I appreciate opposition. This is handy, as I seem to have a knack for running into it. At its best, opposition makes us stop and think. It's good to have stones tossed, from time to time, into our streams of consciousness. Our worlds expand with their ripples.
So, in the interest of constructive stone-tossing, I decided to share what I've learned about the stones of opposition.
* Any argument based on anger or fear - or designed to spark anger or fear in someone else - is automatically suspect. Stones must be tossed gently and never thrown. At anyone.
* A certain genre of talk-show and media specializes in stirring anger and fear in their followers. This is not good stone-tossing. Fear and anger are blunt instruments, and the messy result is usually a population that is scared, mad, and sometimes out of control.
* At its best, politics is full of healthy stone-tossing. When done properly, the tug-of-war between right and left, conservative and liberal, provides us all with stability and momentum. History always tips toward change: to think that a mere hundred years ago, women's suffrage was considered a shockingly liberal idea. This tension caused by the flow of history should probably inspire a lame analogy involving rolling stones and moss, but one eludes me at the moment.
Note: We have heard it said that "if a man is not a liberal at 20, he has no heart and if he is not a conservative at 30, he has no brain." The quote varies with each repetition, but the original came from François Guizot (1787-1874), not Winston Churchill as some believe. Since Mr. Guizot was also known for seeking to ban political meetings and limiting suffrage to propertied men only, this is rather an odd stone to throw.
* Stones should be used as building blocks, not for stoning. Unfortunately - thanks in part to pundits, chain emails and questionable websites - we are in danger of forgetting how to toss stones constructively in this country. Anything that can be spun, is. If there is a fear that can possibly be sparked, the fires are lit. And the idea that two people can love the same country, want the best for it, and yet see things differently, is being eroded.
If I were wiser and more insightful, I might find a cure for this pervasive ill. But a Jewish carpenter soon facing death already did that. As he sat in the temple court one fine afternoon, the mob of well-dressed, upstanding citizens found their way to him. "Teacher," they said, throwing a woman to the ground before him, "she was caught in adultery. The law says we should stone her. Whaddaya say?" And Jesus didn't argue with the hatred and fear behind their broken theology. He just quietly plunked a little stone into the stream of their angry consciousness: "OK," he said, "but first pitch goes to the guy who's never done anything wrong himself." Most of us know the rest of the story.
And so, it seems, the true secret to handling the stones of opposition is not mine: it lies in the mercy with which we make our toss. Anything less will leave us angry, confused, and on the rocks.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Of Bread and Temptation
It's been a surprise, this business of going without bread. I had no idea how far its yeasty little tentacles reached.
My pantry has suffered. I have nothing on which to put my peanut butter. The honey has been relegated to saving space on the shelf. And that's just the start.
My friends are getting dirty looks from restaurant staff. The other night, my friend Arline and I went out to eat. When the server brought the bread, Arline immediately reached out and pulled the basket out of my reach. As the wave of shock and disapproval crossed the server's face, we both jumped to explain that it was Lent, I had given up bread, and Arline was just removing temptation.
It's affecting my kid-time. My youngest son stopped by last week and went into the kitchen to make a sandwich to eat while we visited. There was meat and cheese - but no bread. He left to get some supper elsewhere, taking our visit with him.
Goofy Pooch usually has her medicine tucked into a bit of bread each night. Turns out, doggy biscuits aren't so good at absorbing liquid medicine.
I had dinner with my parents on Friday night. Do you know how hard it is to pass up a piece of fresh, warm cornbread on a chilly evening?
There's a whole aisle at the grocery store I don't go down now; I've had to change my route.
This seemingly endless ripple-effect caused by no bread casts a new light for me on the description of Jesus as the "bread of life". Not just a most basic food; not just the comfort of warmth and fragrance: but a part of all those other, simple areas of life we never really consciously think about.
And even after Lent is over, and I can go back to enjoying bread, there's one more thing I've learned this season: it's a true friend who will pull temptation out of your reach.
My pantry has suffered. I have nothing on which to put my peanut butter. The honey has been relegated to saving space on the shelf. And that's just the start.
My friends are getting dirty looks from restaurant staff. The other night, my friend Arline and I went out to eat. When the server brought the bread, Arline immediately reached out and pulled the basket out of my reach. As the wave of shock and disapproval crossed the server's face, we both jumped to explain that it was Lent, I had given up bread, and Arline was just removing temptation.
It's affecting my kid-time. My youngest son stopped by last week and went into the kitchen to make a sandwich to eat while we visited. There was meat and cheese - but no bread. He left to get some supper elsewhere, taking our visit with him.
Goofy Pooch usually has her medicine tucked into a bit of bread each night. Turns out, doggy biscuits aren't so good at absorbing liquid medicine.
I had dinner with my parents on Friday night. Do you know how hard it is to pass up a piece of fresh, warm cornbread on a chilly evening?
There's a whole aisle at the grocery store I don't go down now; I've had to change my route.
This seemingly endless ripple-effect caused by no bread casts a new light for me on the description of Jesus as the "bread of life". Not just a most basic food; not just the comfort of warmth and fragrance: but a part of all those other, simple areas of life we never really consciously think about.
And even after Lent is over, and I can go back to enjoying bread, there's one more thing I've learned this season: it's a true friend who will pull temptation out of your reach.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Misfiring
One of my favorite quotes is from Julian of Norwich, who said, "All will be well - every manner of thing will be well." Sometimes, though, "things" in my life seems to misfire. Like when I get to court and realize that my socks don't match. Or make a special trip to the office supply store to buy an ink cartridge and get all the way back home before realizing it's the wrong one.
The other day, I was on the phone with my middle son; daylight was quickly dwindling, my ancient pooch desperately wanted her walk, and I decided I could surely do both activities at the same time. Getting the leash on one-handed was a little difficult, but I managed. Once Goofy Pooch was out, I stepped one foot back into the house to close the door. The leash and telephone in one hand, I reached for the door with the other - and my foot began to slip on the runner in the entrance hall.
What my inner logic was for not letting go of the leash or phone, I don't know. In semi-slow-motion, I saw myself sink into modified splits before toppling backward and crashing to the floor. There was a loud "thunk!" as the bottom of my pelvic bone came into hard contact with the hall tile.
Not surprisingly, I yelled. My son, hearing only "Ahh!" and "Ohh!" began yelling, "Mom! Mom!" Goofy Pooch tugged at the leash (still in my hand) and shot me looks that accused me of sprawling in the doorway for recreational purposes. It was a brief and completely undignified bedlam.
Another misfire later that week was less painful. I have a well-earned reputation for being punctuality-challenged, and have been trying to correct that persistent flaw. So when a good client sent me on assignment to a law office, I carefully calculated my time to allow for the construction traffic on my route and left the house with plenty of time.
What I had forgotten about were the school zones. Traffic slowed to an agonizing crawl. When the clock on the dashboard reached 1:55, I called the client and babbled an apology, explaining that I was only 10 minutes away. The project manager assured me that all was well. Nine minutes later, I pulled into the parking lot, dashed upstairs to the office, and practically dove through the door, apologizing for being a few minutes late. The friendly young receptionist told me to have a seat, and insisted that all was well. The attorney who had asked for me stuck his head out into the waiting room and said that no one else had arrived yet and to relax - all was well. And then it hit me: my appointment wasn't for 2:00. It was for 2:30. I was 25 minutes early. I had yet again failed in my efforts at punctuality, but this time on the upside.
And while this kind of winning misfire would normally tempt me to sit on my laurels, I had to pass. I was still sitting on ice packs.
The other day, I was on the phone with my middle son; daylight was quickly dwindling, my ancient pooch desperately wanted her walk, and I decided I could surely do both activities at the same time. Getting the leash on one-handed was a little difficult, but I managed. Once Goofy Pooch was out, I stepped one foot back into the house to close the door. The leash and telephone in one hand, I reached for the door with the other - and my foot began to slip on the runner in the entrance hall.
What my inner logic was for not letting go of the leash or phone, I don't know. In semi-slow-motion, I saw myself sink into modified splits before toppling backward and crashing to the floor. There was a loud "thunk!" as the bottom of my pelvic bone came into hard contact with the hall tile.
Not surprisingly, I yelled. My son, hearing only "Ahh!" and "Ohh!" began yelling, "Mom! Mom!" Goofy Pooch tugged at the leash (still in my hand) and shot me looks that accused me of sprawling in the doorway for recreational purposes. It was a brief and completely undignified bedlam.
Another misfire later that week was less painful. I have a well-earned reputation for being punctuality-challenged, and have been trying to correct that persistent flaw. So when a good client sent me on assignment to a law office, I carefully calculated my time to allow for the construction traffic on my route and left the house with plenty of time.
What I had forgotten about were the school zones. Traffic slowed to an agonizing crawl. When the clock on the dashboard reached 1:55, I called the client and babbled an apology, explaining that I was only 10 minutes away. The project manager assured me that all was well. Nine minutes later, I pulled into the parking lot, dashed upstairs to the office, and practically dove through the door, apologizing for being a few minutes late. The friendly young receptionist told me to have a seat, and insisted that all was well. The attorney who had asked for me stuck his head out into the waiting room and said that no one else had arrived yet and to relax - all was well. And then it hit me: my appointment wasn't for 2:00. It was for 2:30. I was 25 minutes early. I had yet again failed in my efforts at punctuality, but this time on the upside.
And while this kind of winning misfire would normally tempt me to sit on my laurels, I had to pass. I was still sitting on ice packs.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Happily Ever After
Once upon a time, in a kingdom not so far away, there was a woman. Just a regular woman, like you might pass in the grocery store or run into at PTA. (Except that she was never good about going to PTA.) Still, what matters to the story is that there was this ordinary woman, and she believed in True Love and Dreams and Walks in the Rain. So she walked in the rain with her little boys, and dreamed of her True Love but she always woke up before she could reach out and touch him. And that's how she thought life should be. She was just an ordinary woman, after all.
Then, one day, a man rode into her life. He wasn't a prince and he didn't have a white horse; he had a black and red pickup. (Black body, red hood, long story.) He was a middle-aged man with a crooked grin and calloused hands from years of playing bass guitar. The moment she saw him, the woman fell in love.
They were married and added to each other's world sons, daughters-in-law, granddaughters and dogs. The man brought her roses and sang to her and rubbed her shoulders when she got tired. He learned to cook her favorite foods. She learned to pronounce things in his native Texas accent just to hear him laugh.
But you know that part in the stories about riding off into the sunset? They don't mention that sometimes only one of you does. One February 20, the man crossed into the sunset, and for a moment the whole universe stopped.
This ordinary woman still finds comfort in the rain. Sometimes the man walks through her dreams and when she wakes up, she remembers what it was like to hold him. And she found out that it isn't about how long you have Happily Ever After for. It's that you have it at all.
Then, one day, a man rode into her life. He wasn't a prince and he didn't have a white horse; he had a black and red pickup. (Black body, red hood, long story.) He was a middle-aged man with a crooked grin and calloused hands from years of playing bass guitar. The moment she saw him, the woman fell in love.
They were married and added to each other's world sons, daughters-in-law, granddaughters and dogs. The man brought her roses and sang to her and rubbed her shoulders when she got tired. He learned to cook her favorite foods. She learned to pronounce things in his native Texas accent just to hear him laugh.
But you know that part in the stories about riding off into the sunset? They don't mention that sometimes only one of you does. One February 20, the man crossed into the sunset, and for a moment the whole universe stopped.
This ordinary woman still finds comfort in the rain. Sometimes the man walks through her dreams and when she wakes up, she remembers what it was like to hold him. And she found out that it isn't about how long you have Happily Ever After for. It's that you have it at all.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Fresh Bread and Lent
I love bread. One of my earliest memories is of Mom letting us kids take turns "punching" the rising dough, then breaking off a piece so that we could each make our own bread. Sometimes my siblings and I would take some raisins, stuff them inside a blob of bread dough, and slide a (clean) stick through the top of the blob. We called these creations "wasp nests". I guess that's to be expected for kids who grew up in the jungle.
After we moved out of the jungle and into town, Mom would give me money to run out and meet the bread man as he walked the neighborhood pushing his cart. I loved hearing the bells on the cart handles ring but when he took the lid off the breadbox - that was magic. The smell of freshly baked buns and rolls would envelope me as I leaned over to point out what we wanted.
I also love Lent. By the simple act of stepping outside our comfort zones, we create room for discovery. I think of the historical period of Lent, when Jesus was inexorably moving toward Jerusalem and his followers could tell that something amazing was going to happen. The politically-minded among them might have been itching for Jesus' rebellion against Rome. Those more theologically inclined might have planned flyers for the Big Temple Revival.
Whatever their expectations, Jesus stepped outside their comfort zone. No rebellion, no takeover of the temple. In fact, none of the familiar trappings that they had grown up expecting from the Messiah.
He took them down a completely different road, one of loss and redemption. He shook the foundation of their world and changed the shape of ours.
So this Lenten season, I've decided to give up bread. Not because of the traditional symbolisms it holds of life, sustenance, or abundance. I'm giving it up because it has always been a normal, comfortable part of my life, and for these next few weeks it's time to step out of my comfort zone and walk a road of discovery.
I'm just hoping that the road doesn't lead me past bread carts with bells or wasp nests stuffed with raisins.
After we moved out of the jungle and into town, Mom would give me money to run out and meet the bread man as he walked the neighborhood pushing his cart. I loved hearing the bells on the cart handles ring but when he took the lid off the breadbox - that was magic. The smell of freshly baked buns and rolls would envelope me as I leaned over to point out what we wanted.
I also love Lent. By the simple act of stepping outside our comfort zones, we create room for discovery. I think of the historical period of Lent, when Jesus was inexorably moving toward Jerusalem and his followers could tell that something amazing was going to happen. The politically-minded among them might have been itching for Jesus' rebellion against Rome. Those more theologically inclined might have planned flyers for the Big Temple Revival.
Whatever their expectations, Jesus stepped outside their comfort zone. No rebellion, no takeover of the temple. In fact, none of the familiar trappings that they had grown up expecting from the Messiah.
He took them down a completely different road, one of loss and redemption. He shook the foundation of their world and changed the shape of ours.
So this Lenten season, I've decided to give up bread. Not because of the traditional symbolisms it holds of life, sustenance, or abundance. I'm giving it up because it has always been a normal, comfortable part of my life, and for these next few weeks it's time to step out of my comfort zone and walk a road of discovery.
I'm just hoping that the road doesn't lead me past bread carts with bells or wasp nests stuffed with raisins.
Friday, January 29, 2010
Aging vs. Getting older
I don't follow sports much, but the headline caught my eye anyway: "Aging Action Star Seeks Kickboxing Match". This was followed by the opening line that began "49-year-old Jean-Claude Van Damme..."
That the star in question was Van Damme did not surprise me. But that he (and therefore I) was considered at 49 to be "aging" was a little shock. I know I'm getting older: my joints don't always cooperate, I suspect that my current hair color is more salt than pepper, and every so often it strikes me that the person I just thought of as a "kid" is 30 years old.
But aging?
Then again, when cheese is old, I don't throw it out; when cheese is aged, I pay three times more for it. When wood is old, it becomes firewood. When it is aged, it ends up on the Antiques Road Show.
There is a richness about being aged that speaks of depth in our life experience. It hints that the passage of years has produced in us a rare spirit instead of vinegar. The word "aged" sparks images of wisdom, wealth of character, what in Spanish we might call "perfeccionamiento": attaining a more perfect condition.
My mother still plays the piano despite her nearly 80 years and arthritic fingers. My mother-in-law, who turns 86 this year, writes a weekly column for her local newspaper. My octogenarian father has circled the world and has a host of stories to share. A colleague, who is approaching his 65th wedding anniversary, is at the top of his professional game. Their years are etched in their bodies and engraved on their souls and they have aged with character.
I never really thought much about aging. My granddaughters have assured me that I won't be old until I'm 75. Until then, I'm just "getting older". Now, it feels perhaps appropriate to get up and and write to Steve Colfield, the blogger who wrote that headline, and tell him I have decided to skip getting older altogether, and just become gracefully aged. But my knees pop when I get up and it scares the dog.
Maybe instead I can just sit back, embrace aging and let it turn me into a character.
That the star in question was Van Damme did not surprise me. But that he (and therefore I) was considered at 49 to be "aging" was a little shock. I know I'm getting older: my joints don't always cooperate, I suspect that my current hair color is more salt than pepper, and every so often it strikes me that the person I just thought of as a "kid" is 30 years old.
But aging?
Then again, when cheese is old, I don't throw it out; when cheese is aged, I pay three times more for it. When wood is old, it becomes firewood. When it is aged, it ends up on the Antiques Road Show.
There is a richness about being aged that speaks of depth in our life experience. It hints that the passage of years has produced in us a rare spirit instead of vinegar. The word "aged" sparks images of wisdom, wealth of character, what in Spanish we might call "perfeccionamiento": attaining a more perfect condition.
My mother still plays the piano despite her nearly 80 years and arthritic fingers. My mother-in-law, who turns 86 this year, writes a weekly column for her local newspaper. My octogenarian father has circled the world and has a host of stories to share. A colleague, who is approaching his 65th wedding anniversary, is at the top of his professional game. Their years are etched in their bodies and engraved on their souls and they have aged with character.
I never really thought much about aging. My granddaughters have assured me that I won't be old until I'm 75. Until then, I'm just "getting older". Now, it feels perhaps appropriate to get up and and write to Steve Colfield, the blogger who wrote that headline, and tell him I have decided to skip getting older altogether, and just become gracefully aged. But my knees pop when I get up and it scares the dog.
Maybe instead I can just sit back, embrace aging and let it turn me into a character.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Waddling through life
Goofy Pooch and I took our usual 2-block waddle this evening. She's old, arthritic, and easily distracted, and basically just meanders beside the sidewalk while I try to keep her moving with encouraging little comments like, "You already sniffed that", and "Watch out for the...never mind".
Goofy Pooch is also the most friendly, eccentric dog I've ever met. She has been known to carry a pet rabbit around in her mouth, which was almost as funny as later watching the rabbit try to get the dog slobber off its fur. The only time she ever harmed another animal was when she tried to carry one of the boys' hamsters around in her mouth as well. The poor little thing died of fright. GP was horrified and a little afraid of hamsters after that.
Tonight, on our waddle down to the pond and back, we met our across-the-alley neighbor and her rescued puppy. The puppy is a mastiff mix of some sort and stands a couple of inches taller than my geriatric dog. GP and the puppy circled each other, sniffing and exchanging other doggy pleasantries. All of a sudden, the younger dog - being an unfixed male - decided to get a little too friendly. In one fluid movement, my senior canine's hackles raised, she snarled ferociously and she sat down on my feet.
The overgrown puppy backed off, confused. After a moment, Goofy Pooch gave him a gentle little "woof". When it was clear he was going to behave, she left the comfort of my feet and resumed doggy-talk. All was well.
As we continued our waddle home, I found myself thinking about the wisdom in that exchange. No grudges, no lectures. An unequivocal response when boundaries were crossed, followed by full restoration of friendship with no strings attached.
When I grow up, I think I'd like to be more like my Goofy Pooch, waddling through life so willing to believe in redemptive grace.
Goofy Pooch is also the most friendly, eccentric dog I've ever met. She has been known to carry a pet rabbit around in her mouth, which was almost as funny as later watching the rabbit try to get the dog slobber off its fur. The only time she ever harmed another animal was when she tried to carry one of the boys' hamsters around in her mouth as well. The poor little thing died of fright. GP was horrified and a little afraid of hamsters after that.
Tonight, on our waddle down to the pond and back, we met our across-the-alley neighbor and her rescued puppy. The puppy is a mastiff mix of some sort and stands a couple of inches taller than my geriatric dog. GP and the puppy circled each other, sniffing and exchanging other doggy pleasantries. All of a sudden, the younger dog - being an unfixed male - decided to get a little too friendly. In one fluid movement, my senior canine's hackles raised, she snarled ferociously and she sat down on my feet.
The overgrown puppy backed off, confused. After a moment, Goofy Pooch gave him a gentle little "woof". When it was clear he was going to behave, she left the comfort of my feet and resumed doggy-talk. All was well.
As we continued our waddle home, I found myself thinking about the wisdom in that exchange. No grudges, no lectures. An unequivocal response when boundaries were crossed, followed by full restoration of friendship with no strings attached.
When I grow up, I think I'd like to be more like my Goofy Pooch, waddling through life so willing to believe in redemptive grace.
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