I haven't written in months. I have plenty of opinions, as everybody does, it just didn't seem worth it to put them to paper. Well, not paper exactly. But you know what I mean. But with this very decisive year coming to an end, I would like to collect all my thoughts on 2015 and then graciously move forward.
Publicly, 2015 seemed to be awfully ugly. The media did a bang up job of twisting truths and then Facebook and its sheep propelled the half truths and no truths out and about for all the world to share. Many times I thought about getting off Facebook because of the shit that flies, but then I came across a page dedicated to rescued flying foxes in Australia and my faith in humanity was gently restored. I think it would be great if people understood a few truths about Facebook. Not all memes are true and no one is required to fact check them. That is true about posts as well. One can say just about anything one would like on Facebook and well, as Abraham Lincoln said "don't believe everything you read on Facebook." Typing "AMEN" or sharing a status, particularly one that shows a neglected dog, a battle worn soldier or a child with cancer, will do little to cure the ails of the world. Oddly, giving time and money to animal rescue societies, Wounded Warrior Foundation and Curesearch will do much to cure the ails of the world. I don't understand what a spam is or how a spammer makes money, but I do understand that many of the above posts are run by spammers and only does them good in a bad sort of way.
We all heard that "Black Lives Matter" and conversely, "all Lives Matter" and "Police Lives Matter". It appeared that one could not understand the meaning behind one movement and believe that the other movements were also important. I believe all lives matter. I also believe that it is a lot easier to be a middle class white person in America than not. Unless I was an upper class white person. That is not to say that many problems that people face regardless of color are brought on by their own actions. But it is fair to say that a white kid is not as quick to be judged as a back kid. Prejudices run deep folks, with reason and with fear. Lives matter, absolutely, but that matter has to start at home, in the eyes of the beholder. I am only responsible for my actions. It is not reasonable to put the actions of white people before me or next to me as my blame.
Police lives matter. Yes, they do. I have written about this already. The media did an excellent job of creating an image of a comic book Gotham type world of law enforcement. And the media is sorely misguided. I have great respect for those in the media, usually local stations, that did ride alongs and participated in training exercises so that they could have a better understanding of what an officer is up against on any given call. These lives matter because they are the only ones willing to run in when the rest of us run out. Dirty cops? Sure, there are dirty cops. Power hungry thugs in uniform? I bet there is. Should they be in law enforcement? Of course not, but should all the upstanding, hard working be lumped in with them? Absolutely not, just like every person of color is not a gang member, or every middle easterner an Islamic terrorist.
Which leads me to that hot button. Refugees or migrants or whatever one would like to call them. I like the term people fleeing a world at war. This issue tore at my heart in such a way that I had a hard time looking at myself. I completely understand the fear that people have. These terrorists do a really good job of fucking shit up. And I don't want any of that here. But it is here. It is here in the form of men like Timothy McVeigh, an all American boy that drove a truck into a child care center. Sure it was a federal building, but 19 of the 168 people killed that day were children. It is here in the form of mad men that shoot up schools and movie theaters. It is here in the form of Islamic terrorists that fly planes into buildings and shoot up Christmas parties. There is no denying that the terror that lives in this country is home grown and foreign. Pointing the finger at a Syrian refugee gives one three more fingers to point at someone with issues with the government, someone with a point to prove to a high school, or one with some type of mental issue that creates an elaborate plan at a movie theater. I know people that escaped Iraq. I listened to their stories and was in awe. I was also so embarrassed by how little I knew of what was happening in Iraq at that time and what is happening in Syria now. I also think of the other middle eastern Muslims that I know, specifically Dr. Alzein and Dr. Rahdi. Both were Ashlyn's doctors here and in Iowa City. Intelligent, educated, kind and fully invested in saving my child's life. Not the Islamic terrorist that one fears.
I cannot call my self a child of God and believe that people do not deserve a life free from the hell that they have endured. It is as simple as that.
America is great enough to take care of those that are already here and suffering and those that need a respite from their suffering. We, as a nation, are better than we appear. I know that. We are better than those who speak for us on television and on the campaign trail. Maybe it's time to show ourselves and the world that we are better than that.
The beauty of people is that we all have different points of view. Unfortunately we express those points of view too frequently through misinformation and ugliness. I hope, I pray that 2016 can bring out the better in us. I encourage us to find that which unites us instead of focusing on what divides us. What if 2016 was the year we stopped bitching that someone should do something and realize that we are all someone.
Thursday, December 31, 2015
Tuesday, September 1, 2015
Thin Blue Line
Another cop has died. A traffic stop. This is the eighth officer in less than two weeks. There is a sector of the population that is celebrating. There is a sector of the population that shrugs its shoulders and continues with its day. Another sector is angry. There is another sector of the population that takes a deep breath and prays to Saint Michael. And then there is the thin blue line.
I don't know very much about what it takes to be a police officer. I know that I couldn't do it. Physically, mentally, emotionally, I don't have what it takes. Shit, being a wife of is hard enough. Maybe sometimes being the wife is worse. No, it isn't because though I may worry, I am never doing what an officer does. I can list all that they do, all that they give up, all that they risk. We all know those things and many will say that they chose that job. And it is true. They chose it.
They chose to put on the uniform and fight crime. I suppose they even chose to be hated by an ever growing sector(s) of the population but this? They did not choose this.
There will always be bad cops, dirty cops, inept cops. Let this hunt continue and that will be all there will be. The decent, the honorable, the admirable will find other jobs, will follow other dreams, will not be interested in being spit on, and hated and targeted for the uniform that they wear.
There is currently a cry out for the president to speak on these killings. He hasn't. I know he is busy. But he had the time to talk about the shootings of criminals. He has had time to talk about how these boys could have been his sons. Sir, these officers could have been your brothers or sister. They could have been your college roommates, golf buddies, friends. In an official capacity, they could have picked up extra shifts to stop traffic for your motorcade. They could have been called in on their day off to limit access to the stairwell of the hotel that you are speaking in. They may have been the heavily armed thin blue line that kept anyone else from getting too close. It is because of law enforcement, sir, that you arrive home each night able to kiss your girls and wife. It is because of law enforcement and all that they do that you owe it to them to speak about these killings.
It is no secret how I feel about law enforcement. I am married to a police officer. My brother is a deputy. My children's grandfather is a retired officer. As I research my husband's family tree, I find other officers in his past. A long line of the thin blue line. That line encompasses most of my friends as well. When I listen to the media dissect the actions and decisions of officers, I take it personally. When I read the comments made on Facebook and news chatrooms I get very frustrated. I have to remember that it is very easy to be a Monday morning quarterback. It is very easy to explain that, as a young liberal with all the answers, you would have shot the poor misunderstood in the leg or hand. If you would have shot them at all. No, you would have reached out to the oppressed and tried to create a meaningful dialogue to find the answer. Ride along, oh enlightened one, and really understand what it is like to find answers when no one speaks. Understand what it is like to approach a darkened windowed car and know that this could go one thousand ways and you have to be prepared for a thousand and one ways. Spend a shift knowing that everything wrong is your fault and anything right is in spite of you.
The thin blue line is what you need. You need it to get home from the fireworks in a timely manner. You need it to report the shoplifter. You need it when you are driving down the interstate and some asshole is weaving in and out of traffic. You need them when there's a car parked across the street and things don't feel quite right. You need them when you've been t-boned by a truck and the Goddamned heroes haven't arrived yet. You need them when the dog is barking and the garage door is open and no one else is home. You need them when no one else will come to your rescue.
I am not the president, a member of the media or anyone else that can make my voice heard. I cannot change the minds of the population that think police brutality runs rampant. I cannot describe the officers that stop traffic for paper airplanes or baby ducks and make you believe that is the normal mindset of the normal officer. I cannot make you understand that days, months and years of training won't make it any easier to make the decision to stop a threat, to take a life. I am only the wife of an officer that day in and day out, does what he can, through training and heart, to keep you safe.
I don't know very much about what it takes to be a police officer. I know that I couldn't do it. Physically, mentally, emotionally, I don't have what it takes. Shit, being a wife of is hard enough. Maybe sometimes being the wife is worse. No, it isn't because though I may worry, I am never doing what an officer does. I can list all that they do, all that they give up, all that they risk. We all know those things and many will say that they chose that job. And it is true. They chose it.
They chose to put on the uniform and fight crime. I suppose they even chose to be hated by an ever growing sector(s) of the population but this? They did not choose this.
There will always be bad cops, dirty cops, inept cops. Let this hunt continue and that will be all there will be. The decent, the honorable, the admirable will find other jobs, will follow other dreams, will not be interested in being spit on, and hated and targeted for the uniform that they wear.
There is currently a cry out for the president to speak on these killings. He hasn't. I know he is busy. But he had the time to talk about the shootings of criminals. He has had time to talk about how these boys could have been his sons. Sir, these officers could have been your brothers or sister. They could have been your college roommates, golf buddies, friends. In an official capacity, they could have picked up extra shifts to stop traffic for your motorcade. They could have been called in on their day off to limit access to the stairwell of the hotel that you are speaking in. They may have been the heavily armed thin blue line that kept anyone else from getting too close. It is because of law enforcement, sir, that you arrive home each night able to kiss your girls and wife. It is because of law enforcement and all that they do that you owe it to them to speak about these killings.
It is no secret how I feel about law enforcement. I am married to a police officer. My brother is a deputy. My children's grandfather is a retired officer. As I research my husband's family tree, I find other officers in his past. A long line of the thin blue line. That line encompasses most of my friends as well. When I listen to the media dissect the actions and decisions of officers, I take it personally. When I read the comments made on Facebook and news chatrooms I get very frustrated. I have to remember that it is very easy to be a Monday morning quarterback. It is very easy to explain that, as a young liberal with all the answers, you would have shot the poor misunderstood in the leg or hand. If you would have shot them at all. No, you would have reached out to the oppressed and tried to create a meaningful dialogue to find the answer. Ride along, oh enlightened one, and really understand what it is like to find answers when no one speaks. Understand what it is like to approach a darkened windowed car and know that this could go one thousand ways and you have to be prepared for a thousand and one ways. Spend a shift knowing that everything wrong is your fault and anything right is in spite of you.
The thin blue line is what you need. You need it to get home from the fireworks in a timely manner. You need it to report the shoplifter. You need it when you are driving down the interstate and some asshole is weaving in and out of traffic. You need them when there's a car parked across the street and things don't feel quite right. You need them when you've been t-boned by a truck and the Goddamned heroes haven't arrived yet. You need them when the dog is barking and the garage door is open and no one else is home. You need them when no one else will come to your rescue.
I am not the president, a member of the media or anyone else that can make my voice heard. I cannot change the minds of the population that think police brutality runs rampant. I cannot describe the officers that stop traffic for paper airplanes or baby ducks and make you believe that is the normal mindset of the normal officer. I cannot make you understand that days, months and years of training won't make it any easier to make the decision to stop a threat, to take a life. I am only the wife of an officer that day in and day out, does what he can, through training and heart, to keep you safe.
Wednesday, August 26, 2015
Finished Reading
So I haven't blogged in a long time. I mostly don't have anything to say that I haven't already said. I had a great one written about the shitstorm that was Jenner but couldn't get my blog address to work and by the time I did, shitstorm had passed. Other than that, I haven't had much of an opinion to express. Until now.
So Ashlyn and I had cleaned my dad's bedroom for him last year and in that cleaning found three books that my mom had started and never finished. My mom was great at starting a book, magazine, movie and a life and never getting around to finishing it. The books were The Godfather, The Thornbirds and The Robe. I had already read the first book and had seen the movie so I knew what I was getting into with that one. I had never read The Thornbirds but watched it with my grandma during Holy Week many years ago. I was down with the scandal of a handsome priest and a big sheep farm especially during Holy Week. I had never heard of The Robe so I put that one for last.
Back to my mom. Each of these books had a mark in them, ironically, the address labels from magazines that she probably never read. My mom was always going to finish the magazines she subscribed to, but they just piled up on the coffee table. I think her high stress job and a full family life left her too tired to concentrate on Mary Ann Mobly or Farrah Faucet Majors articles. She dogearred the recipes that she would never find the time to make. Every few years Dr Ziavago would air on television and Mom would call the TV for the evening. I think she was usually asleep before the haunting theme song had finished playing. Any attempt to turn the channel was answered with "I am just resting my eyes." But she wasn't resting, she was sleeping. I don't know if she ever saw the movie in its entirety. And then there is the cruelest unfinished of all, her memory cut short, way too short. It no longer mattered that she didn't read or watch any of them to the end. She wouldn't have remembered anyway.
So The Godfather and The Thornbirds were quickly read and thoroughly enjoyed for what they were but The Robe turned out to be something entirely different. It was not a quick read, published in 1942, the print was small and the pages yellowed. It was a small gift from my mom some nine and a half years after her death.
If you haven't read the book, I am going to ruin it for you so you've been warned.
The story of The Robe follows the Roman Tribune that was ordered to crucify Jesus. This Tribune gambles for the robe of Jesus and what happens to him from there. It was a fascinating story without the spiritual ramifications. The author did an excellent job of describing Rome and Palestine in the first century. I never gave any thought to the rest of the people there that day and certainly never thought about His robe, though I always thought it was an interesting detail to include that it was gambled for. But it is the story of the Tribune and his journey to believing that is the gift that my mom left me. She just keeps reminding me that faith is not something proven it just is. I am still muddling through this faith business, but I know this book was there for me. It was from my mom, Mrs. Robert Snow, as the bookmark said. She wants me to get there.
So I finished it. I read it for my mom who just ran out of time. And it makes me think about all that I am putting on hold for when I have time and all that I have wasted my time on. I don't even know where I am going with this post today. Just have my mom and my faith and my to do list on my mind.
The point, if there is one, is read a good book, put your faith in something and leave gifts for the future to find.
So Ashlyn and I had cleaned my dad's bedroom for him last year and in that cleaning found three books that my mom had started and never finished. My mom was great at starting a book, magazine, movie and a life and never getting around to finishing it. The books were The Godfather, The Thornbirds and The Robe. I had already read the first book and had seen the movie so I knew what I was getting into with that one. I had never read The Thornbirds but watched it with my grandma during Holy Week many years ago. I was down with the scandal of a handsome priest and a big sheep farm especially during Holy Week. I had never heard of The Robe so I put that one for last.
Back to my mom. Each of these books had a mark in them, ironically, the address labels from magazines that she probably never read. My mom was always going to finish the magazines she subscribed to, but they just piled up on the coffee table. I think her high stress job and a full family life left her too tired to concentrate on Mary Ann Mobly or Farrah Faucet Majors articles. She dogearred the recipes that she would never find the time to make. Every few years Dr Ziavago would air on television and Mom would call the TV for the evening. I think she was usually asleep before the haunting theme song had finished playing. Any attempt to turn the channel was answered with "I am just resting my eyes." But she wasn't resting, she was sleeping. I don't know if she ever saw the movie in its entirety. And then there is the cruelest unfinished of all, her memory cut short, way too short. It no longer mattered that she didn't read or watch any of them to the end. She wouldn't have remembered anyway.
So The Godfather and The Thornbirds were quickly read and thoroughly enjoyed for what they were but The Robe turned out to be something entirely different. It was not a quick read, published in 1942, the print was small and the pages yellowed. It was a small gift from my mom some nine and a half years after her death.
If you haven't read the book, I am going to ruin it for you so you've been warned.
The story of The Robe follows the Roman Tribune that was ordered to crucify Jesus. This Tribune gambles for the robe of Jesus and what happens to him from there. It was a fascinating story without the spiritual ramifications. The author did an excellent job of describing Rome and Palestine in the first century. I never gave any thought to the rest of the people there that day and certainly never thought about His robe, though I always thought it was an interesting detail to include that it was gambled for. But it is the story of the Tribune and his journey to believing that is the gift that my mom left me. She just keeps reminding me that faith is not something proven it just is. I am still muddling through this faith business, but I know this book was there for me. It was from my mom, Mrs. Robert Snow, as the bookmark said. She wants me to get there.
So I finished it. I read it for my mom who just ran out of time. And it makes me think about all that I am putting on hold for when I have time and all that I have wasted my time on. I don't even know where I am going with this post today. Just have my mom and my faith and my to do list on my mind.
The point, if there is one, is read a good book, put your faith in something and leave gifts for the future to find.
Monday, March 9, 2015
Green Houses and Bad Dreams
So the other day on our way to the tax man, my husband of twenty fives years asks a very innocent question. "Would you be totally against painting the house green?" I sat in the passenger's seat of our big new truck and felt my blood boil. How dare he? The audacity!
"YES! I would be totally against painting the house green!" I screamed inside my head.
Danny's reasoning was that the brown of the gutters could look better against green than blue. Green would certainly look sharp against the reds in the brick. I counter countered with the blue looks much better against the grey of the deck and that when all the green that grows starts to pop up, the blue may not bother him so much.
But honestly, none of this is about the color of the house, it is about not wanting one more thing to change in the whirlwind of change that is taking place in my life. None of the change is bad really. It is just a lot in a short amount of time and I am obviously not dealing with it if I am freaking out about painting a house.
The last of my big dogs died nine months ago and I still mourn her. I will mourn her forever as I do Barron. There is no replacing them because we aren't in the big dog business anymore. We have Hattie. She is little and adorable and completely different. Hattie's personality is huge and make no mistake, I absolutely love her. 200 pounds to eight pounds is still quite a change. I will continue to adapt throughout the spring and summer. Harlow was a different kind of presence in the yard. I don't know how Hattie will be. I imagine she will be everywhere, sniffing everything. I imagine she will spring in to say HI! and then sprint to the far corners to explore, eat leaves and find bunnies. Harlow was done with all that most days. The energy will be so different. Different.
Ashlyn is moving to Portland, Oregon. I knew it. I knew that she would go for a very long time. But I got so used to having her around that I am not quite sure how I will fill my time. Hayley is moving to Omaha. I didn't know it and was expecting her to move home, at least for a little while. So not only do I have to get used to not having Ashlyn here, I have to get used to not getting to have Hayley here. Don't get me wrong. I am glad. I am glad that Ashlyn is moving to Portland and that Hayley is moving to Omaha. It is right and it is where they are both supposed to be going. One does not get excepted to law school or get the great job if it wasn't the plan, but it doesn't mean that it is easy for the mom.
Jacob is moving home this summer and I hope that he indulges me on occasion and hangs out with me. I know that he is getting his own life going and all that, but... He promised to paint the garage this summer, blue.
And then there is work. I have no idea what is happening there. No one really does but the guys from Great Britain that were bought out by us with stock. So they own us now and they are bringing in new ideas and that means change.
Change that I have to roll with because we have a new truck payment that is slightly larger than the Fiesta payment and I can't change jobs.
I think my little brain just didn't know how to process any more change and it manifested itself in a completely irrational response to a pretty innocent question. God bless Danny White for just taking my long drawn out response with a sense of humor as I can't promise how quickly I will adapt to all these changes. Oh, and did I mention I have glasses now? So I am adapting to them as well. And there is the thyroid medication that we may tweak a bit to see if that doesn't improve my skin and sleep and energy which will all help me better handle questions about house colors and what's for dinners and what ever else life my throw at me.
In all that transpired in these past few weeks, I know that what concerned me the most was not the truck payment or house color or even where my daughters will live, but what I dreamt. I dreamt that I was cutting again, on the bottoms of my feet so that Danny wouldn't know. Is that how I want to respond to the stresses that I am experiencing (WTF none of this seems like it should be stressful)? Am I still carrying around the cutting bullshit deep in my soul? More than anything, I would like to know why cutting has reappeared in my life.
Danny came home for lunch today and he listened, again, while I recited all my hopes and fears. He is so patient with me. I told him about the last conversation I had had with my doctor and that she brought up anti depressants. I don't want them, am not interested in them, won't take them because for as low as my lows rarely feel, my highs are so fantastic that I would never want to diminish that feeling. I don't want to take the edge off of anything because that was what cutting was. I just want to be whatever it is I am going to be in that moment and know that change will come, it is inevitable. But also know that in the changes I will still have constants of a man that loves me, a dog that is excited to see me and kinder, that no matter where they are, are still my kinder.
I know that cutting is not in my future. And I know that neither of us really want to paint the house and we probably can't afford to hire it done so for the time being, the house is blue!
"YES! I would be totally against painting the house green!" I screamed inside my head.
Danny's reasoning was that the brown of the gutters could look better against green than blue. Green would certainly look sharp against the reds in the brick. I counter countered with the blue looks much better against the grey of the deck and that when all the green that grows starts to pop up, the blue may not bother him so much.
But honestly, none of this is about the color of the house, it is about not wanting one more thing to change in the whirlwind of change that is taking place in my life. None of the change is bad really. It is just a lot in a short amount of time and I am obviously not dealing with it if I am freaking out about painting a house.
The last of my big dogs died nine months ago and I still mourn her. I will mourn her forever as I do Barron. There is no replacing them because we aren't in the big dog business anymore. We have Hattie. She is little and adorable and completely different. Hattie's personality is huge and make no mistake, I absolutely love her. 200 pounds to eight pounds is still quite a change. I will continue to adapt throughout the spring and summer. Harlow was a different kind of presence in the yard. I don't know how Hattie will be. I imagine she will be everywhere, sniffing everything. I imagine she will spring in to say HI! and then sprint to the far corners to explore, eat leaves and find bunnies. Harlow was done with all that most days. The energy will be so different. Different.
Ashlyn is moving to Portland, Oregon. I knew it. I knew that she would go for a very long time. But I got so used to having her around that I am not quite sure how I will fill my time. Hayley is moving to Omaha. I didn't know it and was expecting her to move home, at least for a little while. So not only do I have to get used to not having Ashlyn here, I have to get used to not getting to have Hayley here. Don't get me wrong. I am glad. I am glad that Ashlyn is moving to Portland and that Hayley is moving to Omaha. It is right and it is where they are both supposed to be going. One does not get excepted to law school or get the great job if it wasn't the plan, but it doesn't mean that it is easy for the mom.
Jacob is moving home this summer and I hope that he indulges me on occasion and hangs out with me. I know that he is getting his own life going and all that, but... He promised to paint the garage this summer, blue.
And then there is work. I have no idea what is happening there. No one really does but the guys from Great Britain that were bought out by us with stock. So they own us now and they are bringing in new ideas and that means change.
Change that I have to roll with because we have a new truck payment that is slightly larger than the Fiesta payment and I can't change jobs.
I think my little brain just didn't know how to process any more change and it manifested itself in a completely irrational response to a pretty innocent question. God bless Danny White for just taking my long drawn out response with a sense of humor as I can't promise how quickly I will adapt to all these changes. Oh, and did I mention I have glasses now? So I am adapting to them as well. And there is the thyroid medication that we may tweak a bit to see if that doesn't improve my skin and sleep and energy which will all help me better handle questions about house colors and what's for dinners and what ever else life my throw at me.
In all that transpired in these past few weeks, I know that what concerned me the most was not the truck payment or house color or even where my daughters will live, but what I dreamt. I dreamt that I was cutting again, on the bottoms of my feet so that Danny wouldn't know. Is that how I want to respond to the stresses that I am experiencing (WTF none of this seems like it should be stressful)? Am I still carrying around the cutting bullshit deep in my soul? More than anything, I would like to know why cutting has reappeared in my life.
Danny came home for lunch today and he listened, again, while I recited all my hopes and fears. He is so patient with me. I told him about the last conversation I had had with my doctor and that she brought up anti depressants. I don't want them, am not interested in them, won't take them because for as low as my lows rarely feel, my highs are so fantastic that I would never want to diminish that feeling. I don't want to take the edge off of anything because that was what cutting was. I just want to be whatever it is I am going to be in that moment and know that change will come, it is inevitable. But also know that in the changes I will still have constants of a man that loves me, a dog that is excited to see me and kinder, that no matter where they are, are still my kinder.
I know that cutting is not in my future. And I know that neither of us really want to paint the house and we probably can't afford to hire it done so for the time being, the house is blue!
Tuesday, February 17, 2015
Lent
Lent begins tomorrow. Ash Wednesday. Mass, some ashes, no meat. It is unfortunate that that is what I take away from this season most days. I forget that for 40 days I am to suffer just a bit of the suffering that Jesus endured. I am not any good at it. By day 2 (by 2 in the afternoon on Wednesday if we are going to be honest) I will have begun the bargaining process. I will negotiate the eating of this piece of chocolate for this decade of the rosary. I will already fail before the ashes are washed from my head. I am not very good at this Catholic business.
I know that a lot of people give up social media. I see the merit in that, especially if it is all consuming for you (as it appears to be for me) but I don't want to go 40 days without virtually seeing my friends and family that are far away. I could give up forty days of viewing dog videos and reading the angry sentiments of the right and left. I could go forty days without knowing what the Kardashians are doing or how marriage for all will ruin marriage for some.
I know many will forgo chocolate and soda. I will not be one of those many. Nor will I give up the swearing, sarcasm or snarkiness that I so love. Though I could definitely benefit from reducing the swearing, sarcasm and snarkiness that I am so loved for.
I have been told that one should not share what they are doing for lent. It should be between one and the Lord. That makes it easy for me to cheat or quit because who will hold me accountable. Oh, the Lord will, won't He?
Man, He has got to be sick and tired of me and my open ended promises, my shoulda, coulda, wouldas.
I am not shy about my journey to know God like I did for a brief moment in time. I am not ashamed of the meandering path that I am traveling to get back to Him. I am not proud of some of the names that I have called Him, or of some of the places I encouraged Him to go (is that even possible? Can God go to Hell?) I suppose He can, He is God after all.
So with much thought and prayer, I have decided that maybe I will give up being so combative with God. Maybe I will be more open to what people are saying about their own faith journey and accept that I will not make sense of the answers that I get. Maybe I will stop arguing about all the BS I find in the bible and know that like the dictionary, I won't need every word that is in the book, good or otherwise. Maybe I will give up shallow breathing and just inhale all the good that faith can bring me.
Giving up chocolate or facebook or even swearing will not make me better. Giving up has been the source of many of my problems as I gave up on God. Can I, for forty days, be a better friend? Can I listen instead of just talk? Can I learn to says thanks instead of bargaining? Can I, for forty days, give up my human expectations and just have a little more faith. Can I take out the prayer book of my mother's and see that it was faith that wore the paper soft? Can I just find that place in my heart that holds how I felt the day my mom died. The day that joy overcame me with such force that I could not control my tears. When faith told me that she had gone home and there was not a shred of doubt (and still I do not doubt that my mom went home that day to be with the Lord, though I don't know if the same will be for me) that she had. Or the day when Ashlyn told me that Jesus does not want us to worry and my worry was lifted.
Jesus spent his forty days working it all out. He was talking with his dad, and trying to make sense of what was to happen to him. He suffered. He struggled. He had a lot of human emotions while out in the desert. He had to deal with the devil and, I am sure, sand storms and big bugs and chapped lips. Yet he stuck it out. Maybe its time for me to stick it out as well and stop my self imposed suffering and find my way back.
I know that a lot of people give up social media. I see the merit in that, especially if it is all consuming for you (as it appears to be for me) but I don't want to go 40 days without virtually seeing my friends and family that are far away. I could give up forty days of viewing dog videos and reading the angry sentiments of the right and left. I could go forty days without knowing what the Kardashians are doing or how marriage for all will ruin marriage for some.
I know many will forgo chocolate and soda. I will not be one of those many. Nor will I give up the swearing, sarcasm or snarkiness that I so love. Though I could definitely benefit from reducing the swearing, sarcasm and snarkiness that I am so loved for.
I have been told that one should not share what they are doing for lent. It should be between one and the Lord. That makes it easy for me to cheat or quit because who will hold me accountable. Oh, the Lord will, won't He?
Man, He has got to be sick and tired of me and my open ended promises, my shoulda, coulda, wouldas.
I am not shy about my journey to know God like I did for a brief moment in time. I am not ashamed of the meandering path that I am traveling to get back to Him. I am not proud of some of the names that I have called Him, or of some of the places I encouraged Him to go (is that even possible? Can God go to Hell?) I suppose He can, He is God after all.
So with much thought and prayer, I have decided that maybe I will give up being so combative with God. Maybe I will be more open to what people are saying about their own faith journey and accept that I will not make sense of the answers that I get. Maybe I will stop arguing about all the BS I find in the bible and know that like the dictionary, I won't need every word that is in the book, good or otherwise. Maybe I will give up shallow breathing and just inhale all the good that faith can bring me.
Giving up chocolate or facebook or even swearing will not make me better. Giving up has been the source of many of my problems as I gave up on God. Can I, for forty days, be a better friend? Can I listen instead of just talk? Can I learn to says thanks instead of bargaining? Can I, for forty days, give up my human expectations and just have a little more faith. Can I take out the prayer book of my mother's and see that it was faith that wore the paper soft? Can I just find that place in my heart that holds how I felt the day my mom died. The day that joy overcame me with such force that I could not control my tears. When faith told me that she had gone home and there was not a shred of doubt (and still I do not doubt that my mom went home that day to be with the Lord, though I don't know if the same will be for me) that she had. Or the day when Ashlyn told me that Jesus does not want us to worry and my worry was lifted.
Jesus spent his forty days working it all out. He was talking with his dad, and trying to make sense of what was to happen to him. He suffered. He struggled. He had a lot of human emotions while out in the desert. He had to deal with the devil and, I am sure, sand storms and big bugs and chapped lips. Yet he stuck it out. Maybe its time for me to stick it out as well and stop my self imposed suffering and find my way back.
Friday, January 30, 2015
To My Hayley
Dear Hayley,
Today is your 22nd birthday. That just doesn't seem possible as I clearly remember our first night together with the rain on the hospital windows and the thunder, the sweet rare sound of thunder! And now you are this wonderful young woman just about ready to take on the future with the brightness of the lightening that long ago evening.
You are amazing. I know that every mom says that about every daughter, but you are truly amazing. Sure, you are cute and funny. You have a wonderful and beautiful smile (Smile Orthodontics says Happy Birthday). But that is not what makes you so special, it is your great big heart. I am amazed by the great efforts you take to make everyone feel special. Watching you work one afternoon was such a treat! Your care and attention to the bride-to-be was impressive. It is no wonder that people rave about you. Every bride must feel like a princess after an afternoon with you.
You are so funny. All of your life you have made me laugh. From your early days of make believe dressing up as Girl or Snow White or Witch (have a bite?) to your dress up days with Kat and Mary as Christmas elves, garage band or whatever else it was the three of you did, you made me laugh.
You are sweet. There is a no toothed can't hit the litter box weirdo that has a wonderful life because of you. You and Brett have given Small Cat a life that is warm and loving. There is a long line of furry friends that have benefited from your fleece blankets and movie marathons.
You are generous. Saved a sister's life and have already offered up a kidney or hunk of liver, if needed. But that is not where your generosity begins or ends. Your generous heart shines through all of the time.
You are all grown up with your own goals and plans but you will never stop being my girl, my Snow White, my witch. I am so proud. You will be wonderful!
I love you,
Mom
Today is your 22nd birthday. That just doesn't seem possible as I clearly remember our first night together with the rain on the hospital windows and the thunder, the sweet rare sound of thunder! And now you are this wonderful young woman just about ready to take on the future with the brightness of the lightening that long ago evening.
You are amazing. I know that every mom says that about every daughter, but you are truly amazing. Sure, you are cute and funny. You have a wonderful and beautiful smile (Smile Orthodontics says Happy Birthday). But that is not what makes you so special, it is your great big heart. I am amazed by the great efforts you take to make everyone feel special. Watching you work one afternoon was such a treat! Your care and attention to the bride-to-be was impressive. It is no wonder that people rave about you. Every bride must feel like a princess after an afternoon with you.
You are so funny. All of your life you have made me laugh. From your early days of make believe dressing up as Girl or Snow White or Witch (have a bite?) to your dress up days with Kat and Mary as Christmas elves, garage band or whatever else it was the three of you did, you made me laugh.
You are sweet. There is a no toothed can't hit the litter box weirdo that has a wonderful life because of you. You and Brett have given Small Cat a life that is warm and loving. There is a long line of furry friends that have benefited from your fleece blankets and movie marathons.
You are generous. Saved a sister's life and have already offered up a kidney or hunk of liver, if needed. But that is not where your generosity begins or ends. Your generous heart shines through all of the time.
You are all grown up with your own goals and plans but you will never stop being my girl, my Snow White, my witch. I am so proud. You will be wonderful!
I love you,
Mom
Sunday, January 18, 2015
war movies with my war veteran
"If you go to combat and you have people who love you at home, some version of this story is your story," Taya Kyle, widow of Chris Kyle, the subject of the much anticipated movie, American Sniper said in an interview regarding this movie.
We saw it yesterday, Danny and I. This is the first war movie that I have seen with Danny that does not take place prior to him enlisting. Meaning, I have watched "We Were Soldiers" and "Heartbreak Ridge" but did not see "Lone Survivor" or "Hurt Locker" with Danny. I was very hesitant to see "American Sniper" in the theater and with Danny. There are some things that I may just not want to know.
Danny was active duty and guard for sixteen years. In those sixteen years he saw combat twice, in 1990-91 with Desert Shield/Desert Storm and again in 2004 in Iraq. He has shared many of his experiences while in the desert, but I have always been sure that many experiences are told to me in a white washed sort of way. When Pillage gets together, I don't hear about missions, but instead am regaled with tales of TV stations gone bad, fantastic cave restaurant food and escapades of the men in the orange baseball caps on the balcony of Sadaam's palace. And that has always worked for me. Even ten years later, I am still unprepared to hear how close the mortar landed.
I am grateful to Taya Kyle for letting this story be told. It is a difficult place to be, a spouse frustrated and ready to be a regular family again. Even knowing what we 'signed up' for does not make us not want the usual, normal things. And when there are children, we struggle even more to keep things normal when we are not feeling normal at all. Personally, I am still processing the way I behaved while Danny was gone in 2004 and am still trying to let go of it.
The military and those associated with it have come along way in knowing that people need help sometimes to work through the shit and there is no shame in that. We laugh now about Danny changing lanes under the overpasses and not allowing any vehicle to get too close to us on 22nd Street and the movie shows that same reaction so very well. Danny was a horrible driver right after he came home. He swerved for every pothole and McDonalds bag in the road. And we thought we understood why, but we also thought he should be able to wrap his head around the fact that he was in West Des Moines. Watching a movie that shows some of what his experience may have been like makes me realize how idiotic I was thinking he should be able to just let that year go and get back to picking up kids from soccer practice and ordering pizza and being a regular dad driving a minivan down the road.
I am sure that many will come out of the theater with new feelings about the war in Iraq. I know that I still wonder about it, try to make sense of it. Having had the opportunity to talk to people that escaped the genocide in Northern Iraq gives me a very different perspective, I suppose. I don't know that I could love something, an idea, so much that I would give up a thousand days to fight for that. Lucky for me, there are plenty of people that do have that kind of heart and strength.
From Danny's point of view, a very well made movie that captured so much of what was real about Iraq. From my point of view, a very well made movie that captured so much of what was real about loving someone in Iraq.
We saw it yesterday, Danny and I. This is the first war movie that I have seen with Danny that does not take place prior to him enlisting. Meaning, I have watched "We Were Soldiers" and "Heartbreak Ridge" but did not see "Lone Survivor" or "Hurt Locker" with Danny. I was very hesitant to see "American Sniper" in the theater and with Danny. There are some things that I may just not want to know.
Danny was active duty and guard for sixteen years. In those sixteen years he saw combat twice, in 1990-91 with Desert Shield/Desert Storm and again in 2004 in Iraq. He has shared many of his experiences while in the desert, but I have always been sure that many experiences are told to me in a white washed sort of way. When Pillage gets together, I don't hear about missions, but instead am regaled with tales of TV stations gone bad, fantastic cave restaurant food and escapades of the men in the orange baseball caps on the balcony of Sadaam's palace. And that has always worked for me. Even ten years later, I am still unprepared to hear how close the mortar landed.
I am grateful to Taya Kyle for letting this story be told. It is a difficult place to be, a spouse frustrated and ready to be a regular family again. Even knowing what we 'signed up' for does not make us not want the usual, normal things. And when there are children, we struggle even more to keep things normal when we are not feeling normal at all. Personally, I am still processing the way I behaved while Danny was gone in 2004 and am still trying to let go of it.
The military and those associated with it have come along way in knowing that people need help sometimes to work through the shit and there is no shame in that. We laugh now about Danny changing lanes under the overpasses and not allowing any vehicle to get too close to us on 22nd Street and the movie shows that same reaction so very well. Danny was a horrible driver right after he came home. He swerved for every pothole and McDonalds bag in the road. And we thought we understood why, but we also thought he should be able to wrap his head around the fact that he was in West Des Moines. Watching a movie that shows some of what his experience may have been like makes me realize how idiotic I was thinking he should be able to just let that year go and get back to picking up kids from soccer practice and ordering pizza and being a regular dad driving a minivan down the road.
I am sure that many will come out of the theater with new feelings about the war in Iraq. I know that I still wonder about it, try to make sense of it. Having had the opportunity to talk to people that escaped the genocide in Northern Iraq gives me a very different perspective, I suppose. I don't know that I could love something, an idea, so much that I would give up a thousand days to fight for that. Lucky for me, there are plenty of people that do have that kind of heart and strength.
From Danny's point of view, a very well made movie that captured so much of what was real about Iraq. From my point of view, a very well made movie that captured so much of what was real about loving someone in Iraq.
Thursday, January 1, 2015
Happy New Year...
I like to get caught up in the new beginnings business of new year, month, pay period. I make grand and sweeping plans to change for the better. Budgets and lifting schedules and book clubs are created and forgotten before the new has even dimmed it's glow. I'm lazy and comfortable in my easy life, I suppose. Or I take on too much too fast. Or I'm lazy and comfortable in my easy life.
2015 is no different. Or maybe it is. Maybe the idea that this is my forty fifth year has changed a little something in me. Maybe the idea that I don't want the second half of my life to be a physical or financial struggle has finally made me consider some things.
I lost seven pounds. Two to three of those have come back around these past two weeks, but I know how to get rid of them and love them more when they are gone. I have a normal budget that does not require hoops to be jumped through. I even got the first deposit into next year's Christmas fund! And I did all of that well before the ball dropped.
So what do I really resolve for 2015? Is it really to be rich and thin. Not really. Really? Truly? I resolved to just be happy. I resolve to figure out how to combat that dumb blackness that comes over me for no good reason. I resolve to figure out if it creeps in on the fog of monthly cycles or if it bursts through due to lack of chocolate. Is there a call for therapy and medicine or simply better eating and more exercising and gardening? I am betting on the latter. I am betting on doing what feels happy will keep me happy.
I think being happy will solve all my problems. If I simply follow what brings joy to me than it will be easy. And by happy, I don't mean stupidly giddy about the half full glass. I mean, well, I don't know exactly what I mean. Happy like when Harlow would find an enormous branch fallen from the tree and she would settle down and chew on it. Happy like when Hattie finds a yard full of leaves and she feels compelled to attack every one. Happy like when a kitty finds a sunspot and then another and another and then a heated blanket. I should know by now that my pets have all the answers.
So here is to 2015. I won't put too much pressure on it or me to make it the best year ever. I will make it happy. Everything else will fall into place if I just do that one simple thing.
Now off to the treadmill to walk and watch Parks and Rec. I do have other minor resolutions...
2015 is no different. Or maybe it is. Maybe the idea that this is my forty fifth year has changed a little something in me. Maybe the idea that I don't want the second half of my life to be a physical or financial struggle has finally made me consider some things.
I lost seven pounds. Two to three of those have come back around these past two weeks, but I know how to get rid of them and love them more when they are gone. I have a normal budget that does not require hoops to be jumped through. I even got the first deposit into next year's Christmas fund! And I did all of that well before the ball dropped.
So what do I really resolve for 2015? Is it really to be rich and thin. Not really. Really? Truly? I resolved to just be happy. I resolve to figure out how to combat that dumb blackness that comes over me for no good reason. I resolve to figure out if it creeps in on the fog of monthly cycles or if it bursts through due to lack of chocolate. Is there a call for therapy and medicine or simply better eating and more exercising and gardening? I am betting on the latter. I am betting on doing what feels happy will keep me happy.
I think being happy will solve all my problems. If I simply follow what brings joy to me than it will be easy. And by happy, I don't mean stupidly giddy about the half full glass. I mean, well, I don't know exactly what I mean. Happy like when Harlow would find an enormous branch fallen from the tree and she would settle down and chew on it. Happy like when Hattie finds a yard full of leaves and she feels compelled to attack every one. Happy like when a kitty finds a sunspot and then another and another and then a heated blanket. I should know by now that my pets have all the answers.
So here is to 2015. I won't put too much pressure on it or me to make it the best year ever. I will make it happy. Everything else will fall into place if I just do that one simple thing.
Now off to the treadmill to walk and watch Parks and Rec. I do have other minor resolutions...
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