"I'm so tired...."

Lately, I've been extremely dissatisfied with my eyebrows. They don't have very much of a shape and there are several little "wildies" sprouting up in places they shouldn't. My eyebrows are migrating. The other night I was looking at three of my beautiful friends (Amy McClure, Elizabeth Wilson and Amanda Hannah--they're all really exceptionally pretty. Actually, all of my friends are pretty. All of them. I don't have a single un-pretty friend that I can think of right now.) and I noticed that they have beautiful eyebrows. When I drink a little alchohol, not even too much--one glass of wine even, I notice how pretty all my friends are. If I have a second glass, I'll start saying things like "Oh, you're so pretty! You're the prettiest girl!" That's how I know when to stop.

Anyway, I decided to take control of my eyebrows and I made an appointment at one of Birmingham's fancy-pants salons to have them shaped. This involves lying flat on your back while an eyebrow shaping person puts hot wax on your eyebrows and yanks them out. Then, she'll get the rest with tweezers. (They don't pull out ALL your eyebrows.) It costs $22. It's worth it. I feel like a new girl. All my little eyebrow hairs are in a nice little row. Yay, tidy eyebrows. This is a luxury I shall afford myself regularly.

When I was sitting in the waiting area, I overheard some ladies talking. These ladies weren't as naturally pretty as my friends, but they had certainly done some work to acheive a kind of artificial prettyness peculiar to the well-heeled. We're talking new boobies, new noses, fake nails, full-makeup, hair color, hair extentions, dyed eyebrows, facials, seaweed wraps, you name it. They were what Southerners call "done up."

One of them said to the other "I spend two hours on myself every morning just to get ready to leave the house. I wouldn't, but my husband wants me to and I really want to do my part to work on my marriage."

Wow. (Shudder.)

When I got home I called my husband to tell him that I had brand new and not crazy eyebrows, he said "You paid to have your eyebrows ripped out with wax? That's weird. Why would you do that?"

I love him. He's the best of both of us.

Strange Happenings (Or, Susan Says the Darndest Things)

The Scene: The Western on Highland
The Players: The Smiths, Elizabeth and Luther Strange

Act I: The Produce

David: Is that Big Luther over by the fruit?

Susan: Yeah. I think so. I wanna talk to him.

David: You're a dork.

Susan: Yeah. I know.

Act II: The Checkout

Susan: (extends hand) I can't believe we put Dum-Dum back into office.

Luther: Yeah. It was a surprise. I appreciate you saying that.

Susan: Yeah.

Luther: It was a bad time to run as a Republican. It's hard to run against a Folsom in Alabama.

Susan: You'd think it would be a detriment. Better luck next time.
Luther: Yeah. Thanks.

Susan: Bye! Merry Christmas. Good luck and everything.

Luther: Thanks!

Act III: The Car

David: Are you going to call Pickering and tell him what you did?

Susan: Yeah.

David: You're a dork.

Susan: Yeah. I know.

Curtain

Chad Vader

Chicago Bean Town????

Even though we were far away in Chicago, you were still on our bean. Yuk Yuk.

Cloud Gate info

This cheered me up, alrighty

Birmingham to Chicago and Back Again

Where we stayed.


David and I went to Chicago last week for my 30th birthday and for a meeting that happened to coincide. I'm finding 30 hard to deal with. We stayed in Streeterville on the Miracle Mile and it was incredible. We visited River North, Wicker Park, Lincoln Park, Wrigleyville and Chinatown. Mostly, we spent a lot of time on the El and a lot of time walking our little feets off.

David spent a day at the Chicago Board of Trade and at the Chicago Mercantile Exchange. I got to tag along to the Merc. Some traders from R.J. O'Brien took us on the floor and in the pits where they trade Eurodollars. (Can you name another girl who has been in the pits at the Merc? I think not.)

The Madness that is the Merc.


We also hit the Field Museum and the Chicago Institute of Art, Millenium Park and the Lincoln Park Zoo. The lions there were incredible because you can get so close. The male looked at me right in the eyes and my animal instinct made me get anxious. The female stood in the outdoor enclosure and ROARED. First time I've heard that. All of the animals there were performing. It was awesome and FREE. Can you believe that?


The Kovler Lion House the Lincoln Park Zoo. (It was built in 1912.)

Chicago is incredible. Really. Way better than New York because it's more accessible and friendlier. New York has nothing on Chi Town. And that's the truth.

My new best friend, the Blue Line El.

The God of Melted Faces (and a little fruit salad)

Yesterday morning, I went to hear Frank Barker give an overview of Eschatology. He touched on many ideas during a short period of time. I left a little frightened and convinced that Tim LaHaye knows even less about theology than he does about sex. (And if you've read his book about sex, you know that is very little indeed.)

I'm left with an image of a schizophrenic God who seeks to save, but permits horrible things to happen to his people. I come to realize that I have a very small and pitiful faith. We have to have the faith that God does work things together for our good. This is difficult. We start from the place of wanting to have that faith.

Now for the salad.

David and I watched the gubernatorial debates on Monday night to see what the gubers had to say about the future of Alabama should they be elected. (Sorry, had to go there.) Bob Riley caught my attention by saying that the reason people in Montgomery keep making fun of Lucy and saying that she doesn't understand things is because she doesn't. After that, Lucy reminded me of a little wet chicken running around bawking loudly but saying little. I expected one of her handlers to come out and grab an egg from under her skirt. The debate gave me a new insight into sexism. Lucy really can't play with the Big Boy Gubers. She just didn't bring her big-girl game.

Next up was the debate of the candidates for lieutenant guber. I think that Luther Strange is, and I like the way that Little Jim Folsom taw-uk-s. There's something about him that I like even though he is probably as crooked as his little old grandma. I think he wears lipgloss.

Lucy Baxley for Gubernor!

An End to All Symbols

I spent the better part of this week in hospital waiting rooms doing all kinds of nothing with my mother and my sister. There is no day or night in a hospital. There is no way to gauge the hours as they pass. You count off Starbuck's lattes and churchy white-shirt visitors, but you can't remember what day it is or what you would have been doing if you were not here. Towards the end of the week, I could barely even remember who I am. I remember my identity by bowing to the icons of the life I've made. This comes as a frightening surprise.

It's a normal part of human development to wear identities like sweaters, periodically discarding and leaving them wadded on the floor of your mind's closet. You're selling a notion of yourself and people buy it. It's a firm deal and difficult to undo even after life leaves you naked to figure out who you are and who you were. And in this situation, as in so many others, the last comes first.

In the beginning, God was. The Light was with Him and the Light was Him. I think I might have been there, too. I knew something of God before I ever went to church. I think this Created Self is a mask for the self that was made by God somewhere before it got this body and this name. I have a feeling this Soul called "Susan" and this Soul called "David" met each other somewhere back in the darkness of a newly created world. I realize I am who He made me to be. The Bread of Life puts an end to all symbols. I realize I don't need an icon. I don't need an image. His atonement brings me the actual Christ with actual outstretched arms and I am an actual Soul in need of Him.

So, who would I be without my hair, without my clothes, without my friends, without my house, without my car, without my church, without my nationality, without my history? A Soul in His arms. And that's all I ever needed to be.

Something weird happened in the publishing of this entry, and I hope it didn't mess up your RSS feeds. If it did, I'm sorry. :-(

Panis Angelicus--Or The Song My Nephew Sang at Our Wedding (Significance to be Explained Later)

St. Thomas Aquinas

Panis angelicus
fit panis hominum;
Dat panis caelicus
figuris terminum:
O res mirabilis!
manducat Dominum
Pauper, servus, et humilis.
Te trina Deitas
unaque poscimus:
Sic nos tu visita,
sicut te colimus;
Per tuas semitas
duc nos quo tendimus,
Ad lucem quam inhabitas.
Amen.

Bread of Angels,
made the bread of men;
The Bread of heaven
puts an end to all symbols:
A thing wonderful!
The Lord becomes our food:
poor, a servant, and humble.
We beseech Thee,
Godhead One in Three
That Thou wilt visit us,
as we worship Thee,
lead us through Thy ways,
We who wish to reach the light
in which Thou dwellest.
Amen.

Grief, Hope & their little girl, Tenacity

I got to try on a new hat this week. I got to be the Poster Child of the Opposition.

It's a role I'm not familiar with. I'm a soul steeped in compliance and broiled in reticence. "I'm sorry for being here," I say. "I'm sorry for taking up so much of your time to voice an opinion of mine ," I say. Once, I even went to see a counselor and apologized the entire time for talking so much about myself. (Which really indicated to both of us how much I needed to be there.)

This week, it occurred to me that I've rarely voiced an opinion that hasn't been preceded by an apology of some sort or another. Never. At least not that I can think of. And what I've learned is that is when you say something apologetically, people automatically find a reason to take offense. So, I quit. Suddenly and cold-turkey without the methadone of reflection. I said something cogent and true and honest without apology. And then, I cried. Later, I had a lot of "I hope you felt heard" comments from a few different people. And I wholeheartedly appreciated that, but I don't really know if I felt heard or not. It wasn't the point. (Since when is "being heard" any kind of comfort? I don't know that I want to "be heard" anymore. I just want to be taken seriously.)

The O. Henry ending to this story is that I ended up feeling alright about it. It didn't come without a fair measure of grief, though, and I learned that sometimes we grieve over the right decisions. And that's not a bad thing. Grief isn't a Harbinger of Doom. Grief isn't an enemy to avoid. Grief is a friend in a black coat. It's the tunnel we travel from the gloom of the locker room to the sunshine of the field. Stretch that metaphor a little. It rings true.

There's been something else to grieve about this week, but I'm coming to the end of my scheduled blog time, so I'll stop. Suffice it to say that this week, I've learned something about the relationship between grief and hope. Grief might be the watchman of the night, but hope comes in the morning. I'm surprised by my capacity to hope. It's directly proportional to the depth of my grief. And that, somehow, makes it hard to be afraid of anything.

And you would think now hope would be tired, but it's alright.
You would think now hope would be tired but it's alright
You would think tired, ragged and oil-brown
but it's alright...Karen Peris

Very Very Mad World

Have you ever looked into someone's life and wondered why God forgot about you?
I have.
Why do people in bad marriages find it so easy to make babies? Why do people who don't work hard make so much money? How do mean people get so many others to listen to them?

I used to get depressed about it and I would comfort myself by thinking you never know what's going on behind the curtains! I would feel a little bit better, but I didn't really believe it. Until I actually looked behind the curtain and saw for myself.

You know what? It wasn't a comfort. I wasn't pleased. I saw that shame and I was shamed. I saw that poverty and I was poor. I had seen the fall of Colossus and the camelback transport to Syria. There's no comfort in the proof of those old maxims.

Communion of the Saints

Lately, I've been wondering about the Communion of the Saints. I've been saying "I believe in the Communion of the Saints" as a part of the Apostles Creed since I was a child, but this is the first time I've ever been curious about the meaning of these words. (This is a two-fold shame. First, that I never wondered and second, that I was never told.)

What I found was an overwhelmingly pleasant surprise. I haven't been lying all these years. I really do believe in the Communion of Saints.

Communion of the Saints doesn't mean, as the Catholic Church says, that the Glorified Saints (those who are already dead) are able to pray for us and interceed to Christ on our behalf. No, the Communion of the Saints means something better. It means that Christians are bound together by love and have full participation in each other's gifts and graces. It means that we're in it together. It means we recognize our obligation to be a family to each other. It means we work together for our common good.

My soul is tied to yours. My gifts are there for you to use. My grace is shared with you and it's my responsibility to care for you and bring good to your life. And it's your responsibility to do the same for me.

I believe that the members of Red Mountain Church could benefit from a second-- or first-- look at the Communion of the Saints. I think it's one of our underpinning values. In fact, the Communion of the Saints and the belief that the Gospel changes everything might be the values we hold most dear. I desire to move toward a greater understanding of the Communion of the Saints and allow Jesus to weave that understanding in to the fabric of my life. It's beautiful. It's noble. It's true. I shall think about it.

All saints, that are united to Jesus Christ their Head, by His Spirit, and by faith, have fellowship with Him in His grace, sufferings, death, resurrection, and glory: and, being united to one another in love, they have communion in each other's gifts and graces, and are obliged to the performance of such duties, public and private, as do conduce to their mutual good, both in the inward and outward man.

Saints by profession are bound to maintain an holy fellowship and communion in the worship of God, and in performing such other spiritual services as tend to their mutual edification; as also in relieving each other in outward things, according to their several abilities and necessities. Which communion, as God offers opportunity, is to be extended unto all those who, in every place, call upon the name of the Lord Jesus.

This communion which the saints have with Christ, does not make them in any wise partakers of the substance of His Godhead; or to be equal with Christ in any respect: either of which to affirm is impious and blasphemous. Nor does their communion one with another, as saints, take away, or infringe the title or propriety which each man has in his goods and possessions.

This is Purty Funny

Derrick and the Mom Who Yells

Tuesday and Friday mornings are a team effort at the Smith House because these are garbage pickup days on our street. We must be among the first houses they come to because they're always here really early. David's always wanting to be at the office early and it's a sprint of breakfast, clean socks, coffee making, trash can and out the door!

The past two days we've had trash pickup, I've been on the front porch throwing the last of the trash into the can when a woman and her children have come walking down the street. I first saw them a few weeks ago during one of my walks with Corduroy. Their family is a little boy about 6, a little baby girl about 14 months and their mom.

The thing is that every morning, the little boy is lagging behind the mom and the baby girl and the mom is SCREAMING AT THE TOP OF HER LUNGS at him. He's a little bit nerdy. He's got thick glasses and he looks like his hair could stand to be washed and cut. He wears a Birmingham City School uniform that looks a little rumpled. He looks shy. He looks at me out of the corner of his eyes as he walks by. He doesn't smile, but I don't think it would take much to get him to.

I know his name because the mom will say things to him like "Derrick, if you didn't drag your damn feet all over the house, you might have been able to get some breakfast, but you don't get any because you're too slow!" or "Derrick hurry up. If you weren't so damn stupid, you'd be ready in time."

This morning, Corduroy dog heard the mom yelling and she ran out on to the porch and barked. Loudly. And growled. It scared Derrick, but I think what Corduroy meant to do was to scare the mom. If we had one of those dog-bark/English translators, I think Old Cord Dog would be saying something like "Bitch, if you don't shut up, I'm going to eat your friggen face off." That's what I like to think of Cord Dog.

My prayers these days go like this: God, please let someone at school make sure Derrick gets some breakfast. God, please let someone say something kind to him today. God, please let him get a bath and a haircut. God, please make sure that Derrick gets some love from someone today. God, please do something to make his mom's life less overwhelming. God, let me know them better so I can do something. God, show me what to do..

I guess what bothers me most is that there is really nothing in the world I'd rather have than a little boy or girl. This woman has both and she doesn't seem to want them. But I want them. Especially Derrick. I'd let him eat breakfast twice every morning.

The world is an unfair place and it's hard to understand sometimes.

"Lord, have mercy on me! I cannot burn."

I've just read about Hugh Latimer and Nicholas Ridley, the English bishops who were martyred in 1555 during the rain of Bloody Mary.

I wept.

I didn't weep because they were martyred, I wept because as a Christian, I am not fit to occupy their heaven. I have neglected the scriptures for which they died and I have often forsaken the fellowship of believers. My brothers and sisters all over the world face death for their faith and I argue for my right to use the "f" word and drink beer. Such pitiful arguments among such pitiful Christians should shame us all into silence! YET WHY DO I CONTINUE SPEAKING?


Foolish me. What have I believed myself to be? I should heap ashes and dirt on my head and sit under a paper bag and lament the great sin of complacency that entangles me. These men are not worthy of earth and I am not worthy to be called "Christian" alongside them.

I am ashamed of my sin and I am ashamed of the opulence with which I surround myself. Oh to have done with lesser things! Oh, the legacy of which I cannot even conceive!

Jesus Christ, son of God, have mercy on me.

One two three FOUR five six seven eight NINE ten...eleven twelve

Here's something that.....well....sucks

Here's something I read today:

When these old racist republicans [basically, our grandparents] die off, I'm going to be happy about it. each moment one of these people passes away, the world is quietly becoming a better place.
(My feelings on this issue are complex, and are definitely connected to baggage I have with bullshit sentiments about american history, american morality, and more personally, hatred I have for my grandparents. All attempts to be helpful and reasonable with me on this matter will fail. Thank you.)

Maybe I should have just replied to this directly, but I didn't want to come off as being either helpful or reasonable, so I'll just post it here.

Mostly, it just makes me miss my grandparents. I never really knew my Texas grandparents, and that's my loss. My Virginia grandparents were drunkards and bootleggers, but they were my family and I miss them every day of my life. I am less now that they are gone. They represent a part of my history that I'll never get back and my grief has not be satiated with time. The world is not a better place without them. Not in any way. My world is smaller now. Whenever I see a little old lady in the grocery store, I miss them.

I miss you O'Bryants, Russells, Andersons & Gambles, Normans and Russes and Beards. I'm so glad you were here and you weren't even Republicans.

Southside Walkabout

This afternoon, Corduroy Dog and I went for a walk. It was a beautiful day. I'd say fall is on its way, if not already here. We walked down 16th Street and then down the mountain toward Five Points. At Mellow Mushroom, we saw M.J. who works at Golden Temple. I like M.J. I'm not sure she really knows who I am, but she is always acts like we're old friends. She's from Michigan. She is a lesbian. Some people ran out of Mellow Mushroom to cuddle Corduroy. She loved it.

When we rounded the corner, I saw a homeless man. (The vast majority of the homeless in Birmingham are African American. I do not know why this is true.) He had crooked legs and I prayed a blessing for him. He said "That's a pretty dog and a pretty woman, too." Then, he walked in an alley. I hope he sleeps in a safe place tonight. He was about 70 years old.

Next, we crossed 19th Street on 11th Avenue. A Birmingham City police officer almost ran over us. His siren was blaring. Corduroy Dog didn't budge. She's a good old girl and I bet she would have been a great police dog or a guide dog.

The trees on the mountain are thinking about changing color. The light was sharp and crisp. I love late afternoon sunlight.

We walked home on 11th Avenue. David came home and called us to find out where we had gone. He came and picked us up. When Corduroy saw him, she ran and jumped in his Jeep. She knew just what to do. I love her.

Today, I felt like a part of my community. I felt grounded. I felt home. My heart cannot hold my hope for this city.

The long road up from where I've been...Part One

I'm a feminist. These days, everyone is. My feminism is a journey over the mountain and through the woods right back home to grandma's house. Literally. Well, literal in a figurative kind of way. This is the story of my Feminist Bent and how it showed Jesus to me.

Ten years ago, my Feminist Bent (let's just call her Mabel) was a reaction. She was a fierce little knee-jerk response to That Guy. Do you know him? He's the man propelled by some hard-working invisible engine to keep everyone inside the lines wherever he goes. He's the teacher in my Christian school who accidentally taught me that women don't ask questions in Bible class. He's the Christian who uses "Women's Issues" as the ultimate litmus test of Orthodoxy. I've always known him. Everywhere I go, he goes, too. Sometimes, he brings a few feeble-minded females along with him and together they preside over the Kingdom of Superfluous Prudence and Unnecessary Discipline. Lately, I've noticed my ability to pick him out of a crowd and I wonder how much of that is wisdom and how much of that is Mabel on the warpath. I'm not sure.

Mabel probably cost me a lot of second dates with a lot of the RUF boys who asked me out in college. Suffice it to say that I'm pretty okay with that.


Mabel and I continued along together until I found myself out of college and back in Birmingham. I started going back to the church of my youth and joined the Swingles Group there. I saw That Guy everywhere and I realized that he was the only available candidate on the marriage market. I decided then and there never to get married, but I also started to put my hand over Mabel's mouth in Sunday School. She's patient, though. She waited me out. Ironically, enough, all Mabel needed was the love of a good man, and when I married my Prince in 2003, Mabel was my maid of honor. (Now, she's Mabel Lewis-Smith.)

Mabel had a growth spurt when I became a wife. I realized that That Guy had taken away the beauty inherent in caring for a family and loving a husband well. A wise woman told me just last week that women love and care for people automatically. It's just who we are. But when That Guy takes advantage of us, we trade what God gave us in exchange for self-protection. It's a sad thing because it robs our entire community of the strong feminine influence it needs to function well at a basic level. My wise friend made eloquent the rudimentary musing I'd been chewing on for years.

I realize now that That Guy is the reflection of Evil in our society. Not that he's the devil, but don't you know that Satan can get inside our heads and ride our sin around like a tricycle if we let him. That Guy is as manipulated as manipulated can be. Satan has never been a big fan of women. In fact, Satan has attempted to destroy us since the we've had the word for "woman." You don't even have to believe me, look around. The city is full of destroyed and exploited women.

But I'm starting to realize that underneath the Sauron-like gaze of Evil, Jesus works in the lives of women in this city. Silently, his helpers move like the mice chewing Aslan's ropes to make a better place for the battered and abused women of the world. And through them, he works in me, too.


...more about that later. The laundry is calling my name.

Panda Family