I am afflicted with what my friends and I call an "expert" personality. If I have researched something more than the average population, I consider myself a sort of an expert. The rational side of my brain knows I'm really not an expert, but that side is not strong enough to fight the other side well enough to win and reduce my mental self-labeling to "novice." Thus, I am an self-proclaimed "expert" on organic gardening, on home-cooking, and on building a good marriage, well, at least building a mostly happy good marriage that lasts for at least nine years (I sure wish I could remove all the qualifiers that come before and after "good marriage"--maybe in 41 years).
Greg and I have just celebrated our 9 year wedding anniversary, and, in spite of starting over four different times in four different places, in spite of being on a tight budget for most of those years, in spite of having little kids join us early in our marriage and periods of struggle with each other where we were committed but not particularly happy, we love marriage and would recommend marriage (to a person of character) to people we care about. In those nine years, I have learned not to speak for Greg, but for my part, I think I will make a list of the nine most important practical things I can do as the wife to be improve my own marriage. Then, I can look back and remember if I run into trouble later. Maybe you'll find my list helpful too.
1. Treat my spouse better than anyone else on the planet. It's easy to be really kind to my friends, because they have the option of bailing on me when I'm am not. Sometimes, we tend to show our spouse the worst possible behavior because they promised to stay with us for "better or for worse." Being ugly to your spouse can feel safe because of their commitment to the marriage, but if I want the "better" for my marriage instead of "worse", I really need to concentrate not on what is feels safest for me, but what is kindest to him. That means being kind and considerate on bad days and good, and sharing struggles without taking out frustrations on the person that loves me most in the world.
2. Always assume the best about my spouse. I married a good man, not a perfect man, but a really good man, one who generally does the right thing and has my best interest at heart. When I am disappointed by something, I do well to remember what I know to be true about him. If he is late, it is not likely to be because he likes to stay at work, but because he had to deal with some really unpleasant situation that would be worse by tomorrow. If I can't have the car on Wednesday, it isn't because he doesn't care about me, but because the financial security of our life depends on him doing his job well. Some days, even if it is inconvenient to me, he needs the car to do aspects of his job, so that our family has a secure income. If he wants to go away for the weekend with friends, it isn't because he doesn't like family time, but because he likes to fish and relax (very occasionally) without us. I just keep reminding myself of the character of the man, and referencing truth spite of occasional disappointment or unmet expectation.
3. No longer "I" but "we". Recently, when we were looking at our budget, Greg referred to the money "we" make. That word "we" moved me to tears. I have never contributed in a meaningful financial way to our marriage, and we both know it, but we share a life and so he used "we" instead of "I". Marriage means doing what is best for the marriage and for your spouse, and not doing what is best or most satisfying for yourself. It means sharing the burden and the credit. "We" means refusing to be selfish, refusing to demand your own way, "or else." For me, it means postponing a career in a field that I love so I can love the people in my life up-close; for Greg, it means curbing hobbies and talking a lot more than he would like to (the man has some hermitish and monkish tendencies); but for both, the end result is the same--a nourished marriage with history that can sustain us when times get rough for one or both.
4. Don't dwell on annoying characteristics. We all have annoying characteristics, but if we hold a magnifying glass to the annoying characteristics of others, even others we love, they get bigger. When I am really annoyed, I force myself to think about the best characteristics of my hubby. My mother-in-law does this very effectively in all aspects of her life, and the result of years of practice is a life that is very positive and encouraging to others and to one's self. (This sort of mother-in-law is very easy to get along with, as you can imagine.) I should also mention some good advice a good friend gave me early on--don't tell my friends or my parents negative things about my spouse, because they love me and can't forgive him like I can. If I share my annoyances or grievances about my spouse outside my marriage, I undermine both my spouse and my marriage in the eyes of people that would otherwise support both because they love me.
5. Make my marriage bed important. Sexual Intimacy in marriage is a FREQUENT MUST. That means when I feel like it and when I don't but my husband does, because sex to a husband is like flowers and chocolates and a day at the spa are to a wife. There are seasons when making intimacy a priority is very, very difficult, like when you have morning sickness, little babies, or, obscure medical conditions (we've lived through each); but, in every season, sex is important to a husband, and thus must be important to a wife, since marriage means doing what is best for both. Sex draws a husband and wife together in some magical otherworldly way that I don't understand. Frequent sex with me also helps protect my husband from the various forces of evil homewreckers (hiss, boo, hiss, scowl, *knuckles cracking*, teeth clenched) elsewhere.
6. Ask for what I want, kindly, and say yes as much as humanly possible to my spouse when he asks. I looked for a good man who could read my thoughts, but alas, there are none, so I married the next best thing--a good man who is not a mind reader. Since my husband doesn't have ESP, I cannot reasonably expect him to know what I want. When one side of my mind starts the phrase, "if he loved me he would know. . ." I take that unhealthy, emotionally stunted version of myself and lock her away in away in the dungeon of my mind until she submits to the rational side of my brain which I am trying to strengthen (but not enough to win the "novice/expert" battle). I have to ask for what I want, and I also want him to feel safe enough to ask for what he wants. When we work together to grant the request of one, both win.
7. Stop keeping score. Whoever keeps the best score always loses, period. Marriage is not about getting life divided up equally, but loving someone else sacrificially and having their interest and the interest of the marriage at heart. Instead of keeping score, I think it is much better for me to try to think of ways to make my spouse's life fuller or happier. The response I get from him is always worth the sacrifice. Sometimes sacrificial love also means "going first" and giving more when my husband's tank is empty. That's okay. We are a team, and often the giving will be reversed.
8. Make home a happy fortress. Home should be a refuge, somewhere my spouse feels safe. For me that means greeting him when he comes home without handing him a child or a list of things to do. It means always being on his side and in his corner, especially when he is down or having a hard time in some area. It means never insulting him in public or making him feel like he isn't good enough. It means respecting him at least as much as his secretary and coworkers. It means training the children to be tame so that he doesn't leave the quiet of the car and enter chaos at home after work (still working on this one). It means good, home-cooked meals and offering him a drink when he is relaxing with the news or facebook before or after dinner. It means important issues that must be addressed must be relegated to a non-stressful time, a time when they can be addressed in full--not when we are tired or hungry at five thirty.
9. Make my husband the "project manager" of our life. I think this is a distinctly Christian concept, and although it sounds funny, it works. We lead in our areas of expertise--I am mainly in charge of kids and homework and their instruction and discipline. I am in charge of insurance and cooking and the grocery budget. Greg handles work, retirement and money matters generally, along with the car and camping equipment. We discuss our thoughts on the other's domain, but mostly, we leave it to the spouse in charge of that area and trust that we are both responsible and capable. Over all this underwork, though, Greg stands as a sort of umbrella. He is the project manager of our family, and though he rarely jumps into my arenas, I reserve his right to. It doesn't mean that either he or I think he is more valuable to our marriage or to God, etc., it's just a structure we maintain so as to have one-headed direction (because anything with two heads is a monster, as my mom says). I married a man who loves me and has my best interest at heart, and I trust him to listen to my ideas and make the final calls. He does a great job; he always has.
I wish I did all of these things well all of the time, but I don't. After nine years of marriage, I can safely say that I have come light years from where I started, and that I have light years still to travel before I become what I envision as a really good wife. Many of my readers have been married far longer than I have, so I would love to hear your recommendations on how to strengthen and build a marriage, especially as a wife. I plan to be married to Greg for the rest of my life, and I know he would appreciate any good advice anyone has to give me.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Monday, January 4, 2010
Temptation, the Bird, and Near Social Suicide
The breeze is blowing, the sun is shining, and I am cruising on my bike. I am in a good place mentally while taking the kids to or from school, and then it happens--people begin to HONK at me, knocking me out of my "happy zone" with the force of their car horns. Every day, at least once during the drive to or from school, someone HONKs at me. They HONK when I am waiting to cross the street, they HONK as they pass. Their HONKing reverberates inside my helmetted head while I am industriously minding my own business. At first I looked to see who was HONKing, but very rarely did I recognize anyone. More distressing than even the honking was the fact that the HONKs were increasing in frequency. . .HONKs, and HONKs, More and more and more HONKS! HONKS! HONKS!
In Texas, when I am out and about on foot, and someone honks and yells at me, usually I look away in order to avoid the potential lewdness that may accompany the horn and vocal comotion. If I am feeling particularly feisty, I might yell (in Spanish) "Animal!" like some sort of exotic ice princess. (When I was a very little girl I heard my beautiful mother do this once or twice, and I thought it was a very dignified way to ward off unwanted attention.) I have friends and family members--don't worry, I won't name you-- who do not hesitate to flip the proverbial bird, their longest digit alone extended towards the sky defiantly when strangers offend them in any way. I don't partake of this vulgar hand signage, (well, maybe once or twice as a hormonally challenged teenager) but the everyday honking was pushing me to the brink.
Every time someone else honked at me, I looked down and tried to mind my own business, but with each incident, my Texan sensibilities became more and more ruffled because in Texas it is rude to honk at a lady. (Honking would be more appropriate toward those soliciting illegal business while walking up the street--not a mum with kids on a bike.) I was on the verge of employing the bird when I mentioned all this honking and my annoyance to a friend. She kindly laughed at me and told me that it was a compliment here to honk at "hot mamas." I quickly re-evaluated the situation and took a little satisfaction in being honked at in hindsight. While Rachel explained, our other friends listened into our conversation with interest.
Then, even as my image of myself was being polished in my mind's eye, my other friends joined into the conversation, shattering my magic mental mirror. They had seen me around and now each began to confess that she had been honking in friendly recognition, not just one friend, but several of them; and not all of my friends were there. My friends mostly live and work around the community where I ride, and they have been friendly and kind toward me every time they see me, greeting me when we are face to face. Apparently, they also honk a little hello to me and the kids as they pass us in their cars because that is polite here. Maybe I am occasionaly honked at because of my "hot-mama-hood" (I want so badly to believe this is true), but as I evaluate the escalation of honking, I must admit that it has followed the rate of friend-making in my community.
In evaluating this near-disaster in my social life, I think I may finally have matured in some measurable way. Although I was very close to sporting my middle finger toward what I thought were rude honkers, better sense and self-control prevailed, at least this time. I guess I also need to publicly thank my friend Rachel for decoding (yet again) mysterious Aussie social customs and saving me from totally alienating every last friend that I have made in Brisbane. Maybe next time I am bewildered or annoyed, I will ask a friend for help in interpreting the situation before I near the brink social suicide in the form of public vulgarity.
In Texas, when I am out and about on foot, and someone honks and yells at me, usually I look away in order to avoid the potential lewdness that may accompany the horn and vocal comotion. If I am feeling particularly feisty, I might yell (in Spanish) "Animal!" like some sort of exotic ice princess. (When I was a very little girl I heard my beautiful mother do this once or twice, and I thought it was a very dignified way to ward off unwanted attention.) I have friends and family members--don't worry, I won't name you-- who do not hesitate to flip the proverbial bird, their longest digit alone extended towards the sky defiantly when strangers offend them in any way. I don't partake of this vulgar hand signage, (well, maybe once or twice as a hormonally challenged teenager) but the everyday honking was pushing me to the brink.
Every time someone else honked at me, I looked down and tried to mind my own business, but with each incident, my Texan sensibilities became more and more ruffled because in Texas it is rude to honk at a lady. (Honking would be more appropriate toward those soliciting illegal business while walking up the street--not a mum with kids on a bike.) I was on the verge of employing the bird when I mentioned all this honking and my annoyance to a friend. She kindly laughed at me and told me that it was a compliment here to honk at "hot mamas." I quickly re-evaluated the situation and took a little satisfaction in being honked at in hindsight. While Rachel explained, our other friends listened into our conversation with interest.
Then, even as my image of myself was being polished in my mind's eye, my other friends joined into the conversation, shattering my magic mental mirror. They had seen me around and now each began to confess that she had been honking in friendly recognition, not just one friend, but several of them; and not all of my friends were there. My friends mostly live and work around the community where I ride, and they have been friendly and kind toward me every time they see me, greeting me when we are face to face. Apparently, they also honk a little hello to me and the kids as they pass us in their cars because that is polite here. Maybe I am occasionaly honked at because of my "hot-mama-hood" (I want so badly to believe this is true), but as I evaluate the escalation of honking, I must admit that it has followed the rate of friend-making in my community.
In evaluating this near-disaster in my social life, I think I may finally have matured in some measurable way. Although I was very close to sporting my middle finger toward what I thought were rude honkers, better sense and self-control prevailed, at least this time. I guess I also need to publicly thank my friend Rachel for decoding (yet again) mysterious Aussie social customs and saving me from totally alienating every last friend that I have made in Brisbane. Maybe next time I am bewildered or annoyed, I will ask a friend for help in interpreting the situation before I near the brink social suicide in the form of public vulgarity.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
Dolores McNab and the Funny Girl
I am in possession of what I think is a quick wit and what I know is a huge mouth. I was having a very funny day a little over seven years ago, and there was no reason for me to interrupt my streak of hilarity at choir practice; so I made a joke about the new choir director liking desserts to my new friend. I think we were having a dessert party after practice the next week, and our new minister Fred was quite excited about it, so I suggested that he did look like he liked desserts. My new friend laughed and good-natured-ly agreed. Only later did I find out that my new friend was his wife! That's right, I made jokes about the new minister to his wife and, amazingly, that was the start of my friendship with Dolores McNab.
When we left for Australia, Dolores helped me with my estate sale and then promised me that she would come visit. I hoped she would. Last week she and Fred fulfilled her promise when they came to Brisbane just to see us. We saw them for a day, and we had a great time swimming in the hotel pool and sharing some really nice Italian food and Baskin & Robbins ice cream. We caught up, and then we Mizells drove back to our house while McNabs continued what was a long overdue holiday. Seeing my old friend reminded me of all the ideas I have absorbed from her, and I have been thinking about what Dolores's friendship has meant to me for the past week.
For a few years after that first fateful joke, Dolores sat beside me every Wednesday in choir practice. I occasionally had to take time off for pregnancies and babies, but Dolores was always there to welcome me back. We talked in the back of the Alto section, and I think Fred often gave her warning looks (I avoided eye contact), but talking to me was always more important to her than listening to the basses attempt their parts. Dolores and I worked together for a year with a small group of the college students at church. (I think, in hindsight, that God placed her there as supervision for me while I was attempting to mentor people with even less life experience than myself.) Over time Dolores became a friend and mentor that I would go to for advice or to bounce ideas off, but mostly, I watched and listened to a life well-lived, and unknowingly, I absorbed some of her ideas and attitudes.
If you look around at any church, it is easy to find older women who can teach you how to decorate your house, dress well, or how to follow all the unwritten social rules so that you can fit in well and represent your family respectably. There are a few who would be glad to hand you their neat and tidy set of legalistic rules about living a Christian life. There are plenty of women who can guide you to planning the perfect women's event with perfectly decorated tables. It is not difficult to find women who complain about their (perfectly good) husbands or throw their hands up in frustration about their out-of-control teenagers or young adult children. It is quite easy to find women who think of their faith as an accessory to their life, but very, very difficult indeed to locate someone who sees her faith in the Christian God of the Bible as a lens for viewing her life and family. Dolores is the rare kind of Christian woman, the kind that lets her faith permeate through every bit of her experience. That is the kind of woman I want to be some day, maybe when I am fiftyish (although I know what I am, and I might need more time).
When I was struggling with my own feelings of insignificance in staying home with little dirty kids and mountains of dirty laundry, Dolores leaned in and said that she had a very hard time with those feelings too. About 25 years ago, she told God, in her characteristically frank, no-frills style, "Well, God, I think the most important decision I will make today is whether to wash the whites or the colored clothes. I'm just going to do it to the best of my ability, to honor you in the small stuff." This is not a Prayer Book kind of a prayer, but if it was good enough for Dolores, it was good enough for me. I still pray that prayer when I have difficulty having a positive and thankful attitude.
When I was struggling with having two, and then three little girls, and when I was thinking very hard about what I wanted to teach them and how, so that they would know, even in a shallow culture that their heart mattered more than their appearance, Dolores jumped in again. She told me, "whenever anyone would compliment the beauty of one of my girls in presence of the others, without noticing the others, I just told the girls that people look at the outside, but God sees our hearts. What is on the inside is more important than the way you look." I absorbed this speech at least 5 years ago, and my girls get a similar reminder several times a week. They will for as long as they live with me.
I have watched Dolores behave in a respectful manner toward people in authority even when she fundamentally disagreed. I have observed her not caring or even noticing whether she met with the approval of people, even people that others considered important. I have noticed her serving others in the background without ever looking for recognition or praise. I have been nearby while she has loved and shepherded her girls through high school, university, marriage, and the motherhood of now three grandchildren. I enjoy hearing about how her girls still like to be together as adults. I have seen her marriage with Fred, one characterized by affection and friendship, by shared goals and mutual respect. I know what she has sown, and I see what she reaps; and I want a life like that.
When we left for Australia, Dolores helped me with my estate sale and then promised me that she would come visit. I hoped she would. Last week she and Fred fulfilled her promise when they came to Brisbane just to see us. We saw them for a day, and we had a great time swimming in the hotel pool and sharing some really nice Italian food and Baskin & Robbins ice cream. We caught up, and then we Mizells drove back to our house while McNabs continued what was a long overdue holiday. Seeing my old friend reminded me of all the ideas I have absorbed from her, and I have been thinking about what Dolores's friendship has meant to me for the past week.
For a few years after that first fateful joke, Dolores sat beside me every Wednesday in choir practice. I occasionally had to take time off for pregnancies and babies, but Dolores was always there to welcome me back. We talked in the back of the Alto section, and I think Fred often gave her warning looks (I avoided eye contact), but talking to me was always more important to her than listening to the basses attempt their parts. Dolores and I worked together for a year with a small group of the college students at church. (I think, in hindsight, that God placed her there as supervision for me while I was attempting to mentor people with even less life experience than myself.) Over time Dolores became a friend and mentor that I would go to for advice or to bounce ideas off, but mostly, I watched and listened to a life well-lived, and unknowingly, I absorbed some of her ideas and attitudes.
If you look around at any church, it is easy to find older women who can teach you how to decorate your house, dress well, or how to follow all the unwritten social rules so that you can fit in well and represent your family respectably. There are a few who would be glad to hand you their neat and tidy set of legalistic rules about living a Christian life. There are plenty of women who can guide you to planning the perfect women's event with perfectly decorated tables. It is not difficult to find women who complain about their (perfectly good) husbands or throw their hands up in frustration about their out-of-control teenagers or young adult children. It is quite easy to find women who think of their faith as an accessory to their life, but very, very difficult indeed to locate someone who sees her faith in the Christian God of the Bible as a lens for viewing her life and family. Dolores is the rare kind of Christian woman, the kind that lets her faith permeate through every bit of her experience. That is the kind of woman I want to be some day, maybe when I am fiftyish (although I know what I am, and I might need more time).
When I was struggling with my own feelings of insignificance in staying home with little dirty kids and mountains of dirty laundry, Dolores leaned in and said that she had a very hard time with those feelings too. About 25 years ago, she told God, in her characteristically frank, no-frills style, "Well, God, I think the most important decision I will make today is whether to wash the whites or the colored clothes. I'm just going to do it to the best of my ability, to honor you in the small stuff." This is not a Prayer Book kind of a prayer, but if it was good enough for Dolores, it was good enough for me. I still pray that prayer when I have difficulty having a positive and thankful attitude.
When I was struggling with having two, and then three little girls, and when I was thinking very hard about what I wanted to teach them and how, so that they would know, even in a shallow culture that their heart mattered more than their appearance, Dolores jumped in again. She told me, "whenever anyone would compliment the beauty of one of my girls in presence of the others, without noticing the others, I just told the girls that people look at the outside, but God sees our hearts. What is on the inside is more important than the way you look." I absorbed this speech at least 5 years ago, and my girls get a similar reminder several times a week. They will for as long as they live with me.
I have watched Dolores behave in a respectful manner toward people in authority even when she fundamentally disagreed. I have observed her not caring or even noticing whether she met with the approval of people, even people that others considered important. I have noticed her serving others in the background without ever looking for recognition or praise. I have been nearby while she has loved and shepherded her girls through high school, university, marriage, and the motherhood of now three grandchildren. I enjoy hearing about how her girls still like to be together as adults. I have seen her marriage with Fred, one characterized by affection and friendship, by shared goals and mutual respect. I know what she has sown, and I see what she reaps; and I want a life like that.
I know Dolores isn't perfect. She would tell me she is still a work in progress and that God isn't finished with her yet. I know that's true, but I really appreciate how she took the time to share some of her life and wisdom with a loud, funny, uber-opinionated girl who needed a little guidance in the youngest stages of marriage and motherhood. Dolores's girls and her husband know how great she is, but seeing her on my side of the ocean, reminded me. Dolores would most definitely have censored this piece on my blog, if she could have, because she sincerely doesn't like the spotlight; but when a woman lives a good life, a life marked by consistent loyalty to God and the application of His truth to the minutia of the everyday, somebody really ought to say something. Today it's me. The legacy of Dolores' life and faith lives on, not only in her girls and in her marriage, but in mine. I don't look a bit like Dolores in any physical way, but I hope that one day that my life and faith will resemble hers, and that I will be able to bless my girls and maybe even someone else the way Dolores blessed me during the early chapters of my married life.
Proverb 31: 28-31 says--
Her children arise and call her blessed; her husband also and he praises her. Many women do noble things, but you surpass them all. Charm is deceptive and beauty is fleeting; but a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised. Give her the reward she has earned, and let her works bring her praise at the city gate.
Friday, December 25, 2009
Not about Me
Darkness concealed my tears as I sat in the back of my church at a carols service a few days ago. Generations were packed under the tin roof as the narrator read the Christmas story while actors brought words to life. Little children and grandparents sang together as the orchestra filled the room with music, but I only knew a fourth of the "familiar" carols. The children sang their piece sweetly, the pastor spoke meaningful words, and still sadness threatened to overwhelm me. I was sitting near friends who had generously given up a seat for Jordan, MJ, and me to share, but even in the shadow of their kindness, I felt disoriented in the midst of the celebration and alone in the crowd.
For me, Christmas has always been about sweaters and decorating my own home, about cold weather and shopping, about food and family and friends, and of course, though sometimes as an afterthought, about Jesus. This year, I was too sick to decorate my house until the twenty-first, and I couldn't put all my imported decorations out because we move in just a few weeks to the fourth home we will occupy in a twelve month period, another home that is not "mine". I haven't been able to use the car or miraculously found myself in possession of wads of cash, so shopping was out. It is (hot) summer, and if I were to don a sweater, I would likely suffer from heatstroke and then become the punchline to a "Yankee" joke. I am far away from family and old friends, separated by an ocean's worth of distance; and Skype, though it is wonderful, it not sufficient to bridge 10,000 miles. Truly, I have been feeling so un-Christmasy without most of my usual celebration tools.
A couple of days after the carol service, I walked into a mall with Greg and began to feel much better as I was enveloped by commercialism. But, in the midst of my relief, a question arose in my mind. Why did the mall make me feel better? Following the question, the truth, strong and stark, charged into my mind. All the things that "feel" like Christmas to me don't really have anything to do with Christmas. Christmas isn't about all the wonderful traditions that my family has kept or about the weather or familiar carols in familiar church services. Christmas isn't about decorating, or having my own house or about spending money to buy gifts for people. It is about God coming to earth as a baby to bridge distance between fallen humanity and Himself. Christmas is about the Holy and Almighty Creator of heaven and earth spanning the gap between himself and sinful me.
I miss my family and familiar traditions terribly. I feel strange in a foreign country celebrating Christmas at my new church or at the beach or at the home of my kind friends who adopted us on Christmas day; but how I feel doesn't really matter very much because Christmas isn't actually about me. Christmas is all about Jesus, and this year, on the far side of the world, in the midst of my aching and disorientation, I celebrate Jesus' birth. May His truth and His peace reign on earth and in my heart today.
For me, Christmas has always been about sweaters and decorating my own home, about cold weather and shopping, about food and family and friends, and of course, though sometimes as an afterthought, about Jesus. This year, I was too sick to decorate my house until the twenty-first, and I couldn't put all my imported decorations out because we move in just a few weeks to the fourth home we will occupy in a twelve month period, another home that is not "mine". I haven't been able to use the car or miraculously found myself in possession of wads of cash, so shopping was out. It is (hot) summer, and if I were to don a sweater, I would likely suffer from heatstroke and then become the punchline to a "Yankee" joke. I am far away from family and old friends, separated by an ocean's worth of distance; and Skype, though it is wonderful, it not sufficient to bridge 10,000 miles. Truly, I have been feeling so un-Christmasy without most of my usual celebration tools.
A couple of days after the carol service, I walked into a mall with Greg and began to feel much better as I was enveloped by commercialism. But, in the midst of my relief, a question arose in my mind. Why did the mall make me feel better? Following the question, the truth, strong and stark, charged into my mind. All the things that "feel" like Christmas to me don't really have anything to do with Christmas. Christmas isn't about all the wonderful traditions that my family has kept or about the weather or familiar carols in familiar church services. Christmas isn't about decorating, or having my own house or about spending money to buy gifts for people. It is about God coming to earth as a baby to bridge distance between fallen humanity and Himself. Christmas is about the Holy and Almighty Creator of heaven and earth spanning the gap between himself and sinful me.
I miss my family and familiar traditions terribly. I feel strange in a foreign country celebrating Christmas at my new church or at the beach or at the home of my kind friends who adopted us on Christmas day; but how I feel doesn't really matter very much because Christmas isn't actually about me. Christmas is all about Jesus, and this year, on the far side of the world, in the midst of my aching and disorientation, I celebrate Jesus' birth. May His truth and His peace reign on earth and in my heart today.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Redemption and Experiments Gone Wrong
I had nearly convinced myself and my small but loyal posse of girlfriends that I was a master chef (this is, by the way, the same sweet and supportive group that sees me as a writer and an architect, though I am not yet either), when a mishap of epic proportions occurred in my kitchen. I had finished the thanksgiving meal, complete with tasty turkey and apple pie made from scratch, and was attempting the practical act of redemption that is broth made from turkey bones.
I had been reading a fantastic book called Cold Tangerines wherein the author celebrates different aspects of life. The book inspires me, particularly a chapter where the author talks about redemption about how making soup from bones was a practical act of redemption, a metaphor for what God can do in our lives. I believe in redemption, especially as a Christian, and I was inspired to attempt redemption in my kitchen with my very own thirty dollar turkey carcass.
I cleaned the bones reasonably well and chucked them in a large pot to boil with water for a couple of hours. What could be easier than making broth from bones? I was thinking redemptive thoughts deep in the labyrinth of my own mind while my hands cleaned up. After I finished tidying, I sat down to watch a movie with Greg, while the stove boiled bones. I checked the pot every so often, as the house filled with the rich smell of homemade broth. When the movie finished, I put the whole pot in the fridge so that I could scrape the fat off the top when it cooled, because practical acts of redemption needn't add extra calories to my waist. With the broth, or what I supposed would be broth, safely cooling, I climbed into bed, my heart satisfied with the work of cooking my first whole thanksgiving meal, and my mind soothed by meditating on redemption.
The next morning, I awoke eager to subdivide the broth into usable portions to be frozen. I was envisioning the casseroles, gravy, and Asian ginger marinade that I would make from the treasure of a homemade soup base when I opened the pot. The fat was predictably solidified on the top, but what awaited me under the fat was something horrific. For reasons I don't understand, for reasons I can't comprehend, the turkey broth had turned to primordial ooze. In all my domestic pride and glory while I pondered deep and meaningful thoughts, I created turkey sludge!
I had many purposes for broth, but what to do with turkey ooze? I froze some just in case it would melt into broth, but mostly I laughed. I guess in hindsight the real accomplishments were being thankful on a day of thanksgiving and cooking a whole traditional meal without the guidance of mother or mother-in-law. Next thanksgiving I will leave redemption to God and experiments to scientists, who might have some use for expensive primordial turkey ooze.
I had been reading a fantastic book called Cold Tangerines wherein the author celebrates different aspects of life. The book inspires me, particularly a chapter where the author talks about redemption about how making soup from bones was a practical act of redemption, a metaphor for what God can do in our lives. I believe in redemption, especially as a Christian, and I was inspired to attempt redemption in my kitchen with my very own thirty dollar turkey carcass.
I cleaned the bones reasonably well and chucked them in a large pot to boil with water for a couple of hours. What could be easier than making broth from bones? I was thinking redemptive thoughts deep in the labyrinth of my own mind while my hands cleaned up. After I finished tidying, I sat down to watch a movie with Greg, while the stove boiled bones. I checked the pot every so often, as the house filled with the rich smell of homemade broth. When the movie finished, I put the whole pot in the fridge so that I could scrape the fat off the top when it cooled, because practical acts of redemption needn't add extra calories to my waist. With the broth, or what I supposed would be broth, safely cooling, I climbed into bed, my heart satisfied with the work of cooking my first whole thanksgiving meal, and my mind soothed by meditating on redemption.
The next morning, I awoke eager to subdivide the broth into usable portions to be frozen. I was envisioning the casseroles, gravy, and Asian ginger marinade that I would make from the treasure of a homemade soup base when I opened the pot. The fat was predictably solidified on the top, but what awaited me under the fat was something horrific. For reasons I don't understand, for reasons I can't comprehend, the turkey broth had turned to primordial ooze. In all my domestic pride and glory while I pondered deep and meaningful thoughts, I created turkey sludge!
I had many purposes for broth, but what to do with turkey ooze? I froze some just in case it would melt into broth, but mostly I laughed. I guess in hindsight the real accomplishments were being thankful on a day of thanksgiving and cooking a whole traditional meal without the guidance of mother or mother-in-law. Next thanksgiving I will leave redemption to God and experiments to scientists, who might have some use for expensive primordial turkey ooze.
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Apple Pie and Good Neighbors
On the day we celebrated Thanksgiving, I had been baking apple pie from the seventy-year-old recipe that Lea Lea had given my mom. I was remembering the Saturdays of my early childhood while I pinched and peeled and rolled and chopped apples and dough in the present. At last I finished, and the beautiful pie, complete with the feather design my mother always cuts on the top, was deposited into the oven where it would turn to gold. As it baked, the cinnamonny aroma wafted through the house, maddening my children with butter and sugar fumes. Jordan somehow developed an affinity for apple pie when she was a toddler, and the fact that she only partakes of it twice a year has only served to amplify her love for the the most American of American desserts. While the pie was busy baking and while I was busy tidying up, the girls impatiently chanted, "apple pie! Apple pie!"
In spite of the energy and the deafening noise from the girls, the name on the recipe card took me back in time to when I was seven or so and living on Pocahontas street, where my parents had purchased their first house in Bellaire, Tx. I didn't have any grandparents within six hours drive of my house, but we had fantastic neighbors across the street who filled in the gap left by distance. Doc and Leatrice were members of what we in America call "the Greatest Generation." They had survived World War Two and then worked for forty years before retiring to a quiet life of gardening, companionship, and neighborhood gossip.
Doc and Lea were friendly and kind to my mother, who was a homemaker in a new place, and they liked my father as well; but they took a special interest in me, especially Doc. When I met him, Doc was already an old man. He had taught high school, and now he spent most of his time in a brown jumpsuit gardening. He wasn't very busy and he loved children, so was perfectly content to spend his Saturday mornings with me. I'm not sure how the tradition began, but every week, my mom would dress me up, and then walk me across the street to Doc and Lea's little old, cigarette-smokey house with the fantastic gardens full of roses and vegetables. Doc's house was a happy place for me.
Doc always planned our mornings full of activities. He would wheel me around in his wheelbarrow to all of his different varieties of roses. Some were solid red, some were yellow, but my favorites were the yellow with the red tips. Carefully avoiding the thorns, he lifted me up to smell each fragrance and then, with his orange shears, he snipped a beautiful multicolored bouquet for me, wrapping the ends carefully in a wet paper towel and foil. After the bouquet was safely inside in the turquoise vase, Doc would wheel me around in his wheelbarrow to his veggie gardens so that I could help him with planting or harvesting his radishes or cucumbers. I loved to watch his okra plants grow from week to week, with the spiny stems that reached to the telephone wires. I liked the roses and veggies, but I guess my favorite activity was painting Doc's garage door with mud. That's right, mud. Doc would mix up a big pan of mud and then let me go to town painting his white aluminum garage door with a two-inch paintbrush full of mud for as long as it interested me. I think he must have found it amusing to see such a prim, quiet little girl painting with dirt.
After most of my energy was spent, I would go inside with Doc to see what sort of delicacies Lea Lea had created. Lea Lea had been a home economics teacher in the forties, when no one was trying to cut all the delicious calories out of home cooking, so she always had cookies and other beautiful things on hand to eat. Lea Lea could bake and sew like you wouldn't believe, and she was happy to share her expertise and her possessions. I have some of the costume jewelry from the forties that she gave my mom. I have her recipes, also given to my mom. I even have the beautiful suit she made for herself in 1946, when Doc brought her black velvet from when he fought in France in World War Two. After my mom gave it to me a few years ago, I altered it to fit my girdle-less athletic (possibly boney) frame. Would you believe that when I altered it, I let out 2 inches in the waist, and took in two in the bust? Lea Lea was amazing in every way, but most amazing to me as an adult for sharing her husband and her home every saturday morning with a little kid from across the street.
After I had eaten my fill of Lea Lea's fantastic culinary creations in the kitchen, I would sit on the turquoise, textured carpet in the living room with Doc and look at the "bug Bible" while Doc lit a cigarette to relax. The book was called the "bug Bible" because of it's thickness and content. Doc would tell me all about all whichever bug we opened to that day, what it was, where it lived, and whether he had seen it. After the bug bible while he finished his late-morning smoke, he gave me quarters, nickels, dimes, and pennies for the offering plate at church the next day.
Doc was patient and kind and interested in everything I had to say, everything a grandfather should be. I remember well his kind smile and his gentle manner. I never was ready to leave his house when my mom came back to get me, but I had to go home so he could watch "The Rifleman," while he rested in his fuzzy,brown recliner, recovering from a full morning's activity. He always remembered my bouquet and asked me to come back next week. I always did, and we repeated this sweet ritual every saturday for four or five years.
In this day and age, if an older, non-related man took an interest in my children, I would build icy walls around my family to keep them safe, because the knowledge of evil is a powerful protection against child predators and good neighbors alike; but I'm glad that I didn't grow up in a world like what I know today. I treasure my Saturday-morning memories with Doc and Lea Lea; they loved me, and I love them still. The memories still come flooding back happily with the sight of home-grown roses, the apple pie recipe, the velvet suit, or the jewelry Lea gave my mother, now resting in my jewelry box. Doc and Lea Lea were fantastic neighbors. They opened their modest home and their generous hearts to a little, quiet girl with faraway grandparents, and they shared what they had--roses, vegetables, mud, cookies, and their bug bible, small things at the time, but now priceless memories to me.
In spite of the energy and the deafening noise from the girls, the name on the recipe card took me back in time to when I was seven or so and living on Pocahontas street, where my parents had purchased their first house in Bellaire, Tx. I didn't have any grandparents within six hours drive of my house, but we had fantastic neighbors across the street who filled in the gap left by distance. Doc and Leatrice were members of what we in America call "the Greatest Generation." They had survived World War Two and then worked for forty years before retiring to a quiet life of gardening, companionship, and neighborhood gossip.
Doc and Lea were friendly and kind to my mother, who was a homemaker in a new place, and they liked my father as well; but they took a special interest in me, especially Doc. When I met him, Doc was already an old man. He had taught high school, and now he spent most of his time in a brown jumpsuit gardening. He wasn't very busy and he loved children, so was perfectly content to spend his Saturday mornings with me. I'm not sure how the tradition began, but every week, my mom would dress me up, and then walk me across the street to Doc and Lea's little old, cigarette-smokey house with the fantastic gardens full of roses and vegetables. Doc's house was a happy place for me.
Doc always planned our mornings full of activities. He would wheel me around in his wheelbarrow to all of his different varieties of roses. Some were solid red, some were yellow, but my favorites were the yellow with the red tips. Carefully avoiding the thorns, he lifted me up to smell each fragrance and then, with his orange shears, he snipped a beautiful multicolored bouquet for me, wrapping the ends carefully in a wet paper towel and foil. After the bouquet was safely inside in the turquoise vase, Doc would wheel me around in his wheelbarrow to his veggie gardens so that I could help him with planting or harvesting his radishes or cucumbers. I loved to watch his okra plants grow from week to week, with the spiny stems that reached to the telephone wires. I liked the roses and veggies, but I guess my favorite activity was painting Doc's garage door with mud. That's right, mud. Doc would mix up a big pan of mud and then let me go to town painting his white aluminum garage door with a two-inch paintbrush full of mud for as long as it interested me. I think he must have found it amusing to see such a prim, quiet little girl painting with dirt.
After most of my energy was spent, I would go inside with Doc to see what sort of delicacies Lea Lea had created. Lea Lea had been a home economics teacher in the forties, when no one was trying to cut all the delicious calories out of home cooking, so she always had cookies and other beautiful things on hand to eat. Lea Lea could bake and sew like you wouldn't believe, and she was happy to share her expertise and her possessions. I have some of the costume jewelry from the forties that she gave my mom. I have her recipes, also given to my mom. I even have the beautiful suit she made for herself in 1946, when Doc brought her black velvet from when he fought in France in World War Two. After my mom gave it to me a few years ago, I altered it to fit my girdle-less athletic (possibly boney) frame. Would you believe that when I altered it, I let out 2 inches in the waist, and took in two in the bust? Lea Lea was amazing in every way, but most amazing to me as an adult for sharing her husband and her home every saturday morning with a little kid from across the street.
After I had eaten my fill of Lea Lea's fantastic culinary creations in the kitchen, I would sit on the turquoise, textured carpet in the living room with Doc and look at the "bug Bible" while Doc lit a cigarette to relax. The book was called the "bug Bible" because of it's thickness and content. Doc would tell me all about all whichever bug we opened to that day, what it was, where it lived, and whether he had seen it. After the bug bible while he finished his late-morning smoke, he gave me quarters, nickels, dimes, and pennies for the offering plate at church the next day.
Doc was patient and kind and interested in everything I had to say, everything a grandfather should be. I remember well his kind smile and his gentle manner. I never was ready to leave his house when my mom came back to get me, but I had to go home so he could watch "The Rifleman," while he rested in his fuzzy,brown recliner, recovering from a full morning's activity. He always remembered my bouquet and asked me to come back next week. I always did, and we repeated this sweet ritual every saturday for four or five years.
In this day and age, if an older, non-related man took an interest in my children, I would build icy walls around my family to keep them safe, because the knowledge of evil is a powerful protection against child predators and good neighbors alike; but I'm glad that I didn't grow up in a world like what I know today. I treasure my Saturday-morning memories with Doc and Lea Lea; they loved me, and I love them still. The memories still come flooding back happily with the sight of home-grown roses, the apple pie recipe, the velvet suit, or the jewelry Lea gave my mother, now resting in my jewelry box. Doc and Lea Lea were fantastic neighbors. They opened their modest home and their generous hearts to a little, quiet girl with faraway grandparents, and they shared what they had--roses, vegetables, mud, cookies, and their bug bible, small things at the time, but now priceless memories to me.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Wads of Cash in the Creek
Think of the thriftiest person you know. No, it's not the person of whom you are thinking, it's ME (or, it is I for all you grammar cops out there). My wardrobe is at least one third "vintage," and I only buy what I call "authentic retail" when it is on a very, very good sale, usually when things are under ten dollars. I ask for my money back at the end of movies that have any glitches in the sound or picture. I own a 500 dollar leather seven-seater sofa and a twenty dollar dining table with several free chairs. I am unabashedly frugal, some would say cheap; so when it was time to buy a turkey for thanksgiving, I was appropriately appalled to shuck out 30 dollars for a seven and a half pound turkey. I would have gladly paid ten dollars, but paying thirty nearly gave me hives.
Aussies seem to earn and allocate money very differently than Americans, so comparing prices on things is mostly a useless endeavor. I have been in Australia for ten months, already, so I would think that some of the sticker shock should be wearing off by now, and it is, except when I look at real estate or turkeys. The prices of houses and delicious birds for baking are just astronomical! I haven't bought a house, so I can't legitimately complain about housing, but the very cheapest turkey ( I checked around) set me back thirty dollars. How is that possible?
I was cycling today with Micah Jade in the trailer to get the girls from school when a brilliant stroke of cheapness hit me. In the creek, there are plenty of wild bush turkeys. Sure they look like over-grown flightless buzzards, but the real questions I began to ask are, "How do they taste and would anyone miss one?" As I peddled along the Kedron Brook, I wrestled with all sorts of great ideas surrounding the acquisition of the turkeys I see every day.
Perhaps I could come down at dawn with a tennis racket and a black trash bag on my bike. There would be very few people around, so maybe I can just whack one and then wrestle it into a bag to bike it back up to my house in my bike basket. Wouldn't the feathers make a great centerpiece? I wonder how much meat is under all those feathers? Oh! Reality check--We have no tennis racket. Would Greg's golf club work? If so, which iron? Surely Greg wouldn't miss one club for an hour in the morning.
Or, if that didn't work, maybe I could set a loop trap like Bear Gryllis does on Man Vs Wild. I've probably watched that show enough to figure it out. Then I will wait in the creek over night until I hear the tasty turkey struggling. Would a turkey fit in one of my shopping bags? Would anyone see me? Would it make much noise? Should I bring a shovel to knock it out? Even if I get away with it, would my children tell all my friends at school? Are any of my friends environmental activists?
What about at dusk? Maybe one attacks me and then I have to respond in self-defense. No one could blame an innocent jogger for killing a turkey that attacked her, surely. And if it was already dead, wouldn't it be more sanitary for me to take it home to be disposed of properly, instead of leave it near the bike path? I would merely be doing society a service by taking a delicious dead animal out of a public place (and into my oven).
In real life, of course, none of these bizarre ideas actually fly (yes, I do recognize that my turkey fantasies are odd at best). I couldn't really stomach hacking at a turkey with Greg's golf club, or strangling it like a special forces soldier with my shoe lace, or acting out the whole self-defence thing (I am enough drama without making up lies about wildlife). I guess I am destined to buy thirty-dollar frozen turkeys for as long as I live in Australia, but I think I will always look at bush turkeys differently from now on. Before my shocking experience in the freezer section, I saw bush turkeys as merely a beautiful native bird, but now those bush turkeys will henceforth appear to me as great, big wads of cash strutting in the creek, (probably) tasty, but just a little bit out of my realm of possibility.
Aussies seem to earn and allocate money very differently than Americans, so comparing prices on things is mostly a useless endeavor. I have been in Australia for ten months, already, so I would think that some of the sticker shock should be wearing off by now, and it is, except when I look at real estate or turkeys. The prices of houses and delicious birds for baking are just astronomical! I haven't bought a house, so I can't legitimately complain about housing, but the very cheapest turkey ( I checked around) set me back thirty dollars. How is that possible?
I was cycling today with Micah Jade in the trailer to get the girls from school when a brilliant stroke of cheapness hit me. In the creek, there are plenty of wild bush turkeys. Sure they look like over-grown flightless buzzards, but the real questions I began to ask are, "How do they taste and would anyone miss one?" As I peddled along the Kedron Brook, I wrestled with all sorts of great ideas surrounding the acquisition of the turkeys I see every day.
Perhaps I could come down at dawn with a tennis racket and a black trash bag on my bike. There would be very few people around, so maybe I can just whack one and then wrestle it into a bag to bike it back up to my house in my bike basket. Wouldn't the feathers make a great centerpiece? I wonder how much meat is under all those feathers? Oh! Reality check--We have no tennis racket. Would Greg's golf club work? If so, which iron? Surely Greg wouldn't miss one club for an hour in the morning.
Or, if that didn't work, maybe I could set a loop trap like Bear Gryllis does on Man Vs Wild. I've probably watched that show enough to figure it out. Then I will wait in the creek over night until I hear the tasty turkey struggling. Would a turkey fit in one of my shopping bags? Would anyone see me? Would it make much noise? Should I bring a shovel to knock it out? Even if I get away with it, would my children tell all my friends at school? Are any of my friends environmental activists?
What about at dusk? Maybe one attacks me and then I have to respond in self-defense. No one could blame an innocent jogger for killing a turkey that attacked her, surely. And if it was already dead, wouldn't it be more sanitary for me to take it home to be disposed of properly, instead of leave it near the bike path? I would merely be doing society a service by taking a delicious dead animal out of a public place (and into my oven).
In real life, of course, none of these bizarre ideas actually fly (yes, I do recognize that my turkey fantasies are odd at best). I couldn't really stomach hacking at a turkey with Greg's golf club, or strangling it like a special forces soldier with my shoe lace, or acting out the whole self-defence thing (I am enough drama without making up lies about wildlife). I guess I am destined to buy thirty-dollar frozen turkeys for as long as I live in Australia, but I think I will always look at bush turkeys differently from now on. Before my shocking experience in the freezer section, I saw bush turkeys as merely a beautiful native bird, but now those bush turkeys will henceforth appear to me as great, big wads of cash strutting in the creek, (probably) tasty, but just a little bit out of my realm of possibility.
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Thanksgiving chef in Oz
