The Nerve

Boy, oh boy, who does she think she is? She doesn't post a thing for months and months . . . nothing . . . silence! Then out of nowhere she resurrects this website just to ask for money?!!! She has some nerve, I tell you, some nerve . . .

It is true, nerve I have. Rest assured, though, it is for a good cause.

My oldest daughter, Elanor, and I are raising money for the Illinois Special Olympics. On March 5, 2011 we will jump our crazy selves-along with many other supporters of the Special Olympics-into the icy waters of Lake Sara in Effingham for the Polar Plunge!

Why will we be torturing ourselves in this way, you may ask? Well, the Illinois Special Olympics isn't going to pay for itself! Plus, someone needs to retrieve all those rubber duckies thrown into the lake by the Special Olympians, I figured it might as well be us. I have little concern for Elanor, as she has always seemed impervious to even the coldest water; I, on the other hand, am old and brittle and may need medical attention when I emerge from the water.

I overheard Elanor excitedly telling my mom about our plunge and she had this to say about my prospects, "I mean, I KNOW I can do it! It's just my mom that might need some help."

Why does she think I asked her to do it with me?

Now for the hitting people up for money part:) I am thrilled to say that after less than a week of fundraising we have already reached 60% of our goal to raise $500 dollars by the day of the plunge, but we still need your help. If you feel at all compelled to support us, follow this link to donate. Elanor and I and thousands of Special Olympians would be very grateful:)

And as a less interesting side note, I promise to start posting again soon. I have things to say and I have missed you . . .

Summer Slushie

Photo by Benny Atkins

Wordless Wednesday: Samurai Sisters

A Birthday Poem

My husband is a writer. He may teach high school English to pay the bills, but he is a writer and the creativity that emerges when he sits at a keyboard is mystifying to me. Over the years he has written some very beautiful poetry for me, I have little bits of paper and napkins that have been graced with his thoughts of me stashed in boxes all over my bedroom. The day before my birthday he posted to his website what I believe is my favorite poem yet . . .

Atirat

Listen:

You drawers of spiritual diagrams,

You fourth Century monks, CE, BCE . . .

You systematic theologians,

You translators of apochryphal texts,

You spiritual counselors,

You bald priests in red robes,

You suited, sweat-faced evangelists,

You youth ministers with baseball caps and cargo shorts,

Listen, you abnegates, and I will teach you abnegation:

I have tried to love a woman

In the Holy Place,

Tie bells to my ankles.

Tie a noose around my waist.

She is the God I worship,

That I carry in my Ark.

My God my name has taken.

My God has borne my mark.

She is terrible and holy,

She has burned me with her fire.

But no shewbread fills my stomach,

Nor wine quench my desire.

You said: Wives, obey your husbands;

Husbands, love your wives.

You said: Eve had tempted Adam.

Serpents, women, lies.

But she is too terrible for your doctrines.

I cannot hold her.

She is a force too strong for me

Too imperfect for my poetry.

Too far beyond the scope of your doxology.

I cannot mold her.

She is a clay unmoldable.

You said: Go to the Potter's House.

And destroy her.

And be happy with her destruction.

You said: Go, take yourself a wife of whoredom, and have children of whoredom.

You said: Go, love a woman who is loved by another man and who is an adulteress.

And you bought one for fifteen shekels.

But my woman is not mine:

I can not contain her.

She will not dance for shekels,

But for John the Baptist's head.

She is a force.

She moves me against my will.

I look for her here and there, but I do not find her.

You should have said: Go, give yourself to a woman and offer children to her.

You should have said: Go, love a woman who is loved by another woman and who is loved by all men.

And give your soul to her.

Then, I would have found contentment

In her lap.

Filth and Contentment

I find--very simply--that the filthier my children are at the end of a day, the more enjoyable that day was.

Case in point, we recently spent a beautiful weekend with our good friends enjoying the flawless spring weather. These same friends just happen to own fifty-some acres of the most breathtaking land you are likely to find in this area and we enjoy taking our daughters (and our dog, Joe) for the fresh air, the wide open spaces and yes--for a chance to get good and filthy like all children should. All three of my girls were encrusted with mud from head to toe by the end of our visit--a sure sign of a successfully accomplished day of childhood.

They stomped through muddy ravines, hunted for tiny frogs to tuck in their pockets, they even found a little snake. They had mud on their pants, they had mud on their faces, they had mud in their hair. It was a real good time:)

Approximately 45 seconds after pulling out of our friends' driveway my husband and I had a backseat full of filthy, disheveled, snoring kids (and dog) . . . and a front seat full of contentment.

A Musing for a Monday

Have you ever noticed the tendency for some people to assume that you are just like them? Have you then noticed the subsequent tendency for these people to appear annoyed/offended when they find their assumptions about you to be unfounded? I have noticed, and I have to say that it greatly annoys/offends me when people do this. They then have the gall to express disappointment in your failure to measure up to the person they wanted you to be without ever having had a conversation with you. I don't know, maybe this only happens to me.

I suppose it must stem from some deep longing for community. Their need for connection supersedes their need for authenticity--apparently. I think this often happens in church communities. They believe that their love of Jesus binds them together into a community, that He mystically, magically makes their connection to each other strong. They go to great lengths to be what they are expected to be in the social context of their community in an effort to belong, but they do this at the expense of truth. Ironically, the only real community to be experienced in life is found in the same places that our unattractive, inconvenient truths live. If we are obscuring all things genuine for the preservation of our community, then the sense of belonging that we may be finding in it is simply a wraith.

Just a cheery thought for the day . . . :)

Some Say Love, It is a Bummer

The Bette Midler song The Rose came on the radio just as I pulled out of the school drive from dropping the girls off this morning. Yes, I teared up and yes, I felt ridiculous. I am getting entirely too sappy in my old age. In my defense, it really is a great song and Bette Midler's rendition is so moving. I dare you to listen without tearing up, I double-dog-dare you:)

Some say love it is a river

that drowns the tender reed
Some say love it is a razor
that leaves your soul to bleed

Some say love it is a hunger
an endless aching need
I say love it is a flower
and you it's only seed

It's the heart afraid of breaking
that never learns to dance
It's the dream afraid of waking

that never takes the chance
It's the one who won't be taken
who cannot seem to give
and the soul afraid of dying

that never learns to live

When the night has been too lonely
and the road has been too long
and you think that love is only
for the lucky and the strong
Just remember in the winter

far beneath the bitter snows
lies the seed
that with the sun's love
in the spring
becomes the rose