Neighborhood Drama/Neighborhood Bonding Part Two

She moved into the top apartment of a 1920's duplex several months ago with her teenage son. At first, I only took notice of the son walking around, cat cradled in arms, calling to his mother like a neglected toddler. Mom. Mom. Mom. Mama. Mother. Mom. He never got a response during the day, but late at night, I often heard the shrill and raised voice that proved there was some interaction between them long after the rest of us were sleeping. After a little while, I didn't see the cat anymore. After a little while longer, I didn't see the boy anymore either. After that, I started to see more of Them.

They come at regular intervals throughout the day, all day long and into the night. They come in beat-up old Jeeps and Suburbans with spinners. They come in cars with college licence plates and in cars with no license plates at all. The only thing they have in common is that they're all coming to sell or to buy the same thing. When they're coming to buy, they stay for less than a minute. In and out faster than the drive-through line at the bank. Service with a smile and quick like lightning. When they're coming to sell, it takes a little longer. My neighbor has limited currency, you see, and she only knows how to pay with one line of credit.

The neighbors whisper about her. We're all surprised and validated that we've each come to the same conclusion about her business. She either doesn't notice our whispers, or she doesn't care. Four years ago, her line of work was more common here, but the value of our houses has increased by about fifty percent since then and we're moving past the Transitional Phase of neighborhood development and have started to make way into the "Gentrified" category. Most people who owned investment properties available to rent have sold out, and where we once were pushers, pimps, prostitutes and poor, we're now professors, traders, doctors, architects and insurance salesmen. The Old Regime didn't disappear, it just moved a little to the West and to the North as neighbors demanded to have their investments protected and we started getting better police protection. My neighbor came just a little too late to be able to practice the Oldest Profession without being noticed. And so, Sunday night the neighborhood came together for the same reason neighbors have for centuries: to fight a common foe.

David and I were sitting on the porch eating supper with Jason when we saw her leaving in a cab. Gone to score, no doubt. Despite my safe and respectable suburban upbringing, I've learned a little about the culture around me. I've learned a little, both from my own empirical research and from the careful study of those around me, about the power of addiction. I know what it means to watch from the bottom of a self-dug pit while happiness blooms around you. I know this and I'm sad for this small and much used woman who inhabits a shell of a body and a rusted-out life. Everyone on this street is ready to do their part to make sure she isn't on this street for one moment longer than necessary. We're all her adversaries. Social services are good. Rehabilitation is good. Inhaling the chemical consequences of her crystal meth addiction, having her clients come to our doors by mistake, knowing that someone somewhere might just be tweaked enough to show up at her doorstep with a weapon and a score to settle makes us nervous. I don't know if there is a "Christian" way to handle this problem. I am sympathetic, even empathetic, but not so much that I can handle living next door to a full-blown, fo-sho, crack ho. This is reality laid on the line. What would Jesus do? Maybe the better question is what is Jesus doing?.

Sunday night, we noticed a battered Pontiac cruising down our street. He's looking for her, I said when he looked up at the three of us with a little more interest than ordinary. When he came speeding back up the street followed by at first four, then five, then seven police cars, a firetruck and an ambulance, we thought we had been more right than we knew. The Pontiac pulled over and an undercover police officer leaped out. For about 30 minutes, we watched our street swarm with cops and flashlights up and down the sidewalk and in the bushes behind our house and our neighbor's. No one took notice of the three of us. Other neighbors heard the noises of seven police cars, one firetruck and an ambulance and started to come out on their porches to watch. For some reason known only to God, I yelled Y'all come over, I have brownies. And they did.

Stay tuned. I'm hoping to finish this up in one more installment. Good night, Moon.

Neighborhood Drama/Neighborhood Bonding, Part One

David caught me staring at the palm of my hand when we were having supper the other night. What's wrong with your hand? Nothing. I'm just looking. There's nothing wrong with that. Thank you.

I could have put an hour's worth of of exposition into that expression of gratitude, but the real meaning behind Thank You when I say it to my husband means more than one word, or one treatise, is able to convey. If live with him till I'm a hundred and three and thank him for one specific thing every day, I won't finish. I'm most humbled when I can't express the depth of my gratitude to and for him. The irony in all this is that he doesn't really like to be thanked. So I skip my exegesis and trust that in his heart, he knows he really is my hero.

The point of all this is that since I quit working for the church, I've been able to look and be and think. After two weeks, I stopped cringing when the phone rang. After three weeks, I stopped dreading Sunday evenings. After nearly four, I stopped seeing an emergency in every small situation. I don't dread the regular reminders of how utterly insignificant I am. I haven't blogged, or really spoken, about this Un-named Thing because it hurts and I haven't thought it wise. But, a writer has a right to write about what informs her story. So I will. (But just a little bit.)

I've turned my rediscovered powers of observation mostly to the garden. Because I live in an urban environment, "my garden" summarily includes my entire city: my neighbors, my postman, the garbage men, the neighborhood policemen. I've learned a lot. I've noticed the way my postman smokes his Camel cigarettes like a jazz musician. He walks like he's driven by the smoky twang of an internal upright bass. He's a postman by day, but at night, I bet he's cool. Cool in the Miles Davis sense of the word. I like to watch him go up and down the street in his Postal-Service issue minivan. He sees it all. He knows it all. I imagine he turns our stories into a series. of. machine. gun. scats. at. Ona's. on. Saturday. night. Ahh. Half John Coltrane mathematical trainwreck and half J-I-L-L-S-C-O-T-T easy and honest. That's my neighborhood. A Love Supreme.

My across-the-street neighbor bathes his dog on the sidewalk once a week. Of that pair, I don't know if dog or human is most fortunate. They have each other. And from what I can tell, that's just fine. My closer neighbors are a commune of upper-class hippies who call themselves a band. Three men and one wife live together. I've noticed that the wife does all the work. When they practice, if that's what you can call the first few few bars of Crazy Train played over and over and over again, the Postman shakes his head. He knows and he sees, but more importantly he hears, what passes for music these days. I have other neighbors: neighbors who don't cut their grass, neighbors who call the police on other neighbors who don't cut their grass, neighbors who don't speak to those of us who are Southside newbies and most responsible for the gentrification they see all around them, neighbors who have their food delivered by Schwanns, neighbors who might not eat at all. But the neighbor I've noticed the most, is the neighbor who probably notices me the least.

And now, my blogging time is way past gone. I'll post the rest of the story tomorrow.

Apocalypse....Now?

There's a scene in Apocalypse Now depicting a battle over the fictional Dulong Bridge. I think Coppola intends it to show the madness of war, and if that's the case, it serves its purpose. P.B.R. Streetgang pulls up to a carnival of war; rockets launch like fireworks over the bridge only otherwise illuminated by a rakish string of paper lanterns. Soldiers alternately scurry away from the fallout and play cards. It becomes apparent to the men on board (at least one of them in the midst of an acid trip) that the situation has deteriorated beyond their ability to comprehend. At one point, Martin Sheen's character approaches a young GI (who has, incidentally, just launched a grenade at a V.C. caught in some wire) and asks him who is in charge. Looking back with the thousand-yard stare of a man who has spent more than his share of time "in country", the soldier answers, "Aren't you?"

It's my favorite scene in any movie ever and it reminds me a lot of what's been happening in my small world lately. Those captains we thought were standing in the gap are stumbling around looking at each other and saying "Who is in charge here?" And and answering back, "Aren't you?"

I think there's a reason why so much of the Christian life is compared to warfare. Sometimes, I look around me and think that we resemble a platoon of soldiers loaded in a Huey and plonked smack down in the middle of the jungle. (Or the desert.) If the disciples and early apostles were the Marines, we must be the follow-up forces sent in to hunker down in inhospitable territory for an indefinite period of time. We've got Medivac units and communications units and commissary units. Etcetera. Ad Nauseum. We're not home and we're not happy about it. (Like our grandfathers before us, we stumble off the field only to be offered coffee by the Red Cross. For 5 cents a cup. When the church starts asking us to donate blood, we'll know we've really got a problem. And that's a post for another day.)

It's hard to choose the right path through the battle. None of us knows the truth and nothing but the truth. We know bits and we know pieces. We know enough to make it through, but we're all faced with the moment in time when we've got to rely on God's love for us and our own good intentions. I think God did this on purpose. He told us what we had to know. For the rest, we're going to have to walk according to the Spirit and very much by faith. Everyone has their own way to cope with this "unknown."

Some people say we'll never really make it through and that our best bet is to look for the beauty in the ugly, the righteousness in the reprobate and the comfort in earthly community. I like this idea. It seems hopeful yet safe. The problem comes with the crushing realization that we're all alone in the world. We're created for community, but community will always disappoint. We're destined to be misunderstood. Not to say that we won't have meaningful relationships and receive encouragement from others, only that it won't be consistent and it won't be entirely trustworthy. Each of us is a rabid monster underneath a thin veneer of restraint. We rip each other to bits inevitably. Inevitably. If we are so blessed as to find one person, just one, who can see us truly and understand, we should presume upon the goodness of God no more. All the evil that exists in the world exists in the soul of Everyman.

Some people try to tie knots in the strings of truth we do have in order to unify them. To make them whole and cogent. To make them reach the areas of our experience they weren't designed to reach. I've learned that if I fail to mask my own uncertainty, there is always someone ready to flog me with an easy answer. Sometimes, I feel like an antelope surrounded by all-knowing hyenas who smell the blood of my uncertainty. I don't understand. All of my struggle for insight into this leads me only to a greater ability to describe the problem.

I've made it my habit here to be positive. Honestly, I am a happy person with a charmed life. Never never never would I have believed you had you been able to come to me when I was younger and tell me what a beautiful thing my life would be. Unfortunately (or very fortunately, depending how you look at it), the only only thing I have to offer here is a certainty that One Bright Morning, that Huey will come back. And take us home. Where we'll be able to be what we were meant to be and live how we were meant to live. Until then, we cling to the cross and try not to kill each other.

In the meantime, who is in charge here?

The Best Thing in My Kitchen

The best thing in my kitchen at the moment is a chicken roasting pan that looks something like this. I think my mother bought it for me about 6 years ago for about 8 bucks at Wal-Mart (shudder that, I know). I left it alone and unused in my oven-drawer for years until I decided it might be a good idea to use it, and once I did, I actually had to grieve all of the chickens I could have roasted if only I had realized what an incredible device this little pan actually is. It's a simple thing. In my opinion, the best things that come out of the kitchen are simple things that give us a little wholesome comfort at the end of the day. I always feel grateful for old-fashioned culinary pleasures like a beautifully roasted chicken, a simple spinach salad, grainy pears, butternut squash soup, baked sweet potatoes with brown sugar, and whole-wheat bread with butter and honey. In this world of fast and out-of-the-bag food, homemade food reminds us that we're human. We're not machines that can survive on pre-packaged food and synthetic sugar. We're a rather fragile sort of creature that needs sunshine, clean sheets, warm suppers, fresh vegetables and good coffee to thrive. God didn't intend for us to be so strong and self-sufficient. That's why we aren't.

When I roast a chicken, I don't spend a lot of time trussing it, or covering the breasts with buttered aluminum foil like some culinarians recommend. I usually just peel and wash a carrot and a few ribs of celery and put them in the cavity with some garlic I've whacked with the flat edge of my favorite knife (another wonderful thing in my kitchen) and some fresh rosemary from the pot on my front porch. (Another aside, here in balmy Alabama, fresh rosemary will thrive outside in a pot all winter. It gets a little woody, but it's still flavorful.) I always sprinkle a little coarse sea salt on the outside of the bird and drizzle it with olive oil. I roast it at about 350 degrees until it starts to smell like heaven and Corduroy Dog starts to drool on the floor (for about an hour). (Real chefs say to roast it at a higher temperature for a shorter period of time, but I don't think that gives the veggies and herbs you've put inside the chicken time to release their flavor.) Do what you will with the pan-juices. They're lovely.

While I'm at it with all of this sharing what I like to eat and all, I might as well tell you how to make the perfect (again, in my opinion) Mint Julep. First, you've got to have grown your own traditional spearmint. It's the mintiest mint and down here, it's marketed as being "especially good for mint julep." Cut a handful. Take a handful or two of ice and smash it with your husband's hammer in a clean cotton towel. (When he says "I'm not sure that's good for the kitchen counter," just smile sweetly and hammer on.) Put about a half-inch of sugar (I know.) in the bottom of a 10-ounce glass and mash the mint right into it with the back of a spoon. (Oh, it smells like heaven.) Fill the glass with ice and pour in the bourbon to the top. (Even though my husband is from the patch of Tennessee just to the left of Jack Daniel's Country and Just to the Right of George Dickel's promised land, I'm still on speaking terms with Jim Beam. You can even use Southern Comfort if you're not a purist. Nothing isn't made better with a few jiggers of So. Co., that's the truth.) Drink it on the porch barefoot like a redneck. It's okay. Yum.

Now, it's your turn. Whoever you are, if you know me or not, respond to this post with the thing you most like to eat.

Subversive Su, Melanies and Scarletts, The Things That Happen When I Sleep

I think that every writer needs to write for himself at first. Well, maybe at second. If you learn to tell someone else's story, it inspires you to write your own. (Well, maybe after years of hiding behind other people's stories. I admit, I'm suspended in the editing process. I edit and reframe my story, omitting or reworking the parts that cause me hurt so deep that I can't touch them up.) It's a tough process. I proceed in fits and starts making headway in bits and pieces as particles of my story emerge from the snow of years to be discovered anew.

This weekend, I went to the wedding of one of my recently re-discovered little-girlhood friends. I saw many of my little girl-hood friends at the Big Church where we were all little girls together. What a world of Scarletts and Melanies I inhabited. (I see why Gone with the Wind rang true. I read it last week and it is as good as they say.) We are in the Reconstruction of our lives now. Many things have happened that we didn't expect. (One of us wrote a book called Many Things Have Happened Since He Died. It's true for all of us.) We grew in the tended soil of privilege. Each of us knows, even in adulthood and even if we won't admit that we know, what distinguishes a person of quality. We came up in a genteel society. I hadn't believed it until I saw the proof in the pudding of my old friends. Despite everything, they are lovely puddings. They will never unwork the stitches they made in the fabric of my being. I wouldn't wish it if they could. We are all grown-up now and even if we try not to, we will raise our children to be people of quality. Some things can't be explained and some things cannot be escaped.

Appropriate Segue Should Go Here.

This weekend, I realized that I might just have a chance to reclaim something I thought I had lost forever...and thus convinced myself that I didn't want. I'm not sure yet, but I have a feeling. There is no God besides my God who would love me enough to breathe life into something I killed myself. (There is no husband besides mine who could, or would, so support my dreams.)

Again With the Segue.

Because of something said today, I vacillate between feeling like an accidental Mata Hari and a hurricane. I have become that Something That Must Be Dealt With, inasmuch as the sick the dog heaves up on the floor is the same. I feel like my personhood is something I'm expected to surrender to to the commissary for the sake of Our Noble Cause. If you can't find me, I'll be hiding in the well with the O'Hara silver service.

And that, gentle readers, exhausts the number of Civil War/GWTW allusions I'm allowed for one day.

Quality Children's Program

I love the Kate Pierson Muppet. And to think how many people waste time on shows like 24.

Beat (Not Beaten)

I have a friend who is a potter. (And by "potter," I mean she is an artist in clay.) She says that sometimes she puts the clay on the wheel and it tries to escape. It doesn't want to be formed or shaped, it just wants to do its own thing. She says "What are you doing? You're a lump of dirt!" Most days, that's me. Idonwannadothat! I say.

Today, however, I'm a little lump with no more fight. I give up. If He doesn't finish the work, I'll just sit here on the wheel. Having time and time again found Him faithful when no one was, I have stopped expecting anything else. I have fought and lost. I have resisted and been conquered. I have struggled and been subdued.

I yield. For now. Bested by the goodness that like a fetter binds my wandering heart to Thee.

A Vestigial Savage

"...my religious belief teaches me to feel as safe in battle as in bed. God has fixed the time for my death. I do not concern myself about that, but to be always ready, no matter when it may overtake me. That is the way all men should live, and then all would be equally brave." Thomas Jonathan (Stonewall) Jackson

I have always hoped for a Glorious End. It might have something to do with my Cold War childhood or my fascination with Fox's Book of Martyrs. I tend to think it has something to do with the vestigial savage in my bloodline. I imagine my family tree has at least one Claymore-wielding Celt, one Comanche brave, one concentration camp liberator, several drunken Irishmen, and an assortment of lesser pagans and hoodlums fueled more by a genetic compulsion to endure under fire than by a superficial machismo. I am the product of a wild and colorful lineage. I am a child of glory. I can't help that I was born a girl.

One of the reasons I want to have children so very much is that I want to meet these people who will be the fusion of my wild Black Irish and David's cool (and nearly undiluted) German restraint. I can't imagine what kind of oddball will result from this genetic pairing. I can't wait to meet this person. I like him already.

As I pray for this person's arrival (where are you already?) I pray that he will be a savage. A warrior. Fearless in the face of peril. Because I think this world will see some peril and I don't see many Brave Men to face it. I see smart men. I see rich men. I see men who like to talk and be recognized for it, but I don't see many men who like to shut up and do. Or women either, for that matter. I want to be brave. I want to be fearless. I want to be strong. I don't want to betray my personal Great Cloud of Witnesses. I can't help that I was born a girl.

How Shan. Got Her Groove Back

My sister has a new blog.

Lessons from Hank Williams and the Big Church, or The Well is Very Deep Indeed

"Either the well was very deep, or she fell very slowly, for she had plenty of time as she went down to look about her and to wonder what was going to happen next." Lewis Carroll--Alice in Wonderland

Hank Williams

In Salvation on Sand Mountain, Dennis Covington explores the idea that human beings instinctively know where they come from, even if they don't. I believe in this. Somewhere in the deep, I know who I am. I know it when I hear bagpipes. I know it when I am afraid of the snakes in the garden. (And when they make me blind with fear-rage and I whack their heads off with the hoe.) I know it like I know what's True, even when I can't explain how I know or why. Last week, I bought Bill Monroe's version of the Hank Williams song, I Saw the Light, and I knew who I am when I listened to it. (Myrtle must have known who she was in her living-life, too, because she showed up on the front porch halfway through.) Hank Williams is as soft and familiar as wheat bread, clean sheets and bare feet in the summertime. He's somewhere in my vernacular. I think I've assimilated* Hank Williams. Yes, that must be it.

The Well

Lately, all the things I've assimilated are a comfort to me. I feel like Alice, tumbling down the well feet-first and in slow motion. Instead of bemoaning his tardiness, my rabbit says How could you DO this to me? How COULD you do this to me? How could you to this to ME? I want to say, "Hey Rabbit, you're the one who threw me in this hole." And as I go, fanny over teakettle as the case may be, I grab my assimilations off the shelves and hold them near.

The Big Church

Sitting in the Big Church on Sunday, I noticed a Very Old Man in the pew in front of me. His hair was very white and his skin was very brown. His wife had a slight bob in her head. At first, I thought she was just very much in agreement with the pastor, but I think she might have had a little tremor. I looked around in the congregation and counted the Old People. The Old GrayHairs. There were a lot. And I remembered how much I miss Old People. It isn't that there is anything wrong with Young People, even God says so, but I've missed those Old People in the same way I'd miss Hank Williams, wheat bread and bare feet in the summertime should I ever be denied. Old People, after all, are not as permanent as they seem. Or as we would wish them to be.

*Merriam-Webster defines "assimilate" as a transitive verb: to take in and utilize as nourishment.

My Life With An Angry Bearded Man

This is a letter David wrote to Books & Culture yesterday. I don't know why I find it so very amusing, but I do.

I signed up on-line for a free issue. Now, I am receiving threatening mail from a Christian publication. This is unacceptable on any level. I expect these scare tactics (empty threats to scare people into paying for a subscription they don't want and never requested) from secular publications, but I expected more from you. Hang your heads in shame and change your policies post haste. Living in the South, I have a lot of Christians as friends, neighbors, and co-workers. I will tell them all, including my church, of your horrific and shameful policies. Repent, for the Kingdom of Heaven is upon us.

Yours,
David

What I've Been Reading

This week, I've indulged in the remarkable luxury of dragging one of my dining room chairs out on the back porch and sitting in a little square of sunshine to read. My back porch is level with the tops of my trees: a redbud, a hickory and a chinaberry. The chinaberry is the largest and my favorite, even though it tried to crawl through the roof and had to have one of its limbs unceremoniously sawed off earlier this year. (I studied dendrology at Auburn when I was in the School of Forestry. I should have stayed there. Journalism is a stupid major. ) Of course, there aren't any leaves on my trees right now, so I can look out into the blue sky and see the top of the AT&T tower and the BellSouth building. I can almost make out the red sign atop the City Federal building. When I sit there, I feel suspended between the tomato and corn cob Birmingham I love and the whoosh and bang Birmingham of the future that we all fear is going to look a lot more like Atlanta then even Atlanta wants to look. (I hate Atlanta. If you were going to put deodorant on the United States, you'd roll it on right around the 285.) I'm Southern and I'm starting to accept what that means. I can't escape and I no longer want to try. I wrap my Birmingham, past and present, around me like a blanket and it protects me from the Voices in My Head with a strong and certain sense of place.

I've read two books this week. Both about religion. Both non-fiction. Both familiar. The first was Deborah Layton's account of her life at Jonestown, the cult-compound in Guyana where Jim Jones ordered 914 of his followers to commit suicide by drinking Flavor Aid laced with cyanide. I had to ask myself how a rational person could allow themselves to be beaten and raped by their pastor in California and reason that it was a good idea to travel with him to Guyana's remote equatorial rain forest and surrender your passport. It scared me to realize how easily I have allowed religion to turn me away from the knowledge of truth I already have in my heart. The old cliche is fitting here: There but for the Grace of God go I. My one sentence review? This book scared me and showed me what a fragile little mind I have.

The second book was Dennis Covington's most revered work, Salvation on Sand Mountain. I've just finished it and I cannot comment on it now other than to say if I ever see Dennis Covington again I will shake his hand and just say "Thank you. Thank you for that." He writes about religion, the Holy Spirit and women and he really gets all three. When we argue about women's roles in the church, he asserts, we're really arguing about the nature of God. He gave me the words to voice what I've been trying to all these years.

Tell Me the Truth

I've been listening to Michael Horton lead a discussion about the emergent church movement on a recent podcast of The White Horse Inn. I admit that it is over my head. Essentially, it's a group of intellectually sharp men volleying pithy truisms back and forth for a half-hour. It isn't that they are former seminarians. (Frankly, I think seminary degrees are most commonly used for pastors to cover their eyes when they don't want to see the truth about themselves or their churches. ) I think it's that they do what so many of us in this post-modern world won't: They wrestle with difficult ideas until they can understand them. We're too lazy for that most of the time. That's why Starbucks is popular. We like to get our coffee in a paper cup and run back to the car. We don't like to take the time to drink from a proper cup and engage each other in the kind of dialogue coffee shops used to exist to facilitate. (But that's a post for another day.)

What captures me most about this discussion is the idea embraced by the emerging church that we can speak truth to one another freely all the while avoiding it's pesky tendency to offend people. This, my brothers and sisters, is a lie. (In fact, I think it warrants a moniker most commonly identified with bovine excrement and useful for decrying the most asinine kind of un-truth.) The gospel by it's very nature is offensive because it tells us what we innately believe yet don't want to voice. Namely, that we're rotten to the core and unable to save ourselves from these rancid bodies of sin. If we're among the fortunate who can accept that truth about ourselves, chances are, we have a difficult time embracing the rest of the story: that we're infinitely precious to a holy God and can be cleansed from any trace of unrighteousness and made thoroughly, and through no work of our own, worthy of God's favor. (I admit, that's something I have a very hard time coming to terms with myself. Trying to wrap my brain around both of those truths at the same time makes me feel a little nauseated.) When the church attempts to tame the gospel and make it palatable to the masses, it is inevitably watered-down to the point of being false and the church takes on the attributes of a fallen culture. The whole truth is true. A benign version of the same story is a lie.

I want the truth. I want the Whole Truth and Nothing But the Truth. I don't want spared feelings. I don't want gentle answers at the expense of pith. I want the truth. I recently had a conversation with my family pastor after which I left his office more sincerely repentant for my sin than I have been since my conversion. I came home and lay face down on the floor. The only prayer I could utter was "Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me." And He did. I feel it. I feel wrapped in mercy from my head to my feet. I can't escape this ecstasy of God's mercy. I can't untangle myself from the bliss of forgiveness. I can't stop feeling repentant, but the more I repent, the more I am forgiven. The rapture of a soul forgiven is not matched by any of earth's paltry pleasures.

I have to stop and ask myself what would have happened if he had laughed, said something comforting and sent me on my way. He could have been some kind of Holy Santa Claus offering me spiritual ice cream when I was dehydrated to the point of collapse. But he didn't. And I think it might have been one of the nicest things anyone has ever done for me.

The lesson: speak the truth. Don't hedge. Don't waver. Don't be cowardly. We must speak the truth in love even when the love has to come second. In fact, that's an interesting point. We weren't, after all, commanded to speak the Love in Truth.

Amen.

Lookeee Maw, I done found anotherun in the trash can again!

More about this later. I just have to have one more cup of coffee and watch Lost from last night before I'm going to be able to think.

A Litany of Faithfulness

We went back to the Big Church on Sunday. To be honest, I was beginning to wonder if we'd ever go back to church at all or if we would just join the faithful throwing the Frisbee at George Ward Park on Sunday mornings. I realized as we neared the church why we had waited a month to go. It was hard to go back. I suppose I've realized that it would be, I just didn't know what to expect from myself. By the time we had parked and walked inside, I was weeping. It isn't that I didn't want to be there, it's just that I realized what being there meant. For the second time in my life, I was back at the Big Church against my will--because our plan had unraveled--because we wanted to be near to Jesus and just didn't know what else to do. For some reason, the Big Church always wants me back. For the second time, I came emotionally disheveled. Heart sick and broken. I don't belong here, I thought. I don't belong here, yet I do.

Much later that night, I woke up in the darkness. I wished I had a rosary to work. I would rub my sorrow right into those beads. I would rub into them my grief, my heart sickness, my insignificance as I sent my prayers up to God. If I did pray the rosary, I think I would use those beads to count off God's faithfulness.

You were faithful...

When I was lost.

You were faithful...

When I was afraid.

You were faithful...

When I didn't know what to do.

You were faithful...

When I was not.

O my Jesus, forgive us our sins, and save us from the fires of Hell. Lead all souls to Heaven, especially those most in need of Thy Mercy.

I think when I used up my three decades of beads, I would start on my father's. I would start on King David's. I would start on my sister's. I would start on my hopes of faithfulness to come, and I would rub and I would work those beads until they turned to dust in my hands. And then I would start praying that litany of faithfulness again on a string of beads that could surely travel the distance between my broken heart and God's.

Evangelicals on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown

Thank you Robert for this image.

The Christian Smith quote from my last entry was lifted from an article I read in Books and Culture. Today, I found the entire article online. Sweet. B&C is something I'm just discovering. I find it an odd hodgepodge of clear relevant thought and pompous drivel. (This review of Beaumarchais in Seville is an example of the drivel. I have to follow this lagomorph trajectory because the article simultaneously amused and horrified me. It is peppered with polysyllabic words that seem to have landed amid the sentences like aliens. I'd love to hear what you think.) Ok, back to writing like a person who says "rabbit trail" when that's what they mean. This must be the journalist in me.

Now, I'm somewhat distracted.

Ok.

Moving on.

Smith's article is of the "clear and relevant" variety. He restates C.S. Lewis' assertion that a Christian writer should first be an excellent writer, expanding it to include statisticians. He doesn't even give partial credit for ignorance. And I'm glad he didn't. I couldn't agree more with many of his assertions, but what fascinated me was his conclusion that the Evangelical world thrives on fear. This has certainly been my experience, and I gather it has been Robert's as well based upon his comment on my last post.

When I was a small girl in a Christian School, I was bombarded with News of the World-style horror stories. Every Friday, my grade would gather together in one classroom to watch movies like The Hiding Place, John Hus--Martyr for God, and predecessors of the Left Behind movies. In the same way that my parents spent their childhood scanning the sky for nuclear missiles, I spent my childhood mentally preparing for the day I would be martyred. Or imprisoned. Or worse yet, Left Behind. I clearly remember the day when one of my teachers read this story aloud to the class. Talk about nightmares. Later, we were treated to a story about the night another teacher woke suffocating to find a yellow demon perched on his chest. I'm not going to say this didn't happen, but I will say that he probably shouldn't have told his class about it. (This particular teacher was passionate about his subject. He was an excellent teacher and I liked him. I wouldn't even all him crazy, but he did provide a credible camp-fire story for years to come.)

To be fair and honest, John Hus and Corrie Ten Boom are my personal heroes because of what Jesus empowered them to do.

I remember thinking that I could do something to improve the world around me and consequently, my fate, if I could just make it to the age of eighteen and remember to Vote Republican! (I have some admissions to make, here. First, I mean no disrespect to Corrie Ten Boom's book or John Hus' martyrdom. Both have been an inspiration to me. Second, I actually think that Barack Obama might be the antichrist. Time will tell, I suppose. Incidentally, my mother-in-law thinks he just might carry Alabama if he would change his name to Barack GoBama.)

Back to the topic at hand and to summarize, since I can't seem to dam my stream of consciousness this morning: Christian Smith said some interesting stuff. I hate pretentious writing, and my school contributed to my damage by scaring me on purpose when I was small.

The End.

The topic of my next post...should I ever get around to it

"...the deeper question is whether American evangelicals can live without the alarmism that is so comfortably familiar to them. Evangelicals, by my observation, thrive on fear of impending catastrophe, accelerating decay, apocalyptic curses that demand immediate action (and maybe money.)" Christian Smith

Body Tired, Spirit Indefatigable

The Russ Hotel. One of the ladies on the balcony is David's Great, Great Auntie Hartwell. I wonder if she would be pleased to know how I cherish her monogrammed bed linens and silver forks. When it is cold at night, I sleep under the quilts that these three ladies made 100 years ago and it makes me feel like part of their family. I wonder how they would feel about that.

Yesterday was a bad day. I knew it was going to be when I noticed the fingers in my left hand were starting to numb. Soon, I was numb from the tip of my middle finger to my shoulder blade. From my shoulder blade through the back of my head shot a searing pain, almost like my head was about to detach from my body and soar through the sky like a refugee off to a safer place in a hot-air balloon. At some point during my breaking wild horses phase, I did some damage to my body. When I'm under stress, it reminds me what an inhospitable host for my soul it can be. (I remember how resilient I was at 15. My body hit the ground at 30 miles-an-hour three times a week only to rebound with amazing alacrity.) Later in the day, I heard one of the songs I used to play during my college radio show. The D.J. spoke about what this particular song means as a relic. Ouch. I felt old.

I hobbled into the supermarket and stood in line with my grilled cheese fixings and tomato soup. The man in front of me had a white layer cake that was frosted in coconut. I was waiting for my turn, when a voice from behind said That looks good enough to eat. I turned around and saw an old man with bright white hair and the eyes of a young man. Suddenly, I saw him as he must have been at 18. Probably off to fight. Smooth-faced, frightened, jovial still. He looked like a man who has cracked jokes all of his life. I imagined his first car, his first love, and I hoped there was a cheerful woman at home who still snapped her dishtowel at him as she ordered him out of her kitchen. But, he wondered aloud, how does it compare to a Snickers bar? I took the bait. "Well, does anything really compare to a Snickers bar?" I asked. No, he replied, Not really. I can only think of two things that are as good as a Snickers bar. "Well," I asked, "What are they?"
Madam, he said, I am a gentleman and I will not answer that question.

I hate our youth-obsessed culture. I hate how we fight to keep "fine lines and wrinkles" at bay. I want a clean face, but I'm not sure I want to prevent the formation of laugh lines, worry lines, baby lines, life lines. I think I'd like to keep some of them to remember my journey. I love to hear the stories accumulated over a long lifetime by the very old. When I first met her, David's grandmother told me stories about the hotel her family owned in Clifton, Tennessee beside the Tennessee River. I loved her stories. I miss her desperately. Once, she and I were talking and she mentioned how she thought David had become a "very odd individual." She said she didn't know what had happened to him. "Well," I asked, "Do you think he got weird once he met me?" She smiled and said "I don't know, but I do know that he wasn't weird before." I don't know if she was kidding or not, but it took a long time for me to stop laughing.

This old man trying to scare up a laugh in the supermarket made my day bearable. He made my heart feel young. Youth, be quiet. Beauty, be still. There is much to learn and too few years in which to learn it.

Shiny Rock, Subtle Freedom...Redux, Redux

"I believe God made me for a purpose, but he also made me fast. And when I run I feel His pleasure." Eric Liddle

When I was small, my father showed me how to find ordinary stones in the backyard and use a rock polishing machine to reveal their hidden beauty. Every night when he came home, I would literally fling myself down a flight of stairs into his arms and ask "Is today the day they're done?" It seemed to take forever, but it was always worth the wait to see how something so mundane was actually something so very rare in disguise. Sometimes, I think my brain is a rock polishing machine. I put in thoughts and after a few nights, they're ready to come out and gleam like the morning. (I do admit that my thoughts are often just rocks.) Eric Liddle felt God's pleasure when he ran; I feel God's pleasure when I think.

If you've read my blog over the past few weeks, it isn't a mystery what I've been thinking about. This is the wall off of which I bounce my ideas. For me to wonder in public this way is a lot like adding a new chemical to the rock polishing machine--it helps me see beneath the surface of things to the hidden truth below. Here's the issue about and around which I've been ruminating:

The question of the day (of the year?) for me sits tangentially to the tension we maintain between freedom and holiness, antinomianism and grace, question and faith, and to a lesser extent, redemption and damnation.

I've always believed that there is a tension between freedom and holiness. I imagine myself walking a wire suspended above Niagara Falls. On one side of the wire, is freedom. On the other, holiness. Go too far either way and you plunge to a certain death in the river below. We can be a little free and we can be a little holy. We should avoid either extreme least we be licentious or legalistic. Today, it appears my rocks are ready to come out of the rock polishing machine. Today, I see that there is no tension between freedom and holiness. Freedom is holiness. Holiness is freedom.

It was for freedom that Christ set us free. Freedom from the Law and freedom from sin. Both together. He didn't set us free from the Law and condemn us to the mud pits of our own sinfulness until he sees fit to come and reclaim us. He set us free from the Law and free from Sin so that we may struggle to subdue our flesh under the covering and with the strength of his amazing grace. Grace is the weapon with which we conquer sin. Grace doesn't make provision for the flesh. The Law shows us how far from the mark we are. Grace shows us to Jesus who is, in every way, the propitiation for our sinfulness. I imagine Christ undoing our sin like Gladys Aylward unwrapping the bound feet of hundreds of Chinese girls. I see him rubbing life back into our sin-sick souls and encouraging us to receive the truth that they will not grow in such affected imprisonment. He didn't die for us that we may remain in darkness, rather he came that we may see the light and share that light with others as we respond to it in deeper and more meaningful ways. I often feel myself longing for, and even submitting to, having my soul again bound by sin. It is during these times that the Holy Spirit woos me back toward freedom--toward holiness--toward Himself.

Where I was, Where I am, and Where I hope to be

Threshing Wheat, Thomas Hart Benton

I'm not a person who especially enjoys living in the 21st Century. I don't own a microwave. I don't own an ice maker. I don't have cable television. My house is 97 years old. But there's one concession I make to the modern world: I love blogging. It gives me the opportunity to recast and clarify my thoughts. And that makes me a more sane person. Consider this post a reclamation of sanity.

Here goes.

People have been talking a lot to me lately. When I lie down to sleep, I hear their voices in my mind saying the same things over and over again. In a sea of words, I've collected a few I think are especially worth saving, the rest I'm going to put out with the garbage. Here are some of the keepers:

When it all finishes, in the long term, we're all going to do what we want to do.

You didn't want to be that person anymore. That's what you were.

You know what the boxers say? They say if you've got a mean right hook, lead with your left.

You wouldn't stay in an abusive relationship sitting around thinking it was your fault, you'd just walk away. Now, just walk away.

I'm trying to figure out what makes all of these statements fit together for me right now. They seem to be what's left after the wind blew the rest off the threshing floor. The first two statements have to do with a changing heart. Human beings live according to the pleasure principle. We can't tame that drive toward pleasure and away from pain. It can't be helped, modified, ignored or dressed up and made appropriate for modern society. What pushes us away from sin and toward virtue isn't willpower, it's the singular power of Christ to change the core of our being. I believe that the Gospel does change everything. I used to be a great many things. I don't want to be those things anymore. That's who I was.

He lifted me out of the slimy pit,
out of the mud and mire;
he set my feet on a rock
and gave me a firm place to stand.

The second two statements have to do with action. I lead with my left and was sorry that I hadn't done what I was capable of doing. I regretted that I was tongue-tied and twisted. Now, I remember that I have a right hook. My best is yet to be if I can manage to walk away from my better. The truth sets me free. There is some evidence of regeneration in my heart if I do say so myself.

There is no health in me . I am penitent and thankful that I still can be.

A general Confession to be said of the whole Congregation after the Minister, all kneeling.

LMIGHTY and most merciful Father; We have erred, and strayed from thy ways like lost sheep. We have followed too much the devices and desires of our own hearts. We have offended against thy holy laws. We have left undone those things which we ought to have done; And we have done those things which we ought not to have done; And there is no health in us. But thou, O Lord, have mercy upon us, miserable offenders. Spare thou them, O God, who confess their faults. Restore thou them that are penitent; According to thy promises declared unto mankind in Christ Jesus our Lord. And grant, O most merciful Father, for his sake; That we may hereafter live a godly, righteous, and sober life, To the glory of thy holy Name. Amen.

Still Chewing...Perseverance Redux and Expansion

The emergents go marching along?

Well, I hope you'll bear with me as I use this blog to sort out some of the issues that keep cropping up within the confines of my own little mind. The question of the day (of the year?) for me sits tangentially to the tension we maintain between freedom and holiness, antinomianism and grace, question and faith, and to a lesser extent, redemption and damnation. These questions are leading me to take some of my old convictions out of the closet and examine them with a new mind. This practice is always useful, and as I employ it, I am astonished to find that the old ideas are more beautiful, applicable and rich than I remembered.

Let me just be blunt. Here's the crux: some of the dialogue I've been privy to in private and some of the blogs I've seen written publicly have celebrated the Christian's freedom to question the tenets of our faith and has unraveled the assumption that "I don't know" is an unacceptable answer to theological questions. This is good. As we open ourselves to the understanding and the appropriation of truth, the Holy Spirit makes it available. We need to shed that arrogance that always searches for understandable concrete answers in order to understand the truth we do have. (How's that for a Zen-Christian mantra?) It isn't so much that concrete answers don't exist as that we so often wish to use the concrete and finite to buttress faith in the abstract and Infinite. Sometimes, believing precedes seeing.

The other side of the coin is that some of the same dialogue has shifted from celebrating the freedom to doubt to celebrating the doubts themselves and even to a unashamed rejection of the means to having those doubts resolved. (i.e., Prayer, Scripture, Meditation, etcetera. They are all elements found in a Christians "survival kit" for planet earth.) It's a subtle shift. In my opinion, it's beyond insipid. But I'm afraid it has some pernicious implications.

It is easy for the Christian to fall away from truth, but a Christian can't fall away from their human nature. What was a gentle encouragement toward honestly has morphed into a surprisingly structured philosophy that disparages the Church, disavows prayer and scripture and undermines the individual's responsibility for others. I may be poised on the brink of a complete and undeniable over-reaction, but I have dark visions of a Jackbooted Monolith that will not be questioned rolling heedlessly over any Christian who lays claim to any truth at all.

I'm afraid this is going to be the legacy of the Emerging Church. Wouldn't it be odd if we all found ourselves experiencing religious persecution not in the secular universities of the world, but in the pews of our own churches? I forsee a time when we will all long for the days when a white man in a suit had the courage to tell us the truth.

This whole entry kind of left me after the first sentence. It's amazing what I find in my head sometimes.

Chewing, Chewing All Day Long

For the past several months, I've been chewing on a question:

How much doubt can a Christian have about the fundamental issues of the faith and still call himself (or herself) a Christian?


It's a lot to think about.

I look at the writings of my contemporaries for answers, but I'm not impressed with the depth and wonder they hold in the mysterious caverns of their own navels. They've reinvented the wheel and they have made it square. Frankly, no one I know has the mental acumen or the knowledge of scripture they need to write answers that compare to those offered in the confessions and creeds Christians have been clinging to since the second century.

I feel unkind writing that. I shouldn't want to belittle the questions or the Questioners, but I suppose that's what I'm doing. I don't respect the kind of indefinite doubt that resists resolution like my Golden Retriever's fur resists water. I believe that there is a difference between the resolution of doubt and the pursuit of answers. Some questions will never be answered here on earth, yet we labor to resolve our doubts. We can be confident apart from answers, and we should be. That's faith.

That being said, I'm comforted by the notion that a Christian won't have his faith so shaken, his will so broken, or his mind so doubt-addled that his assurance won't be revived in time.

And isn't that an essential element of victory? And even more, isn't that hopeful for the doubter? Thomas doubted and was restored. It's the restoration, not the doubt, that tests the mettle of faith.

I believe a Christian can question, wrestle and resist the fundamental elements of faith for a time. It might actually be the mark of an earnest heart. But if perpetual doubt becomes a fundamental part of a person's basic nature, that person might be one of those vainly deceived with false hopes and carnal presumptions of being in the favor of God.

I find this conclusion troubling - more than that, it brings me grief as I consider all the people I love who have built a home on doubt. But despite that trouble, despite that grief, I find it to be true.

I doubt. I struggle. I question. And Christ overcomes my feeble faith. His presence - past, present, and future - brings me comfort and assurance and peace. That's how I know He's there. That's how I feel His presence. It isn't that I have all the answers, I don't even have all the questions, but I do have a peace that passes my understanding. I've found that it does guard my heart and mind from the doubts that would surely overwhelm me as I sail the ocean of this world from the bow of my very tiny boat.

I'm It

RULES: People who get tagged need to write a blog post of 6 weird things about them as well as state this rule clearly. In the end, you need to choose 6 people to be tagged and list their names. Don't forget to leave a comment that says "you are tagged" in their comments and tell them to read your blog.

1. I make myself laugh harder than anyone else.
2. I wrote a song based on the Neville Brother's "Everybody Plays the Fool," but mine is called "Everybody Pees the Pool." And it makes me laugh til I'm in pain.
3. I smell people. If you're my friend, chances are, I could identify you in the dark based on what you smell like. People I like smell good and people I don't smell funny. I can pretty much tell if I'm going to like you or not based on that. People I really don't like smell just a little bit like pee. I don't think this is something I can help.
4. I hate Rosie O'Donnell, but I can't help but like her. Just a little bit.
5. I secretly really like my mother in law, but I'm so glad she isn't my mother.
6. My mom and my sister have always said "Isn't it a shame that you/we got your father's legs?" But these days, I kind of think my legs are sexy and I wouldn't trade them for anyone's.

Y'all are ALL tagged. Reply to this post with your 6 things.

I can't decide if this is really funny or really wrong. I really laughed, but that doesn't mean anything.

A Brunette Me...and what that means

My long-dreaded 30th birthday found me high above America's heartland on a small commuter flight between Birmingham and Chicago. It was a good start to the 30th year of my life.

I spent one day alone wandering up and down Michigan Avenue. I watched the people come and go, made a few superficial observations about the people I saw, and somewhere during that day had a realization about myself. Namely, that I'm never going to be a twenty-something again. Ever. It's over. My life is serious now. I have grown-up problems. I make serious decisions with grave implications. I'm not solely responsible to myself or for myself. This is life. This is it. And I'd better get busy. I can't be 20, I thought, but I'll make this the best 30 that I can. And that's a good thing.

I think I grew up somewhere between Walton and Chestnut in Chicago, IL.

When we got home, I didn't feel blonde anymore. My blonde has always been a sign of silliness. I've always been flippant and effusive. Ready to crack a joke. I'm not anymore. I don't feel comfortable making the effusive and happy part of my personality public anymore. I've found myself being less friendly and more demanding of people. More willing to say "you're wrong about that." I think I've been a person that others can dominate and intimidate. I think I've been a person to whom others could express their opinions without first examining them for barbs. I think I've allowed other people to treat me in absolutely innapropriate ways. I've allowed too many people to tell me about myself. To tell me "what my problem is." I've learned that there are more arrogant and petulant people in my world that I would ever have imagined. I've also learned that "arrogant" and "petulant" do not ever equate to "smart" or "insightful." Ever. (Isn't it an odd thing that some people just say whatever they feel like saying? As if they really have something useful to say? How do you acheive that perceived wisdom that allows you to spew garbage and feel righteous? Is there some gene for that or something?)


The first thing that I've really noticed is that I don't really get mad when people overstep their boundaries with me anymore. I don't pretend that it's okay anymore, either. I just say, "that's enough." And people shut up. It's a new brunette power, I guess. Along with this, I've noticed that I don't worry so much about hurting people's feelings. I used to let people treat me badly and then assure them that I wasn't offended so as to avoid hurting their feelings. Now, I'll just tell them that they're wrong and walk away. Oddly, I find that I'm not as offended or angry as I used to be.

So, I'm not blonde anymore. I'm not blonde on the outside. I'm not blond on the inside. And it feels good.

For Rebekka

Another word about emotion....

Usually when people are sad, they don't do anything. They just cry over their condition. But when they get angry, they bring about a change.--Malcolm X, 1965

This Year, I'm Grateful

This reeks of melodrama, I know. I'm paranoid about being overly dramatic, too emotional. I'm coming to the conclusion that drama and emotion are seminal elements of humanity in general and of me in particular. There is a place for them. It would be a shame to eliminate them completely, don't you think? I'd miss something of what it means to be human. Feeling may twist judgment, says Kenneth B. Clark, but the lack of it may twist it even more. I love that quote. Who can be objective? Not one of us, really. We just aren't. The ones who think they can express anything with objectivity are the most partisan (and consequently, the biggest liars). We just weren't meant for that.

I'm starting to feel something unexpected taking the stage in the play of emotion I've been watching in my heart's theater this year. The first act: Hope. Followed by Fear, Apathy, Grief and Despair. See, I've had twin themes of disappointment running a dual, and bizarrely synchronized, course through my life this year. I've greeted these themes with emotion. I'm at what must be the climax of action. Something is about to happen and I wave a ragged flag of faith that says it must be good. This unexpected thing is starting to feel a lot like Gratitude. Odd.

I'm walking around with a hole in the middle of me. I've tried filling it with all kinds of things and I've felt all kinds of things about it. I almost feel crippled. More odd still is what effect it has on me. I've welcomed the Son of God into a part of my heart that I've held close and silent for a long time. The needs of other people, their vulnerability in a harsh world, is poignant and real and pressing to me. Every moment is pregnant with meaning. Every small beauty makes me cry. And as there are more small beauties in the world than we will ever be able to catalogue, I cry a lot. I don't even know that it's a sign of sadness as much as it is a response to a mundane yet sublime realization that this hole in the middle of me has made more room for God than I knew I had. This strange and uninvited perspicacity leads me back to Hope. I feel it's waiting in the wings and wishes to whirl me around with my eyes closed at least one more time.

What a blessing was Paul's Thorn of the Flesh. I'm brave enough to say that although I feel the temporality of my thorn, I hope I'll never forget what it meant to hold it.

Christmas Eve

Christmas Eve, we stay under covers watching movies. It's good to be reminded who I married and why. I've noticed that I'm spoiled by kindness and made too soft for a harsh world. It's a luxury I don't take for granted.

Images, Smimmages

I must have seen 100 bumper-stickers on the 280 today. The life of a bumper-sticker must be exhausting (pun intended, yuk yuk). Out of thousands of stickers, you the bumper-sticker must be the one to grab attention and stake a claim on the image of your particular bumper's driver. You vie for position, sometimes scrambling to overcome the voice of the actual car. I see a late-model Lexus SUV with a "C The River" sticker. Intended message: I'm upper-middle class, but dammit if I don't love the environment...despite the gas milage of this car. Actual message: "See this neato car Daddy bought me for graduation? You won't see me in a wimpy little Prius." I see a Camry with a sticker for some obsure hipster band I've never heard of. As in the case of the Lex, the message is clear. This car is middle-class vanilla; but I, on the other hand, certainly am not. I even took the "Lucy Pevinsie for President" sticker off of my car because it became a screaming announcement of my church affiliation. (BTW, people in Georgia have those stickers. No kidding.)


This makes me tired. The constant striving to label, categorize and file away our very beings (often even using someone's corporate logo!) must be symptomatic of a *consumer-culture on the skids. The bumper-sticker is even used to keep people from slapping you with a label. Well, to keep them from slapping you with a label quickly, anyway. The FSM "fish" next to the flag of the Episcopal Church, for example, gives me a headache. Mix your metaphors if you must, but try and make sure they aren't mutually exclusive. Otherwise, you just make me think you're schizophrenic


*Did you get that reference? If you were a **hipster music hippie like me, it would have been obvious. And nauseating.
**I haven't been a hipster music hippie since everyone listened to the Connells, but you still make me wanna walk like a camel.

I thought this was finished, but it is not not not. And I'm having a hard time being philosophical about it now.

Questions I'm Embarrassed to Ask

How DOES the Dewey Decimal system work? I've never been able to figure it out.

What the hell is a Eurodollar, anyway, and why would someone trade it?
(The obviously related follow-up question is what the hell is a porkbelly?)

Do people really buy those $800 handbags they sell at Saks? I mean real people. Those who live in Burpingham?

What are the rules for hyphenating last names? I mean, I know David and I could be the Lewis-Smiths, but I'm the only one who is really a Lewis-Smith. David's just a Smith, even though his middle name is Louis. Is that correct? In America? Cause I know it isn't in England. But I don't care.

What is the correct way to scramble an egg? I can scramble eggs, but I don't think I do it correctly.

Am I really supposed to tip the mailman at Christmas?


Whew. I feel better just owning-up to all the things that I don't know.

Oh, I thought of one more:

Does the Ghost Whisperer come on tonight? (Or, the Boobie Whisperer, which is what I call it. That hour on Friday nights is the only time you will ever hear me say to my husband "Will you LOOK at her boobies hanging out of that top!")

Stuart Weitzman is a Feminist

I went shopping with my mother-in-law this weekend. I can't say that it did very much to improve the mood I was in when I made my last post, but I'm resigned to the idea that I'm going to have to deal with that for awhile. Resignation makes the heart grow stronger,or at least it gives the brain a respite from fretting.

That being said, it will shock and awe those of you who know me well to read that I experienced love-at-first-sight with a pair bright-red, patent-leather, Stuart Weitzman stiletto heels. I know. They are absolutely ridiculous. I'm completely infatuated. I have to imagine what kind of woman would wear these shoes. I flip through my mental picture album: Betty Friedan rolling off her cloud and klomping off to Heaven's Public Library to do research for the New, New, New Feminist Mystique? Not quite. She's the woman most widely credited with disarming the iconic housewife-in-heels image, and I have no reason to believe she's sorry now that she's crossed the Jordan. (Yes, I know she was Jewish, I just can't adjust to the idea that God didn't mean for the Jews to be His Chosen forever.) Or, what about Frederica Matthewes-Green schleping across the country to speak to church women's groups about how church women's groups are absolutely stupid? That takes some moxie, but it's fairly obvious that Freddie's particular brand of chutzpah don't come from nobody's shoes, y'all.

My mind's eye rests on an image of a woman I'm sure will fit: She's in an office dressed for work, she's in the kitchen cooking supper, she's strutting to the park with a baby in a stroller, she's at the crisis pregnancy center helping women figure out what their choices actually are. She's Oprah in Chicago, she's Katie in New York, she's Barbara in Birmingham. She's Dorothy, easin' on down that road to tell the Wiz a thing or two. She's US, y'all! Helloooo, Sexy!

It really isn't about those shoes anymore. It's about a feeling they give me that feminine is powerful. That woman is necessarily strong and sexy. That Jesus is more concerned about keeping women out of sexual slavery than keeping them out of the pastorate. (We've taken a wrong turn, y'all. We live in a world where little girls in our congregations get molested and it takes us hours and hours of discussion to figure out if you need a penis to come to a meeting or hold a communion cup. We're out-of-our-minds crazy if we think Jesus doesn't notice that. He notices and He cares more than we can imagine.) Just picture us, whacking through the phallocracy that is Corporate America, but also the Presbyterian Church in America, doing irreparable damage to the notion that women can't hold their own in business and that God has a small and prescribed place for women in His church and we're sinning if we step outside His borders. I'm ashamed, but I'm even afraid to ask questions anymore. Men and women hold these issues up as a measure of orthodoxy in the church.

My silliness can't last when it's informed by the gravity of and these issues. I'm thankful for those who seek to help.

I've been inspired. By a pair of $300 shoes. In my book, that makes shoes art and Stuart Weitzman a feminist. Boo-ya.

I'd like to point out, incidentally, that Nine West makes a great copy for about $45. (I've room for a little silliness, I guess, if only to stay the worry.)

I'm a little teapot?

When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight. ~Kahlil Gibran

I had coffee with my nephew, Dave yesterday. He's 19 and at the peak of his fact-gathering, self-defining mission. It's so validating to watch because it reminds me that this is a season all thinking people must experience. The bombardment of ideas, especially those of the "liberal," "humanistic," "post-modern," and "new-age" varieties make us rethink and refine our core beliefs. They make us stronger and better. They make us claim our ideologies and give us the words to define them. I'm proud of him. He's a thinker. So am I.

There are a lot of things in my brain. Too much thinking. Too many thoughts. I need a thought vacation. I'm departing in about five minutes. I won't think about anything but laundry, groceries and soap for the rest of the day. I will lose myself in the business of mindlessness. I'm excited. This is my "farewell to thought" post.

I am, indeed, "weeping for that which has been my delight." I can't seem to stop, though, and that's my problem. I've cried a year of tears over the past two weeks. Someone handed me a button at my Bible study. It said "It's ok to say Merry Christmas." I don't care about "Merry Christmas" versus "Happy Holidays," but I cried. Someone sent me a kind e-mail. I went to thank her, and I cried. Someone wrote a kind and encouraging note to me, and I cried. I heard a Mr. Rogers song and I cried. I saw a red-tailed hawk flying over 8th Avenue and I cried. To be honest with you, I'm crying now. I don't know why though. I just don't know why. Or maybe I do. I've decided not to think about it.

This is my dad.

This is something I wrote a long time ago, but I thought I'd put it here again because I've got pictures now.

This is my dad. This photograph came from Briarwood's website. My dad works at Briarwood. He's smiling, but I bet he's thinking "Please get this over with as soon as possible."

Some people (both men and women) are born with Warrior Spirits. My dad has a Warrior Spirit. I think it probably came in handy when he was a United States Marine, but I think God probably gave it to him for such a time as this. Lately, I've been seeing how far we have drifted as a church, as a culture, as a nation and a planet from God's design for us. There's so much sin in our world that Evil has been able to set up camp everywhere. This isn't a new phenomenon, but it's the first time that I've really contemplated it. In a world of Evil, we need some Warrior Spirits. A Warrior Spirit doesn't necesarily go around whacking people's heads off anymore. These days, I think that a Warrior Spirit is a leader who can rally us to grasp truth and find it worthy of our decisive action. That's the kind of Warrior Spirit my dad is. When I talk to him, I find myself seeing black and white in a world of gray. He makes me see the truth I knew was there all along.

I need that. I love my dad. I need a good dose of the truth right now because so much around me is hollow and false and wrong. I'd like to fight against that, even in my own world, but I can't even find my sword right now. I'm not sure how to go about it. My dad didn't know either, but he told me that Someone does and I know that Someone will tell me soon.

"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.