My daughter played recreational softball for several years. She was never particularly good at it, but she practiced with dedication and played even “the bench” with enthusiasm. I always admired the girls who sat the bench the most for being the ones who often led the team in the rousing cheer that went something like this:
MY NAME IS ANNIE AND I KNOW WHAT I GOT, I GOT A BAT THAT’S HOTTER THAN HOT.
They would take turns, with each girl shouting out her name at the appropriate time in the cheer. Fortunately for my daughter, she always got to play on teams that encouraged everyone, from the girls with the hot bats down to the girls who never went any further than first base. She was never the worst player, but she was never the best, either.
After Easter dinner yesterday, we looked through old photos and I scanned a few in to play around with in Photoshop. I came home and started fiddling with this picture of my brother. Doesn’t he look so cute? Oh, I know, he looks like a little geek, with his hands on his hips like that and his dark socks, and one higher than the other, no less. But it was 1967. What else would you expect? The photo is a tiny Polaroid so the face detail is not real clear. You can’t see that he has the cutest little grin on his face.
My brother is a lot like my grandfather. Both these guys were simple, straightforward people. They never met a stranger. They never hid behind a mask. In computer terms, they were WYSIWYG people, what you see is what you get. No putting on airs with these two.
Both of them had lots of friends. I ran into an old friend of my brother’s and he talked fondly of what a good friend my brother had been. My brother has been dead ten years. My uncle said that he still runs into people who tell him what a good man my grandfather was. My grandfather has been dead twenty years. There are lots of stories that could be told on both these men.
As usual, I have gotten off my track. The thing I wanted to write about is that, in playing around with these photos, I put a “filter” on them that makes them look a little less like a photo and a little more like a watercolor painting. I don’t yet know enough about Photoshop to do a really fine job of enhancing the photos, but what I did was just enough to bring my “drawing eyes” out for a moment or two. In looking at the photos, I could see the lines and angles and curves that would make a drawing if I wanted to take a chance and pick up a pencil.
I am not particularly good at drawing, but I had to take an illustration class for school. While I was taking the class, I learned that we all can draw, or at least we could when we were young, before anyone told us we couldn’t. Part of what it takes is to really scrutinize the object we are sketching, and not to draw from our memory. Given a little practice and some courage, most anybody can improve their drawing skills.
My hardest work in illustration class was to relax and do my drawing without comparing myself to the other students. I had to lose my inhibitions about my own work. It can be intimidating to draw next to someone who has drawn eyes that are in proportion to the nose, which actually looks like a nose.
I especially enjoyed doing pastel chalk drawings on brown craft paper. It probably helped that we did these drawings outside on a perfect spring day. But doing those drawings was the closest thing to meditation that I have experienced. My mind seemed to empty of all the chatter that usually is in there, and I just felt at one with my paper and chalk. Making mayhaw jelly does that for me too, come to think of it. That’s a post for another day.
I don’t have a bat that’s “hotter than hot”. I’ll never be as easy with people as my grandfather and my brother were. My pencil will never draw as well as M. C. Escher’s. (Check out his posters, especially the "drawing hands" one.) But wouldn't it be a shame not to try new things, simply because of fearing that we might not be the best at doing it?It all sort of reminds me of the story of the Jewish rabbi who said that when he went to his reward, he would not be asked “why were you not Moses?” He expected to be asked “why were you not you?”(Another part of what I wanted to write is that when I am open as I was in the post "Chasing the Rabbits of Easter", sometimes it scares me, and I want to disengage, to run and hide. And so the real issue is not being brave enough to play softball, or to be as easy around people as my grandfather and brother were, or to draw. The real issue is to be brave enough to let others see my pains, to take off my masks, to let that skeleton out of my closet, the one that shows I am imperfectly human, just like everybody else. Imagine that. I am human, and full of fears and flaws, as well. I am.)
Chuck, in his blog, The World According to Chuck, wrote today about the loss of his father, about how the grief changes as time wears on, but it never really leaves you. At least that is what I heard him saying.
But then again, I have this habit of missing the main point entirely and zeroing in on a few lines that are not an integral part of what is being written, but practically shout to be lifted out of a piece and scrutinized more closely…Okay, so I have a skewed view and I waste a lot of time chasing rabbits.
Here is the rabbit I need to chase,
“I went to Easter service two years ago and cried, I was so scared. It's hard to be scared on Easter; it doesn't make sense. Still, I was in bad shape. I would get worse. I am better now.”
Last Easter, I (and my family) was in bad shape. My teen-age son was in a drug rehab facility, and we spent the day visiting with him. He was still a bit moody about being in rehab, but we all made the best of things and had a good visit in spite of the circumstances.
Following Chuck’s pattern, I (and my family) have gotten worse. But, to be fair, it isn’t just Chuck’s pattern. It is the pattern of life, really. Only, up until the last few years, I lived in such an idealized fairy-tale world that I could never have imagined the ongoing heartbreak that would come into my life in the last few years, never could have imagined myself in bad shape, and getting worse.
But, to get back on track, this Easter, I (and my family) have gotten worse. Right now my son is struggling in a relapse. It feels like we are back at square one, and the upward climb looks rough, to say the least. I have hard and complicated decisions facing me. And I come to Easter, the most glorious and hopeful of all seasons, scared to death, and with very little hope. It doesn’t make sense.
Though it does not look like it, the truth is I do have a hope, a hope that is not rooted in the outcome of my son’s struggles with substance abuse, a hope that is of more substance than fairy tale endings, and the absence of conflict in one’s life. I am reminded of the verse in Hebrews (11:1, I believe), “Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things unseen.”
There will be lot of Christians who will celebrate Easter in relative comfort and peace. I will only speak of myself here, but for so many years, that is how I celebrated Easter, with no real heartbreak in my life. With everything going my way, what was there not to celebrate about Easter?
This past Thanksgiving, when my son was in a program designed to help him turn his life around, and it looked like he was finally getting it, and having hope for himself, I was so grateful to God for new beginnings. Yet, in the back of my mind, the nagging question was, if it all caves in tomorrow, will I still be grateful? In church, we sang How Great Thou Art, and I was crying, thinking how easy it is to sing that song when our children are excelling at school, when we have the money to provide for their healthcare, when we know they are prepared to face the world in a healthy manner. Those things are no longer true in my life. Can I still sing How Great Thou Art? Can I still be grateful? Can I still rest in a “peace that passes all understanding”? Yes, yes I can, most days, that is.
But the added benefit, the real sparkle to my own gem of disappointment is a new appreciation, and compassion, for the many people around me who quietly suffer their own disappointments, the ones who may just feel that the church has no place for them. I feel so badly about all the years that I lived in my own sanctimonious little Christian world, the one where good Christians did not have problems with their children, the one where good Christians were rewarded for their goodness and their faith, the one where good Christians never, ever, strayed, or had doubts, or messy lives. There are a lot of hurting people out there, people who fly “under the radar” and go unnoticed in their loneliness and their pain. I knew about those hurting people once, even when I myself was not hurting, when I was younger, but I grew up, and got comfortable in my own happy little world.
I don’t know for sure all that I am trying to say here. I am probably trying to say too many things at once. If I were speaking out loud, I would probably drawl it out in my slow Southern way and use bad grammar for emphasis: I think I’m fixin’ to enter a whole new ball game where my Christianity is concerned. The only thing I know for sure is, I don’t need no game face for this game.
Part of what I am saying is that if you are hurting this Easter, dare to take your game face off, and let someone see your pain. I know have a real problem acting like I believe this, but I really do think it is true that God did not intend for us to suck it up and bear our burdens all alone (the verse “bear one another’s burdens and so fulfill the law of Christ” comes to mind). If you are in a church where they just don’t recognize your brand of pain, shop around and find a church that does acknowledge your pain. It is hard work, church shopping, and it may take some time, but I do believe there are churches out there that are doing it right in terms of reaching out to hurting people, and I am confident that God will lead you to one of them.
The other part of what I am saying is that if you are one of those who, for whatever reason, at this moment, are “too blessed to be stressed”, well, good for you, but take your damn game face off. You know good and well that you have had your moments of messiness and doubt too. Quit trying to look like nothing ever goes wrong for you in your Christian walk.
And if you are really deep in delusion and you think that you will never have any problems because you are just too devoted to God and His ways, ask God to open your eyes to the suffering of those around you, if you dare.
Whew. In a few minutes, I will worry that I have offended someone or that I should have not been so open in my writing today but I am better now.
At least for the moment.
The Cross
An innocent man, beaten, offers no resistance.They lead him through the streets,taunting and snapping whips,he is their beast to be tamed, a self-proclaimed servant. It is a painful and slow way to die, crucified on a Roman cross.I want to close my ears to the agony of those words,Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani, my God, my God, whyhave you forsaken me?
How alone he must have felt,
And yet one who will listen hears,Father forgive them, they know not what they do.I come to Easter, satisfied to celebrate the victory of resurrection,and dare to turn my headfrom the ugliness of the cross, wanting only to see the empty tomb,to hear the shouts, He has risen. He has risen.Yet there is a disturbing image:My Saviour, the risen Lord, hangs bruised and bleeding, rejected.Alone, the sinless one bears my sin.Facing the cross, I wonder,How could they nail Him to that tree?Turning away,I see the hammer in my hand.
but the truth is, I am a private cryer, can't let my guard down like that. Instead, I will have myself a little pity party. Care for some shrimp mold, or pecan tassies, or maybe some M&M cookies? I suppose I could have boiled some crawfish, but I don't eat the things myself, and I didn't figure any of you would eat them either.
Too many places where I went wrong, too much time spent making the list of wrongs, too much wrong to be fixed...
I am a little discouraged, to say the least.
Haven't taken any photographs lately, haven't done any collages, still acting like I am looking for a job, regret dropping school, worried about my son, got an unhappy thirteen year old and an angry husband.
Wrote two convoluted entries, one about loving metaphors, one about how long it takes me to let go and accept change.
When I started this blog, things looked like they were turning around and getting better. I thought I had come through a major personal growth spurt, but it turns out, I have fallen, and I can't get up, and furthermore, to use my husband's crude expression, I have ripped myself a new one on the way down....ha ha ha, I amuse myself.
And I did not want to come here and complain and moan and groan. Just wanted to let you know, I am an unhappy camper at the moment...and I refuse to blame it on hormones....
Because, that's just life. Everybody's got troubles. In the words of a wise Southern woman I talked with this week, "if somebody tells me they ain't got troubles, I'd be worried about that person."Lagniappe (a little something extra)...I was trying to find a royalty free image of boiled crawfish for the end of this post, but could not find one. While looking, I saw a picture of a single crawfish and it reminded me of three crawfish I once knew, Huey, Dewey, and Louie. My daughter wanted a crawfish to keep, not to eat, and her ever obliging grandmother (who we were visiting in Louisiana) brought her down to the local seafood shop to purchase a single crawhish, for a pet. The guy knew us, and so he gave my daughter, not one, but three little crawfish, which we dutifully transported back to our two story house in Houston. I was not prepared to house the three little fellows, and so they stayed in the extra bathtub a day or two, well, it may have been a few days, er weeks, longer than that, I don't remember. What I do remember is the plaintive moan that came drifting down the stairs one morning. Louie had gone amiss. Huey and Dewey were still there, but Louie was gone. And he stayed gone for a couple of days, until the morning near-sighted Mama stumbled into the shower butt naked and looked down to see she was not alone in there. Louie was staring at her with his beady little eyes. Mama let loose with more than a plaintive little moan and Louie was ever so glad to get back upstairs with Dewey and Louie. I never did figure out how he got down the stairs in the first place.I also saw a picture of a dog and a crawfish staring each other down that brought back memories. The house we lived in while I was growing up was built on land that was once a rice field. We always had a few "crawfish holes" in the backyard, and occasionally, we'd see a crawfish coming out of the ground. The dogs never quite knew what to make of the beady-eyed creatures. Well see, I have cheered myself right up, talking about crawfish, of all things.
(Or some might say I have too much time on my hands!)It never ceases to amaze me, the things people choose to document on the web. Check this out. This woman has built a church using 75,000 Lego™ blocks and approximately five months of her life. It is complete with a baptistry and filled with little Lego™ worshippers. There are even restrooms and a water fountain located on the walls leading up to the balcony! I looked at all the photos, and I found her construction log notes to be most intriguing, so much humor in her writing. The web is a weird and wacky place. I feel right at home.
I have some answers.Okay, chil'ren, here is a little bedtime reading, guaranteed to bore you right to sleep. It is one of those things that go around the web, and I got tagged by martha . (Thanks Martha, for the challenge, and the food for thought.) Though it was fun to answer I don't know if I will pass the thing on or not. I hope it's not like a chain letter that will bring me seven years of terrible bad luck if I break it.1. You're stuck inside Farenheit 451. Which book do you want to be? I would probably want to be the Bible. Well, wait a minute, yes, like martha, martha says, that is a trick question, stuck in there to drive us quiet and wary types (the ones who have to have the real, right answer, we know who we are) to distraction…now let’s see, what was the name of that totally bland and neutral book, the one that would not change anybody, the most useless book in the world…that would guarantee my survival. Maybe I would be the Lower Podunkville phone book or the Fungus of the Month picture calendar.
2. Have you ever had a crush on a fictional character? All the time, all the time. That is a silly question to ask someone with an imagination as active as mine, and embarrassing for me to answer. Ummm, Indiana Jones…and his father. I have not had many crushes on fictional characters lately. My fantasy thinking time has recently been more devoted to cataloging characteristics of various real men into the ultimate fictional character to have a crush on.
3. The last book you bought was...? Making Journals by Hand, which I was a little disappointed with and Out of the Question: Into the Mystery, by Leonard Sweet, which I am still reading, and not disappointed with.4. The last book you read was...? Writing Down the Bones, by Natalie Goldberg. I will confess right here that the internet has somewhat spoiled my reading habits. I tend to read bits and pieces of books on the web, and then move on to another book, another subject, like a delicate little hummingbird. That, and the fact that I am on a budget and in arrears with the library at the moment, has slowed down my formerly voracious reading habits. I was holding my (seriously) overdue books until Thanksgiving, when they usually have a food drive, where you could bring canned goods and they would forgive your overdue book fines. They not only did not have the “forgive your fine” week, they also RAISED the fine from a totally insignificant amount to an exhorbitant Mafia style amount, designed to hurt procrastinators like me into taking our due dates more seriously. One library lady told me she would work with me on my fines, since I DID return all the books, but I am too ashamed to go back and find her. I keep hoping they will, like, give up on me, and clear my record, or that the statute of limitations will take effect, or something.
If I ever do get back in the good graces of my local library, I will probably check out the book Fahrenheit 451. I read a little of Ray Bradbury way back in high school, but I do not remember what I read. And I will read more fiction. I hate to spend money on fiction. And I will check out some of May Sarton's poems and journals.5. What are you currently reading? The Leonard Sweet book I just bought, silly.6. Five books you would take to a desert island...Wait a minute, WHY am I going to this island, how long will I be there, am I going to be all by myself, will there be other people around, and what kind of people will they be (readers, intellectuals, philosophers, or just people who will complain about the lack of televisions), and most importantly, what am I going to eat?
When all that gets settled, I would most definitely bring my Bible, either my current Ryrie study Bible (NIV) or possibly, my Living Bible from my high school days. Assuming I am stuck on the island, I would probably bring a few books I have intended to read, and have not gotten around to, like one of Anais Nin’s journals (which one?), Bonhoeffer’s Letters From Prison (or another one of his books), something by Merton….whoa, that is four already. I have a problem, because I would want to bring one of Leon Hale’s books along (I might just have to bind several of them into one book). His writing is mostly essays about life and people, sometimes humorous, sometimes deep, and sometimes sad. The thing I love about his sad writing is that he does not do it often and it always comes up from behind and surprises me. His writing would provide variety and entertainment. Oh yeah, he also writes about the great state of Texas. Then I would also want a book of poetry. One book that comes to mind, because I have not read it yet, is one of Charles Bukowski’s. Right now, I can’t think of the name of it and I don’t see it on the link I have provided. I have had my eye on it at our Books a Million. Of couse, the smarter thing to do might be to bring an anthology of some type, again, to provide variety.But on the other hand, what about books I have already read, and would like to refer back to? Like Bird by Bird, by Anne Lamott, or Let Your Life Speak, by J. Parker Palmer….can’t they just install a library on this island, just for me? Because, they both have new books out that I know I want to read.
And what about all my personal correspondence that I might want to read again?
I can tell you one thing right now, I don’t think I am going on this here island trip. And how can it be a desert island? Isn’t that an oxymoron? I mean, an island is surrounded by water, a desert has no water. What gives?
I guess I would need a book on how to survive on a desert island too. Does THAT have to count as one of my books?
7. What three people are you passing this stick on to and why? I don’t yet know who I will pass this on to.Note to Miss Martha: Anything else you want to know?...And you thought you were charmingly neurotic! Well…okay...maybe my neurosis just defies description!
