Bubbles and Darwin

As I'm reading about Charles Darwin's voyage aboard the Beagle in which he observed all kinds of geology, cultures, animal life, and more, I can't help but think how limited our scope is inside our own worlds. We live in a glass bubble in which we're quite concerned with our own language, dress, relationships, beliefs and modes of life. We can become fixated on these as the sole vistas of truth.  I know for some of my kinfolk in the Ozark hills, the act of reading Charles Darwin would be seditious; they would scoff; they would maintain the safety of their views, shaped by their worlds, by where they drink their own knowledge and worldviews. Some alternate views are considered dangerous. Often, from my Christian texts at my school, the name of Darwin is spitted out by editors who present him as the arbitrator of foul and erring lies which go against God as creator. Although, like Darwin, I will connect life to God, I also believe there is much wiggle room in our interpretations. Especially wiggle room given our glass bubbles which block the views we seek mainly from our own chairs. Darwin didn't intend to undermine God, but he went out and looked and expanded his view away from his home country, away from his town. Yes, conclusions can be wrong from any vantage point, however, why do we limit what there is to observe? The book inspires me to look for and know more and piece together the amazing picture called life.

Greater joy

"You have filled my heart with greater joy than when their grain and new wine abound." Psalm 4:7

Ah, the teaching year is over, and I can make time for contemplation, reading, and writing. My year was the best one yet; it first started with anger and grief over exclusion of children with learning disabilities, but it ended with purpose and plans to counter this in my school. Change currents have been released; God is working. I was able to let go and grow even closer to my students, nurturing them, giving to them, loving them. Although I had a bit of resentment for their and parents' inability to give much back, I've grown in my ability to just give without thinking or expecting. Typically, a person like me, a recovering codependent too, gives more, and that's just that. As a matter of fact, I must guard against giving, but I follow my heart much and give -- this year, I monitored my expectations of what people return and why I gave. I tried to be very mindful of that and was, thus, not full of resentment but just happily gave. It worked out fairly well, and I have such fond memories of loving and nurturing my students this year and receiving love back, especially from the wonderful senior class. I will miss those students!

I'm finally through with Job in my reading and have entered, thankfully, into Psalms. The above verse jumped out at me. Last night, we went to our neighbor's house; they wanted us to come over to see their new patio and remodeling. Just one house over, we saw the difference between those who spend money on their living comfort and us, who save our money more than spend it. I saw the beautiful pots, plants, water pool, lights, outdoor seating, and when we went through their house, I saw the lovely attention, care, new fixes that their interior had. I came home with desire to spend our own money; I came home looking critically around me.

It's such human nature to compare what we have with someone else. If someone who is poorer came to my house, they would feel inferior too. I truly despise that inside of us we can easily become unhappy for what we don't have or to showcase to others what we do have. In the United States, we love to show what our money can buy.

I know our neighbors lack faith, and the man thinks it's a bunch of nonsense. And, even though he sat in comfort, we realized he was getting soused in front of us. How often does that happen with his collection of fine wines and beers? We heard details of trips, things, but nothing higher. Their focus was on what their money could buy. I am tempted by that too. I came home dissatisfied with the little money we spend. I envied them and their carefree but comfortable lifestyle. Yet I know I must see beyond --  into their greater need. I don't want to say that I have something of greater value for the sake of comparing and making myself feel good. Rather, I want to know what is truly valuable and hold it dear to my heart -- so as I read Psalms this morning, this verse helped me focus on why one should eschew material pleasures as the end-all, be-all.

Grateful. May I not be judgmental, Lord, but discerning as to where true joy really resides. May my neighbors also be aware. May we live for you and others rather than for ourselves. May we grasp your true joy which only you can give. Amen.

The Beauty of Shyness?

The Beauty of Shyness

"There is something beautiful about shyness, even though in our culture shyness is not considered a virtue. On the contrary, we are encouraged to be direct, look people straight in the eyes, tell them what is on our minds, and share our stories without a blush.

But this unflinching soul-baring, confessional attitude quickly becomes boring. It is like trees without shadows. Shy people have long shadows, where they keep much of their beauty hidden from intruders' eyes. Shy people remind us of the mystery of life that cannot be simply explained or expressed. They invite us to reverent and respectful friendships and to a wordless being together in love."

A lovely reminder from Henri Nouwen. Shyness was once my painful burden to bear, and I'm sensitive to those who also are afflicted. It may be beautiful to those who wish to peer through the shy person's leaves and see potential wildflowers there, but to the shy person, fear grips them like a tight-paw-clawed monster who knows no countryside boundaries. Even though I have fought off this monster and can speak words fairly easily now, I still have a dream which indicates stuck language in my throat as a mucous-like mass which I attempt to pull out and pull out and pull out. I still have memories of being unable to speak, of fear, of words which bite me back upon utterance, upon a terrible self-consciousness which grabs my throat, upon the inability to ford a bridge, get upon a raft, approach another wanderer in the woods, tell anyone my name, have an opinion to be verbalized, speak. I always felt like an object to be looked at, one which puzzled and sometimes, like the above, intrigued. I much rather would have liked to have had words to fend off others or to be known.

But, God is a Word-Spirit, thankfully. He helped me write, gave me phrases-inside, pushed me to love language and to try, try, try to speak until that inside mass thinned, pounding on chest and back until I could clear myself, my throat, and utter exquisite speech. Today, I read in Luke chapters 7 and 8 about all the healings Jesus gave to those, all the hopes realized, and I feel healed from this monster of shyness. It was a process but God wanted me to be able to not hide one day. May I remember that when I want to shift into timidy on important issues pressed into my heart which need to be articulated for good effect.  Amen.

Into the depths courtesy of Earl Scruggs

A banjo rolling; the sounds of crickets; the women chattering; the children screaming and laughing; the banjo rolling; the guitar G runs; the mandolin chortling; the fiddle tying it up; the tenor reaching the full moon; the banjo rolling.

My dad played Earl Scruggs style; he would sit and play over and over the above album; he would listen to the licks; he would work them and work them. Then during the afore-described music parties, he'd roll his banjo like Earl. We kids would be in someone's yard playing Red Rover or Chicken or lay-in-the-ditch-and-jump-up-when-a-car-comes-by-and-wave-and-scream. The women would be talking about us in the living room, our problems and stages. The men would be beating their tapping feet on the kitchen, instruments and ears poised, smiling, smiling, singing, singing, diving into the root depths, plunging, swimming, swimming.

It would get late. The moon would be high. We kids would have eaten all the cookies allowed; we would have played all the games imaginable; we would have started drifting indoors, hoping our fathers would notice, hanging on the edges of their circle. But, they would remained sitting with fingers flying and smiles smiling, and Earl Scruggs licks zipping. Finally, a guitar player would slow it down and begin to wail, "You spurned the love, I gave you darlin'. A love you once was proud to own . . . ." A midnight desire made public, crying confession; our feet would sink into a chair or a carpet space; our eyes would fight and suffer as our Dad would not notice us. He was overboard now in slowed down songs, the sadness of lost love, stabbed love, love of blue eyes now with someone new.

Finally, once we were fully slumped, the sound of chairs scraping, instrument cases being clicked shut, heavy footsteps caused us to break sleep's beginning stage, and we would sleepily go to him with all the men teasing us without our shy care: "Can we go home now, Dad?"

Time for the long hilly, curvy ride home.

But, on the way, in our ears, in our lives forever more, the banjo rolled in sound grooves, in the ancestral depths of plaintive and frolicking standards, in our blood, in associations, in love.

Good night, Earl Scruggs. Play one for us in the kitchen of the Angel Band. Thanks for the full moon and the bluegrass memories.

Precarious courses and loving eyes

In this faraway small shot stands two of my most precious worldy accomplishments. They stand precariously, especially the boy who is just learning to snowboard from his sister who stands victoriously as she has learned the skill and now flies down mountains. I am sitting on a coat by a conveyor belt which carries little ones up the gentle learning slope. I am older and sickly (from a bad cold) and take the role of watcher, cheer-er.

This morning, I went through a scrapbook I made for my daughter, covering birth through high school. How could I ever doubt our relationship, my intense efforts to make up for gaps, to funnel love, to direct in good directions? It floods every page. I do not have much more than the usual parent in the way of regrets, rather I was an exceptional parent. Yes, the high school years were brutal. I look at her pictures with friends she found, with boys, and I feel again the loss of who I wanted her to be.  Yet she is her own person always -- independent in one way, vulnerable in others, and beautiful. I worry, like a normal good parent will do, but I really have done my best even in some difficult circumstances. I'm always there encouraging, cheering, and redirecting even through precarious courses.

In the scrapbook, I see myself as a young mother, not knowing, not knowing, all that it would take, all that it would give. Lord, have mercy on a young parent. Flood our world with your loving guidance and rest to grant us all. Thank you for my ability to see my two children grow in maturity, with familial love, and with Your grace throughout all of our lives. Amen.

Generation gap and bridge

My last post was rather sad, but it captured a feeling and a regret and a hope. This weekend, we're going to be traveling to see my daughter, and I'm looking forward to that quite much. She is such an independent and private young lady -- which makes a mother worry. I'm glad I have God helping me with my anxiety and helping me recognize His work in her life. May she receive and be blessed with peace. She deserves a full dose of a loving and trustworthy Father in her life.

I've been reading Chronicles in the Bible, and the opening phrase when introducing a new king:  "He did right in the eyes of the Lord" is powerful. If a king does "evil in the eyes of the Lord" then ruin and problems happen throughout the entire kingdom. What I can't understand is when a God-seeking King, like Hezekiah who was rewarded both in wealth and victory for his devotion to God, has a son like Manasseh who did "evil in the eyes of the Lord, following detestable practices . . . ." Was he not properly trained by his father? Was he blinded to the work of God in His kingdom? How can the foundation of faith established with the priests, etc., during his father's reign be altogether rejected by the son? I just can't fathom it, yet time and time again, this pattern of good-to-evil happens from one generation to the next. Sigh -- it doesn't bode well for the rest of us. However, other places in the Bible, like in Proverbs, tells us to raise a child in the way they should go, with expectations that they will choose to seek God. And, lots of evidence points to the fact that children continue on with the faith of their parents.

I simply pray that my children know that I seek God and am rewarded with hope, relative peace, and love. I pray that those fruits will be ones that they also desire to open their hands to receive. Amen.

Children are strangers

"Children are their parents' guests. They come into the space that has been created for them, stay for a while - fifteen, twenty, or twenty-five years - and leave again to create their own space. Although parents speak about 'our son' and 'our daughter,' their children are not their property. In many ways children are strangers. Parents have to come to know them, discover their strengths and their weaknesses, and guide them to maturity, allowing them to make their own decisions." Henri Nouwen

"In many ways children are strangers."

I don't like that statement, but it's true. It was especially true of my daughter (and still is).

From watching excellent mothers at my school, I live vicariously through mother - daughter relationships which are good. Based upon mature parenting and wise choices, unwavering biblical foundations, tremendous engagement. I stare and am happy and am sad --  always happily sad that it's possible, and it's happening for some.

I was always there for my daughter, yet complications and forces grouped to batter.

I have many wonderful, close moment-memories of my sweet, shining star. Early on, we were a loving, inseparable pair, engaging and holding on. For what I could offer, I offered. Good choices, solid, foundational, guided my love for her.

Yet I did not parent perfectly, correctly. My hands were tied in some cases.

In other cases, I underestimated and underused my hands.

Some people say that you stop maturation at certain moments of abusive crisis. I wonder if I remained at 23 and 24 too long.

I wonder if I learned anything beyond my parents.

I look at those teenage daughters who do not run away, do not, do not, do not, and I see who I was at their age. Loving, God-entrenched, parent-respectful. I see expectations of unrealistic duplication given her circumstances.

I wonder what happened, but I know, and much was as it is. A wandering child. A pit and a climb. Both.

Now my daughter and I love each other, but there's a span of hurtful years, and there's a divide, and I wonder did I learn anything beyond my parents, beyond mistakes and pain? Is halting remedy enough.

I don't think she wants to know me truly and really. Maybe she isn't capable of that yet. Are any of us? Will she learn beyond her parents, beyond mistakes and pain?

God has been a parenting anchor for me even though the sail has whipped in the wind. Even through my inadequacies and blunders. Even through remedial rewiring. Even through, even through.

Bless this relationship and her, dear Lord. Thank you for new doors of grace and understanding and repair. Fracture happens but you, O good Father, restore beautiful light for shining.

Amen