Lice and Lies

As I combed the lice and eggs out of my own long, thick hair, I contemplated employing the razor that I saw nearby, but vanity stopped me. I was not so sure that I could pull off the whole bronze glam thing (that's how I picture myself, apparently) as a brown Sinead O'connor. So, I kept combing and combing until my scalp hurt and finally, my neon comb came up clean.

I had gone to the chemist and talked to a lady that looked very official. She could tell that I was freaked out. She tried to tell me that it was okay, and that many families get lice. "It is no comment on your hygiene," she said sympathetically. I tried look neutral but if you have ever seen me attempt to suppress emotion, you'll know that I was probably not very successful. Then, the kind chemist tried to sell me some "natural" Aussie remedy. (Many Aussies seem to like the most natural way of doing anything.) I proudly told her that I was American, and that I wanted to use more of a "shock and awe" method. She reluctantly sold me KB24, which was supposed to kill whole cities of lice and their eggs. That was what we needed, I was sure, something really toxic that would make your eyes sting and your lips tingle if it accidentally touched them.

I spent the day stripping beds, washing sheets in boiling water, bathing and combing little girls. I was so irritated and appalled and cranky. It is all very fine for Meryl and Jordan and Micah Jade to have lice. In fact, if Meryl's head hadn't itched so badly, she would have been glad to be the caretaker of a whole civilization, like Horton in Horton Hears a Who. Lice are normal for school kids, but it is a different thing entirely for glamorous, quirky, athletic, cool me to have lice.

Greg couldn't see why I was in such a panicked state. He calmly told me that he had lice when he was a kid, and that by the time his mom knew, he had picked out and killed most of them, himself. (This is a shocking story, I know.) He kept laughing at me and shrugging and making "heebie geebie" faces until he realized how unsettled I was. In case you don't know my husband, Greg has the ability to pierce to the truth with me like no one else; that's one of the reasons I like him so much. He gently and kindly asks the right questions. Finally, he looked hard at me and said, "Babe, it's gross, but why is this bothering you so much?"

Then it hit me. The lice in my own hair bothers me so much because I don't totally buy the truths that I am selling to my kids. I believe some lies instead. I am teaching that the "inside of a person is more important than the outside," that it's important to take good care of yourself, but it's more important to be kind to others," that "man looks at the outward appearance, but God looks at the heart." Here I was with a chance to live out the truths I say I believe; but instead a few small insects laid bare the falsehood in my own heart. Lice are gross on little kids, especially when you have to comb them out and look at them. They are grosser still in my own hair, but what's worse than lice is secretly overvaluing my image and appearance and therefore being unkind to and impatient with my children, who innocently and unknowingly shared the lice.

Ugliness in the heart is a terrible problem, but fortunately, I know a God that is in the business of regenerating the ugliness inside into something beautiful. I'm not there yet, but as I see myself for what I really am, I hope I can give God room to work on the inside of me when I need a serious tune-up. Maybe when he's done with His work, I will be rid of lice and lies.

A Legacy In Bloom

We had a great day at Australia Zoo, but I was fighting back tears as I looked at the memorial sculpture of Steve and Terri Irwin and their children Bindi and Robert. The bronze had frozen the Irwin family in time, in a happy moment, all together with their favorite thing all around--wildlife. The zoo that they have built with their own hands and out of their own hearts' vision was thriving around us, and the articulation of their vision is a triumphant, happy thing; but, as a mother and a wife, the moment captured by the sculptor made my heart ache for Terri and her kids, even as Steve's dreams blossomed in every direction.

The zoo was beautiful, both physically and ideologically. It was totally oriented around Steve Irwin's vision--"get the public a close-up encounter with fantastic wild creatures, and everyone will catch the vision for conservation." I had marvelled at Steve feeding and wrestling (for some reason--maybe mowing the grass?) his crocodiles Acco and Agro on one of his shows, and it was unbelievable to "meet" them in person. When I "wrangled" the twelve-inch garter snake in my compost pile in Austin, I borrowed the technique that Steve had used to capture a deadly and venomous Australian brown snake that now lives in the snake house. I have often thought, at Steve's prompting, about how highways infringe on the habitat of kangaroos in Australia, and now I have fed some of the ones that have been rescued. In many ways, Steve had helped form my vision of conservation and environmental protection in Australia, and in general.

I have loved Steve Irwin's enthusiasm ever since I first discovered his show, when I was in university. Every animal, no matter how small or common was a "little beauty" and "gorgeous." I think that because Steve Irwin had so much child-like enthusiasm, He and Terri designed Australia Zoo to be a wonderful, experience hands-on encounter for kids. The zoo has fossil digs and free rides, free shows and keepers that talk about the animals and answer questions. It has life sized sculptures of crocs and playgrounds near ice cream shops. Australia Zoo is totally child-centric, and the experience inspired Jordan, Meryl and Micah Jade to share in the Irwins' excitement about wildlife. Like Steve Irwin, Australia Zoo is "larger than life."

Steve Irwin may have passed away, but his legacy lives on. On speakers all throughout the park, we heard his voice and his ideas. His happy face still adorns walls and shops and calendars. We experienced his vision in the zoo itself, which will carry on under Terri's capable management. We even stood in a line for a ride with his 6-year-old son Robert, who is the "spitting image" of Steve Irwin himself. Steve's children will know him in a way, through his work and his videos, even though he is gone. His life is a story of family and dreams and tireless work toward conservation, and by any objective standard he has moved mountains.

As I looked on the sculpture of the Irwin family, I pondered the successful legacy of Steve Irwin that flourishes, even with the sadness of his family living without him. Steve's legacy made me consider my own legacy, as yet unfinished and undetermined. I hope I have 60 more years with Greg and Jordan, Meryl, and Micah. I want to have a lifetime of comfort and encouragement and clean shirts and hot, homemade meals to offer to Greg. I hope I will get to continue to teach my girls that it is "more important to be kind than pretty," until they are all strong women, marked by the fragrance of love for others. I want to be able to somehow share God's love with people beyond my family and close circle of friends. I hope I have a lifetime of memories still to make, but I know tomorrow is not promised to anyone, not even to me. Therefore, today, let me cheerfully plug away solidifying all these hopes into my own legacy, so that when I am gone, my legacy, like Steve Irwin's, will bloom around those I love.

Walking on Water

I was paralyzed with terror. I lay on my board, ready to catch the perfect wave, trying to recall the moves we had learned on shore, trying be brave. The six foot swells were huge and powerful, clear and bluer than the sky. They rolled toward the dazzling, white shoreline without any regard for me. I was in the ocean, on a rented, red surf board, in a foreign country, without anyone to rescue me; and I felt intensely alone.

It had been my idea to bring my brother out here for surf lessons. I had chosen Coolangatta beach after taking recommendations from several friends. I had rented the little white Corolla and driven an hour and a half. I even sweet-talked the budget rent-a-car guy into letting me use a copy of my license instead of the real thing. (my kids lost it, and the new one is coming soon.) I took a friend up on an offer to watch MJ, and we had set out at 6:45 this morning. Surfing looks amazingly cool on t.v. and, in my mind, I am pretty cool. Everyone who is "pretty cool" should definitely surf, especially if relocated to Australia for a few years. I had wanted so much to come and try surfing. Why, then, was I so afraid?

When I was a little and not-so-little girl, I remember being afraid. I was afraid of my shadow, the gremlins under my bed, and the bigfoot that had come all the way from arkansas specifically to hide in my closet. (I wonder how I convinced my mom to let me watch that show?) I felt intuitively that the world was not safe, and thus, that sharks could swim through drainage pipes to swimming pools, and that gnarly trolls really did lurk under bridges. I was afraid of the dark and ghost stories and burglers, of bears and wolves and bad men who lived in dark caves (think Tom Sawyer). As I grew older, I began to cherish my collection of fears, as if each was a truth. A collection of fears is a dark thing, like a bunch of jars containing dead animals on whom lab experiments have gone wrong. You can't keep a gross collection like that hidden forever, especially if you are occasionally adding to it.

Shortly before moving to Australia, I started to work on clearing out my fear collection, mostly because it was exploding out of the containing room and contaminating the important areas of my life. Looking through all that cherished garbage was hard and discouraging work, so I confided in my husband and friends, read my Bible more, hired a shrink, and a doctor who believed in Zoloft-- for a time. One by one, I have been tossing out those ugly old jars that I had cherished so much. I am totally committed to replacing them with a collection of shiny truths.

And yet, with all my theoretical commitment to living in truth, as I lay on my board, those ugly old jars of fear that I had thought I had thrown out kept popping up in my mind. "You aren't really a good athlete. You aren't strong enough to surf. If you can't do it perfectly, don't bother. Everyone will laugh when you fall. Was that a shark? " I took a breath, and in my mind, I started to chuck jars and collect truths right there on the board, alone among the massive waves. (to myself) "I am a pretty good athlete, especially considering that I am 31 and have three kids." Throw the first jar, Elissa. "I am strong enough to do most things decently, and only God is perfect." Jars two and three are airborn. "Whether people laugh at me or applaud me for hours, the opinion of others doesn't matter." Chuck the fourth, girl. "God loves me, and everything that comes to my life will be for my good. If that means a shark, bring him on. I wonder how he'll like it when I make a necklace from his teeth."

As I launched the last of those poisonous thoughts, the instructor, who had been nearby all along, gave me a push. "Go! get up! You can do it!" he shouted, cheerfully. I took a deep breath and I pushed myself up. I stood on the board and I stood on the truth, and I rode my very first wave to shore, no longer afraid to walk on water.