A little-known country western singer named Darryl Worley wrote a song called "Have You Forgotten" not long after the events ten years ago today. How things change. Darryl became a little more famous and we finally got bin Laden.
Now if we can, as a nation, keep from forgetting why we went after OBL in the first place, we'll do ourselves and our children proud. Oh, and our soldiers who are still a long, long way from home fighting and dying. . .
I hear people saying we don't need this war
But, I say there's some things worth fighting for
What about our freedom and this piece of ground
We didn't get to keep 'em by backing down
They say we don't realize the mess we're getting in
Before you start your preaching let me ask you this my friend
Have you forgotten how it felt that day?
To see your homeland under fire
And her people blown away
Have you forgotten when those towers fell?
We had neighbors still inside going thru a living hell
And you say we shouldn't worry 'bout bin Laden
Have you forgotten?
They took all the footage off my T.V.
Said it's too disturbing for you and me
It'll just breed anger that's what the experts say
If it was up to me I'd show it everyday
Some say this country's just out looking for a fight
Well, after 9/11 man I'd have to say that's right
Have you forgotten how it felt that day?
To see your homeland under fire
And her people blown away
Have you forgotten when those towers fell?
We had neighbors still inside going thru a living hell
And we vowed to get the one’s behind bin Laden
Have you forgotten?
I've been there with the soldiers
Who've gone away to war
And you can bet that they remember
Just what they're fighting for
Have you forgotten all the people killed?
Yeah, some went down like heroes in that Pennsylvania field
Have you forgotten about our Pentagon?
All the loved ones that we lost and those left to carry on
Don't you tell me not to worry about bin Laden
Have you forgotten?
Have you forgotten?
Have you forgotten?
("Have You Forgotten," Darryl Worley, DreamWorks Records, Nashville, 2003)
Wordly discourse on everything from the sad state of public education, politics and world peace to vegetarianism, breast vs. bottle, religious persecution, bad media, and all manner of life's vagaries.
September 11, 2011
September 10, 2011
It's not enough to simply remember 9/11
In the hours leading up to the 10th anniversary of 9/11 terrorist attacks, I've been listening to different perspectives about the day and its significance, and I've been thinking a lot about my own. My children helped me put the American flags out in the yard. We started to put up our white cross, too -- the one we use at Easter and on Memorial and Veterans days.
Looking at that clean, smooth, blank, white cross, I was compelled to do something to it. The compulsion came from something I'd heard on the radio a couple of nights ago.
An author and speaker named Pamela Geller has written a book about how Islam has infiltrated America in ways almost too numerous to believe. Geller is not a paranoid, she's actually a well-educated and well-documented researcher of cultural and political change and, judging from the interview I heard, she's very plain-spoken.
Geller said many things that gave me pause, things I want to research and verify for myself. But one thing she said really stood out and needs no verification.
"It's all well and good -- and very important -- to remember the victims and the heroes of 9/11, but one thing I'm not hearing or seeing in the media is any mention of the ideology that brought about the events of that day," she said.
The ideology that spurred the 9/11 hijackers to do what they did, the ideology that prompted Nadal Hassan to go on his shooting spree at Ft. Hood, the ideology that fueled the destruction of the huge, priceless and irreplaceable Bamiyan Buddha statues in Afghanistan, the ideology that accepts the stoning or live burial of women who are raped -- instead of meting out these punishments to their attackers -- the ideology behind the bombings of embassies throughout the Middle East, the ideology that caused writer Molly Norris to give up her identity and her career to protect her life, the ideology that says if Christians and Jews cannot be converted then they must be killed, THAT ideology that no one dares name aloud for fear of having a death sentence placed on their heads, that's the ideology that is responsible for the terrible events of 9/11/01.
It has a name.
Islam.
There, I said it.
When we talk about 9/11/01 to our children, we should tell them the truth. Those men who hijacked the planes didn't just wake up one day and decide to forge a career in terrorism. They trained, planned, rehearsed, and carried out a plot of near-epic proportions one beautiful blue day in September. They committed their own insane, pathetic lives to a mission that, they believed, would propel them straight to heaven and into the arms of a crowd of virgins.
They did all of this because of Islam.
Islam made those terrorists who they were. Islam made the Twin Towers come down. Islam gave the first responders something to respond to. Islam forced the passengers of Flight 93 to drive that plane hard and fast down into the ground of a Pennsylvania field. Islam put the smoking, gaping hole in the side of the Pentagon. Islam did all that and much, much more and none of it has been good.
None of it.
With all of these things in mind, I took up my clean,smooth, blank, white cross and brought it in the house. I laid it out on the kitchen table and using big bold markers I inscribed it with the following:
9/11
NEVER FORGET
God
blesses
the
HEROES
After I was done, I stood back and looked at it. Something was still missing. Something else needed to be said.
Then I remembered Pamela Geller's remark.
Underneath the words "NEVER FORGET," I wrote, "what Islam did." Then I took the cross back outside and stuck it in the ground amidst the flags waving in my front yard so that it could speak the full truth.
When we remember 9/11, its perpetrators, its victims, its heroes, we must also remember what made those people perpetrators, victims and heroes.
When it comes time to tell your children the story of 9/11/01, I hope you'll find the courage to tell them what kind of terrorists Mohammad Atta and Co. were.
If you don't, you're not telling them the truth.
Looking at that clean, smooth, blank, white cross, I was compelled to do something to it. The compulsion came from something I'd heard on the radio a couple of nights ago.
An author and speaker named Pamela Geller has written a book about how Islam has infiltrated America in ways almost too numerous to believe. Geller is not a paranoid, she's actually a well-educated and well-documented researcher of cultural and political change and, judging from the interview I heard, she's very plain-spoken.
Geller said many things that gave me pause, things I want to research and verify for myself. But one thing she said really stood out and needs no verification.
"It's all well and good -- and very important -- to remember the victims and the heroes of 9/11, but one thing I'm not hearing or seeing in the media is any mention of the ideology that brought about the events of that day," she said.
The ideology that spurred the 9/11 hijackers to do what they did, the ideology that prompted Nadal Hassan to go on his shooting spree at Ft. Hood, the ideology that fueled the destruction of the huge, priceless and irreplaceable Bamiyan Buddha statues in Afghanistan, the ideology that accepts the stoning or live burial of women who are raped -- instead of meting out these punishments to their attackers -- the ideology behind the bombings of embassies throughout the Middle East, the ideology that caused writer Molly Norris to give up her identity and her career to protect her life, the ideology that says if Christians and Jews cannot be converted then they must be killed, THAT ideology that no one dares name aloud for fear of having a death sentence placed on their heads, that's the ideology that is responsible for the terrible events of 9/11/01.
It has a name.
Islam.
There, I said it.
When we talk about 9/11/01 to our children, we should tell them the truth. Those men who hijacked the planes didn't just wake up one day and decide to forge a career in terrorism. They trained, planned, rehearsed, and carried out a plot of near-epic proportions one beautiful blue day in September. They committed their own insane, pathetic lives to a mission that, they believed, would propel them straight to heaven and into the arms of a crowd of virgins.
They did all of this because of Islam.
Islam made those terrorists who they were. Islam made the Twin Towers come down. Islam gave the first responders something to respond to. Islam forced the passengers of Flight 93 to drive that plane hard and fast down into the ground of a Pennsylvania field. Islam put the smoking, gaping hole in the side of the Pentagon. Islam did all that and much, much more and none of it has been good.
None of it.
With all of these things in mind, I took up my clean,smooth, blank, white cross and brought it in the house. I laid it out on the kitchen table and using big bold markers I inscribed it with the following:
9/11
NEVER FORGET
God
blesses
the
HEROES
After I was done, I stood back and looked at it. Something was still missing. Something else needed to be said.
Then I remembered Pamela Geller's remark.
Underneath the words "NEVER FORGET," I wrote, "what Islam did." Then I took the cross back outside and stuck it in the ground amidst the flags waving in my front yard so that it could speak the full truth.
When we remember 9/11, its perpetrators, its victims, its heroes, we must also remember what made those people perpetrators, victims and heroes.
When it comes time to tell your children the story of 9/11/01, I hope you'll find the courage to tell them what kind of terrorists Mohammad Atta and Co. were.
If you don't, you're not telling them the truth.
September 2, 2011
My daughter in Greek and Russian
I wish you could hear what I hear, the sound of an 11-year-old girl reading ancient Greek. As the words of Matthew tumble from her nimble tongue, I am amazed at everything she knows -- and everything I don't.
This is the child diagnosed with Asperger's Syndrome, the fancy name for high-functioning autism.
She and her sister decided to learn the Greek alphabet a year ago as part of a unit study of ancient Greece. They read, wrote, drew, sculpted, painted, and cut and pasted their way through endless projects on everything from Aesop and his fables to Pericles and the Golden Age of Athens. They explored the inventions and the brilliant mind of Archimedes and together we marvelled at Eratosthenes' ability to measure the circumference of the earth with neither mapping satellite nor the internet to guide him.
I printed out a chart from an online site with the Greek alphabet characters and the girls learned their names and their phonetic sounds. Then they learned to write them. Then they wanted to write them in meaningful ways.
So I went out and bought a very elementary introduction to the language known as New Testament (koine) Greek. I figured the first book (of a series of eight) would be enough. It would be fun for awhile and the girls would move on.
I had no idea, and maybe that's the way it was supposed to be.
Book One of the strangely titled, but highly effective series, "Hey Andrew, Teach Me Some Greek" quickly segued to Book Two and that led to Book Three. The books are each intended to take anywhere from six months to a year to complete, I'm told.
My oldest did just the opposite, completing the first six books in one year. Her younger sister isn't far behind, having completed four of them in the same period of time.
As my older daughter headed full bore into Book 7 a couple of weeks ago, with her sights firmly set on finishing Book 8 sometime next spring, I was left to wonder, "what next?"
I got my answer this afternoon.
I wrote to the author of the "Hey Andrew" program to ask her whether a Book 9 might be in the works. I neither read nor write nor speak Greek, ancient or otherwise, so I cannot tell by looking at Book 8 where it leaves off. At what level IS a student once they're done with the series?
The author kindly wrote back to explain that upon completion of Book 8, a student is ready for a text used in colleges at the sophomore through senior levels. They are ready to begin reading the New Testament in Greek.
When I read this, I caught my breath. What if my daughter could do that now?
I found a NT Greek text online and brought up the first page of Matthew. Calling my daughter over to the computer, I asked her whether she saw anything on that page she could read.
"Yes!" she said, emphatically. Softly, she began to read.
In a language I cannot ever hope to understand, my daughter read to me the beginning of the genealogy of Jesus. In ancient words, the ancient names of Abraham, Isaac, Jesse, David, and many others rolled off her tongue.
Could she tell me what she'd just read, I asked. She could. Would she like to read more? Yes. Did she want me to order her a New Testament written in ancient Greek? Oh yes, please.
So what's with the Russian?
Some years back I'd bought a fun little book that depicts objects from the Hermitage art museum in St. Petersburg alongside the Cyrillic alphabet characters that begin their names. Unbeknownst to me, my Greek-speaking daughter memorized the Russian alphabet at some point but never bothered to share this with anyone.
Back in April she came to me one night and said she wanted to learn Russian.
At the time she'd just begun her fifth book of Greek and I asked whether taking on Russian might be too much. After all, she still had to study math, writing, history, etc.
No, she said. Russian would not be hard and I should order her some things to study. Do you have any idea how hard it is to find Russian-language learning materials, with instructions in English, for someone not even in high school? Most Americans don't tackle this language until they go to college, so I could not find anything at our local homeschool store. I finally found an audio CD-based program for her to use. A 10-week worktext lasted three weeks with virtually no mistakes. . .
Today we drove an hour or more to pick up a Cyrillic-language typewriter I bought on eBay and had to have serviced before it could be used.
My daughter is ready to type her thoughts in Russian and has spent the better part of this evening doing just that. She told me she'd translate for me any time I want to know what she's written.
There's no way to predict how she will make use of her skills in Greek and Russian, but I have to marvel at God in His infinite wisdom. We never knew, but He always did.
"For God hath chosen the foolish things of the world to confound the wise; and God hath chosen the weak things of the world to confound the things which are mighty." (1 Corinthians 1:27)
This is the child diagnosed with Asperger's Syndrome, the fancy name for high-functioning autism.
She and her sister decided to learn the Greek alphabet a year ago as part of a unit study of ancient Greece. They read, wrote, drew, sculpted, painted, and cut and pasted their way through endless projects on everything from Aesop and his fables to Pericles and the Golden Age of Athens. They explored the inventions and the brilliant mind of Archimedes and together we marvelled at Eratosthenes' ability to measure the circumference of the earth with neither mapping satellite nor the internet to guide him.
I printed out a chart from an online site with the Greek alphabet characters and the girls learned their names and their phonetic sounds. Then they learned to write them. Then they wanted to write them in meaningful ways.
So I went out and bought a very elementary introduction to the language known as New Testament (koine) Greek. I figured the first book (of a series of eight) would be enough. It would be fun for awhile and the girls would move on.
I had no idea, and maybe that's the way it was supposed to be.
Book One of the strangely titled, but highly effective series, "Hey Andrew, Teach Me Some Greek" quickly segued to Book Two and that led to Book Three. The books are each intended to take anywhere from six months to a year to complete, I'm told.
My oldest did just the opposite, completing the first six books in one year. Her younger sister isn't far behind, having completed four of them in the same period of time.
As my older daughter headed full bore into Book 7 a couple of weeks ago, with her sights firmly set on finishing Book 8 sometime next spring, I was left to wonder, "what next?"
I got my answer this afternoon.
I wrote to the author of the "Hey Andrew" program to ask her whether a Book 9 might be in the works. I neither read nor write nor speak Greek, ancient or otherwise, so I cannot tell by looking at Book 8 where it leaves off. At what level IS a student once they're done with the series?
The author kindly wrote back to explain that upon completion of Book 8, a student is ready for a text used in colleges at the sophomore through senior levels. They are ready to begin reading the New Testament in Greek.
When I read this, I caught my breath. What if my daughter could do that now?
I found a NT Greek text online and brought up the first page of Matthew. Calling my daughter over to the computer, I asked her whether she saw anything on that page she could read.
"Yes!" she said, emphatically. Softly, she began to read.
In a language I cannot ever hope to understand, my daughter read to me the beginning of the genealogy of Jesus. In ancient words, the ancient names of Abraham, Isaac, Jesse, David, and many others rolled off her tongue.
Could she tell me what she'd just read, I asked. She could. Would she like to read more? Yes. Did she want me to order her a New Testament written in ancient Greek? Oh yes, please.
So what's with the Russian?
Some years back I'd bought a fun little book that depicts objects from the Hermitage art museum in St. Petersburg alongside the Cyrillic alphabet characters that begin their names. Unbeknownst to me, my Greek-speaking daughter memorized the Russian alphabet at some point but never bothered to share this with anyone.
Back in April she came to me one night and said she wanted to learn Russian.
At the time she'd just begun her fifth book of Greek and I asked whether taking on Russian might be too much. After all, she still had to study math, writing, history, etc.
No, she said. Russian would not be hard and I should order her some things to study. Do you have any idea how hard it is to find Russian-language learning materials, with instructions in English, for someone not even in high school? Most Americans don't tackle this language until they go to college, so I could not find anything at our local homeschool store. I finally found an audio CD-based program for her to use. A 10-week worktext lasted three weeks with virtually no mistakes. . .
Today we drove an hour or more to pick up a Cyrillic-language typewriter I bought on eBay and had to have serviced before it could be used.
My daughter is ready to type her thoughts in Russian and has spent the better part of this evening doing just that. She told me she'd translate for me any time I want to know what she's written.
There's no way to predict how she will make use of her skills in Greek and Russian, but I have to marvel at God in His infinite wisdom. We never knew, but He always did.
"For God hath chosen the foolish things of the world to confound the wise; and God hath chosen the weak things of the world to confound the things which are mighty." (1 Corinthians 1:27)
July 22, 2011
Thank you, Robert Plant
Yes, THAT Robert Plant, the so-called Golden God of Rock who sang, screamed, howled and wailed his way into the pantheon of late 1960's and early '70s rock and roll, the guy who wrote the song either loved or loathed by millions (Stairway to Heaven), the singer who says he'll never sing with Led Zeppelin again but who cannot seem to shut up.
I owe Robert Plant, and he doesn't even know it.
Here's the background: About three months ago I bought something online. I can't even remember what it was. Anyway, after I checked out I got this pop-up ad offering name-brand magazines for only $1 per title for a year with a limit of 3 titles. I took the bait because, hey, for only $1 I could read 'em through and give them to the waiting room at my daughter's speech clinic, right? Easy fare for those days when more cerebral literature is just too much, I reasoned.
Looking through the titles, my eyes rested on Rolling Stone, a magazine I used to read with wild abandon back in the 1980s when I was in high school and music of all sorts was the ultimate fascination. RS was printed on large tabloid-type paper back then and its politically liberal slant didn't register with me. I was more interested in news of my favorite artists -- Dylan, the surviving Beatles, Journey, Van Halen, Rush, and the like. I appreciated the magazine's willingness to interview musicians about more than just their latest album, and I was a faithful subscriber until I graduated from college.
Once I became a mother, everything changed. Suddenly, I found myself slightly repulsed at much of what RS had to offer. Now it was the year 2000, and nearly all the good rock and roll groups had either disbanded or their key players were dead. My mind and heart turned inward, towards the new act of juggling a baby for the first time, and I stopped caring about the lives of pretty much everyone else. I gave up RS for good sometime around 2003.
Fast forward to now, and my $1 offer to try RS again. Did I dare? With two of my three children avidly reading everything that falls in their line of sight, I reasoned I'd have to hide the magazine when it came in. RS now as in the days of yore is notorious for its sexually suggestive or alcohol touting ads. And what about the cover itself? The first issue I got had singer Katy Perry in an uber-pointy bra on the front. Exactly the sort of image I didn't want my girls to see.
Like a guilty pleasure, I waited until the kids were all outside playing before I opened the magazine and began to thumb past the articles bashing politicians I actually admire. Where was the good stuff? The news about relevant rock and roll? Had I been out of the loop so long that I would find nothing I could relate to?
And then, there it was, an interview with Robert Plant. Him, I remembered! Led Zeppelin was a big deal when I was in grammar school. I remembered hearing the news of drummer John Bonham's death and how, because of it, the band would never play together again. I remember buying their last album, "In Through the Out Door," and feeling like something good had been taken away much too soon.
And I remembered the silence. It lasted for about three years until Robert Plant returned with a solo career that left us Zeppelin purists shaking our heads in disbelief. He'd gone all '80s on us and the techno-pop of his new music combined with the tragic 1980s fashion and haircut was a big turnoff.
My friends and I stopped listening, preferring to leave Led Zeppelin dead and buried, right alongside John Bonham.
I forgot about Robert Plant for the next 20 years.
Sitting there with my Katy Perry Rolling Stone, I was intrigued enough to actually read the interview with Plant. What had he been doing all these years? Why was he making the news at all?
I learned about his 2008 collaboration with Alison Krauss, a stellar and angelic bluegrass fiddler and singer. How weird was that? And what was their album, "Raising Sand," all about? The article said it won five Grammys in '09, so it must have been good. But Robert Plant and bluegrass? Robert Plant and anything that wasn't Led Zep? Thanks, but no.
A long-time fan of acoustic music and bluegrass in particular, I recalled the article later that evening. It bugged me. I wanted to know more.
So I googled "Raising Sand," and found some interviews and music videos on YouTube.
I was absolutely blown away.
The voice, the voice that I remembered from 30+ years ago, that unmistakable voice that readily identifies Plant as the singer -- it was still there, only now it was melded with Krauss' dreamy, pure harmonies in a whole new way.
And what were these songs? Some of them sounded like rockabilly from Buddy Holly, the Everly Bros., Roy Orbison. One was a haunting bluegrass piece by the ace guitar picker Doc Watson and his wife. Another was a song Plant wrote himself for an earlier album, only now it featured Krauss' white-hot violin.
As I dug in deeper, trying to understand how a singer known more for 1970s excess could transform into a serious, mature musician, I began reading interviews done with Plant over the past three years. After a few evenings of this research, I decided I like him better now as a man of 63 than I did when he was the 20-something god of rock who pranced about on stage, long hair flowing, and singing "Whole Lotta Love" at ear-bursting levels.
I grew up, and apparently so did Robert Plant. Marvelous!
In one interview Plant gave in his 60th year, he talked about how he continuously pursues new music. He travels and reads and is really quite the intellectual in spite of his youthful dope-smokin' days and wild man ways.
He's had it all, lost it all, and had to reinvent himself on his own terms. He's humble about it and, from all accounts he's nothing like the big-headed Hollywood types who pretend to rule the world. He's, well, he's likable.
The more I read about Plant and his revolutionary journey into Americana music (he's recently recorded another album in Nashville with a band that consists of some of our finest acoustic musicians), the more I began to long for the days when I, too, experimented with music and went so far as to attempt to play stringed instruments for which I'd had no background or training.
I still had them -- a guitar and a mountain dulcimer -- but they were gathering dust after nearly 15 years of neglect. Life had gotten in their way -- marriage, job, a baby, another baby, two more babies after that. As we moved from place to place, I always felt sad when it came time to load up my instruments. I shuffled them from pillar to post but never played them. My finger callouses disappeared and my hands got soft. Playing the guitar would be too painful now, I decided. Besides, wasn't I too old? I'm a mother, for goodness sake, with children to teach and raise. I would save the instruments for them, if any of them were ever interested.
But wait. What about Robert Plant? What about a man who refuses to stay in a rut -- indeed travels and records and studies and questions and performs all over the world in search of new musical inspiration? He was nearly 60 before he won his Grammys. What if he'd given up after Led Zeppelin and had never sung again? Look what he would have missed.
Then the epiphany hit me.
If that old dog could learn new tricks, or the same tricks he already knew but in different forms, then why couldn't I? If Robert Plant could pick back up at 60 and open up a whole new can of musical whoopass, then who's to say I am too old at 45 to pick back up the dream I used to have -- to be able to play for pleasure and to do so well enough to learn new songs. Oh, and did I mention that I'd always wanted to learn the mandolin but never got around to it?
So I took my cue from an aging rocker and brought my guitar out of hiding to have it cleaned up and restrung. Same for the dulcimer. And I bought a mandolin. Oh, and I'm taking music lessons again. And my kids are hearing for the first time some of the music their mother grew up with -- Elvis, Dylan, various bluegrass artists, the tamer Zep stuff, and of course, "Raising Sand." They've been introduced to new instruments, new sounds, and their own musical knowledge has already begun to expand beyond the piano they all play. One of my daughters now wants her own dulcimer and my oldest son says he wants to learn the electric guitar. Won't it be fun, they say, when we can all play together?
I'll never be a rock star, I'll likely never play in public at all. But there's something very satisfying about learning something new after so many years of convincing myself that particular ship had sailed. I like to think I'm setting a good example for my children by showing them that life should never stand still and we should never stop learning new things.
And to think I owe it all to Robert Plant.
Thanks, Percy. You still rock.
I owe Robert Plant, and he doesn't even know it.
Here's the background: About three months ago I bought something online. I can't even remember what it was. Anyway, after I checked out I got this pop-up ad offering name-brand magazines for only $1 per title for a year with a limit of 3 titles. I took the bait because, hey, for only $1 I could read 'em through and give them to the waiting room at my daughter's speech clinic, right? Easy fare for those days when more cerebral literature is just too much, I reasoned.
Looking through the titles, my eyes rested on Rolling Stone, a magazine I used to read with wild abandon back in the 1980s when I was in high school and music of all sorts was the ultimate fascination. RS was printed on large tabloid-type paper back then and its politically liberal slant didn't register with me. I was more interested in news of my favorite artists -- Dylan, the surviving Beatles, Journey, Van Halen, Rush, and the like. I appreciated the magazine's willingness to interview musicians about more than just their latest album, and I was a faithful subscriber until I graduated from college.
Once I became a mother, everything changed. Suddenly, I found myself slightly repulsed at much of what RS had to offer. Now it was the year 2000, and nearly all the good rock and roll groups had either disbanded or their key players were dead. My mind and heart turned inward, towards the new act of juggling a baby for the first time, and I stopped caring about the lives of pretty much everyone else. I gave up RS for good sometime around 2003.
Fast forward to now, and my $1 offer to try RS again. Did I dare? With two of my three children avidly reading everything that falls in their line of sight, I reasoned I'd have to hide the magazine when it came in. RS now as in the days of yore is notorious for its sexually suggestive or alcohol touting ads. And what about the cover itself? The first issue I got had singer Katy Perry in an uber-pointy bra on the front. Exactly the sort of image I didn't want my girls to see.
Like a guilty pleasure, I waited until the kids were all outside playing before I opened the magazine and began to thumb past the articles bashing politicians I actually admire. Where was the good stuff? The news about relevant rock and roll? Had I been out of the loop so long that I would find nothing I could relate to?
And then, there it was, an interview with Robert Plant. Him, I remembered! Led Zeppelin was a big deal when I was in grammar school. I remembered hearing the news of drummer John Bonham's death and how, because of it, the band would never play together again. I remember buying their last album, "In Through the Out Door," and feeling like something good had been taken away much too soon.
And I remembered the silence. It lasted for about three years until Robert Plant returned with a solo career that left us Zeppelin purists shaking our heads in disbelief. He'd gone all '80s on us and the techno-pop of his new music combined with the tragic 1980s fashion and haircut was a big turnoff.
My friends and I stopped listening, preferring to leave Led Zeppelin dead and buried, right alongside John Bonham.
I forgot about Robert Plant for the next 20 years.
Sitting there with my Katy Perry Rolling Stone, I was intrigued enough to actually read the interview with Plant. What had he been doing all these years? Why was he making the news at all?
I learned about his 2008 collaboration with Alison Krauss, a stellar and angelic bluegrass fiddler and singer. How weird was that? And what was their album, "Raising Sand," all about? The article said it won five Grammys in '09, so it must have been good. But Robert Plant and bluegrass? Robert Plant and anything that wasn't Led Zep? Thanks, but no.
A long-time fan of acoustic music and bluegrass in particular, I recalled the article later that evening. It bugged me. I wanted to know more.
So I googled "Raising Sand," and found some interviews and music videos on YouTube.
I was absolutely blown away.
The voice, the voice that I remembered from 30+ years ago, that unmistakable voice that readily identifies Plant as the singer -- it was still there, only now it was melded with Krauss' dreamy, pure harmonies in a whole new way.
And what were these songs? Some of them sounded like rockabilly from Buddy Holly, the Everly Bros., Roy Orbison. One was a haunting bluegrass piece by the ace guitar picker Doc Watson and his wife. Another was a song Plant wrote himself for an earlier album, only now it featured Krauss' white-hot violin.
As I dug in deeper, trying to understand how a singer known more for 1970s excess could transform into a serious, mature musician, I began reading interviews done with Plant over the past three years. After a few evenings of this research, I decided I like him better now as a man of 63 than I did when he was the 20-something god of rock who pranced about on stage, long hair flowing, and singing "Whole Lotta Love" at ear-bursting levels.
I grew up, and apparently so did Robert Plant. Marvelous!
In one interview Plant gave in his 60th year, he talked about how he continuously pursues new music. He travels and reads and is really quite the intellectual in spite of his youthful dope-smokin' days and wild man ways.
He's had it all, lost it all, and had to reinvent himself on his own terms. He's humble about it and, from all accounts he's nothing like the big-headed Hollywood types who pretend to rule the world. He's, well, he's likable.
The more I read about Plant and his revolutionary journey into Americana music (he's recently recorded another album in Nashville with a band that consists of some of our finest acoustic musicians), the more I began to long for the days when I, too, experimented with music and went so far as to attempt to play stringed instruments for which I'd had no background or training.
I still had them -- a guitar and a mountain dulcimer -- but they were gathering dust after nearly 15 years of neglect. Life had gotten in their way -- marriage, job, a baby, another baby, two more babies after that. As we moved from place to place, I always felt sad when it came time to load up my instruments. I shuffled them from pillar to post but never played them. My finger callouses disappeared and my hands got soft. Playing the guitar would be too painful now, I decided. Besides, wasn't I too old? I'm a mother, for goodness sake, with children to teach and raise. I would save the instruments for them, if any of them were ever interested.
But wait. What about Robert Plant? What about a man who refuses to stay in a rut -- indeed travels and records and studies and questions and performs all over the world in search of new musical inspiration? He was nearly 60 before he won his Grammys. What if he'd given up after Led Zeppelin and had never sung again? Look what he would have missed.
Then the epiphany hit me.
If that old dog could learn new tricks, or the same tricks he already knew but in different forms, then why couldn't I? If Robert Plant could pick back up at 60 and open up a whole new can of musical whoopass, then who's to say I am too old at 45 to pick back up the dream I used to have -- to be able to play for pleasure and to do so well enough to learn new songs. Oh, and did I mention that I'd always wanted to learn the mandolin but never got around to it?
So I took my cue from an aging rocker and brought my guitar out of hiding to have it cleaned up and restrung. Same for the dulcimer. And I bought a mandolin. Oh, and I'm taking music lessons again. And my kids are hearing for the first time some of the music their mother grew up with -- Elvis, Dylan, various bluegrass artists, the tamer Zep stuff, and of course, "Raising Sand." They've been introduced to new instruments, new sounds, and their own musical knowledge has already begun to expand beyond the piano they all play. One of my daughters now wants her own dulcimer and my oldest son says he wants to learn the electric guitar. Won't it be fun, they say, when we can all play together?
I'll never be a rock star, I'll likely never play in public at all. But there's something very satisfying about learning something new after so many years of convincing myself that particular ship had sailed. I like to think I'm setting a good example for my children by showing them that life should never stand still and we should never stop learning new things.
And to think I owe it all to Robert Plant.
Thanks, Percy. You still rock.
July 6, 2011
When the dance is over
My daughters have been studying ballet since they were five and three, respectively. My older daughter decided she wanted to learn to dance after her grandmother and aunt took her to see a Christmas production of The Nutcracker. The following spring I began researching ballet schools and places to buy leotards, tights, and shoes. Her little sister watched all of this unfold with some fascination and asked me to buy her a "dance costume," too.
When I asked her whether she wanted to take lessons she shook her little blonde head. "No, I don't want to take a class, I just want the clothes."
I bought her a tiny leotard and some tiny tights and a little filmy skirt and she wore them nearly every day in lieu of more conventional dress-up play.
After about two months of watching her older sister get ready for ballet class, my younger daughter announced that she had changed her mind and was now ready to take lessons, too. She has always been precocious and sure of her own mind, so I had no reason to doubt her sincerity.
And so it began.
Now, nearly six years of fall sessions, spring sessions, summer sessions, special ballet camps, workshops, rehearsals and recitals later, the dance is over.
The dance is over.
It wasn't my choice but theirs, and I have had the exquisite pleasure of being able to talk with my daughters heart to heart about their reasons for giving it up. At 11 and 9, they are unusually circumspect about things and they are able to tell me in near-adult terms why they want to stop dancing.
I have listened, asked questions, probed the depths, and am thoroughly satisfied that I'm not raising a generation of quitters. Rather, I am raising a generation of smart young women who already know their own minds years ahead of many girls their age.
I am disappointed that I will likely never see them dance again, but I am proud beyond all measure of their ability to tell me why.
My oldest daughter said she likes playing music more than she likes moving to it. She studies the piano and spends countless hours practicing what's required by her teacher as well as composing her own tunes with titles like "Titanic," and "Falling Leaves." She also likes to write and draw and is becoming scarily fluent in both ancient Greek and contemporary Russian. She's recently matriculated to a new level of Girl Scouting and has begun work on the highest award a scout of her level can earn. In short, she is busy doing things she loves, and ballet is not one of them.
My younger daughter cast an even brighter light on her reasons for giving up the dance. She, too, studies piano and says she would eventually like to learn another instrument or two. "The thing about ballet is that you always do only what the instructor tells you to do," she said. "You can't choose the order in which to practice the barre or your floor work, and the routine is always the same. When you play an instrument, there are millions of songs you can learn and you can work on part of a hard song and then set it aside to play something easier and more fun before going back to work again on the hard piece. I can do this at my own pace and I can do it any time I want to, even every day. I don't have any control over the ballet class but the ballet class controls me. It's too structured."
Spoken like the free-spirited artist she is.
This is the child who invents her own craft projects, pours over books of paper, cloth or clay projects and uses bits and pieces to make her own creations. This is the child who cannot do a paint-by-numbers project because she wants to pick her own colors for the picture. This is the child who loves to test herself at the piano. How fast CAN she play a piece? Metronome or no? Classical or folk?
It's the endless variety of playable music, and the loose structure in which she practices and plays that makes the piano so satisfying. Ballet is rigid, unforgiving. Its curriculum is very specific, its measures of progress largely unyielding to differences in body type, developmental ability, degree of passion.
With ballet, you either love it or you don't.
With music you can love one instrument or love several. You can play a piano or a guitar, a banjo or a mandolin, a violin or a cello -- and music that's been written for one can be modified for playing on another. There is no limit to music. Ballet as a style of dance seems endlessly predictable. My daughter tells me she doesn't want to give it up because it's getting too hard. Rather, it's getting too boring.
How can I possibly doubt her when she tells me she does not love ballet -- indeed often dreads it and its encroachment into her schedule of reading, piano, sewing, painting, drawing, exploring -- and is not sad in the least to let it go?
How can I force her to bend her will to something that in time will take over her life? Now, it's two classes per week. In another year it might be three, then four. And for what? She told me she dreads the day she will have to give up her freedom to the dance. It's obvious that ballet does not liberate her, it binds her.
My daughters' feet may never dance across a floor again, but as I listen to their fingers dance over the piano keys as they play and sing together and for each other I am reminded that talent takes many forms and that none of those forms matter if they do not bring us joy.
There's a whole lot of joy emanating from our music room right now. The dance may be over, but the music plays on.
When I asked her whether she wanted to take lessons she shook her little blonde head. "No, I don't want to take a class, I just want the clothes."
I bought her a tiny leotard and some tiny tights and a little filmy skirt and she wore them nearly every day in lieu of more conventional dress-up play.
After about two months of watching her older sister get ready for ballet class, my younger daughter announced that she had changed her mind and was now ready to take lessons, too. She has always been precocious and sure of her own mind, so I had no reason to doubt her sincerity.
And so it began.
Now, nearly six years of fall sessions, spring sessions, summer sessions, special ballet camps, workshops, rehearsals and recitals later, the dance is over.
The dance is over.
It wasn't my choice but theirs, and I have had the exquisite pleasure of being able to talk with my daughters heart to heart about their reasons for giving it up. At 11 and 9, they are unusually circumspect about things and they are able to tell me in near-adult terms why they want to stop dancing.
I have listened, asked questions, probed the depths, and am thoroughly satisfied that I'm not raising a generation of quitters. Rather, I am raising a generation of smart young women who already know their own minds years ahead of many girls their age.
I am disappointed that I will likely never see them dance again, but I am proud beyond all measure of their ability to tell me why.
My oldest daughter said she likes playing music more than she likes moving to it. She studies the piano and spends countless hours practicing what's required by her teacher as well as composing her own tunes with titles like "Titanic," and "Falling Leaves." She also likes to write and draw and is becoming scarily fluent in both ancient Greek and contemporary Russian. She's recently matriculated to a new level of Girl Scouting and has begun work on the highest award a scout of her level can earn. In short, she is busy doing things she loves, and ballet is not one of them.
My younger daughter cast an even brighter light on her reasons for giving up the dance. She, too, studies piano and says she would eventually like to learn another instrument or two. "The thing about ballet is that you always do only what the instructor tells you to do," she said. "You can't choose the order in which to practice the barre or your floor work, and the routine is always the same. When you play an instrument, there are millions of songs you can learn and you can work on part of a hard song and then set it aside to play something easier and more fun before going back to work again on the hard piece. I can do this at my own pace and I can do it any time I want to, even every day. I don't have any control over the ballet class but the ballet class controls me. It's too structured."
Spoken like the free-spirited artist she is.
This is the child who invents her own craft projects, pours over books of paper, cloth or clay projects and uses bits and pieces to make her own creations. This is the child who cannot do a paint-by-numbers project because she wants to pick her own colors for the picture. This is the child who loves to test herself at the piano. How fast CAN she play a piece? Metronome or no? Classical or folk?
It's the endless variety of playable music, and the loose structure in which she practices and plays that makes the piano so satisfying. Ballet is rigid, unforgiving. Its curriculum is very specific, its measures of progress largely unyielding to differences in body type, developmental ability, degree of passion.
With ballet, you either love it or you don't.
With music you can love one instrument or love several. You can play a piano or a guitar, a banjo or a mandolin, a violin or a cello -- and music that's been written for one can be modified for playing on another. There is no limit to music. Ballet as a style of dance seems endlessly predictable. My daughter tells me she doesn't want to give it up because it's getting too hard. Rather, it's getting too boring.
How can I possibly doubt her when she tells me she does not love ballet -- indeed often dreads it and its encroachment into her schedule of reading, piano, sewing, painting, drawing, exploring -- and is not sad in the least to let it go?
How can I force her to bend her will to something that in time will take over her life? Now, it's two classes per week. In another year it might be three, then four. And for what? She told me she dreads the day she will have to give up her freedom to the dance. It's obvious that ballet does not liberate her, it binds her.
My daughters' feet may never dance across a floor again, but as I listen to their fingers dance over the piano keys as they play and sing together and for each other I am reminded that talent takes many forms and that none of those forms matter if they do not bring us joy.
There's a whole lot of joy emanating from our music room right now. The dance may be over, but the music plays on.
June 7, 2011
My guitar teacher
The man who taught me how to play the guitar was Dave Peters, a phenomenal mandolinist who lived and worked in Houston and, later, across the world. His fingers fairly flew over the strings of the tiny instrument, bringing to vibrancy everything from Doc Watson's bluegrass "Sheep in the Meadow," to the classical jazz of Django Reinhart.
He was the one who introduced me to bluegrass festivals -- Nacogdoches, Winfield, KS -- and he was the one who gave me a book of poetry by Sara Teasdale.
Dave had an impressive book collection and he had no reservations about sharing or even giving away his tomes. He lived in a big house with several other musicians in the hip part of town and one night he invited me to come and sit in on a jam session. I had absolutely no intention of trying to play in front of that bunch -- one of them was a string bass player for the symphony, another was a teenage phenom from the piney woods of East Texas who later went on to make a name for himself.
No, I just went to listen and to join in on the conversations. And to see my teacher's book collection. I'd heard tell it was varied and interesting, just the type I like to browse.
And so I left later that night with the collected works of Sara Teasdale, a gift from Dave who said he'd read it enough times he'd memorized all the poems worth knowing. Teasdale, who died in 1933, was an American poet famous in her day and whose work entitled Love Songs received the first Pulitzer Prize for poetry in 1918.
There were many good pieces in the book and I held onto it for many years, long after I'd stopped taking guitar lessons, long after I'd lost touch with Dave, and long after I learned he'd died suddenly in his sleep.
I still remember one of the poems, because I loved the image of "a fire that once was singing gold."
Ironically, the poem I remember is titled, "Let It Be Forgotten."
Let it be forgotten, as a flower is forgotten,
Forgotten as a fire that once was singing gold.
Let it be forgotten forever and ever,
Time is a kind friend, he will make us old.
If anyone asks, say it was forgotten
Long and long ago,
As a flower, as a fire, as a hushed footfall
In a long-forgotten snow.
Dave Peters has been gone nearly 12 years now.
They buried him in Kentucky, home of the blue grass and the music he loved so much.
He was the one who introduced me to bluegrass festivals -- Nacogdoches, Winfield, KS -- and he was the one who gave me a book of poetry by Sara Teasdale.
Dave had an impressive book collection and he had no reservations about sharing or even giving away his tomes. He lived in a big house with several other musicians in the hip part of town and one night he invited me to come and sit in on a jam session. I had absolutely no intention of trying to play in front of that bunch -- one of them was a string bass player for the symphony, another was a teenage phenom from the piney woods of East Texas who later went on to make a name for himself.
No, I just went to listen and to join in on the conversations. And to see my teacher's book collection. I'd heard tell it was varied and interesting, just the type I like to browse.
And so I left later that night with the collected works of Sara Teasdale, a gift from Dave who said he'd read it enough times he'd memorized all the poems worth knowing. Teasdale, who died in 1933, was an American poet famous in her day and whose work entitled Love Songs received the first Pulitzer Prize for poetry in 1918.
There were many good pieces in the book and I held onto it for many years, long after I'd stopped taking guitar lessons, long after I'd lost touch with Dave, and long after I learned he'd died suddenly in his sleep.
I still remember one of the poems, because I loved the image of "a fire that once was singing gold."
Ironically, the poem I remember is titled, "Let It Be Forgotten."
Let it be forgotten, as a flower is forgotten,
Forgotten as a fire that once was singing gold.
Let it be forgotten forever and ever,
Time is a kind friend, he will make us old.
If anyone asks, say it was forgotten
Long and long ago,
As a flower, as a fire, as a hushed footfall
In a long-forgotten snow.
Dave Peters has been gone nearly 12 years now.
They buried him in Kentucky, home of the blue grass and the music he loved so much.
The sins of the fathers
I've never thought that children should pay for the sins of the fathers, but it happens more often than I care to admit.
Recently, I read an article about the children of Nazi soldiers and how these now-grown descendants are working hard to get to the truth about their infamous ancestors. With family trees obscured by years of lies, these adults, now in their late 40s and early 50s and 60s, not only have to confront the atrocities of their relatives but they have to reconcile that horrible knowledge with what they know about themselves.
Some of these children never married, never had children of their own, because they were so afraid they had inherited some sort of "monster gene" that could be passed along. Many children of Nazis have lived their lives in shame and fear of being found out.
I can't imagine paying daily for the sins of my father, but I'm about to get a front-row seat to how this works out for my own children.
In this case, they are going to pay a heavy price for the sins of their mother. Me.
I offended a friend whose children have been friends with my children since everyone was a toddler. Not only was I offensive in the first place, I remained so in the aftermath. In other words, even as I write this, I am still offensive.
I am having such a hard time understanding the deeper nature of the reasons why my actions were offensive that I've all but given up.
My children's friends will not be allowed to come over to play, even though none of them are at fault or have anything in any way to do with the disagreement between their mothers. I even went so far as to point out that it would be okay for the adults to be at odds as long as we let our kids be kids and at least have their friendship on an even keel.
That suggestion didn't go over too well. Naive on my part, I see that now.
My son asked me again today when the boy he calls his best friend would be coming over and I had to remind him that he'll likely never see his buddy again -- at least not until they're both old enough to pick their own friends and drive themselves where they want to go.
He looked puzzled for a minute and said, "Why can't you just deal with your stuff and let us play? We have fun and that's what being a kid is all about."
I told him that sometimes no matter how you deal with things they don't work out and that I was sorry about him losing his friend. I told him that I guess it's my fault -- because apparently it is. "That's okay," he said solemnly. "It's your fault but I still love you."
More than anything else, I'm sorry for my children. I'm sorry for my friend's children.
They are all paying for the sins of the adults, and I think this is the most profound loss of all.
Recently, I read an article about the children of Nazi soldiers and how these now-grown descendants are working hard to get to the truth about their infamous ancestors. With family trees obscured by years of lies, these adults, now in their late 40s and early 50s and 60s, not only have to confront the atrocities of their relatives but they have to reconcile that horrible knowledge with what they know about themselves.
Some of these children never married, never had children of their own, because they were so afraid they had inherited some sort of "monster gene" that could be passed along. Many children of Nazis have lived their lives in shame and fear of being found out.
I can't imagine paying daily for the sins of my father, but I'm about to get a front-row seat to how this works out for my own children.
In this case, they are going to pay a heavy price for the sins of their mother. Me.
I offended a friend whose children have been friends with my children since everyone was a toddler. Not only was I offensive in the first place, I remained so in the aftermath. In other words, even as I write this, I am still offensive.
I am having such a hard time understanding the deeper nature of the reasons why my actions were offensive that I've all but given up.
My children's friends will not be allowed to come over to play, even though none of them are at fault or have anything in any way to do with the disagreement between their mothers. I even went so far as to point out that it would be okay for the adults to be at odds as long as we let our kids be kids and at least have their friendship on an even keel.
That suggestion didn't go over too well. Naive on my part, I see that now.
My son asked me again today when the boy he calls his best friend would be coming over and I had to remind him that he'll likely never see his buddy again -- at least not until they're both old enough to pick their own friends and drive themselves where they want to go.
He looked puzzled for a minute and said, "Why can't you just deal with your stuff and let us play? We have fun and that's what being a kid is all about."
I told him that sometimes no matter how you deal with things they don't work out and that I was sorry about him losing his friend. I told him that I guess it's my fault -- because apparently it is. "That's okay," he said solemnly. "It's your fault but I still love you."
More than anything else, I'm sorry for my children. I'm sorry for my friend's children.
They are all paying for the sins of the adults, and I think this is the most profound loss of all.
June 5, 2011
Where none was meant . . .
I've recently had the distinct misfortune of offending someone when no offense was meant. It's an interesting place to be, if not a little lonely, because it forces me to examine again why we do the things we do -- or not.
The details of the alleged offense are not important. What matters more to me is how a perceived slight is dealt with. What's the responsibility of the offended party? What's the responsibility of the one who has been deemed offensive?
I don't have those answers, but I did a little research into the subject today and found some thoughts by other people that shed a little light on a fairly murky topic.
If you've ever been offended -- or if you've ever offended -- this post is for you.
Slate.com published an article in 2008 titled "Why humans are so quick to take offense, and what that means for the presidential campaign," by Emily Yoffe.
Ms. Yoffe explores the fascinating biology and psychology behind our tendencies to get bent out of shape when something doesn't go our way. With all due respect to copyright laws, I quote from her piece:
A paradox of human life is that the evolutionary forces that have made us cooperative and empathetic are the same ones that have made us prickly and explosive. Jonathan Haidt, a psychology professor at the University of Virginia, is a leading theorist in the field of moral psychology. He says the paired emotions of gratitude and vengeance helped us become the ultrasocial, ultrasuccessful species that we are. Gratitude allows us to expand our social network and recruit new allies; vengeance makes sure our new friends don't take advantage of us.
Study the topic of "taking offense" and you realize people are like tuning forks, ready to vibrate with indignation. So why do humans seem equipped with a thrumming tabulator, incessantly calculating whether we are getting proper due and deference?
According to researchers, calibrating our responses to social interactions usually occurs below our conscious awareness. Yale psychologist John Bargh says getting on with life would be unmanageable if we didn't have a constantly running, under-the-surface sense of how to respond to situations. In his experiments, Bargh has shown that many of our social judgments and actions are automatic, and after the fact our brains make up a justification.
Humans have superb abilities to evaluate the defects of everyone else. The glitch, Haidt says, is that we're blind to our own flaws. He points out that Jesus used this very metaphor when he said, "You hypocrite, first take the log out of your own eye, and then you will see clearly to take the speck out of your brother's eye." Haidt says we think that our perception of events is the objective truth, while everyone else's version is deluded by their self-interest.
"Once we're angry, irritated, we become prosecutors, and our reasoning gets hijacked by our need to build our own case," he says. So he suggests we can stop the prosecution by making even a small gesture of conciliation. We don't have to acknowledge we are wholly in the wrong, but changing our tone, conceding we shouldn't have said something, or said it in such a way, can trigger the reciprocity impulse in our opponent.
Some researchers recommend that when it comes to feeling offended, we could benefit from becoming a little bit Buddhist. Stephanie Preston, head of the University of Michigan's Ecological Neuroscience Lab, says: "The more attached you are to your sense of self, the more you see forces trying to attack that self. If you have a more Buddhist view, and are less attached to self, you are less likely to see offense."
Now we move from the evolutionary/psychological/Buddhist perspectives into the worldview of Christianity. The Bible has a lot to say on the subjects of offense, forgiveness, pomposity, and self vs. someone else.
The following comes from a 2007 devotional by Christian author Randy Robinson titled "Taking Offense."
It's instructive . . .
Often we take offense -- even when it’s not ours to take. Offense will come our way. We don’t have to go looking for it. When we do, we find offense in places where there is little or no cause for it. This is not simply foolishness, it is dangerous. It can lead to an overblown sense of victimization. Those who constantly take offense begin to feel as if life is not fair or that the world is out to get them. This mindset is diametrically opposed to Jesus declaration that Christians should “rejoice and be glad” when persecuted by the world (Matthew 5:11-12).
Dennis Prager, a brilliant author, lecturer and radio host, calls victimhood “the greatest single cause of evil.” He points out that Nazism arose from a sense of German victimhood, communism from a belief that the working man is the victim and Islamism from the idea that Muslims are victims of an oppressive Jewish-American conspiracy.
“The preoccupation of much of America with telling whole groups that they are victims -- of racism, sexism, homophobia, xenophobia and classism, among other American sins -- can only increase cruelty and evil in America,” Prager asserts.
Christians should not give in to the temptation to play the social martyr. We should stand up for our beliefs and defend the assaults on our faith, but never look for reasons to take offense. To the contrary, we must proactively forgive those who offend us, whether that offense is real or merely perceived. Otherwise, we play the part of the angry, bitter, reactionary victim. In that state of mind, we cannot respond with patience and love. Instead, we respond in a manner that genuinely gives offense.
For anyone reading this who wonders whether they have unwittingly committed an offense, or who has already been the recipient of a sudden, unmerited, and colossal freakout, I have only this advice:
Keep calm, and carry on. You can only do the next thing -- whatever that next thing is -- and pray for a satisfactory resolution.
The details of the alleged offense are not important. What matters more to me is how a perceived slight is dealt with. What's the responsibility of the offended party? What's the responsibility of the one who has been deemed offensive?
I don't have those answers, but I did a little research into the subject today and found some thoughts by other people that shed a little light on a fairly murky topic.
If you've ever been offended -- or if you've ever offended -- this post is for you.
Slate.com published an article in 2008 titled "Why humans are so quick to take offense, and what that means for the presidential campaign," by Emily Yoffe.
Ms. Yoffe explores the fascinating biology and psychology behind our tendencies to get bent out of shape when something doesn't go our way. With all due respect to copyright laws, I quote from her piece:
A paradox of human life is that the evolutionary forces that have made us cooperative and empathetic are the same ones that have made us prickly and explosive. Jonathan Haidt, a psychology professor at the University of Virginia, is a leading theorist in the field of moral psychology. He says the paired emotions of gratitude and vengeance helped us become the ultrasocial, ultrasuccessful species that we are. Gratitude allows us to expand our social network and recruit new allies; vengeance makes sure our new friends don't take advantage of us.
Study the topic of "taking offense" and you realize people are like tuning forks, ready to vibrate with indignation. So why do humans seem equipped with a thrumming tabulator, incessantly calculating whether we are getting proper due and deference?
According to researchers, calibrating our responses to social interactions usually occurs below our conscious awareness. Yale psychologist John Bargh says getting on with life would be unmanageable if we didn't have a constantly running, under-the-surface sense of how to respond to situations. In his experiments, Bargh has shown that many of our social judgments and actions are automatic, and after the fact our brains make up a justification.
Humans have superb abilities to evaluate the defects of everyone else. The glitch, Haidt says, is that we're blind to our own flaws. He points out that Jesus used this very metaphor when he said, "You hypocrite, first take the log out of your own eye, and then you will see clearly to take the speck out of your brother's eye." Haidt says we think that our perception of events is the objective truth, while everyone else's version is deluded by their self-interest.
"Once we're angry, irritated, we become prosecutors, and our reasoning gets hijacked by our need to build our own case," he says. So he suggests we can stop the prosecution by making even a small gesture of conciliation. We don't have to acknowledge we are wholly in the wrong, but changing our tone, conceding we shouldn't have said something, or said it in such a way, can trigger the reciprocity impulse in our opponent.
Some researchers recommend that when it comes to feeling offended, we could benefit from becoming a little bit Buddhist. Stephanie Preston, head of the University of Michigan's Ecological Neuroscience Lab, says: "The more attached you are to your sense of self, the more you see forces trying to attack that self. If you have a more Buddhist view, and are less attached to self, you are less likely to see offense."
Now we move from the evolutionary/psychological/Buddhist perspectives into the worldview of Christianity. The Bible has a lot to say on the subjects of offense, forgiveness, pomposity, and self vs. someone else.
The following comes from a 2007 devotional by Christian author Randy Robinson titled "Taking Offense."
It's instructive . . .
Often we take offense -- even when it’s not ours to take. Offense will come our way. We don’t have to go looking for it. When we do, we find offense in places where there is little or no cause for it. This is not simply foolishness, it is dangerous. It can lead to an overblown sense of victimization. Those who constantly take offense begin to feel as if life is not fair or that the world is out to get them. This mindset is diametrically opposed to Jesus declaration that Christians should “rejoice and be glad” when persecuted by the world (Matthew 5:11-12).
Dennis Prager, a brilliant author, lecturer and radio host, calls victimhood “the greatest single cause of evil.” He points out that Nazism arose from a sense of German victimhood, communism from a belief that the working man is the victim and Islamism from the idea that Muslims are victims of an oppressive Jewish-American conspiracy.
“The preoccupation of much of America with telling whole groups that they are victims -- of racism, sexism, homophobia, xenophobia and classism, among other American sins -- can only increase cruelty and evil in America,” Prager asserts.
Christians should not give in to the temptation to play the social martyr. We should stand up for our beliefs and defend the assaults on our faith, but never look for reasons to take offense. To the contrary, we must proactively forgive those who offend us, whether that offense is real or merely perceived. Otherwise, we play the part of the angry, bitter, reactionary victim. In that state of mind, we cannot respond with patience and love. Instead, we respond in a manner that genuinely gives offense.
For anyone reading this who wonders whether they have unwittingly committed an offense, or who has already been the recipient of a sudden, unmerited, and colossal freakout, I have only this advice:
Keep calm, and carry on. You can only do the next thing -- whatever that next thing is -- and pray for a satisfactory resolution.
May 29, 2011
Someone FINALLY said it!!! And in print, no less!!!
The June 2011 issue of Atlantic magazine is a must-read for anyone who cares about the education of American children. Written by Joel Klein, former chancellor of New York city schools and the prosecutor who made Bill Gates and Microsoft cry "uncle," the article explores the real reasons behind the failure of American public education.
Klein fought hard to change the status quo in NY public schools. He lost.
Calling today's public education "essentially a government monopoly," Klein notes that "whether a school does well or poorly, it will get the students it needs to stay in business, because most kids have no other choice."
So, what IS the "business" of public education? Klein explores this with a cynicism usually found in people like me, commoners who have bucked the system for so long that we're usually deemed reactionary, unbalanced, or downright hateful.
"Let's start with the politicians. From their point of view, the school system can be enormously helpful, providing patronage hires, school-placement opportunities for connected constituents, the means to get favored community and business programs adopted and funded, and politically advantageous ties to schools and parents in their communities," Klein writes.
Klein goes on to describe an instance in which he argued before the NY state assembly to end patronage hires. Politicians pretended to be shocked but afterward Klein was told he could count on one committee member's future support if only he (Klein) would make sure a school principal in the member's district wasn't fired. So much for pleading ignorance of patronage, eh?
In another instance, Klein writes about his reorganization of the school system in which he minimized the power of 32 local superintendents. A local official called Klein and asked how he'd get "constituent services" once the reorg was complete. Klein replied, "What's that?" and the official said, "How do I get a kid into a school when I need to?" When Klein tried to explain that admission to the school system could not be preferential, the official said, "Go f**k yourself," and hung up.
I know, I know, you're waiting for me to explain what all this has to do with public education. Folks, what I've just presented IS public education, at least in New York City.
Without completely violating copyright laws, I'm going to quote a few other "revelations" from Klein's article. These little nuggets speak volumes:
* The gains we have made in improving our schools are negligible -- even though we have doubled our spending (in inflation adjusted dollars) on K-12 public education.
*On America's latest exams, one third or fewer of 8th grade students were proficient in mat, science, or reading.
*ACT, the respected national organization that administers college-admissions tests, recently found that 76 percent of our high-school graduates 'were not adequately prepared academically for first-year college courses.'
*The World Economic Forum ranks the U.S. 48th in math and science education.
*Politicians do what the teachers' unions want, not what children need.
*Substandard teachers are nearly impossible to get rid of, at least in NY schools.
*Teachers who are "burned out" continue to bide their time so they can receive uber-generous benefits upon retirement. They inflict their apathy and indifference upon their students.
*Charter schools that have been successful are derided as insignificant exceptions. Instead of trying to figure out what they've done right, teachers' unions and other invested public school proponents dismiss these schools as aberrations.
Klein also quotes former United Federation of Teachers president Al Shanker, exposing some hard truths about the grownups in charge of children's most important institution aside from their families:
"When schoolchildren start paying union dues, that's when I'll start representing the interests of schoolchildren," Shanker is quoted as saying.
Towards the end of the article Klein draws upon Shanker's words again, this time from a 1993 speech to the prestigious Pew Forum: Shanker said, "We are at the point that the auto industry was at a few years ago. They could see they were losing market share every year and still not believe that it really had anything to do with the quality of the product. . . I think we will get -- and deserve -- the end of public education through some sort of privatization scheme if we don't behave differently."
Klein's prognosis for public education isn't pretty. "Time is running out," he writes. "Without political leadership willing to take risks and build support for 'radical reform,' and without a citizenry willing to insist on those reforms, our schools will continue to decline. . . (T)he global marketplace will be very unforgiving to a populace that doesn't have the skills it demands."
Klein fought hard to change the status quo in NY public schools. He lost.
Calling today's public education "essentially a government monopoly," Klein notes that "whether a school does well or poorly, it will get the students it needs to stay in business, because most kids have no other choice."
So, what IS the "business" of public education? Klein explores this with a cynicism usually found in people like me, commoners who have bucked the system for so long that we're usually deemed reactionary, unbalanced, or downright hateful.
"Let's start with the politicians. From their point of view, the school system can be enormously helpful, providing patronage hires, school-placement opportunities for connected constituents, the means to get favored community and business programs adopted and funded, and politically advantageous ties to schools and parents in their communities," Klein writes.
Klein goes on to describe an instance in which he argued before the NY state assembly to end patronage hires. Politicians pretended to be shocked but afterward Klein was told he could count on one committee member's future support if only he (Klein) would make sure a school principal in the member's district wasn't fired. So much for pleading ignorance of patronage, eh?
In another instance, Klein writes about his reorganization of the school system in which he minimized the power of 32 local superintendents. A local official called Klein and asked how he'd get "constituent services" once the reorg was complete. Klein replied, "What's that?" and the official said, "How do I get a kid into a school when I need to?" When Klein tried to explain that admission to the school system could not be preferential, the official said, "Go f**k yourself," and hung up.
I know, I know, you're waiting for me to explain what all this has to do with public education. Folks, what I've just presented IS public education, at least in New York City.
Without completely violating copyright laws, I'm going to quote a few other "revelations" from Klein's article. These little nuggets speak volumes:
* The gains we have made in improving our schools are negligible -- even though we have doubled our spending (in inflation adjusted dollars) on K-12 public education.
*On America's latest exams, one third or fewer of 8th grade students were proficient in mat, science, or reading.
*ACT, the respected national organization that administers college-admissions tests, recently found that 76 percent of our high-school graduates 'were not adequately prepared academically for first-year college courses.'
*The World Economic Forum ranks the U.S. 48th in math and science education.
*Politicians do what the teachers' unions want, not what children need.
*Substandard teachers are nearly impossible to get rid of, at least in NY schools.
*Teachers who are "burned out" continue to bide their time so they can receive uber-generous benefits upon retirement. They inflict their apathy and indifference upon their students.
*Charter schools that have been successful are derided as insignificant exceptions. Instead of trying to figure out what they've done right, teachers' unions and other invested public school proponents dismiss these schools as aberrations.
Klein also quotes former United Federation of Teachers president Al Shanker, exposing some hard truths about the grownups in charge of children's most important institution aside from their families:
"When schoolchildren start paying union dues, that's when I'll start representing the interests of schoolchildren," Shanker is quoted as saying.
Towards the end of the article Klein draws upon Shanker's words again, this time from a 1993 speech to the prestigious Pew Forum: Shanker said, "We are at the point that the auto industry was at a few years ago. They could see they were losing market share every year and still not believe that it really had anything to do with the quality of the product. . . I think we will get -- and deserve -- the end of public education through some sort of privatization scheme if we don't behave differently."
Klein's prognosis for public education isn't pretty. "Time is running out," he writes. "Without political leadership willing to take risks and build support for 'radical reform,' and without a citizenry willing to insist on those reforms, our schools will continue to decline. . . (T)he global marketplace will be very unforgiving to a populace that doesn't have the skills it demands."
The lesson of Flanders Fields
Tomorrow is Memorial Day and although it's a holiday traditionally fraught with barbecues and sports events, it's really a holiday to commemorate the soldiers lost in battle.
As year-round homeschoolers, I try to make sure we don't spend such holidays without making an effort to learn something from them or about them.
This year, before we embark on our picnic and play, we're going to learn about the history of Memorial Day and the poem In Flanders Fields written by WWI Canadian soldier John McCrae.
It's one of the few poems I cannot read without crying.
My daughters will have to read it aloud to me, and then they'll get to copy it in their own handwriting.
After that, we're going to talk about the life of the poet himself and the girls will write a short dictation about him.
There's a beautiful poppy picture to color, and a one-folder lapbook to make.
Somewhere in all of this, we've got little American flags to post in our front yard and I'll tell them once again about the brave men in their family who have served or are serving our country in peacetime and in the Iraq War, war in Afghanistan, Korean War, both world wars, the Civil War, the War of 1812, and the American Revolutionary War.
They are:
Dillon Blevins (American Revolutionary War)
Armstead Blevins (War of 1812)
Hugh A. Blevins (War of 1812)
Hugh A. Blevins, Jr. (Civil War -- Confederacy)
William Blevins (Civil War -- Confederacy)
John Blevins (Civil War -- Confederacy)
John Henry Stephens (Civil War -- Confederacy)
Benjamin Franklin Stephens (Civil War -- Confederacy)
William Stephens (Civil War -- Confederacy)
Thomas Hamby (Civil War -- Confederacy)
Elijah T. Wells (Civil War -- Confederacy)
Leonard Hamby (WWI)
Howard I. Evans (for Canada, WWI)
Clifford Evans (WWII)
Lloyd Evans (WWII)
Howard Evans (WWII)
Dallas Evans (Korean War)
Randall C. Evans (Afghanistan)
Chris Hamby (Iraq and Kosovo)
Wells Hamby, Jr. (Navy during peacetime)
A grateful nation may pay its tribute tomorrow and then again on Veterans' Day in October, but a grateful family remembers these men all year long. We are proud of their courage and willingness to act on their highest sense of right, and for those who are still with us we pray they return safely home soon.
In Flanders Fields
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
As year-round homeschoolers, I try to make sure we don't spend such holidays without making an effort to learn something from them or about them.
This year, before we embark on our picnic and play, we're going to learn about the history of Memorial Day and the poem In Flanders Fields written by WWI Canadian soldier John McCrae.
It's one of the few poems I cannot read without crying.
My daughters will have to read it aloud to me, and then they'll get to copy it in their own handwriting.
After that, we're going to talk about the life of the poet himself and the girls will write a short dictation about him.
There's a beautiful poppy picture to color, and a one-folder lapbook to make.
Somewhere in all of this, we've got little American flags to post in our front yard and I'll tell them once again about the brave men in their family who have served or are serving our country in peacetime and in the Iraq War, war in Afghanistan, Korean War, both world wars, the Civil War, the War of 1812, and the American Revolutionary War.
They are:
Dillon Blevins (American Revolutionary War)
Armstead Blevins (War of 1812)
Hugh A. Blevins (War of 1812)
Hugh A. Blevins, Jr. (Civil War -- Confederacy)
William Blevins (Civil War -- Confederacy)
John Blevins (Civil War -- Confederacy)
John Henry Stephens (Civil War -- Confederacy)
Benjamin Franklin Stephens (Civil War -- Confederacy)
William Stephens (Civil War -- Confederacy)
Thomas Hamby (Civil War -- Confederacy)
Elijah T. Wells (Civil War -- Confederacy)
Leonard Hamby (WWI)
Howard I. Evans (for Canada, WWI)
Clifford Evans (WWII)
Lloyd Evans (WWII)
Howard Evans (WWII)
Dallas Evans (Korean War)
Randall C. Evans (Afghanistan)
Chris Hamby (Iraq and Kosovo)
Wells Hamby, Jr. (Navy during peacetime)
A grateful nation may pay its tribute tomorrow and then again on Veterans' Day in October, but a grateful family remembers these men all year long. We are proud of their courage and willingness to act on their highest sense of right, and for those who are still with us we pray they return safely home soon.
In Flanders Fields
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
The brilliant light from the back row
Longtime readers of this 'blog know I have a child with Asperger's Syndrome, a fancy name for high-functioning autism.
She danced in her fifth ballet recital this weekend and for the first time I saw my mother-in-law cry at the sight of it.
My daughter, while an enthusiastic ballerina, is not exactly the most polished dancer in her class. Her mind is often full of other things -- the music that's playing, her own image in the mirror, the shuffling and stepping of the other students in the room -- and this keeps her from focusing heavily on her own body posture and positioning.
The routine her teacher choreographed gave my daughter no quarter. She was expected to perform alongside the rest of her class and to learn all the same moves. Mercifully, her teacher understands the challenges of Asperger's and kept my daughter largely to the back of the configuration so that any mistakes would not be as obvious. While it's important to give people with Asperger's every opportunity to do their best, it's equally important to preserve their dignity in the event their best is not as good as the world thinks it should be.
A full dress rehearsal is always held the morning of the recital. Usually, the rehearsal is full of stops and starts, blocking the dancers on the stage, and finally the dance to music. The auditorium lights are up, people are talking, parents are fussing over last-minute costume fittings, makeup or hair, and stagehands are working out last-minute kinks in curtains, lighting and sound. All this contributes to a complete lack of focus for my daughter and this year's rehearsal was no exception.
Arms loose, legs flailing, eyes darting out to see if I was watching her, my daughter was anything but the picture of poise and confidence. She watched nearby dancers too closely. Had she not really learned the routine? She seemed perpetually out of step. Could she not hear the music? I smiled on the outside, but inside my heart sank a little. I began to dread the actual performance later that day.
Call time found me in line with my daughter and her younger sister who is also a ballet student and whose work is consistently high caliber. Among the extended family, my younger daughter is the dancer no one worries about and who everyone expects will do wonderfully. She never fails to disappoint. I'm proud of her achievements, but because they are the norm for her I confess to being less amazed than when my older daughter does something in a similar vein. I guess I was born to cheer for the underdog.
As I signed the girls in to the backstage holding area, I said a silent prayer over my oldest -- the verse from the Book of Timothy in which we are told that "God hath not given us the spirit of fear, but of love, and of power, and of a sound mind."
Please, God. Please give her the soundness of mind she needs to pull this off. Remind her of the joy You gave her from birth, the love she has for music, and calm any anxiety she might be feeling.
I'm firmly convinced that God listens most closely when a mother is the one pleading her case. Those are often the most desperate of prayers.
Following a series of well-executed dances by other groups, my daughter's class came on to the stage and the music began.
Seated in the third row, I could clearly see my child but she could not see me thanks to the glare of the stage lights shining down. This was good. It meant she would not be seeking me out. It meant she would not see my inadvertent grimace should she make a misstep. I could cover any disappointment simply by sitting hidden in the dark.
As the music started and the dance commenced, something took hold of my struggling ballerina. She began to smile. No, not smile, beam. She began to beam as if someone had flipped the switch on a very bright light somewhere inside her spirit and its shine simply had to come forth.
Her steps seemed more sure. Her arms, for the most part, were held in proper position. She stood tall and confident and seemed to know where to go without having to look to a classmate for guidance. Even though she spent only a few moments somewhere other than on the back row throughout the whole routine, she never once stopped beaming.
My mother-in-law leaned in to me and said, "This is just wonderful. I can't keep from crying."
I knew what she meant.
For about three minutes, the brightest light in that whole auditorium came not from any spotlight but from the face of my daughter and I, too, gave up trying to hold back the tears.
For in him we live and move and have our being. As some of your own poets have said, "We are his offspring." Acts 17:28 (NIV)
She danced in her fifth ballet recital this weekend and for the first time I saw my mother-in-law cry at the sight of it.
My daughter, while an enthusiastic ballerina, is not exactly the most polished dancer in her class. Her mind is often full of other things -- the music that's playing, her own image in the mirror, the shuffling and stepping of the other students in the room -- and this keeps her from focusing heavily on her own body posture and positioning.
The routine her teacher choreographed gave my daughter no quarter. She was expected to perform alongside the rest of her class and to learn all the same moves. Mercifully, her teacher understands the challenges of Asperger's and kept my daughter largely to the back of the configuration so that any mistakes would not be as obvious. While it's important to give people with Asperger's every opportunity to do their best, it's equally important to preserve their dignity in the event their best is not as good as the world thinks it should be.
A full dress rehearsal is always held the morning of the recital. Usually, the rehearsal is full of stops and starts, blocking the dancers on the stage, and finally the dance to music. The auditorium lights are up, people are talking, parents are fussing over last-minute costume fittings, makeup or hair, and stagehands are working out last-minute kinks in curtains, lighting and sound. All this contributes to a complete lack of focus for my daughter and this year's rehearsal was no exception.
Arms loose, legs flailing, eyes darting out to see if I was watching her, my daughter was anything but the picture of poise and confidence. She watched nearby dancers too closely. Had she not really learned the routine? She seemed perpetually out of step. Could she not hear the music? I smiled on the outside, but inside my heart sank a little. I began to dread the actual performance later that day.
Call time found me in line with my daughter and her younger sister who is also a ballet student and whose work is consistently high caliber. Among the extended family, my younger daughter is the dancer no one worries about and who everyone expects will do wonderfully. She never fails to disappoint. I'm proud of her achievements, but because they are the norm for her I confess to being less amazed than when my older daughter does something in a similar vein. I guess I was born to cheer for the underdog.
As I signed the girls in to the backstage holding area, I said a silent prayer over my oldest -- the verse from the Book of Timothy in which we are told that "God hath not given us the spirit of fear, but of love, and of power, and of a sound mind."
Please, God. Please give her the soundness of mind she needs to pull this off. Remind her of the joy You gave her from birth, the love she has for music, and calm any anxiety she might be feeling.
I'm firmly convinced that God listens most closely when a mother is the one pleading her case. Those are often the most desperate of prayers.
Following a series of well-executed dances by other groups, my daughter's class came on to the stage and the music began.
Seated in the third row, I could clearly see my child but she could not see me thanks to the glare of the stage lights shining down. This was good. It meant she would not be seeking me out. It meant she would not see my inadvertent grimace should she make a misstep. I could cover any disappointment simply by sitting hidden in the dark.
As the music started and the dance commenced, something took hold of my struggling ballerina. She began to smile. No, not smile, beam. She began to beam as if someone had flipped the switch on a very bright light somewhere inside her spirit and its shine simply had to come forth.
Her steps seemed more sure. Her arms, for the most part, were held in proper position. She stood tall and confident and seemed to know where to go without having to look to a classmate for guidance. Even though she spent only a few moments somewhere other than on the back row throughout the whole routine, she never once stopped beaming.
My mother-in-law leaned in to me and said, "This is just wonderful. I can't keep from crying."
I knew what she meant.
For about three minutes, the brightest light in that whole auditorium came not from any spotlight but from the face of my daughter and I, too, gave up trying to hold back the tears.
For in him we live and move and have our being. As some of your own poets have said, "We are his offspring." Acts 17:28 (NIV)
May 26, 2011
Why don't they just use duct tape?
The federal government has a new way to parent your children for you. Problem is, it's going to cost $500 million dollars.
According to Health and Human Services Secretary Kathleen Sebelius, the Race to the Top Early Learning Challenge will target children from birth to age 5 in an effort to make sure they're ready for school.
Sounds fine, if you're the sort that likes the government interfering in your business, right?
Wait until you hear what the feds are worried about.
CNSNews.com reports:
Sebelius, adding on to comments from Asst. Education Secretary Joan Lombardi, pointed to studies done in her home state of Kansas, where she served as governor. “When we looked at 5-year olds--and we tested about half the 5-year-olds in a relatively homogeneous state like Kansas -- and found that about half of them were not ready for kindergarten at age 5," Sebelius said.
"And some of those skills were missing: readiness for their math or reading," she said. "A number of children were missing the social and developmental skills which would allow them to sit in a classroom or play with others or listen to a teacher for any period of time. So I think it was an indicator that you couldn’t just test curriculum readiness.”
And this gem, also from Ms. Sebelius:
“You really need to look at the range of issues, because if a 5-year-old can’t sit still, it is unlikely that they can do well in a kindergarten class . . ."
Let me see if I've got this right. FIVE-YEAR-OLD children were "tested" for math and reading readiness. They were found lacking in social and developmental skills which would allow them to sit in a classroom and listen to a teacher for any period of time.
This is rocket science??????
They're FIVE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
This is a problem that usually time, maturity, and patient training will solve unless some wingnut convinces a parent to drug their little energetic child into a trance, but I digress.
Have we all lost our minds? Have we forgotten what it means to be a little kid? When did normal, youthful exuberance become a disease to be cured? When did kindergarten become so regimented?
Duct tape will keep a child in his or her seat, and for a whole lot less than $500 million. Maybe we should rethink its use in schools after all.
According to Health and Human Services Secretary Kathleen Sebelius, the Race to the Top Early Learning Challenge will target children from birth to age 5 in an effort to make sure they're ready for school.
Sounds fine, if you're the sort that likes the government interfering in your business, right?
Wait until you hear what the feds are worried about.
CNSNews.com reports:
Sebelius, adding on to comments from Asst. Education Secretary Joan Lombardi, pointed to studies done in her home state of Kansas, where she served as governor. “When we looked at 5-year olds--and we tested about half the 5-year-olds in a relatively homogeneous state like Kansas -- and found that about half of them were not ready for kindergarten at age 5," Sebelius said.
"And some of those skills were missing: readiness for their math or reading," she said. "A number of children were missing the social and developmental skills which would allow them to sit in a classroom or play with others or listen to a teacher for any period of time. So I think it was an indicator that you couldn’t just test curriculum readiness.”
And this gem, also from Ms. Sebelius:
“You really need to look at the range of issues, because if a 5-year-old can’t sit still, it is unlikely that they can do well in a kindergarten class . . ."
Let me see if I've got this right. FIVE-YEAR-OLD children were "tested" for math and reading readiness. They were found lacking in social and developmental skills which would allow them to sit in a classroom and listen to a teacher for any period of time.
This is rocket science??????
They're FIVE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
This is a problem that usually time, maturity, and patient training will solve unless some wingnut convinces a parent to drug their little energetic child into a trance, but I digress.
Have we all lost our minds? Have we forgotten what it means to be a little kid? When did normal, youthful exuberance become a disease to be cured? When did kindergarten become so regimented?
Duct tape will keep a child in his or her seat, and for a whole lot less than $500 million. Maybe we should rethink its use in schools after all.
May 20, 2011
The battlefield of public education
These are the headlines as published on the Drudge Report yesterday (May 19).
Anyone care to comment?
Sexting scandal rocks middle school (this involved distribution of a photo of a 13 yo girl nude)
Student commits suicide day after principal hypnotized him
Teacher discovers 18 lbs of heroin in 7 year-old's backpack
Mom: 12-year-old son duct taped to chair and beaten while teacher ignored attack
School wants to allow bus drivers to search students
CHEATERS: DC teachers help students beat standardized tests
Child pornography, cheating, physical abuse, drugs, body searches, hypnotism . . .
Something tells me the American public has been hypnotized with the result that too many of us still believe the government schools are really the best place for our children to receive an education.
I'm just saying . . .
Anyone care to comment?
Sexting scandal rocks middle school (this involved distribution of a photo of a 13 yo girl nude)
Student commits suicide day after principal hypnotized him
Teacher discovers 18 lbs of heroin in 7 year-old's backpack
Mom: 12-year-old son duct taped to chair and beaten while teacher ignored attack
School wants to allow bus drivers to search students
CHEATERS: DC teachers help students beat standardized tests
Child pornography, cheating, physical abuse, drugs, body searches, hypnotism . . .
Something tells me the American public has been hypnotized with the result that too many of us still believe the government schools are really the best place for our children to receive an education.
I'm just saying . . .
May 2, 2011
I'm glad bin Laden is gone. Does that make me a bad Christian?
Just 24 hours after the disposal of Osama bin Laden's earthly remains, a new debate has emerged.
Should Christians be rejoicing over the death of a human being, even if that man is the modern-day epitomy of evil?
Clergy writing for websites such as Huffington Post lament the celebrations taking place across our country saying such vulgar displays of jubilation debase us as a people, certainly if we call ourselves Christians.
No word on whether atheists or religious non-Christians are free to whoop and holler without the charge of hypocrisy being heaped upon them.
As a Christian, albeit an imperfect one, I decided to explore my own feelings about the long overdue demise of OBL. To what extent am I merely relieved? To what extent am I actually gleeful?
Frankly, it's hard to tell.
Am I sorry OBL was so deranged and deluded by visions of grandeur and a thorough perversion of his religion that he masterminded the death of nearly 3,000 people on 9/11? Sure am.
Am I sorry OBL was killed? No.
As we say in Texas, "he needed killin'." Besides, if we'd taken him alive, some bleeding-heart liberals would have whined that his constitutional rights had been violated and we'd have had to let him off on a legal technicality. Killing him removed that risk altogether.
It's a fact that once a murderer is himself killed, he can never murder again.
Is being not sorry equal to feeling joy?
In my case, it might be, and I'm willing to admit it.
I rejoice because our military men were brave and successful in their effort to track and nail OBL. I rejoice because none of our men were hurt. I rejoice because OBL will never commit another atrocity -- because we killed him. I rejoice because now OBL has the chance to meet face to face with the One Who made him and to begin his atonement for the many sins committed while on earth. I rejoice because the principle of the universe that says no one goes unpunished either here or hereafter for violating God's laws proved itself true once again.
So, yeah, I guess I do rejoice in the death of OBL.
I know what Jesus says about forgiving seven times seventy. I know what he said about turning the other cheek. I know that if he'd been here in the intervening years after 9/11 he'd have probably driven out the evil spirit that dwelt in OBL and changed the man's life for the better.
But Jesus hasn't been here all these years -- at least not in a bodily form able to meet and talk with OBL -- and I am just flawed enough in my walk with God to struggle mightily with forgiveness, especially when neither my country nor my fellow Americans asked to be attacked.
May God forgive me since I cannot find it in my heart to forgive OBL. And may God work a mighty work in OBL so that he finally sees the error of his ways.
Should Christians be rejoicing over the death of a human being, even if that man is the modern-day epitomy of evil?
Clergy writing for websites such as Huffington Post lament the celebrations taking place across our country saying such vulgar displays of jubilation debase us as a people, certainly if we call ourselves Christians.
No word on whether atheists or religious non-Christians are free to whoop and holler without the charge of hypocrisy being heaped upon them.
As a Christian, albeit an imperfect one, I decided to explore my own feelings about the long overdue demise of OBL. To what extent am I merely relieved? To what extent am I actually gleeful?
Frankly, it's hard to tell.
Am I sorry OBL was so deranged and deluded by visions of grandeur and a thorough perversion of his religion that he masterminded the death of nearly 3,000 people on 9/11? Sure am.
Am I sorry OBL was killed? No.
As we say in Texas, "he needed killin'." Besides, if we'd taken him alive, some bleeding-heart liberals would have whined that his constitutional rights had been violated and we'd have had to let him off on a legal technicality. Killing him removed that risk altogether.
It's a fact that once a murderer is himself killed, he can never murder again.
Is being not sorry equal to feeling joy?
In my case, it might be, and I'm willing to admit it.
I rejoice because our military men were brave and successful in their effort to track and nail OBL. I rejoice because none of our men were hurt. I rejoice because OBL will never commit another atrocity -- because we killed him. I rejoice because now OBL has the chance to meet face to face with the One Who made him and to begin his atonement for the many sins committed while on earth. I rejoice because the principle of the universe that says no one goes unpunished either here or hereafter for violating God's laws proved itself true once again.
So, yeah, I guess I do rejoice in the death of OBL.
I know what Jesus says about forgiving seven times seventy. I know what he said about turning the other cheek. I know that if he'd been here in the intervening years after 9/11 he'd have probably driven out the evil spirit that dwelt in OBL and changed the man's life for the better.
But Jesus hasn't been here all these years -- at least not in a bodily form able to meet and talk with OBL -- and I am just flawed enough in my walk with God to struggle mightily with forgiveness, especially when neither my country nor my fellow Americans asked to be attacked.
May God forgive me since I cannot find it in my heart to forgive OBL. And may God work a mighty work in OBL so that he finally sees the error of his ways.
The small pink shoe
My daughter turned nine today. And our country killed Osama bin Laden.
The coincidence is rich with meaning for me.
The first appointment with the midwife -- who would go on to deliver my child in a planned homebirth -- was scheduled for an otherwise unremarkable morning, September 11, 2001.
The midwife was late. Riveted to her computer as I was to our television, the horrific news of that morning hung over our visit. Neither of us could really discuss the details of childbirth at home, our hearts were so heavy and our minds racing to fully grasp what had just happened a hour or so before.
My daughter was born the following May in a country still grieving the more than 3,000 innocents killed some seven months before. I gave her the middle name of America.
Fast forward nine years to a routine rummage through my nightstand and the discovery of a small pink shoe. . .
Little pink shoe in the palm of my hand
Worn by the tiniest dancer of all.
At barely three years old, I still see her stand
At the barre where she seems so brave and so small.
Move through the positions, stepping once and again,
She knows how to bend and then how to begin,
Didn't want to take lessons, just wanted the clothes,
Tiny pink soft shoes to wear on her toes.
What happened to time?
Supposed to go slow
And my little dancer?
Where did she go?
When I found the little shoe, the realization that my daughter was once so small hit me hard and I started to cry. It all moves much too fast.
The coincidence is rich with meaning for me.
The first appointment with the midwife -- who would go on to deliver my child in a planned homebirth -- was scheduled for an otherwise unremarkable morning, September 11, 2001.
The midwife was late. Riveted to her computer as I was to our television, the horrific news of that morning hung over our visit. Neither of us could really discuss the details of childbirth at home, our hearts were so heavy and our minds racing to fully grasp what had just happened a hour or so before.
My daughter was born the following May in a country still grieving the more than 3,000 innocents killed some seven months before. I gave her the middle name of America.
Fast forward nine years to a routine rummage through my nightstand and the discovery of a small pink shoe. . .
Little pink shoe in the palm of my hand
Worn by the tiniest dancer of all.
At barely three years old, I still see her stand
At the barre where she seems so brave and so small.
Move through the positions, stepping once and again,
She knows how to bend and then how to begin,
Didn't want to take lessons, just wanted the clothes,
Tiny pink soft shoes to wear on her toes.
What happened to time?
Supposed to go slow
And my little dancer?
Where did she go?
When I found the little shoe, the realization that my daughter was once so small hit me hard and I started to cry. It all moves much too fast.
May 1, 2011
Justice delayed is justice nonetheless
Socrates: "And what of doing evil in return for evil, which is the morality of the many - is that just or not?"
Crito: "Not just."
Socrates: 'For doing evil to another is the same as injuring him?
Crito: "Very true."
Socrates: "Then we ought not to retaliate or render evil for evil to any one, whatever evil we may have suffered from him.... This opinion has never been held, and never will be held by any considerable number of persons."
The head of the snake has been cut off. How much longer until the rest of the body dies?
In memory of all who were killed September 11, 2001.
Courtesy of the Red, White and Blue.
We got him!
Crito: "Not just."
Socrates: 'For doing evil to another is the same as injuring him?
Crito: "Very true."
Socrates: "Then we ought not to retaliate or render evil for evil to any one, whatever evil we may have suffered from him.... This opinion has never been held, and never will be held by any considerable number of persons."
The head of the snake has been cut off. How much longer until the rest of the body dies?
In memory of all who were killed September 11, 2001.
Courtesy of the Red, White and Blue.
We got him!
April 23, 2011
Easter when I was a child
It hit me from out of nowhere this morning as I began to unload the dishwasher.
Tomorrow is Easter, and I am missing my childhood.
Growing up, I never wanted to grow up. My grandparents all lived in Arkansas, so my parents and I would pack up the car and drive the seven hours to see them. We went at Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter.
Packing for the Easter trip was special because I had to bring my new Easter dress, spring coat, white shoes, and my Easter basket.
The egg hunt was always held on the big front lawn of my grandparent's home, a house built by my great-grandfather in 1900. In the cool, misty morning I'd run out with my cousins to search for the eggs among the jonquils and tall grass around the trees and along the front of the house.
We always dyed eggs the night before. My grandmother would put on a big pot of boiling water to boil them and then we'd all gather around the table to use those messy little wire egg holders to dunk our eggs. The older cousins were more patient, and they let their eggs sit long enough to take on deep jewel-toned hues. The younger ones, including me, were so anxious to be done with the dyeing that we ended up with pastel colors. We always tried to put on those egg tattoos so we'd have cute pictures on the eggs, but they always smeared.
Sometimes I spent Easter with my mother's parents at the big house. Sometimes I spent it at my dad's mother's house.
There, it was just my parents, my grandmother, and me so my mom would hide eggs in Grandma's living room for me to find. I always got an Easter basket full of wonderful things -- little toys, a new stuffed bunny or duck, sometimes a book or art supplies.
My grandmother was a lay reader in the town's Christian Science church so we'd get dressed up and go with her. Seems like we always sang the Martin Luther hymn, "All Power is Given Unto Our God" at some point in the service.
To this day, when I hear that hymn I see my little Dutch grandmother standing up at the front of the church singing.
It's been nearly 20 years since she passed, and I still miss her.
My other grandparents are gone now, too. So's my dad.
And I find myself in the role of grownup, preparing my own four children to celebrate the holiest day in the Christian calendar.
We've got the baskets, we'll dye the eggs, we'll go to church and we'll sing of Easter gladness.
I'll fight back the tears for a childhood long gone, and focus instead on the hope my own children represent, and on the great hope of which Easter reminds us -- that life IS eternal for those who follow Christ Jesus and that some day I'll see my dad and my grandparents again.
"And ye now therefore have sorrow; but I will see you again, and your heart shall rejoice, and your joy no man taketh from you." (John 16:22)
Tomorrow is Easter, and I am missing my childhood.
Growing up, I never wanted to grow up. My grandparents all lived in Arkansas, so my parents and I would pack up the car and drive the seven hours to see them. We went at Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter.
Packing for the Easter trip was special because I had to bring my new Easter dress, spring coat, white shoes, and my Easter basket.
The egg hunt was always held on the big front lawn of my grandparent's home, a house built by my great-grandfather in 1900. In the cool, misty morning I'd run out with my cousins to search for the eggs among the jonquils and tall grass around the trees and along the front of the house.
We always dyed eggs the night before. My grandmother would put on a big pot of boiling water to boil them and then we'd all gather around the table to use those messy little wire egg holders to dunk our eggs. The older cousins were more patient, and they let their eggs sit long enough to take on deep jewel-toned hues. The younger ones, including me, were so anxious to be done with the dyeing that we ended up with pastel colors. We always tried to put on those egg tattoos so we'd have cute pictures on the eggs, but they always smeared.
Sometimes I spent Easter with my mother's parents at the big house. Sometimes I spent it at my dad's mother's house.
There, it was just my parents, my grandmother, and me so my mom would hide eggs in Grandma's living room for me to find. I always got an Easter basket full of wonderful things -- little toys, a new stuffed bunny or duck, sometimes a book or art supplies.
My grandmother was a lay reader in the town's Christian Science church so we'd get dressed up and go with her. Seems like we always sang the Martin Luther hymn, "All Power is Given Unto Our God" at some point in the service.
To this day, when I hear that hymn I see my little Dutch grandmother standing up at the front of the church singing.
It's been nearly 20 years since she passed, and I still miss her.
My other grandparents are gone now, too. So's my dad.
And I find myself in the role of grownup, preparing my own four children to celebrate the holiest day in the Christian calendar.
We've got the baskets, we'll dye the eggs, we'll go to church and we'll sing of Easter gladness.
I'll fight back the tears for a childhood long gone, and focus instead on the hope my own children represent, and on the great hope of which Easter reminds us -- that life IS eternal for those who follow Christ Jesus and that some day I'll see my dad and my grandparents again.
"And ye now therefore have sorrow; but I will see you again, and your heart shall rejoice, and your joy no man taketh from you." (John 16:22)
April 16, 2011
When we're 53 . . .
Talking on the phone with a long-time friend this afternoon, I got to thinking about the achievement that is lifelong friendship.
My friend Jennifer Meier and I have known each other since 7th grade. She sat in front of me in Mr. Baker's general science class. Neither one of us remembers much about his class, but we recall vividly how our friendship was born.
I needed a pen.
Jennifer had a spare.
I didn't say our beginning was a spectacular one. It has, however, withstood the test of time.
We've been in each others weddings. I was at the birth of her son. We've made renegade runs to West Texas to visit her relatives, folks who took me in like I'd been born one of their own.
Together we've ditched unruly boyfriends and friend-friends. We've wrapped houses. We've engaged in minor vandalism. We've slept over at each others houses, eaten freely from each others kitchens, and talked about every single topic known to man not just once but many, many times.
We've spent a lot of time sitting under black lights listening to really loud music -- long before this was a popular feature of trendy clubs. Those are years of my life I'll never get back, but at the time it seemed so important to just sit, listen, and think (inasmuch as one can with Led Zeppelin blasting at 140 decibels).
We've slept out in line all kinds of weather for tickets to see our favorite rock bands.
We've camped all over south Texas, again in all kinds of weather, because we could.
We've always promised that if either of us needed to kill an unwelcome visitor, the other would bring a shovel to help dig the hole -- no questions asked.
She's a public school teacher -- one of the finest -- and has always encouraged and supported my choice to homeschool.
We once ran into a high school -- no, really, we ran into the building itself -- on a three-wheeler her West Texas uncle loaned us. He made us promise not to ride through the town cemetery. We honored his request for the most part. Her mother told us to stay off the highway. That just wasn't possible.
It's a wonder we've made it to adulthood.
Even though I graduated from college, I didn't go through the whole cap and gown ceremony. It was such a privilege to attend her's when she graduated with her Masters in Education.
Lately, within the past three years, I've started attending her family tragedies. Jennifer lost her mother two years ago, her beloved stepson just last month.
Both times she told me I didn't have to make the two-hour drive to the funeral. I told her I couldn't NOT make those drives.
I've been fortunate these past several years. Potential tragedies in my own family have either been non-existent, easily mitigated, or postponed indefinitely. I hope Jennifer doesn't have to make the two-hour drive to see me for unpleasant reasons any time soon.
So now we're thinking that just as married people celebrate wedding anniversaries, employees celebrate their five- or ten- or twenty-year marks with a company, or parents celebrate the births of their children with an annual party, we should start planning our own 40th Friendship Anniversary party.
We'll both be 53 by then, but Jennifer says it'll just make all our old stories that much funnier.
She knows how to make those video slideshows so I told her I'd bring all my old photos (I was always taking pictures) and she could put 'em to the music that moved us way back when.
"All the other people in the room will be sittin' there wondering why those photos are so funny and why we're the only ones laughing so hard," I said. "Yeah," she said, " that will be the best part of all!"
Oh, and we've agreed we're going to take a trip somewhere really awesome all by ourselves -- just the two of us, two women of the 50-something persuasion who know keenly and firsthand what it's like to have friends longer than you've had spouses or children.
Where we'll go is anyone's guess, but Jennifer says at least part of the trip should retrace our wild and woolly steps across West Texas, three-wheeler, highschool, and all.
Amen, sister. Amen!
My friend Jennifer Meier and I have known each other since 7th grade. She sat in front of me in Mr. Baker's general science class. Neither one of us remembers much about his class, but we recall vividly how our friendship was born.
I needed a pen.
Jennifer had a spare.
I didn't say our beginning was a spectacular one. It has, however, withstood the test of time.
We've been in each others weddings. I was at the birth of her son. We've made renegade runs to West Texas to visit her relatives, folks who took me in like I'd been born one of their own.
Together we've ditched unruly boyfriends and friend-friends. We've wrapped houses. We've engaged in minor vandalism. We've slept over at each others houses, eaten freely from each others kitchens, and talked about every single topic known to man not just once but many, many times.
We've spent a lot of time sitting under black lights listening to really loud music -- long before this was a popular feature of trendy clubs. Those are years of my life I'll never get back, but at the time it seemed so important to just sit, listen, and think (inasmuch as one can with Led Zeppelin blasting at 140 decibels).
We've slept out in line all kinds of weather for tickets to see our favorite rock bands.
We've camped all over south Texas, again in all kinds of weather, because we could.
We've always promised that if either of us needed to kill an unwelcome visitor, the other would bring a shovel to help dig the hole -- no questions asked.
She's a public school teacher -- one of the finest -- and has always encouraged and supported my choice to homeschool.
We once ran into a high school -- no, really, we ran into the building itself -- on a three-wheeler her West Texas uncle loaned us. He made us promise not to ride through the town cemetery. We honored his request for the most part. Her mother told us to stay off the highway. That just wasn't possible.
It's a wonder we've made it to adulthood.
Even though I graduated from college, I didn't go through the whole cap and gown ceremony. It was such a privilege to attend her's when she graduated with her Masters in Education.
Lately, within the past three years, I've started attending her family tragedies. Jennifer lost her mother two years ago, her beloved stepson just last month.
Both times she told me I didn't have to make the two-hour drive to the funeral. I told her I couldn't NOT make those drives.
I've been fortunate these past several years. Potential tragedies in my own family have either been non-existent, easily mitigated, or postponed indefinitely. I hope Jennifer doesn't have to make the two-hour drive to see me for unpleasant reasons any time soon.
So now we're thinking that just as married people celebrate wedding anniversaries, employees celebrate their five- or ten- or twenty-year marks with a company, or parents celebrate the births of their children with an annual party, we should start planning our own 40th Friendship Anniversary party.
We'll both be 53 by then, but Jennifer says it'll just make all our old stories that much funnier.
She knows how to make those video slideshows so I told her I'd bring all my old photos (I was always taking pictures) and she could put 'em to the music that moved us way back when.
"All the other people in the room will be sittin' there wondering why those photos are so funny and why we're the only ones laughing so hard," I said. "Yeah," she said, " that will be the best part of all!"
Oh, and we've agreed we're going to take a trip somewhere really awesome all by ourselves -- just the two of us, two women of the 50-something persuasion who know keenly and firsthand what it's like to have friends longer than you've had spouses or children.
Where we'll go is anyone's guess, but Jennifer says at least part of the trip should retrace our wild and woolly steps across West Texas, three-wheeler, highschool, and all.
Amen, sister. Amen!
April 15, 2011
Screw you, Charles Schumer!
Wow.
I try to be civil, polite even, when it comes to differences of opinion. I respect people's right to think what they want, provided what they think doesn't endanger my ability to function within my own constitutional rights.
But this is my 'blog and I don't have to entertain idiots if I don't want to.
I'm pretty peeved with New York Sen. Charles Schumer, a man whose complete and total disdain for Texas is summed up in the following quote.
"When people from Paris, Beijing, Tokyo and Amsterdam start saying they want to go to Houston, maybe then they'll get a shuttle," Schumer told the Daily News. "I'd say to Texas, don't mess with New York."
Schumer has his knickers in a wad over Utah Rep. Jason Chaffetz's efforts to have one of the retired space shuttles sent to Houston rather than to some air and space museum in New York City.
Never mind that New York City had absolutely nothing to do with the birth of the American manned spaceflight program.
Schumer is typical of so many loud-mouthed, liberal Yankees who think everyone south of the Mason-Dixon is redneck, hillbilly, and downright dumb.
Did I mention that Houston was home to the finest collection of scientists, mathematicians and engineers during the pre-Apollo and Apollo years?
Yeah, and did I also mention that my dad -- born in small town Arkansas -- was one of them and that I'm still so proud of his contributions to the space program that I tell his story to my children on a regular basis?
New York will probably get to keep the shuttle that's rightfully ours, and that's okay. Way down here in Texas, we know the truth.
What a pity Sen. Schumer is too stupid to know it, too.
I try to be civil, polite even, when it comes to differences of opinion. I respect people's right to think what they want, provided what they think doesn't endanger my ability to function within my own constitutional rights.
But this is my 'blog and I don't have to entertain idiots if I don't want to.
I'm pretty peeved with New York Sen. Charles Schumer, a man whose complete and total disdain for Texas is summed up in the following quote.
"When people from Paris, Beijing, Tokyo and Amsterdam start saying they want to go to Houston, maybe then they'll get a shuttle," Schumer told the Daily News. "I'd say to Texas, don't mess with New York."
Schumer has his knickers in a wad over Utah Rep. Jason Chaffetz's efforts to have one of the retired space shuttles sent to Houston rather than to some air and space museum in New York City.
Never mind that New York City had absolutely nothing to do with the birth of the American manned spaceflight program.
Schumer is typical of so many loud-mouthed, liberal Yankees who think everyone south of the Mason-Dixon is redneck, hillbilly, and downright dumb.
Did I mention that Houston was home to the finest collection of scientists, mathematicians and engineers during the pre-Apollo and Apollo years?
Yeah, and did I also mention that my dad -- born in small town Arkansas -- was one of them and that I'm still so proud of his contributions to the space program that I tell his story to my children on a regular basis?
New York will probably get to keep the shuttle that's rightfully ours, and that's okay. Way down here in Texas, we know the truth.
What a pity Sen. Schumer is too stupid to know it, too.
Finding God in the small things
For some time now, I've been meaning to compile a list of good things that have happened to either me or to someone in my family -- things that just seemed to fall out of the sky, happenstance or, as I believe, God-derived.
A good friend of mine lost her 21-year-old son to a tragic mix of drugs and alcohol last month. As I started on my 90-minute trip down to the funeral, I stopped by my local Starbucks to get an iced tea and a snack. I'd had no breakfast and didn't want to be late for the service, so I went through the drive-through.
As I pulled up to pay for and receive my order, the cashier told me, "Put your money away. The man in front of you has already paid your bill."
I started crying.
"You don't understand," I said, as the young man looked on bewildered, obviously wondering what in the world would prompt such an outpouring of emotion. "I'm on my way to the funeral of a dear friend's son and I've been so sad about this. I really needed something good to happen today."
Then he asked me if I wanted to continue the chain of giving by paying for the order of the person behind me. I gladly agreed and hoped as I drove away that in some small way I'd blessed them.
Recently, I needed someone else to transport my children to various activities because I was unable to drive them myself. A good friend who leads my daughter's scout troop willingly agreed to take my girls to scouts. Another friend picked my son up for his gymnastics class and yet another friend kindly brought him home.
My oldest daughter has been working on her Junior Girl Scout Bronze Award, the highest award a girl can earn at the junior level. Her troop decided to make and collect tote bags to take down to the Shriner's Children's Hospital in Galveston. This facility treats free of charge children from all over the world who have been burned.
I put out the word to a few friends that we needed tote bags. I figured we might collect 50 or maybe even 100 with any luck at all.
My daughter collected about 400 bags.
They came from friends of a long-distance cousin, the company my husband works for, the company a good family friend works for, several homeschool moms I've known for some years, my in-laws. Tote bags seemed to rain down from heaven and my daughter was absolutely thrilled.
Awhile back I wrote about a family we are trying to help. My children's piano teacher overheard me on the phone one day and after she was finished teaching she told me she, too, wanted to help this family. She's planning to bring me a gift card to give to them for Easter.
I'm sure I'm leaving out a million other small ways in which God has shown Himself to us these past several months and I'm thinking now I should keep a running list on my kitchen wall so everyone -- particularly my children -- can see how He works in our lives every single day.
It's humbling beyond measure, and I think it comes only as we are willing to give up ourselves and be led by something far greater than any of us. It's so much easier to follow than it is to try to lead and like so many other weary and tired sheep, I am grateful for the Shepherd who always seems to know what is needed when it is needed.
Divine Love (God) always has met and always will meet every human need.
A good friend of mine lost her 21-year-old son to a tragic mix of drugs and alcohol last month. As I started on my 90-minute trip down to the funeral, I stopped by my local Starbucks to get an iced tea and a snack. I'd had no breakfast and didn't want to be late for the service, so I went through the drive-through.
As I pulled up to pay for and receive my order, the cashier told me, "Put your money away. The man in front of you has already paid your bill."
I started crying.
"You don't understand," I said, as the young man looked on bewildered, obviously wondering what in the world would prompt such an outpouring of emotion. "I'm on my way to the funeral of a dear friend's son and I've been so sad about this. I really needed something good to happen today."
Then he asked me if I wanted to continue the chain of giving by paying for the order of the person behind me. I gladly agreed and hoped as I drove away that in some small way I'd blessed them.
Recently, I needed someone else to transport my children to various activities because I was unable to drive them myself. A good friend who leads my daughter's scout troop willingly agreed to take my girls to scouts. Another friend picked my son up for his gymnastics class and yet another friend kindly brought him home.
My oldest daughter has been working on her Junior Girl Scout Bronze Award, the highest award a girl can earn at the junior level. Her troop decided to make and collect tote bags to take down to the Shriner's Children's Hospital in Galveston. This facility treats free of charge children from all over the world who have been burned.
I put out the word to a few friends that we needed tote bags. I figured we might collect 50 or maybe even 100 with any luck at all.
My daughter collected about 400 bags.
They came from friends of a long-distance cousin, the company my husband works for, the company a good family friend works for, several homeschool moms I've known for some years, my in-laws. Tote bags seemed to rain down from heaven and my daughter was absolutely thrilled.
Awhile back I wrote about a family we are trying to help. My children's piano teacher overheard me on the phone one day and after she was finished teaching she told me she, too, wanted to help this family. She's planning to bring me a gift card to give to them for Easter.
I'm sure I'm leaving out a million other small ways in which God has shown Himself to us these past several months and I'm thinking now I should keep a running list on my kitchen wall so everyone -- particularly my children -- can see how He works in our lives every single day.
It's humbling beyond measure, and I think it comes only as we are willing to give up ourselves and be led by something far greater than any of us. It's so much easier to follow than it is to try to lead and like so many other weary and tired sheep, I am grateful for the Shepherd who always seems to know what is needed when it is needed.
Divine Love (God) always has met and always will meet every human need.
April 13, 2011
Humiliation of children in the name of education
It's not often I get a "two-fer" when I log in to read the latest headlines, but today was one of those red letter days.
Two stories about the abuse of children by their respective schools or educators jumped out at me as I scanned the pages.
First, we have the Tennessee kindergarten teacher (since suspended for one day with a letter of reprimand for her file) who encouraged her students to gather around a crying classmate to call him a pig and make oinking noises at him because he did not keep his area neat.
I can guarantee that this teacher has just damaged that child's love of learning for years to come. Little kids don't soon forget public humiliation. I have a friend who's 47 and she still remembers a humiliating experience in which a fourth grade teacher called her up to the front of the class and asked her if she was "spoiled at home."
I have another friend whose son, now nearly 21, was humiliated on purpose by a teacher way back in 2nd grade and to this day he does not care to read for pleasure. He made the mistake of reading too many books for a reading program and the teacher thought he was showing off. Nevermind that he was and is an outstanding and gifted student. She made him sit in an empty classroom with a teacher's aide while the rest of his class enjoyed a pizza party across the hall.
It's easy to humiliate little kids. They're small, virtually defenseless, and the odds are that if you do it they either won't tell or else they'll tell but no one will believe them.
Guess all the anti-bullying efforts touted nationwide don't apply to grownups.
The Tennessee teacher tasked with caring for and educating the most vulnerable members of the school population abdicated her responsibility. A one-day suspension is laughable. A lawsuit and permanent removal from the classroom would be much more appropriate.
Next!
Our next story comes from Illinois where an elementary special education teacher ordered all of her students to remove their underwear so she could determine who among them soiled their pants.
Special education students are such an easy target for intimidation, folks. Some of them can't speak, others can't hear, the rest are often physically incapacitated in some fashion so as to be unable to defend themselves. They often require extra physical care depending upon their disability, but, hey, the schools provide special education and receive additional state and federal monies for it. They know what comes with the job.
According to the news article, the teacher saw feces smeared on the floor so she had each of her seven students go into a bathroom and remove his or her underwear. The third and fourth graders were then required to present their underwear to the teacher for inspection.
No word on which, if any, of the students was the guilty culprit.
In this case, the school did the right thing and fired the teacher -- the real guilty culprit.
Two stories about the abuse of children by their respective schools or educators jumped out at me as I scanned the pages.
First, we have the Tennessee kindergarten teacher (since suspended for one day with a letter of reprimand for her file) who encouraged her students to gather around a crying classmate to call him a pig and make oinking noises at him because he did not keep his area neat.
I can guarantee that this teacher has just damaged that child's love of learning for years to come. Little kids don't soon forget public humiliation. I have a friend who's 47 and she still remembers a humiliating experience in which a fourth grade teacher called her up to the front of the class and asked her if she was "spoiled at home."
I have another friend whose son, now nearly 21, was humiliated on purpose by a teacher way back in 2nd grade and to this day he does not care to read for pleasure. He made the mistake of reading too many books for a reading program and the teacher thought he was showing off. Nevermind that he was and is an outstanding and gifted student. She made him sit in an empty classroom with a teacher's aide while the rest of his class enjoyed a pizza party across the hall.
It's easy to humiliate little kids. They're small, virtually defenseless, and the odds are that if you do it they either won't tell or else they'll tell but no one will believe them.
Guess all the anti-bullying efforts touted nationwide don't apply to grownups.
The Tennessee teacher tasked with caring for and educating the most vulnerable members of the school population abdicated her responsibility. A one-day suspension is laughable. A lawsuit and permanent removal from the classroom would be much more appropriate.
Next!
Our next story comes from Illinois where an elementary special education teacher ordered all of her students to remove their underwear so she could determine who among them soiled their pants.
Special education students are such an easy target for intimidation, folks. Some of them can't speak, others can't hear, the rest are often physically incapacitated in some fashion so as to be unable to defend themselves. They often require extra physical care depending upon their disability, but, hey, the schools provide special education and receive additional state and federal monies for it. They know what comes with the job.
According to the news article, the teacher saw feces smeared on the floor so she had each of her seven students go into a bathroom and remove his or her underwear. The third and fourth graders were then required to present their underwear to the teacher for inspection.
No word on which, if any, of the students was the guilty culprit.
In this case, the school did the right thing and fired the teacher -- the real guilty culprit.
April 11, 2011
They already have their minds and hearts, now they want their food
The Chicago Tribune reports on a school in one of that city's districts where the principal has banned lunches from home unless a student has a medical exemption or a food allergy.
That's right. Kids are forced to eat whatever the school cafeteria doles out, whether they like it or not.
The goal is to save children from their parents' poor choices or, in some cases, from themselves.
Now, as a mom of four I'm all for saving kids from themselves. Given the choice between a wholegrain muffin and a sugary doughnut, I guarantee my children would make a run for the doughnut.
I would, too.
But this story is really about the school (the state, the government) stepping in to once again relieve parents of their parental responsibilities.
The plan, according to the news story, is backfiring.
Quote: "At Little Village, most students must take the meals served in the cafeteria or go hungry or both. During a recent visit to the school, dozens of students took the lunch but threw most of it in the garbage uneaten. Though CPS has improved the nutritional quality of its meals this year, it also has seen a drop-off in meal participation among students, many of whom say the food tastes bad."
At $2.25 a meal, if the child isn't receiving free breakfast and lunch, parents' hard-earned money is being thrown away. And those free breakfasts and lunches that are hitting the garbage? Yeah, that's taxpayer money being thrown away.
Never mind that the food is apparently so awful that little kids would rather go hungry during the school day than eat. Lots of learning takes place when the mind and body are hungry, right?
Please don't misunderstand me. I am NOT saying that children perform optimally when they're hyped up on soft drinks and chips. I am NOT saying public schools -- which are already doing the bulk of parenting since they have custody of students for 8 hours a day -- shouldn't encourage healthful eating.
What I am saying is that if public schools can now dictate the kinds of food parents send to school or the kinds of food students must eat, what's next? They already dictate what students wear (and given much of the obnoxious fashion that's sold to children I'm actually okay with that), they dictate what students will learn, they dictate healthcare for kids in the form of mandated vaccinations, and they dictate to an appalling degree what sort of worldview children will develop before they leave school.
Really, if food is the final frontier what's left for parents to do?
The government schools are now doing it all!
It's no coincidence that the National Education Association is in bed snug and tight with those whose political leanings would have the government do everything for us from cradle to grave.
I've said it before and I'll say it again. The best protector of children is rarely the government and then only in certain, select situations. Our cultures laments the inability of parents to parent even as it takes away virtually every opportunity for them to do so!
As long as parents let the government do our job for us, we should expect the government to make choices for our children that we don't like. We cannot have it both ways. Either raise our own and make educated decisions about their academics, health, and moral training, or else shut up and let the state do what it will.
Did I mention that, ultimately, we cannot have it both ways?
That's right. Kids are forced to eat whatever the school cafeteria doles out, whether they like it or not.
The goal is to save children from their parents' poor choices or, in some cases, from themselves.
Now, as a mom of four I'm all for saving kids from themselves. Given the choice between a wholegrain muffin and a sugary doughnut, I guarantee my children would make a run for the doughnut.
I would, too.
But this story is really about the school (the state, the government) stepping in to once again relieve parents of their parental responsibilities.
The plan, according to the news story, is backfiring.
Quote: "At Little Village, most students must take the meals served in the cafeteria or go hungry or both. During a recent visit to the school, dozens of students took the lunch but threw most of it in the garbage uneaten. Though CPS has improved the nutritional quality of its meals this year, it also has seen a drop-off in meal participation among students, many of whom say the food tastes bad."
At $2.25 a meal, if the child isn't receiving free breakfast and lunch, parents' hard-earned money is being thrown away. And those free breakfasts and lunches that are hitting the garbage? Yeah, that's taxpayer money being thrown away.
Never mind that the food is apparently so awful that little kids would rather go hungry during the school day than eat. Lots of learning takes place when the mind and body are hungry, right?
Please don't misunderstand me. I am NOT saying that children perform optimally when they're hyped up on soft drinks and chips. I am NOT saying public schools -- which are already doing the bulk of parenting since they have custody of students for 8 hours a day -- shouldn't encourage healthful eating.
What I am saying is that if public schools can now dictate the kinds of food parents send to school or the kinds of food students must eat, what's next? They already dictate what students wear (and given much of the obnoxious fashion that's sold to children I'm actually okay with that), they dictate what students will learn, they dictate healthcare for kids in the form of mandated vaccinations, and they dictate to an appalling degree what sort of worldview children will develop before they leave school.
Really, if food is the final frontier what's left for parents to do?
The government schools are now doing it all!
It's no coincidence that the National Education Association is in bed snug and tight with those whose political leanings would have the government do everything for us from cradle to grave.
I've said it before and I'll say it again. The best protector of children is rarely the government and then only in certain, select situations. Our cultures laments the inability of parents to parent even as it takes away virtually every opportunity for them to do so!
As long as parents let the government do our job for us, we should expect the government to make choices for our children that we don't like. We cannot have it both ways. Either raise our own and make educated decisions about their academics, health, and moral training, or else shut up and let the state do what it will.
Did I mention that, ultimately, we cannot have it both ways?
March 30, 2011
"Turn the car around!"
A few months back, I wrote with great sadness about the death of a woman named Albina Callaway. My sorrow lay partly in the fact that her passing was so sudden and that she left behind a young daughter and partly in the fact that it took me three months to get the news.
Albina was my friend. We knew each other from my mid-day trips to Denney's with my children and mother. She waitressed there and was always such a joy to be around. Read the previous 'blog for the details.
Anyway, my sadness pushed me into something that has become much bigger than just me. I know now that it was really always bigger than just me, but in the beginning I felt like a one-woman crusader.
This is a true story about what happens when we give up ourselves. It's also a story about what can happen when we ask God to give us a job without clearly knowing what reward, if any, will be obtained. It is Emmanuel or "God with us" in the most tangible way. It is a solid refutation of the world's tendency to disbelieve in the existence or power of God.
Before I tell you the story, I have to share the lyrics of a song by one of my favorite Christian singers, Chris Sligh. The song is, "Only You Can Save" and it played through my head over and over in the weeks leading up to what I'm about to relate.
I saw a man today, his whole world across his back
A living monument opposed to my success
I tried to look into his eyes as his shuffled past my car
Sweat beading on his skin, his clothes and hair a mess
As the light turned green and I pulled away, he slowly disappeared
Just a memory of another chance I failed to show your love here
I wanna love because You love
I wanna give because You gave
I wanna reach my hand out to the lost
because I know Your hand can save
Only You can save
Only You can save
Sometimes I have to wonder if I really want to know
The struggle and the pain that others feel
Do I want to hear the stories I see echoed in their eyes
Or is this love I say that I'm reflecting even real
As the light turns on inside my head and I slowly disappear
I steel myself cuz what you call for me is to show your love here…
I wanna love because You love
I wanna give because You gave
I wanna reach my hand out to the lost
because I know Your hand can save
Only You can save
Only You can save
(Save) Let me be Your hands
(Only You can save) Let me be your eyes
(Only you can save) Help me understand
(Only you can save)
That I'm Your hands and feet hidden behind this frail human disguise
I wanna love because You love
I wanna give because You gave
I wanna reach my hand out to the lost
because I know Your hand will save.
In the song, Sligh prays for God to use him in some meaningful way so that he can actually demonstrate the love and purpose of Christ rather than just talk about it.
On Christmas Eve 2010, I did the same thing and the avalanche of blessing that has poured from that one short prayer threatens to overwhelm me.
I found out about Albina's death the Tuesday before Christmas. At that point, I couldn't shake the feeling that I needed to do something, something for her or for her family. I didn't know what that "something" would be, but like a pesty fly at a picnic the thought just wouldn't leave me.
That same day, Tuesday, I wrote a letter to her husband expressing my sympathy and regret at only then having learned the news of her death three months before. I went online and found what I hoped was still a good address for him, drove to his house, and after finding him not home left the letter with a neighbor who promised to deliver it for me. I included my phone number and email, in case Albina's husband wanted to talk. My work was done, right?
Friday, the day before Christmas, found me sitting at my kitchen table with my children making last minute crafts to give as gifts. As they finished up, the overwhelming compulsion to pray came over me and, once the kids were gone, I sat there alone and silent, wondering what on earth I should pray. I didn't need anything, so what WAS this about? Why was I being provoked into prayer?
That's when the still small voice of the Old Testament spoke and all I heard was, "Ask to be connected."
Connected? Who was I disconnected from? It was Christmas Eve, I'd sent all my cards to family and friends, my children were happily getting ready for the next day, my husband, mother and in-laws were all up and running. Where was the disconnect?????
Then I realized that the other nagging feeling, the one that made me wonder and worry a little about Albina's family WAS the disconnect. I needed to make contact with her husband! I needed to know for myself that he and his little girl were okay!
This was my prayer: "Dear Father, let me make contact with James so I can know he and his daughter are okay. If I can help them, help me to do this. This is all I ask of you and I pray to see the way clear to make this happen. Amen."
That was it. I didn't know it then, but I had just opened wide a door that has yet to be shut, and the blessings that have flooded through it read like the wish list of a child at Christmas. I believe this is no accident. God sent his son to us on Christmas Eve as the greatest gift mankind would ever have, and it was on Christmas Eve that I prayed to receive the gift of usefulness.
Later that day, on our way home from a friend's open house, I stopped by the grocery store to buy ingredients for a Christmas Day green bean casserole. As I headed back to the house, I was disgusted with myself when I realized I'd bought absolutely everything else for the casserole I needed except the green beans! I dropped off my mother and my girls and told them I'd run up to Walmart to get the beans and that I'd be back soon. We were scheduled to go with friends that night to a Christmas Eve service at their church, so I needed to get back to get ready.
As I headed out of my neighborhood, a voice that was nearly audible in the car said to me, "Turn the car around." I tried to brush it off, not really thinking it could be anything but a niggling, lingering worry about a situation I'd already addressed. I needed to get those green beans!
"Turn the car around!" It came again, and this time I found myself turning the corner and driving away from the store and towards Albina's house. This is nuts, I thought. I've got this to do and that to do and on and on and on -- and all the while my car was headed in a different direction.
As I neared Albina's house, I saw there was a car in the driveway. Her husband must be home, I thought, and what in the world am I going to say? Did he get my letter? Did I offend him? Is he going to blow me off the minute I introduce myself? All these questions and more ran through my head as I shut off the engine, got out, and headed up to the front door.
And then what happened? Her husband answered the door, and when I told him who I was he said, "I was just working on an email to send to you. I got your letter and I just now had time to reply."
We stood on his front porch and talked, and talked, and talked. The sun went down, it began to drizzle, and I began to wonder how I was going to explain all this to my family. Surely by now they were missing me, and thinking the line at Walmart couldn't possibly be that long.
At one point in the conversation, I asked Albina's husband if there was anything I could do for him and he said that although he hated to ask for help what he really needed was some dog food for his two dogs. I asked him what sort of food he had for himself and his little girl and he said quietly, "Not much." Glancing at my watch, I saw that it was now nearly 7 p.m. and I'd been gone a good two hours. I needed to get home. Tonight was Christmas Eve and there were toys to assemble, foods to prepare, and our friends would be meeting us at their church in just a couple of hours.
I offered to run up to a nearby grocery store to get some food and the husband accepted. On the way to the store, I called my husband and told him where I was and what was happening. "Call Rene and Dennis and let them know we won't make it," I said. "There's no way I can get home in time now."
I shopped for groceries like the mother of four children that I am -- peanut butter, wheat bread, bag of apples, bananas, milk, orange juice. I worried that the little girl might not have enough nutritious food to stay healthy and, knowing the family had no health insurance, it seemed paramount to make sure the food I bought was quality stuff.
As I checked out, I glanced at my watch. It was still early enough that if I got the groceries delivered in time I could still make it home to get ready to meet our friends for church and a gift exchange afterwards. I'd call my husband from the car and he could let our friends know we'd be there after all. What could be better? The evening in a nice, tidy package, right? A little good deed and then on to the fun, right? Right?
Then I heard thunder, and I saw the rain, lots and lots of torrential rain. How in the world was I going to load and unload all these groceries without getting absolutely soaked, I asked myself.
As I stood outside the store watching the downpour, it became clear that I was expected to finish the job God had given me. Running to my car, I began loading in the bags as fast as I could while all the while the cold rain seeped through my shawl and into my clothes down to the skin. "You have a chance to help someone else who's hurting far more than you're suffering a temporary soaking," the voice said to me. "Get over it. Your clothes will wash and you will dry out."
I got back to Albina's house and her little girl helped me bring the bags into the house. It was my first real look at the child and she was beautiful. We got everything put away and her dad asked if I'd like to sit for a bit and talk. It was Christmas Eve after all, and it was obvious he was struggling. I glanced at my watch and a sinking feeling crept over me. There was no way now I'd ever make it home in time for the activities we'd planned.
Something was afoot and now my curiosity was piqued. The story of that evening was not over yet, and I needed to stay to get to the end.
Albina's husband and I visited for nearly two more hours, during which time he told me all about his life with Albina and showed me pictures of her as a young woman back in Russia. I watched his daughter string beads as she kept an eye on a children's television program, and at one point she came over to her father to give him a hug. They were okay, and that's exactly what I needed to see. At that point, seeing this was enough.
It turned out to be only the beginning, though.
Visits and conversations in the months ahead revealed many needs.
God revealed Himself in the meeting of those needs.
*The father needed legal help and the funds to prepare a will and guardianship papers in the event he could no longer care for his daughter. A friend of mine from college who happens to be a family attorney took up the case quickly and prepared the documents at a discount. My mother and I had the money between us to pay that bill.
* The little girl needs a mouthful of dental work totaling about $2500. Through a network of strangers on a community online bulletin board where I posted the family's plight and asked for any dental referrals, a dentist has been found who will do all the work for free.
* On that same bulletin board, I posted the need for furniture for the little girl as well as a mattress set so she can have a proper bed. Total strangers have sent me enough money to buy the mattress set.
*Two other families have agreed to donate gently used bedroom furniture. Another woman in my homeschool group has bedding to fit the bed, and yet another lady has offered her husband's help to deliver the furniture to Albina's family.
* Another woman and her business partner are working with their church friends to pray for Albina's family and they are researching options for helping the husband and child move to a better home.
* A man and his father, a Navy veteran, have offered to meet with Albina's husband, who is also a Navy vet, to talk with him about how they can help him register with the Veterans Admin so he can receive his own much needed medical and dental care.
All this out of one prayer.
See what I mean when I say it was always bigger than just me. So many willing and concerned offers of help, so much generosity pouring out of every corner of my community, so many open expressions of Christ-like love and the offer of prayer -- when I think back through the chain of events how could I possibly chalk any of it up to coincidence?
In Matthew 7:7, Jesus tells his followers this:
7“Ask, and it will be given to you; seek, and you will find; knock, and it will be opened to you. 8“For everyone who asks receives, and he who seeks finds, and to him who knocks it will be opened. 9“Or what man is there among you who, when his son asks for a loaf, will give him a stone? 10“Or if he asks for a fish, he will not give him a snake, will he? 11“If you then, being evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father who is in heaven give what is good to those who ask Him! 12“In everything, therefore, treat people the same way you want them to treat you, for this is the Law and the Prophets."
God was always available to help. He was just waiting for someone to ask the question.
Emmanuel. God with us.
If anyone reading this still doubts the power of God to move in a person's life in ways far beyond what the human mind can imagine, email me. Let's talk.
I tell you, He is as real as anything you can touch, taste, smell or feel. In some ways, even more so.
Emmanuel. God with us.
Thank you, Father.
Albina was my friend. We knew each other from my mid-day trips to Denney's with my children and mother. She waitressed there and was always such a joy to be around. Read the previous 'blog for the details.
Anyway, my sadness pushed me into something that has become much bigger than just me. I know now that it was really always bigger than just me, but in the beginning I felt like a one-woman crusader.
This is a true story about what happens when we give up ourselves. It's also a story about what can happen when we ask God to give us a job without clearly knowing what reward, if any, will be obtained. It is Emmanuel or "God with us" in the most tangible way. It is a solid refutation of the world's tendency to disbelieve in the existence or power of God.
Before I tell you the story, I have to share the lyrics of a song by one of my favorite Christian singers, Chris Sligh. The song is, "Only You Can Save" and it played through my head over and over in the weeks leading up to what I'm about to relate.
I saw a man today, his whole world across his back
A living monument opposed to my success
I tried to look into his eyes as his shuffled past my car
Sweat beading on his skin, his clothes and hair a mess
As the light turned green and I pulled away, he slowly disappeared
Just a memory of another chance I failed to show your love here
I wanna love because You love
I wanna give because You gave
I wanna reach my hand out to the lost
because I know Your hand can save
Only You can save
Only You can save
Sometimes I have to wonder if I really want to know
The struggle and the pain that others feel
Do I want to hear the stories I see echoed in their eyes
Or is this love I say that I'm reflecting even real
As the light turns on inside my head and I slowly disappear
I steel myself cuz what you call for me is to show your love here…
I wanna love because You love
I wanna give because You gave
I wanna reach my hand out to the lost
because I know Your hand can save
Only You can save
Only You can save
(Save) Let me be Your hands
(Only You can save) Let me be your eyes
(Only you can save) Help me understand
(Only you can save)
That I'm Your hands and feet hidden behind this frail human disguise
I wanna love because You love
I wanna give because You gave
I wanna reach my hand out to the lost
because I know Your hand will save.
In the song, Sligh prays for God to use him in some meaningful way so that he can actually demonstrate the love and purpose of Christ rather than just talk about it.
On Christmas Eve 2010, I did the same thing and the avalanche of blessing that has poured from that one short prayer threatens to overwhelm me.
I found out about Albina's death the Tuesday before Christmas. At that point, I couldn't shake the feeling that I needed to do something, something for her or for her family. I didn't know what that "something" would be, but like a pesty fly at a picnic the thought just wouldn't leave me.
That same day, Tuesday, I wrote a letter to her husband expressing my sympathy and regret at only then having learned the news of her death three months before. I went online and found what I hoped was still a good address for him, drove to his house, and after finding him not home left the letter with a neighbor who promised to deliver it for me. I included my phone number and email, in case Albina's husband wanted to talk. My work was done, right?
Friday, the day before Christmas, found me sitting at my kitchen table with my children making last minute crafts to give as gifts. As they finished up, the overwhelming compulsion to pray came over me and, once the kids were gone, I sat there alone and silent, wondering what on earth I should pray. I didn't need anything, so what WAS this about? Why was I being provoked into prayer?
That's when the still small voice of the Old Testament spoke and all I heard was, "Ask to be connected."
Connected? Who was I disconnected from? It was Christmas Eve, I'd sent all my cards to family and friends, my children were happily getting ready for the next day, my husband, mother and in-laws were all up and running. Where was the disconnect?????
Then I realized that the other nagging feeling, the one that made me wonder and worry a little about Albina's family WAS the disconnect. I needed to make contact with her husband! I needed to know for myself that he and his little girl were okay!
This was my prayer: "Dear Father, let me make contact with James so I can know he and his daughter are okay. If I can help them, help me to do this. This is all I ask of you and I pray to see the way clear to make this happen. Amen."
That was it. I didn't know it then, but I had just opened wide a door that has yet to be shut, and the blessings that have flooded through it read like the wish list of a child at Christmas. I believe this is no accident. God sent his son to us on Christmas Eve as the greatest gift mankind would ever have, and it was on Christmas Eve that I prayed to receive the gift of usefulness.
Later that day, on our way home from a friend's open house, I stopped by the grocery store to buy ingredients for a Christmas Day green bean casserole. As I headed back to the house, I was disgusted with myself when I realized I'd bought absolutely everything else for the casserole I needed except the green beans! I dropped off my mother and my girls and told them I'd run up to Walmart to get the beans and that I'd be back soon. We were scheduled to go with friends that night to a Christmas Eve service at their church, so I needed to get back to get ready.
As I headed out of my neighborhood, a voice that was nearly audible in the car said to me, "Turn the car around." I tried to brush it off, not really thinking it could be anything but a niggling, lingering worry about a situation I'd already addressed. I needed to get those green beans!
"Turn the car around!" It came again, and this time I found myself turning the corner and driving away from the store and towards Albina's house. This is nuts, I thought. I've got this to do and that to do and on and on and on -- and all the while my car was headed in a different direction.
As I neared Albina's house, I saw there was a car in the driveway. Her husband must be home, I thought, and what in the world am I going to say? Did he get my letter? Did I offend him? Is he going to blow me off the minute I introduce myself? All these questions and more ran through my head as I shut off the engine, got out, and headed up to the front door.
And then what happened? Her husband answered the door, and when I told him who I was he said, "I was just working on an email to send to you. I got your letter and I just now had time to reply."
We stood on his front porch and talked, and talked, and talked. The sun went down, it began to drizzle, and I began to wonder how I was going to explain all this to my family. Surely by now they were missing me, and thinking the line at Walmart couldn't possibly be that long.
At one point in the conversation, I asked Albina's husband if there was anything I could do for him and he said that although he hated to ask for help what he really needed was some dog food for his two dogs. I asked him what sort of food he had for himself and his little girl and he said quietly, "Not much." Glancing at my watch, I saw that it was now nearly 7 p.m. and I'd been gone a good two hours. I needed to get home. Tonight was Christmas Eve and there were toys to assemble, foods to prepare, and our friends would be meeting us at their church in just a couple of hours.
I offered to run up to a nearby grocery store to get some food and the husband accepted. On the way to the store, I called my husband and told him where I was and what was happening. "Call Rene and Dennis and let them know we won't make it," I said. "There's no way I can get home in time now."
I shopped for groceries like the mother of four children that I am -- peanut butter, wheat bread, bag of apples, bananas, milk, orange juice. I worried that the little girl might not have enough nutritious food to stay healthy and, knowing the family had no health insurance, it seemed paramount to make sure the food I bought was quality stuff.
As I checked out, I glanced at my watch. It was still early enough that if I got the groceries delivered in time I could still make it home to get ready to meet our friends for church and a gift exchange afterwards. I'd call my husband from the car and he could let our friends know we'd be there after all. What could be better? The evening in a nice, tidy package, right? A little good deed and then on to the fun, right? Right?
Then I heard thunder, and I saw the rain, lots and lots of torrential rain. How in the world was I going to load and unload all these groceries without getting absolutely soaked, I asked myself.
As I stood outside the store watching the downpour, it became clear that I was expected to finish the job God had given me. Running to my car, I began loading in the bags as fast as I could while all the while the cold rain seeped through my shawl and into my clothes down to the skin. "You have a chance to help someone else who's hurting far more than you're suffering a temporary soaking," the voice said to me. "Get over it. Your clothes will wash and you will dry out."
I got back to Albina's house and her little girl helped me bring the bags into the house. It was my first real look at the child and she was beautiful. We got everything put away and her dad asked if I'd like to sit for a bit and talk. It was Christmas Eve after all, and it was obvious he was struggling. I glanced at my watch and a sinking feeling crept over me. There was no way now I'd ever make it home in time for the activities we'd planned.
Something was afoot and now my curiosity was piqued. The story of that evening was not over yet, and I needed to stay to get to the end.
Albina's husband and I visited for nearly two more hours, during which time he told me all about his life with Albina and showed me pictures of her as a young woman back in Russia. I watched his daughter string beads as she kept an eye on a children's television program, and at one point she came over to her father to give him a hug. They were okay, and that's exactly what I needed to see. At that point, seeing this was enough.
It turned out to be only the beginning, though.
Visits and conversations in the months ahead revealed many needs.
God revealed Himself in the meeting of those needs.
*The father needed legal help and the funds to prepare a will and guardianship papers in the event he could no longer care for his daughter. A friend of mine from college who happens to be a family attorney took up the case quickly and prepared the documents at a discount. My mother and I had the money between us to pay that bill.
* The little girl needs a mouthful of dental work totaling about $2500. Through a network of strangers on a community online bulletin board where I posted the family's plight and asked for any dental referrals, a dentist has been found who will do all the work for free.
* On that same bulletin board, I posted the need for furniture for the little girl as well as a mattress set so she can have a proper bed. Total strangers have sent me enough money to buy the mattress set.
*Two other families have agreed to donate gently used bedroom furniture. Another woman in my homeschool group has bedding to fit the bed, and yet another lady has offered her husband's help to deliver the furniture to Albina's family.
* Another woman and her business partner are working with their church friends to pray for Albina's family and they are researching options for helping the husband and child move to a better home.
* A man and his father, a Navy veteran, have offered to meet with Albina's husband, who is also a Navy vet, to talk with him about how they can help him register with the Veterans Admin so he can receive his own much needed medical and dental care.
All this out of one prayer.
See what I mean when I say it was always bigger than just me. So many willing and concerned offers of help, so much generosity pouring out of every corner of my community, so many open expressions of Christ-like love and the offer of prayer -- when I think back through the chain of events how could I possibly chalk any of it up to coincidence?
In Matthew 7:7, Jesus tells his followers this:
7“Ask, and it will be given to you; seek, and you will find; knock, and it will be opened to you. 8“For everyone who asks receives, and he who seeks finds, and to him who knocks it will be opened. 9“Or what man is there among you who, when his son asks for a loaf, will give him a stone? 10“Or if he asks for a fish, he will not give him a snake, will he? 11“If you then, being evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father who is in heaven give what is good to those who ask Him! 12“In everything, therefore, treat people the same way you want them to treat you, for this is the Law and the Prophets."
God was always available to help. He was just waiting for someone to ask the question.
Emmanuel. God with us.
If anyone reading this still doubts the power of God to move in a person's life in ways far beyond what the human mind can imagine, email me. Let's talk.
I tell you, He is as real as anything you can touch, taste, smell or feel. In some ways, even more so.
Emmanuel. God with us.
Thank you, Father.
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