My daughter has referred to Christmas 2012 as our "Bi-polar" Christmas. Up and down, up and down. On December 3rd, I should have heard that roller coaster "click, click click" that always proceeds the loop-de-loops.
Ryan jammed his finger at school. That was it. A simple injury, nothing more. Then Jon got sick. He stopped going to school December 5th, and although we tried, he could never get well enough to return to class. Then Ryan got sick. Then Ryan got sick again and landed in the emergency room. And then things got worse.
Not for my family, but for a family I have never met, I probably never will, but because of my job and connected friends I know more than I should about their pain and their loss. My daughter is crying and her heart is breaking, not because she lost a close friend but because so many of her friends lost a close friend and she has never experienced this kind of gut wrenching grief from the second row. It isn't fair. It isn't right. It shouldn't have happened to anyone.
We both sat at Midnight Mass, crying, laughing and praying. It was a strange hour as so many different emotions swept through our heart. I kept telling myself to just push through. We did. We went home and opened gifts and laughed and experienced the joy that Christ was born, to save us all.
Soon, I hope, I will stop crying long enough to pray about God's will. I am ready for a come to Jesus with those sitting behind the big desks.
Wednesday, December 26, 2012
Tuesday, December 11, 2012
Miracle #2
A couple years ago, when our washing machine went on strike for having to work overtime, I began washing clothes across the street at a local Laundromat. My four children thought this was the height of fun (shows how pathetically we attempt to entertain them) and always wanted to accompany me.
Of course it was only after we arrived and loaded all the machines with our dirty laundry that I realized I had forgotten the laundry soap at home. I told my kids we would walk to the convenience store next door to grab some snacks and some detergent, but as we headed for the door a man approached and stopped me.
"Do you need some soap?", he asked. I said yes but we were headed next door to buy a bottle. He handed me is half empty jug of soap and said, "Here. You can have the rest of mine. I am done with everything I have to do." Gosh, how nice of him. Was he sure? Yes, he replied that it was fine. I thanked him and filled our machines, plugged in the quarters and turned to give him his soap back but he was gone.
I grabbed the kids and we headed next door for drinks and chips, but as we walked into the store we all froze. The cashier was doubled over, her forehead was bleeding and another teenage employee looked to be in shock and wasn't moving.
We had just missed being smack dab in the middle of a store robbery and, in fact, if the nice man hadn't stopped and offered his laundry soap all four of my children would have been with me, in the store, during the robbery. We arrived in time to assist the cashier, get ice for her head and call 911, but missed the robbery itself.
Of course it was only after we arrived and loaded all the machines with our dirty laundry that I realized I had forgotten the laundry soap at home. I told my kids we would walk to the convenience store next door to grab some snacks and some detergent, but as we headed for the door a man approached and stopped me.
"Do you need some soap?", he asked. I said yes but we were headed next door to buy a bottle. He handed me is half empty jug of soap and said, "Here. You can have the rest of mine. I am done with everything I have to do." Gosh, how nice of him. Was he sure? Yes, he replied that it was fine. I thanked him and filled our machines, plugged in the quarters and turned to give him his soap back but he was gone.
I grabbed the kids and we headed next door for drinks and chips, but as we walked into the store we all froze. The cashier was doubled over, her forehead was bleeding and another teenage employee looked to be in shock and wasn't moving.
We had just missed being smack dab in the middle of a store robbery and, in fact, if the nice man hadn't stopped and offered his laundry soap all four of my children would have been with me, in the store, during the robbery. We arrived in time to assist the cashier, get ice for her head and call 911, but missed the robbery itself.
Friday, July 27, 2012
Anything for our Kids.
I had said and have heard others say "I would do anything for my children." And I have been thinking about this a lot lately. Would I really do anything for my children? Would I step in front of a bullet?...I hope so. Would I wrestle a bear?...probably. Would I punch another little kid in the face for bullying one of my precious bundles...without a doubt.
Is that everything? No. Of course it isn't. Would I really do ANYTHING for my children? How about change who I am...
I don't really have to change anything at this point in my life. I have a super duper husband whom I love. I have great kids and a job that I enjoy. I am almost 40 and my character development is ready to grab the t.v. remote, sit back with a bag of Doritos and take a sweet afternoon nap.
Uh, whoops. Hang on a second and lets put down the Doritos. Am I willing, really truly willing, to step out of my comfort zone and do something great for my children?
For example:
Am I willing to get up at 5am and go with them to the gym? Am I willing to exercise along side of them, knowing that healthy habits mirrored by their parents are more likely to stick? Am I willing to put down the crap food and pick up the broccoli, knowing that actions speak more loudly than words? Would I do anything for my children?
Am I willing to put down my evening book or shut off the movie I am watching and encourage my family to come together for prayers and time for God. I am ashamed but will admit that my boys nighttime prayers last night were said inbetween episodes of Avatar. I actually said, "Lets say your prayers real quick before your show starts again." Have mercy on my soul.
The answer is no, but I hope it turns to a yes. I want to be a mother who would do anything for her children.
Is that everything? No. Of course it isn't. Would I really do ANYTHING for my children? How about change who I am...
I don't really have to change anything at this point in my life. I have a super duper husband whom I love. I have great kids and a job that I enjoy. I am almost 40 and my character development is ready to grab the t.v. remote, sit back with a bag of Doritos and take a sweet afternoon nap.
Uh, whoops. Hang on a second and lets put down the Doritos. Am I willing, really truly willing, to step out of my comfort zone and do something great for my children?
For example:
Am I willing to get up at 5am and go with them to the gym? Am I willing to exercise along side of them, knowing that healthy habits mirrored by their parents are more likely to stick? Am I willing to put down the crap food and pick up the broccoli, knowing that actions speak more loudly than words? Would I do anything for my children?
Am I willing to put down my evening book or shut off the movie I am watching and encourage my family to come together for prayers and time for God. I am ashamed but will admit that my boys nighttime prayers last night were said inbetween episodes of Avatar. I actually said, "Lets say your prayers real quick before your show starts again." Have mercy on my soul.
The answer is no, but I hope it turns to a yes. I want to be a mother who would do anything for her children.
Thursday, July 26, 2012
To Never Be Quiet
I am raising my children to be activists. It didn't start out this way, for a long time I just wanted to find a way for our family to fit in somewhere. Now I know, and am comfortable with, the fact that we just don't fit in. We are a multi-ethnic, multi-cultural family with odd priorities and strange views of the world. It used to bother me but why fight what you are really proud of?
Injustice is so clear to children. They don't have a lot of external responsibilities or burdens, so their vision of the world is not muddled with bills and schedules and prejudices. I trust my children when they see something is wrong that needs to be corrected.
Next week my quiet, unassuming daughter, Jessica, will be attending the PETA rally downtown and I will be driving her there. She has been a vegan and animal rights activist for over a year now and I couldn't be more proud of who she is. She withstands a lot of teasing in our home as we threaten to put pork in her salad, but we are all really impressed with all she has sacrificed. We all know, don't we, that animals suffer horrible abuse just so we can get our $1.00 hamburger? I may be too lazy and stupid to change my ways but I will support my daughter as she tries to change the world and drive her wherever she needs to go to do it.
I am proud when Rachel refuses to take money from parents for tutoring their children. She believes that all children should be able to read and parents shouldn't have to pay for it. A couple times a week she sets time aside to tutor kids in our neighborhood and I am so thankful that she does. She and Jessica both are looking forward to careers that bring justice and hope to those who have neither.
My boys are coming into their own, recognizing that which is unfair and oppressive. They are developing empathy for those around them and a desire to help. My son Jon, who is currently a brown belt in karate and can throw a pretty damaging punch, won't throw it. After a year of bullying and some pretty stressful moments, he hangs on to the fact that hitting is wrong. He forgives and prays and does his best not to hold grudges. And although both my boys are still pretty young, I can't wait to see where their focus lands.
We will never be a silent family, and really, why would we want to be? I am a very proud mother/ wife and very thankful to God for His work in them.
Injustice is so clear to children. They don't have a lot of external responsibilities or burdens, so their vision of the world is not muddled with bills and schedules and prejudices. I trust my children when they see something is wrong that needs to be corrected.
Next week my quiet, unassuming daughter, Jessica, will be attending the PETA rally downtown and I will be driving her there. She has been a vegan and animal rights activist for over a year now and I couldn't be more proud of who she is. She withstands a lot of teasing in our home as we threaten to put pork in her salad, but we are all really impressed with all she has sacrificed. We all know, don't we, that animals suffer horrible abuse just so we can get our $1.00 hamburger? I may be too lazy and stupid to change my ways but I will support my daughter as she tries to change the world and drive her wherever she needs to go to do it.
I am proud when Rachel refuses to take money from parents for tutoring their children. She believes that all children should be able to read and parents shouldn't have to pay for it. A couple times a week she sets time aside to tutor kids in our neighborhood and I am so thankful that she does. She and Jessica both are looking forward to careers that bring justice and hope to those who have neither.
My boys are coming into their own, recognizing that which is unfair and oppressive. They are developing empathy for those around them and a desire to help. My son Jon, who is currently a brown belt in karate and can throw a pretty damaging punch, won't throw it. After a year of bullying and some pretty stressful moments, he hangs on to the fact that hitting is wrong. He forgives and prays and does his best not to hold grudges. And although both my boys are still pretty young, I can't wait to see where their focus lands.
We will never be a silent family, and really, why would we want to be? I am a very proud mother/ wife and very thankful to God for His work in them.
Friday, July 6, 2012
Wow! Do I Suck.
Not gonna lie, it has been a rough two weeks. Physically and emotionally I have been stretched to my limits and, sad to say, I am still not a candidate for sainthood. Apparently adding just a wee bit more to my already full plate of activities and anxieties is enough to push me over the edge and send me on a sinning spree.
Ugh I hate this side of me. The short tempered, demanding, snapping, cranky, gossiping, unforgiving, judgmental, un-compassionate side of me that, a few years ago, used to dominate my personality. Now it usually only makes a brief appearance on really hot days in traffic. But the past two weeks I let the beast loose. I hurt people that I love. I hurt people that were already weak and hurting. I was mean to my friends and to my family. I embarrassed myself. The wake of damage is wide and I am so sorry I can hardly stand it.
I finally called it quits yesterday when I noticed my ever-patient spouse was losing it with me. There are days, and this is one of them, when I am almost convinced that God's mercy is so close I can practically breathe it in.
If you were one of the victims of my misery, words cannot express the regret and sorrow I feel that I made things more difficult for you and caused you pain. I pray that you will forgive me.
Ugh I hate this side of me. The short tempered, demanding, snapping, cranky, gossiping, unforgiving, judgmental, un-compassionate side of me that, a few years ago, used to dominate my personality. Now it usually only makes a brief appearance on really hot days in traffic. But the past two weeks I let the beast loose. I hurt people that I love. I hurt people that were already weak and hurting. I was mean to my friends and to my family. I embarrassed myself. The wake of damage is wide and I am so sorry I can hardly stand it.
I finally called it quits yesterday when I noticed my ever-patient spouse was losing it with me. There are days, and this is one of them, when I am almost convinced that God's mercy is so close I can practically breathe it in.
If you were one of the victims of my misery, words cannot express the regret and sorrow I feel that I made things more difficult for you and caused you pain. I pray that you will forgive me.
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
I won't tell.
I can't say what I need to say. In a somewhat pathetic attempt to avoid pride and selfish behavior, I just can't say everything that is going on. The good and the great and my bad; they are all sitting here in my head and on my heart and I can't talk about them to anyone.
The frustrating thing is how badly I want to talk about it. But there is a chance that someone will credit me for these miracles and those are dangerous waters for me to be swimming in. It is too easy to say, "yep, I am pretty great.". Taking credit comes so naturally for me and before I know it I am going to be wandering around Israel for 40 years....no thanks. So I can't say anything. As much as I would like to.
The other, even more, frustrating thing is how much I want people to hear what is going on in my life. How incredible God is and how I am convinced, more than ever before, that He loves us all. I am so grateful and I am not sure if I have ever been sincerely grateful for anything in my whole life. It is a vulnerable state to be in...one of gratitude. But that is where I am tonight; sitting outside, watching the 4 most amazing children on the planet; in a state of gratitude and amazement for God, for His mercy and for His love.
The frustrating thing is how badly I want to talk about it. But there is a chance that someone will credit me for these miracles and those are dangerous waters for me to be swimming in. It is too easy to say, "yep, I am pretty great.". Taking credit comes so naturally for me and before I know it I am going to be wandering around Israel for 40 years....no thanks. So I can't say anything. As much as I would like to.
The other, even more, frustrating thing is how much I want people to hear what is going on in my life. How incredible God is and how I am convinced, more than ever before, that He loves us all. I am so grateful and I am not sure if I have ever been sincerely grateful for anything in my whole life. It is a vulnerable state to be in...one of gratitude. But that is where I am tonight; sitting outside, watching the 4 most amazing children on the planet; in a state of gratitude and amazement for God, for His mercy and for His love.
Monday, June 11, 2012
Goodbye Tulsa Zoo
I can’t remember a summer in the past 16 years that our family has not gone to the Tulsa Zoo at least once. Several years ago we began purchasing their family zoo pass and we were there in the sun, the rain and the snow. I am very sad to say that these days are about over The Tulsa Zoo has gone from a relaxing, enjoyable way to spend time with my family to one big downer of a day.
Unless you are ready to spend a couple hundred bucks or only have one child, be prepared to say “No” a whole, whole lot. I used to have to say no only one time, as we walked by the gift shop. Now I say no to:
The Gift Shop
The Second Gift Shop
The Rock and Mineral Dig
The Camel Rides
The Rock Climb
Whatever that frog game is next to the rock climb
A food cart every 200 feet or so
A multitude of penny and 3.00 coin machines
And just when you think you are safe, a final gift shop-cart near the parking lot.
Today I also got to say no to 3 buildings that were shut down. Nope can’t go see Nanuk or the Cave or the Florescent Lights Display. The exchange center, their very favorite place, was closed too.
Somewhere between the WAY overpriced fun and food, the terrible smells, the displays that are always under construction and that bear who looks like he needs antidepressants, I realized that we are done. I don’t like having to spend an entire day saying no, no, no to my kids. Tulsa
Friday, June 1, 2012
Buzzards to Blessings
Many years ago I watched my husband stand in the airport of a foreign country. He and I with our 1 year old daughter were getting ready to fly home to the U.S. but we had to make a stop in Miami and spend the night in a hotel.
My husband stood there, surrounded by a group of people, and he opened his wallet and held it out. The folks surrounding him pushed and picked, taking every last dollar until my husband held his wallet upside down and said "It's empty."
For a long time this memory made my stomach hurt. The people seemed almost like buzzards, swooping down and grabbing what they could. I remember watching in disgust as my husbands hard earned money went to people who seemed not to appreciate his gift. I was so worried about our trip home. What if we had an emergency? We needed that money!
This memory had changed for me as I changed my focus from the group of people to the expression on my husbands face. He was joyful, smiling and laughing from the very bottom of his belly at the honor he was being given to provide for others. I love this memory now. It shows, not just the generosity of my great husband, but the depth of his faith. He never worried about our trip home. His security is not linked to money, the way mine is. It is a gift that only a life of poverty can give, true faith that God will provide for us.
My husband stood there, surrounded by a group of people, and he opened his wallet and held it out. The folks surrounding him pushed and picked, taking every last dollar until my husband held his wallet upside down and said "It's empty."
For a long time this memory made my stomach hurt. The people seemed almost like buzzards, swooping down and grabbing what they could. I remember watching in disgust as my husbands hard earned money went to people who seemed not to appreciate his gift. I was so worried about our trip home. What if we had an emergency? We needed that money!
This memory had changed for me as I changed my focus from the group of people to the expression on my husbands face. He was joyful, smiling and laughing from the very bottom of his belly at the honor he was being given to provide for others. I love this memory now. It shows, not just the generosity of my great husband, but the depth of his faith. He never worried about our trip home. His security is not linked to money, the way mine is. It is a gift that only a life of poverty can give, true faith that God will provide for us.
Monday, May 21, 2012
Social Work Confessions-Do What I Say and I'll do whatever I Want.
At a parent-teacher conference last week for my first grader, I heard the dreaded "T" word. I knew it was coming and I was not near as prepared as I thought I would be. I cried.
First of all, it was not a traditional parent-teacher conference. It was a parent-big sister-teacher-tutor-principal conference. Five people sitting at a tiny table to discuss what is best for my son.
My baby. The son I never expected to have; The baby who challenged everything I knew about parenting and my faith after he crash-landed on this planet. The baby who I have pulled off the roof, who my daughter has pulled out of the deep end of the pool; the baby who locked himself in a dryer and inside of a cooler. The child, who as a result of having absolutely no fear, has lost a toe-nail and almost lost his penis. My son. The one I have sat beside in the hospital over and over while I listened to him scream in pain, cry in fear, praying the rosary, singing him to sleep, questioning every decision I ever made, wondering if I do the right things for him. Of course I cried. Life has been so hard for him.
It is no secret and I never deny that I have no objectivity where he is concerned. I want to clothe him in bubble wrap and never let anyone near him.
And now the school wants him TESTED. This should not be that big of a deal. I am a social worker. I refer people for services ALL THE TIME. I have told countless parents to have their children tested for a variety of mental health and education issues. I encourage them to consider therapy and medication when it is appropriate. But the first person who comes near my kid with an assessment form or a pill may get a punch to the face. And I wonder why this is.
Do I not trust my profession? Do I not really believe in the services that are out there to help and heal children and their families? Do I think the rules apply to everyone but my family? Where does my hesitation stem from, I wonder. Maybe because I understand there are exceptions to all the rules. That the DSM is not an exact science. If you see my son on a good day, you would wonder what all the fuss is about. If you see him on a bad day, you might wonder kind of parent am I. I don't want him to become part of a system that I believe is broken. I am scared of the labels that I, myself, place on other people's children. I want to protect him from all of the "experts" who are in line, waiting to judge his abilities and his intentions. I am so close to these systems that I only see the negative. I have no idea how testing (gag, vomit) is going to help him in a private school classroom. I can't even bring myself to make the first phone call.
First of all, it was not a traditional parent-teacher conference. It was a parent-big sister-teacher-tutor-principal conference. Five people sitting at a tiny table to discuss what is best for my son.
My baby. The son I never expected to have; The baby who challenged everything I knew about parenting and my faith after he crash-landed on this planet. The baby who I have pulled off the roof, who my daughter has pulled out of the deep end of the pool; the baby who locked himself in a dryer and inside of a cooler. The child, who as a result of having absolutely no fear, has lost a toe-nail and almost lost his penis. My son. The one I have sat beside in the hospital over and over while I listened to him scream in pain, cry in fear, praying the rosary, singing him to sleep, questioning every decision I ever made, wondering if I do the right things for him. Of course I cried. Life has been so hard for him.
It is no secret and I never deny that I have no objectivity where he is concerned. I want to clothe him in bubble wrap and never let anyone near him.
And now the school wants him TESTED. This should not be that big of a deal. I am a social worker. I refer people for services ALL THE TIME. I have told countless parents to have their children tested for a variety of mental health and education issues. I encourage them to consider therapy and medication when it is appropriate. But the first person who comes near my kid with an assessment form or a pill may get a punch to the face. And I wonder why this is.
Do I not trust my profession? Do I not really believe in the services that are out there to help and heal children and their families? Do I think the rules apply to everyone but my family? Where does my hesitation stem from, I wonder. Maybe because I understand there are exceptions to all the rules. That the DSM is not an exact science. If you see my son on a good day, you would wonder what all the fuss is about. If you see him on a bad day, you might wonder kind of parent am I. I don't want him to become part of a system that I believe is broken. I am scared of the labels that I, myself, place on other people's children. I want to protect him from all of the "experts" who are in line, waiting to judge his abilities and his intentions. I am so close to these systems that I only see the negative. I have no idea how testing (gag, vomit) is going to help him in a private school classroom. I can't even bring myself to make the first phone call.
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
The Punchline Just Isn't Funny Anymore.
There are some topics that I am sure of but can't seem to get on paper. This is one like that. One I know I want to talk about but can't get my thoughts together and organized. When this happens, the best thing I can do is just say it as plainly as I can and wait for the fallout.
Christians, our faith is not a joke. If those in the media and our society use it as fodder for comedy, it is because we ourselves make our faith a laughing stock. I hear people frustrated, saying "They would never talk about the Muslim faith like that" or "They never disrespect the Jewish faith" spreading the feelings that our faith is picked on and picked apart; oppressed and maligned. We not only make it easy for them to insult us, we insult ourselves and we insult our God.
We are the ones who took our most sacred days, Christmas and Easter, and handed them over to secular marketing. The Muslim and Jewish faiths understand that their holy days are just that. Holy. Sacred. How can we possibly expect the world to take us seriously when our mascots are turned into cartoon characters? The virgin birth isn't enough? God coming to the world or dying for its salvation is not enough to celebrate on their own? "Look kids! Look at Santa and the Easter Bunny. Arn't they precious? Arn't they funny? Ignore Jesus bleeding on the cross and eat your chocolate. Hilarious.
We are the ones who turned our faith into a political requirement instead of allowing our faith to rise above government and focus on the eternal. We are more passionate over our tax rate than we are about the poor. We want our politicians in church on Sunday but turn away quickly when their sin is brought to light. Ha ha. Just another joke. Another Christian caught with his hands down his pants or in someones wallet. Now we hate him. Isn't our inconsistancy just a giggle a minute?
Christians, our faith is not a joke. If those in the media and our society use it as fodder for comedy, it is because we ourselves make our faith a laughing stock. I hear people frustrated, saying "They would never talk about the Muslim faith like that" or "They never disrespect the Jewish faith" spreading the feelings that our faith is picked on and picked apart; oppressed and maligned. We not only make it easy for them to insult us, we insult ourselves and we insult our God.
We are the ones who took our most sacred days, Christmas and Easter, and handed them over to secular marketing. The Muslim and Jewish faiths understand that their holy days are just that. Holy. Sacred. How can we possibly expect the world to take us seriously when our mascots are turned into cartoon characters? The virgin birth isn't enough? God coming to the world or dying for its salvation is not enough to celebrate on their own? "Look kids! Look at Santa and the Easter Bunny. Arn't they precious? Arn't they funny? Ignore Jesus bleeding on the cross and eat your chocolate. Hilarious.
We are the ones who turned our faith into a political requirement instead of allowing our faith to rise above government and focus on the eternal. We are more passionate over our tax rate than we are about the poor. We want our politicians in church on Sunday but turn away quickly when their sin is brought to light. Ha ha. Just another joke. Another Christian caught with his hands down his pants or in someones wallet. Now we hate him. Isn't our inconsistancy just a giggle a minute?
Call me whatever you want.
I grew up listening to several back-handed compliments and straight out criticisms of my personality.
The first one I ever remember hearing was that I talk too much. This was tricky for me because 1. there was just so much that I wanted to say and 2. I could never figure out what the socially appropriate number of words were. It was probably true and pretty hurtful.
The second one that was repeated over and over again was interchangeably describing me as "too sensitive" and "over-reacted" to things. Again, these personality flaws were treated as serious as lying or stealing, but they didn't have formal instructions as to when I could hurt for myself or others or when I should express some righteous indignation. Everyone seemed to intuitively understand when to talk and how to react in a socially acceptable manner but for me it was all very murky.
The worst of them all, the characteristic which has been used my entire life, is "passionate". It is always presented as a compliment but it echos the rings of over-reacting and sensibility that I was accused of early on. I never hear it as a compliment. It was confusing to grow up hearing words that seemed to describe a positive attribute but so often used to insult or correct my behavior.
This morning my 7 year old precious son handed me a picture his teacher had the kids make for Mother's Day. It was a flower, which he colored brilliantly. Above it said, "God could not be everywhere, so He created Mothers".
Yes. I get it. I understand that my son colored a beautiful picture for me out of love and celebration for the holiday. I understand that it is the thought that counts and the teacher probably meant nothing more than to help the children recognize the importance of motherhood. I DO GET IT.
But I can't help myself and the offense I feel. On behalf of my faith, my church and the bucket-load of cash I pay this Catholic private school every month, I just HAVE to ask, "What in the world are you teaching my son??" Why do they have to make my life so much more difficult? Now I have to explain to the school that they are inadvertently teaching heresy to my child.
#1 God is indeed everywhere
#2 God does not need help.
#3 Mothers, however special, are not god or substitutes for God.
I also understand that I could not say anything and let it pass. It would be easier for me and for the school if I didn't address this issue. I wouldn't embarrass myself and the school would not think I am a lunatic. But what does God think? When I stand before Him, is He going to ask why I didn't stand up to other Christians when they misrepresented the creator of the universe? Is He going to say, Oh, Susan, you are so overly-sensitive. I don't really care."
So am I being over-sensitive? Am I over-reacting? No. I don't think so. If it is ever appropriate to be sensitive and react, it is when it comes to the glory of my God and the salvation of my soul. Am I passionate about what I believe? You bet. And I am not sorry for any of it, not at all.
The first one I ever remember hearing was that I talk too much. This was tricky for me because 1. there was just so much that I wanted to say and 2. I could never figure out what the socially appropriate number of words were. It was probably true and pretty hurtful.
The second one that was repeated over and over again was interchangeably describing me as "too sensitive" and "over-reacted" to things. Again, these personality flaws were treated as serious as lying or stealing, but they didn't have formal instructions as to when I could hurt for myself or others or when I should express some righteous indignation. Everyone seemed to intuitively understand when to talk and how to react in a socially acceptable manner but for me it was all very murky.
The worst of them all, the characteristic which has been used my entire life, is "passionate". It is always presented as a compliment but it echos the rings of over-reacting and sensibility that I was accused of early on. I never hear it as a compliment. It was confusing to grow up hearing words that seemed to describe a positive attribute but so often used to insult or correct my behavior.
This morning my 7 year old precious son handed me a picture his teacher had the kids make for Mother's Day. It was a flower, which he colored brilliantly. Above it said, "God could not be everywhere, so He created Mothers".
Yes. I get it. I understand that my son colored a beautiful picture for me out of love and celebration for the holiday. I understand that it is the thought that counts and the teacher probably meant nothing more than to help the children recognize the importance of motherhood. I DO GET IT.
But I can't help myself and the offense I feel. On behalf of my faith, my church and the bucket-load of cash I pay this Catholic private school every month, I just HAVE to ask, "What in the world are you teaching my son??" Why do they have to make my life so much more difficult? Now I have to explain to the school that they are inadvertently teaching heresy to my child.
#1 God is indeed everywhere
#2 God does not need help.
#3 Mothers, however special, are not god or substitutes for God.
I also understand that I could not say anything and let it pass. It would be easier for me and for the school if I didn't address this issue. I wouldn't embarrass myself and the school would not think I am a lunatic. But what does God think? When I stand before Him, is He going to ask why I didn't stand up to other Christians when they misrepresented the creator of the universe? Is He going to say, Oh, Susan, you are so overly-sensitive. I don't really care."
So am I being over-sensitive? Am I over-reacting? No. I don't think so. If it is ever appropriate to be sensitive and react, it is when it comes to the glory of my God and the salvation of my soul. Am I passionate about what I believe? You bet. And I am not sorry for any of it, not at all.
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
Money, Money, Money
I really do love money. I love having it and spending it. I can’t count the times I have blown through cash and then turned around with no memory of where that money went. Finally coming to a place where I am comfortable living in poverty has been a long journey. It is not an unnatural place for me to be, however, because when I don’t have money, I spend no time thinking about the things I don’t have. But the minute I have cash in my pocket, my eyes immediately see all the things I don’t have. Things I want to have. Things I seemingly cannot live without.
God, who is ever merciful, is actively answering my daily prayer that I am not led into temptation. I have moved into a place in my life where I can peacefully reject all effort of private or personal ownership. After years of fantasizing, I know now that I will never win the lottery or have a long lost uncle leave me a bucket of cash. I will never own a house or have a nest egg on which I can retire. It is a shameful reality that I have shown myself to be untrustworthy, over and over again, to make Godly decisions with large amounts of money.
I cannot be faithful with hundreds or thousands of dollars, but I can be faithful with five or ten dollars. So I accept what little I have while promising that everything I have belongs to God, to be shared with others as He directs me to. And as God protects me from wealth, He is also protecting my soul. He knows my weakness and by giving me a desire to seek poverty and share what little I have, He is showing me a path to heaven.
Monday, April 23, 2012
Saints in my Life- Violet-who taught me humility
I am going to blog for a few days about the Saints and saints, woven in and out of my life who have brought me to this point. My grandmother, Violet, was the first, and maybe holiest woman I have ever known.
She was married to my grandfather for more than 50 years. She had 4 children, lost one, and spent her life cooking, cleaning and caring for her family. My grandmother took me to church. She would let me lay down on her lap and listen to the sermon. Everyday, after she cleaned her already immaculate house, she would sit in her recliner and read her black bible until she fell asleep to take her afternoon nap. She was strict and quiet. I never understood her while she was alive, but now, having been married for 17 years, I get a little bit of who she was.
My grandfather was a difficult man, I think, for her to be married to. He was a hard worker and a good provider, but he was not necessarily kind. He certainly was not abusive, but he was not affectionate or soft spoken. I don't remember him accompanying her to church except maybe on Easter or Christmas. As he got older, he became more cantankerous. I can remember her leaving the table, more than once, in silent tears, because of some offhanded comment he made that stung. My grandmother never fought with him, at least in front of us. She took his temper with humility and grace.
If I ever uttered the words, "I'm bored" to my grandmother, she had two solutions to this problem. One, she would send us outside to pick up sticks and two, she would have me memorize scripture. I remember the day she handed me a bookmark with the Lord's prayer written on it. She said "Do you know this prayer by heart?" and because I didn't, she instructed me to sit and learn it.
Maybe she knew how important that prayer would become to me as I grew older. I cling to this prayer every day, reciting it multiple times, and ask God to shy me away from temptation, to protect my soul from that which would destroy it. I pray that I would have the faith to trust in God for my daily bread and not my own self.
But the lesson I learned most from her was how to survive and flourish in a marriage. How to hold my tongue and my temper. How to take my husbands bad days with grace and prayer. I learned to take my children to church and to make it a time when they are held close in my arms. I have adopted her style of sitting quietly and staring out the window when times are difficult and my mood is edgy.
I think of her whenever I see a rose garden or a red cardinal.
She was married to my grandfather for more than 50 years. She had 4 children, lost one, and spent her life cooking, cleaning and caring for her family. My grandmother took me to church. She would let me lay down on her lap and listen to the sermon. Everyday, after she cleaned her already immaculate house, she would sit in her recliner and read her black bible until she fell asleep to take her afternoon nap. She was strict and quiet. I never understood her while she was alive, but now, having been married for 17 years, I get a little bit of who she was.
My grandfather was a difficult man, I think, for her to be married to. He was a hard worker and a good provider, but he was not necessarily kind. He certainly was not abusive, but he was not affectionate or soft spoken. I don't remember him accompanying her to church except maybe on Easter or Christmas. As he got older, he became more cantankerous. I can remember her leaving the table, more than once, in silent tears, because of some offhanded comment he made that stung. My grandmother never fought with him, at least in front of us. She took his temper with humility and grace.
If I ever uttered the words, "I'm bored" to my grandmother, she had two solutions to this problem. One, she would send us outside to pick up sticks and two, she would have me memorize scripture. I remember the day she handed me a bookmark with the Lord's prayer written on it. She said "Do you know this prayer by heart?" and because I didn't, she instructed me to sit and learn it.
Maybe she knew how important that prayer would become to me as I grew older. I cling to this prayer every day, reciting it multiple times, and ask God to shy me away from temptation, to protect my soul from that which would destroy it. I pray that I would have the faith to trust in God for my daily bread and not my own self.
But the lesson I learned most from her was how to survive and flourish in a marriage. How to hold my tongue and my temper. How to take my husbands bad days with grace and prayer. I learned to take my children to church and to make it a time when they are held close in my arms. I have adopted her style of sitting quietly and staring out the window when times are difficult and my mood is edgy.
I think of her whenever I see a rose garden or a red cardinal.
Friday, April 20, 2012
It's Time.
Big day today. It's hard to explain how I am feeling but it's kind of like finally crossing off that one thing on your to do list that you have been avoiding forever. I am taking a step in faith and starting Catholic Worker services in Tulsa. I am fully prepared, having no money, no specific goals, no location and no recipients. But even so, I have more resources at my fingers than Mother T., Dorothy or Saint Zita did when they began.
I have prayed and asked God to keep me in His will so I don't get in the way and screw this up. I have no intentions of seeking donations, aside from prayers. I will not use this to make a salary or provide tax right-offs. This is going to be a place where anyone can share what they have with whoever comes and needs it. If we have food for 5 people and there are 20 people who need food, then 5 people get food and the other 15 get prayers. We will not be requiring any intake information from anyone at our door (assuming I ever have an actual door). Help will be given without strings, without questions, without judgement and without expectations of repayment. Anyone at our door will be Christ and will be treated as such.
This is not a spontaneous act. This is the end of 25 years of dragging my feet and being afraid. I am out of excuses. It doesn't matter that I have nothing and it doesn't matter that I live in the most generous city in the country. Competition for serventhood is great. But God has been patiently waiting for my obedience and He is now going to get it.
Pray for us. (and like our facebook page :))
https://www.facebook.com/#!/SaintZitaCatholicWorkerHouse
I have prayed and asked God to keep me in His will so I don't get in the way and screw this up. I have no intentions of seeking donations, aside from prayers. I will not use this to make a salary or provide tax right-offs. This is going to be a place where anyone can share what they have with whoever comes and needs it. If we have food for 5 people and there are 20 people who need food, then 5 people get food and the other 15 get prayers. We will not be requiring any intake information from anyone at our door (assuming I ever have an actual door). Help will be given without strings, without questions, without judgement and without expectations of repayment. Anyone at our door will be Christ and will be treated as such.
This is not a spontaneous act. This is the end of 25 years of dragging my feet and being afraid. I am out of excuses. It doesn't matter that I have nothing and it doesn't matter that I live in the most generous city in the country. Competition for serventhood is great. But God has been patiently waiting for my obedience and He is now going to get it.
Pray for us. (and like our facebook page :))
https://www.facebook.com/#!/SaintZitaCatholicWorkerHouse
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
Outside the Confessional...a memo to our Priests
Last Sunday (Divine Mercy Sunday- rock-n-roll fingers) my first grade son just couldn't wait one more day to sit down with our priest and confess his sins. He still has one year to go before his official first confession but Father Matt was gracious and agreed to let him spill his guts. My son was thrilled as he skipped away from the confessional assuring me that he told the truth and didn't make anything up. Good to know he didn't lie in confession. LOL.
My protestant friends can sit this one out because I know you prefer to confess your sins privately in the dark of night before you fall asleep (although I will say--ya'll are missing out. Confession is such a rush.).
But to my Catholic friends and our amazing priests can we have a private chit-chat?
You teach me and I teach my children about the dangers of dying in a state of mortal sin. ONE mortal sin can send me and my good intentions straight to hell. Okay, I am on board with ya. But if this is truly what we believe, then why is confession presented as such an after thought? What crazy tradition decided that it was sufficiant that it be held only on Saturdays from 4-5pm and 30 minutes before mass? Am I the only one who understands the urgency of making confession available 24/7 or at least on a weeknight? If it is 3am and my soul is compromised, I want to know that I can find a priest
You are in that tiny room, so you may not be aware of the long line waiting to speak to you. We jockey for position with such demand that we probably should add it to our list of sins. You probably don't see the anxiety and the tears of those waiting and you definitely don't see the disappointment when that little light turns out and we realize we have to wait another week and hope we don't get plowed down by a bus.
There has to be a way to make reconciliation more accessible and not so competitive. I know you are busy, but honestly, we, your congregation; followers of Christ and the Catholic church...we need this. Please make the time.
Next, I know that you may feel overwhelmed by the pain and suffering you hear, but stay strong. Don't loose heart and begin to provide counsel based on empathy. We have best friends and therapists and Oprah to agree with us and give us bad advice. We need you to tell us the will of God.
I have been married for almost 17 years and over the years I have had several different priests advise me to leave my husband. Mind you, my husband is not an addict or abusive. He is not unfaithful. But, like all marriages, we have had rocky times and I have cried as I confessed how unhappy I was. These priests were obviously nice guys who felt bad for the sobbing woman in front of them, but leaving my husband was not the will of God. I am grateful for those priests who reminded me to stay holy, to pray and to offer my tears to Christ but not to leave. We need consistency not opinions.
Finally, I want to thank you. Thank you for your time when I mistakenly use confession as therapy. Thank you for making confession such a wonderful experience to my children. All of them regularly ask to go, so thank you for whatever sweet words you give to them. It is difficult to keep our children from being wooed away to churches with lights and sound systems and ski trips, but the truth of Christ and His sacraments is enough. We love our priests. We pray for you and bake you cookies. We crave your attention but try to be mindful to give you your space. We look to you, not just to hear your words, but to get a sense of your own buy-in to our faith. May God greatly bless you.
My protestant friends can sit this one out because I know you prefer to confess your sins privately in the dark of night before you fall asleep (although I will say--ya'll are missing out. Confession is such a rush.).
But to my Catholic friends and our amazing priests can we have a private chit-chat?
You teach me and I teach my children about the dangers of dying in a state of mortal sin. ONE mortal sin can send me and my good intentions straight to hell. Okay, I am on board with ya. But if this is truly what we believe, then why is confession presented as such an after thought? What crazy tradition decided that it was sufficiant that it be held only on Saturdays from 4-5pm and 30 minutes before mass? Am I the only one who understands the urgency of making confession available 24/7 or at least on a weeknight? If it is 3am and my soul is compromised, I want to know that I can find a priest
You are in that tiny room, so you may not be aware of the long line waiting to speak to you. We jockey for position with such demand that we probably should add it to our list of sins. You probably don't see the anxiety and the tears of those waiting and you definitely don't see the disappointment when that little light turns out and we realize we have to wait another week and hope we don't get plowed down by a bus.
There has to be a way to make reconciliation more accessible and not so competitive. I know you are busy, but honestly, we, your congregation; followers of Christ and the Catholic church...we need this. Please make the time.
Next, I know that you may feel overwhelmed by the pain and suffering you hear, but stay strong. Don't loose heart and begin to provide counsel based on empathy. We have best friends and therapists and Oprah to agree with us and give us bad advice. We need you to tell us the will of God.
I have been married for almost 17 years and over the years I have had several different priests advise me to leave my husband. Mind you, my husband is not an addict or abusive. He is not unfaithful. But, like all marriages, we have had rocky times and I have cried as I confessed how unhappy I was. These priests were obviously nice guys who felt bad for the sobbing woman in front of them, but leaving my husband was not the will of God. I am grateful for those priests who reminded me to stay holy, to pray and to offer my tears to Christ but not to leave. We need consistency not opinions.
Finally, I want to thank you. Thank you for your time when I mistakenly use confession as therapy. Thank you for making confession such a wonderful experience to my children. All of them regularly ask to go, so thank you for whatever sweet words you give to them. It is difficult to keep our children from being wooed away to churches with lights and sound systems and ski trips, but the truth of Christ and His sacraments is enough. We love our priests. We pray for you and bake you cookies. We crave your attention but try to be mindful to give you your space. We look to you, not just to hear your words, but to get a sense of your own buy-in to our faith. May God greatly bless you.
Sunday, April 15, 2012
Cha-Ching-Are Christians Supposed to Seek Wealth?
Are Christians supposed to seek wealth?
This question nips at my heels because I really (REALLY) like money. I don't have a lot of it, although I am payed well for a social worker and I am not complaining. The questions nags because I have nightmares that I will stand before God for judgment and, after checking my credit score, He will want to know if I refinanced my house as I should have. God will be considering my application for Sainthood while MBA's and CEO's waltz through the golden gates as God gives them a fist bump, "Well done, good and faithful servant! Way to rock that dot.com bust!" Yikes.
No One Was In Need!! Are you kidding me? How freaking awesome is that?!?! Consider poverty, Come along side the Saints we all admire; Mother T. wasn't the exception. She was the rule for all who follow Christ.
This question nips at my heels because I really (REALLY) like money. I don't have a lot of it, although I am payed well for a social worker and I am not complaining. The questions nags because I have nightmares that I will stand before God for judgment and, after checking my credit score, He will want to know if I refinanced my house as I should have. God will be considering my application for Sainthood while MBA's and CEO's waltz through the golden gates as God gives them a fist bump, "Well done, good and faithful servant! Way to rock that dot.com bust!" Yikes.
I do wonder about wealth. I grew up in the grand capital of "non-denominational" "sowing seeds" kind of churches. The preachers who call themselves deacons or bishops but have no real credentials. The churches that promise, on God's behalf, a high yield of return on your tithe; the churches that announce the names of tithers and the amount they give to thundering applause. These churches believe in wealth. After all, didn't Jesus come that we might have life and have it abundantly?
I am gambling my life's comfort on No. I drive by insanely large estates and beautiful houses and I feel my stomach squeeze with desire. I work with some of the best dressed people you could ever see and swallow my embarrassment at how I look. I cry actual tears because I know my children lack the newest gadget or the right clothes. I could make more money, work harder, save more. I could pull my children out of Catholic school and as my expendable income would sky-rocket, I could make a grab for all kinds of goodies.
I am not snooty about living in poverty. I am horribly jealous of my friends with their lovely gardens and swimming pools. I fantasize of winning the lottery and buying my family all kinds of expensive baubles . I don't seek out wealth because I know that I am weak and would spend it all on myself, despite my commitment to serve the poor.
An old friend told me a few weeks ago, that Christ only asked that one guy to sell everything he had because the man loved money more than God. My friend explained that this is this not an actual order to all Christians, just to this one man. Bummer that this is not how the followers of Christ interpreted this command.
The community of believers was of one heart and mind,
and no one claimed that any of his possessions was his own,
but they had everything in common.With great power the apostles bore witness
to the resurrection of the Lord Jesus,
and great favor was accorded them all.
There was no needy person among them,
for those who owned property or houses would sell them,
bring the proceeds of the sale,
and put them at the feet of the apostles,
and they were distributed to each according to need.
and no one claimed that any of his possessions was his own,
but they had everything in common.With great power the apostles bore witness
to the resurrection of the Lord Jesus,
and great favor was accorded them all.
There was no needy person among them,
for those who owned property or houses would sell them,
bring the proceeds of the sale,
and put them at the feet of the apostles,
and they were distributed to each according to need.
No One Was In Need!! Are you kidding me? How freaking awesome is that?!?! Consider poverty, Come along side the Saints we all admire; Mother T. wasn't the exception. She was the rule for all who follow Christ.
Woo Me! I'm a Social Worker
Social Workers refer. In fact, referring is a cornerstone of our profession. We know our communities and what it offers to the families we work with. We have a responsibility to know the scope of services we can provide ourselves and when we need to send the recipients of our service to more specialized care.
I not a picky person about most things. But when it comes to agencies I trust, I am picky. I have high standards. If I send a mother to some agency for service and they treat her like shit, then it rubs back on me. I have even been known to do some under-cover recon when researching a new community resource or one that I have heard negative rumors floating around our community (Tulsa Social Services...This Mean YOU!).
So, community agencies, seeking those all-important Medicaid $$ or needing to up their numbers for a grant proposal...
WOO YOUR LOCAL SOCIAL WORKERS! We can help. And here is what I am looking for...
Remember that good reputations are hard to build and bad reputations last forever. Try and earn the credibility that your community can bestow upon you at their whim.
I not a picky person about most things. But when it comes to agencies I trust, I am picky. I have high standards. If I send a mother to some agency for service and they treat her like shit, then it rubs back on me. I have even been known to do some under-cover recon when researching a new community resource or one that I have heard negative rumors floating around our community (Tulsa Social Services...This Mean YOU!).
So, community agencies, seeking those all-important Medicaid $$ or needing to up their numbers for a grant proposal...
WOO YOUR LOCAL SOCIAL WORKERS! We can help. And here is what I am looking for...
- Your building should be easy to locate without using my GPS.
- Your service hours should be clearly stated somewhere on the building.
- I want to see healthy green plants and clean toys in the lobby. I want clean bathrooms. Family Friendly.
- Your receptionist needs to be smiling, pleasant and helpful. Ideally, I want her semi-orgasmic over the idea of helping people.
- This is just a personal pet peeve of mine, but I really don't like referring to the community recipients as "Clients." Boo this word.
- Minimal paperwork. I would prefer zero paperwork but I understand you have reports to write. Just be cautious and sensitive. Only ask what is absolutely necessary.
- Short wait time. If your appointments are running late, then have your lovely receptionist make families aware so they can plan their day.
- Enjoy your job. If you don't enjoy your job, get out and go do something else.
- Be creative in helping families. If you absolutely can do nothing for them, find someone who can.
Remember that good reputations are hard to build and bad reputations last forever. Try and earn the credibility that your community can bestow upon you at their whim.
Friday, April 13, 2012
Social Work Confessions- What Makes It Worth It.
Social Work is a messy profession, but even among social workers my job is creepy and a little too messy for most people to be comfortable with. My 8/5 job is spent reading the medical records of babies who have died and interviewing their parents. Yes, parents cry and yes, I have seen more pictures of dead, decomposing babies than anyone probably should but, honestly, it sounds much worse than it actually is.
Unlike a lot of social work specialties, my job is without a demographic. Infant loss, tragically, can effect anyone. I get to meet the rich and the poor and the destitute. These families come from all backgrounds. They are in the city and in the boondocks. They speak different languages and they express their grief in ways unique to their own culture. I have seen families collapse on the ground as the pain washes over them and others who barely remember they had a baby at all. The one commonality is that they all experienced the death of their baby.
Simply put, they are all saints. They are such a strong group of women and men, who get up every day and take steps forward when all they want to do is lie down and stay down. They care about other families who are suffering, families whom they have never met. And they love their babies. Some lived for a minute and others for months, but the life was valuable to them and every moment was cherished.
I had to write today because I met a family this morning that inspired me beyond what I thought was possible. The parents cried and held each other. They laughed and took joy in the brief moments they had with their baby. They opened their door and allowed me to share in their private and most painful memories. To this family I say: I wish I was not bound by confidentiality because everyone should know you and shake your hand. Words cannot express my gratitude and I am a different person tonight than I was this morning. My heart breaks for your loss and soars with your commitment to each other and your community.
These are the days that I just love my job.
Unlike a lot of social work specialties, my job is without a demographic. Infant loss, tragically, can effect anyone. I get to meet the rich and the poor and the destitute. These families come from all backgrounds. They are in the city and in the boondocks. They speak different languages and they express their grief in ways unique to their own culture. I have seen families collapse on the ground as the pain washes over them and others who barely remember they had a baby at all. The one commonality is that they all experienced the death of their baby.
Simply put, they are all saints. They are such a strong group of women and men, who get up every day and take steps forward when all they want to do is lie down and stay down. They care about other families who are suffering, families whom they have never met. And they love their babies. Some lived for a minute and others for months, but the life was valuable to them and every moment was cherished.
I had to write today because I met a family this morning that inspired me beyond what I thought was possible. The parents cried and held each other. They laughed and took joy in the brief moments they had with their baby. They opened their door and allowed me to share in their private and most painful memories. To this family I say: I wish I was not bound by confidentiality because everyone should know you and shake your hand. Words cannot express my gratitude and I am a different person tonight than I was this morning. My heart breaks for your loss and soars with your commitment to each other and your community.
These are the days that I just love my job.
Thursday, April 12, 2012
Upon Being Catholic- This is a true story. It's a Cell Phone Miracle
Several years ago I got to experience my very own, personal miracle. True Story.
It was a winter night in January several years ago. There had been an ice storm and I was out trying to catch up on some home visits I needed to do. I was leaving a client's apartment, talking on my super-cool, new, black razor cell phone to my best friend, Holly. (shout out!)
I got into my car and tossed my phone onto the seat next to me. It landed in a burger king sack that had previously contained my dinner. I heard the brown paper crunch, but it didn't click in until the next day. As I was driving out of the apartment complex, I stopped at the garbage bin and tossed some trash away, including the said Burger King sack.
I went home and snuggled down for the night, escaping the snowfall. The next day we were indeed snowed in. I briefly thought about my cell phone, thinking it was still in the front seat, but decided to wait another day before braving the weather to retrieve it.
Finally the sun came out and I went out to get my phone. It wasn't in the front seat and I started hallucinating that I had brought it inside. After a day of tearing apart my car and my house, I remembered the brown paper bag crunch, my stomach twisted, vomit hinted at making an appearance and panic set in.
I drove across town to the apartment complex and, duh, the trash had been removed. Crap. I had lost my cell phone with all my clients numbers in it. Crap. Crap. Double Crap.
So I did what any self-respecting Catholic would do, turn to the Saints. This was my exact prayer: "Saint Zita please pray that I find my phone. Send my guardian angels to the dump or where ever to retrieve it and then put it somewhere really obvious so I can find it. I am stressed out and I need it back."
Peace set in and I continued on with things. The next day I drove around town, making visits. Then the next next day, I drove out of town, round trip, 100 miles. I picked up my kids from school and my daughter and I went to Wal-Mart. After we finished shopping, we put all the bags in the trunk of my car and went home. I got out of the car and popped the trunk to retrieve the bags.
And there it was.
My cell phone.
Tucked into the bumper of my car.
It's a miracle.
It was a winter night in January several years ago. There had been an ice storm and I was out trying to catch up on some home visits I needed to do. I was leaving a client's apartment, talking on my super-cool, new, black razor cell phone to my best friend, Holly. (shout out!)
I got into my car and tossed my phone onto the seat next to me. It landed in a burger king sack that had previously contained my dinner. I heard the brown paper crunch, but it didn't click in until the next day. As I was driving out of the apartment complex, I stopped at the garbage bin and tossed some trash away, including the said Burger King sack.
I went home and snuggled down for the night, escaping the snowfall. The next day we were indeed snowed in. I briefly thought about my cell phone, thinking it was still in the front seat, but decided to wait another day before braving the weather to retrieve it.
Finally the sun came out and I went out to get my phone. It wasn't in the front seat and I started hallucinating that I had brought it inside. After a day of tearing apart my car and my house, I remembered the brown paper bag crunch, my stomach twisted, vomit hinted at making an appearance and panic set in.
I drove across town to the apartment complex and, duh, the trash had been removed. Crap. I had lost my cell phone with all my clients numbers in it. Crap. Crap. Double Crap.
So I did what any self-respecting Catholic would do, turn to the Saints. This was my exact prayer: "Saint Zita please pray that I find my phone. Send my guardian angels to the dump or where ever to retrieve it and then put it somewhere really obvious so I can find it. I am stressed out and I need it back."
Peace set in and I continued on with things. The next day I drove around town, making visits. Then the next next day, I drove out of town, round trip, 100 miles. I picked up my kids from school and my daughter and I went to Wal-Mart. After we finished shopping, we put all the bags in the trunk of my car and went home. I got out of the car and popped the trunk to retrieve the bags.
And there it was.
My cell phone.
Tucked into the bumper of my car.
It's a miracle.
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
Dear President Obama,
Today President Obama critiqued the Republican economic theory that wealth flows down to the laborers from the upper class, saying "In this country, prosperity has never trickled down from the wealthy few."
I think it is a fair criticism. Although money does trickle down in one way or another, what does trickle down is so polluted, diluted and picked over that it does little more than sustain the working poor.
It does not provide opportunities for the advancement it promises. It does not quench the thirst that it creates for justice and prosperity. It comes with strings that turn the poor into puppets, entertaining the system as they are forced to jump through hoop after fiery hoop.
Money can only trickle down at the whim and direction of the powerful. Any attempts at creating a fair system, to impliment a minimum wage, improve working conditions or to fill the gaps with social programs, are met with screams of protest from those in power as they claim their liberty is being ripped away. They demand that the poor work longer, work harder and sacrifice more.
The greatest flaw to Capitalism is that the poor have no choice but to hope that the weathy are just and fair. They must believe that their employers have the best interest of the workers at heart. They can only hope that their employers do not struggle with greed. Despite the evidence of what they see and the pain that they feel, they must believe. If they don't believe that the intentions of the wealthy and powerful are pure they will become angry. They will try to demand change and after they awaken from the impact of what little power they have, they will become hopeless.
I am a Republican. My father and grandfather were Republicans. I have never, not even once, voted for a Democrat. I believe in Capitalism as a basis for economic stability. But the time has come to bridge Capitalism and Responsibility. It is not a new idea.
Saint Francis of Assisi believed that our skills and labor should be gifts of service to the greater community, not the means to an end of gluttony and self-indulgence. We can maintain individualism, joy, success and competition while practicing generosity, selflessness and love.
Peter Maurin, despite being, well, perhaps a bit off his rocker, was an idealist. He believed with all his heart that society, not just individuals, but society as a whole could reform and transform into something greater.
The best part of all of this is that it is an easy fix!! All it takes is a change in attitude, a shift of focus, an additional element of compassion for every living soul on our planet. Then we CAN do away with government programs of food and welfare because we will be caring for one another. We will trust God and each other that our needs will be met. Hallelujah!
"The world would be better off
if people tried
to become better.
And people would
become better
if they stopped trying
to be better off.
For when everybody tries
to become better off,
nobody is better off.
But when everybody tries
to become better,
everybody is better off.
Everybody would be rich
if nobody tried
to become richer
And nobody would be poor
if everybody tried
to be the poorest"
Peter Maurin
I think it is a fair criticism. Although money does trickle down in one way or another, what does trickle down is so polluted, diluted and picked over that it does little more than sustain the working poor.
It does not provide opportunities for the advancement it promises. It does not quench the thirst that it creates for justice and prosperity. It comes with strings that turn the poor into puppets, entertaining the system as they are forced to jump through hoop after fiery hoop.
Money can only trickle down at the whim and direction of the powerful. Any attempts at creating a fair system, to impliment a minimum wage, improve working conditions or to fill the gaps with social programs, are met with screams of protest from those in power as they claim their liberty is being ripped away. They demand that the poor work longer, work harder and sacrifice more.
The greatest flaw to Capitalism is that the poor have no choice but to hope that the weathy are just and fair. They must believe that their employers have the best interest of the workers at heart. They can only hope that their employers do not struggle with greed. Despite the evidence of what they see and the pain that they feel, they must believe. If they don't believe that the intentions of the wealthy and powerful are pure they will become angry. They will try to demand change and after they awaken from the impact of what little power they have, they will become hopeless.
I am a Republican. My father and grandfather were Republicans. I have never, not even once, voted for a Democrat. I believe in Capitalism as a basis for economic stability. But the time has come to bridge Capitalism and Responsibility. It is not a new idea.
Saint Francis of Assisi believed that our skills and labor should be gifts of service to the greater community, not the means to an end of gluttony and self-indulgence. We can maintain individualism, joy, success and competition while practicing generosity, selflessness and love.
Peter Maurin, despite being, well, perhaps a bit off his rocker, was an idealist. He believed with all his heart that society, not just individuals, but society as a whole could reform and transform into something greater.
The best part of all of this is that it is an easy fix!! All it takes is a change in attitude, a shift of focus, an additional element of compassion for every living soul on our planet. Then we CAN do away with government programs of food and welfare because we will be caring for one another. We will trust God and each other that our needs will be met. Hallelujah!
"The world would be better off
if people tried
to become better.
And people would
become better
if they stopped trying
to be better off.
For when everybody tries
to become better off,
nobody is better off.
But when everybody tries
to become better,
everybody is better off.
Everybody would be rich
if nobody tried
to become richer
And nobody would be poor
if everybody tried
to be the poorest"
Peter Maurin
Sunday, April 8, 2012
Upon Being Catholic- What are we missing?
My family visited a non-denominational church over the weekend to take in their Easter production. The church really did a wonderful job. Aside from some minor scriptural errors it was just a great evening.
We are Catholic through and through but I can see the glamour that could tempt someone away. It’s kind of like getting really excited about a new house that has a pool and a tree house to play in but not paying much attention to the foundation of the home. There was loud music and pretty lights. There was a smoke machine and super comfy chairs. It was all very entertaining. Even my wiggly worm of a son sat through most of the service.
But beyond the theatrics, there are some things I would love to see the Catholic church adopt:
We are Catholic through and through but I can see the glamour that could tempt someone away. It’s kind of like getting really excited about a new house that has a pool and a tree house to play in but not paying much attention to the foundation of the home. There was loud music and pretty lights. There was a smoke machine and super comfy chairs. It was all very entertaining. Even my wiggly worm of a son sat through most of the service.
But beyond the theatrics, there are some things I would love to see the Catholic church adopt:
1)The door greeters. I truly believe they were glad we were there. They seemed sincere welcoming me and my family. There were big smiles and strong handshakes. I felt immediately at ease.
2 )Dress Code. There wasn’t one! No one checked the clothes my family was wearing. There were no signs demanding that no one wear shorts or that everyone spit out their gum.
3) Everyone Sings! Catholics are a bit odd sometimes. We think that the choir sings and everyone else listens. It was nice to hear everyone in the building singing.
4) Fresh Flowers in the bathroom. That’s just me being fancy.
5) A coffee bar in the lobby. Can't think of a reason why we shouldn't have one.
Of course none of this compares to transubstantiation or the sacraments, but a friendly handshake and a coffee bar would be some great additions to our parish.
Happy Easter. Celebrate the Risen Christ.
Tuesday, April 3, 2012
Ungrateful Bitch
This morning, as I was taking my oldest daughter to school, we saw a woman walking down the road. She was wearing sweatpants and a moth eaten sweatshirt. She was barefoot. Her hair was matted and she was just covered in dirt and filth from head to toe. My daughter, inspired to service, quickly grabbed an extra pair of Nike's, the socks off her own feet, her breakfast (a banana) and her allowance. She put them all in a Wal-mart sack and insisted I turn the car around.
My daughter hopped out of the car and politely mentioned to the woman that she seemed to have left her shoes at home and wondered if she needed an extra pair for the day. The woman said, "I don't need any shoes but I could use some breakfast." My daughter assured her there was food and some cash in the bag.
As we started to drive away, we saw the woman throw the shoes away in the grass, peal the banana and search the bag for money.
(Side note: The money was IN the shoes. So that was kind of funny)
I am not going to lie. My first thought was:
"You ungrateful bitch. How dare you toss away my generosity! You embarrassed us and acted like your nasty feet were too good for our pair of Lady Nike's. Now we are late for school and work, all for nothing."
I felt the offense deeply for both my daughter and myself.
Deep breaths. If I allow those emotions to fester, my heart quickly hardens towards the poor. So I did some emergency reframing of the encounter in my mind.
First of all, the big liar! She absolutely DID need shoes. Her feet were disgusting.
Secondly, regardless of her response, we were obedient to God's command to clothe and feed the poor.
The poor owe me nothing. Not a thank you or a "God bless you" or a smile. Nothing. You would think I am mature enough after working with the poor for so long that I do not need a visual cue of gratitude. But I guess I still do. Charity is humiliating. Having someone point out that your need is so obvious that we can see it from a moving car 50 feet away must be a kick in the gut.
So, she only wanted the money... and the banana. How rude. So am I justified in the eternity of eyeroll's and scoffing noises that I want to aim her way? Thank God He addressed this early on for stupid people like me.
Mt. 19:20 The young man said to Him, "All these commands I have kept; what am I still lacking?" Jesus said to him, "If you wish to be complete, go and sell your possessions and give to the poor, and you shall have treasure in heaven; and come, follow Me."
Jesus did not say, go get your old pair of shoes and give them away. Nope. He said go have a massive garage sale. Sell your stuff to those who have the money to buy them. AND GIVE CASH TO THE POOR. He did not say, "follow the poor people to make sure they don't buy drugs, alcohol or lottery tickets." Nope. He said very plainly to give them cash... And then I get to have treasure in Heaven.
So it's kind of a win-win.
"Humilty is learned through experiencing humilation with dignity." Mother T.
My daughter hopped out of the car and politely mentioned to the woman that she seemed to have left her shoes at home and wondered if she needed an extra pair for the day. The woman said, "I don't need any shoes but I could use some breakfast." My daughter assured her there was food and some cash in the bag.
As we started to drive away, we saw the woman throw the shoes away in the grass, peal the banana and search the bag for money.
(Side note: The money was IN the shoes. So that was kind of funny)
I am not going to lie. My first thought was:
"You ungrateful bitch. How dare you toss away my generosity! You embarrassed us and acted like your nasty feet were too good for our pair of Lady Nike's. Now we are late for school and work, all for nothing."
I felt the offense deeply for both my daughter and myself.
Deep breaths. If I allow those emotions to fester, my heart quickly hardens towards the poor. So I did some emergency reframing of the encounter in my mind.
First of all, the big liar! She absolutely DID need shoes. Her feet were disgusting.
Secondly, regardless of her response, we were obedient to God's command to clothe and feed the poor.
The poor owe me nothing. Not a thank you or a "God bless you" or a smile. Nothing. You would think I am mature enough after working with the poor for so long that I do not need a visual cue of gratitude. But I guess I still do. Charity is humiliating. Having someone point out that your need is so obvious that we can see it from a moving car 50 feet away must be a kick in the gut.
So, she only wanted the money... and the banana. How rude. So am I justified in the eternity of eyeroll's and scoffing noises that I want to aim her way? Thank God He addressed this early on for stupid people like me.
Mt. 19:20 The young man said to Him, "All these commands I have kept; what am I still lacking?" Jesus said to him, "If you wish to be complete, go and sell your possessions and give to the poor, and you shall have treasure in heaven; and come, follow Me."
Jesus did not say, go get your old pair of shoes and give them away. Nope. He said go have a massive garage sale. Sell your stuff to those who have the money to buy them. AND GIVE CASH TO THE POOR. He did not say, "follow the poor people to make sure they don't buy drugs, alcohol or lottery tickets." Nope. He said very plainly to give them cash... And then I get to have treasure in Heaven.
So it's kind of a win-win.
"Humilty is learned through experiencing humilation with dignity." Mother T.
Monday, April 2, 2012
600 Million Reasons to be proud.
My husband is by no means a bleeding heart social worker like his wife. He is a quiet man who works hard and who doesn't spend his life looking for injustices. Our marriage has been rocky and certainly we have made some pretty miserable mistakes but I am so glad we have hung in there.
I remember vividly the moment I knew I wanted to marry him. We were walking home from the movies one night and stopped at a sidewalk food vendor to grab a hamburger. He ordered three and silently passed one to a homeless guy sitting on the curb. If I had sneezed or blinked I would have missed it completely.
It wasn't the donation that clinched my heart, it was how effortlessly he did it. It was as automatic and as simple as breathing and he never gave it a second thought. I am not sure he even gave it a first thought. Sacrifice defines his life. He gives to his family, to church and to strangers. He gives money, time and compassion and never asks for anything in return. He put aside his own dreams and plans but I have never heard him wish for something he didn't have.
He and I are different. Sacrifice does not come naturally to me. I have to struggle every minute against my selfish nature and more often than not, the selfish side wins. Even with my own family, my own children, I often have to remind myself that they need things. It is embarrassing to admit but there it is.
My husband grew up in poverty and began working when he was 8 years old selling newspapers on the corner. There were times when he went hungry and there were times when there was no money for medicine. I have no doubt that he suffered. I suffered too, though. (see the selfish). My family was not wealthy. I went without some of the material things my friends had. I grew out of these circumstances determined to meet my own needs. He grew out of his circumstances ready to meet the needs of his family and the world around him.
My husband bought three lottery tickets for the 600 million dollar PowerBall that drew last Friday. After the drawing (um, we lost) we chatted briefly about how we would have spent the money. This was the conversation:
Hub: It all would have been spent pretty fast.
Me: Yep.
Hub: Traveling.
Me: Yep
Hub: I would have started with all our family and friends and then moved on from there.
Me: I have no doubt.
Hub: Build schools and hospitals. Feed a bunch of people.
Me: Pretty great plan.
Hub: Then we would have been poor and working again. But that's how it goes.
That is certainly how it should go.
I remember vividly the moment I knew I wanted to marry him. We were walking home from the movies one night and stopped at a sidewalk food vendor to grab a hamburger. He ordered three and silently passed one to a homeless guy sitting on the curb. If I had sneezed or blinked I would have missed it completely.
It wasn't the donation that clinched my heart, it was how effortlessly he did it. It was as automatic and as simple as breathing and he never gave it a second thought. I am not sure he even gave it a first thought. Sacrifice defines his life. He gives to his family, to church and to strangers. He gives money, time and compassion and never asks for anything in return. He put aside his own dreams and plans but I have never heard him wish for something he didn't have.
He and I are different. Sacrifice does not come naturally to me. I have to struggle every minute against my selfish nature and more often than not, the selfish side wins. Even with my own family, my own children, I often have to remind myself that they need things. It is embarrassing to admit but there it is.
My husband grew up in poverty and began working when he was 8 years old selling newspapers on the corner. There were times when he went hungry and there were times when there was no money for medicine. I have no doubt that he suffered. I suffered too, though. (see the selfish). My family was not wealthy. I went without some of the material things my friends had. I grew out of these circumstances determined to meet my own needs. He grew out of his circumstances ready to meet the needs of his family and the world around him.
My husband bought three lottery tickets for the 600 million dollar PowerBall that drew last Friday. After the drawing (um, we lost) we chatted briefly about how we would have spent the money. This was the conversation:
Hub: It all would have been spent pretty fast.
Me: Yep.
Hub: Traveling.
Me: Yep
Hub: I would have started with all our family and friends and then moved on from there.
Me: I have no doubt.
Hub: Build schools and hospitals. Feed a bunch of people.
Me: Pretty great plan.
Hub: Then we would have been poor and working again. But that's how it goes.
That is certainly how it should go.
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
Awww, poor babies.
Someone tried to convince me today that I don't understand the poor. "You don't get it. These are not sweet single mothers who just need a bit of help. Most are drug addicts who beat their children and take advantage of the welfare system."
Ignorance is so cute. And how sweet of her to try and educate me.
It is time to introduce Dorothy. My most precious saint (one of four, actually) was a member of the Communist Party. She was an anarchist and a suffragette. She was jailed at least 11 times and encouraged the men around her to resist their draft notices. She refused to pay her taxes or vote in an election. She drank and smoked too much and slept around. She had an abortion long before it was legal to do so.
Even after her conversion, the Church was irked by the work she was doing and they butted heads constantly. Dorothy did not glamorize her work with the poor. Her work was physically demanding and there was very little respite for her and her daughter. She hated the mental illness and the stench. She found them difficult to stand and craved silence.
She understood the poor.
She understood poverty.
She understood the will of God.
We don't serve the poor while wearing rose colored glasses. We don't serve them because we feel sorry for them or because they have passed some test that proves their worthiness of charity. We serve them because it is a command from God. We serve them because we are all undeserving of the blessings of this world. And whether our money and needs are met through our own hard work or if they come as a result of government assistance or generous charity, ultimately all of our blessings come from God.
Those of us who are blessed by God with health that enables us to work, return that blessing to God by our obedience in caring for others.
So we serve, without judgment.
We serve the addict.
We serve the criminals.
We serve the victims.
We serve the violent.
We serve the sick.
We serve the crazy.
We serve the liars.
We serve the manipulators.
We serve the faith-less.
And we thank God for the blessings we receive through this service and pray for His grace and mercy.
Ignorance is so cute. And how sweet of her to try and educate me.
It is time to introduce Dorothy. My most precious saint (one of four, actually) was a member of the Communist Party. She was an anarchist and a suffragette. She was jailed at least 11 times and encouraged the men around her to resist their draft notices. She refused to pay her taxes or vote in an election. She drank and smoked too much and slept around. She had an abortion long before it was legal to do so.
Even after her conversion, the Church was irked by the work she was doing and they butted heads constantly. Dorothy did not glamorize her work with the poor. Her work was physically demanding and there was very little respite for her and her daughter. She hated the mental illness and the stench. She found them difficult to stand and craved silence.
She understood the poor.
She understood poverty.
She understood the will of God.
We don't serve the poor while wearing rose colored glasses. We don't serve them because we feel sorry for them or because they have passed some test that proves their worthiness of charity. We serve them because it is a command from God. We serve them because we are all undeserving of the blessings of this world. And whether our money and needs are met through our own hard work or if they come as a result of government assistance or generous charity, ultimately all of our blessings come from God.
Those of us who are blessed by God with health that enables us to work, return that blessing to God by our obedience in caring for others.
So we serve, without judgment.
We serve the addict.
We serve the criminals.
We serve the victims.
We serve the violent.
We serve the sick.
We serve the crazy.
We serve the liars.
We serve the manipulators.
We serve the faith-less.
And we thank God for the blessings we receive through this service and pray for His grace and mercy.
Monday, March 26, 2012
To my fellow pro-lifers: We need to make some changes.
To my dear friends who are pro-life, it is time we had a heart to heart chat. We are losing credibility and need to make some changes. We need to make our message consistent. It is time we all asked ourselves:
Am I really pro-life? Or am I simply pro-birth?
If we are pro-life than we advocate for intrinsic value that is within each life. Beginning at conception until death. This includes each tiny baby inside its mother's womb, But our dedication must be consistent and so it must go beyond the uterus.
Because we are pro-life, we must believe that when a woman has a baby, we, as a society, must commit to the basic care of that baby either by government or neighbor.
Because we are pro-life, we must love all of our neighbors. Every color, every gender, every sinner must be treated with the respect that is due each person who is created by God.
Because we are pro-life, we must fight our government from enacting revenge on criminals through the death penalty. It is not a woman's right to stop life in her body, and it cannot be a governments right to stop life in a prison. These murders and rapists and terrorists can be imprisoned, can find repentance and discover the love of God.
Because we are pro-life, we must stand up and speak out against the needless torture and waste of animals. We must demand that these animals be provided a respectful life and a decent death. Animals were created by the same God who created our children and they need our voices.
Because we are pro-life, we must take a higher road, away from the rhetoric and anger that comes from opposing viewpoints. Our pro-choice colleagues are indeed pro-choice, not pro--abortion. No one relishes the idea of abortion. It is tragic for the mother and deadly for the life she carries. But she must be treated with love and compassion. We need to respect the lives of those who fight against government interference even if we do not agree with them.
Our inconsistencies are undermining our cause. We have spent decades fighting, yelling and sometimes hurting those around us. Maybe we can spend some time listening, praying, marching and loving.
Am I really pro-life? Or am I simply pro-birth?
If we are pro-life than we advocate for intrinsic value that is within each life. Beginning at conception until death. This includes each tiny baby inside its mother's womb, But our dedication must be consistent and so it must go beyond the uterus.
Because we are pro-life, we must believe that when a woman has a baby, we, as a society, must commit to the basic care of that baby either by government or neighbor.
Because we are pro-life, we must love all of our neighbors. Every color, every gender, every sinner must be treated with the respect that is due each person who is created by God.
Because we are pro-life, we must fight our government from enacting revenge on criminals through the death penalty. It is not a woman's right to stop life in her body, and it cannot be a governments right to stop life in a prison. These murders and rapists and terrorists can be imprisoned, can find repentance and discover the love of God.
Because we are pro-life, we must stand up and speak out against the needless torture and waste of animals. We must demand that these animals be provided a respectful life and a decent death. Animals were created by the same God who created our children and they need our voices.
Because we are pro-life, we must take a higher road, away from the rhetoric and anger that comes from opposing viewpoints. Our pro-choice colleagues are indeed pro-choice, not pro--abortion. No one relishes the idea of abortion. It is tragic for the mother and deadly for the life she carries. But she must be treated with love and compassion. We need to respect the lives of those who fight against government interference even if we do not agree with them.
Our inconsistencies are undermining our cause. We have spent decades fighting, yelling and sometimes hurting those around us. Maybe we can spend some time listening, praying, marching and loving.
A Peek Into My Family
Yesterday we all woke up too early and several of us went back to sleep. I made biscuits for breakfast, but didn't have crisco. I used butter which left the biscuits flat and uninspiring. My husband got showered and dressed and was looking fabulous and judgemental in his black shirt. He plunked down on the couch and waited for me to get 4 kids ready. So I, of course, ended up going to church in jeans and a t-shirt.
On the drive over I discovered I had poop on my hand. Whose (what, where, when) poop? I have no idea. It was dry and green-ish-yellow, smeared across my palm. Honestly, I did shower.
We arrived in time to both hit donut social hour and have two arguments about donut social hour.
Argument #1: we arrived just a minute too early and husband didn't want us to be the first in the room to get donuts. He says it makes us look suspicious and greedy. So everyone waited in the hallway until several other families entered the reception hall while I washed mystery poop off of my hand.
The second argument came when my 9 year old son took two donuts. TWO. DONUTS. Apparently the donut police told him last week he could only take one. My 15 year old remembered this and scolded him. My son cried. My husband eye-rolled me and said I was looking for trouble. Then my 15 yo looked around the room and declared the rule violation excusable because so many people were gluttonously consuming two donuts.
My husband skipped off to sing in the choir while I split up the children. My 13 yo daughter agreed to sit in the cry area with my 7 year old. Not because he cries, but because he is impossible. My other two children came with me inside church. The peace lasted for, maybe, 3 minutes.
Because that is when the dog came to church. All four of my children rushed to the vestibule to see the hilarious sight of an elderly golden retriever who decided he needed some Jesus that day. The door to the building was open, so I am sure he felt welcome. He trotted in the door and sat down to the side of a pew towards the back of the room. He proceeded to lay and roll over and listened to a sermon.
Church, for all intents and purposes, was over for my children. I can't really blame them. There was a dog in the Church!
I will say this in all honesty and from the bottom of my heart: That dog was more well behaved then any of my children, at any time, at any Catholic mass, ever. He sat quietly and listened. He didn't need to go to the bathroom or get a drink or color or be entertained in any way.
Once mass was over, the dog skipped out the door with the rest of our parishioners. I think he was rushing to get into line at the buffet. That's what we did.
Friday, March 23, 2012
My review of The Hunger Games. No Spoilers.
I need to publicly thank my daughter's English teacher, who made THG required reading last summer. We had 10 months of enjoying this series before it became a sensation and it made the movie experience that much more satisfying.
Of course we had tickets for opening day but at the very last minute we decided to brave the Midnight release. What a great decision! Parking was easy and seating was immediate. Lots of daring souls came dressed as Capital citizens and there was even one Katniss, perfectly replicated.
We spent 2 hours bonding with those around us, while we played angry birds and waited patiently for 12:12am.
The audience was obviously split between the 99% of us who had read the book and one poor soul in front of us who hadn't. She laughed at all the wrong places and was shocked at the violence but she was a fun addition to the group.
The plot fell almost perfectly in step with the book. The additions of the games from the Capital perspective was refreshing and actually helped tie the written narrative together. My biggest concern was how the director was going to handle all the internal dialog that is written in the book. I shouldn't have worried because it was handled perfectly. I didn't feel rushed and the silence wasn't awkward.
The movie was perfectly cast, save for Woody Harrellson, who was really good, but I still see him behind the bar with Shelly Long. Just a generation glitch. We had to sacrifice some character development due to time constraints, but that is why you just cannot see this movie without having first read the book.
And, as my 15 year old daughter commented on our way out of the theater at 3am, the movie is almost a perfect reflection of our world today. We in the United States sit in our own Capital and gorge ourselves on frivolous entertainment and stupidity, while the districts around the world struggle for survival, ignored and abandoned by those in power who could rescue them. Let them be hungry. Let them suffer with diseases. Let them create my toys, dig my diamonds, satisfy my disturbed passions and supply my table while I take their existence and value for granted. The Aid we send them does not compare to what we take from them and the world will not stay satisfied forever.
It was a great night.
Of course we had tickets for opening day but at the very last minute we decided to brave the Midnight release. What a great decision! Parking was easy and seating was immediate. Lots of daring souls came dressed as Capital citizens and there was even one Katniss, perfectly replicated.
We spent 2 hours bonding with those around us, while we played angry birds and waited patiently for 12:12am.
The audience was obviously split between the 99% of us who had read the book and one poor soul in front of us who hadn't. She laughed at all the wrong places and was shocked at the violence but she was a fun addition to the group.
The plot fell almost perfectly in step with the book. The additions of the games from the Capital perspective was refreshing and actually helped tie the written narrative together. My biggest concern was how the director was going to handle all the internal dialog that is written in the book. I shouldn't have worried because it was handled perfectly. I didn't feel rushed and the silence wasn't awkward.
The movie was perfectly cast, save for Woody Harrellson, who was really good, but I still see him behind the bar with Shelly Long. Just a generation glitch. We had to sacrifice some character development due to time constraints, but that is why you just cannot see this movie without having first read the book.
And, as my 15 year old daughter commented on our way out of the theater at 3am, the movie is almost a perfect reflection of our world today. We in the United States sit in our own Capital and gorge ourselves on frivolous entertainment and stupidity, while the districts around the world struggle for survival, ignored and abandoned by those in power who could rescue them. Let them be hungry. Let them suffer with diseases. Let them create my toys, dig my diamonds, satisfy my disturbed passions and supply my table while I take their existence and value for granted. The Aid we send them does not compare to what we take from them and the world will not stay satisfied forever.
It was a great night.
Thursday, March 22, 2012
Who's Complaining?
My dad worked hard. He worked everyday from 8 to 5 at a tiny desk with a crippled leg that caused him chronic pain. He worked hard with his one eye as the sole supporter of two children who were less than grateful. I don't ever remember him taking a sick day or an extended vacation.
My dad sacrificed his dreams to help his parents and he sacrificed his health to raise his children. He sacrificed his freedom and his dignity. He cooked dinner every night, cleaned every Saturday and took me to church every Sunday. He worried himself into debt and never complained at the turns his life had taken. He lived and died in pain. He deserved much better. I have no idea if he was happy. I hope somewhere in between his poor health and his poverty he found moments of joy. He was a good man.
My dad believed the American fairytale. That all citizens have equal opportunity for success. He believed that hard work would create success and wealth. Even at the end, as he suffered with cancer and the painful tumors that were attaching to his spinal cord, he was able to justify why his disability claim was denied. There were people worse off who needed the money.
There can be a partnership between success and compassion. If we all embraced generosity as a way of life, we could remove labels like "socialism" and "capitalism", which try to demonize both success and fairness.
My dad sacrificed his dreams to help his parents and he sacrificed his health to raise his children. He sacrificed his freedom and his dignity. He cooked dinner every night, cleaned every Saturday and took me to church every Sunday. He worried himself into debt and never complained at the turns his life had taken. He lived and died in pain. He deserved much better. I have no idea if he was happy. I hope somewhere in between his poor health and his poverty he found moments of joy. He was a good man.
My dad believed the American fairytale. That all citizens have equal opportunity for success. He believed that hard work would create success and wealth. Even at the end, as he suffered with cancer and the painful tumors that were attaching to his spinal cord, he was able to justify why his disability claim was denied. There were people worse off who needed the money.
My fellow Republicans: IT IS WRONG...To continue the lie that those who are wealthy worked hard and those who are poor are lazy; IT IS WRONG to take pride in your own accomplishments without recognizing the "hand-ups" your community and your country provided you; IT IS WRONG to resist and refuse participation in giving back to the country that afforded you these blessings and opportunities; IT IS WRONG to selfishly insult those in poverty who "just suck off the system" and not credit those in poverty who helped create your wealth. IT IS WRONG to deny that the color of a persons skin can still be a barrier to safety and success. We cannot wipe our hands and declare that prejudice does not exist.
There can be a partnership between success and compassion. If we all embraced generosity as a way of life, we could remove labels like "socialism" and "capitalism", which try to demonize both success and fairness.
And America is certainly not fair. Our government places ambiguous and ever-changing numbers which control whether some people can have medical care or not. Can have an education or not. Can have food or not. Can have disability income or not. People learn to survive within a system that is complicated and prejudicial with whatever skills and resources they have available. If the poor in our country are fighting a class war, it is certainly not the poor who started it.
"The opposite of poverty is not wealth. The opposite of poverty is justice."
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
Race was not a factor in Trayvon's death...
I've been watching the story develop of young Trayvon Martin, killed in Florida with a bag of skittles in his hand. Newscasters are throwing around the word "racist" like it's a basketball searching for a basket. Bounce--"Was the shooter a racist?" Bounce, Pass--"I'm his best friend and I know he is not a racist." Bounce "Racial slur" bounce--bounce--bounce. It makes my head hurt.
It's too easy to accuse someone of being a racist and too easy to deny that we are one. There is no way to prove that a person is a racist and no way to prove that someone is not.
Trayvon was not killed because his shooter, Zimmerman, was a racist, but Trayvon was killed because Trayvon was black. He was killed because he had dark skin and met a suspicious, angry man at the wrong time and in the wrong place. The killer-Zimmerman prejudged Trayvon's intentions as evil based on how Trayvon looked. He made very quick and erroneous assumptions. While Zimmerman can deny being racist, he cannot in any way deny being prejudiced.
In this time, In this place, let's all come together and agree that the only race is the human race. There is no such thing as black race, white race, Asian race. Race was a hypothesis that has never been supported by real science. The idea of classifying humans into races was to justify the subordination of one race over another.
We have different cultures and come from different places on this ever-shrinking planet. Even within our own blood relations, we have different shades of skin and different colors and textures of hair, but this is not indicative of race. It is indicative of humanity and it's greatness.
http://www.cnn.com/2012/03/21/justice/florida-teen-shooting/index.html?hpt=hp_c2
It's too easy to accuse someone of being a racist and too easy to deny that we are one. There is no way to prove that a person is a racist and no way to prove that someone is not.
Trayvon was not killed because his shooter, Zimmerman, was a racist, but Trayvon was killed because Trayvon was black. He was killed because he had dark skin and met a suspicious, angry man at the wrong time and in the wrong place. The killer-Zimmerman prejudged Trayvon's intentions as evil based on how Trayvon looked. He made very quick and erroneous assumptions. While Zimmerman can deny being racist, he cannot in any way deny being prejudiced.
In this time, In this place, let's all come together and agree that the only race is the human race. There is no such thing as black race, white race, Asian race. Race was a hypothesis that has never been supported by real science. The idea of classifying humans into races was to justify the subordination of one race over another.
We have different cultures and come from different places on this ever-shrinking planet. Even within our own blood relations, we have different shades of skin and different colors and textures of hair, but this is not indicative of race. It is indicative of humanity and it's greatness.
http://www.cnn.com/2012/03/21/justice/florida-teen-shooting/index.html?hpt=hp_c2
Sunday, March 18, 2012
Social Work Confessions "Come on Scooby Doo, we're gonna go check out the weirdo."
Ah, drug use. AKA Social Worker job security. I personally prefer the families who are upfront with me about it. They keep it out on the coffee table or tell me their high minutes before we walk into court. Cheers for honesty!
I have no judgement on these parents as long as their children are receiving excellent care. If the kids are well loved, well cared for, clean and fed. If they are read books at night and are given kisses every morning, do what ya gotta do, because addiction sucks.
But if your house is nasty and your kids haven't been to school in days or bathed in weeks. If they are begging at neighbors houses for food and their tears go unheeded. If there are so many strangers coming in and out of your house that your kids have to hide under the sink to feel safe...
If your beautiful child comes to me and says that:
"Mama keeps her joints in my Scooby Doo lunch box under the couch."
Then my reply will be, "Thank you very much, lets go find you some new parents."
I have no judgement on these parents as long as their children are receiving excellent care. If the kids are well loved, well cared for, clean and fed. If they are read books at night and are given kisses every morning, do what ya gotta do, because addiction sucks.
But if your house is nasty and your kids haven't been to school in days or bathed in weeks. If they are begging at neighbors houses for food and their tears go unheeded. If there are so many strangers coming in and out of your house that your kids have to hide under the sink to feel safe...
If your beautiful child comes to me and says that:
"Mama keeps her joints in my Scooby Doo lunch box under the couch."
Then my reply will be, "Thank you very much, lets go find you some new parents."
What's our Excuse ? Pt 2. The Biggest Lie.
WANTED: Clean Cut, Well Educated, Mentally Healthy, Sober, Gainfully Employed, Poor Person who is in desperate need of my generosity and wisdom. Ability to pass a Criminal Background Check is A MUST.
It's like someone runs a cheese grater across my brain, seriously. "God helps those who help themselves."
I get the theory. You want your money to go to a worthy cause. Responsible giving, right?
Oh, where do I start? How about this? There is no such thing.
If I am a Christian, then I must realize that the orders on my life to be generous and serve are pretty simple. Christ never advocated for responsible giving. He said give. Period. No exceptions for us and no requirements from them.
Give to everyone, give to your enemies, give to the criminals. Give your clothes, your food, your time and your compassion. Give, give, give, give, give. I am truly thankful Jesus made it so simple, because I would tie myself into knots trying to decide who is worthy of my dollar.
Why do we allow our attitudes to become so hateful and prejudicial when we see a begger on the side of the road? Why do we fight against the pull of our soul?
We don't want to be scammed. We don't want to be embarressed. Is it really more responsible to give to a non-profit organization whose CEO is making hundreds of thousands of dollars a year? When we fall into the trap of second guessing our donations all the time, we will never give. It's too easy to talk ourselves out of it and then forget that the need is real. The pain and tears and desperation are out there waiting for our response.
It's like someone runs a cheese grater across my brain, seriously. "God helps those who help themselves."
I get the theory. You want your money to go to a worthy cause. Responsible giving, right?
Oh, where do I start? How about this? There is no such thing.
If I am a Christian, then I must realize that the orders on my life to be generous and serve are pretty simple. Christ never advocated for responsible giving. He said give. Period. No exceptions for us and no requirements from them.
Give to everyone, give to your enemies, give to the criminals. Give your clothes, your food, your time and your compassion. Give, give, give, give, give. I am truly thankful Jesus made it so simple, because I would tie myself into knots trying to decide who is worthy of my dollar.
Why do we allow our attitudes to become so hateful and prejudicial when we see a begger on the side of the road? Why do we fight against the pull of our soul?
We don't want to be scammed. We don't want to be embarressed. Is it really more responsible to give to a non-profit organization whose CEO is making hundreds of thousands of dollars a year? When we fall into the trap of second guessing our donations all the time, we will never give. It's too easy to talk ourselves out of it and then forget that the need is real. The pain and tears and desperation are out there waiting for our response.
Saturday, March 17, 2012
What's our Excuse? Part1- How Embarrassing!
A few weeks ago, my husband and I were having a date night out to the casino. He likes the penny slots and I love live music, so win-win. For an extra measure of good luck, I forced my husband to switch lanes at the last second so we could toss a dollar to a beggar on the side of the road. He risked our reasonable insurance premiums by cutting off a couple cars and stopped on a dime next to the very nice gentleman who was actually not begging, but just waiting for the light to change so he could cross the road.
Whoops. My bad.
Then there was that time when I tried to help the wheelchair-bound-man move a shopping cart. He thought I was stealing the cart and starting yelling at me...at Walmart...during Christmas shopping days.
I've was on the opposite side of this last year when a kind lady, filled with compassion watching my husband and I tussle over the price of shoes at the Salvation Army, handed me a 20.00 bill and walked away before I could recover from my mortification to return it to her.
My point is that we are scared of embarrassingly helping the wrong person. Of being shut out and shut down. There are, of course, worse things to being embarrassed over.
Offer help, accept help. I constantly have to force myself out of the "bootstrap" theology we are taught in the United States. God put us here with instructions to help. People are suffering in mind, body and soul. I want to always make myself available.
"If people wish to help, let them come and see--the reality is more attractive than the abstract idea."
Mother T.
Whoops. My bad.
Then there was that time when I tried to help the wheelchair-bound-man move a shopping cart. He thought I was stealing the cart and starting yelling at me...at Walmart...during Christmas shopping days.
I've was on the opposite side of this last year when a kind lady, filled with compassion watching my husband and I tussle over the price of shoes at the Salvation Army, handed me a 20.00 bill and walked away before I could recover from my mortification to return it to her.
My point is that we are scared of embarrassingly helping the wrong person. Of being shut out and shut down. There are, of course, worse things to being embarrassed over.
Offer help, accept help. I constantly have to force myself out of the "bootstrap" theology we are taught in the United States. God put us here with instructions to help. People are suffering in mind, body and soul. I want to always make myself available.
"If people wish to help, let them come and see--the reality is more attractive than the abstract idea."
Mother T.
Friday, March 16, 2012
Desperate Female seeks Honest, Focused Charity
Since the dirty laundry has already been aired by the great Mother T., I don't feel too bad about laying this out there. Too many charities begin with the intentions of serving the poor and end catering to the upper middle class. It's not always a bad thing to support the arts or a university or a football stadium or whatever, it is just not what I am looking for.
I admit my standards are high but I don't apologize. For my whole life I have wanted to be on the front lines of charity. I want to hand out the food and provide the medical care. But since my life took a different path of marriage, family and a job, I have resolved to just be supportive.
Like all women, I fantasize over the characteristics of a perfect mate:
I admit my standards are high but I don't apologize. For my whole life I have wanted to be on the front lines of charity. I want to hand out the food and provide the medical care. But since my life took a different path of marriage, family and a job, I have resolved to just be supportive.
Like all women, I fantasize over the characteristics of a perfect mate:
- You must be directly serving the suffering poor and destitute.
- Your CEO cannot be a millionaire.
- Having a faith-base is preferred but should not be a requirement of those you serve.
- Overwhelmingly compassionate
- No-strings-attached, non-judgemental generosity.
- Personal sacrifice
- Appreciation of all donations, $1.00 to a bazillion dollars
- A-political, meaning you can have an opinion but not support a particular party or candidate.
"I'm Gonna Help Someone, Damit!"
I truly hope that God is impressed with my intentions, because most days it seems like intentions are all I have to offer.
Some people I meet are impressed with my choice to serve the community as my profession. Even my priests and other social workers consider my actual job above and beyond. But Mother Theresa saw through that facade. She knew what is missing.
"Without personal sacrifice, the good we do is simply social work."
Personal sacrifice is was separates the saints from the social workers. It is what moves me from a job to a justification of my existence.
Mother T., Dorothy Day, Irene Sendler...these are my heros. They marinated in personal sacrifice, in voluntary poverty. They lived in chronic insecurity. They gave their lives completely and wholly, not for a paycheck, but for a faith. It wasn't easy. They struggled emotionally and physically. They were hungry and sad, but their commitment to this way of life never wavered.
I want to throw up my rock-n-roll fingers and scream in unity with their choices. I want to kneel beside them in prayer and march along side them for justice. But all I have are intentions.
I believe and preach service to the poor, sick and imprisoned...while I sit in my cozy chair and watch Seinfeld reruns. I write and encourage everyone to give away everything that is non-essential...while I remind my husband that my birthday is coming up. I judge the actions of politicians and the wealthy as they ignore the poor...while I feed my face. What am I really doing to serve those around me? Not much. Not near enough.
"Shepherd me, oh God, beyond my wants; beyond my fears. From death into Life."
"Without personal sacrifice, the good we do is simply social work."
Personal sacrifice is was separates the saints from the social workers. It is what moves me from a job to a justification of my existence.
Mother T., Dorothy Day, Irene Sendler...these are my heros. They marinated in personal sacrifice, in voluntary poverty. They lived in chronic insecurity. They gave their lives completely and wholly, not for a paycheck, but for a faith. It wasn't easy. They struggled emotionally and physically. They were hungry and sad, but their commitment to this way of life never wavered.
I want to throw up my rock-n-roll fingers and scream in unity with their choices. I want to kneel beside them in prayer and march along side them for justice. But all I have are intentions.
I believe and preach service to the poor, sick and imprisoned...while I sit in my cozy chair and watch Seinfeld reruns. I write and encourage everyone to give away everything that is non-essential...while I remind my husband that my birthday is coming up. I judge the actions of politicians and the wealthy as they ignore the poor...while I feed my face. What am I really doing to serve those around me? Not much. Not near enough.
"Shepherd me, oh God, beyond my wants; beyond my fears. From death into Life."
Thursday, March 15, 2012
Social Worke Confessions Part 4-The ponytail trauma
Lice. That is why I always put my hair up in a pony tail when I go to visit families. If I don't have a hair bow, I'll use a rubber band or yarn or glue. I love my job and I really love these families I have visited with over the years. I want them to see I am comfortable in their homes, but as I watch their children scratching their scalps like a dog with fleas, I am forced to take action.
Another smelly trailer. Another dirty home. Another perfectly lovely family stuck in the grip of poverty and ambivilence. The accusation was that the children were going hungry. So before I left, I made sure I scanned the kitchen to check for food.
It all happened rather quickly:
Another smelly trailer. Another dirty home. Another perfectly lovely family stuck in the grip of poverty and ambivilence. The accusation was that the children were going hungry. So before I left, I made sure I scanned the kitchen to check for food.
It all happened rather quickly:
- I opened the refrigerator
- Dozens of large cockroaches scurried out onto the floor
- I stepped back in order to avoid a roach invasion of my sandles
- My pony tail got stuck in the very effective fly paper that was hanging from the ceiling.
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
The Birth of Hate.
My son was bullied this past week. I mean real, true, bullying. The kind that After-School-Specials are made of. It had been building. There had been small signs and passing comments that my son made. I should have known. That's not true. I DID know. I ignored it because I couldn't face the truth that my sweet son, having arrived at a new school 5 months ago, was not welcomed with open arms. It was just too painful.
And he cried.
Of course he did.
And then the students broke the awkward silence, pointing, laughing and mocking each tear. Mercifully, a teacher came and took my son out of the cafeteria, to the principal. In her office, every pervasive insult and eyeroll was spilled out.
Many public leaders mock the way our society has turned soft. How everyone gets a trophy and everyone gets to be a cheerleader. Why competition has been replaced with fairness. My son, as he grows and remembers this day, will have some choices. He can choose to be angry and vengeful or he can forgive. He can hurt those who hurt him or he can work towards fairplay, compassion and kindess. He can punch back or turn his cheek, sacrificing his own dignity so he can be an example of humility.
As a mother, I want those kids to hurt. As a Christian, I want those kids in Heaven. I hope my son chooses to forgive.
"Humility is learned by experiencing humilation with dignity" Mother Theresa
But, there he was. Standing in the rain after school with the principal, under her umbrella. There was no where for me to hide so I had to listen.
3 boys came up with the plan and got the rest of the class to go along. My son had already been told by these boys that he was "stupid" and that "no one in the class likes you". So, already feeling vunerable, my son walked into the cafeteria and sat in the middle of the long, rectangle table, at the seat that had been "saved" for him. As soon as he sat down, all the other kids scrunched their noses and moved away from him, leaving him sitting all by himself, bewildered momentarily before the hurt hit and settled in.
Of course he did.
And then the students broke the awkward silence, pointing, laughing and mocking each tear. Mercifully, a teacher came and took my son out of the cafeteria, to the principal. In her office, every pervasive insult and eyeroll was spilled out.
Many public leaders mock the way our society has turned soft. How everyone gets a trophy and everyone gets to be a cheerleader. Why competition has been replaced with fairness. My son, as he grows and remembers this day, will have some choices. He can choose to be angry and vengeful or he can forgive. He can hurt those who hurt him or he can work towards fairplay, compassion and kindess. He can punch back or turn his cheek, sacrificing his own dignity so he can be an example of humility.
As a mother, I want those kids to hurt. As a Christian, I want those kids in Heaven. I hope my son chooses to forgive.
"Humility is learned by experiencing humilation with dignity" Mother Theresa
Social Worker Confessions Part 3- The Smell
Any Social Worker who has done home visits understands what I mean when I say "the smell." My SW friends and I have actually dedicated many hours over the years trying to disect what filth is combined to produce "the smell". It is lack of ventilation + dirt + mold + trash + b.o + that little extra something that makes it permiate through a closed door.
They were a nice enough family. The mother was a witch (the kind that did spell, not the kind that rhymes with the B-word.) and the father was chronically unemployed. Their kids were always caked with dirt and wore flannel in 100 degree weather. The trailer was old and broken down. There were random animals running around the dirt yard.
And there was "the smell". It was all encompassing and stuck to your hair. It enduced a gag reflex and made you want to quit your job and go work at Wal-Mart as a door greeter.
I had visited this family several times, menthol rubbed inside my nostrils made the visits bearable. But one day was different.
Mother answered the door so excited. She exclaimed "I found the smell!!"
Oh happy day for us all.
"It was the maggots that were livin' under the carpet! I knew it felt squishy!"
Social Workers. Our work is nothing if not glamourus.
They were a nice enough family. The mother was a witch (the kind that did spell, not the kind that rhymes with the B-word.) and the father was chronically unemployed. Their kids were always caked with dirt and wore flannel in 100 degree weather. The trailer was old and broken down. There were random animals running around the dirt yard.
And there was "the smell". It was all encompassing and stuck to your hair. It enduced a gag reflex and made you want to quit your job and go work at Wal-Mart as a door greeter.
I had visited this family several times, menthol rubbed inside my nostrils made the visits bearable. But one day was different.
Mother answered the door so excited. She exclaimed "I found the smell!!"
Oh happy day for us all.
"It was the maggots that were livin' under the carpet! I knew it felt squishy!"
Social Workers. Our work is nothing if not glamourus.
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
Social Worker Confessions-Part 2. Gunfire.
As a social worker who often has to visit homes of people I have never met, I understand it may be dangerous. It never really feels dangerous. I am a pretty nice social worker. I have good crises skills and, truth be told, I honestly enjoy the work and the families I serve. But I really don't like being shot at, shot near or shot around.
You may be surprised to know how many people answer the door holding a rifle. This used to shake me, but it happens so often that I almost expect it now.
The first appearance of a gun came when I was still in training. I was following around the most amazing social worker I would ever meet, Ramona. She was my Yoda. But Ramona's job was to take children away, so of course none of the families could appreciate how fabulous she was.
We were sitting in someones home, on their tacky floral couch discussing very non-chilantly how we were going to walk out of their home with their two children. The dad stood up. Quietly walked into a back room. I could hear drawers opening and closing frantically. I was trying to decided whether to make a run for it, but I was afraid if I stood up, I would pee on myself. Very unprofessional. So I watched as the dad returned to the living room and Ramona stared him down. He reached into his pocket and pulled out
a pack a cigarettes. (Well, it could have been a gun!)
I think maybe I fainted or something. I have no recollection of actually leaving the house or getting back to the office.
The second time was actually not a pack of cigarettes. I was called to the highway to pick up two children aftter the highway police had pulled them over and found they were trafficking enough pot to smoke each day, every day for the rest of eternity.
When I arrived, the children were still buckled into their car seats. (yes, they were actually pretty good parents aside from the trafficking.) The police were all lined up behind their cars, weapons drawn, while I walked to the van. I had my plastic badge to protect me while gunfire cracked over me head between the father and the police. I got the kids unbuckled and took them away.
Social Work is an Adventure.
You may be surprised to know how many people answer the door holding a rifle. This used to shake me, but it happens so often that I almost expect it now.
The first appearance of a gun came when I was still in training. I was following around the most amazing social worker I would ever meet, Ramona. She was my Yoda. But Ramona's job was to take children away, so of course none of the families could appreciate how fabulous she was.
We were sitting in someones home, on their tacky floral couch discussing very non-chilantly how we were going to walk out of their home with their two children. The dad stood up. Quietly walked into a back room. I could hear drawers opening and closing frantically. I was trying to decided whether to make a run for it, but I was afraid if I stood up, I would pee on myself. Very unprofessional. So I watched as the dad returned to the living room and Ramona stared him down. He reached into his pocket and pulled out
a pack a cigarettes. (Well, it could have been a gun!)
I think maybe I fainted or something. I have no recollection of actually leaving the house or getting back to the office.
The second time was actually not a pack of cigarettes. I was called to the highway to pick up two children aftter the highway police had pulled them over and found they were trafficking enough pot to smoke each day, every day for the rest of eternity.
When I arrived, the children were still buckled into their car seats. (yes, they were actually pretty good parents aside from the trafficking.) The police were all lined up behind their cars, weapons drawn, while I walked to the van. I had my plastic badge to protect me while gunfire cracked over me head between the father and the police. I got the kids unbuckled and took them away.
Social Work is an Adventure.
Andes Mint Cookie Recipe
1 1/4 cup of Imperial Margerine
1 Cup sugar
1 Cup Brown Sugar
2 Eggs
2 teaspoons vanilla
2 Cups Flour
1 teaspoon Baking Soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 cup of Hershey's Chocolate Chips
1 Bag Andes Mints
Preheat oven to 350. Cream butter and sugars together. Add eggs and vanilla. Combine dry ingredients in a seperate bowl and add all at once to wet mixture. Add chocolate chips. Chill dough in refrigerator for 15 minutes.
I use a two teaspoon melon scoop for consistency. Drop cookies onto cookie sheet. These cookies will spread quite a bit, so leave room.
As soon as you take them out of the oven, place an Andes mint on top. Leave it to melt for a few minutes and then go back and spread the melted mint with the back of a spoon. These cookies are best made the night before.
Enjoy.
1 Cup sugar
1 Cup Brown Sugar
2 Eggs
2 teaspoons vanilla
2 Cups Flour
1 teaspoon Baking Soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 cup of Hershey's Chocolate Chips
1 Bag Andes Mints
Preheat oven to 350. Cream butter and sugars together. Add eggs and vanilla. Combine dry ingredients in a seperate bowl and add all at once to wet mixture. Add chocolate chips. Chill dough in refrigerator for 15 minutes.
I use a two teaspoon melon scoop for consistency. Drop cookies onto cookie sheet. These cookies will spread quite a bit, so leave room.
As soon as you take them out of the oven, place an Andes mint on top. Leave it to melt for a few minutes and then go back and spread the melted mint with the back of a spoon. These cookies are best made the night before.
Enjoy.
Childhood Traumas, Part 1- The Forbidden Lollipop
It was a different world back then. Educators prepared students for competition, not fairness. I prefer fairness all the way.
I was in kindergarten with Mrs. Shell at Rockford Christian Elementary School. She had just read us "Where the Wild Things Are." Our assignment was to draw a scene from the book and our incentives were lollipops. Not the lame dum-dum lolli's, oh no. These were the best of all lolli's. These were those tantalizing red heart lolli's with the word "LOVE" written in that white edible ink that came off on your tongue.
The sadistic turn in the plot came with these words from my teacher, "Only the very best pictures will get a lollipop." I was motivated. I decided to get extra points by drawing, not just a picture, but an entire scene. You will remember the one. The little boy is sitting in his tall, draped, striped tent wearing that crown.
I colored with my heart. I used different mediums to enhance the detail (crayons AND pencils) And in my objective opinion, my picture was by far the best.
At the end of the day, Mrs. Shell had layed each picture out on the floor at the back of the room for retrieval. I ran back and, you know it is coming, right? I looked to the picture to the left of my masterpiece. Lollipop. I looked to the picture on the right. Lollipop. I looked down at my own. No. Lollipop. No red heart. No white, yummy LOVE letters. Nothing. Just my rejected opus, lollipop-less.
I actually felt my heart sink into my stomach. The election was obviously rigged. That was the only explanation. My shock quickly turned to anger and embarrassment.
I walked out of the classroom to my waiting mother, unable to get the words out. How could I explain why every other child had a white/red tongue but me?? I decided to spare her the truth of my failure and I swallowed my despair.
I have never ever read "Where the Wild Things Are" to my children. Some scars just do not heal. And I give my children lollipops freely and without the ambiguous strings of my childhood.
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