Category: Uncategorized (Page 125 of 188)

In a matter of one post and 350 words or less I managed to make several unfair assumptions.
1. That people actually read this, other than KLM (or Connie G or Anna G).
2. That readers would be guaranteed hear what I’m trying to say,  rather than what is actually said.
3. That I am incapable of committing the same blunders as that which I critique.
Those are just the big ones. There’s a comments section, feel free to add your own running tally.

Now that I realize my blunders (thanks to the loving awareness of a good friend… and a quick sidenote: everyone needs at least one, if not four, friends that can play the awareness card for you without fear), I must make bloggy amends. Because if I don’t, then I wouldn’t be living what I strongly to be true about God, people, words and love.

Today on the View (how’s that for a segue?) they revisited last week’s debacle of the Bill O’Reilly interview. Because I don’t watch much TV (including news) and apparently none of my facebook friends watched either (because that’s where I get my news) I had no idea. But today’s conversation about how people speak of others really made me think. BO’R makes his mark through extreme, unthoughtful comments, often at the expense of others who typically have no voice. I don’t appreciate that. I think it’s lousy entertainment and downright awful “journalism” if you insist upon putting him in that category.

But this evening served as a reminder that these clothes aren’t fireproof. Though not intended (and I will attempt to limit this as my only justification), perhaps my flippant comments may also seem to be at the expense of others. I’ve said before how I hate limiting a conversation to simply issues, but I nevertheless find myself painting with a wide brush. If I claim to respect differing opinions but my remarks can be interpreted on the scale of hurtful, unthoughtful or disrespectful, then perhaps I should take up paper mache rather than writing.

The book of Hebrews tells us that the Word is a double-edged sword, able to cut to the deep (MM Paraphrase). Though I hold the scriptures in higher regard than other literature, or perhaps a blog, I do live with a profound conviction that words matter. I wouldn’t be at my desk night after night if they didn’t. Words have the ability to heal and to hurt. It is by a person’s word that you discover true identity. I believe the differentiator between really, really good parents and the rest of us lies in how they speak to their children and one another (Do they do what they say? How do they speak of & respect others?). God created the universe with the power of words; He spoke Life into being. 

So let tonight be an open letter of apology to anyone who I’ve carelessly tossed under the bus, as they say in corporate-world speak, especially when done so inadvertently. If I’ve taken your liberties in telling a story or painted a picture with the wrong colors, please forgive me. If I’ve recklessly tossed around words or ideas and you care deeply about those concepts, allow me the grace to say, “I’m learning” and also “I’m sorry.”

That, any perhaps I should hire an editor.

If I were to count all the weddings I’ve attended since college graduation, I’d ballpark today’s to be number 387. Though perhaps a harsh overestimation,  the year we did 13 (mostly crammed into July) did push us to our limits. It’s been a lot of Sherry’s baked chicken and stuffed shells with a chocolate fountain or two.

Of all these nuptial celebrations, I still enjoy the traditional liturgy (“with this ring, I thee wed…” and “let no man put asunder”). I’ve heard it enough that until this afternoon I would’ve felt confident reciting as if a monologue.

However, today’s service caught me off guard. I’m not sure if it was the extra man up front with the colorful robing or if I simply listened a tad better with no toddlers pulling on my dress. Perhaps Stephanie comes from a background that is more pacifist in nature – she did go to Ashland, you know.

Whatever the case may be, I heard no less than three times the charge for D & S to love one another so that the peace of God may bless their home. Now, though all of these are church-y enough words to be peppered throughout a service, the cause and effect nature of them – and then mostly the effect end – had me pause to reflect.

Wayne read that they were called to a “perfect love.” I was thrilled to hear that: we’re not called to perfection, or even a perfect marriage, only a perfect love. This type of lofty goal doesn’t immediately send me into doomed-for-failure mode, so it’s a starting block.

But the many times I heard “peace” this afternoon turned my wheels. What does a household established in peace even look like? Is it one of those places where you have to take off your shoes to enter the dining room, complete with dishes never used? Is it a garden with a little running water fountain to “reflect” in solitude? I hope not, because neither of these sound either exciting nor attainable.

Peace, if you ask me, lies not in the absence of conflict but in the ability to navigate through it with grace and love. I’d laugh in your face if you told me that contemplative reflection should encompass at least an hour of the day in my household – 2 under 2 just doesn’t make room for that. But I still believe that peace can rule it. I believe that in the stacks of books and in the toys strewn about comes opportunity to live peacefully. Sure, chaos might ensue when trying to leave the house before a predetermined time, but as moments in time are strung together, if done so with a bit of foresight and thoughtfulness, it can be worn as a necklace marking beauty amid struggle.

I’ve been in homes where, by entering, your blood pressure begins to rise and you find yourself envying the coats in the closet, hidden from the awkward, tense atmosphere. But I’ve also been welcomed into spaces that encourage you to kick back, take off your shoes and simply enjoy. Coincidentally, the second type of house typically offers the best conversation. 

So here’s to establishing the home in peace, rooted in love. Here’s to cutting out the words that reduce and belittle others. Here’s to having *enough* patience to listen and respond carefully. And here’s to loving and enjoying everything I have, not just what I wish would be.

Just below the surface of Upper Sandusky lies an underground group of people who, I believe, will someday just up and leave on September 30th to fly to some Caribbean island, only to return after the safety of November holds them in its arms. Though surviving is involved, it would not be for a million dollar prize.

This weekend climaxes the October-hating for myself; just 5 years ago I experienced my first deep loss of someone other than a grandparent. You know, one of those who “wasn’t supposed to go just yet.” A character that puts truth behind the sentiment that the “good ones go young.” A cult following still misses her ability to breathe life into you through a brief conversation.

Because so many loved her, I didn’t mourn well. Her role as wife and mother took precedent; then came her hundreds of third-grade children and the teacher-friends beside her. She made a priority of her partners in crime, friendships formed early in her career and life in Upper who walked beside her through the regularness of life. I believe Anna has so many strong friendships because of the way her mother modeled it.

I was simply a youth director at her church, the third of which her daughter endured. She handed over the van keys without question and supplied a constant stream of Death by Chocolate and White Trash. When I moved to town she tried to set me up with a friendship with another recent college grad who was new to town; I must say her knack of helping people connect and feel included should be bottled and sold for steep price.

She influenced so many that I thought perhaps I was magnifying her significance in my own life. Little old me wouldn’t make her list of top 100 and our Sunday lunch gatherings probably lacked importance in her own personal formation.

But finally, I’ve decided: I don’t care. I don’t care that others loved her longer or saw her more frequently or knew more about her. She would tell me in her own words to “build a bridge and get over it”, that these levels of significance are my own way of shutting down and turning off rather than letting myself hurt and heal. It’s much easier to tell yourself that it “probably didn’t matter anyway” than it is to grieve.

Professionals say there’s a tendency to “perfect” those who have passed away- to only remember the good, to make them saints and forget their faults. But in Vanessa’s case, it was her acceptance of her own faults that made her so beautiful. She’d be the first to tell you that she loved to bake, but she didn’t cook. She gave me permission to not be perfect. One time I took a student on a retreat who was known to be a “problem”. She told me that he had caused her to cry every night for a year when she had him in the third grade. She gave me permission to know that loving a student isn’t easy and sometimes takes everything out of you.

She provided me the foundations of what I believe to be true about being a wife and mother; she once said, the most important thing a father can do for his children is love their mother. She told me that the week after I got engaged. So I married a man who personifies that piece of advice.

If I really want to honor her, I’ll acknowledge that her presence had meaning in my life. I’ll put myself in the place of privilege and say she changed me. I’ll give myself the gift of being a brighter light for having known Vanessa.