Yes, I See Me in the Wee

I've been wanting to upload this for a while, but the ending is week so I put it off.  March is coming to a close, so here goes, weak ending.  Suggestions welcome.  :)

Yes, I See Me in the Wee

I had to dremel the dog’s toenails today.  I didn’t know dremels existed until this dog.  It’s a very cool electric thingy with a rotating head covered by an emory band, so it spins doggie toenails into dust.  I bought it because clipping his nails required the muscles of a trainer,  because I was terrified of getting into the quick, and because the process was so traumatizing to him that he would wee whenever he saw the clippers.  So, the last time the groomer clipped him to the quick, I bought the dremel.

Now my lab wees when he sees the dremel.  It doesn’t hurt, but he wees.  Every time.  I give him treats, I woo and pet and praise him.  He cowers and wees.  I roll him on his back, lay a towel on his privates, and start the dremel on low.  It doesn’t matter how low.  Whiz goes the dremel; wee goes the dog. 

He does the same at bath time.  A bath means being praised for every baby step into the tub, getting watered down with a warm spray, and being gently massaged with a fluffly glove.  He takes on a droopy turkey-vulture look from the minute I say, “Bath,” head hanging low, eyes looking down, suspicious that this one time will be different than all others. 

I’m the one who bathes and dremels him, the one who wipes out his ears with a cotton swap, the one who brings the flea meds into the house.  I am the adversary.  In between those events, he is cuddled next to me or begging to be petted.  But, when a dremel or cotton ball or flea pill appears, he eyes me suspiciously, wishing I would stop interfering in his life.  I become the one he tries to hide from.  The one he dreads.  I am the weirdo who won’t leave him alone. 

Cleaning up the last puddle of wee today, I thought, “You ridiculous, ridiculous dog.  Stop making this mess.  You have nothing to fear in me.  I wish you could speak English.  I wish I could speak dog.”

Yes, I got it.  Yes, I saw me in the wee.  Running, hiding, weirding out over things I can’t figure out.  Peering around a corner at the future, wondering if my master will really insist on another bath or clean ears or good medicine.  And if so, will they look different than last time?  My head might know He is good and loves me, and experience might tell me He has only done me good.  But, my ridiculous, ridiculous flesh still sometimes asks if I can really trust him this time not to drown or poison me, trim me too close, or cause me unnecessary pain.  And I sulk and tremble and wee.

I’m glad He’s patient.  And that keeps interfering. 

100 Questions

Some time last year, I started listening to an audio book about Leonardo da Vinci, and how he thought. In this book, it talked a lot about being able to think differently from everyone else, and having a variety of skills that you are particularly good at. One section, dealing with introspection, said to get a pen and paper, and write down 100 questions. These questions are important questions that are important to you.

This seemed like a daunting task, but I was in school at the time, and decided to work on this in class. Should I have been paying attention to class?  Sure.  But somehow I still managed to graduate, so we'll let it slide.

I started with the big questions, like "How do I know God?" and "How do I live well?"  But as the list went on, they started moving from these kind of questions, to far more personal questions, like "Why do I want to be a writer?" and "Why is pride so easy for me?"

The exercise then said to take these 100 questions and find your top 10.  Of these top 10, pick 1 and spend time thinking and writing about it; Develop it, go deep, and keep stripping away the layers.  This teaches us to not only seek questions, but also to mature those questions into meaningful thought.  

I have found this to be a very helpful exercise, and every once in a while, I take one of these questions as a prompt for my writing projects. It's not as daunting as you might think.  Just start with the big ones, and keep thinking until you have reached 100. You'll find you are more prone to think deeply about things you otherwise wouldn't have noticed.

Falling With Style

I went skydiving for the first time this past weekend. One thing I learned is why people phrase it that way when they go skydiving having never been before. "I went skydiving for the first time." It's not so much to emphasize it's the first time, but to suggest that it's not the last. Everything about skydiving that has ever been described to me about the unique experience of hurtling toward the earth from two and a half miles above it is true, but in most aspects falls short. Exhilaration and trepidation flood your senses as the vibrations of the small aircraft's wheels racing down the runway fade into a subtle transition. The vibrations are altered as the lift on the wings, seemingly generated by pockets of air bombarding every inch of surface on the plane, carry you into the sky. It's too much, let me start at the beginning.

Everyone has those moments in life when you realize that a seed of greatness has been planted. Too many times it withers and dies, but sometimes it culminates into a hallmark experience. This particular seed originates from a passing comment I made about skydiving to a coworker. From there it generated some interest and after a few weeks of planning we found ourselves scrunched together in a truck on the road to a rural airport in Palatka. One of my coworkers, scared to pieces about the upcoming event, stayed behind when we got to the airfield to smoke (not her last) cigarette to calm her nerves. My other coworker, the complete opposite, could not wait to do all the prep work required to participate in the tandem skydive. I gauged my emotions to be somewhat middling between their two extremes. However, I had resolved to go skydiving that day and that's exactly what I intended to do.

Finally, the go-big-or-go-home moment had arrived. Settling into the plane, my two brave coworkers who accompanied me on this adventure and I became quite close to one another. Quite literally, actually. On a tiny plane, we fit the three of us, our skydive instructor partners, three videographers, and the pilot. Nine, including me. On the ride up I mused on the idea that these might be the last nine faces I see in this life. Of course, I had been doing that for the last twenty-four hours. This might be that last time I close at work. This might be my last dinner. This might be the last time I eat eggs (I'm glad the eggs turned out so well in that case!). On the ascent, it didn't take long for the trees to become miniature and for the streets, houses, lakes, and rivers to appear as though they were merely drawn upon a child's play mat. Rattling our way into the clouds on the single-propellered rocket of destiny, it was finally time to shake off any lingering doubts and prepare for the last decision I would ever make ("No," I thought. "Knock it off with those crazy thoughts." "Fine thought," retorted my inner heckler, "from a guy about to jump out of a plane.").

So it was that my less-frightened coworker vanished from the opening in the air craft. I didn't even see where she went. Not down, certainly. Just vanished. After a moment, my less-courageous coworker vanished too! I'm pretty sure I heard a final profanity come out of her before any trace of her was lost to the roaring wind. Finally, my turn. I turned and asked my instructor if I was my attachments were secure. You see, in tandem skydiving you're not connected to the parachute. You're connected to the guy who is connected to the parachute. To say that notion is alarming is an understatement. "Do you feel secure?" my instructor shouted over the wind gushing in our faces. "I feel very close to you right now!" I shouted back. Indeed, there was absolutely no room between us thanks to the bindings of the harnesses. He laughed and responded, "You're gonna have to buy me dinner after this, I think!"

Now, I had a witty response. I just don't remember what it was. This might sound like a convenient alibi but one, two, THREE! And the illusion of ground that was the airplane's floor suddenly no longer existed for me. The wind that had been pounding the walls of the last airplane I'd ever(Stop it, brain.) was now like a thousand invisible hands holding me up in the air. As cliche as it is to say, it's the only permissible use of the phrase, "it was just like flying." The ground didn't seem to even be approaching despite my 80mph decent. But about halfway to the parachuting altitude I realized that like Buzz Lightyear I was not flying. I was falling, but with style.

Finally, the videographer opened his parachute and appeared to shoot upward in my view. This indicated to me that it was nearly time for my instructor and I to do the same. And, as planned, we did. Freefalling may seem scary, but try falling softly and gently hoping along the way that the freefall doesn't recommence. The sensation of getting caught in midair by a complex length of material connected by an organization of string is one of a kind. Your life literally depends on the integrity of that system and the person who put that system into place. In the meantime, as if for comedic relief to your dire situation, you might feel like Winnie the Pooh floating along by balloon humming "I'm Just a Little Black Raincloud." What a rush! Followed by the most singularly unique view of the earth I have ever been privileged to witness. There I was, wisping along slowly downward toward the safety (or demise, depending on your velocity) of the ground.

Now during the free fall, there is no hope of conversation. The plane shields most of the wind when the doors open but out in the sky there is no barrier. There is a tiny hurricane in both of your ears until the parachute saves your life. Afterward, five to seven quiet minutes are solely yours to take in the view and realize that you barely know the person behind you as you attempt to make any degree of conversation. This same person who you have just met is the same person in whose hands you have put your life into. That is an enormous amount of faith to have in a person anyway, and I don't even have faith in milk the day after the container tells me it expires.

This epiphany made me realize exactly what I had gotten myself into. To me it was another moment of greatness in my life, which may sound a bit exaggerated to some. I define a moment of greatness as an experience in which we do not know if we will come out of it okay and, upon doing so, come out the other side transformed forever. Indeed, it's impossible not to look at things a bit differently after skydiving. You learn a lot about yourself in those moments leading up to those points of no return. You learn a lot about faith and gain a perspective on things that you might find surprising. All of these notions may seem ambiguous and subjective in nature, but that is the whole point. Each time someone experiences a moment of greatness, even if it can be described with human words such as skydiving, running a marathon, going for a job interview, etc., it nonetheless cannot be defined by anything less than the experience of the person living it and how they choose to interpret it.

Skydiving has become a mainstreamed bucket list must. However, I can vouch for the fact that it has earned its renown for being something one would be remiss not doing at least once in their life. Whether it happens to bring terror or wonder to you, there is nothing quite like it. Be warned though, the moment you touch the ground you're going to be wondering why you had never done this sooner, and what your next overdue adventure is going to be.

Red Light Prayer

I have a big boy job now.

What that really means, is that I commute to work, have a desk and computer, work eight hours, and have a lunch break. It's nice - something I'm not used to, but I'm figuring out how offices and commuting work.

Our small group has been focusing on being more intentional with our time, money, and energy - essentially, if we acted like we were missionaries in our home towns. One morning, a couple weeks ago, I was driving to work, and got caught at the same red light I always get caught at. Jacksonville residents might know that 9A near Philips Highway just added 9B to cut off some of the traffic build up. 9B and Philips Highway, I always get stopped at the light.

That morning, I was in traffic, and looked in my rear view mirror. The middle-aged man in the BMW was yelling at someone on the phone. I mean, really screaming. I chuckled a little bit, thinking that this was the picture of unhappy corporate America. Then that small voice in the back of my head said, "Pray for him."

Of course! Being more intentional with my time means praying for people I see who are struggling. Feeling like an idiot, I spent the next five minutes praying for this guy behind me. Turns out, we work in the same building, and parked three spots away from each other, so there might more to that story later.

This started something I call "Red Light Prayer" every morning. As soon as I pull up to this intersection, I start praying for the person behind me, even if they haven't arrived yet. It's been something that has helped me be compassionate to complete strangers, and use my time productively in the car. Red lights don't bother me as much, because as I continue to be faithful in prayer, I know God is going to put people who need prayer behind me.

This morning, I pulled up to the stop light at 9B and Philips Highway, and waited for the person behind me to show up. They didn't. The light turned green, and I drove through. Clearly, malicious forces were giving me this green light to prevent me from praying for someone.

I prayed for the person in front of me instead. Take that Satan. That's what you get for giving me a green light. 

Puting a Period at the End of this Thought.

The Yellow Wallpaper has been my absolute favorite short story since I was in high school. Reading it every few years always sparks some new interpretation. This is the beginning of a final I was writing but never finished for lack of ability to express my thoughts. However, now that the pressure is off, I believe I have finally created a more cohesive thought.

 ****

Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s The Yellow Wallpaper is narrated by a delusional and insane narrator, through this bias narration, the imagery and diction contributes to the confusion and ambiguity within the story. The narrator’s conflict with the yellow wallpaper, which symbolizes her instability, pushes her towards a deeper sense of insanity and the imagery often symbolizes the elevation of her paranoia and confinement. Being narrated by the main character results in ambiguity in reference to her sanity until the end.

When the narrator discusses her condition, she remains slightly ambiguous., restating only what her doctor, husband says, then brushes it off, “So I will let it alone and talk about the house” (2). She does sometimes assert possible solutions to her problem but she never hypothesizes about the root of her problem. The quote above is also the first incident where she buries her problems by talking of the house, which ultimately begins to illustrate her madness.

The narrator speaks very often of her “husband” but due to some strange statements about him, it could be asserted that this “husband” could be her doctor with whom she has fictionalized some romantic connection with in order to cope with her presence in an insane asylum. Through the reading, we learn that he does not stay with her at night, “John is away all day, and even some nights when his cases are serious” (4). It is highly coincidental that she married a man who happened to be an expert in mental disorders who has extreme “cases” (4). There is enough ambiguity to categorize his character as the doctor and her character as the patient. He talks to her patronizingly, the way a doctor who believed his female patient to be simply suffering “hysteria” would in the early 1900’s (4). The final moment that supports this assertion is during an episode between John and his “sister”, Jennie, “I heard him ask Jennie a lot of professional questions about me. She had a very good report to give” (17). This quote persuades the reader to also question whether Jennie is John’s sister or a nurse. The use of the term “report” insinuates that Jennie is literate in the diagnoses of “hysteria” and again questions the legitimacy of our narrator’s observations.

The images within this story are highly personified, adding a sense of the paranoia of our narrator. This imagery repeats the feelings of paranoia several times throughout the story. The narrator applies human aspects to the objects within the house, “All those […] bulbous eyes” in the wallpaper. The eyeballs insinuate her feelings of being observed by Jennie and John; she expresses her awareness of their watchful eyes by putting eyes onto the wallpaper. More personification of objects in her past perpetuate her personification of the things around her, “I remember what a kindly wind the knobs of our big, old bureau used to have, and there was one chair that always seemed like a strong friend. I used to feel that if any of the other things looked too fierce I could always hop into that chair and be safe” (7). Further personification of the furniture around her insinuates bother her desire for protection and her paranoia.

Images within her room insinuate her confinement (possibly unwilling confinement). This imagery is perpetuated by several different descriptions provided by the narrator. Her description of her room provides more insinuations of confinement, but to a stronger extent, it appears to be more of a prison. Her “bedstead is nailed down […] and the “bedstead is fairly gnawed” (18), she sees “bars” in the wallpaper (15), and the windows themselves have “bars” (13).

This short story contains an interesting use of pronouns. Gilman often changes her use of pronoun very quickly, without notice, to confuse and interchange the point of view and perpetuate our characters madness. One scene especially illustrates the narrator’s confusion with her use of pronouns, “I pulled and she shook, I shook and she pulled, and before morning we had peeled off yards of that paper” (17). The beginning of this scene approaches these two women as separate entities, ultimately bringing them together- insinuating that the woman is actually seeing herself within the wallpaper and the other woman is a mirroring vision of our narrator. Gilman uses pronouns to interchange the speaker and actor. The word “creeps” several times, which refers to someone crawling on all fours. Throughout the readers encounters with “creep” the “creeper” changes form. “it creeps” (14), “she is always creeping” (16), “you have to creep” (19), “I had to creep” (20). This use of alternating pronouns shows the narrator to slowly change from a depressed woman to an out of control, animal-like individual.

Conflict within this short story occurs in several different areas, her “husband” presents a sort of contingency, her writing serves as a conflicting exercise of coping, but the yellow wallpaper is what drives our narrator to her ultimate loss of control. She is obsessed with this wallpaper, it affects her directly, and as she interprets it, she puts herself into the wallpaper. This results in a fabricated vision of herself- running her wild. The use of pronouns in reference to, “she” the woman in the wallpaper and “I” the narrator is a representation of herself as she attempts to free herself from her imprisonment.   

Every Reason

Every day I see You, though I really don’t

I really want to get to know You, but my flesh really won’t
I’m taking off time and building up my walls
Just to watch them fall on down

Since You are just, and You are good; You will help me right now

[chorus:]
You calmed the storms on that dead sea

You brought peace to this war-torn city
You are the cool even when
There is a high humidity

You are the One who brought me life

Living, You said, I would die

If everything You’ve said so far is true

Then I have every reason

To believe You

Broken panes and ashes, aren’t what I had thought

Beauty comes from the not beautiful, I guess that it just ought

I’m hoping that You will come and save my life
‘Cause I don’t need a thing else
You are great, and in control, and You hear as I cry out

[chorus]

I feel sometimes like I’m caught

In the mediocre

Help me to rise above,

‘Cause it’s hard to see You

Sometimes it’s hard to see You

[chorus]

Snarky Stephen Loves Discrimination

When I ask someone what kind of music they like, the answer I dread hearing is “I like all types!”  I dislike this answer because it tells me nothing, and does not answer my question. What do you like means what do you like more than other things. To say that you like all things more than other things means nothing, and actually is wasting the gesture of me wanting to get to know you.

Cue, Snarky Stephen 

Hearing this answer is a problem for me, because it immediately engages what I call “Snarky Stephen.”  This is the punk I attempt to keep controlled who corrects people’s grammar, tries to pass blatant passive aggressiveness off as politeness, and uses pretentious words like “snarky.” He’s annoying, even to me.

As soon as Snarky Stephen shows up, it’s hard to turn back. I find myself asking if you like Russian music, polka, bluegrass, salsa, opera, or death metal. Snarky Stephen hates the “I like all types of music” answer, because it shows no discrimination. It says you are trying to appear well-versed, but in reality, you have zero taste for music.

Two Types of Discrimination

There are two kinds of discrimination – a general kind and a specific kind. The specific kind almost always deals in showing preference to a certain kind of person, based on things they don’t control. This kind is the bad, racist, sexist, kind of discrimination, and for the record, I don’t like it. Not at all. Not even Snarky Stephen doesn’t like that.

The second kind of discrimination deals generally with seeing value between things and being able to make an informed choice. This is the kind of discrimination that says “I don’t enjoy that movie because…” and then gives an actual reason for the preference.

Conclusion 

This is the kind of discrimination I like. It’s the kind that cares, and has a preference, and knows what it likes. I like it when people have preferences about things, because it shows they care. No preference literally means you do not care. But it’s important to remember that preferences are things you prefer, not things you need. Snarky Stephen also doesn’t like people who discriminate too much. You don’t even what to see him get started on that…

Threads

I was blessed with three boys. Eric, Anthony (T.J.) and Ryan.

T.J. took his own life 6/4/13. It is still surreal to write or speak those words. Breathing was hard. Being was hard. Everything was hard. My life dissolved into questions. How can he be gone? Why didn't he call me or anyone? What happened to make him think it was all too much? How do I keep on breathing? Why didn't I call him that day? Why didn't I go by there and take him his favorites from Burger King as I'd done before?
DO I WANT TO BE HERE IN THIS WORLD IF HE IS NOT?

I haven't gone through the 5 stages of grief. Yes I did denial. It couldn't be. Someone had obviously made a mistake. He's not really gone.
I don't understand how I could have bargained.  He was already gone. I had nothing to bargain with.
I still  haven't dealt with anger. I'm not angry at T.J. or at God. I don't know if I'll ever go through anger.
I'm deep into depression. I believe depression will be with me a long time.
Then there is acceptance. I have no other choice. He's gone and I can't change it.

But in all of this pain there was family. Most of all there is GOD. I knew He was there and I knew He loved me. We were surrounded by love. In that love a little tiny bit of hope and healing began to emerge.
My husband and my two other boys needed me and I needed them. My grandchildren needed me and I needed them. Love poured in. I began to weave a few of the threads.

Nine months ago today my life became threads. Threads of life that are now blended with grief and sorrow, pain and longing and long days and nights. Little by little I am trying to weave them into a new life. I will never be the same tapestry I was before. I hope to keep some of the parts of me that made me who I am in this world but there will now be new threads that have to be woven in slowly. God is helping me weave. 

When Glass Explodes

Today I got a rare head start on dinner: made-from-scratch lasagna.  The sauce was looking and smelling delicious.  The lasagna dish was cleaned and ready to fill, and I put a pot of water on the stove to boil for the noodles and turned up the heat.

Confidence is usually a good thing.  It shouldn't be cocky or arrogant, but when it’s there, everything is sure.  Calm.

I had quickly checked which burner I turned on, and even resisted the urge to double-check.  I knew the glass dish was sitting on another burner, but trusted I hadn’t made a mistake.

Confidence can be a bad thing, too.  Like when it makes me feel sure about something that isn’t true.  Deceptive.

I had my back to the stove, and smelled a slight burnt odor.  Turning to look, I immediately noticed that the burner under the glass dish was quite red.  I turned off the burner and backed up, just watching the dish, anticipating something was about to happen.  Sure enough, the dish literally exploded, sending shards of glass seemingly everywhere.  Thankfully none of those shards made their way into my eyes or skin, but that delicious-smelling sauce had now been seasoned with glass.  And though I felt I had just witnessed a scene from some action movie, whatever thrill that gave me was quickly tempered by the somber and frightening realization that it happened in my kitchen, not on my TV.

Silly me - I wasn’t eating lasagna for dinner; I was eating humble pie.

My husband witnessed the entire scene and was quite wonderful about the whole incident.  He cleaned the majority of the mess I had just created, and together we lamented our ruined lasagna sauce.  He kindly reminded me that accidents happen and said it wasn’t a big deal.  Really, it was an ordeal, as we (he) had to take apart half of the kitchen, ensuring every tiny piece of glass was cleaned up and unable to harm our fourteen-month-old daughter.

After kicking myself over making such a mindless mistake for a couple of hours now, I’ve had time to think it all over.  I tend to be a confident person about most things in my life.  I try to minimize mistakes and carefully calculate words and actions beforehand.  Good goals, to be sure.  Tonight I was reminded, albeit through a small mishap, that hard as I may try, I can’t be sure of myself and my decisions.  I will fail.  This isn’t a depressing, hopeless statement, but just an observation and reminder of the fact that I will make mistakes and unwise choices, though I try my best not to.  I should not have utmost confidence in myself.

I would even venture to say that, perhaps, neither should you.

I may not have complete confidence in myself, but I do know One in whom I can have complete confidence.  Otherwise I don’t know how I would go through this life, let down by others, and even myself, at every turn.  He is my rock, and my firm foundation.  And He’s incredibly good at helping pick up the pieces and turn them into something beautiful for His glory.  Even when glass explodes.

Promises

I've been holding off, 'cause I've been holding on

To everything that used to be, but I wanna' let go now
You have promised me, that beauty will come out of this
And though I cannot see it all, my broken heart with my hands I'll lift

[chorus:]
I don't know why You have made me this way
I don't see, but not a single doubt remains
I'll hold on to Your promises, because I know You promised
Something beautiful will come out of this

I've been chasing dreams, 'cause I've been chased by fear
I couldn't imagine all this, would happen to me this year
You have promised that new life would come out of this
And though I don't understand, my broken heart with my hands I'll lift

[chorus]

[bridge:]
I don't know why, and I certainly can't see
I'll hold on to the words You spoke, 'cause in this there is beauty

I can't know why You have made me this way
I can't see, but not a single doubt remains
I'll hold on to Your promises, because I know Your words promise
Something beautiful will come out of this

Something beautiful will come out of this

Thoughts on objectivity

I grew up in the shadow of a hundred churches.

OK, maybe not literally, but my hometown of Keystone Heights, Fla., did used to hold the world record for most churches in a square mile.

At a young age, I was familiar with the term “the liberal media” – a radical group of people who couldn’t get anything right. It sounded like all the newspapers were out to get the conservatives, and there was no way of redeeming the situation. The media was a lost cause.

But in college, I made an important distinction that began to define not only the way I see the media, but also the way I deal with conflict and listen to others.

Opinions belong on the opinions page.

I realized the things that typically brand newspapers as liberal are columns or editorials in the opinions section. These one-sided pieces are sacred places where people can say whatever-the-heck they want. People are entitled to their opinions. You don’t have to agree, but that’s kind of the beauty of it. They still get to talk.

The opinions section is NOT to be confused with the news section, and that’s where a lot of media-consumers go amiss.

The news section is the sacred place where opinions get dropped at the threshold and we can discuss things from a nonjudgmental perspective as adults. We can let both sides talk and hear them out.

I’m not saying every news writer can check their bias at the door when they write a news story. What I am saying is that objectivity is the point and the beauty of journalism, even though a lot of reporters miss the mark.

With that said, be careful who and what you listen to. The voices you listen to will grow to define you. They can make you bitter, paranoid and resentful. Or they can make you better informed, wiser and well rounded. It all depends on how you process what you hear.

My plea to you is to ask questions. Please, before you judge a message, an article, a speech, a group, a person, ask these questions. Who is saying this? What is the source? Are they talking about a matter of fact or of opinion?

Before you close yourself off from someone whom you disagree with, please ask, “What insight can I take away from this?” Because even when you disagree with someone, you can still learn something valuable about them or about the issue from a discussion.

The liberals aren’t bad. The conservatives aren’t evil. They’re not the problem. They just have opinions and feelings and share them forcefully. It’s our job as media-consumers to listen to what they say and to respond logically before we respond emotionally.

Every now and then when I visit my hometown, I’ll run into an old family friend, and they’ll ask how life in the newspaper business is going. “Are you keeping the liberal media in check?” they’ll more-than-likely quip.

When that happens, I just smile, and I say, “I’m doing my job.” Because keeping the liberal media, or the conservative media, or anything else in check isn’t my job.

My job as a reporter is to ask the right questions about the people and information I’m presented with.

It’s not much different than your job as a media consumer.

Be mindful of the voices you’re listening to, and ask the right questions. 

Late-night grocery shopping bingo

College is a time when you won’t be judged for not having your life in order, which means you repeatedly find yourself doing routine things like, oh you know, just grocery shopping, at 2 a.m. Thankfully, Gainesville has several 24-hour joints where you can pick up those necessary items like frozen pizza and Eggo waffles (See: Sweetbay, Wal-Mart). But it’s a jungle out there, and a few character profiles seem to make repeat appearances. In true Buzzfeed fashion, here’s your I-just-needed-bread-and-milk-but-am-scared-of-that-sketchy-gas-station edition listsicle of Six people you’ll see grocery shopping after midnight.

1)   The late-night snacker: This one is a dead giveaway. They’ll be on the ice cream aisle choosing a Ben and Jerry’s pint wearing PJ pants, and maybe Uggs with said pants carelessly stuffed in the tops. (Who dresses to impress in this place anyway?)

2)   The vegan chef: Dreadlocks and bandana optional. The first thing you’ll notice is that his shopping basket is very colorful. It’s filled with ingredients you can’t pronounce and that look so gourmet you wonder how he managed to find them in a run-of-the mill chain grocery store like this.  You spend the whole time waiting behind him at the register wondering if he’s going straight home to cook and if so, why now?

3)   The eat, sleep, rave repeater: This guy’ll be buying beer. Just beer. Lots of it, and the cheap stuff. He may or may not be surrounded with a posse of haggard yet happy looking wingmen who just wanna keep the party going.

4)   The young professional who works weird hours: You’ll be able to pick this person out of the crowd because they’re always the best dressed. They may be toting a satchel or wearing an ID badge lanyard of some sort.

5)   The kid who should be in bed: It’s 1:16 a.m. Don’t you have show-and-tell at elementary school tomorrow?

6)   The flirty shelf stocker: He’s the one who takes the company policy of greeting every customer to the extreme and uses it as an excuse to strike up conversations with chicks buying cereal at 2 a.m. When he asks if you’re finding everything OK, just say yes and move on, even if you’re lost trying to find the off-brand cocoa puffs.

Maybe one day I’ll have my life together enough to do normal things at normal hours. But until then, I guess I’ll just make late-night grocery shopping a game and play bingo with this list. 

F.E.A.R.

Greetings and salutations, fellow Writer's Marchers! Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Joseph Frederick Kindelsperger; University of North Florida alumus, Dopey Challenge finisher (definitely look that up), and soon-to-be writer extraordinaire. I am a driven personality with a fascination for a wide variety of topics. I am excited to take part in the 2014 Second Annual Writer's March! So, let's get started.

To officially begin my writing career, I will discuss fear and the role it plays in our lives. Fear is a force that is highly familiar to most of us, and in many cases intangible or even imperceptible. Fear thrives in our own shadow and stalks us everywhere breathing dark whispers into our hearts and minds as we go about our daily activities. Sometimes we do not even know why we fear something or come up with reasons that are lies (i.e. applying for that job, talking to that gorgeous girl or guy, taking the trash out at night). Other times, we cannot even perceive that we make decisions based on our internalized sense of fear. It is as if, out of habit, we create our own patterns of avoidance that lead us in circles around the object of our fears, never confronting it. Things like going to the same restaurant over and over, not inviting people to join your group of friends, writing despite being good at it, etc. Fear kept me from joining the March last year, and it may be what keeps others from joining this year.

That is not to say that fear is absolutely detrimental to our success. Fear can be an angel just as often as it can be a demon. Fear is what keeps you from going out into the hazards of the unknown. Fear also saves you from the dangers that you know, but may have forgotten.

Fear has a phrase that it loves to whisper above all, especially when a challenge presents itself unexpectedly. Not even from around the corner, but out of thin air. Like a ghost with a furious vengeance. Oddly, in these moments that whisper sounds more like a shriek, "F@#* EVERYTHING AND RUN!!!"

In panic, we do just that. F.E.A.R!

In my life, F.E.A.R. has been an automatic response to so many things. Mingling at events with no one to introduce me. Signing up for running events and not participating due to injury or insufficient preparation (See the irony?), and many other things that I am not yet prepared to share. In some instances years past, I have been known to literally run away if a situation got too intense for me. Just thinking about those situations makes me shiver.

Through my experiences I have discovered that fear is not a dictator, but an adviser. All it takes to bring the Fear out of your shadow and into the light is simply two-way communication. Fear will not answer you when you ask it why you should be afraid. That is on you. However, it will obey when you whisper back its favorite acronym, F.E.A.R.

"Face Everything And Rise", you tell it. In time you may even discover that you were never telling Fear to back down, but yourself to step up.

In writing, we have a voice. This Writer's March is a grand opportunity to shed whatever fears we have, if any, and raise our voices to make them heard. I look forward to discovering what each participant here will write. As a novice I have no doubt that my growth in blog-writing this month will be substantial. Although I hope everyone enjoys this event as much as I know I will, I also hope that we will all come to identify something that we individually fear. Then face it, and rise.

Sundays

     

     Sundays are the worst. I know people who love Sundays. For them, it’s a day that represents relaxation, pleasure, replenishment, joy, and maybe a small degree of angst as the work week begins again on Monday. They make the most of their day by reading the newspaper, drinking coffee, playing with their kids, touching up craft projects, perhaps even mowing the grass. These people go through their Sunday with set expectations for following Sundays and take for granted that they will be able to enjoy the day in the same way as they have always enjoyed it. I know these people.

     I hate Sundays. Sunday is a day when I wake up early and scramble to do everything I can to be as near two people, who are very independent, as I can without infringing on their personal space and wishes. It’s a day during which I try to remember all the things I wanted to talk about throughout the week and either didn’t find the right time to say it, or wanted to research something before I brought it up, or any number of reasons for not talking about it. It’s a day for hugging and kissing and brushing hair away from eyes, which isn’t a bad thing at all, but I find it to be very melancholy. Basically, I live Sunday as if I am dying the next day. In a way I do.

     During the week, home is full of sound. Squeaks and squeals, yells and song, bangs and knocks are all common place. I love the noise. I love it because I know it means living and learning. It means two people are in residence who finds life fascinating.  These people look at each day as a beautiful opportunity to continue their exploration of possibility. Such an affirmation of life is precious and reminds me to allow similar fascination to happen in my personal experiences. Sunday is when that joy ends. Home stops being noisy and busy. It stops being loud and bouncy. Kisses and hugs and hair go away and I’m left to see about finding a meal for one.

     Many times I haven’t had the will to bother cooking something healthy. More than once I have found myself on the couch with a bag of chips and a remote. Sundays are the worst, except when they’re not.

     This Sunday is the worst. Next Sunday, though, is the best. That Sunday is a day when I wake up early and scramble to get errands taken care of, projects touched up, laundry put away, and maybe I mow the grass.  I go grocery shopping and get everything I’m going to need to cook hearty and healthy meals, tasty lunches, snacks, and treats. I clean and put away, sort and organize, perhaps I unpack another box. Sunday is when two people come home who fill the room with noise, singing, dancing, banging, and clanging. They come home with all their life filling them and I’m reminded to allow mine to be full too.

     A time will come when these people won’t come home on Sunday or leave on Sunday. There will come a time when I won’t see them for weeks or months, possibly years, or perhaps never again. I know that time is ahead of me. So, I live on Sunday as if time is already here. I live as though there will never be another Sunday. I like living this way because it keeps me in the right now. I appreciate precious moments that some people take for granted and then find they regret. There is enough regret in my past. I don’t want to see any in my future. And so, Sundays are the worst.

...if it is to encourage, then encourage.

The only reason I’m writing today is that I'm holed up for a solid week in Tahoe, at the foot of Heavenly Ski Resort. I can actually watch the lift reach the top of the mountain from my window. This is a long story of a free trip planned with a friend who had to cancel, and a beautiful room, actually a small apartment, for an embarrassingly low bid - that would not let me cancel.  Bill might be able to join me for a few days, but there are no guarantees as his work schedule is pretty packed.

I feel a little silly being so far from Bill and Joel in a luxurious room all by myself. I also feel spoiled rotten by our son, Dan, who works for an airline and just smiles each time I send him a new reservation request. And by the Lord who has evidently given me fabulous bidding skills on 4 and 5-star rooms, and who knew this week was coming.

So, my new plan is to try to make a really delicious batch of lemonade from this lemon by forcing myself to write.  It's going to be just me, these gorgeous mountains, hot coffee and my trusty laptop.

So, here goes writing project number one.  

...if it is to encourage, then encourage.

It was about twenty years ago that I realized I had a passion for encouragement.  I’d spent most of my twenties and some of my thirties temper-tantruming my way through a series of valleys that felt very unfriendly and unjust.  I ended up angry over things I couldn’t change, and angry at myself for not being able to respond better.  I’d pray, and things got worse.  I’d pray some more, and I got worse.

I was about half-way through one of my valleys, the seventh year of thirteen living with no air-conditioning in Florida.  Yes, I know this  was a first-world valley, but when every other person in your first world has AC, and you show up to every event looking like you just played center in a very intense basketball game, it gets real.  Valleys always seem worse when you think you’re the only one in your world, first or third, going through them.  By the way, I don’t know where the second world is.

So, imagine Oz’s wicked witch of the North shrieking, “I’m meeeeelllting!” each time another bucket of swamp heat and humidity got tossed on her by the uncaring Florida weatherman and you get the picture.  It didn’t take long for a certain witch with theological leanings to look up to the heavens and ask, “Don’t you see what I’m going through?  And why don’t you help?”  But no answer came.  (Witches also sometimes shriek these questions at husbands who tend to remain silent as well.)

Thankfully for my husband, a light did appeareth unto me upon one of my upward-looking shrieks.  It actually came in the form of a verse I had memorized years before, written by someone who knew about going it alone in valleys:  And we know that God is working all things together for good to those who love Him and are called according to His purpose. 

All things?  Those two words beamed off the page for me.  All things.  Hmm.  Enter a new thought:  If Christianity was to be real in my world, I would have to substitute my personal valleys for the phrase “all things.”  I tried it.

God is working this crummy Florida heat and humidity together for good…. 

I didn’t like it.  Not at all.  Why wasn’t He interested in working that much good in any of my air-conditioned friends’ lives?  I did try to revert to my former theology that God should deliver me from all my trials.  But, I just couldn’t get delivered, no matter how much I quoted and trusted.  I ended up yielding to the light that had been given me thus far.

And thus began my gradual shift from tantruming in the valley to slogging through my darkness with a new battery in my flashlight.

All things.

God is working what, another breakdown in the van?? together for good… 

Weave it into my thinking with yet another crisis, don’t yield to camping in the why’s and why not’s, keep moving forward with this new light.  God can, actually wants to, work all things in my valley together….for good. 

So….God is working judgment from that friend, hurtful words from family, a tight budget with no room for coffee – seriously? together for….MY good? 

I didn’t like it.  But, I swallowed it like a bitter truth pill.

Okay, fine.  I surrender.  I let go of trying to fix something I can’t, and tantruming because You won’t.  Lord, please work this mess together for good.

And to my surprise and delight, the storm began to calm in my brain and my soul, even as the humidity in my kitchen rose.  The shrieking subsided.  Was that a whoosh of gratefulness for my health and family and the grace I felt?

Then, beholdeth, another light beamed-eth upon that verse.  What if the being called according to His purpose part was about how I actually lived in the valley, rather than just getting delivered from it?  Yes, I had been taught that over and over, but somehow I could never make those theoretical connections work in Florida humidity.  Yikes, the thought was risky.  What if it meant I had to settle for this valley for the rest of my days, when no one else I knew was stuck in it, and with no guarantee of getting out of it, ever.   Now, I would be expected to not just stay in it, but also be content with it.  That was a little depressing. But, it was the only light that was beaming from the Word, so I had to move forward with it.  Again to  my surprise and delight, freedom and contentment began to grow.  

Now if I’d been content to be content, that would have been enough.  But, I became wild with passion to share my path.  I wanted to shout to all the other valley dwellers, “Hey!  I found this amazing battery that works in your old flashlight!  Pop in Romans 8:28!  It’s amazing!  Your view will change.  The path gets clear.  The valley isn’t so dark!”  When the high I felt at seeing someone else find that path in their valley was way higher than my own, I knew it was the gift of encouragement. 

We have different gifts, according to the grace given us. If a man's gift is prophesying, let him use it in proportion to his faith. If it is serving, let him serve; if it is teaching, let him teach; if it is encouraging, let him encourage...

Two years ago, I was plunged into the worst valley of my life when we lost our 19 year-old son, Patrick.  My heart was ripped to shreds, and I blogged for a few months solely as a form of therapy, not caring if anyone was encouraged or not.  I had no room in my heart for anyone but the Great Shepherd, so I tried to draw the curtains of my soul and just camp.  That valley is dark and horrifying and never-ending in this life, but I knew the Lord was close by, and that it was right to camp and not trudge on.  I thought of C.S. Lewis’ Aslan with a big tear in his eye as he shared in Diggory’s sorrow, and it comforted me.  Time stood still, and all I did was cry and write and cry and write and cry and write.  And cry.

After months that seemed like years, one day I just quit writing, stopped camping, stood up and got busy.  Very busy.  Doing as much good for everyone in my world as I could.  It too has felt right and therapeutic and healthy for all this time.

For we are God's handiwork, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance for us to do. Eph 2:10

Staying busy, especially at loving others, is an effective pain-buffer, and keeps a lot of sorrow at bay.  I still have crying meltdowns at the most unexpected times, but sorrow no longer surrounds me like a mountain.

As a matter of fact, I’ve been experiencing a few bouts of wild passion lately, passion strong enough to spring out of my wounded heart and shout, “Hey, you valley camper!  Come on, get up!  Let me tell you about an amazing battery of truth that will work for you.  Pop it in!  Your view will change!  You will change.  Come on, you can do it!”

It feels risky to slow down from my contented state of busyness to carve thoughts into word sculptures again, but I think this may be the week to start.  I know I’m going to have to reprocess some pain to start writing again.  I’ve hit some pain writing this, but I survived.  And there’s this little light beaming off a certain verse for me right now, so I think I’m going to have to go with it.

…if it  is to encourage, then encourage. 

We'll see what the rest of the week holds. 

Thank you, Stephen, for your sweet spirit, and for the inviation to join you here.  It feels very - encouraging.  

“The gift of encouragement differs from the gift of teaching in that it focuses on the practical aspects of the Bible. One with the gift of teaching focuses on the meaning and content of the Word, along with accuracy and application.  One with the gift of encouragement focuses on the practical application of the Word. He can relate to others, both in groups and individually, by understanding their needs and sympathizing with them. Those with this gift help others to move from pessimism to optimism.” www.gotquestions.org/gift-of-encouragement.html

Raisins

“We fry raisins.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Raisins.  We fry them in our spaghetti sauce.  It makes the sauce sweeter.”

“I’m sorry, do I know you?  I'm trying to read my book.”

“No.  I just thought you should know.”

“You thought a complete stranger should know that you fry raisins in your spaghetti sauce?”

“Have you ever tried it?”

“Raisins?”

“Yes. Have you ever tried frying them before you put the sauce in the pan?”

“No.”

“You should.  It’s delicious.”

“Okay, fine, I’ll try it sometime.”

“That’s how my mom always cooked them. Some people put sugar in the sauce, but my mom always fried raisins.”

“I guess that would work.”

“I just wanted you to know, that’s all.”

“Why?”

“Well, we’ve never met, but my mom gave you up for adoption when you were born. I just thought you should know how she made spaghetti.”