jordan.  Have you seen that river?  It’s worse than any other I can think of!  It’s completely unsanitary.  

  (Please disregard the above sentiments–I was under a great deal of stress and have no extra parchment replacement).

  After giving it some thought, I decided on the advice of several servants to at least attempt the dipping.  As we neared the river, I could see how murky it was.  Nothing like our Damascus rivers.  Could you really have not chosen a more hospitable river?

  I studied my deformed hands as I gave one last thought to turning back.  I have come this far, I thought to myself and stepped to the edge of the muddied waters and slowly made my way into the river.  I shivered and closed my eyes as I dipped beneath.  As I surfaced, some kind of unknown fish swept across my chest, but I forced myself to hold my composure.  After each dip, I opened my eyes to look at my hands.  4,5,6…nothing had changed.  My skin was still white, and my fingers deformed, ravaged by the leprosy.  As I came up from the 7th dip, I held my eyes closed as I took a deep breath.  When I opened them, I was astounded to find that my skin was returned to its former state!  I even still had my battle scars. I am not quite sure how that’s possible, but I cannot complain.

  As my servants looked upon me from the shore, they began to shout with glee at the sight of my renewed visage.  I too leapt and shouted and slapped my new hands against that blessed dirty water.  We made haste to come to see you again to show you that indeed, a miracle was committed.  

  When we arrived to thank you, I must apologize, I was expecting a much older man.  I’m afraid that my surprise was plain to you and hope that I did not offend.  I do whole-heartedly thank you for the kindness of you and God.  I wish that you would have accepted more payment than the meager amount I sent with your servant after we parted.  

  Thank you again. 

Forever in your debt,

 (new man) Naaman

 

Dear Mr. Naaman,

  I am so glad to hear that you are so well-pleased.  And no worries, I take no offense.  People say I look 10 years younger when I have taken the time to trim my beard and wash my tunic.

  I feel I should inform you that my servant who caught up with you to ask for just a few shekels, etc…lied to you.  He took those things for himself and I have seen to it, that for his treachery against you, me and God, that he and his generations have taken your leprosy upon themselves.  Do not let this distress you.  Hopefully, the next time we meet it will be under favorable circumstances.  Keep yourself out of trouble.

Yours,

  Eli Sha

Filed Under: Short Fiction

Is Your Man Ready for the Next Step? Take Him to a Pet Shop…

October 3, 2012 by Leave a Comment

I first spied Tonya and Garrett at the pet shop in the nicer part of town.  They were in their mid-late 20‘s and had the typical yuppie look: Garrett in a light autumn sweater and American Eagle jeans and Tonya in capris and a cute boat neck shirt.  What caught my eye was the look on both of their faces.  Tonya pushed the cart through the aisle with a look of witless wonderment and Garrett looked marginally appeasing.  He was only going along to insure that they did not end up owners of a pet for which he had no use.  Garrett was nothing if not efficient, I surmised.  They made their way from puppy to puppy, Tonya chittering in a high baby voice and cooing and Garrett only producing a grimaced smile whenever Tonya looked back at him for approval.

He had probably been acquainted with far too many little yippie dogs that produced too much noise and commanded too little intelligence.  It was likely that he could not stand the vacuous expression that was bred into those punting-size dogs.  Then again, I could just be projecting my own dislike of small dogs upon him.  If he was like me, he’d want a dog that was big enough to kill a man, but intelligent enough not to.

Or perhaps it was commitment issues.  Was Tonya wearing a ring?  Nope.  Ah, that’s what his look meant.  Garrett wasn’t ready for the dog step.  That would mean long-term, and closer to a no-back-out plan.  He didn’t look like a man who readily jumped into responsibility; he was after all, still sporting the high school tin-tin hairdo.

After a brief chat, in which Garrett seemed to be thoroughly unsatisfied with all of the dog choices (coward), he directed Tonya to the fish aisle.  She pretended to be happy about the fact that Garrett was finally showing some real interest in a pet, but a fish?  That’s not a pet, that’s a meat type–probably the only meat she ate–she was thin and pale, so I assumed she was a vegetarian.  As Garrett pantomimed excitement and Tonya mirrored him, they sped their way through to the section I thought they should have gone to in the first place:  the small rodent section.  I thought this because, you know how some people look like their pets?  Well, what about before the pets are their pets?  Tonya looked like a hamster: long teeth, vacant but excited eyes, and I swear her nose even twitched at least once.  Garrett stopped fake raving about the fish and realized that this, this was doable.  He relaxed his face into something resembling a look of relief and Tonya looked excited–for real this time.  She and Garrett bonded over a little teddy bear hamster that she wanted to call Bobsy but Garrett said that sounded to much like a name from the 40’s.

“What about Ted?” he said.  Tonya, giggled and agreed that it was kind of ironic but probably a “fitting name for a hamster.”  And so, they gathered up all of the supplies needed to make Ted the Teddy Bear hamster happy and spent a little extra to get the cedar shaving instead of pine because Garrett said the cedar probably covered up the urine smell better than pine.

Off they went, Hamster holding hamster and Garrett getting off easy.  Nope, this wouldn’t last long.

Filed Under: Short Fiction Tagged With: , , ,

Neighbors

September 24, 2012 by 1 Comment

Think back to your neighbors you’ve had throughout your life.  Did they help to shape your life in some way?  This little blog post is dedicated to those neighbors that helped to shape my life.

When I was five (and a half), my family moved from one of the worst parts of downtown Atlanta to a then rural suburban community.  Next to the train tracks down the road, there was a nice little horse farm that let you go for rides.  Although we weren’t allowed to go because the owners smoked too much pot, the idea that people even had horses anywhere nearby excited this horse-loving little girl.

Our neighborhood was filled with nice kids for me to play with and lots of girls for my older brother to beat up.  Sure, our next door neighbor Kimberly might have put the fear of God into me when she told me that there was a known murderer living in the neighborhood who only murdered people living in our house.  This murder’s name was Joe and he’d killed a train engineer  as a teenager.  He did about 10 years of jail time.  She happened to leave out the part about the death being an accidental.  Details. That was the first lesson she taught me: skepticism is a good thing.

Kimberly also taught me the importance of “hocking a loogey” with as much of a prelude as possible. “It’s all in the rumbling sound you make with your sinuses,” she said as she demonstrated.  It turned out that I was a natural.  Having constant sinus drainage, I outdid the master at her own game and learned later to use it against boy’s with weak stomachs.

Within a year, they moved and we had our introduction to our new next door neighbors when we noticed their little yippie dog barking at us.  Being children with little to no social graces, we teased the dog by barking back over the large wooden privacy fence.  The dog went crazy, bouncing up and down like a hamster on crack.  That’s when we heard the ever memorable voice of our neighbor Eva Ostrovsky.  To imagine her voice, think of Julia Child’s with a pronounced eastern European accent.

“Aww, poor Tim-ah-tee (Timothy),” she began. “You should not tease, my poor Timothy, that is not nice.”  We all stood dead still, not being able to see her and only hearing the man voice doing an impression of a woman.  Finally, we peeked over to see that it was indeed a woman.  We had a long and notable relationship with Ms. Eva and her husband Irving “who’s cool as a cucumber,” Mom would always interject.  We thought it funny how Ms. Eva doted on her beloved Timothy and decrepit cat Shiva so much.  We had an almost identical cat that beat Shiva up all of the time.

Throughout the spring and summer, Ms. Eva blasted opera to her plants (to make them grow–she said).  She seemed to have an abundantly green thumb and it showed in her fairy-land flower garden.  Ms. Eva’s love for her garden taught me that beautiful things take love and care and sometimes, a little Puccini to grow.  However, she held a particular hatred for the “hairy bush” that grew on our property line.  Each year, she hacked away out our favorite bush and twice, in the process of burning and digging it up, she hacked through our phones lines. She grew tall privacy bushes between our properties so that she wouldn’t have to look at our Sanford and Sons backyard.  And although most of these things crack me up to think of, she did one very kind thing for me.  She once told me, “Always keep singing because you sing like an angel and I know it makes God smile.  It makes my heart glad too.”

On the other side of us, we had neighbors Hugo III and his son Hugo IV.  Hugo Jr . Jr. Jr. was learning to play the drums. As the years progressed, it became clear that all along, he had been playing the “George of the Jungle” theme song.  I always enjoyed his summer practice because it coincided with my tilling up and tending our somewhat large vegetable garden (that eventually grew extinct thanks to those tall privacy bushes of Ms. Eva’s).

A few years ago, my Mom called to regale me with a long story about how my youngest brother and a neighbor kid accidentally almost burned down our entire neighborhood.  Okay, not the entire neighborhood, just ours and the Hugo’s, Ostrovksy’s, and the other neighbors I won’t mention here.  It started off a rather typical story.  There was a little fire that my youngest brother and a little neighbor kid started in our backyard when they found a lighter.  My brother grabbed the dog’s water bowl and tried to put it out.  Unfortunately, at the time, there was a rather severe drought in Georgia, and everything was highly flammable.  So, seeing that the dog bowl didn’t work as expected, Mom was called in to save the day.  Mom sprayed it down with the hose for an hour until there was barely any sign of smoke.  Whew!  That was a close one.  Story over.

That would be rather anti-climactic, wouldn’t it?

At 3 AM, Hugo III, whose fence and tall trees were currently burning to a crisp, awoke from the smell of smoke and a very bright light.  He looked out to find that both our backyards were ablaze.  He called the fire department, and tried to wake my parents up (calling, banging on the doors, etc…).  Dad awoke, thinking that he heard a fire truck, looked out of the wrong window, and not seeing anything, went back to bed.  In the morning, everyone awoke to find that our backyard no longer had trees, nor a rotting privacy fence.  They also found that the front half of our Previa was melted like the Nazi guy’s face in Indiana Jones: Raiders of the Lost Ark.  My brother Philip still drives the melted van and probably will until the old thing gives up the ghost.

And that is how Hugo III saved my family.  Lesson learned?  Never play with fire in a drought!

What are your neighbor stories?

Filed Under: Personal

Writing…

September 18, 2012 by 1 Comment

CC Some rights reserved by pykmi

In a lovely little loft on the edge of the city, we sit around two rectangular tables pushed together to form a large square.  On the table in front of us, a cat named Moon-Pie is lying nestled like a sardine in a cardboard box and overhead spins the “ginkgo mobile.” Surrounding us are random sculptures and paintings, some of school busses and of the moon, and framed poetry written by children hangs on the walls.

This is my weekly writing class.  The teacher is a beautiful woman with wild multi-colored hair,  a shock of white strands framing her face.  She wears thick black glasses–like a Harry Potter character–and is fond of saying things in a sort of mystic tone of voice.  To her left sits Georgia the poet.  A 70 year old single woman who wears bright clothing, smiles constantly and has a way of conveying her point with only a few well-chosen words.  Next to her, sits the paranormal archeologist writer: at least, that’s what I think she is.  She has a deep and raspy voice and is always first to volunteer for anything.

Beside her sits the younger woman who always wears those cute chopstick things in her hair–the kind that would never work in my hair.  She writes mostly about problematic men and feels free to use swear words to explain the depths of her inner self.  Next to her is the quiet and bubbly woman who never had anyone to encourage her creativity.  She’s comes to each class wide-eyed as if seeing the world for the first time and is always making happy cooing noises when something new is revealed.

Then there’s me.  It wasn’t exactly what I expected from a writing class, but if nothing else, I get a kick out of it whenever I go.  This week, our homework assignment was to write about a piece of fruit.  (These exercises are supposed to be unedited train-of-thought writings to spur creativity).  Georgia the poet wrote an unbelievably beautiful poem about a withering strawberry.  The paranormal/archeologist wrote an amazing short story about how a pear changed a guy’s life.  The others wrote deeply personal stories that their fruit brought to mind.

And then, there’s mine: silly because I mean, hey, it’s a piece of fruit.  Here it is.

Bananas: The Resentful Fruit

  I am a banana of the Chiquita clan.  We are a proud but jealous lot.  My particular clan is favored by the American’s for our length, usefulness and ability to be used in both knock-knock jokes and those jokes of the more phallic variety.  We are kept humble by the necessity of our undressing before being consumed.

  We are also kept humble by history–we have never been the favored fruit.  Apples seem to rule the show and have since the beginning of time.  Many people think that Adam and Eve ate an apple, but I would like to point out that the word used in the original text was “fruit.”  We bananas believe that that it was our ancestor to whom Adam and Eve partook.  The irony of undressing a fruit simply to realize that they too were undressed is the height of banana humor.  *chortle*

  Sir Isaac Newton propounded the glory of the apple by crediting it with helping him discover gravity.  Apples get a body part named after them (Adam’s apple), and all kinds of sayings of their own: “Apple of your eye,” “As American as apple pie,” and so on and so forth.  You get the idea–damned apples.

Small children enjoy smashing us between their fingers and consuming us with dried Cheerios–utterly disgraceful.  We are frequently being paired with other fruits that also get all of the glory.  Takes smoothies for instance.  No one ever orders just a plain banana smoothie.  They like things that seem more exotic: blueberries, strawberries, mango, kiwi, or the worst–acai berries.  What the heck are those anyway?  Glorified blueberries, that’s what.

And yet, none of them could have all of that glory without the silent smoothie backbone: bananas.  Yes, we are the mighty banana.

Filed Under: Personal, Short Fiction

The OId Man and the Emo Kid

September 6, 2012 by Leave a Comment

In the darkest corner of a small cafe, Brian sat alone looking out the window, sipping an iced mocha.  It was a hot day, especially for Maine, and a cool drink was just what he needed.  Today as everyday, Brian wore black: baggy black pants and a black shirt with some sort of cryptic lettering on the front spelling the name of his favorite death metal band.  He wore this color because it seemed to best explain his current state of mind: dark and on the edge of decay.  Sometimes for effect, like today, he drew on his neck with red permanent marker: two blood droplets that indicated that a vampire had just had lunch from his neck.  It felt good to have people’s attention, even if it was disgust.  And as upholding a cause sometimes requires sacrifice, Brian’s crusade for attention was no exception.

As he sat sipping his coffee and wiping the sweat from his forehead, he stared out the window wondering why no one seemed to give a damn about him.  Earlier this morning, he had walked out of the house and decided he was never going back.  His parents didn’t care about him, his friends were all messed up like he was, and there was no reason for him to stay. Besides, he had already missed too much of summer school and knew he was doomed now to repeat 11th grade.  That’s not happening, he decided.

“It’s not my fault,” he mumbled aloud. It’s not that I’m not smart, he thought, I just need a reason to care.

Before he could delve any farther into his self-pity, he stopped, distracted by a car that had just pulled up in the parking lot.  It was a beat up Buick driven by an even older and much frailer looking man. He must be like 100, thought Brian.  The fragile man, opened the car door and began to get out, but got back into the car when it started to roll backwards.  He hadn’t put the car in park.  A second time, he attempted to exit the vehicle and the same scene replayed itself.  On the third try, with much heft, the old man gave the Buick’s shifter a firm shove and the car was still.

Being satisfied that there was no way the car could move, the old man feebly pulled himself from the car and brushed off his ancient baby blue suit.  Brian noticed, with some amusement that the man was wearing a cowboy tie.  The man shuffled to the back of the car and opened the trunk.  After rummaging around for a moment, he grabbed something out and closed the trunk.  Brian watched this from his stool with a mixture of curiosity and humor.  Anyone else watching this scene play out would probably have added to that sympathy, but not Brian.  No, he fancied himself to be a cold-hearted bastard.  It sounded good in his head, anyway.

The man walked into the shop with a slight smile on his face, but his skinny and bent frame made the smile more sad than anything else.  I hope I’m never that old, thought Brian.  The man with the cowboy’s tie asked the woman behind the counter in a weak but pleasant voice, “May I speak with your boss?” The woman behind the counter said that she answered to “boss.”

“Then hello ma’am,” he said. “May I interest you in one of these nifty devices?” He placed the device on the counter in front of him and watched her with a smile.  The woman picked up the small plastic device, scrutinizing it against the light coming from the window.  Brian, trying not to show interest in anything but his inner turmoil, slowly browsed the room to catch a glimpse of the device.  No luck.  The old man continued to  discuss the advantages of having one of these devices.  A large man making sandwiches behind the counter commented on the devices usefulness.  Brian could tell the sandwich guy was just saying that to be nice.

“Listen sir,” said the boss woman, “you seem like a very nice man, so I’m just going to be honest with you.  This, I think, would be more of a nuisance to me in the kitchen than helpful.”

The old man mumbled something, but Brian could tell the man realized his failure.  The old man gave something to the woman and said she could keep it. She looked at it and sighed as the old man began to shuffle away.  The woman’s face showed pity.

“Okay, here’s what I’ll do,” she said. “Give me your number and I’ll think about it.  And since you gave me a sample, let me return the favor.  What kind of danish would you like?” The old man’s face lit up with excitement, he chose a flavor, took his danish, thanked the woman, shuffled out the door, returned his wares to his trunk, and drove away.  I hope that’ll never be me when I’m that old.  Brian felt that he identified with the man: alone and never getting a break.

Brian finished his coffee and realized that he should get going.  It was cloudy and since he didn’t know where he was headed, he better be off.  Any place is better than here, he told himself.  So, off he went to find this better place. On the outside, he still looked just as sullen as always, but on the inside, he was excited.  He wasn’t sure where he would end up or what he would do when he got there, but he would figure it out as he went along.

For several hours, Brian walked south.  He thought about the old man, and about how life was so unfair to people like him and the old man.  He wondered what it was that the old man was selling?  Was it really that bad?  The clouds were gathering thick and heavy now and low rumbles of thunder seemed to be growing by the minute.  Although he enjoyed watching storms from his bedroom window, he wasn’t sure if he wanted such a close encounter this late afternoon.  It was going on five now, but looked more like eight.  After much thought, Brian was realizing that it was much different to be alone in his room than to be alone on the side of a secluded state road.  He actually wanted to see someone he knew.  That’s stupid, he thought.  I finally get what I’ve wanted for so long and I’m wanting what I’m trying to get away from. 

It started to rain.  At first, it was light and tolerable.  Brian enjoyed the thought of people driving by and seeing a poor, soaking-wet kid walking alongside the road.  He wondered if someone might offer to give him a ride.  He reveled in the idea of people taking notice of him as we walked alone in the rain.  That is until the rain grew harder and the thunder louder and the lightning closer.  He tried to keep walking, but realized that no one was going to stop for someone like him–people were always afraid of his kind.  He looked for a place to get out of the rain.  Up ahead, he saw a long-abandoned gas station and decided that this was the place to be.  As he grew closer, he could see through the pouring rain that there was a familiar old Buick underneath the rusted overhang.  The car’s tire was flat.  The trunk was open and the old man was on his tip-toes, leaning deep into it.  Between the thunderclaps, Brian could hear the man’s words to the car.

“The one day I need you and you can’t even hold up your end of the deal!   Why Louise, why?  The biggest break I’ve had and what happens?  You decide that today is the day to have a flat tire. My luck.  Just my luck.”

Brian drew closer and trying not to give the man a heart attack, he gave a hardy cough.  Unfortunately, his cough was ill-timed and drowned out by the rain and the thunder.  He tried again, and this time, the old man heard him.

“Oh,” the old man started.  He lost his handhold and plunged his hands deep into the box of plastic devices.

Brian grabbed the old man by the back of his belt and pulled him (with care) from the trunk.

“Do you want some help with the tire?” Brian asked.

“That would be nice.  These hands aren’t what they used to be.” For a moment, the old man paused and gave a good long look at Brian.  Brian hadn’t noticed before that this man’s glasses were so thick.  As the man looked at Brian and Brian at him, Brian expected the usual judgmental phrase to come next.  Instead, the man said, “Do you know how to change a tire?  Forgive my skepticism, but you don’t look like you’ve done much work in your life.”  He grabbed Brian’s hands, gave them a quick look-over and clicked his tongue. “Yep, I bet you’ve never done a good day’s work in your life.”

Obviously, you’ve never made enough money to retire from your good day’s work, Brian thought.

“The tire iron is in the trunk,” the man continued. “The goal is to get the old tire off and the spare tire attached to the car so that it doesn’t fall off. My name’s Myron, by the way.”

This man confused Brian.  Where was the mild-mannered man from the coffee shop?    How was it that Myron conversed with him as if he was a normal person?  Brian mumbled some sort of “nice to meet you” and went to the trunk to find the tire iron and spare.  As he peered into the trunk, he realized what it was the man was selling.  Plastic lobster can openers.  What crap, Brian thought.  No wonder no one wants to buy any.  Brian dug through the lobsters to find the iron.

“They’re crap aren’t they?” Myron sighed.  “Don’t act like they’re not.” He picked one up, glared at it, and dropped it back into the large pile of synthetic sea creatures.  “I’m on my way to get the rest of these sold to a souvenir company. I don’t think I’ll be able to make it now.  I guess I’ll have to go by tomorrow. What’s your name?”

“Uh, oh, Brian. Brian Dunwoody.”

“Well Uh Oh Brian Dunwoody, why did you put that junk on your neck?”

Brian said nothing.  This was the conversation he was planning on having soon enough. He let out a small breath and continued his work without answering.

“You a thug or something? Naw, never mind.  Not with those hands.”

Brian was taking off the old tire one nut at a time.  Myron leaned against the car with arms crossed.

“You look like you know what you’re doing,” Myron continued.  “Well, what da ya know?  I used to work on cars all the time when I was about your age.  I had an old jalopy and fixed it up to go cruisin’ with the guys.  We had some fun times. Yeah, those were some fun times. You know, you don’t talk much.  Then, heh, maybe it’s because I’m doing all the yapping.  My mother always said I would be a salesman.  She was a wise woman.”

Brian, still working on the tire, and forgetting his heir of sullenness, smiled a minuscule smile.

“Don’t you wanna say anything, Brian Dunwoody?” Myron asked.

“Uh, how old are you?” Brian gulped, wondering why he had just blurted out what had been going through his mind since the first moment he had seen the man.

“You do speak! And straight to the point, aren’t you?” He raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you really mean, why am I still selling crap out of my trunk when I should be in a retirement home in Florida having pretty young nurses spoon-feeding me?”

Brian paused and continued working. He was coming to see a large difference between the meek and mild salesman that people felt sorry for and the quick, opinionated man standing before him.  Perhaps this was what made Myron a great salesman.

“That, is a long answer, kid.  But I’ll give you the quick one.  I’m 78 and still live here in Maine because, well I don’t really know why. I just do.  I sell this shit because it pays the bills. What d’ya want me to say?”

“Don’t you have a wife or something?” Brian asked.

“She’s dead.” There was a long pause and Myron continued. “I sell this stuff because I have to pay off all of her medical bills she left behind after a long bout with the cancer.”

Brian looked up at Myron unsure of what to say, when Myron started again. “Hah! I’m joking! My wife divorced me years ago! Never had any kids to speak of. The whole marriage thing didn’t stick.  Listen Brian, if I can give you any advice you’ll actually listen to, here it is: never get married.  If you’ve already got junk drawn on your neck to show how troubled you are, you don’t need a woman to come in and make things worse.”

At this Brian unconsciously touched his neck.

“They make things complicated,” Myron continued, “That’s what women do, they complicate things and tell ya things like ‘What did you ever do before you met me?’ and ‘I don’t know how you ever made it on your own.’” Myron laughed cynically. “I made it because without a woman, life isn’t so damned complicated!” Myron paused for a moment to look up at the rain then continued. “And why not a retirement home? I don’t like old people.  They smell funny, look funny, and their favorite topic is their most recent ailment and who’s had the most surgeries.” Again, Brian smiled with his back turned. “Don’t get me wrong, Dunwoody, I don’t dislike them any more than I dislike anyone else.”

Brian realized that Myron was a vision of the ornery man he would become if he gave up and cut himself off.  It left a metallic taste in his mouth and he wasn’t sure that he liked it.

Brian stood up and admired his work.  Myron too glanced at the work.

“That things not gonna fly off in the middle of the highway on me, is it?”

Brian smirked.

“I’ll take that as a no.  It’s been lovely chatting with you Brian, you really should learn to keep quiet every now and again.” Myron thumped Brian on the back and chuckled.  Brian put everything away in the trunk, shoved aside the large pile of lobster can-openers and shut the trunk.  Myron stood watching.

“Well, I guess I should give you a lift since it’s still raining.  Where you headed?”

Brian thought for a moment.

“Back,” he said.

Myron shrugged, got into his Buick and drove away without a word.

Filed Under: Short Fiction

My thoughts on Relationships

August 24, 2012 by 3 Comments

My youngest three brothers are currently at that age of trying to figure out how the whole girl thing works.  A few times, they’ve asked my advice, and although I have a few things to say (perhaps not all helpful), I try my best.  However, I would like to preface this by saying that the only guy I ever dated was Ethan (my husband) so I don’t have a whole lot of experience except for saying “I just want to be friends” more times than I’d like to admit.  That being said, here are a few things that I’ve noticed along the way.

Advice to guys (and girls):

  1. If the girl has a chinchilla that has lived for more than 2 years, she’s most likely high maintenance and best to avoid.
  2. If all of the girl’s favorite TV shows are reality TV shows, she’ll be fun for cheap dates, but don’t think of her for a long-term relationship.
  3. If you want a girl to be honest with you, be honest with her first.
  4. Always be yourself.

Advice to girls (and guys):

1. Never become the knight-in-shining-armor for a guy.

Growing up, I made the mistake of standing up to bullies who were beating up boys.  Growing up with brothers, I had loads of fighting experience and on several occasions, I put this knowledge to good use. Seeing one of my brothers getting bullied, I would grab the bully by the front of the collar, pin him against the wall and threaten him until he looked genuinely frightened.  This worked like a charm.  Yeah, not very feminine, I know.

What I learned though, was that it’s one thing to defend your brother, it’s a whole different ball of wax to defend a boy you don’t know.  I made this mistake twice: once in 3rd grade and once in 5th.  Each time, the boy was saved from being pulverized and a reversed knight-in-shining-armor infatuation ensued.  One gave me an engagement ring after knowing me for a month (very sweet) and one wrote long, eloquent love letters for over a year.  One became my friend, the other did not accept kindly my lack of reciprocation.

 

2. Never become the damsel in distress (unless you want a caregiver relationship)

I learned early on that if a guy seemed remotely interested in me, he had to pass my litmus test: honesty about my life.  This always elicited one of three possible responses: sympathy, understanding or complete avoidance.  Usually, people chose the third, but occasionally, some guys chose the first.  These guys liked to envision my honesty as a plea for them to save me. How can you explain that you don’t want or need to be saved? I didn’t want sympathy, I just wanted understanding.  Ethan passed with flying colors 🙂

 

3. Never date a guy just because you feel sorry for him.

Fortunately, I’ve not had this experience, but I know too many unhappy people that have.  Many of them got married and had tumultuous marriages because the reason they felt sorry for the guy was the same thing that later drove them crazy. That leads to my next point.

 

4.  If there’s something that drives you crazy about him while you’re dating him, don’t think that you’re going to change him.  Accept him for who he is, or if you can’t deal, end it.

 

5. Never settle because you don’t think you deserve better.

 

What are your thoughts?  Anything to add to the list?

Filed Under: Personal

Life Lessons in Loving

August 15, 2012 by 1 Comment

(Me at 15)

“Love your neighbor as yourself.”  Most people get the love your neighbor part, but why is it so hard to understand the “as yourself”  part? Because we don’t know how to love ourselves.  As Christians, many times we have a warped view of loving our neighbors more than ourselves.  We beat ourselves up and always try to put others first, but is that really what is being said here?  I’m not saying you should love yourself in the Jenny Craig commercial stand-in-front-of-a-mirror-in-your-newly-fitting-little-black-dress-and-love-the-new-you way.  I’m also not talking about a narcissistic kind of love either. I’m talking about loving ourselves for who God made us: the good, the bad, the seen and unseen, lovable and unlovable people that we think we are.  We have this idea of trading God one good deed for an ounce of his love.  We see His command more like this: “Love your neighbors and if you do, I’ll love you more.” We think that we don’t deserve love: not God’s nor anyone else’s.  And that would be right.  We don’t deserve anything, but God’s already offered to give us his love for free and all we have to do is get over ourselves and accept.  He’s like the old man at church who used to hand all of the kids mints after church.  We probably didn’t deserve them, but he always held them out for us as we passed by.  What keeps us from loving ourselves and in turn, keeps us from fully loving our neighbors? Let’s explore…

Loving your outward self

When I was 8 years old, I knew a girl named Catalina.  My brother Jonathan always called her “Catalina salad dressing” because I think maybe he had a slight crush on her.  She was 15, and was exactly what I wanted to be when I turned fifteen.  She was tall, well-endowed (a perfect hourglass figure), porcelain skinned, and had long black curly hair that flowed down gently to her waist.  I wanted to be her–except maybe have cute Meg Ryan “I.Q.” curls.  Little did I know that when I turned fifteen, my hair would not be able to hold a curl even with two cans of industrial grade hairspray, my chest would be “flat as a flitter” as my mom used to say, and I would have what is known as a “rectangular figure”  (see above photo). Basically, this is a nice way of saying that I had a boy figure and this was one of the factors that led to my being mistaken by many people as a lesbian.  As college progressed, I had the pleasure of being one of those lucky people categorized as a “sufferer of adult acne.”  The day before my wedding, my dad, trying to be helpful asked, “Don’t you think you should see someone about–you know, the pimples?  They look pretty bad.”  Haha, thanks Dad.

On the flip side of the coin, since high school, girls have always made comments like “I wish I had a body that looked like yours”  or other such sentiments.  This always makes me feel guilty and awkward.  I run and try to be healthy, but really it comes down to things much out of my control: genes, bone structure, etc…I don’t want anyone to compare themselves to me.

(And just a little furthering of my point, if you watched any of the olympics, you saw how people playing the exact same sports could have completely different body types while being completely in shape.)

Now to the nitty-gritty details of who we really are.

Loving your inward self 

Some years ago while I was in college, someone made this point that to love your neighbor, you must first love yourself.  “Do this,” he told me. “In a mirror, can you look yourself in the eye and tell yourself ‘I love you?’ ”  This seemed a little odd to me, but one night, alone in my dorm room, I stood in front of a mirror and tried; I could not do it. When I looked at myself, I saw someone who didn’t deserve love, someone that was not good enough, not smart enough, not outgoing enough.  I saw a person all too familiar with failure.  I saw only the tarnish.  That girl who seemed to have it all together on the outside was different from the one on the inside.  On the outside, I was the good student, the hard worker, the woman who pulled herself up by the bootstraps and didn’t need anyone.  And yet, just to love myself, I had to ask God to help me.  I had to see myself from God’s perspective: a person worth loving.  Perhaps this is how it’s supposed to work.

Since that time, whenever I find myself having difficulty loving my neighbor, I look a little deeper.  Most of the time, what is bothering me is the reflection I see of myself–the self I try to hide from others.  I encourage you to see yourself and others through God’s eyes. And although I’m still working at it myself and always will be, I just thought I would share some of my thoughts with you.

Filed Under: Personal

Today, the Day of your Death

July 30, 2012 by 1 Comment

Mom,

Three years ago today, you passed on.  I think of you today and remember the good.

I remember your smile, the way you said “William (wee-yam).”

I remember your mischievous nature, your sharp mind.

I remember that you always made stories more exciting with your animation.

I remember your laughter.

I remember the time that we raced together in the driveway and you beat all of us kids; after all, you said, you placed 3rd in state finals when you were high school.

I remember when I was 3, you said if I cleaned my room, you’d give me a prize.  I did and my prize was a hug.

I remember the time in the grocery store when we kept dropping the broccoli on the floor thinking that we kept missing the bag, but it was because there was not a bottom to the bag.  We both laughed so hard, and you wet your pants.

I remember how you loved watching the Olympics.

I remember how you always wanted to be a contestant on Wheel-of-Fortune and how you were so good at it.

I remember how you loved to hear men sing.

I remember how you always wanted to travel more.

I remember how, on our way to Alabama, we kids dared you to hit 100 MPH in our Ford Aerostar minivan, chanting, “Put the pedal to the metal and the metal to the pedal.”  You actually did it and promptly got a speeding ticket.

I remember your favorite semi-dirty jokes you liked to tell.

I remember how much you loved to write letters–I still have all of them.

I love you and miss you, but I know you are much happier now.

Filed Under: Prose

A Hairy Situation (pronounced: si-chee-ay-shun)

July 28, 2012 by 1 Comment

“I jus’ don’t know how to tell ‘im, Lyle,” said the old barber to the thin man preoccupied with the days newspaper.

“Tell ‘im what?” he asked placing the paper in his lap.
“He’s got the lice.”  Bill Jones was not a man to be taken lightly.  He laughed at jokes and always held a pleasant attitude, but never joked himself.
“Naw.”
“Yep.  It’s the lice alright.  And you know how hard ta git rid of ‘em they are.  Those thangs’ll get the best a anybody.  You remember how there was a whole plague of ‘em last year in the school.”
“Sure do.  All of them kids runnin’ ‘round buzzed and bald—and that was the girls!”
The truth of the matter struck them both, and they broke into laughter remembering how the reporters from neighboring towns had a hay day with it.
“Anyhow, he’s got suh much blasted hair.  I dunno what ta tell ‘em, but that’s the only way he’s gonna have a chance of gittin’ rid of ‘em.”  Bill picked up a comb and wiped it with a small towel.  For a moment, as if a solution had just come to him, he paused, squinted, and as if the idea retreated, he started rubbing again.
Lyle raised his paper and began to talk while pretending to be interested in it. “You’re makin’ this too big a deal, Bill.  Just ‘accidentally’ take a big ‘ole honkin’ chunk out of his hair and tell him that to make it look alright, you’ll have to chop it all off.”
“You know I cayn’t do that, Lyle.  I’ll jus mention it to ‘im.”
“Well, if you wanna take your life into your own hands, that’s your choice, but I’m tryin’ to be a real friend here for ya.”
“I know, ” Bill turned to look at Lyle.  “Why don’t you take your lunch breaks someplace else?  You don’t even eat your lunch half the time you’re in here.”
Lyle knew it was Bill’s anxieties doing the talking for him.  Lowering his newspaper, he sarcastically replied, “You know why I come in here for my lunch.  It’s the stimulatin’ conversations we all git into over here.  Over at the garage, we just talk about fast cars, women, and crazy stuff we all done.”  Anyone who knew Lyle knew this to be a heaping pile of B.S.  Lyle made it appoint to avoid the subject of women and reckless adventures from the past.  They were just that: the past, where Lyle believed those things should stay.
As Lyle finished this last statement, Jackson passed by the front shop window.  Lyle raised his eyebrows and grimaced at Bill, who in turn rolled his eyes and sighed.  The door flung open, and a giant of a man stood before them.  He was, how should I describe him?  Massive.  Hairy.  Like I imagine Goliath might have looked.  He made Paul Bunyan look short and metrosexual.  Standing at a conservative 7’2,” with a barrel chest, watermelon biceps, and emitting a hardy assortment of odors, he made most lumberjacks look like 4 year olds in leotards.  He had a mane of thick black hair that started on his head, snaked its way around to the front of his face and continued undeterred to the rest of his personage.  Yet, for all of his pervasive manliness, he was well-mannered and soft-spoken.
“Well good afternoon, Lyle. Bill,” he said nodding to each.  “You ready fer me, Bill?”
“Sure am,” said Bill sneaking a glance Lyle’s way.  Lyle looked out of the corner of his eye, shook his paper, and once again raised it.
Jackson set his gargantuan self down into the barber’s chair and Bill lowered it as far as possible.
“The usual, would ya Bill?” Bill grabbed a stool to stand on (not being too tall himself) and the largest gown he could find.  He draped it round Jackson’s tree trunk of a neck and cleared his throat.

“Jackson, now you know I admar your hair and all. Great hair but…” He sighed. “Fact is, you got the lice.”  Lyle peeked over the top of his paper at Jackson.

“The lice?” Jackson asked.

“Yep.”

“What’s that?”

Lyle opened his eyes wide and quickly raised his newspaper to hide his sniggering.  Bill shot him an angry glance.

“You never heard of lice before?” Bill asked.

“Nope.” Jackson said and gave a scratch.  Bill jumped back off of his stool and said, “Don’t do that!  That itchin’ goin on thar, that’s the lice.”

“Oh.  I guess I do that a plenty. How ya git rid of ‘em?”

“Gotta shave ya.”

This time Lyle didn’t try to hide his interest.  He set down his newspaper and watched for a reaction.

“Shave?” Jackson asked, looking scared. “Wull, how much?”

Bill considered for a moment.  “Probly all of it.”

“Whatd’ya mean all of it?”

“For you?  Head to toes.” The matter-of-fact tone that Bill used made Lyle burst into a fit of laughter.  After a few seconds, Lyle cleared his throat and apologized.  Jackson seemed unperturbed.

“Do what’cha got to,” Jackson said reluctantly. Bill looked at Lyle in surprise at how easy this was, pulled out his electric razor and told Lyle to “pull the shades.” As Lyle did this, Bill pulled on a pair of gloves, and the process began.  It took a long time, and by the end of it, Jackson looked thinner–like a shaved poodle. He was unrecognizable, and the enormous pile of hair (had it not been for the amount of lice) could have been donated to a museum needing hair for a black bear exhibit.  Bill kept himself busy decontaminating the shop floor and trying not to make eye contact, while Jackson got reacquainted with his own reflection.

After a few minutes, Jackson stood, thanked Bill, and asked how much.

Bill, afraid that Jackson might try to kill him in his sleep after getting a good, long look at himself, said, “No charge.”

Jackson walked out of the shop and Lyle walked over to raise the shades.

“Bill,” said Lyle. “Jes ‘cause he’s big as a bar, don’t mean he’s gonna act like one. I told you, you’re overreactin.’”

“You never know what he’s gonna be thinkin’. He don’t say much and in my experience, ya cayn’t underestimate a quiet man.”

“I got ta go.  My lunch break was over ‘bout 20 minutes ago.”  Bill waved him off and tied up the trash bag containing all of the hair.

“Whadum I gonna do with all this daggum’ hair?” Bill mumbled to himself.

Filed Under: Short Fiction
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