My Apology

One of the most memorable interview moments I ever saw was that of Maria Shriver Kennedy Schwarzenegger.This time, she was not in the interviewer chair but instead on the receiving end of her good friend Oprah's questions. She was talking about her parents, specifically  her father, Sargent Shriver. She was telling about one of her most valued possessions, a crumpled piece of paper, she kept with her at all times at the insistence of her father.  In it was a love letter, not the kind you and I typically think of when we hear the words "love letter", but instead words of affirmation from her parents about her attributes, her identity,  what was good and lovable about her. She kept it with her always because, in the paraphrased words of her father, 'The world will tell you every day what you have done wrong, where your faults lie, and that you are not enough. It will beat you down and try to get you to focus on what you are not.' He wanted her to have something to redirect her attention, to keep her on a course of hopeful truth about her purpose and her true identity, a beloved child.

This week, dignitaries, heads of state and miners in Soweto alike will pause to remember the life of Nelson Mandela. Media will cover events live and streaming and inundate the waves with facts and perhaps some folklore about this storied individual. What we choose to believe and receive about his life and contribution is no doubt, slanted by our own experience, values, politics and choices. In the days since his passing I have seen many lovely tributes to this man, pictures and quotes, stories and news reel from  the pre-apartheid era. It didnt take long however, for the cynics to emerge, at first glance, respectful and objective but before long came the prickly questioning, followed by outright accusatory character assassinations. Over the years I have seen a number of pieces on this man and his life's remarkable journey and yes, these have been peppered with reports of adultery, political gain and missteps of one nature or another. 

Never once in all of that footage do I recall the term "perfect" being associated with this man. Good yes, revolutionary certainly, perfect, no. And so, when the news came last Thursday that he was no longer with us, I paused along with the rest of the world to reflect on what impact, if any his being here had on my life. I'm still processing that.

My parents arrived, coincidentally last Thursday to spend the winter with us on the Gulf Coast. Last night after working the previous 3, I woke up and walked into my living room to see my mom, Luke, and Nolin cuddling on the couch watching some made for tv movie and eating all sorts of bad things. I did the eye rolling smile and silently thanked God for this scene. I am so grateful that my kids are getting this amazing opportunity to share dinner conversation,  dish washing, a bathroom, cheesy movies and precious, precious time with their grandparents. They are being rooted and nurtured in the bosom of their family,  largely unware of the rare and resounding opportunity before them. I also like when my mom hugs me before I walk out the door and into God knows what at work. She is there when I come home too, after I'm beat up and sitting still long enough to question my mettle as a nurse after a frenzied shift. Was I enough? And she tells me I was, without ever uttering a word and hands me a cup of coffee. 

I have to believe I'm not alone in still needing this affirmation at age 44, or I'm as crazy as we have all always suspected.  The world is supposed to hurl fiery darts, I get that. However, when harsh criticism comes whizzing by my head, into my inbox, onto my fb page from the hand of fellow believers, I have to stop and scratch my head. Is this the business I'm supposed to be about? The best use of my time and energy? Its in those moments that I get it. I get why my unbelieving friends stand off, arms crossed with a look that says, "And ...exactly how is this any different from the rest of the world? THIS is what you call good news?"  Let me an offer an apology. Of course, I'm the pope, senator and executive director of exactly nothing so I cannot really speak for everyone. What I AM charged with, is defending the gospel and so I shall try. 

I pray that something, anything in my life bears witness to the fact that I know Jesus. In the timely words of Buddy the Elf, "I know him!!!" And I know what he wants me to do on this historic occasion. "Whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever can be admired... think on these things." Philippians 4:8. In my humble estimation, walking out of prison after being wrongfully held and abused for 27 long years and speaking forgiveness and reconciliation to my captors is pretty doggone lovely.  It also just happens to be the essence of the gospel I am charged with defending.

If you'll permit me an evangelical moment here, there is good news. Your father left you a crumpled note to keep in your wallet. He wanted you to know how very much you are loved and thought of.  "The Lord your God is with you. He is mighty enough to save you. He willtake great delight in you. The quietness of his love will calm you down. He will sing with joy because of you." Zephaniah 3:17. Talk about a love letter, that's a keeper. And thank you, Nelson Mandela for an imperfect and impactful life. One worth pausing to celebrate.

Oh Deer

There once was a girl who lived deep in the forest. Ok, so "girl" might be a bit of a stretch when you're closing in on 44, but it sounds better than "broad" or "this fed's old lady."  What I'm not exaggerating about is living in a forest.  The subdivision is called Lake Forest, it is Alabama's largest by far and with over 3000 homeowners, one of the largest in the country.  I have already been lost in my own neighborhood multiple times. I implemented a strict policy of no Lake Forest pick ups or drop offs with the kids after dark, shortly after moving to Daphne last year.  Leaving crumbs would do you no good. And now? I live here.

It would be impossible to characterize Lake Forest in any short summation and give you a true picture of what you might see. Every possible style of architecture from the past five decades is represented. Cape Cods, brick ranches, Georgians, Mediterranean stuccos, 80's Bavarian style homes, Spanish haciendas, Colonials, coastal retreats, and a host of what can only be categorized as "what were you thinking?!?" homes.  Together, somehow it works.  Like the messy art student's apartment.  It has an unnamed charm.

When we initially started looking for houses to rent, (we still own our house in Indy) I wasn't considering the area.  It just seemed a little dated.  But then I found the little black dress house.  You know the one, it fits you perfectly and it was destined to be yours.  Five bedrooms, gourmet kitchen I could literally see myself baking in, hardwoods throughout, wrap around porch, hot tub, massive deck, built on two lots complete with tangerine trees, grape arbor and hammock.  There was just one problem.  It wasn't for rent, it was for sale.

I have this husband though, who would walk over coals if he thought it would make me smile, so he called the realtor and started playing lets make a deal.  After a year on the market, the owner was game.  Or so we thought.  We were open to "lease to own" while we sold our house, but as it would turn out, the owner wanted the moon and we had to walk away.

I was truly devastated.  And if that sounds shallow, it was.  I had justified it in my mind though.  Great property, room enough for aging parents, great space to host youth group activities, and the listing sales price was a steal.  Good stewardship, right?  I really couldn't understand why God couldn't see how perfect this was for us.

Everything we looked at paled woefully in comparison in the following weeks.  Our lease was coming due very shortly.  And then, the rental market seemed to dry up.  Nothing was coming available.  When this property blipped on the radar, I was quick to make an appointment.  It was a rainy day and our walk-thru could not have been more than five minutes.  My impressions - it is sizeable, this carpet reeks of dog, that yard is too scary to even let my dog out, which is probably why this carpet reeks of dog.  And with that, we put down a deposit, with the assurance that yard and carpet would be addressed.

The night we got the keys, it was pouring down rain again.  The water had not been turned on.  The carpet odor seemed worse than ever and the yard was still a Brazilian jungle.  The rain stopped and they finally chopped down the jungle, sort of.  But what remained was worse.  Two deer.  No, not real ones.  The cheesy, fake ones that strange people put in their yards.  Only these apparently hadn't been weatherized and now looked like they had leprosy.

I was scheduled to work a few nights later and as I was walking through the dining room running late, I looked up and there was a winged monkey on my wall. Ok, they are actually called palmetto bugs but they are as big as winged monkeys.  I heard someone shriek (it was me) and all four menfolk came a-runnin' and managed to slay the beast.  A week or so ago, I ran over an albino armadillo.  The very next night I had to swerve heroically to miss a crossing possum.  The boys told me the shed is a haven for lizards.  I never plan to find out.  It seems there will be a new critter encounter almost daily.

It's funny though, we seem to have found our rhythm here.  We are actually eating dinner together and the neighborhood kids have already found us.  I have had two "I Love Lucy" sized disasters in my new non-gourmet kitchen, complete with billowing smoke, fire alarms and belly laughter.  Everyone gets nervous now when I start talking about a new recipe I found.

Yesterday our pastor was speaking about Abraham, and God telling him to go to a "land that I will show you."  That had to be pretty disconcerting.  Can you at least tell me how many bedrooms, Lord?  What about a hammock?

Now that I am here, it is so very clear to me.  He really does know best.  We are very happy in our new home.  I look back on what I thought was best in the little black dress house.  The yard was not fenced for our dog.  The hot tub didn't even work.  Too many steps to maneuver for my aging parents.  And worst of all, no leprous deer to gaze upon out the kitchen window.

The Other Side of Mothers Day

My first job out of college was at the Indiana Women's Prison. And this was by choice.  I had a lucrative offer at Merrill Lynch waiting on me, but I was desperate to save the world to the tune of $15k less a year.  My orientation included a day with the chaplain, a short but very large Puerto Rican woman with a thick accent and even thicker facial hair, dressed head to toe in black, complete with priest collar.  She gave me the nickel tour of the chapel where I was sure all these women would find Jesus, told me about all of the programs and various visiting prison ministries and then started poking around to see just how green I really was.

"What do you think is the hardest day of the year for these offenders?"

"Well, it has to be Christmas.  I can't imagine what it must be like for these women to be away from their families on that day," said the know-it-all world savior.

"Not even close," replied the pudgy faced woman.  "Christmas has always been a disappointment for most of these women.  Poverty, abuse, alcoholic fathers, nothing under the tree.  They got used to that real quick. Mother's Day.  That's the day I'm here all weekend, all hours.  Just trying to stop the bleeding. Just trying to get to Monday."

I've thought about that conversation numerous times in the 20 years since I had it.  Why Mother's Day?  It always seemed like such a benign holiday to me on both sides. Construction paper cards, hugs and then we get to go out to eat.  Until 2001.

The year the face of the world changed, happened to also be when one of my own pillars came crashing down.  I lost a baby in late January and by May, no one still seemed to see that the world had stopped turning.  I started looking around and it was the darnedest thing.  Apparently, I wasn't the only person to ever be wounded by the institution of motherhood. The unbelievably insensitive comments were not exclusively headed my direction.  Who knew? So much of our identity as women is tied up in who we mother.

This is my weekend to work but because I work nights, I got home just in time to eat the annual Mother's Day breakfast attempt of my 3 sweet boys.  As fate would have it, we lost 2 patients yesterday, both women, both mothers.

I have of course, witnessed this scene before.  The daughters sit close by, holding their hands, stroking their hair.  The sons stand in the threshold of the door, afraid of the vulnerability of death but drawn to do something, so they guard the door.

I tried to picture what this would look like on my deathbed. Maybe I'm naive, but my boys are cuddlers.  They give me whacky hairdos and invade my space with regularity.  I think they will hold my hand and stroke my hair in that moment.

My life is filled with those who squirm when this holiday draws near.  I have friends who were never able to have children.  Those who have lost them.  Those enduring the grueling adoption process.  Those who are estranged from adult children.  Those going through the devastation of divorce.  Those with children with disabilities they must overcome daily.  Those who  live on another continent from mother or child.  Those whose children are in prison.  Those with children in addiction.  Those who will visit their mother in a nursing home and feel helpless guilt.  Those with a mother with Alzheimer's who no longer recognizes them.  Those who were in the foster care system.  Those whose pain is not eased by the years that have passed since they held their mothers hand.

Where should they all turn?  The glib answer is to their Heavenly Father and i know its true, but sometimes you want your mother.  And since I'm secretly Catholic, I envy the sentiment, "when I find myself in times of trouble, Mother Mary comes to me, speaking words of wisdom, let it be."

Let it be.  Let it be so, that we open our eyes and see who is just trying to stop the bleeding. Just trying to get to Monday.  Happy Mothers Day, to all who nurture.

 

Turn In Your Hymnals...

A few Sundays back, the church we attend departed from the Chris Tomlin catalog and actually sang a hymn.  I found myself filled with nostalgia and a trace of regret.  It occurred to me that my children would not follow in my liturgical footsteps.  They would not know the first, second and fourth verses of 700 plus songs.  The hymns are rich with colorful language that you don't hear every day.  And I love them, to this day, so please don't be offended when I mention them here in an unconventional way.  Its just that sometimes the intended message woven in such heady vocabulary can get lost in the tender mind of a child.

Wouldn't you know it, the messages scrambled early for me.  Let's take a stroll down memory lane, shall we?  Remember the old Sunday School favorite that went like this, "He invites us into His banquet table, His banner over us is love"?  Loved that one.  Belted it to the rafters.  I was probably well into the third grade before I realized I wasn't being invited into His "baked potato."  It never dawned on me to question why we needed to enter a spud; I had the faith of a child.  Or perhaps I was overly preoccupied with anticipation of  the post-service potluck.

In any case, I know I was not alone in my confusion.  A friend recently told me how she came to be baptized.  Her beloved pastor was named Art.  It was years before she realized "How Great Thou Art" was not a tip of the hat to him.

Some songs could be downright frightening, if we're being truthful.  Take for instance this gem: "Watching you, watching you; there's an all-seeing eye watching you."  Just the one?  Try going to sleep on a Sunday night with a picture of a Holy Cyclops lurking in your head and see how easy it is.

Another one that threw me for a loop went something like this: "There's a stranger at the door..." Wait for it..."Let him in!"  Your mom and dad sang this directive in different octaves.  This flew in the face of everything being taught at school about stranger danger.  And to make it worse, "He has been there oft before."  What?!  Now I have a stalker??  Is this still the Holy Cyclops or someone else?  Geeze, its a wonder I slept at all.

There was one that stood out among the rest though, avid reader that I was.  I was completely unfamiliar with many of the words but to my young ears it bore a strong resemblance to every Edgar Allen Poe story I had ever heard.  "Night with eb'en pinion, brooded o'er the vale, all around was silence, save the night wind's wale."  Gulp.  I would inevitably glance over my shoulder fully expecting the Headless Horseman to come galloping up the red-carpeted center aisle.

Of course if you don't take the time to deliver your words effectively, anything can be misconstrued.  When we chose to homeschool the twins in second grade, I began to worry about Luke's spiritual future.  He seemed to be developing a strange fixation with sin-ridden cities at such a young age.  One of the first things we chose to tackle was learning the books of the bible.  Contrary to what most of us learned as the Pentateuch, my son instead, acknowledged the following five books of Moses: Genesis, Exodus, Las Vegas, Numbers, and Deuteronomy.  No, it is not lost on me that Las Vegas and Numbers are right next to each other.  I'm just well aware that Deuteronomy and Gin Rummy sound alike and so I am grateful things didn't turn out worse.  It was when we began working on The Lord's Prayer that my eyebrows truly raised in concern.  On recitation day, he looked me square in the eye and stated, " Our Father who art in heaven, Hollywood be thy name."

The moral of the story is this: some people shouldn't homeschool.  I'm kidding.  Kind of.  The lesson here is, be aware of how impressionable young minds can be.  And for crying out loud, ANNUNCIATE.

Year of the Snake

We ordered takeout Chinese a couple of weeks ago when Paul was out of town and I was down with a migraine.  Sean answered the door, completed the transaction and the next thing I knew, he had flung my door open and flipped on the light.  "Mom, look what they gave us!"  He dropped the scrolled calendar before my face.  "2013 is the Year of the Snake."

Fabulous.  My deepest, darkest fear gets its own entire year.  According to Ancient Chinese wisdom, a snake in the house is a good omen.  It means the family will not starve.  Of course they won't, they've already died of snakebites.  The value of the year of the snake is material wealth.  As I write this, my mother is in my small apartment kitchen parboiling cabbage, as is the custom on New Year's Day to ensure such fortune.

Well when in Rome ... if this is the year to get what I want then I will outline my 2013 wish list here.  Let's not beat around the bush.

1. My Irish will shock everyone (myself included) and roll the tide back to Tuscaloosa.  I realize the odds are not in our favor, but it IS the year of the snake and all.
2. No need to waste your time entering.  I'm winning the HGTV Dream Home this year.  Of course I have no idea what I'll do with it once I win since I have no desire to live in South Carolina.
3. Should by some strange twist of fate, this not occur, I hope to move into a modest house with a fenced yard by May so this mangy mutt can roam in his natural habitat.
4. I want my bathtub back.  Yes, I have a tub but its not mine.  The oasis where my calgon moments occur.  It's what I miss the most about home ownership.

I really can't think of much else I want.  Oh sure I have the occasional aches and pains that everyone else does but I am healthy by the world's standard.  I have an amazing husband who adores me for some strange reason.  I am the mother of three boys who are going to change the world for the better.  I live near the ocean.  My parents are visiting me for three whole months.  I am part of a terrific church, live in an adorable town and have the best friends anyone could ask for.

So let's make a deal - if I surrender the bathtub and the fenced yard, can January 7th be my day?  Let's go IRISH!!!

My Inner Heidi

It was a strong brew, thank goodness, that fateful morning earlier this week when I sat down with my cup of joe and dialed my mother for our morning chat. She didn't soften the blow or sugarcoat it when she dealt me my own personal Maury Povich moment. No, there are no baby-daddy issues here. One needs to witness me angry exactly one time, to be certain I am Omar's daughter. Its far worse than that, I'm afraid. "I had lunch with your cousin Dan, yesterday." Cousin Dan is the nicest man you will ever meet, a partner in a prestigious Indianapolis law firm and the expert on all things pertaining to "that branch of the family." She continued, "Upon further investigation, it turns out that we are not actually German at all. We are Swiss."

And just like that, a built-in identity crisis was formed. I opened the pantry door, not unlike the way Lot's wife looked back, and there stood the false witnesses. Three lying cans of sauer kraut acting as if they belonged there. Mom was mumbling on about farmers and being a peaceful people, blah, blah blah. Peaceful? This frau with the furrowed brow was anything but at peace. Swiss? I had no idea how to be Swiss. This was a game changer.

I have spent the last week immersing myself in Swiss culture trying to make up for lost time with my true heritage. The following report is what I have learned thus far. To begin, I am the first stop on the bell curve. If I had learned German, it wouldn't have been quite as daunting, but now I must master French and Italian as well if I hope to move seamlessly through the homeland.

I started with what I knew: cheese, watches, knives and banks. I enjoy a mushroom and swiss burger when I am at Hardee's as much as the next guy. I would be less than truthful if I didn't admit I would prefer to hail from the land of Philadelphia cream, but I digress. So cheese, check. Watches. This is going to be a problem. You see, I never wear a watch and I'm supposed to; I'm a nurse, after all. No check. Knives. Oh, good heavens. Any of you who have served time in my kitchen are familiar with my knives and would know to grab a spoon first if an intruder broke in. No check. Banks. Math and technology. Need we go further? I didn't think so. I am one for four on Swiss things I know about. On an up note, my son Luke who is fascinated with all things militant will be thrilled to learn he is genetically predisposed to guard the Pope as a member of the elite Swiss guard. Not everyone can pull off striped knickers and a red-plumed helmet, but I plan to be a supportive parent.

When you consider the typical, physical characteristics of the Swiss, a portrait of repression begins to emerge. Think about it. I just went deeply brunette, I use a self tanner daily, and remember that little surgery I had about three years ago? Uh huh. Its like I was trying to hide the Inner Heidi. The first Bond girl, Ursula Andress was Swiss. I know. The resemblance is uncanny, especially the abs, but we have more to uncover here, so we must move on.

From here on out it only gets more difficult to assume my assigned destiny. First we have a dog problem. There is no way that Lincoln is going to pass for a Saint Bernard. Let me go ahead and take this opportunity to utilize some free advertising space: Free schnauzer to a good, German home. Doesn't like children, demands full reign of the house, barks at leaves, enjoys Corn Chex, answers to no one.

The last hill is the hardest to climb, as we Swiss like to say. Come July, when we all sit down with our strawberries and cream, tune in to McEnroe and the lady with the man voice as they bore us to tears through inevitable rain delays, I will be forced to forsake Mi Amore, Rafael Nadal. Naturally, I will be expected to cheer for cousin Roger and my love of country will be brutally tested. There is only one thing that could make this less painful, more palatable. This Swiss miss is off to have some hot chocolate.

Welcome to Our World

Words fail me. I have nothing to say about the events of last Friday that hasn't already been said. As we drove home last night in the rain after celebrating the fifteenth birthday of our twin boys, I remembered that in another corner of the country, two other boys were being mourned and buried. Noah Pozner and Jack Pinto, both age six were laid to rest and welcomed into heaven. And now, perhaps more than ever before, I am mindful of how very much we needed that baby boy in the manger. This Chris Rice song came on the radio as we drove home and says more than I could hope to say.

Tears are falling, hearts are breaking
How we need to hear from God
You've been promised, we've been waiting

Welcome, Holy Child
Welcome, Holy Child

Hope that you don't mind our manger
How I wish we would have known
But long-awaited Holy Stranger
Make Yourself at home
Please make yourself at home
Bring Your peace into our violence
Bid our hungry souls be filled
Word now breaking Heaven's silence

Welcome to our world
Welcome to our world

Fragile finger sent to heal us
Tender brow prepared for thorn
Tiny heart whose blood will save us
Unto us is born
Unto us is born

So wrap our injured flesh around You
Breathe our air and walk our sod
Rob our sin and make us holy
Perfect Son of God
Perfect Son of God
Welcome to our world