I Can't Wait to Be Old

I love old people.  I'm just like some jerk about to crack a Polack joke, who says, "Some of my best friends are Polish people."  Well, many of my good friends are elderly and I love them dearly.

So while I confess to you that I often and joyously make fun of old people, I have to remind you how much I look forward to becoming an old person myself.  As I mentioned before, there's an 80 year old lady in me, who I very much aspire to be.  So my mirth is always mixed with the very real hope that I can be just like them someday.  After all, there are some real advantages to advanced age.

I can't wait to be old enough to pick a fashion decade and stick with it for the duration.  There's a gorgeous, stately woman I know, who must be over 80.  She looks like an ad from Sears & Roebuck's 1926 catalog.  She probably hasn't had to buy a stitch of new clothing in thirty years.  If she were my age, she'd be a social outcast, and have to compromise and at least buy a pair of oversized sunglasses or something, but at some point, she didn't have to cowtow to every fad anymore.  She just found what she liked and wore it.  The prime example of this phenomenon, of course, is the purple & red ladies.  Let's just say my youth group might have trouble focusing if I showed up in red & purple feathers each week.

I can't wait to open my car doors unapologetically.  I had to get a minivan, not because my two kids overwhelmed a sedan, but because I got so tired of the guilt that went along with watching my kids door-ding every parking lot neighbor I sidled up to.  Sliding doors are a real salvation for my guilt complex.  But as someone who parks daily in a church parking lot, I can tell you from experience that pulling up too close to a Buick or Cadillac when there's a sewing circle or fish fry going on will inevitably lead to car doors that look like Brad Pitt's acne scared cheeks (I have a picture somewhere that proves this about Brad Pitt, for those who choose to deny the reality of his failed teenage hygiene).  Someday, I am going to drive a big boat, park in the wider spot by the door, and throw open my doors with the boldness of an aged woman.

I can't wait until fake eye lashes and bright lipstick won't suggest to the men around me that I'm going to charge by the hour.  I can't wait until I get to subsitute a clear plastic bonnet for my umbrella.  I can't wait until a wig will be an acceptible alternative on a bad hair day.  I can't wait until I can afford to buy the best seats when my favorite band re-organizes to release a new album after a fifteen year hiatus.  I'll sit way in front of all the youngsters who would have died for my seat and dance like a maniac to all three "early" songs, then leave when the good music starts.

My daughters have trouble with the idea of my mortality sometimes.  They become deeply concerned about the reality that our parents will proceed us in death.  I worry about that too sometimes, because I still get to enjoy the company of three of my four grandparents and both my parents.  I don't know what it will be like to bid farewell to someone who made an intense inpression on my personality and my DNA.  But I tell my dauthers often that I pray, before we have to say good-bye, that we get to be old ladies together.  Because we're going to have a hoot!

I will praise you as long as I live, and in your name I will lift up my hands. Psalm 63:4

I'm Lucky I Haven't Run Someone Over

I've had no less than three utterly stupid moments behind the wheel of a car in the last month.  I don't normally consider myself to be an awful driver, but at this point, I have to consider the possibility.

Two were at least partially the result of heavy fog.  Driving at night, I thought I was taking my exit, only to realize as my headlights lit up the green exit sign 10 feet in front of me, that I had passed the exit and was cutting across the shoulder.  To avoid the sign, I cut over like a maniac.  It was only by good fortune that no one had already moved up to occupy that lane, or I would have run them right off the road, because I panicked and did not look.  Praise the Lord, no loss of life, time, or treasure resulted from my folly.

You would think after that, I would have slowed down when I encountered another foggy day.  But I apparently had not learned my lesson yet.  With no such perilous consequences, my second foggy day experience involved completely missing my turn - twice.  I had to invent a new way home to accommodate my utter lack of effective foggy-weather driving, but at least I didn't risk anyone's life.  I guess I did learn something from my earlier mistake.

Yesterday, however, I cannot blame on the fog at all - other than the fog in my head after getting back from a long road trip last week and still being a little out of sorts.  It was clear and sunny.  I had set my cruise control to my accustomed 5 mph over the speed limit, and was cruising along the freeway, heading home from work.  I noticed that the river was flooding and began to ponder whether it was high enough to cover the bike path yet.  I didn't realize that I was focusing more and more on the scenery and less and less on the road in front of me, until I glanced up and saw the back end of an old Taurus station wagon.  I hit the brakes pretty hard when I realized it was only going 55.  I didn't have time to even check my blind spot, let alone change lanes.  Whatever excitement it generated for me, I'm sure the driver of the Taurus had some choice words on his lips when he saw me roar up on him like that; and his wife ought to send me the cleaning bill for his shorts.

And my dad thought the red light I ran while visiting him was the worst driving I've done lately...

I don't say it lightly that I praise the Lord when these things happen and there are no consequences, because I know sometimes people lose their lives when they make mistakes like mine.  Yet I also know that if every mistake someone made on the road resulted in the worst case scenerio, there would be no one left to drive; and the glory for that goes to God.

For he will command his angels concerning you to guard you in all your ways.  Psalm 91:11

I Pee When I Laugh at My Own Jokes

My lack of bladder control is historic.  My tortured family could hardly settle into their morning bathroom routine without a frantic knock on the door from little Emmy, demanding use of the stool.  They generally respected my panic, however, and yielded the right of way.  Too often, they had witnessed or cleaned up the aftermath.

As I got older, I learned all sorts of tricks to counter my weakness, but there is still one situation in which nothing but Depends can help me.   If I crack a joke that causes people around me to laugh, the combination of surprise, joy, and laughter overwhelms my bladder control.  It really makes me a supreme dork.  You're supposed to play it cool when people laugh at your jokes, like "yeah, I knew you'd find that funny."  Instead I'm the biggest idiot in the room, because the joke is on me.  "What?  You found that funny?  Now I feel so silly, I think I'll pee my pants."  If laughing at my own joke doesn't make me look stupid, the damp spot on my backside will!

Some of my great moments include: a successful skit in German class, after which I had to hide my butt with my Espirit bag to get to the bus without humiliation; every single time I've participated in a "little people" skit at camp; donning left-over hospital diapers before a get-together with friends who make me laugh; and the list goes on.  My longtime friends and family can probably add plenty of additional examples. 

People wonder when I preach why I don't tell more jokes...well, now you know.  I love to laugh.  Taking myself or life too seriously is against my nature.  I just have to believe that God has a sense of humor, too, because having to moonwalk out of the room after I crack a good joke is how, by God's wisdom, I'm designed.

..."God has brought me laughter, and everyone who hears about this will laugh with me." Genesis 21:6

They Aren't So "Holy and Dearly Loved" By Me

There is nothing more flattering that being "chosen."  The old cliche about the disappointment of being chosen last is not a cliche, but a reality of life, for most of us, at one time or another.  In a lot of ways, being "un-chosen" could have defined me, especially as a kid.  I was not athletic or outgoing.  I often went unnoticed, at home, at church, and at school.  But in a strange reversal, it is not those moments that made the biggest influence on me.  Instead, it was the moments, often separted by years, of being chosen.

Being chosen, in my mind, is receiving a blessing from someone who has nothing to gain by sharing it with you.  When someone pulls you out of the crowd - just because.  I felt chosen at my aunt's wedding when I was 3, when the bride asked me to come take pictures with her; just the two of us.  I felt chosen in Fifth Grade, when my teacher, Mrs. Murrell, took me under her wing and encouraged me to be myself.  I felt chosen in middle school, when a charming, friendly, brilliant girl named Marybeth struck up a friendship with me and helped me figure out how to finally fit in.  As a college student, I was uneasy joining the church choir; it was my first public commitment to church life.  Barb Barnett made room for me in the alto section and offered to store my folder in the slot that had been her late husband's just a few months before.  She put me at ease and became a beloved friend. When my husband came along, he acted like he knew I was the one for him the first time I returned a call.  Thirteen years later, he still makes be feel chosen, every day.

These people, and others as well, didn't wait for an invitation to step into my life and make it better.  The feeling of being chosen that they gave me modeled God's love to me and shaped my attitude about why I'm here and what I do.  No matter how many kids show up on a Wednesday night, it is my goal to give each of them a look in the eyes, a pat on the shoulder, a word of affirmation that makes them, however briefly, feel how chosen they are, too.  But I have been struggling lately, to show compassion, kindness, or patience with some of our kids.  As the city has spread, our church has become more urban, an influx of refugees has brought cross-cultural challenges into our youth and children's programs, and there are still the usual mixture of well and poorly behaved kids to reach. 

My theology and my goals are still the same; each one of those young people is chosen and dearly loved by God and it is my job to help them see that in themselves.  But I have to admit; there are kids in whom the Image of God is pretty buried for me and I have to work really hard to see and act on it.  Sometimes, I think I send kids home feeling overlooked and "un-chosen."  And I have to wonder how buried in me the Image of God is, for them.

Therefore, as God's chosen people, holy and dearly loved, clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness and patience.  Colossians 3:12

I Lied; I'm not really allergic to mushrooms

Mushrooms won't send me into anaphylactic shock or even give me the trots.  But when I'm ordering at a restaurant, planning dinner with friends, or discussing pizza toppings, you'd think they did.  When I'm making my special order of "no mushrooms," I think I know what everyone around me is thinking.  "She's not allergic, she just doesn't like mushrooms."  The reason I believe that is because when I hear someone say they're allergic to something controversial, like mushrooms, seafood, or guacamole, that's what I think about them.

In my "family of origin," the latest PC way of talking about the people who raised you, we tried every food under the moon and stars.  And we all had one thing or another that we didn't like.  Dad would pitch a fit whenever anyone had the audacity to put a few nuts in his brownie, and I famously uttered the whine of, "I don't like it..." to my grandparents over a spaghetti dinner, but neither resulted in any real changes to our family menu.  In the end, I was grateful to have been exposed to such a variety of foods, and developed a sense of adventure towards dining.  I ended up with an "eat it or don't" attitude about food preferences.  Fortunately, my kids are fairly good eaters, so my uncompromising attitude hasn't led to power struggles or starvation yet.

But my attitude has led me to feel very embarrassed about my repeated lies about mushrooms.  The truth is that I'm not allergic.  I actually love mushrooms.  But a nice pepperoni and mushroom pizza, as great as it tastes, haunts me with a green cloud of shame the next day that could singe your nose hairs (and causes my husband to plead with me to please tell people I'm allergic).

If I could just be a little more understanding of other people's food preferences (and some people's very real allergies), I could "put my behind in the past;" I wouldn't be embarrassed by my little lie.  But I am, so I must.  So next time you hear me order something "sans funghi," give me a little wink and let me off the hook, if you would.  Meanwhile, I'll try and be more gracious to you when you'd rather not eat pickled jellyfish.

Do not judge, and you will not be judged. Do not condemn, and you will not be condemned. Luke 6: 38

A Pompous Consideration My Husband Might Kill Me for Confessing

When I can, I try to think like an 80 year old lady.  I figure since that's where I'm hoping to end up, and I hope to be happy when I get there, I should mostly do things that the old lady within me will approve of.  Sure, an 80 year old lady might not want to hike to a leper colony or fly to Bangkok, but I aspire to do those things, because I'm sure my 80 year old lady will love telling the stories over a nice game of Uno.

So, ever since our second daughter was born, I've had an ongoing internal debate over what my 80 year old thinks about large families.  Does my 80 year old want more cash and freedom to hit the flea markets in Bangkok, or more kids and grandkids to potentially visit her in the nursing home?  Both seem like gambles.  Nothing guarantees that my large family would be able to take the stress, stay nearby, love each other, and reproduce.  Nothing guarantees I will or won't see Bangkok in the next 50 years, either - or that I'll end up with a good story if I do go.  And, of course, there's the concerns of my husbands' 80 year old man to consider.

I've realized, as I've turned this dilemma over in my mind for a while, how incredibly arrogant reproduction is.  It was really a cocky thing to do, bringing that first child into the world.  By our actions, we made a statement.  "We believe that our DNA is so valuable, that the world needs it's propagation.  We believe that we are so mentally and emotionally stable, such great providers, such a bastion of love and social value, that the world is better off if they have our progeny in it."

Perhaps we should have thought this through before we had a kid, but we went ahead and had her, which made having a second child a no-brainer.  As soon as you think you can tolerate the sleep deprivation (and if you've been able to pay off the medical bills from the first one), you go for it.  The world does not need more "only children," after all.  We've all seen what happens when parents fail to create a sibling for a child.  So it was easy having a second.  And we've been blessed for the choice.  Our girls are bright, beautiful, and endearingly sweet.  I love every moment with them, and look forward to seeing them grow and become the women God plans them to be.

So what, really, what in the world, motivates me to consider a third child?  Especially when we've been so blessed in every way already?  How pompous am I?  To have a third child would say by our actions that the world doesn't just need a replacement for each of us - the world actually needs us to over-produce?  We're such fantastic parents that we think we can overcome being outnumbered?  We have the requisite time, provision, and emotional resources to take that crazy, cocky plunge again?  Get real.  No one's that good.  But I have to confess; it crosses my mind.

So, I hope you aren't disappointed to get to the final paragraph and find out that no, I'm not pregnant; you're probably relieved.  But yes, sometimes I'm pompous and arrogant, and really wish I knew what my 80 year old lady would prefer, because as the days go by, I know that we're going to have to make a choice whether our family is just right, or has room to grow.  And we can't change our minds once I'm 80!

They will not toil in vain or bear children doomed to misfortune; for they will be a people blessed by the LORD, they and their descendants with them. (Isaiah 65:23 NIV)

It Could Cost Me My Ordination

I realize that there is a lot at stake in sharing some things publicly and I have to approach today's confession with caution.  There are people's emotions involved and I really don't want to hurt anyone; unfortunately, sometimes we have deviant values and find ourselves led down a treacherous path.  I'm not even sure I can be redeemed, because I'm admittedly unrepentant.  So here goes.  My confession is this:  I am a Baptist Minister and I hate potlucks.  I despise the very idea that I should subject myself and my family to a meal that professes its success to be a matter of chance!

I think "back in the day" there must have been a sense of adventure in attending a potluck.  Will the dishes compliment each other?  Will there be enough fried chicken?  Does everyone have a requisite can of Cream of Mushroom in the pantry?  No one knew that mayonnaise becomes poisen after it sits on the counter for the three hours from Sunday School until after the service.  And there was no $6 buffet you could hit after Easter Service, where each kid can find their own favorite and eat without complaining or insulting your cooking.  Most of the people who still love potlucks remember the old days with fondness.

But those days have past and now the adventure is of a different nature.  There are three words that strike fear in my bowels, "Made From Scratch."  Which translates, "No professional has had any inpact on the outcome of what you are about to ingest."  My potluck horror stories started when I boldly invited my new boyfriend to come to a church potluck on a date (Ha!  Another confession!  Forgive me, I was a poor college student).  I don't know if they announced a theme ahead of time or not, but every single dish on the buffet had incorporated corn.  I shrugged sheepishly to my boyfriend, and scooped up meatloaf with corn, chicken with corn, corn pudding, and brownies with corn sauce.  We choked down a spoonful of each item and he began his love-hate relationship with the Baptist church that continues to this day.

In the years since, perhaps in relation to the age progession of the casserole-loving portion of our congregation, we have found a pattern to our digestive issues.  Namely, we usually have digestive issues within hours of attending a potluck.  Just to spread the love around, however, my husband's family has an Italian-American Reunion potluck each summer that achieves roughly the same results.  But if you didn't know two spoonfulls of polenta couldn't sooth the effects of hot Italian sausage followed down by fruit soaked in homemade everclear, well...you're probably already on Prevacid.

There is no question that generational differences are a source of constant challenge and amusement.  We have to share the road and the grocery store aisles.  We struggle to provide for and honor those who broke the path for us, while still making way for the new ideas and passions of the generations that are coming up.  We have such different ideas about what is "good" or "right," yet we need one another and, more importantly, we love one another.  So I still go to potlucks sometimes, but I don't eat much while I'm there.

'Rise in the presence of the aged, show respect for the elderly and revere your God. I am the LORD. Leviticus 19:32

I Didn't Read Your Blog and Now I Am a Cyber Stalker

So, I had this vague idea that some of my friends had blogs, but I never really pursued it.  I maybe read a little here or there, but blogging was not really on my radar.  Then I got the inspiration that I needed a blog, and I'm at a complete loss about the ins & outs of the whole thing, so I thought I should look around.  As soon as I started looking for it, I realized it's all over the place.  For instance, even though I had never realized he was blogging, a friend had even announced my daughters' births to his blog-readers (trust me, he has other, far more interesting things to write about).  How do I know this?  Because now that I realized my friends are out there - I'm becoming a blog-junkie!  Filling in the gaps of all the stuff I missed this whole time.  But I felt the need to confess...I didn't follow my friends before and now I'm digging through archives.  It seems very selfish.

For me, "why" matters; having honest intentions is an integrity thing and essential to my relationships.  The broken trust of hidden motivations can be painful to rebuild.  For instance, back when my husband and I got engaged, it was, of course, monumental news to me.  At the time, someone who really mattered to me didn't even ask to see my ring.  A few months later, this person came to visit unexpectedly, and took intense interest in every aspect of our wedding plans, especially asking to see my engagement ring.  They studied it intently and asked all sort of questions about the finer details.  It was such a reversal; I was flattered and thrilled.  I thought they were ready to share my excitement about this huge new step we were taking.  But before the end of an hour, I found out they had just gotten engaged and the interest was out of comparison and brainstorming.  The visit wasn't to see me, or share in my excitement; it was to announce their news.  It really hurt and it took a while for that sting to cool.

This blog is not about "outing" others, it's about my own confessions, and the relationship that was hurt that day has since been healed.  I only share the story to explain why I might sometimes be over-sensitive to explain my motivation.  I'm not naive enough to think that anyone has been pining for my readership or would be crushed by my neglect, or my potential alterior motive for visiting their blog.  It probably doesn't matter to them whether I follow their blog or not.  But when I pop up as a follower all the sudden (if I can ever figure out how to follow someone), they'll be right to question my sincerity.  I hope they'll understand that if all I wanted was to see their layout, I could do that anonymously.

I'm cyber stalking my friends, because I'm sorry I missed out on so much that I didn't realize was there!  And, let's face it, I'm also cyber-stalking my friends because I just started a blog and I wanted to know what theirs is like.  I respect their writing, their style, their cyber-sense - and I want to learn from the best.

Be sincere in your love for others...Love each other as brothers and sisters and honor others more than you do yourself. (Romans 12:9-10 CEV)

p.s. Post your blog, in case I haven't found you yet.  Is blogger the only place you can actually "follow" someone?

Bad Stewardship of the Dog

I was very confident that blogging my failures was a great way to connect with others and keep humble.  Then as I start my confession, I realize it might also be a good way to invite social services or animal control over.  I thought I could ease into this confessing thing, but now I'm not as confident.

Last weekend, we got back from a nice breakfast after a 9AM basketball game and the dog was whining in her kennel.  I had let her out to use the bathroom before we left, and knew she was only whining because she wanted to get out and join us, so I felt no urgency.  As I came into the kitchen and started to settle in, it seemed odd that she didn't quit whining.  I was about to tell the dog to hush, when my older daughter declared from the dining area, "Mom, Naboo is outside!" 

I looked up and told her, "Honey, she's in her kennel."

She repeated, more firmly, "Mom.  The dog is outside!"

I looked past her and saw that the sliding door was still unlocked.  I had left the dog outside before the basketball game.  It was in the 30's and rainy, and my ten pound, chihuahua/terrier had been out in it for three hours.

Let me tell you about Naboo.  We rescued her about a year and a half ago.  She had Kennel Cough, so there was a barrier of caution tape across her kennel.  I think that's the only reason she lasted long enough at the ARL for us to find her.  She has the patience of a saint.  She lets us dress her up (that should be the subject of another confession) and she has tolerated the curiousity and abuse of my younger daughter like a trooper.  My husband did not want a dog, so Naboo is 100% my dog - for good and for bad.

When my daughter did her worst, actually throwing Naboo down the deck stairs (fortunately, I caught her doing it and Naboo was unhurt), we had a quiet talk at bedtime that night.  We talked about how Naboo is much smaller than her and how Naboo can't do things for herself; how she depends on us to care for her.  When we are in charge of another being, it is our job to look out for it and care for it - and most especially never to hurt it.  Needless to say, those reproachful words came back to haunt me last Saturday morning!

I brought Naboo in right away and wrapped her in a towel to help her warm up.  She's curled up on my lap right now, so I think everything is forgiven between us.  I hope to be more careful, but if I were to prioritize the things it's not OK to forget, I would rather it be my lunch than my dog, but I'd also rather it be my dog than my kids, right?

God blessed them and said to them, "Be fruitful and increase in number; fill the earth and subdue it. Rule over the fish of the sea and the birds of the air and over every living creature that moves on the ground." Genesis 1:28 (NIV)

Why tell people?

I told my husband that I was thinking about starting a blog where I share the stuff I screw up and his first reaction was, "Why would you want to tell people?"  Which kind of surprised me, because he has been encouraging me to write for a long time.  So, to answer him and maybe you, here is my first confession:

I am a perfectionist.  My frailties, small and large, drive me crazy.  It causes me real pain when I damage a relationship, cause harm to someone else, or make an mistake that wastes time and treasure.  I wish I could say that, with Christ as my compass, I've never steered off course.  But that would be a lie.  I blow it all the time.  Why would I want to tell people about it?  I think there is something to be gained from confessing to you here.

First, it is cathartic.  It releases me (He who conceals his sins does not prosper, but whoever confesses and renounces them finds mercy. Proverbs 28:13 (NIV)).  I hate keeping secrets; I'm good at it, but I hate it.

Second, sometimes it's pretty funny.  I like to think I'm a pretty smart gal, but I do really stupid things.  And why should I keep that to myself when you could enjoy it?

Third, Paul talks in his second letter to the church in Corinth about the brokenness of Christians and the perfect glory of God in Christ.  He says, We are not preaching about ourselves. Our message is that Jesus Christ is Lord. He also sent us to be your servants.  The Scriptures say, "God commanded light to shine in the dark." Now God is shining in our hearts to let you know that his glory is seen in Jesus Christ.  We are like clay jars in which this treasure is stored. The real power comes from God and not from us. (2:5-7, CEV)

Sometimes we want to pretend that when we committed to follow Christ, we became the treasure.  We're not.  We're still fragile clay jars, and sometimes that's all that others can see - how dull and messed up we are.  But it is my hope that if I can quit pretending to be the treasure, and accept that I'm just a clay pot, others can begin to glimpse the treasure within (which, keep in mind, is not me, but Christ).
 
The answer to my perfectionism is to realize that I'm just a clay pot, and be grateful I get to hold treasure.  This is my lighthearted attempt to share that journey with you.