THE LIES WE BELIEVE

“Five foot two and eyes of blue...”  Hey, that’s me!  I’ve been telling myself this for years.  Sam Lewis and his buddy Joe Young penned the words to Has Anybody Seen My Gal in the 1920s.  I can’t say where I got the notion that my height perfectly matched the lyrics to this catchy but annoying tune, but it was fiction I firmly believed.  Maybe I was trying to make my younger self feel better about my carrot-red hair, perhaps my school nurse or a gym teacher misinformed me.  More likely, I was a late bloomer and just continued to grow after people stopped measuring me.

In a moment of bravery, I measured myself on an infallible stadiometer this past weekend.  I was prepared for the worst.  You must realize I spend a good deal of time convincing my coworkers they are shrinking.  I measure many of them on an ancient scale in my office for workplace weight loss contests. When calculating body mass index (BMI) for the masses, I am often the harbinger of aged vertebral doom who tells people they are not as tall as they once were.  Internally, I feared I was barely five feet tall.  This would be an unsurprising but sad finding because it would convert my BMI to a sorrier number than the one I had grudgingly grown to accept. 

You can imagine my surprise when I tightened the knob on the measuring device, stepped away, and revealed that I am now (at one-half century of life) nearly an inch taller than I had ever known. That means there is a good chance I was over 63 inches at some point!  Practically a giant! Since it is clear I am no longer growing, there can only be one explanation.  Be it firm denial or a lifetime of erroneous information, the result remains the same. I’ve been lying to myself for YEARS. 

Despite my surprisingly improved BMI, this revelation rattled me.  And it started me wondering what other lies I’ve been telling myself. 

Without delay I thought of two...

How about the notion that “I’m right” about something just because I’ve managed to convince myself there is no other way?  I can latch onto that one with the ferocity of a Rottweiler with a pork chop.  (Just ask my husband…)  And while we’re on that subject, how do I rationalize the accompanying bad choices I sometimes make while I’m trying desperately to prove my point?  Finding reasons to excuse my poor behavior just adds to my self-deception.  Being honest about it, I also have to question how I manage to justify the ways I may hurt the ones around me with my tendency to barrel through life with my own inflexible lists and pressing agenda.  (Ouch- and I’m sorry if you have been squashed on the track of my locomotive tendencies.)

But my inclination to insist I am correct is not the only personal fraud I’ve identified since I began thinking about this deep well of self-deception.  Consider lie number 2…  What about the times I tell myself “I can’t”?  I give voice to that notion and even I am hard-pressed to know what I am really saying.  “I can’t go back to school.”  “I can’t spend an hour exercising every night.”  “I can’t change my career now.”  “I can’t pay my bills online.” “I can’t make bread with yeast!” In most cases, I’m claiming I can’t do something I’ve never even attempted.  And I’m telling that sorry tale to MYSELF.  It’s like clipping my own wings with a dull craft scissor.  When I swindle myself in that way, I pretend the choice is not mine. I’ve given up before I even try.  A truly pitiful display. 

What great untruths and white lies have YOU been telling yourself?  Now that I am the confirmed and virtually towering height of nearly 5 foot 3, I’m pressing forward to uncover more of the ways I’ve been deceiving myself.  There are millions of things I’ve never tried.  And almost as many annoying behaviors with which I can stop torturing myself and others.  It’s a brave new world.  Care to join me?  

WHAT ON EARTH?! 

LOOSE LIPS AND DICEY TOPICS

Thinking before speaking; now there’s a concept. Those closest to me might suggest that as I age, my filter is growing increasingly defective. You know the filter of which I speak… (That pesky sieve that is supposed to keep the reactive and inflammatory thoughts I am thinking from slipping haphazardly out of my sometimes less than diplomatic lips…)

There is a reason we are instructed to be quick to listen and slow to speak. Typically I’m aware I’ve crossed that tricky acceptability line as soon as my ears (with no small measure of alarm) take note of what my mouth has just done. But even if I were completely and blissfully unaware of my lapse, the look on my daughter’s face quickly alerts me. Her scathing glance causes an immediate and cringing recall of whatever rabble-rousing comment I should not have said. She is perceptive, inclusive, and infinitely sensitive to others. And these wonderful traits make her wince with displeasure when she hears her mother sounding like an abrasive gong. She reminded me gently this weekend as she described a moment I could have been more sympathetic. And she was right.

So in the interest of sounding like the kind and compassionate person I hope to be, I’m working diligently on the slow to speak thing. It isn’t easy. Especially when people around me are acting like idiots...  Okay, let’s try that again. “When people around me are making questionable choices, drawing attention to their misguided actions and involving their poor unfortunate offspring in the process.”  (Hmmmmm….I’m not sure this is sounding any better…) Like I said, I’m WORKING on it.  Not saying I’m there yet…

Dicey topics are the most difficult. But as the media begins buzzing about caucuses and campaigns, one area in which I am hoping to make great strides is my increasing propensity to avoid the arena of politics. I am trying my hardest to stay away from this subject, yet a bubbling frustration has been left simmering and I have an overwhelming desire to vent. Since it's my blog, I'm going for it.  I believe political views are a very personal thing.  So I’m teaching myself to just bite my tongue and walk away from this type of conversation when it starts. (There are days my tongue hurts from all that biting...) Some of my friends and family disagree with this whole "walking away" philosophy. They want to talk about it, hash it out and try to make me change my mind. "Socratic Method", "growth by challenge", or some other such drivel…  Whatever they want to call it, I wish with every fiber of my being they would stop wasting their efforts and raising my blood pressure.

If someone wants to stick a banner in their front lawn, I have no objection. Let that banner flutter and wave in the breeze. Free speech without all the chatter, that’s fine by me. But please do not attempt to position your banner in my yard, call me on the phone to sway my opinion, air repeated negative messages about the opponent, or assume that I am an unread or agnostic personality because I do not share your personal outlook.  I don’t wish to know for whom you are going to vote. I don’t much care what you think of past or current Presidents (their birth certificates, or their dogs.) And I’m certainly not interested in anything you want to report about why I should mirror your convictions on any topic related to our government. I have my own passions and I’m fairly certain that my convictions and your convictions could not manage a civil and tolerant thumb-war, let alone a longwinded and exhaustive debate.

It is clear that most of us hold an untiring notion about what traits and beliefs are required in the making of an admirable and effective leader. I love my brothers and sisters in the faith, but I have to honestly say: religious people are the WORST. On the far right we’ve got “Christians” with their perception of God, guns, and tax shelters. On the far left we’ve got more “Christians” with their version of God, social justice, and wild spending. Both sides assume the other is laden with heathens. Both sides are convinced they have cornered the market on saving lives (be they born or unborn.) Neither political party is completely representative of my beliefs. So why is it that people constantly try to make politics a religious decision? More to the point, HOW can we be so brazen as to suggest WE know which way God would vote if subjected to our pitiful, hostile, and obscenely expensive elections? World hunger could be eradicated with the kind of dollars spent during one pathetic year of our mud-slinging coercive campaigns. It is sickening that furthering our political opinions seems so much more pressing than human decency.

So should you wish to send your electoral arguments, political cartoons, or emails fraught with scare-tactics (which appear solely designed to bash one side or the other), I beg you to refrain from trying to enlighten me. I don't ask you to agree with me. Your thoughts are your own.  And I will be quietly reading what I can from whatever unbiased news source I can find; trying my best to form a personal decision with which I, myself, can live.  

If in my zeal I get it all wrong and start spouting on some soapbox, I sincerely hope that my daughter is standing by to remind me how words are often superfluous and how truly ridiculous I can sometimes appear.

The Couch Legacy

 “Children seldom misquote you.  In fact, they usually repeat word for word what you shouldn't have said.”  Author unknown.

I know this is true.   When my daughter was about three, I was innocently walking through a department store when a fabulously cushy sofa and a marvelously upholstered chair sidetracked my attention.  My longing was immediate. Had those pieces extended their stylish wooden legs and literally tripped me I would have been no less smitten.  I called my husband from the parking garage and told him it was likely I would perish if I didn’t order both pieces.  He reminded me that I was the financial wizard in the family and to do what I thought was best.  (Do I have a great husband, or what?)

The furniture was delivered and it wasn’t long before the cat decided the chair was his.

And were that not enough, my sweet daughter took to mercilessly bouncing on the irresistible couch.  I was aghast.  So I pleaded. “Mommy will have to work lots of hours before that couch is paid off, let’s not stand and bounce!”   My daughter attended an early childhood program and one of the things accomplished during circle time was “morning news.”  The teacher wrote news highlights (as described by the children) on her oversized easel tablet for trouble-free viewing.  Imagine my mortification when I arrived one afternoon and read, “Aubrey’s mother has to work long hours to pay off the furniture.”  I was passing along my legacy in large red marker. 

As a school nurse I hear many things that would make stoic parents cringe.  A first grader was resting in the dark under an ice pack, nursing a miserable headache. After 10 minutes, I asked how his head was feeling. Never opening his eyes, he thoughtfully responded.  “It is still hurting pretty much, but not nearly as much as it was last night when my mother was screaming at my sister!” Another legacy.

I, for one, wish to pass along something a bit more substantial.  I hope and pray that my words and actions describing God’s generosity and faithfulness to me have made deeper and more lasting impressions than my day to day human shortcomings. 

And for the record, it should be noted that 13 years later I still have (and love) my couch…

GRAMMY WAS RIGHT

Generations. We are indelibly tied together. I cannot think about Christmas without missing Grammy in her red dress crooning a slightly “dutchified” tune about Jesus in his manger. And I cannot rise from my bed on Christmas morning without remembering my grandfather’s grin beneath the blinding light of his 1960s moving picture camera. I’d never considered how early they had extracted themselves from their warm quilted beds in order to be at our house before the sun came up. They have been gone for over twenty years.  And as I remember them now, I love them all the more in retrospect.

Adoring tradition, I now find GREAT delight in tormenting my own family with maddening rituals.  Any good mother does. And despite moans of mistreatment when my children (who are now considerably taller than me) are compelled to sit upon the stairs for their annual Christmas morning picture, I am gleeful with the near certainty that they will someday force their own children to do the same. 

I begin playing Christmas carols as soon as I can get away with it. Living with a man who pretends to be Scrooge makes this a dicey proposition. I’ve loved these traditional songs since my childhood. I’ve belted them out with my family of origin gathered around my mother’s piano. I’ve sat transfixed as they were sung in the church of my childhood by an impossibly high soprano with fabulous blonde hair. I can recall caroling with gusto as frostbite threatened my fingertips and toes. The words of these carols are ingrained. So how is it that I have failed on many occasions to grasp the significance of the lyrics? Tradition has had an unexpected side effect. Immunity. 

I realized this irony when I was alone in my kitchen baking my tenth batch of Christmas cookies last December. I had reached the point when the cookies had passed from ooey-gooey and fabulously delicious to rows and rows of completely unappealing baked toil. Trying to lift the elation of the season above the looming nausea of ingesting too many carbohydrates, I was singing loudly with Josh Groban. We were managing a magnificent duet, if I do say so myself...  Our musical selection was “O Holy Night” and the previously unappreciated phrase hit me square in my over-cookied gut.

Read it as though you’d never heard it before.“He appeared and the soul felt its worth.”  This sorely overlooked and wondrous truth puts this amazing gift into just a little bit of perspective. Before the arrival of that sweet and miraculous baby in the manger, the soul had been as completely oblivious as I.

Had I been listening more closely as my grandmother crooned, I may have felt the impact 45 years sooner. 

So to my faithful blog readers (and the dedicated if not coerced friends and family who read just because they know I will ask if they have…), I wish you a joyful and blessed Christmas season.  And I pray that you too will be stopped in your busy December tracks by a new and delightful awareness of God made flesh among us.  His very breath, the promise of the greatest gift we could ever choose to receive. 

THE WORST THINGS IN THE WORLD

I've talked with a lot of grumpy people this week.  And as Thanksgiving approaches, I am considering again how important it is that we take time to be thankful for the countless and amazing blessings in life.  Like the grouches with whom I've interacted today, I'm not always good at remembering to be thankful.  But I'm working on it.  I've got a reminder on the cabinet in my office.  "If you can't find the bright side of life, polish the dull side."  

I want to tell a story, but before I do, I want you understand something important.  I'm the mother of the two most amazing people in the world.  If you are a parent, you will want to argue with me.  Don't bother, I'm tenacious.  

My son is living in another state and I miss his laughter and his fun-loving personality every single day.  He has grown into a wonderful, generous, and appreciative young man.  But this was not always the case. 

My husband Jim and I can distinctly remember the times we had to channel some pretty negative thinking into something less pessimistic. Please understand, we are a family of redheads. We tend to feel things with conviction and our son was holding true to well-established family patterns.  (It’s probably wrong to blame hair color, but so helpful to have a target for culpability…)  When little Isaac would tell us about his woes, we would attempt to redirect. “Okay Ike, now tell us five happy things.”  It didn't take long for our son to realize that voicing one miserable thought would most likely result in being forced to wrack his 6 year old brain thinking of five blessings for which he was grateful.  I remember well his adorable little face straining for answers....“Ninja turtles….Satchmo the cat….my new Nerf football….Swedish Fish…”

As our now sweet Isaac aged, his phraseology changed too.  And in time, he fine-tuned his complaints to a category we liked to call “the worst things in the world.”  He began referring to the things he disliked in this way and it soon became ridiculous how many items made the list.  (Yes, much to the dismay of my children, I am one of those annoying mothers who maintains exhaustive lists of just this type of thing…) My personal favorites included:  “Home-cooked meals three days in a row is the worst thing in the world,” and “My Mom telling people about the worst things in the world list is the worst thing in the world.” 

Gratitude is definitely a learned behavior, and one that comes with a degree of difficulty for some.  Even non-redheads can struggle to find the positive and be grateful for blessings rather than grumpy about inconveniences.  It is always easier to identify blessings in retrospect, but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t work at being thankful in the moment.  Because very few people relish having to endure grouchy and ungrateful persons.  Some consider it one of the worst things in the world. 

THE SOUND OF SILENCE

I just returned from a wonderful 24 hours.


These are some thoughts from my time away.

SPIRIT OF PEACE, QUIET OUR HEARTS

Bundling myself against the cold, I set out.  The hike begins without expectations. I discover this sign on the first tree along the trail.  

Under my feet, the satisfying crunch of dropped leaves

littering the path with a vibrant stew of color

Under my feet, the crisp surrender of shimmering icy blades of grass

The morning light playing on the glistening dew like fingers on guitar strings

Under my feet, the sacred ground of the convent

A place dedicated to the Creator of it all

My silent retreat feels different this time.  Having been here before, it is easier to be still and wait.  When there is no agenda, there is no room for any kind of disappointment.  It is a safe place to just be.

As I am walking, glorious bells from the chapel peal an unexpected delight through the waking forest.  

The birds and I stop to listen.  

The grounds are not exactly as I remembered. Mighty trees and their young descendants have crashed equally to the ground.  There was no regard for seniority during last weekend's surprising October storm.  Almost all of the snow is gone now; the burden of its weight upon the brilliant hues of autumn now melted to nourish the trees so abruptly pruned.

It is a challenge to navigate these trails in light of nature's recent timber rearrangement.   But unreservedly worthwhile for those with gloves, a decent pair of boots, and ears listening for the one who imagined it all.  

I am reminded when my mouth cannot form the words my heart needs to speak.  Just be still.  When born in a place of willing dependence, every breath- a prayer. 

And so, I breathe...

And I realize once again, He has never gone away.  Ever patient, love-pursuing, He waits for me to be quiet.  

His breath is on the morning breeze, calling gently through the rustle of the trees.  He grows louder in the gathering of the massive "V" above the trees, heading south.  His fingerprints are on the sunlit moss, the craggy rocks, and the intricate veins of every leaf upon which I step.  He speaks of His living water through the soothing song of the trickling stream.  The attentive deer I pass; they know His voice.  They are constantly listening.  The sound of His words for them is not drowned out by schedules, cell phones, televisions, or meaningless chatter.  

I breathe...

Come and fill my heart with your peace.  

You alone are holy. 

These are the ones who met the silence with me. Friends:

Dorine Rosenberger, Tamara Denlinger, Donna Wilkins

Complicated Simplification

Sometimes it can be dangerous to share a fabulous idea.  Case in point…  Sitting innocently on the church pew one morning, I heard reference to an article in our denominational magazine.  The article was about a guy who rid himself of 100 things in 100 days.  To someone who feels somewhat paralyzed when surrounded by too much clutter, this sounded like a wonderful idea. 

I went home and revamped the idea, molding it into a doable project for my life.  I created a chart upon which to record each item I would release. Making my own rules, I decided that letting go of things like bitterness and negativity count as well as the tacky flowerpot I’d been saving since my teens. The first day in January seemed a good time to start. I would give myself and my surroundings a clean sweep so I could start fresh with a simpler feel to my environment.  I was energized by the notion. 

I’m not much of a loner, so in predictable pattern, I invited my friends and family to embark on this cleansing experience along with me.  Ten friends in my women’s group were the first enlistees.  And via email I’d soon invited another 50 or so of my favorite people to join me in the great purge.

It didn’t take long for me to discover that shedding one item per day was not at all sacrificial.  In my nearly half-century, I’d managed to accumulate more junk than was reasonable.  So to keep the integrity of the process intact, I changed my own rules.  Along with each daily unwanted object, I made myself choose a second item that was harder to relinquish. These items were much more complicated.  Things to which I had formed a schmaltzy attachment were the worst.  But I had to ask myself, how much dusty sentimentality boxed in the attic is really necessary?  It was a little painful, but as time went on and my pile for the local MCC thrift shop started to bulge, I began to feel lighter.  Releasing 200 things in 100 days was having the desired effect.

All was well and good.  I was hearing from others who were feeling the same freedom.  Closets were flushed out and drawers were emptied.  Country décor and maternity clothes were flying into cardboard boxes for donation at record speed.  Attics were organized and the local thrift shops were experiencing a windfall. It was awesome… 

But then the call came. A woman I’d never met wanted to do an article on my experience.  Like that old shampoo commercial about “friends telling friends” my email had leapfrogged to someone who decided this story needed to be included in a newsletter published by the company for which she works.

I tried to tell her it wasn’t an original idea.  Though I’d made it fit my own wishes, the basic premise had already been shared.  But she didn’t think that mattered and pressed on with what was described as a simple blurb.  I’ve never been good at saying no, so I allowed her to ask me a few harmless questions. 

Hearing nothing more for a little while, I was hopeful the idea had passed.  But then I received a draft of her writing and was asked for permission to go to print.  Feeling she had spent her time writing and I would be unnecessarily inflexible if I declined, I agreed.  However, she then mentioned that a photographer would be calling.  I asked if this was necessary and was assured it would be “quick and easy.” 

I can not, even under a set of perfectly arranged circumstances, be considered photogenic.  There is a reason I’m the family photographer, keeping my face safely behind the camera instead of in front of it.  But I consoled myself because I was confident in my talents of persuasion.  I figured that if and when the photographer called, I could just convince him to copy the headshot used for my monthly column in Purpose. I put my angst on the back burner and managed to forget about it. 

My naïve disregard was lovely until I received a call from a well-known local photographer telling me he needed to take my picture.  It had been over a month since the draft approval, so I’d assumed the bullet had been dodged and I was off the hook.  No such luck.   Lowell (the photographer) sounded quite pleased with his assignment and wanted to know my schedule for the following week.

It should be said that I had met and actually LIKED Lowell before he called me.  He took my son’s high school senior pictures and was quite personable.  His amusement at my distress upon discovery that they didn’t just want a headshot, but “something very specific” made me feel a bit less enthusiastic about our camera-toting friend.  I wasn’t a happy camper. “Don’t tell me I need to come to your studio for this picture!”  His delight was ill-concealed as he answered, “No, but I have to come to YOUR HOUSE for the photo.”  Apparently, the marketing person at the company for which the article author worked had other more ridiculous ideas about how this photo should happen. Lowell explained.  “They want the photo taken in your NEW AND UNCLUTTERED ENVIRONMENT.”  HA!  The notion that ridding myself of 200 items would leave me with clear walls and nothing to dust was laughable and I told him so.  Lowell wanted to know if I was a “pack rat” and I assured him I am not.  Adding insult to injury and with not a little glee, he offered to read the rest of the assignment he’d been given.  It went something like this…. they wanted him to capture Brenda Shelly “celebrating in her new clutter-free environment…preferably DANCING or TWIRLING in the photo.”  Clearly these people were insane.    

I assured Lowell there would be absolutely NO dancing or twirling and that we would be hard-pressed to find a space in my house that was free from debris.  He was undaunted and scheduled an appointment for the following week.  He had pathetically little regard for my distress.

In hindsight I realize there were several points at which I could and should have utilized the word NO.  But owning lips that do not form that word effortlessly, I arrived home from work just minutes before the dreaded photo was to take place.  I left the inside door ajar and when Lowell knocked, I stupidly invited him in.  I told him I had been sorely tempted to lock my door against his entrance and that in all truthfulness (and despite my aversion to dentists) I’d rather have a root canal.  He thanked me for bolstering his self esteem and told me that my remarks were not as piercing as the woman who preferred her gynecologist to his camera.

I wondered aloud why they needed a full shot photo for a simple “blurb.”  Lowell imparted a bit of information I could have done without. “It isn’t a simple blurb, from what I understand, you are the BACK COVER.”  He said I should smile nicely because even the mail carriers would be seeing this picture.  I found his revelation rather heartless. 

He set about rearranging my home décor.  Things were taken down from the wall and placemats were removed from my kitchen table.  Shades were opened and camera flashes were bounced from the stand containing my daughter’s guitar music.  His camera was clicking away at such a rapid pace, I soon became numb to the sound of the photo shoot and resigned that with his wild snapping, he was sure to capture the most outlandish pose and expression in the history of photography. He would sometimes pause and ask me to look a particular direction or gesture in a certain way. I reminded him that inviting me to gesture at that exact junction in my life might prove to be a mistake. He told me to be nice.  (I contend that his very presence in my house as he assailed my eyes with flashing bulbs spoke VOLUMES about my niceness…)  During all of this uncomfortable attention, I was attempting to quiet my pounding heart by yearning for time-travel back to the day I pressed SEND on my email invitation to purge.  It was like a bad dream. And the longest 40 minutes of my life.

There was no dancing or twirling, just a sea of anxiety.  I can’t be sure how it all turned out because I zoned out at some point and became oblivious to his barely disguised attempts to make me gesture and change expression.  He managed this by asking questions and then clicking away as I attempted to answer with my mouth hanging open like a cod fish and my arms gesturing riotously to accompany my response.  I should have thought to sit on my hands. 

All in all, I think Lowell made the best of a bad situation and for the sake of his reputation as a professional, I hope he managed to come up with at least one decent shot in the seemingly hundreds he snapped.  Even if a myriad of mail carriers end up seeing the picture while folding it into people’s mailboxes, my sincere wish is to NEVER see the end result.  I hope my “helpful” friends can spare me from donating their extra copies to my church mailbox.

Lowell saw a coworker of mine after our time together and sent me a ruthless message.  “I spoke with the company and they said they were disappointed with no dancing in the shoot. They say we need to schedule another one.”  A very funny man….

So you see, sometimes an attempt to simplify your life can make things much more complicated than you imagined.  I’ve yet to discern what I am supposed to be learning through this experience.  But I can tell you one sorry result.  Soon after the photo shoot, it was annual school picture day.  Having had recent ample time in front of a camera lens, I stubbornly refused to smile.  As a result, this school nurse looks like a serial killer in the shot. That should look FABULOUS in the yearbook.