Seeing yourself inside out, outside in

So it’s yet another break from the book list to talk about my daughter some more. Of course, she’s the apple of both of my eyes, so she consumes my thoughts quite often. This summer as she gets bigger and bigger, we’ve experienced a lot of firsts. As I mentioned before, she’s been to her first parade. And today, she took her first ‘swim.’ I guess that’s not entirely true because I got her in a big pool last summer a couple of times. It totally freaked her out so we left well enough alone for a while. But today, I pulled out her little baby pool that I inflated myself with all of my hot air and filled it with water.

She donned her first real swimsuit (plus sandals and sun block) and after a quick check in the mirror because she felt the need to admire herself, out into the yard we went. And she LOVED it. She splashed and announced proudly to her dad and grandad on the phone, “I swimming! I swimming!” After playing for a while, she decided it was time to get out and play in the yard. We played on the deck with her numerous outdoor toys. Then, we got out our handy dandy scoops and attempted to play catch with the wiffle ball. Looking at her there with her little swimsuit, yellow baseball cap, and sandals on, I was amazed at how much she looked like me. Obviously, the red hair and fair skin make her look a lot like me. And even though on most days folks say that she looks a lot like Brian, today I think she looked just like me. Not just like the baby pictures of me at the age of two, but what I remember me looking like as a child, from the inside looking out. I looked at her little legs, noticeably still cold from her dip in the pool and noticed the almost transparent skin. Her little purplish veins showing through, it was almost as if I were looking down at my own legs. Poor thing, she has my legs. The small curls beginning to pop up all over her head remind me of looking at my own locks in the mirror. Her eyes, her ears, her nose… remind me so much of myself.

It’s a scary proposition to look at yourself in front of you. In some ways, it’s terrifying to think of all of the roads that I’ve traveled and note in my mind which ones in particular I wish for her not to go down. At the same time, it holds great hope that perhaps I can impart some wisdom to her (if I have any to share) and keep her from the things that have damaged me in this world. What encourages me the most are the attributes (not just physical) that I see in her that I like about myself. Her spunk and free spirit, her independence and believe-it-or-not delicate strength are already showing through even at two. At the same time, she possesses characteristics inherited from me that I do not admire – stubbornness, willfulness and tendency to quickly give up when she does not immediately master a task.

Ahh, the great mystery and struggle of parenting lies in what we wish to protect our children from. For I know that those experiences which I would give anything to shelter her from are the exact experiences that reinforced who I am and gave me direction in my life. They shaped and molded me and while they weren’t pleasant, they were essential. So, as day by day, I face raising my daughter with intense fear and intense excitement, I pray for strength to watch her encounter difficult situations and flourish, not that they would be removed from her path but that she would be changed and grow from them.

Things that keep me up at night

Ok, so I’m going to pause today from the book review and comment on what I consider to be a very strange cultural phenomenon. This past weekend, Brian and I took our nearly two-year-old daughter, Anna, to her very first parade. Every year, our little community of Greenwood holds a Freedom Festival (usually the weekend before the actual Fourth holiday). We’ve lived here for close to five years and we’ve never, ever been before. So, this past Saturday morning, we rolled out of bed with nothing particular to do and we thought that we would venture down to the parade and street fair. Both were wonderful and we had a great time seeing things through Anna’s eyes, which were enthralled with all of the sights and sounds of the event. She loved the free balloons and goodies being passed out at the fair and she really enjoyed every bit of the parade. She waved with zest and blew kisses at the soldiers marching by (I must say this made her daddy just a wee bit nervous) and she pointed at the fire trucks with glee. And don’t even get me started on what she thought about the free candy being thrown and passed out. She even enjoyed her very first Dum Dum sucker. As she sat in the backseat in her car seat on the way home from the parade, with each lick of the strawberry sweetness she would proclaim, “THANK YOU Mommy… THANK YOU Daddy!” I swear her voice could make the hardest heart melt into to a pool of ooey gooey sweetness. Anyway, all of this is subsidiary but I thought you’d enjoy the trip.

What I’m really writing about today is something that totally and completely creeped me out at the parade. It’s something that I’ve seen a zillion times before but never really thought about. All through my childhood I think that I actually even enjoyed these acts, but now I’m wondering what it’s all about… I’m talking about the Shriners that ride around in those little cars and teeny, tiny motorcycles. I mean really, WHAT IS UP WITH THAT?!

I guess saying that I enjoyed those little boogers as a child might be a slight mistruth. I actually had a friend who had her toes ran over at the Corn Festival Parade in Sullivan, IN one year by one of those mini yellow corvettes. Craziest thing you ever did see. Her toes were black and blue for weeks. So now, whenever they come rumbling by, I’m always sure to pull my feet up from the curb way up on to the sidewalk in case one of those little guys goes whacko and decides to run over my toes. No way you’re running me down buddy, no way!

But really, think about it… Who sits around and comes up with this kind of stuff? You know what we really need to do to improve the world?! I GOT IT! Ride on little cars and motorcycles in formation to entertain folks… How drunk do you have to be/what are you smoking to come up with this stuff? And my big question is what will anthropologists have to say about it someday? I pondered this question out loud to Brian as the little men in little cars zipped by; however, I carefully watched my tone as the folks next to us snapped as many pictures as possible of the group. I figured they probably knew someone and I didn’t want to hurt their feelings or be attacked by a troop of small cars as we tried to leave.

When I was a jr. higher, my mom had a book entitled The Motel of Mysteries (I have no clue who the author is, but I’ll try to find it at the library tonight). It was a cute read with plenty of pictures told from a future vantage point. Basically, some archaeologists discovered a motel in an excavation and they sought to explain all of the things inside. All I can remember right now is that they thought the toilet seat cover was a headdress for some sort of religious ceremony (i.e. praying to the porcelain god). Anyway, that book has always made me think about what history will remember/discover of our generation. So my question is… what will history think of overweight, middle and later aged men, riding around in miniature vehicles? You tell me. And don’t even get me started on those funny little fez things they wear. What is up with that?

The Lessons History Teaches Us

Did you know that on March 4th, 1841 William Henry Harrison (one of Indiana's finest) gave the longest Presidential inaugural speech in history? Mr. Harrison would have been wise to keep brevity in mind; however, especially in the blustery March weather. He promptly caught pneumonia and died one month later. Lesson learned? Keep it short and sweet, especially when it's cold outside.

On Christianity and Commercialism

With all of the hype regarding Mel Gibson's The Passion, I can't help but to take a few minutes to vent/wander on here about the intermingling of Christianity and commercialism. Personally, it leaves a bad taste in my mouth and I feel the need to spit it out. Here we go...

Throughout time, the Christian church as we know it has used methods and practices of secular culture to promote the Gospel. In the early days, to appeal to the pagan world Roman culture, the cult of the saints, largely replaced god/goddess worship. Diverting worship from mythical deities to the martyrs who died for their faith in Christ, was just one practice used in the early church. The introduction of the arts, music, and dare I say it DANCE into the church also made its first appearance in these early days. As we trace our finger through history, we have hymns set to bar tunes (like good 'ole Charles and John Wesley liked to do) and outdoor preaching to reach the "common man." I could attach a twenty page paper about the many popular culture methods used by the Salvation Army in its origins to attract followers, all in the name of the Blood and Fire. There was the Jesus movement of the 1970s and the mega-church Willow Creek/Saddle Back movements of the 1990s and early 2000s, all using elements of popular culture to fuel their efforts. I don't doubt that these efforts have changed the lives of some; however, I do question if the negative hype circling around such movements have left a sour taste in the mouth of the Divine.

Here's an excerpt from a paper I wrote on the Paganization of the Early Church:
A question arises, when the sacred and the secular melt so closely together that one cannot tell the difference between the two. Or stretched to a further degree, when does a symbol or teaching mechanism overtake the actual principle and becomes a source of worship itself?

This morning, I watched one of the gazillion national media reports on The Passion of the Christ, entitled "The Greatest Story Ever Sold." It was meant to be comical and outlined a number of collectible products coming out in association with the movie. Come on, now folks. Why do we need to profit off His sacrifice? What's this really all about?

I really do look forward to the movie. It looks like the type of movie that I would go and see even if there was no hype surrounding it. By the way, if you haven't seen The Gospel of John, I highly recommend it. It didn't receive all of the hype because its lack of Hollywood superstar director; however, it's an accurate portrayal of the book, taken literally word for word. It's at our dollar theater now; however, so it might mean you have to wait for it to come out on DVD. Anyway, I digress. I'm sure that this film will be a great evangelism tool, but I fear for all of the extras that will surround it and I'm sick to death of the media hype. All of which I am sure is turning off some folks who might have been on the verge of a decision before all of this started.

I've been the same way with many of the popular books to hit the shelves in the past few years which have hit the best sellers' lists galore. Don't even get me started about my "run-in" with Bruce Wilkinson, who claimed that those who had read his "New York Best Seller's List The Prayer of Jabez" were the "great spiritual giants of our generation" and by the way it was on sale in the resource room! How handy. I don't think I could count how many times he tooted his own horn on that one.... It was scary!

All of this can be summed with the fact that God is beyond us all. His thoughts are not our thoughts. His ways are not our ways. We can't unravel His mysteries in handy little 10, 15, or 150 paged books. His marvels can't be captured on film. His wonder is not limited to human intelligence and interpretation. He's going to work whether we properly market Him or not and thankfully in spite of all of the profit that folks attempt to make in His name. Would Christ throw down the tables of books, clothing, and other products marketed in His name? I don't know, but it's something to ponder.

The Agony of Defeat and a Glimpse of Hope

So Thursday was the hardest day that I’ve had in a long time. You see, Thursdays are Anna’s physical therapy days. She’s had a hard time learning to walk. We’ve done as much as we can to encourage her; however, as she speeds toward two (this summer), we sought outside help. The state-funded program First Steps, which is providing free therapy and orthotics for her, has pretty much turned Brian and I into socialists, but that’s another story for another day. I was talking about the difficult Thursday of last week.

It started about 3 AM in the morning when Anna decided it wasn’t time to sleep, but time to play. She’s been a little sick this week (hence my lack of posting), and so she’s coughed pretty hard at night. Her coughing wakes her up and then she thinks it’s time to go for the day. As soon as I opened her bedroom door, I fully expected her to cry out, “Mommy!” or “up!” or “help!” or simply remain crying because she did not feel well. However, instead, she cried, “Bob!” meaning she wanted to watch Veggie Tales’ epic saga Jonah. I must say, I relented. I was so tired that I couldn’t see straight and we ended up watching almost the entire movie in the middle of the night. Finally at about 4:30, I laid her back down to sleep. And I tried to get back to sleep myself which really didn’t ever happen with any success. I thought that she might sleep in in the morning, but I thought wrong. We were off and running at 7:30 AM. 9:30 AM rolled around and it was therapy time.

Therapy was more challenging this past week (for both Anna and for me) than it ever had been. The therapist made Anna walk from the middle of our living room to the kitchen, not that great of a distance, but farther than we’ve ever gone before. I was in front of her coaxing her along and the therapist behind holding her legs into position. Anna screamed the entire way. Whether in pain, fear, or mere show of will, she loudly displayed her protest. There is nothing more despairing than to see your child try and desire to do something without receiving the outcome she desires. All of the time, I see small glimpses that Anna desires to walk and even more so to “dance” (as she often says while she strikes a pose). And so her tears mingled with mine that Thursday morning as she was unsuccessful at achieving her goal. It was an emotion that I had never experienced before. It triggered all sorts of feelings – fear, guilt, frustration, resentment – the list goes on and on. As cliché as it sounds, I could only describe it as gut-wrenching. And while cognitively, I knew what was necessary for her to learn, I was inwardly wishing the therapist would just go away or at bare minimum, give it a rest. She then confused my hurting for Anna as some other motherly issue of not wanting her to cry ever (which is not really an issue in our house). By the time she left, I was ready to wallow in my feelings.

The rest of the afternoon proceeded with a lack of a decent nap, a broken glass, a little cut finger that would not stop bleeding for anything, and a really smelly diaper (the last three event happening within three minutes of each other, of course!). What a day to be mommy!

Sunday, though was a different story. Anna had a grand breakthrough. She stood independently in the middle of our floor with no support for about 25 seconds. This is amazing since she’s never even stood for 1 second before.

Just when you think that you can handle no more, something gives, shifts, rearranges, and you can. Sometimes, a glimpse of hope is all you need when in the agony of defeat to begin the road to walking again

Mr. President, Please Attack Appalachia

For a couple of days, I've been trying to post a link to an article on my friend Dawn's site, but this blogging stuff is new to me and I haven't yet been able to figure it out. So if I can't successfully get the link established here to this article, please check out Dawn's page and read "Mr. President, Please Attack Appalachia." It's pretty brilliant, if you ask me. But then again, I guess you didn't ask me. Just read it, ok?
Please Attack Appalachia

Things that keep us up at night...

There are strange things that keep my husband and I from being able to get a full night's sleep. Strange things other than our 18 month old daughter who unusually decided last night that the hour between 12:30 and 1:30 AM was play time. Not sure what triggered that one, because usually she is such a great sleeper!

Anyway, the latest debate in our household... or I guess I should say the latest pondering because we're really not debating it... is a brand name game. See if you can help us play.

We've been brainstorming all of the brand names that we know which are synonymous for the products that they represent. For example, people often use the word Coke generically to apply to all carbonated beverages. There are only a few others that we can think of right now, although last week we had several on the list and have forgotten them now. See what happens if you don't blog things out?!

Here's a start for the list, post what you can think of...
Coke, Kleenex, Tylenol

Do what you love... Be who you are...

So my dad is a simple sort of fellow. He certainly doesn't live a wild and crazy lifestyle. He keeps things relatively simple. No flashy clothes. No flashy cars (anymore). And no flashy women (no offense, ma). But, as the men his age begin collecting big screen TVs, my dad has a new passion. He has a new hobby. A new thrill that helps him be a little bit more of who he exactly is. My dad is collecting things. Now, what might a man collect? Some collect sports memorabilia, some media and electronic equipment, some stamps, some coins, some figurines (those little cars for grown men). My father has set the bar so much higher. He is collecting trucks. Trucks. Real trucks. Classic trucks to be precise. In the past 3 months my father has bought 2 - count 'em, 1, 2 1950s Chevy trucks, both off of eBay.

The first is a 1952 Chevy one ton truck with the wooden sides. It still has original blue paint and many other original features. If you've ever seen the Hidden Valley Ranch commercial, you'll know just what it looks like restored. Now it only runs 35 mph, but that really doesn't matter, does it? I must say that it's quite gorgeous and even though he and mom had to leave on the evening of Thanksgiving to drive pert near Colorado to pick it up, our entire family was excited for him.

However, none of us had any idea that it would lead to an addiction. This past weekend, my dad bought yet another truck. This one's a 1950 1/2 ton Chevy (forgive me if I'm wrong on the specs, dad), bright red and pretty spiffy looking if I do say so myself. At least he only has to drive a couple of hours to get this one in Evansville, IN.

No matter how much we tease him about it all, I must say I have to admire his zeal for what he loves. He's always loved classic vehicles and now, he's living the dream. He's doing what he loves to be a little bit more of who God made him to be. And with his free rebuild kit from good old Chevy (a marketing campaign to help promote and maintain the claims that Chevy trucks are the longest running vehicles out there), he's spending his time doing something he values to be worthwhile. Go dad.

That is not to say that my mother shouldn't delete my brother's eBay account (where all of the dealing is going down), but I'm happy to see my dad happy. It's cool. And that's all I have to say about that.

On the female psyche and hair

After looking at some old wedding photos today belonging to some women that I know, I realized that the length of a woman's hair can often identify her position, age, and stage in life. While this is no great preponderance, it struck me significantly today.

It seems to me, that in their younger years (usually through high school), most girls seek to grow their hair out long. And then, as if a rite of passage, the summer before she heads off for college, one cuts it short (shoulder or chin length). Whether this is merely a convenience factor or a sign that she is putting away childish ways, I cannot guess. Halfway through college if a young lady has met a gentleman of her liking, she begins to grow her hair back out again, not so much for the gentleman as for the wedding pictures that she has already envisioned, though they are not engaged. And so a couple of years later, her glorious crown spills all around her shoulders, beautifully offset by bridal white, forever captured on film. In the early years of marriage, one maintains the mane (after all it was a lot of work to grow it out), only to find it's much more trouble than it's worth. And so as career or childbirth and motherhood quickly carry a woman into a new phase, so her hair also finds a new phase and place in the world. Her hair is cut short, most likely shorter than it ever has been before in order to accommodate her busy lifestyle. With many women it seems to get shorter and shorter as the years go by until we end up with the blue hair styled weekly or biweekly by some beauty school student who accidentally occasionally turns it purple.

The years march by, styles fade and return, and our hair line moves up and down. Split ends, perms, and color treatments mark the years and stages of our lives. And regardless of our inevitable purple-haired fate, we must remember one thing... at least we choose to change the length of our hair (and possibly the color). Many of our poor male counterparts are faced with not having that choice at all. And for this I am eternally grateful.

A Book recommendation

Here's a little reading recommendation if you've got some extra time on your hands (like anyone does?!).

I recently finished Dava Sobel's Galileo's Daughter - an excellent read. It tracks the life of the scholar and star-gazing philosopher through his personal correspondence, mainly that of letters received from one of his two daughters, Suor Maria Celeste. This historical narrative is an unbelievably personal retelling of one man's story... one man who impacted all of human history. I had a very small knowledge base of the man and his merits (most of which I discovered to be fictional accounts rather than true history - i.e. the whole dropping cannon balls from the Leaning Tower of Pisa tale). Sobel neatly weaves the letters written to and from Galileo to tell his story. The lens of Galileo's personal life makes the scientific discoveries and principles that he established a little easier for a novice like myself to understand. This book was an easy read in short chapters, making it easy to pick up and put down.

Most fascinating to me were the 'trials' that Galileo endured for his teaching and writings on the Copernican system. And I was struck by how firmly the church and greater society held so vehemently to what it knew to be 'true,' using Scripture to 'prove' it. It makes me ponder what 'truths' we hold on to today which will one day proved to be scientifically false. As well, I did not realize that Galileo made more contributions to the study of physics than he really did anything else. We always see him as the astronomer first, which he was certainly passionate about; however, he dabbled in many fields of study, including but not limited to, astronomy, physics, philosophy, mathematics, music, literature, and gardening.

The sweet father-daughter relationship that Galileo held with his cloistered oldest child was a mystery to me. I really did not even know that he had children at all, so it was beautiful to see their relationship play out its dimensions on the pages. Their relationship had such a great deal of intimacy, despite her confinement to her order and convent at San Matteo.

The book actually had a surprise finish to it, which is very difficult to pull off in a non-fiction work. It excited me so greatly that I'd love to share it with you, but I won't ruin it in the hopes that you'll decide to read it yourself. It's an enjoyable, luxury read that has me exploring Galileo Galilei in greater depth. I've now endeavored to read Galileo in Rome by Shea (Scientific historian) and Artigas (philosopher/priest). It retells Galileo's life through his six journeys to Rome. So far, it's comparable; however, not as smooth of a read.

"All truths are easy to understand once they are discovered; the point is to discover them." Galileo Galilei

My personal statement

Here's the personal statement that I recently used to apply to grad school.

All of my life, I’ve been telling stories. As a small child those stories were largely fictional. The lines between reality and fantasy faded away as I weaved tales that were believable to most adults. Places I had been, people I had met, things I had done – all were described with the greatest of detail. Holding audiences captive and sharing my “experiences” were two of my greatest ambitions. However, as I grew older, I put away childish ways and my fiction turned to fact. Welling up inside of me was a new and unusual passion to learn other people’s true stories. And once I learned them, I longed to share them and retell those stories. In short summary, that’s who I really am – a storyteller.

Obviously, one cannot have history without the word “story.” Throughout time, many mechanisms have been used to retell stories, both fact and fiction. One needn’t think long to recall tapestries like the Bayeux of the eleventh century, or even the cave markings of primal peoples. Incans used knots tied on ropes to retell their stories. From epic poetry and lyric song, to lithographs, woodcarvings, photographs, and even tattoos, men and women have long used many devices to retell stories. Even nature and the Divine tell us stories through the rings of a tree, soil deposits, and the stratification of rock. To me, none of these means is as strong as the written and spoken Word.

What a joy it is to invite a reader or listener in and hope they are equally intrigued by “other people’s stories.” It’s not the study of period philosophies, political movements, scientific discoveries, theological debates, or even military maneuvers that drives me in the context of history. Rather, it is how all of these forces (and many other motivating factors) work together to influence individuals. Such incidences form whom an individual really is – why they eat what they eat, leisure how they leisure, teach what they teach, and even believe what they believe. To me, this is history. The history of an individual, while it does not fill in every blank of an era, speaks volumes for society.

And so, the time has come in which I can no longer ignore the passion that burns within me to tell stories. I feel to better equip myself in such a process of “telling and retelling,” I need to seek out a Masters in History. I long to learn, research, further and develop my passion in order to make unknown voices heard and history come alive for other learners. My ultimate desire would be for those learners to become storytellers themselves, or, at bare minimum, to be let into another’s world to more greatly understand and empathize with an individual’s plight. I recognize the need to further hone my writing skills and have a desire to one day publish written works. Specifically, I wish to use my master’s degree to help me begin to narrow the vast field of choices available to one who holds such a degree and has a passion for teaching others of history. I also have a desire to pursue a Ph. D. in this field. I would take great pleasure in teaching on a collegiate level if the doors open allowing me to do so; however, even the mere personal accomplishment of study would be gratifying to me.

My story is what makes me who I am. Pursuing a master’s degree allows me to understand other people and who they are through learning and retelling their stories.

An applesauce sort of day...

I have applesauce in my hair. It's a normal day for me and I have applesauce in my hair. Not that I always have applesauce in my hair, but just that today I do. You see, I am known to many people through many different titles. I carry the title daughter, wife, friend, wonder woman wanna be, and the newest, most recently birthed title of mommy. Being "mommy" means that you sometimes have applesauce in your hair. It means that occasionally you give up the pleasure of showering for the quiet of an hour. It means that life slows down when it snows. It means that giggles enrich the quailty of your day. It means that a hug and a kiss can leave you feeling warm inside for hours. It means that once naptime is over, life is back to normal again. And no matter how hard you try, you can't imagine life when you weren't mommy.