Month: February 2015

My Third Attempt at Lent

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It was the same as any morning. I dropped my kids while they were still arguing with me over when it is an appropriate time to unbuckle their seat belts (not five blocks from the school parking lot I reminded them), and began to claw my way to the nearest Starbucks. I’ll get tea, which is NOT breaking any commitments, I told myself. Halfway there my tires squealed a U-turn because the ritual- it was the same.

When I got home I lay face-plant position on my bed praying for a B12 shot to the butt and thinking, This is quite possibly the most ignorant thing I’ve ever done. Not so much the idea of a season without, but a season without coffee. In fact, I’m limiting myself to tea and water only. I know. I mean, I have three children under ten years old, two of whom started to run fevers a couple nights before and one who can conjure more curious energy in five minutes than an educational preschool show. What. Was. I. Thinking?
So I started to come up with ways to get around it. There’s coffee ice cream which isn’t technically drinking coffee. Morning Thunder Tea, whose name alone gets my attention. I could smell coffee grounds and maybe some of them would accidentally get sucked up my nose and give me a boost. Or I could keep nibbling (stuffing) that entire can of kettle cooked caramels covered in dark chocolate and sprinkled with sea salt until it’s one big chewy explosion of delight in my mouth but really someone please just…help me!
And isn’t this the crossroads? Help me. Save me from the need for caffeine, that glorious blend of bitter and sweet. Save me from soothing with Girl Scout Cookies, a glass of wine, mindless T.V. watching, and all things that leave me ultimately empty. Save me from myself so there is room for trust. Help me open my hands to more of You.
Then when 40 days has passed and I’ve learned a little about doing without a little, that box of Thin Mints and a full-shot Mocha are mine. In moderation, of course.

What Engagement Means to a Boy

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The girls mirror each other on the couch with pillows and blankets and fevers. They have made a cocoon out of a comforter, and I nearly dive in with them.
Kyle is keeping his distance in the kitchen, happy to have an all-access pass to our Netflix subscription at the expense of his sisters’ miseries.
The belly of my coffee mug swells against a backdrop of physician notes, a listing of side effects for an antibiotic McKenzie needs. It’s long enough to make a person wonder if it’s humanly possible to survive any given medication.

Though I worry about their health in the midst of spy movies with gadget sounds and words like “vortex” and “Armageddon,” it’s my son’s disengagement that really has me bothered. I watch him as I have so many times and think, How do I engage this boy? What makes him come alive, and let’s do more of whatever that is because I’m terrified of his own cyclone of impending demise into an eternal pit of withdrawal. 

“You’re going with Dad.”
He bends the way he does when he’s feeling intense emotion. “Why? I don’t want to,” he says with a quiver in his voice.
“I’m sorry you don’t want to. Why don’t you want to?”
“Becausssse, there’s nothing to do and it takes soooo looong. It’s so booooring.”
“I’m sorry that it’s boring. Is there something that would make it more exciting?” As in, You’re going so suck it up Bud and find the fun. But less insensitive.
“No.”
“Well, it may be a long couple of hours. Here, let’s pack a few things in case you get antsy.”

I gather a Target bag of goodies and do not insist he change out of P.J.’s. He tromps to the garage door with dinosaur pants stuffed into the necks of his snow boots. It carries a sort of indignation that reminds me he is still alive somewhere in there.

Soon I get a text from him, which I’d like to pause and say is the weirdest. My children texting me. (sigh)
“Hi mom hows ‘i goin’?”
“Hi buddy! Good how are you? Miserable? :)”
“No. Bored.”
“I’m sorry you’re bored. What would make it more exciting?” And I’m annoyed at my own repetition.
“Freddys! We’re here right now.”
“Lucky!!”

Later when I force the T.V. off he wanders around our family room like the vultures in Jungle Book with their British accents and stunted syllables.

“So what we gonna do?”
“I dunno. Watcha wanna do?”
“Don’ start ‘at again.”

 Tap-tap-tap, go the small discs on the checkerboard. They send him into a tizzy of laughter until he can hardly catch his breath. “That is so funny. It was like tap-tap-tap.” 
I laugh because he is, and soon he’s found an energy that will not be stopped.

He blows milk bubbles to the lip of his glass.
He sucks in air as he speaks so the pitch of his voice rises a couple octaves of irritating.
He covers his mouth with his hands and says, “I can’t be quiet.” I noticed.
He scoots a rocking chair around the hardwood and gets his legs stuck in the sides.
He chews up…an eraser.

But he’s back, he’s him and I wonder how, when it becomes obvious.

His dad engaged him.

The night before Chase hit a breaking point with the noise of three children. As he tucked Kyle to sleep I saw them get forehead to forehead in a tender moment amid the most important parenting words I’ve heard: “I’m sorry.” It was vulnerable, priceless. It set the tone for the next day when they downed hamburgers and recited lines of movies. When they hopped in the truck and braved the snow. When they talked about respect with words like s&$!. When they came home as men.

Now please, go disengage. It’s bedtime. 

A Good Christian Girl Who Vowed Never to Read a Word of 50 Shades of Grey. And Then Did.

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There is that tinge of shame when I scroll through Facebook lately and see the stones being thrown to the 50 Shades of Grey movie. “Boycott!” urge the titles. “Stop Pornography!” To which I say, yes. Please. Stop it.
I read the articles of damnation, the strong language in blogs with phrases like “stylized sexual violence” and “abuse” and “twisted.” I get it. And I was there only months ago.

The mental judgments came automatically. Never. I will never read that crap. It wasn’t something I declared publicly, it was more of a quiet resolve because actually, I know much on the subject of sexual addiction. A subject I take seriously.

Until the first trailer came out and a single phrase wouldn’t let me rest: “You’re the one who’s changing me,” Christian said.

Aw, come on, I thought with the eye-roll of a teenager. That sounds…like a story…worth reading. But it’s, you know, erotica, which clicks off the tongue like a sin and is not a genre I have ever, ever read. Like, ever. 

So I did what I had to do. Cautiously and with copious amounts of trepidation I lifted the book jacket with the silver, textured tie. Two weeks later I finished the last chapter in the series. I know. I can hear your gasps of fright, but just bear with me for a minute.

Here’s the problem I’m finding with these well-intentioned bloggers who want everyone to donate to women’s shelters and scream with tear-stained compassion to save the generations, many of them haven’t read the books.

Since I have, I’ll give you my perspective. It might just be one you haven’t heard.

It’s Not About the Sex
I’m. Serious. In a fierce wrench of irony, this story is about abuse, freedom, and redemption. (Are you gasping again? You’re even covering your mouth with one hand, aren’t you?) Did you know that most addictions start from childhood exploitation? That the cycle of bullying and shame lead a person to try to survive in any way that will allow them to escape the pain of what they’ve endured? Meet Christian Grey. A very wounded man who was objectified first, then finds a woman who opens him to an emotion he’s never allowed himself to feel- love.

“The image of a powerful man who’s really still a little boy, who was horrifically abused and neglected, who feels unworthy of love from his perfect family and his much- less- than- perfect girlfriend…” – Anastasia Steele

I’d even go so far as to say this is an example of the kind of love we’re called to exhibit.

“And it strikes me like a thunderbolt- that’s what he needs from me- unconditional love.” – Anastasia Steele.

It Isn’t a Perfect Story
Duh. You may be completely uncomfortable with all the bombings. The F-kind. You might not be able to read the types of scenes E.L. James orchestrates because you know what it will do to your heart, or rather, your crotch. Great, have boundaries. I’m all about boundaries. I came across plenty that could be triggering to someone who’s a victim or recovering from addiction and it matters. Tread carefully, be aware when reading, and if you find yourself in a real relationship that is unsafe well, run like hell.
Are there ways other than blindfolding to speak the truth of love? Obviously.
Could she have left out all that sex? Yeah.
Was it a little codependent? In the end.

What The Characters Taught Me

“And now here you are- brave and strong…giving me hope. Loving me after all that I’ve done.”
“I’ve avoided intimacy for so long- I don’t know how to do this.” -Christian Grey

There is hope for those who have lost their way. Sure, we all make our choices and some of them have grave consequences, literally. Selfless love, however is powerful enough to bring the darkest of circumstances to light. The deepest of scars to healing. Christian had to face his demons, do the work, and stretch himself consider change that made him more authentic. Anastasia had to ask herself if she could love him through the process.
I suppose if I’m being this honest I can say that I have had to ask the same questions. Do I want authenticity in the face of pain, shame, failure? Yes. When my relationships fall short, wound me, need forgiveness, am I willing? I want to be.

Know Why Society is in a Tizzy
I was raised to be fearful. “Don’t let your lips touch alcohol! Don’t utter a single disrespectful swear word! Don’t even think it,” they’d say at a whisper. These can be helpful principles. Instead, it left me disconnected to the extreme that I was afraid of anyone who didn’t believe the same as me. Of four-letter words that frankly, some situations call for.
I often think of the adulterous woman in the New Testament who was dragged naked to Jesus’ feet. Or Solomon, who was likely a sex addict himself with all those concubines, and didn’t hold back a racy few poems in the Songs. Or David, who was a murderer that needed the sultry legs he saw on top of the veranda. Truth tells me God uses the broken, the damaged, “the bottom of the barrel sinner” (as in all of us who know we need grace). Fear can keep us from coming eye to eye with people who need to know they aren’t alone.

This is not some sort of have-to-it’s-the-absolute-best-book kind of rant. Maybe you’ve read all you want to know from this post and I respect that. I also support all manner of efforts to cease pornography. With nearly $3 billion dollars a year in revenue and the average age of exposure at eleven, it’s an epidemic that is ruining our marriages, culture, our souls. It alters brain chemistry, for goodness’ sake. Perhaps we should consider 24,000,000 adult internet sites combined with the accessibility of smartphones which lends me to think, this single movie may not be the ultimate tipping point.
The movie, I have not seen. I may never see it nor am I condoning that it’s a good way to spend your time. You’ll have to decide that for you.

What I am saying is this is a shockingly moving story of the power of unconditional love and healing.

Oh and that women’s shelter? Let’s give whether we see the movie or not.

As Big As

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Even with the swirl of air in the car I can smell her hair. Like some sort of laundry candle from a body care store where they entice me with lotions and potions that mostly just leave me wanting dessert.
I’m reminded of how all my children need haircuts and really, why can I not ever complete the task of making the appointment?

“How old is God? Like, as tall as a hundred million?”
“Bigger. He is forever.”
“Is He like, as big as our neighborhood or somethin’?”
I try to stay focused on my speed. “Or somethin’,” I respond with a laugh.

This is why I need children in my life. For the fun of it.

A Mess of Ski Poles and Hair

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“Since we’re over here let’s catch this lift,” Chase suggested.
“No.” I drew the word out for convincing purposes. “It will be all blacks.”
“Oh come on, that isn’t true. You are killing blue runs.”
“Fine.”
He’s right. I got this. And he wouldn’t really take me on a black run. But also the first time he took me out here he said I’d only need sunglasses which was a tearful mess of stupid. No, no. I got this.

Heavy from the weight of boots and boards we dangled our feet with relief above the slopes. I held tight to my phone knowing I’d already dropped a glove while taking a double selfie. Not smart. I’ll admit.

“Aren’t the kids doing amazing?”
“It’s so cute to see them in their gear.”
“Hey, do you have those snacks I packed?”

We bounced each time our chair passed a pole. The rolling noise of the cables reminded me of those interlocking gears I sometimes see before movies.

As the shack at the top came near, I wiggled and scooted to match the timing. I waited…and waited…and waited too long. What was to be an easy slide onto the mountain became a cockeyed mess of ski poles and hair.

“How are you going to get down? You know these are black runs,” said the attendant.
Or you could ask if I’m still in one piece and stop the lift so I don’t get pulped into a pile. But please, tell me more about how you think I’m a lost fool.
“Isn’t there a blue?” And why is no one helping me up? 
“Stay to that side. Whatever you do, don’t head back here.”
Yeah. I know. I saw those freaks with the moguls and crap. Just, sh.

I got my bearings and ignored the wedgie while Chase strapped his other foot to his board.
I’m ready. I’m gonna show them all how I can take this run. 

And then we got to the first hill. I checked from one side to the other for a way down and nearly peed my pants. This was it. This was the way. My only option.
Chase was already down. I could see him, barely, waving me to stay sideways. Which was great because that was my plan anyway. I felt like the kid at the swimming pool learning to take his first dive by himself. All swelled belly and dorky goggles, unable to move because the water keeps looking bigger and more shark-infested.

Kay. Don’t think. Just go. You can go. Go. 

Slip by little slip I eased down as everyone else flew dangerously around me. Soon my calves were burning. Burning, I tell you. I took a minute to breathe and rest, and noticed Chase pointing again. More angled. More…down.

He’s right. I’ll just, yeah. A little faster. I began slowly, striding in chapters and then resting until suddenly I was falling again. Snow came at my eyes like a blizzard, into my jacket at the neck, and smacking my face. I couldn’t see anything as I held my breath and reached with my poles and boots for some sort of grounding. That’s all I was thinking. Dig with heels. Try the poles. Eventually I stopped in a heap, exasperated and relieved.

“Oh babe! I’m so sorry.” Don’t think I didn’t detect the snicker in his throat.
“I just,” I said starting to cry. “I can’t do that!”
He laughed. “I know it, I’m so sorry.”
“I, I didn’t know if I would stop and it scared me.”
“You lost a ski.”
“I did?” I looked up Mt. Everest in time to see a sweet man with graceful precision halt where my ski lay. It was easy for him, the way he swaggered over to us.
“Thank you very much.”

We sat there for several minutes while my tears dried at the lip of my goggles. I breathed full, taking in the scene with more respect.

“You ready?”
“I’m ready.”

I bet Kenzie has cried today too. I’m so having a beer tonight.