As my sweet Southern friend Susan would say, Oh. My. Lanta. (Possible spelling-for-drama Oh. Mylanta. I grew up in Alaska, I’m wingin’ it.)
Seriously. It is not often (yet) that I feel myself tempted to say “Back in my day, things were different. You kids these days……”
But can we be real? (This here is already pretty real, seein’ as how I’m using conjunctions to start sentences and such. My blog. My grammar.)
Before we get real, perhaps I should warn you. It’s hot here in the Northwest, and by hot I mean I’m feeling the need to fan myself on the front porch in front of an ice block, because we don’t have AC and it’s either the ice block and a fan or injure all of my peoples who seem to be picking their worst behaviors for display in these days of Unpleasant Hotness. Bad choices, people, they are making Bad Choices……
So I MIGHT be a little bit cranky. Maybe.
Back to the getting real. Cause kids these days (cue tremulous and crotchety old voice in your head now) are flat out spoiled. My eldest just told me I needed to buy the small people new fluoride rinse, to which I lovingly and patientlyreplied in my most nurturing voice, “Oh, precious, no, there are three other bottles of three other flavors available to you under the sink.”
Oh, no. Apparently the pink one is the only “tolerable” flavor for their delicate little mouths. Seriously?? These kids need a dose of good ol’ Mr. Yuk Mouth! Remember him? Back from the day when our medicine all tasted BAD so we wouldn’t poison ourselves with it? Remember? Back when there weren’t eleventy-three flavor boosters available at the pharmacy, and a premium option to have it formulated as a icy slush??? (That could be a hallucination, I’m hot, but I swear it’s available.)
Here’s some old school terror for you, you grape/cherry/banana/magicberry-loving little ones……
yeah…..that’ll scare you into never wanting to go to the Dr. EVER. Or clean anything, EVER, cause of the scary Yuk Mouth.
Remember, back when the only oral health rinse we had was Listerine, (registered, trademarked, don’t-sue-me-its-a-lovely-product-though-I-do-prefer-Fresh-Mint) which came in only one flavor, and that proud flavor was “Light Brown Blister and Pain?”
Back in the day when toothbrushes came in either scratchy, poky or straw, and not in derivations of cartoon characters, scented handles and rotating/singing/timing/teaching you Ukrainian poetry?
Seriously, go brush your teeth. Mamaw has to go out on the porch and fan herself.
Sorry, I don’t mean to be rude. But I win. No competition. When the Head Dad up high was handing out fathers, I won. And I find myself this year at a loss to let my dad know how much I appreciate him, what a blessing he has been to me, to my younger brother before he died, and to all of the others in his life that he has “fathered.”
Well, that’s not entirely true, the “finding myself at a loss” part. Cause, you know, it’s me, and I’ve got stuff to say. But this year more than ever, I find myself full of emotion, appreciating my dad more now than ever before, at a time when based on the reality of human lifespans and forward motion of the calendar I have less time left with him than I’ve ever had before. Funny (NOT) how that works.
So, for my Dad, thank you.
Thank you for setting me straight and strong and true in this world. For never allowing me to seriously question if I was good enough. For making sure I valued who I had been created to be, and Who had created me. And I love you.
For the rest of you, allow me to share 10 lessons from my father. These aren’t a top ten, because he’s taught me far more than that. These are just the first ten that come to mind, in no particular order of importance. You’re welcome.
Ten Lessons From My Dad
10. “What kind of tree is that?” Life really is more interesting when you know what kind of tree that is.Since my parents were both teachers, we took a lot of long summer vacations when I was a kid, and several over Christmas breaks. Those trips were always peppered with my dad asking “What kind of tree is that?”, and with us kids and my mom rolling our eyes at him. When I was a kid, I Really. Didn’t. Care. But now I’m the one asking, and noticing, and appreciating the amazing little details of the natural world around me.
9. “Mom, come on……!!” Now my kids pull on MY elbow after church. As a child, the fellowship time over coffee and cookies was always torture for my brother and I, a frustrating attempt to get my extroverted dad to STOP TALKING ALREADY so we could go home. Now, it’s MY kids who are bugging me after church, trying to get me to leave, as I wander about my family of faith, touching base, catching up, and being love. He did it then, I try to do it now.
8. Keep loving your people, no matter how hard, no matter how inconvenient.This is a foundational part of my dad’s character, and it was deeply ingrained in my brother before he passed away, and I hope it is in me. Didn’t matter if it was my dad’s childhood friend, violent and angry from mental illness; or my dad’s extended family, tense with division and hurt feelings; or a close friend, broken by his own mistakes and misjudgements. If they allowed it, Dad stood by them, walked alongside them, spoke truth to them, and always, he loved them. (There has really been only one exception to this that I know of in my dad’s life, and it was not for lack of trying. But this tremendously broken person not only could not and did not change but was hurting innocents in the process. Walking away from that was an equally valuable lesson.)
7. Life is interesting and there is fun to be had.My dad has always been interested and engaged in the world around him, teaching courses, taking courses, learning new things and sharing that knowledge with excitement. Even now, as he has struggled with health issues and the loss of his home a year ago to a fire, he is still engaged in the world in a way that inspires me. He’s currently taking painting classes, tai chi and a brain health class! Go Dad! I want to grow up and be just like you!
6. Family isn’t just to whom you are born, it’s also to whom you are called.I have always had to share my folks, particularly my dad. It seemed like young people were and are (although my definition of young has, um broadened over the years) always coming to my dad for advice, for a listening ear, for perspective and occasionally for a strong kick in the pants. He has been a surrogate father for granddaughters, for students, for people who have sought him out for his wisdom, patience and love. Have I always enjoyed sharing him? Not really. But I wouldn’t have it any other way.
5. Keep your eyes on the road!!!!That may, in light of the other points, sound deep and philosophical, but it isn’t intended that way. In the midst of his zest for life, learning and new experiences, my childhood road trips were also full of one or more family members yelling “Dad! Eyes on the road!” as he allowed the steering wheel to drift towards whatever had caught his eye alongside the road. Still a good reminder for all of us.
4. Making gestures is important. My dad loves to give gifts and make gestures. There have been many throughout the years, all of them coming with the message that Dad loved us enough to take the extra time, the extra thought to make it special. The car I thought we were negotiating payments for me to make after college that he’d saved up for to buy me outright. The special earrings he wrapped and hid in the Christmas tree for my mom and I. (I will always hide gifts in the tree, it is now family tradition.) The romantic anniversary flowers and gifts for my mom, after 50 years of marriage. Gestures are important, because people are important.
3. Don’t research it to death. Do something, even if it’s wrong, so you can get on with enjoying your life. Case in point – several years ago, my husband and I (ok, mostly me) were in the market to buy our first barbecue grill, and I was armed with reviews, product specs, prices and comparison articles. I spent so much time researching “the best”, that I never got around to buying anything. One day, my dad showed up with a perfectly fine middle-of-the-road grill he’d bought for us. Was it the “best”? No. But we sure got to grilling on it, and enjoying our yard and our deck and each other. Classic Dad, and he was right.
2. Keep loving your people, even when it’s hard.Yep, this is basically a repeat of #8. But who likes a list of 9??? Not to mention, this one is the most important. Those extended family members who stopped talking to each other? He’s never stopped talking to any of them, updating them on how the other is, gently reminding them without words of the bond of family. He’s still hoping for reconciliation. (I’m hoping it doesn’t happen at his funeral. Seriously people, let bygones be bygones. Family feuds are a tragic waste of time.) Granddaughters who struggle with mental illness, with good choices, with loving behavior? He’s there, forgiving, loving and encouraging. And a daughter who is frequently overwhelmed, and frequently not quite as THERE for her folks as she’d like to be? Always patient, always forgiving, never guilt-tripping.
Yeah, this one’s the most important, because through my dad, I’ve gotten to know my Father.
1. Spoil your kids, even when they are far too old for it. By spoil, I mean surprise them by watching their small monsters children so they can have a date night, or with the occasional cash encouragement and direction to treat themselves. Say, maybe when they are in the middle of a difficult season of tight finances, trying to be responsible adults and feeling deprived of small luxuries like tomato plants and flowers. Such small spoiling says “I love you, you will get through this rough patch, but don’t forget to enjoy life in the meantime.”
Tomatoes and flowers from my dad
Sorry dear readers, but really, I win Father’s Day.
Hey, long time no see. Read. Share. Whatever. Hey Blog Readers! Thanks for joining me, I know it’s been a long time, but I’m back. Again. Honestly, you may want to grab a cup of tea, this is kind of a long one, but so glad you’re here!
So, how was your day?
Mine? Not great, honestly. Empty gas tank, squirrel murder, gas station faux pas, nervous travelers, and Angry Dude, the gas station manager. That was my morning. Well, that, and the Whisper that changed it all around.
The plan was to drive some old and dear family friends back to the airport this morning after they’d had a visit with my folks. I arrived on time. (Well, really, thirty minutes earlier than necessary because my mother, who claims she didn’t, accidentally told me to be there thirty minutes earlier than necessary because she does not trust my timeliness. Apparently my teen years were very hard on her. I like to be exactly on time, she likes to be ridiculously early. A lifetime of tension ensues. Timeliness – key plot point to remember…..) Anyhow, I arrived to pick them up in plenty of time, and after some brief chitchat it was time for hugs and hitting the road, and we loaded up.
We set off, but just as I pulled onto the highway, I happened to glance down at the gas gauge, and was HORRIFIED to see it below empty, light just blinking away. I didn’t drive at all yesterday, what happened? Crud. Oh, well, we’ve got time, no problem. And so it began……..
I efficiently pulled off the highway and up the ramp, calculating in my head where the gas station might be and how long this little detour might take (timeliness on my mind, not wanting to have THAT conversation with Mom……).
You know how it’s so funny to say “Squirrel!” and feign distraction as if you are the dog from the movie Up?
Yeah, that’s not how I said it when I saw the pair of furry frolicking love-squirrels skittering directly ahead of me, a vehicle to my right, a steep hill to my left. And after the undeniable jolt we felt, I made the mistake of looking back, only to see the twitching, seizing body of the squirrel lover I had just summarily squashed. I didn’t see but can only imagine his little squirrel amour, safely across, watching his little body draw its last breath, struggling to understand how her spring romp had gone badly so quickly.
“Frankie! Frankie, what’s wrong? I wanted to have your squirrel babies……”
Still shaking, I pulled into the overpriced highway ramp gas station. Angry Dude, the manager, approached my van, and took my credit card. I was only getting $20 of gas, so when he returned in a few moments, I was not surprised.
(Back in MY DAY, $20 worth of gas would get you a full tank and a free car wash, yessiree. Today, not even a quarter of my minivan’s tank. Grumble, grumble, I walked to school barefoot in the snow uphill both ways……..Sorry.)
He handed my credit card back to me with a hearty “There you go!”. I assumed we were done, as did my passengers, and I began to pull away. Unfortunately, Angry Dude had just been enthusiastically returning my credit card, and had barely begun to pump the gas. When I drove away with the nozzle still in my tank, it ripped loose and loudly clattered to the ground. I realized immediately what had happened, and stopped, the apology ready on my lips as I opened the door.
No matter, he had no interest in my apology. “What the f***?” he yelled at me, as I tried to tell him I wasn’t trying to steal the gas, but just had misunderstood him. He demanded I return to the pump, continuing to berate me the entire time for how stupid I was, how I needed to pay attention, how the pump was probably broken(it wasn’t) and I would be paying the $1000 to fix it.
I am quite sure that the very proper retired 4th grade teacher in my van has NEVER been yelled at in such a manner, nor has she had the f-bomb even hurled in her general direction before her delightful time with me this morning. Poor thing. I’m sure the 6 hours of flying she had ahead of her were relaxing in comparison.
As we finally pulled away, headed once again toward the airport, I began to angrily compose my letter to the gas station’s corporate CEO in my mind, filling it with my unbridled anger at being mistreated over a simple mistake. I gleefully pictured returning to the station, demanding Angry Dude’s name to include in my brilliantly written epistle of anger.
Believe me, I come by my capacity for ferocious righteous indignation honestly, from a long line of ladies who are and were more than capable of standing up for ourselves and others, for writing blistering letters to the editor or the complaint department that left ash and singe marks in their wake.
By the time we go to the airport, though, I had calmed down a wee bit, and from out of Nowhere into my soul came a different plan.
“Go back,” said the Whisper to my heart, “Go back, forgive him, apologize for not paying attention, and acknowledge the likely source of HIS anger.” It was clear to me as I went over the details of our encounter that others must have pulled away on purpose, stiffing him for the gas and the broken pump, and his response to me was clearly that of owner or manager, worried and responsible for the whole station.
But no, I thought, he DESERVES my wrath, he yelled at me! Plus that would be weird, he’s probably forgotten about it, I’ll just make him feel more awkward, and that would be overreacting. “It’s good to be weird,” persisted the Whisper, “especially when it makes people think about why you’re doing it. In fact, bring him a gift.”
A gift. Great. That won’t be weird at all. Sigh.
I am not historically one of those apparently blessed types who constantly hear The Voice of The Lord, who can tell you what The Lord told them to have for breakfast or what to wear for dinner at Red Robin, or even which job to take or house to buy. Usually, God and I have a more informal communication pattern, one in which I probably miss about 75% or more of what He tells me, and in which I’m sure He gently laughs and rolls His eyes at what I tell Him.
But there are times in life when an idea or thought is so clearly not of me, so clearly inspired by His Whisper, that I know to ignore it is just Not. An. Option.
So after safely depositing my travelers at the airport (only ten minutes late, thank you Lord!), I drove to a nearby Target. My mindset changed from how to verbally eviscerate Angry Dude in my letter to his boss, to what kind of snacks or treats Angry Dude might like, and if a sample size of “Goo Be Gone” would be thoughtful or would imply I thought he was dirty. (I decided to stick with manly, edible snacks, just in case.) I tucked some mini Oreos, a tiny sample of fancy coffee, some beef jerky and some little bags of almonds into a little metal bucket, and I even bought a little ribbon for the handle.
If you’re going to be weird and go overboard, it might as well color-coordinate.
I drove directly back to the gas station to deliver it, nervous all the way.
Now, as I share with you the underwhelming end to my story, let me make a couple of points:
I knew this was about me, about my heart, and that I had to forgive him and present my gift with NO expectations of his response. That wasn’t the Whisper’s goal. My heart was the one that needed change, the one I could change or allow to be changed.
Good thing, because his response when I arrived and walked up to him with my cute little tin of treats ran the gamut – suspicion, dismissal, refusal of my gift, and a rehash of how I should pay more attention and how dangerous it had been.
It wasn’t about telling Angry Dude why I was doing it, that I was realizing I had been forgiven long ago for so much more than a rude outburst, that the least I could do was live my life in this world in a way that stood out a little, that made people wonder. It was about the tenor of my response, a Word He had planted in me just a few days ago through the musings of a dear friend at Bible study.
Always be prepared to give an answer to everyone who asks you to give the reason for the hope that you have. But do this with gentleness and respect… 1 Peter 3:15
Good thing, because I choked out something lame like “no, really, we’ve both had a crappy morning, and I just wanted to say I knew I should have paid more attention. Please, take it, I just want you to have a better day.” I was gentle and respectful, but also nervous, awkward, and probably weird.
Angry Dude finally did take my gift, and said something like, “Well, I’m sorry I yelled at you BUT you should be more careful.” Ahhhh…..the qualified apology. Good thing this wasn’t about manipulating a satisfying response………..
And I confess I did spend some time afterwards, thinking of all the things I could have said differently or better, and kicking myself for not including a note with some key Scriptures in it that would point him to the Source of my weird actions. But not for long. Because I heard another Whisper, winding in-between my self-recriminations.
“It was enough. Shhhhhh…….Accept that it was enough.”
So I am.
Still feel awful about the squirrel though, may he rest in peace.
First, I’m sorry, that was so awkward, right? But my speeding ticket says I have the option to send a letter of explanation with my check and my no-contest plea, but it doesn’t say to whom I should address it. So I hope one of those salutations covered it, because I certainly don’t want to be rude or get started on the wrong foot.
And not just because I’m hoping you will reduce my fine, but because I’m sure you have a rough job and I don’t want this to be one more whiny letter about why it wasn’t my fault (it was), and the cop was mean (he wasn’t), and I wasn’t even going that fast (well, ya got me there, I wasn’t). Maybe this letter won’t be the worst one you get today.
Not that I think I should get credit for that, because I know that isn’t how things work, but I just want to spread light and joy even in difficult circumstances.
Of course, I don’t want to be disingenuous either, I definitely want you to reduce my fine. Please.
Still not sure what I’m supposed to be explaining here. I could explain my state of mind at the time of the incident, which I am going to chalk up to the fact that it was Friday, three days after Christmas. The days and weeks before had been a whirlwind of chaos, crisis, and change for my family, and come the day after Christmas, I was plumb tuckered. Emotionally, physically, even spiritually, I was just Done. In.
Not only was I exhausted, but I’m going to admit right up front that I was probably all hopped up on sugar. Wednesday and Thursday were days of restrejuvenation comatose-like sleeping, fueled only by the Christmas food groups of fudge, fruitcake and mandarin oranges. (Without those oranges, I’d be dead of malnutrition.)
However, my kids had cabin fever, and my sweet mother-in-law, in town for the holiday, had taken to carefully poking me at regular intervals to be sure I was still breathing. By Friday, I was feeling beholden to rouse myself and be Fun Mom, Fun Hostess, Fun Daughter in Law, Fun, Fun, Fun. So off we headed to the local zoo, on a mission to see the new baby elephant.
Who is crazy cute, by the way. Have you seen her? You really should, I mean, baby elephants aren’t that common and the chance to see them before they lose their cute baby-ness is very rare.
Seriously, look:
Baby Lily, courtesy of the Oregon Zoo
Right. So, anyhow, I’ve searched the Internet in vain for what to include in this letter of explanation. You might want to include some guidelines, to help people tailor their letters to your needs. Maybe even specify when a person should do the letter of explanation, because it just says you can if you want. But not WHY. That kind of uncertainty probably brings out the crazy in some people.
Just a suggestion, because I can only IMAGINE what kind of wacky letters other folks probably send in these situations, with extraneous and unnecessary anecdotes about their personal lives.
I’m sure, for instance, you don’t want excuses, and I for one am not going to be offering any. The officer who stopped me on our way to the zoo said I was going 43 in a 25 mph zone, which is usually a 45 mph zone except for the fact that it’s a construction zone so they changed it, even though it has been a construction zone for over a year, but the fact that I know that because I researched it online doesn’t mean I’m making excuses, and I’m sure he was right. He seemed very confident, and truth be told I had no idea how fast I was going. (Runonsentencewhatnow?)
The officer was professional and polite the entire time. Honestly, I’m glad I just got the ticket I did. Because the minute he walked up to the car, I had a terrible, awful, terrible realization that I had made an ENORMOUS mistake, and that I could be paying HANDSOMELY for it.
I was driving my dad’s car because I had just brought him home from the hospital Christmas Eve (crisis, chaos), and I realized that in my rush to commence the funfunfun that the three boys in the back seat were NOT IN CAR SEATS. Not one of them. THE HORROR. THE HORROR. I know. Believe me, no additional judgement required. Mothers of my generation are well conditioned to understand the dire consequences of not using car seats. I’m surprised I didn’t burst instantly into tears.
Technically, as I understand the most conservative estimates, all three of them should be in car seats, and my uber-skinny eldest middle schooler may go to senior prom in a car seat. (The child is what our ancestors charmingly termed a “late bloomer.” I have a cat that nearly weighs more than he does.) But my younger two are always in car seats, and I in my fudge-induced intoxication had completely forgotten.
My fears seemed to be confirmed when the officer peered in the back seat and asked the age of my oldest. “Twelve, believe it or not,” I squeaked. But he didn’t say another word. I don’t know if he could tell by looking at me that I was a normally-responsibly-mama-on-the-edge-of-a-total-meltdown, or what, but I am grateful for his mercy.
Anyhow, I guess that’s my explanation. I mean, I don’t think it would be relevant to include the fact that the ticket wasn’t even the worst part of my day, which had to have been later that evening when the 6 yr old and I forgot we had started running his bath, and we found out 45 minutes later that our bathtub doesn’t have an overfill drain.
You should never, ever hear the sound of bath water running down the heating vent across the bathroom from the tub. That’s not good. And an overflowing bathtub does not care that you are MERELY TRYING TO ACHIEVE BASIC LEVELS OF HYGIENE IN PARENTING, after a really long day of trying to do the right thing and having bad results.
The Post-Christmas Flood of 2012 resulted in wet walls, wet carpet and wet mother-in-law belongings downstairs, some intra-marital yelling and a lot of wet towels. Nothing says good hostess like a wet basement guest room. Sigh.
So. Anyhoo. Enclosed please find my check, my signed ticket, and the remnants of my remaining 2012 quotas of dignity and good intentions. And Happy Belated New Year.
Tara
Note: I am eternally grateful to the clerk I spoke to on the phone who was able to reduce my fine right then, if I would just please, please, please not send in a letter.
Also, this is a silly post about my misadventures, and is in no way intended to be either dismissive of my speeding OR lack of car seat usage, which were both unsafe and inappropriate, or critical of police officers. Or traffic court clerks. Who are all awesome.
Parenting a child* with serious mental illness has meant for us multiple trips to the emergency room. As anyone who has ever been to the emergency room can attest, you are not there to enjoy the ambiance. It’s not the I Really Prefer This To Shopping at Target Room, after all. You are tense, you are frightened, you are pretending everything will be OK, and you are forced to share space with strangers who are experiencing their own crisis when you’d really rather be alone.
That was me last week, waiting for another psych evaluation and admit, sitting in that cold, noisy waiting room at the exhausted end of a day that started with fire alarms at 4:30 a.m., fire trucks, another ER visit, and the teenager’s mental health crisis. (Indoor cigarette smoking against the rules, duh + teen having rough time = A BAD DAY)
(The first ER visit early that morning was for my Hero Husband’s burned fingertips, injured as he attempted to put out the fire and then carried a box of books outdoors that was ON FIRE, to prevent the imminent conflagration of our entire basement and house. His courage, and selfless straightforward actions to protect us? I. Have. No. Words. Well, one. Gratitudelovegratitude.)
This was the box UNDER the box the Hero Hubby carried out.
Sign Language for “I love and will protect my family”
(Also, don’t do thatshould you ever be in that situation. The AMAZING kind and professional police officers and firemen gave us that message loud and clear. Smoke inhalation will get you long before the flames will, so just GET OUT.)
(Also, GO CHECK YOUR FIRE ALARMS. Now, walk away from your computer and check them. I would not be typing this today had our smoke alarms not worked last week.) (I’m not kidding, GO CHECK THEM.)
So there I was, hanging out with the teenager as we waited for her to be called back, and my tired, giddy brain produced the following. It killed some time, and made us both giggle as we concocted it. Perhaps one day you can use it, and get a giggle or two out of a tough situation.
Inappropriate Ways to Amuse Yourself in the ER
Engage in a loud argument with your companion about why your approaches to your treatment-resistant lice have failed. Scratch a lot while arguing.
Have the same argument…..with a chair. (Note: if you or your agreeable companion are there for mental health issues, you get a free pass to do this. You are merely poking fun at your own related experiences, which is ok if merely inappropriate is your goal. If you are there for a non mental health situation, don’t do this. That’s just mean.)
Begin a fierce, loud disagreement with your companion about which one of you has lost the bag of tarantulas.
Pass gas enthusiastically and with abandon. Act like nothing is happening.
If people talk loudly about THEIR ailments, share your opinions on their treatment options and prognosis. Include your beliefs on the use of tarantulas for healing purposes.
Rowdy, unsupervised children in the waiting room? Teach them some favorite songs! “100 bottles of beer on the wall, 100 bottles of beer……” (Note: do this only when you are fairly confident you will be called back no later than bottles 82 or 83. Otherwise, you too may find yourself in need of a psych eval.)
Mime Fun! Mime your symptoms, the weather, or your favorite episode of Law and Order for the audience. waiting room.
Score some of those purple non-latex gloves, blow those bad boys up and express your creativity! Begin handing out Balloon Turkeys. Or Balloon Spiders. Or Balloon……Hands.
Do you have any good additions to my list? If they are Inappropriate but Generally Harmless, share them! You never know when we all might need them!
*Parenting it is, whether it is your birthed child or the child of your heart, as in this case of our niece/foster daughter. I have her permission to blog about our adventures together.
This epiphany came to me last week as I watched my fourth grader’s soccer game. It isn’t unusual that my brain was free to have brilliant epiphanies, as I really don’t understand much about soccer except scoring goals. Soccer wasn’t a “thing” for me back in the olden days, growing up in Alaska. I had dance lessons, band, and competitive reading (wait, no, I was just a nerd), nice warm indoor activities. Soccer, not so much. The first soccer game I ever saw was my oldest son’s first game in kindergarten.
Also, full disclosure up front, I never played any team sports growing up, except for one misguided 4th grade season in youth basketball in which I scored one basket. For the other team. I clearly have much to learn about both soccer and team sports.
So I’m watching this soccer game, and my son, who spends much his time on the field watching. When he decides to get in the game, he plays just fine, but perhaps because he hasn’t played soccer for the last two years, he is fairly hesitant. I watch him watch the other boys play soccer, and think about how at that moment, his soccer coach is also just observing and hoping for the best. I realize that really, God is like my soccer coach, just watching me execute the plays. Or not.
He’s set me up with all of the equipment I need. Just like a good pair of cleats or shin guards, I’ve got access to a protective shield of faith, belt of truth, shoes of peace, the full gear set-up. (And yes, I know, we’re walking a fine line here between an insightful epiphany and a really cheesy Vacation Bible School curriculum.) Not to mention the written Word, game plays and instruction. Whether I actually use any of that gear? Totally up to me to strap it on or suffer the consequences.
He schedules in lots of practice time. I know He looks down the road to future challenges, and then allows practice “opportunities” in my life so I’ll be ready for the big plays. I’ve got constant drills and exercises in humility, discipline, dependence, walking in faith, and even teamwork. I just have to show up for every practice and work the drills, knowing I’ll be more skillful and the right moves will be more automatic the next time.
He’s rooting for me, no matter how I play. This was where it really came home to me, watching the boys run, or not run, confidently attempt goals, clumsily miss kicks and passes, and try to practice skills that seem straightforward until they actually have to use them in a game against opponents that may be bigger, faster and more experienced. In those moments, the coach puts the game in the hands (or feet) of the players, and it’s up to them. All he does is watch, advise, cringe when things go badly, and celebrate when they go well.
The dark side to my analogy was painfully clear, because the opposing team had a loud, mean, aggressive coach who easily pigeonholed himself into my diverting little mental construct: if God is my soccer coach, then that guy was the coach for the Other Team. (Boo, hiss.) He sure fit the part beautifully. As our coach quietly instructed the boys, giving them each opportunity to play and encouraging them from sidelines, this guy screamed at his small players, calling them out by name and urging them in specific directions. Of course, by the time their 9-year-old brains could comprehend his distracting commands while also directing their bodies in the game, it was too late to follow the commands, at which point he would vent his frustration loudly. Not only that, but he spent a lot of time screaming mysterious and confusing things at them, like “remember the triangle! remember the triangle!”
Seemed like a weird time to be reviewing geometric shapes with the boys. Anyhoo, his angry screams succeeded in distracting not only his own team, but also our boys. Worse, when he got frustrated with his players, he would physically take hold of them and move them to where he wanted them, humiliating and anti-coaching them all at the same time. Lots of us go through life that way, at times following a coach who is angry, confusing, and definitely not into player development.
I don’t want to imply too much with my analogy, because in reality that guy is human and flawed, just like me. And maybe he just was having a bad day, or someone ate his favorite breakfast cereal that morning and left him with plain corn flakes, I don’t know.
What I do know is that after watching a few particularly tough misses, when a boy just totally screwed up, and knowing how our coach must be feeling, I really had to feel for my Coach.
How many times in a day does He watch me look the other way to avoid an easy pass? Or cringe when I get impatient and cranky with my family, hurting everyone’s game? Or make a bold, confident move in the absolute wrong direction? I am not an easy player to coach by any stretch of the imagination, frequently convinced I already have the skills and the moves down, and then surprised when my arrogance causes me to mess up a goal kick. Or I stride out on the field to battle my opponent without having made appropriate preparations, and I get knocked on my butt. Poor Coach. Good thing he’ll never cut me from the team, no matter how awfully I play.
Now I’m off to write perky and uplifting lyrics for my new VBS curriculum, “Get in the Game”. Theme verse Ephesians 6:9-19, crafts include bejeweling your own inflatable soccer ball, macraméing a cross-shaped zipper pull for your soccer bag, and tracing, painting and glittering life-size cutouts of yourself playing soccer while wearing the breastplate of righteousness and wielding the sword of truth.
I’m sure I’ve missed all kinds of awesome soccer game/life analogies. What have you got?
In which I enjoy some “Joyful Noise,” and shush the uppity hipster critics…..
A predictable movie, well-done, is our version of legend, of powerful folktale told round the fire by tribal elder, myth passed down through generations, or epic saga recited in court by the wise, old royal storyteller. We human beings have an inherent love of story, a need to connect with each other through narrative, through “Once upon a time”, and “….happily ever after.” Even the most esoteric human truth can resonate in our minds if told through the emotional craft of story. It’s how our ancestors taught each other the best hunting tactics, or the best ways to choose a mate, or connect with their spiritual lives.
Few amongst you would derisively dismiss the collected tales of a foreign culture, or mock the stories of a primitive people group. But bring up a predictable movie with a plot that bookies won’t take bets on, and stand back. Here comes the sarcasm. Oh, it is so easy to judge. Especially if you fancy yourself an intellectual, or a hipster, or an intellectual hipster. But I stand among you blog among you today to claim that IT IS NOT SO, that a movie well-done can reunite us with our most powerful human narratives in a way that is both delightful and comforting.
That’s right, I said it. I love romantic comedies. I love musical theater. I even love sports movies featuring underdogs who triumph against all odds and win the game in the final moment.
And yes, in fact, I did recently enjoy the movie “Joyful Noise” with Queen Latifah and Dolly Parton.
You wanna go get you some upscale culture, fine. Go see “American Beauty”, or “Up In the Air”, or “Sideways”. Perhaps you will leave the theater better off in some way I never did. I find that with the approach of middle age – still in the distance, mind you, I’m not close, it’s WAY off in the distance – I am less interested in the Important Movie, and more interested in what will make me laugh, or cry, or sigh contentedly. Or, on a special day, make me angry or sad or frustrated or motivated.
Me? I’ll go see “Joyful Noise”, and grin the entire time. The. Entire. Time. I’ll savor the contest between outwardly different rivals, competing to lead their underdog group to victory, based on their deeply held convictions, rockin’ good voices, and contagious choreography.
Because you know what? I’ve got plenty of Serious in my life, plenty of Scary Reality, and honestly, even a fine helping of Mysterious Human Evil in the situations in which I live in day in and day out.
So quite frankly, I prefer to watch Queen Latifah and Dolly Parton trade barbs, and compete for the choir master position in their church, and try to prevent the young people in their lives from striving towards a relationship with each other when they ought to know their families don’t care for each other. ( SEE!??? Romeo and Juliet, eternal human story…..)
I want to bounce and sway in my seat to some excellent southern gospel (and gospelly pop music, and pop-y hip-hop-ity gospel), and laugh as Dolly makes jokes about her plastic surgery, and I even want to be satisfied that every single plot twist happens exactly as I predicted it would ten minutes earlier in the movie. I LOVE THAT.
And you know what? I could go a very, very, very long time before I watch another movie with an unsatisfying vague ending, an unjustified sad ending, or any movie in which no one in the film is anyone with whom I’d remotely want to ever hang out.
Life is too short, and I will not be judged. I’m gonna grab my joy where I can find it, and if it comes in the form of Queen Latifah and Dolly Parton, all’s the better.
1. The movie “The Help” is nearly as good as the book. Such moving performances from all involved. I was left with an unavoidable urge to utilize my Southern accent and then corner my friend S., from Jackson herself, and demand that she tell me her thoughts. Did she have “help” growing up? Did her elegant momma? How did she feel about that? What do Southern people think when I speak in a Southern accent? Is it annoying, amusing, or strangely homey?
2. I had me some Junior Mints this afternoon, and the theater is now keeping them in the refrigerator. Refrigerated Junior Mints are even MORE REFRESHING. It was a revelation, indeed.
3. I know I should be ashamed, and not excited. I know I should cry foul, not cry for more. I know remakes are derivative, they are pathetic, I should avert my eyes and protest with the other purists. But the preview for the new “Footloose” movie just made me dopey happy. And a bit giddy. And I LOVE Dennis Quaid. The only part that bothered me in the trailer is that it appears some of the dancing is a bit…….inappropriate. But I’m a sucker for a gooddecent halfway decent dance movie, what can I say? (Step Up 1 – 17 now? – told you I wasn’t discriminating; “Tap”, “White Nights”, “Saturday Night Fever”, “Flashdance”, and “Dirty Dancing”, oh my.)
What are YOUR favorite dance movies? And what are you looking forward to seeing at the theater this fall?
Discipline Should Not Be This Hard (Kitten or Child)
Eyes ablaze with passion, creativity and entrepreneurial spirit, they bound into the house.
“So Mom, we found a bunch of bark in Bobby’s* back yard, and we put it in water and it got really soft, and so then we made some toys out of it. We’re going to sell it, and we wanted to make some posters and flyers to put up and to give people, OK?”
Ummmm…..you made toys out of wet bark, and now you want to approach and/or flag down strangers to sell them? No. No, you cannot do that. Eyes dim at this less-than-enthusiastic response. I make a pitiful attempt to recognize their creativity, I suggest that they create other items and trade them with each other. But that’s not fun. You know what? I am a big fan of being a mean parent, and being consistent, and not caving in. But sometimes it sucks.
Ugh. I’m sure I’ll find out later today that Bill Gates and Steve Jobs both began their careers making things out of stuff (and you know I’m using polite grammar here) in the backyard and selling it, but no, sweet boys, no.
I cannot tell you explicitly why you cannot approach strangers without an adult to sell them wet bark things. I can only hint at how annoyed total strangers might be to be flagged over by children, who are selling….things….made out of wet bark.
How they do not remember this lesson from the time they scrounged broken McDonald’s Happy Meal toys, made a poster and tried to sell them to passersby, yelling and waving at each car? How do they not remember the long conversation we had about how that wasn’t safe? And how by the way, here is supply and demand, and if you don’t want it no one else wants it and you can’t write “Garage Sale” on your sign if you have three tiny broken toys in a bucket?
Luckily, there is not much traffic on our street. But if you happen to be cruising through, just keep going, OK?
On a related note, sort of, I am also having to enforce hard-core kitten parenting today. One of the three kittens we adopted (I KNOW, I KNOW, WHAT WAS I THINKING?) is not being very well-behaved when it comes to her litter box, and two separate vets have recommended that we segregate her and limit her to a very small space. The theory being that cats do not want to play and eat where they …. um….mess, so she’ll figure out where to do her business. So since last night, she’s been quarantined in a small bathroom, and she’s miserable.
I keep telling myself that this is for her own good, that we can’t keep a kitten who goes wherever she feels like it, so I have to be tough and help her learn. But she’s freaking out, and I’m going insane with the constant meowing, and I’m thrust back to those early baby days when you just want them to sleep through the night and all of the expert advice conflicts.
How long will this take? How will I know when she knows? Why is this so hard?
I did NOT want to become obsessed with another creature’s bowel movements, and yet here we are. Sigh.
Tara Talks Too Much 