When I am on holiday, shopping at a common grocery store in a foreign country is a great adventure and a fun experiment; but when I began my life as an American expat in Australia, shopping at a common grocery store was like facing a fire-breathing, three-headed monster that stood between me and feeding my family. I couldn't find things I knew must be there like baking soda, cocoa, and creamed cheese, while other (apparently American) items such as cornmeal and crisco are mysteriously "mislabeled." Walking in and looking at all the unfamiliar products and brand names overwhelmed me, and the task of grocery shopping, which I had once enjoyed, became daunting and discouraging. I felt like the three-headed, fire-breathing monster of grocery shopping might consume me, that is, until I met Sarah.
I was sitting in a pew at our new church in Sydney when Sarah found me before the service. I was carrying the weight of my own cultural and practical ignorance, and feeling strange and alone and foreign. Sarah perkily introduced herself and said, "Oh, my friend Nerida (mutual friend that I had met in Austin) sent me an email about you. I have been waiting to meet you! If you need anything, please give me a call. I'm on maternity leave for three more months, and I'd be glad to help you in any way I can." Her introduction and friendliness breathed hope over me, hope that I would have a friend, and hope that there would be at least one Australian that would help me if I needed it.
By nature and practice, I am very straightforward and terribly honest. When I lived in Texas, I often felt immersed the confusion of Southern "politeness," and I regularly had trouble discerning what people meant by what they said. When I arrived in Sydney, our pastor's wife Susan gave me a short tutorial on Aussie cultural communication, "Australians are very straightforward and up-front. They tend to mean what they say, and say what they mean." By my American-who-lives-in-the-South communication decoding key, Sarah was glad to meet me, but might not really be interested in helping me with a mundane task like grocery shopping. By Susan's Aussie decoding key, Sarah really did mean that I could call her and ask for help. The question about which decoding key to use paralyzed me for a couple of days. Finally, after searching the grocery store on four different trips for cocoa and being at a loss as to what to pack in my children's peanut-free school lunches, I decided to use Susan's key on Sarah's introduction and offer, and I risked calling to ask Sarah for help.
In Sydney, every day, the shops close by about five so that everyone can go home to their families. On Thursday, however, shops stay open until the very late hour of nine o'clock; and many people shop on Thursday nights for the week's groceries. Sarah first shopped with me on a Thursday night in February. She willingly braved my terrible driving and helped me find the mall that contained all the stores I sought (In Oz, grocery stores are also at malls with all the other shops). Sarah tutored me on products and brand names. She helped me find foods that would suit our tight budget, and shared delicious recipes for things I had never cooked before, like roasted shoulder of lamb. She showed me what to buy at the grocery store, the butcher, and the fruit and veg shop. While we shopped, we talked about babies and sleep, post-partum depression, husbands, and our mums and dads. We both came home refreshed as new but true friends, and with all our week's shopping done. We had such a great time that night, that Sarah's husband Dave and my husband Greg thought it would be good for us to go every week.
So, nearly every week on Thursdays, for the time we lived in Sydney, Sarah and I headed out on the everyday adventure of food and friendship. If you looked at us on paper, we might not have made good friends. Sarah has an important job as a risk manager at a major bank in one of the world's most metropolitan cities. I am a displaced Texan homemaker. But week by week, we found common ground in our faith, in our love for our families, and in our appreciation of new experiences. I could ask Sarah any questions about my new homeland without her making me feel silly, and she loved sharing in all my new discoveries. We shared our histories and dreamed about our futures, and neither of us was threatened by the strengths of the other.
You see, when you face a three-headed, fire-breathing monster of any kind, even if the monster is only a supermarket, having a friend with you makes the difference between triumph and defeat. When I was overwhelmed and sad and lonely, a strong new friend found me. Sarah kindly carried me until I found my equilibrium in Australia. I don't think Sarah ever knew it, but she single-handedly slew the very first threatening monster I encountered in Oz as she bravely held out the hope of her friendship while guiding me through the supermarket.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Adrenaline, Ferocious Love, and Entrusting
A few weeks ago, on the way to school, the girls and I took a wrong turn and had to cross under the bridge where the scary men live. Given my childhood fear of under-bridge trolls and adult fear of potentially aggressive drunk men, I was pretty terrified. I had nearly all that was precious with me in my girls, and my usual hero Greg was miles away at work. I felt the power from an adrenaline surge rising.
I remember the first time that the protective surge of adrenaline rose in me. I was 23, and Jordan was 4 months old. We were in a truck stop paying for gas somewhere between Dallas and Houston. Jordan always loved truckers, and was cooing happily at a very large plaid-ish one who was getting dangerously close. He was talking sweetly to her, but the adrenaline assured me that he was interested in acquiring my colicky infant. I remember how the plan flashed in my consciousness in the blink of an eye. If he touched the handle on her carrier, I would grab the beer from the ice barrel, and BAM! With one swift blow to the head, he would fall before me, and truckers everywhere would know not to get too close to my little bald, moon-faced baby girl. Fortunately, that trucker had enough sense to recognize a hormone-crazed new mother and he backed away without incident.
It is not just humans that can cause a threat. When Meryl was two-and-a-half, we were feeding ducks at a lake when an aggressive swan came running up to claim our bread. He was honking and he looked wild with hunger. In a flash, the moldy bag of bread was transformed into a weapon that I swung back and forth before us clearing a a swath of safety. The swan's neck met the bread, and with one swift hard blow, he knew he was defeated. He waddled off in shame, and I yelled irrationally after him as my friends and their kids watched in shock and horror. Soon after the "bread bag incident" the aforementioned swan disappeared, but my family's lawyer (AKA father-in-law) says that I can "neither confirm nor deny" that I had anything to do with his disappearance.
As a woman, I am strong and bold and honest. As a mother, I am (reasonably) firm and (relatively) structured. As a mother whose children are threatened, I am wilder and more ferocious than a tiger in India. Like every good mother I know, a threat to my children brings out the grizzly power of what my friend Jennifer calls "Mama Bear." The force and magnitude of my love for my children frightens even me. I would go any distance and pay any cost to protect them. I would stand between them and a freight train, and I would gladly sacrifice my own life to keep them safe. (I feel a little freaky writing all of this out, but every good mother I know feels the same way. I think it is part of our "hard-wiring.")
As we peddled quickly toward the bridge a few weeks ago, a plan formed in my head. Unlike many mothers, when I hit "fight or flight mode," "flight" is mysteriously missing in me. On this particular day, if threatened, I would become a ninja (with no training whatsoever) and use my bike lock and chain as my weapon of choice. I pictured myself as a slightly older brown version of Cameron Diaz in Charlie's Angels, with less cool clothing, in a bike helmet, and against impaired enemies, but you get the picture. We bravely peddled on through, and the "dangerous" drunks just said a lazy "Good day." The bridge and adrenaline surge passed and I felt a little silly. Is it my skill or mental acuity or physical power that keeps us safe? Honestly, if the safety of my children depends on a nut like me, they are never going to be safe.
As the girls get older, and as I slowly grow more mature and less likely to attack innocent pond animals, I am learning to temper the power of protective adrenaline with trust. Every day, my authority over my children diminishes, and with it, the control that I possess over keeping them safe. Out of necessity, I am learning to entrust them to other people who also love them: their teachers, a few of my trusted friends, and my husband, Greg, who cares for them as much as I do, but in a masculine way. Most of all, when I am unable or absent, I am learning, at a snail's pace, to trust God with their care. I trust God to watch over them because God works everything for their and for my good; his resources are infinitely greater than a beer, bike lock, or a bag of moldy bread. Most of all I trust God to watch over my girls because I have to believe that that God loves Jordan, Meryl, and MJ more wildly and ferociously than I ever will.
I remember the first time that the protective surge of adrenaline rose in me. I was 23, and Jordan was 4 months old. We were in a truck stop paying for gas somewhere between Dallas and Houston. Jordan always loved truckers, and was cooing happily at a very large plaid-ish one who was getting dangerously close. He was talking sweetly to her, but the adrenaline assured me that he was interested in acquiring my colicky infant. I remember how the plan flashed in my consciousness in the blink of an eye. If he touched the handle on her carrier, I would grab the beer from the ice barrel, and BAM! With one swift blow to the head, he would fall before me, and truckers everywhere would know not to get too close to my little bald, moon-faced baby girl. Fortunately, that trucker had enough sense to recognize a hormone-crazed new mother and he backed away without incident.
It is not just humans that can cause a threat. When Meryl was two-and-a-half, we were feeding ducks at a lake when an aggressive swan came running up to claim our bread. He was honking and he looked wild with hunger. In a flash, the moldy bag of bread was transformed into a weapon that I swung back and forth before us clearing a a swath of safety. The swan's neck met the bread, and with one swift hard blow, he knew he was defeated. He waddled off in shame, and I yelled irrationally after him as my friends and their kids watched in shock and horror. Soon after the "bread bag incident" the aforementioned swan disappeared, but my family's lawyer (AKA father-in-law) says that I can "neither confirm nor deny" that I had anything to do with his disappearance.
As a woman, I am strong and bold and honest. As a mother, I am (reasonably) firm and (relatively) structured. As a mother whose children are threatened, I am wilder and more ferocious than a tiger in India. Like every good mother I know, a threat to my children brings out the grizzly power of what my friend Jennifer calls "Mama Bear." The force and magnitude of my love for my children frightens even me. I would go any distance and pay any cost to protect them. I would stand between them and a freight train, and I would gladly sacrifice my own life to keep them safe. (I feel a little freaky writing all of this out, but every good mother I know feels the same way. I think it is part of our "hard-wiring.")
As we peddled quickly toward the bridge a few weeks ago, a plan formed in my head. Unlike many mothers, when I hit "fight or flight mode," "flight" is mysteriously missing in me. On this particular day, if threatened, I would become a ninja (with no training whatsoever) and use my bike lock and chain as my weapon of choice. I pictured myself as a slightly older brown version of Cameron Diaz in Charlie's Angels, with less cool clothing, in a bike helmet, and against impaired enemies, but you get the picture. We bravely peddled on through, and the "dangerous" drunks just said a lazy "Good day." The bridge and adrenaline surge passed and I felt a little silly. Is it my skill or mental acuity or physical power that keeps us safe? Honestly, if the safety of my children depends on a nut like me, they are never going to be safe.
As the girls get older, and as I slowly grow more mature and less likely to attack innocent pond animals, I am learning to temper the power of protective adrenaline with trust. Every day, my authority over my children diminishes, and with it, the control that I possess over keeping them safe. Out of necessity, I am learning to entrust them to other people who also love them: their teachers, a few of my trusted friends, and my husband, Greg, who cares for them as much as I do, but in a masculine way. Most of all, when I am unable or absent, I am learning, at a snail's pace, to trust God with their care. I trust God to watch over them because God works everything for their and for my good; his resources are infinitely greater than a beer, bike lock, or a bag of moldy bread. Most of all I trust God to watch over my girls because I have to believe that that God loves Jordan, Meryl, and MJ more wildly and ferociously than I ever will.
Friday, October 16, 2009
Purple Trees and Reflections of Eden
When I was a very little girl, I had a preschool teacher that wouldn't let me color the trees purple. Mrs. Billings said, "We must color trees green because trees ARE green." Purple crayons were reserved for carebears, eggplants, and parts of rainbows. I think, in hindsight, that the imagination of poor Mrs. Billings must have have been seriously undernourished. She just couldn't find it within herself to believe in purple trees; but as a small, fanciful child, even after submitting to the "green tree rule," I still held out hope that somewhere, purple trees really did exist.
On our morning bike rides, we drive past dozens of wisteria-purple "Jacaranda" trees. I love living in a place where reality is just as vivid and colorful as my imagination. Australians seem to take the Jacaranda for granted. Many think the Jacaranda quite ordinary, but I think each one is a miracle. Every Jacaranda tree seems to me like something from the other side of the rainbow, something from the land of dragons and elfs, that has accidentally wandered over.
Imagine a tree as tall as a live oak (35 ft or 6.5 m tall). In your mind, where you would usually see the vivid green of spring foliage, replace it with purple blooms so thick that they cast a blue light under the shade of the tree. Riding along the bike path into the shade of a jacaranda is like riding suddenly from bright sunlight into bright moonlight and back again where the shade ends. Seeing them in bloom every morning is truly magical, and I am actually glad that I had to wait so long to see my first long-awaited purple tree. Honestly, if I had seen them earlier in life, I would be truly disappointed not to see unicorns grazing in the fields nearby.
I am clearly a tree-lover (I even love green trees), and there is a part of a verse about trees in the Garden of Eden that I have always loved. In Genesis three it reads, "Then the man and his wife heard the sound of the Lord God as he was walking in the garden in the cool of the day. . ." When I look at the t.v. or the Internet, I struggle to believe that a perfect place, created for mankind, ever existed. When I watch the news, I see only war, rumors of war, abuse, genocide, and hopelessness. There is just so much evil in our world. The holiness of Eden has been shattered into a million pieces like a smashed mirror.
The despair all around can be so thick, but when I step into the broad-day moonlight under a jacaranda tree, I begin to regain hope for the redemption of this old, broken-down world, and for my own heart. Every morning, the Jacaranda tree reminds me that I still see reflections of Eden when I look for them, and that if I listen hard as the wind gently brushes past the purple trees, I can still hear the sound of God as he moves through the cool of the day.
The Jacaranda is the lavender purple tree under which Jordan is standing with her bike. The hot pink tree in the foreground is a rhododendron, I think.
On our morning bike rides, we drive past dozens of wisteria-purple "Jacaranda" trees. I love living in a place where reality is just as vivid and colorful as my imagination. Australians seem to take the Jacaranda for granted. Many think the Jacaranda quite ordinary, but I think each one is a miracle. Every Jacaranda tree seems to me like something from the other side of the rainbow, something from the land of dragons and elfs, that has accidentally wandered over.
Imagine a tree as tall as a live oak (35 ft or 6.5 m tall). In your mind, where you would usually see the vivid green of spring foliage, replace it with purple blooms so thick that they cast a blue light under the shade of the tree. Riding along the bike path into the shade of a jacaranda is like riding suddenly from bright sunlight into bright moonlight and back again where the shade ends. Seeing them in bloom every morning is truly magical, and I am actually glad that I had to wait so long to see my first long-awaited purple tree. Honestly, if I had seen them earlier in life, I would be truly disappointed not to see unicorns grazing in the fields nearby.
I am clearly a tree-lover (I even love green trees), and there is a part of a verse about trees in the Garden of Eden that I have always loved. In Genesis three it reads, "Then the man and his wife heard the sound of the Lord God as he was walking in the garden in the cool of the day. . ." When I look at the t.v. or the Internet, I struggle to believe that a perfect place, created for mankind, ever existed. When I watch the news, I see only war, rumors of war, abuse, genocide, and hopelessness. There is just so much evil in our world. The holiness of Eden has been shattered into a million pieces like a smashed mirror.
The despair all around can be so thick, but when I step into the broad-day moonlight under a jacaranda tree, I begin to regain hope for the redemption of this old, broken-down world, and for my own heart. Every morning, the Jacaranda tree reminds me that I still see reflections of Eden when I look for them, and that if I listen hard as the wind gently brushes past the purple trees, I can still hear the sound of God as he moves through the cool of the day.
The Jacaranda is the lavender purple tree under which Jordan is standing with her bike. The hot pink tree in the foreground is a rhododendron, I think.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
The Fortress of Family Dinners
When Greg and I were newly married, we really wanted to travel, but travelling was just not a possibility when two adults and a tiny but expensive baby split Greg's two-tears-out-of-college salary three ways. Oh, did I mention that I was also in graduate school? Well, needless to say, travelling was put on the back-burner for a while while we were learning to live family life on a tight budget. Instead of traveling, I decided to take us on a world tour of foods via my new, wedding-present cookbooks. Much to Greg's dismay, I also made up "recipes" when the urge to be creative struck.
Our food journey took Greg and I through the cuisine of the USA, Mexico, Italy, and Asia with many successes, and many different types of failures. Did you know that if you don't take your Cuisinart blender completely apart to clean it after making homemade guacamole, it will stink like rotten avocados for weeks? Did you know that 8 cloves of garlic in Thai Chicken Sate will keep vampires AND friends at a distance? Did you know you can burn green beans and peas? Did you know that chicken cooked in soy sauce and mango puree (one of my invented recipes) tastes worse than anything else I have ever tasted? All in all, the food tour was a great experience for me in learning to cook good food at a time when we didn't have extra money for going out to eat. Over time, the sampling of interesting homemade foods evolved into the habit of eating together as a family, although many nights were pretty crazy and loud and wordless in the early days of our family life, when Jordan and Meryl were small, screamy infants.
We have done family dinners most nights for the past 9 years, and by now, I am a fantastic home "chef," even if I do say so myself. Our dinners were a wonderful part of our day when we lived in Austin, but I think with all the changes we have experienced in moving to Australia, our family dinners are more important here than they ever were in Texas. There is a comfort to coming home and regaining your balance by repeating the same routine every evening. There is great hope in share your dreams with those who will cheer you on. There is a peace in processing the day out loud before an audience that loves you unconditionally and wants the best for you.
Our conversations vary from night to night, but some themes run continuously through our time together at this stage of life. Jordan talks about "beating the boys" in anything that can be made into a competition. Last month, we had to suppress laughter after hearing that she had defended her friends by literally whacking the boys with her lunchbox. Meryl is always planning her next birthday party, what she and her friends will do and wear, and who can be invited. The big girls dream out loud about true love and marriage and wedding dresses (which is surreal and unbelievable because they are nearly 6 and 7 and a half). Micah Jade, who is two, contributes most of the comedy, since she has a little trouble keeping up with the conversation. In the middle of serious conversation, she is very likely to bring up dolphins and dugongs (the Aussie version of the manatee). She also gives reports on the number of trucks she has seen in a day. (These reports are particularly colorful because she substitutes "f" for the "tr" sound.) We hear about Daddy's projects and his "work friends," and his bike rides, basketball games and bike wrecks. I tell them about all the new and interesting people I am meeting and what animals we saw in the bike way. We eat good home-cooked meals and bravely try new recipes together. I look forward to sharing the comfort of companionship every evening.
The way that my life turns never ceases to surprise me. Until last year, I had always thought that Greg and I had missed our chance to travel and find new adventures abroad when we had Jordan a year and a month after we were married. I never dreamed that the creativity developed in and guided by architecture school could be best spent on cooking family meals and finding ways to draw each member of the family into meaningful conversation. I never thought that our dinners as a family would be transported across the Pacific, worlds away from where it started. When I was 23 and burning broccoli in the early stages of my cooking experiments, I never imagined that those very experiments would evolve into treasured time together each night.
Now, in a place where so many things are still foreign to us, and where we sometimes feel alien or lonely, every evening, Greg, Jordan, Meryl, MJ and I return to the same table, to the same comfort of life together. We may talk about birthdays and dugongs and far-off weddings, but what we are building is far larger than than those things. Every night we build more of the strong fortress of our own family, so that when hard times come to each of us, as they will, we will have a place of strong refuge in being together.
Our food journey took Greg and I through the cuisine of the USA, Mexico, Italy, and Asia with many successes, and many different types of failures. Did you know that if you don't take your Cuisinart blender completely apart to clean it after making homemade guacamole, it will stink like rotten avocados for weeks? Did you know that 8 cloves of garlic in Thai Chicken Sate will keep vampires AND friends at a distance? Did you know you can burn green beans and peas? Did you know that chicken cooked in soy sauce and mango puree (one of my invented recipes) tastes worse than anything else I have ever tasted? All in all, the food tour was a great experience for me in learning to cook good food at a time when we didn't have extra money for going out to eat. Over time, the sampling of interesting homemade foods evolved into the habit of eating together as a family, although many nights were pretty crazy and loud and wordless in the early days of our family life, when Jordan and Meryl were small, screamy infants.
We have done family dinners most nights for the past 9 years, and by now, I am a fantastic home "chef," even if I do say so myself. Our dinners were a wonderful part of our day when we lived in Austin, but I think with all the changes we have experienced in moving to Australia, our family dinners are more important here than they ever were in Texas. There is a comfort to coming home and regaining your balance by repeating the same routine every evening. There is great hope in share your dreams with those who will cheer you on. There is a peace in processing the day out loud before an audience that loves you unconditionally and wants the best for you.
Our conversations vary from night to night, but some themes run continuously through our time together at this stage of life. Jordan talks about "beating the boys" in anything that can be made into a competition. Last month, we had to suppress laughter after hearing that she had defended her friends by literally whacking the boys with her lunchbox. Meryl is always planning her next birthday party, what she and her friends will do and wear, and who can be invited. The big girls dream out loud about true love and marriage and wedding dresses (which is surreal and unbelievable because they are nearly 6 and 7 and a half). Micah Jade, who is two, contributes most of the comedy, since she has a little trouble keeping up with the conversation. In the middle of serious conversation, she is very likely to bring up dolphins and dugongs (the Aussie version of the manatee). She also gives reports on the number of trucks she has seen in a day. (These reports are particularly colorful because she substitutes "f" for the "tr" sound.) We hear about Daddy's projects and his "work friends," and his bike rides, basketball games and bike wrecks. I tell them about all the new and interesting people I am meeting and what animals we saw in the bike way. We eat good home-cooked meals and bravely try new recipes together. I look forward to sharing the comfort of companionship every evening.
The way that my life turns never ceases to surprise me. Until last year, I had always thought that Greg and I had missed our chance to travel and find new adventures abroad when we had Jordan a year and a month after we were married. I never dreamed that the creativity developed in and guided by architecture school could be best spent on cooking family meals and finding ways to draw each member of the family into meaningful conversation. I never thought that our dinners as a family would be transported across the Pacific, worlds away from where it started. When I was 23 and burning broccoli in the early stages of my cooking experiments, I never imagined that those very experiments would evolve into treasured time together each night.
Now, in a place where so many things are still foreign to us, and where we sometimes feel alien or lonely, every evening, Greg, Jordan, Meryl, MJ and I return to the same table, to the same comfort of life together. We may talk about birthdays and dugongs and far-off weddings, but what we are building is far larger than than those things. Every night we build more of the strong fortress of our own family, so that when hard times come to each of us, as they will, we will have a place of strong refuge in being together.
Saturday, October 10, 2009
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.
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.
Friday, October 9, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, October 5, 2009
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.
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.
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