My teen years were spent in the (fairly hideous) 1980s, and like most teenagers of that era, I embraced that garish youth culture with arms wide open ... well, at least as far as my parents would allow me to do so. While I had plenty of cassette tapes of Amy Grant and Petra, I also enjoyed being a "rebel" and listened to rock'n'roll as well. (Yes, that was pretty much the extent of my teen rebellion -- I hope my parents realize they got off the hook big time with me, thank you very much! Now if I can be oh-so-lucky in a few years with my own offspring ...). One of my favorite bands at the time (although now, not so much, unless I'm feeling a touch of nostalgia for an old tune) was Van Halen. Truth be told, I'm not sure I know of any teenager who escaped the 80s without at least one of their memorable melodies embedded in their frizzed brains (OK, I do know of one person ...). Even now, many years later, Van Halen still pops up from time to time, whether it comes in the form of a newly-purchased $1 record at a garage sale, or rockin' out to "Aunt Helen" with Uncle Steve at a springtime picnic. Yes, they are alive and well ...
Or are they? My husband recently emailed me a link to a video of one of their recent concerts which can be summed up in one word: pathetic. On a Saturday morning several weeks ago, I heard the opening synthesizer chords to the famous song, "Jump," followed very quickly by Don roaring with laughter. He roared and roared, so much so that I could hardly hear the song. "What's so funny?" I asked as I came into the room. He was sitting in front of the computer, watching this clip, tears rolling down his face. "You gotta hear this!" he said as he hit the replay button.
I didn't roar -- at least not at first (that came later after the shock wore off) -- but my eyes bulged and my mouth dropped open. Then I roared. Here were a bunch of middle-aged men wandering around on stage, seemingly trying to recapture their youth (or, if not recapturing, then honestly believing they never lost it in the first place). Seeing David Lee Roth jumping around with a gigantic, inflatable microphone was just ... well ... sad. My little children loved it, though, thinking it was some sort of giant Barney performance without the big purple dinosaur. That says something right there.
But all of that wasn't even the bad part. The thing that got my husband roaring (and even I and the kids couldn't stop laughing) was the fact that the pre-taped music, to which they played along, was set at a different pitch than that in which they were performing. The guy who posted this on his blog (RW370) which Don had read said it perfectly, "I can’t tell which is funnier, this long-hated cheesebag-anthem turned into a much more interesting, atonal mess in front of thousands of paying customers or the hilarious soldiering on of the Van Halens as they look at each other from inside the trainwreck. Eddie tries to transpose on the fly ... but the great thing there is the difference in pitch is non-musical - about 1.5 semitones sharp. So there’s no frets he can choose to fix the problem!"
So here's the thing -- I haven't figured out how to post a video, and with the lovely scent of a diaper needing changing in the air at the moment, I don't have time right now to figure it out. But what I can do is lead the throngs to the YouTube site for your own nostalgic enjoyment. So, fellow 80s friends, and those who are glad to have left it behind, and those who are also secretly happy to dip back in every once in a blue moon ... here's the link, highlighted in this lovely shade of blue. It's a riot. It does indeed sound like a trainwreck. Dudes, you have had far, far more than 15 minutes of fame. You've had hours and days and months and years of it. Maybe it's time to ditch the inflatable props and fiddle on a guitar in the back yard while entertaining your kids (or grandkids). Thanks for the cacophony -- it really was funny.
Thursday, November 8, 2007
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
"LOVE" is not spelled with a "Y"
Today is Wednesday, the middle of the week, Hump Day, an "almost Friday" kind of day. Today was Aidan's last school day of the week, as tomorrow and Friday are "teacher conferences" (although not for us -- yes, school is out, but no, we don't need to meet with the teacher). I'm not quite sure what we're going to do with ourselves; time to stretch myself and be creative. If the weather was warmer, I'd ship the kids out o' doors for most of the day, but their little shivering bodies are still trying to adjust to the drastic shift downward in temperature. How they can spend hours indoors without suffering from cabin fever is just beyond me.
I have been T-I-R-E-D lately. I'm sure it's from a multitude of reasons: the time change (a.k.a "Kids Still Getting Up WAY Too Early in the A.M."); the aforementioned drastic change in temperature; a couple of consecutive weekends spent traveling; the presence of a nagging, sharp pain in my lower back (which has been coming and going over the years, sometimes purposefully and sometimes mysteriously) and pain in an always-present form seems to suck out some much-needed energy; the subtle churning anxiety as we await further testing to see if my mom's cancer has spread elsewhere, since her first run of scans came back completely clean except one: her liver -- "inconclusive." Ugh. What a terribly frustrating, life-halting word.
I spent my afternoon cooking, and I was glad for the opportunity. I have a friend who has been feeling under the weather, and I have walked many miles in those shoes myself: being a pastor's wife, having two kids, working part-time (although not to the extent which she does), and feeling like poo on top of it all. Dinner (and cleaning the house, but I wasn't about to go there) is usually the last thing you feel like tackling in that state, so I grabbed an Old Faithful and hit the stove. As I said to my friend, it wasn't anything exotic or exciting or impressive -- just a good ol' American Comfort Casserole; Thanksgiving in a Pan. While I was at it, I decided to double the recipe, making a second batch for my parents and my own family as well. Turns out the timing is perfect, as my husband is running late ...
Anyway, like I said, today is Aidan's last day of school this week. In his bookbag were 3 items: a worksheet from today's class, a book he made called "God Made Aidan (name written with red glitter glue) Special," and his report card. I was somewhat dreading that report card, and indeed I think I was semi-subconsciously ticking off the hours of when that piece of paper would fall into my hands. Being a parent is tricky business, bringing my own baggage and remembrances to the game, and when I finally beheld that piece of paper, I felt like I was 16 again as my eyes barely took in all of the "Y's" on the page ("Y" meaning "Yes," as in ... "Displays self-control: Y" or "Reproduces and creates patterns: Y") and instead saw the other marks -- in this case, the three "U's" (as in "Usually" does such-and-such):
- Waits turn: U
- Identifies and writes name using capital and lower case letters: U
- Recognizes and names numerals 0-20: U
The odd thing is that this all felt pre-programmed for me, this scanning the page for areas needing possible help or correction. This is all very interesting territory for me -- thankfully I have years to get used to it. Overall he's a great student -- "a serious, expressive child;" he "loves to participate in group" (o extroverted child of mine!); he is "very knowledgeable" and "has mastered letter identification." I loved this next line: "We are working toward greater control in his writing." He's five.
Ah, what a gig this is, being a parent. But you know what I love about all this is what happened next. Despite looking in the mirror at my own little idiosyncrasies or tidbits of angst, I was completely reigned in and reminded what being a parent is truly about. It's not about how many "Y's" or "U's" your child receives during the very first marking period of his little life. Instead, it's what I saw on the fourth page of his crafty homemade booklet, "God Made Aidan Special." He drew some of his favorite things: chicken nuggets, Chuck E. Cheese, playing tag ... and then a lone stick figure with red hair and smiling face, labeled "Mommy." He told his teacher that his favorite person is Mommy. Me. Wow.
At 4:30 p.m. my little guy, who had been up since 6:30 a.m., was beside himself with exhaustion, so much so that he started crying, not knowing what else to do. "Do you need a hug?" I asked, looking into his sad, pale face, huge eyes red-rimmed with glassy tears. He nodded, his sweet mouth turned downward, and wrapped his skinny arms around my waist. "What do you want to do?" I asked. He took my hand and lead me over to the couch. "I want to cuddle," he said. He grabbed Blue Blanket, picked up a big fleece blanket with which to cover us, and while I laid on my back, propped up by pillows, he squirmed for a bit until he fit like a puzzle piece. For 30 beautiful minutes (I wasn't about to begrudge this much-needed rest myself) we laid there silently, not saying a word, while Grace played quietly on the floor with some animals.
"U's" and "Y's" are important. But so are things done with great love, like a precious stick figure and cuddling under a blanket on the couch, while hearing the sweet, soft singing of a little girl serenading a plastic rhinoceros.
I have been T-I-R-E-D lately. I'm sure it's from a multitude of reasons: the time change (a.k.a "Kids Still Getting Up WAY Too Early in the A.M."); the aforementioned drastic change in temperature; a couple of consecutive weekends spent traveling; the presence of a nagging, sharp pain in my lower back (which has been coming and going over the years, sometimes purposefully and sometimes mysteriously) and pain in an always-present form seems to suck out some much-needed energy; the subtle churning anxiety as we await further testing to see if my mom's cancer has spread elsewhere, since her first run of scans came back completely clean except one: her liver -- "inconclusive." Ugh. What a terribly frustrating, life-halting word.
I spent my afternoon cooking, and I was glad for the opportunity. I have a friend who has been feeling under the weather, and I have walked many miles in those shoes myself: being a pastor's wife, having two kids, working part-time (although not to the extent which she does), and feeling like poo on top of it all. Dinner (and cleaning the house, but I wasn't about to go there) is usually the last thing you feel like tackling in that state, so I grabbed an Old Faithful and hit the stove. As I said to my friend, it wasn't anything exotic or exciting or impressive -- just a good ol' American Comfort Casserole; Thanksgiving in a Pan. While I was at it, I decided to double the recipe, making a second batch for my parents and my own family as well. Turns out the timing is perfect, as my husband is running late ...
Anyway, like I said, today is Aidan's last day of school this week. In his bookbag were 3 items: a worksheet from today's class, a book he made called "God Made Aidan (name written with red glitter glue) Special," and his report card. I was somewhat dreading that report card, and indeed I think I was semi-subconsciously ticking off the hours of when that piece of paper would fall into my hands. Being a parent is tricky business, bringing my own baggage and remembrances to the game, and when I finally beheld that piece of paper, I felt like I was 16 again as my eyes barely took in all of the "Y's" on the page ("Y" meaning "Yes," as in ... "Displays self-control: Y" or "Reproduces and creates patterns: Y") and instead saw the other marks -- in this case, the three "U's" (as in "Usually" does such-and-such):
- Waits turn: U
- Identifies and writes name using capital and lower case letters: U
- Recognizes and names numerals 0-20: U
The odd thing is that this all felt pre-programmed for me, this scanning the page for areas needing possible help or correction. This is all very interesting territory for me -- thankfully I have years to get used to it. Overall he's a great student -- "a serious, expressive child;" he "loves to participate in group" (o extroverted child of mine!); he is "very knowledgeable" and "has mastered letter identification." I loved this next line: "We are working toward greater control in his writing." He's five.
Ah, what a gig this is, being a parent. But you know what I love about all this is what happened next. Despite looking in the mirror at my own little idiosyncrasies or tidbits of angst, I was completely reigned in and reminded what being a parent is truly about. It's not about how many "Y's" or "U's" your child receives during the very first marking period of his little life. Instead, it's what I saw on the fourth page of his crafty homemade booklet, "God Made Aidan Special." He drew some of his favorite things: chicken nuggets, Chuck E. Cheese, playing tag ... and then a lone stick figure with red hair and smiling face, labeled "Mommy." He told his teacher that his favorite person is Mommy. Me. Wow.
At 4:30 p.m. my little guy, who had been up since 6:30 a.m., was beside himself with exhaustion, so much so that he started crying, not knowing what else to do. "Do you need a hug?" I asked, looking into his sad, pale face, huge eyes red-rimmed with glassy tears. He nodded, his sweet mouth turned downward, and wrapped his skinny arms around my waist. "What do you want to do?" I asked. He took my hand and lead me over to the couch. "I want to cuddle," he said. He grabbed Blue Blanket, picked up a big fleece blanket with which to cover us, and while I laid on my back, propped up by pillows, he squirmed for a bit until he fit like a puzzle piece. For 30 beautiful minutes (I wasn't about to begrudge this much-needed rest myself) we laid there silently, not saying a word, while Grace played quietly on the floor with some animals.
"U's" and "Y's" are important. But so are things done with great love, like a precious stick figure and cuddling under a blanket on the couch, while hearing the sweet, soft singing of a little girl serenading a plastic rhinoceros.
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
Another Bump on Parent-Angst Road
I experienced a little bit of a fit last week when my wee bit of a boy (sorry, I'm reading Angela's Ashes and my Irish is spilling out uncontrollably -- it's in the blood, people) came home with homework for the first time. It occurred again yesterday, this time with the letter "T," so it is safe to assume this is a weekly thing now. I had my fit and we're moving on.
But now there's more. Tomorrow afternoon, my son will have something new in his book bag:
His report card.
A report card! For what?! This is kindergarten! And not even that -- this is transitional kindergarten! I think my fit is escalating a bit. And perhaps, too, I'm making too big of a deal out of this. But still ... does my son really need to grow up this quickly? Does he really need to know that what he's doing every day is being judged and evaluated, to some extent? What if he figures out that what he thinks as pure fun each day is actually being measured against some unseen stick -- how will that make him feel? Will it make him start to wonder if he can measure up? Second-guess himself? That his work might not be as good as Fellow Classmate Boy or Girl?
OK, maybe I am making the proverbial mountain out of that danged mole-hill. Maybe I'm starting to re-live a lot of my own anxieties during my childhood school days. I was an A student, with the occasional B thrown in for the sake of humility (Geometry and Health class - blech blech), yet I still dreaded with ulcer-forming fear that day known as Report Card Day. I think this is bringing up a lot of my own fears about parenting and child-rearing. How will I react if tomorrow's report card is a difficult one to process? I think some mirror is being held up here, and I'm reluctant to spray the Windex.
But now there's more. Tomorrow afternoon, my son will have something new in his book bag:
His report card.
A report card! For what?! This is kindergarten! And not even that -- this is transitional kindergarten! I think my fit is escalating a bit. And perhaps, too, I'm making too big of a deal out of this. But still ... does my son really need to grow up this quickly? Does he really need to know that what he's doing every day is being judged and evaluated, to some extent? What if he figures out that what he thinks as pure fun each day is actually being measured against some unseen stick -- how will that make him feel? Will it make him start to wonder if he can measure up? Second-guess himself? That his work might not be as good as Fellow Classmate Boy or Girl?
OK, maybe I am making the proverbial mountain out of that danged mole-hill. Maybe I'm starting to re-live a lot of my own anxieties during my childhood school days. I was an A student, with the occasional B thrown in for the sake of humility (Geometry and Health class - blech blech), yet I still dreaded with ulcer-forming fear that day known as Report Card Day. I think this is bringing up a lot of my own fears about parenting and child-rearing. How will I react if tomorrow's report card is a difficult one to process? I think some mirror is being held up here, and I'm reluctant to spray the Windex.
Monday, November 5, 2007
All in a Day's Blog: Irish wit, journey parallels, refuse-rolling dog, and LIFE
I want to write about my experiences at this past weekend's Annual Writer's Conference at the Montgomery County Community College in PA, but I realize that I can't do it all in one sitting, for several reasons. First of all, there's just too much to write about. Secondly, my kids would never let me spend that much time in one sitting at the computer (they're jealous little creatures!). And thirdly, while many of the speakers, professors, and writers emphatically stated (repeatedly), "writing is a Mistress (or, I guess, "Master," in my case)," and you must commit to that craft; in doing so, then, you must sacrifice other things, such as housecleaning and laundry. That's a paraphrase -- and it's also something that, for me, isn't very realistic. Do I like to write? Yes. But do I have children and responsibilities? Yes. Sorry, Mistress (er ... Master) ... you've been carved a spot about halfway down my totem pole. I was up at the crack of dawn this morning having not slept well due to a possible resurgence of my sinus infection (not being able to breathe is quite a deterrent in my cherished sleep process). My kids were up at the crack of dawn due to the ever-frustrating time change. My husband got up at the crack of dawn because ... well, he has to go to work. But he had a nice hot steaming cup of java ready for me as I staggered in a congested fog out of the bedroom, reluctantly facing my day ... my Reality. A few loads of laundry are already done, with a few more waiting their turn; my kids are all washed, brushed, and dressed (and playing so beautifully together in their room!). And -- another reason why Life takes precedence over the Mistress -- my dog rolled in crap this morning out in the backyard, which brought an unexpected -- and loathsome -- amount of work, including dragging him in to the bathroom, bathing the terrified shaking creature, drying him off to the best of my ability, and then scouring the bathroom from top to bottom with some disinfectant cleaner I found under my kitchen sink. The windows are all open, freezing us out in an attempt to whoosh out the scent of wet dog and remaining whiffs of cat poop. Yes, friends, it was a cat who left a hefty deposit in the bank of our back yard, a cat who has made frequent visits to our establishment, a cat who has been responsible for this third unexpected bath for our dog in about a month's time. I am baffled by this conundrum -- Jack is 8 years old and until we moved here, he only had two baths in his life (once because he rolled in a sumptuous pile of horse manure that he just couldn't pass up). Jack spent the majority of his life in the country, suffering only one incident of excrement-rolling. We now live in the most densely populated, urban-esque setting ever, and he finds more rolling potential here, in our tiny square plot of a back yard, than his previous 8 years of canine existence?! And all because of a cat? This trespasser is definitely making Santa's Naughty List this year.
Yes, all of this is Life -- and for me, Life must come first. But here I am, taking a little break, catching my breath at 10:00 a.m. (for it feels as if my day is almost completed, having been up at that ungodly crack o' dawn), still with the smell of wet dog taking up residence in my nostrils (who needs Vicks when you have Wet Dog to break through the congestion?), ready to type a few words about my wonderful, transformative weekend. But since, as I said, I cannot write about all of it in one sitting, I'll focus on a part of it.
But first, do yourself a favor: purchase the soundtrack to a Mighty Wind (or even better, watch the movie first, and then buy the soundtrack). This is an absolute must for any and all road trips. That, and John Denver. Those two CD's got me into PA in a very happy mood, and got me home Saturday evening, soothing my nerves as I drove almost blindly in the dark. Yes, a big favor indeed.
Now, on to my highlight: Frank McCourt.
I saw Angela's Ashes several years ago, when it first came out, and I believe I read the book (but, sadly, I can't remember). I'm not sure what I expected when I saw him Friday evening, but in some ways he took me by surprise. He's in his later 70's, a rather small, slight man, with wavy white hair and a very "Irish face," as my mom would say. My introduction to Frank McCourt was in the first words of his introduction to us. Before he took the stage, he was introduced by a young woman, apparently involved with the college, and in her introduction she gave a brief biography of his life. As he walked to the podium amid the welcoming applause, and with a scowl on his face and a sharp wave of his hand, he muttered quietly into the microphone:
"Well, now I don't know what the hell I'm supposed to talk about, because Dana did such a thorough job of telling my story, so I've got nothing left now to tell!"
Completely deadpan, tongue-in-cheek ... or was there a tiny shred of seriousness behind that frowning brow, that chopping hand-motion? I don't think anyone knows ... except Mr. McCourt himself. I smiled to myself. "I like this guy," I thought -- this soft-spoken, brash, funny-without-a-smile, oftentimes coarse old man. He's an Irishman, a storyteller ... I settled in for a captivating evening.
And indeed, I was hooked. While his coarseness took me aback occasionally (not that I'm prudish toward it -- I just realized that, after having attended Christian institutions and lectures for most of my life, I wasn't used to hearing particular phrases "live" like that), I loved his story-telling, hearing of his life and childhood in Ireland -- so sad and depressing, yet told with a wry sense of humor that kept the dark beasts at bay. I was impressed with his tales of working for 30 years within the NYC school system and the oftentimes outrageous creativity which kept his classroom fresh and engaged. I laughed at his lengthy discourse of growing up in a strict Catholic environment, with fear as the primary prod to keep all wandering Irish kids in line. The hierarchy of sin, as described by this sinner, was laced with humor, for who could hold back laughter when the "Unforgivable Sin" the pinnacle of all sins, was described as one that "you never know until it is committed," or the "Sacrilege," the next one down, as one which would include an act such as punching a nun? And then we're off to Heaven and Hell, one clearly more vivid and interesting than the other. When he was taught that Heaven is a place where one would "stand before the throne of God, gazing upon his holy countenance for all eternity," he replied as only an impish Irish boy could, "Is that all?" Off to the Confessional with you! But Hell, with it's imaginative and vivid descriptions, seemed far more interesting; "I would rather be a Muslim with 72 virgins" than gazing on countenances for all eternity, he said. Yes, coarseness and all, it was a pleasure to listen to him -- kind of like sneaking a little Snickers bar out of your son's Halloween stash and eating it for breakfast.
It was his account of his teaching experiences that really piqued my interest, for despite our differences in -- well, almost everything -- I could draw on a few parallels for what I'm experiencing in my own journey. When he came to America at the age of 19, he was drafted shortly thereafter in the Army, stationed in Germany with the task of training German Shepherd attack dogs, which was "very good preparation for my future career as a teacher." He started in a Vo-Tech school, and what he found on the first day -- when a bologna sandwich came flying from across the room, landing near his desk -- was that his formal education never prepared him for the realities of the classroom. The heady knowledge of New York University didn't equip him with the knowledge of what to do with flying bologna sandwiches ... so he picked it up and ate it, right in front of the students. And what about the classwork? He found he had a desk full of forged excuse notes, ranging from the simple to the dramatic, from students not bothering to disguise their handwriting, to those switching hands in the hope of masking their own recognizable scrawl and passing it off as their mother's. Did this Teacher Man wrack his brain for what his education taught him to do in these situations, or did he embrace this untapped avenue of creativity and run with it? He chose the latter, publishing all of these priceless excuse notes and distributing them amongst the class. The kids were elated, wanting to do more; soon they moved on to writing up obituaries about themselves, their friends, and their teachers. The kids loved it; they sparked. "For the first time in my three and a half years of teaching, I couldn't get the kids to leave the room."
The connection is this: he thought outside of the box. His creativity, his uniqueness helped create his success in the classroom. "I had to go into their territory instead of dragging them into my territory ... whatever that was." He wasn't completely bound by parameters; he wasn't boxed in. He had a spirit, and he listened to it. And that hooked me, especially in regard to where we are now in our journey of ministry. For years we were "boxed in," having to conform to the way "things have always been done," and it's stifling. About 90% of what we experienced in ministry was never even touched upon in seminary. Greek, Hebrew, Biblical history ... none of that prepared my husband for what the "real church" is all about. The church is more about flying bologna sandwiches and dramatic excuse notes than textbook answers. But now here we are, with our rusty wheels starting to slowly turn, for we were given "permission," in a sense, to start thinking outside of that box. It's exciting; it's life-giving.
I wonder what this marvelously crusty, witty man would say about this, that his talk hooked an Irish girl in the audience, drawing parallels to her own Christian journey. There's a boundary-breaker right there. I love it.
Yes, all of this is Life -- and for me, Life must come first. But here I am, taking a little break, catching my breath at 10:00 a.m. (for it feels as if my day is almost completed, having been up at that ungodly crack o' dawn), still with the smell of wet dog taking up residence in my nostrils (who needs Vicks when you have Wet Dog to break through the congestion?), ready to type a few words about my wonderful, transformative weekend. But since, as I said, I cannot write about all of it in one sitting, I'll focus on a part of it.
But first, do yourself a favor: purchase the soundtrack to a Mighty Wind (or even better, watch the movie first, and then buy the soundtrack). This is an absolute must for any and all road trips. That, and John Denver. Those two CD's got me into PA in a very happy mood, and got me home Saturday evening, soothing my nerves as I drove almost blindly in the dark. Yes, a big favor indeed.
Now, on to my highlight: Frank McCourt.
I saw Angela's Ashes several years ago, when it first came out, and I believe I read the book (but, sadly, I can't remember). I'm not sure what I expected when I saw him Friday evening, but in some ways he took me by surprise. He's in his later 70's, a rather small, slight man, with wavy white hair and a very "Irish face," as my mom would say. My introduction to Frank McCourt was in the first words of his introduction to us. Before he took the stage, he was introduced by a young woman, apparently involved with the college, and in her introduction she gave a brief biography of his life. As he walked to the podium amid the welcoming applause, and with a scowl on his face and a sharp wave of his hand, he muttered quietly into the microphone:
"Well, now I don't know what the hell I'm supposed to talk about, because Dana did such a thorough job of telling my story, so I've got nothing left now to tell!"
Completely deadpan, tongue-in-cheek ... or was there a tiny shred of seriousness behind that frowning brow, that chopping hand-motion? I don't think anyone knows ... except Mr. McCourt himself. I smiled to myself. "I like this guy," I thought -- this soft-spoken, brash, funny-without-a-smile, oftentimes coarse old man. He's an Irishman, a storyteller ... I settled in for a captivating evening.
And indeed, I was hooked. While his coarseness took me aback occasionally (not that I'm prudish toward it -- I just realized that, after having attended Christian institutions and lectures for most of my life, I wasn't used to hearing particular phrases "live" like that), I loved his story-telling, hearing of his life and childhood in Ireland -- so sad and depressing, yet told with a wry sense of humor that kept the dark beasts at bay. I was impressed with his tales of working for 30 years within the NYC school system and the oftentimes outrageous creativity which kept his classroom fresh and engaged. I laughed at his lengthy discourse of growing up in a strict Catholic environment, with fear as the primary prod to keep all wandering Irish kids in line. The hierarchy of sin, as described by this sinner, was laced with humor, for who could hold back laughter when the "Unforgivable Sin" the pinnacle of all sins, was described as one that "you never know until it is committed," or the "Sacrilege," the next one down, as one which would include an act such as punching a nun? And then we're off to Heaven and Hell, one clearly more vivid and interesting than the other. When he was taught that Heaven is a place where one would "stand before the throne of God, gazing upon his holy countenance for all eternity," he replied as only an impish Irish boy could, "Is that all?" Off to the Confessional with you! But Hell, with it's imaginative and vivid descriptions, seemed far more interesting; "I would rather be a Muslim with 72 virgins" than gazing on countenances for all eternity, he said. Yes, coarseness and all, it was a pleasure to listen to him -- kind of like sneaking a little Snickers bar out of your son's Halloween stash and eating it for breakfast.
It was his account of his teaching experiences that really piqued my interest, for despite our differences in -- well, almost everything -- I could draw on a few parallels for what I'm experiencing in my own journey. When he came to America at the age of 19, he was drafted shortly thereafter in the Army, stationed in Germany with the task of training German Shepherd attack dogs, which was "very good preparation for my future career as a teacher." He started in a Vo-Tech school, and what he found on the first day -- when a bologna sandwich came flying from across the room, landing near his desk -- was that his formal education never prepared him for the realities of the classroom. The heady knowledge of New York University didn't equip him with the knowledge of what to do with flying bologna sandwiches ... so he picked it up and ate it, right in front of the students. And what about the classwork? He found he had a desk full of forged excuse notes, ranging from the simple to the dramatic, from students not bothering to disguise their handwriting, to those switching hands in the hope of masking their own recognizable scrawl and passing it off as their mother's. Did this Teacher Man wrack his brain for what his education taught him to do in these situations, or did he embrace this untapped avenue of creativity and run with it? He chose the latter, publishing all of these priceless excuse notes and distributing them amongst the class. The kids were elated, wanting to do more; soon they moved on to writing up obituaries about themselves, their friends, and their teachers. The kids loved it; they sparked. "For the first time in my three and a half years of teaching, I couldn't get the kids to leave the room."
The connection is this: he thought outside of the box. His creativity, his uniqueness helped create his success in the classroom. "I had to go into their territory instead of dragging them into my territory ... whatever that was." He wasn't completely bound by parameters; he wasn't boxed in. He had a spirit, and he listened to it. And that hooked me, especially in regard to where we are now in our journey of ministry. For years we were "boxed in," having to conform to the way "things have always been done," and it's stifling. About 90% of what we experienced in ministry was never even touched upon in seminary. Greek, Hebrew, Biblical history ... none of that prepared my husband for what the "real church" is all about. The church is more about flying bologna sandwiches and dramatic excuse notes than textbook answers. But now here we are, with our rusty wheels starting to slowly turn, for we were given "permission," in a sense, to start thinking outside of that box. It's exciting; it's life-giving.
I wonder what this marvelously crusty, witty man would say about this, that his talk hooked an Irish girl in the audience, drawing parallels to her own Christian journey. There's a boundary-breaker right there. I love it.
Sunday, November 4, 2007
An Irish Author ... and Me
Question: What do you get when you put the following together?1. A snappy, dry, witty, Irish author and story teller
2. An abundantly generous and loving friend
3. Being surrounded in a room full of people who are all there for the same reason, the same passion
4. Feeling submerged in a hot, relaxing tub of ideas and newly-awakened gifts
5. Discovering that a few pieces of your life-puzzle have just snapped together
6. The delicious feeling of the stretching of brain-muscles that have lain fairly dormant for quite some time
6. Enough time away from your family to wholly appreciate and love them upon your return
Answer: One very happy, satisfied, fulfilled, sated girl.
Friday, November 2, 2007
I'm Off to See the (Writing) Wizard
In a few short hours I will be hopping into my car and heading off to PA to attend a writer's conference and see, hear, and hopefully have my book(s) signed by Frank McCourt. I am so excited!! I'm excited to see my friend Pam, to hang out with her, to go out to dinner without children, to dive right in to stuff that I love, to indulge me for a day. While I am not looking forward to the drive (it's only a 2 hour drive, but I don't like to drive by myself for long distances), the rest of it will easily make up for the brief discomfort.
So this morning is going to be a whirlwind for me. I have a little under four hours to do the following:
- Put all of the dishes away that I washed last night
- Wash the dishes that are in the sink (or maybe I'll leave that for Don ...)
- Pack (can't forget my books! And I have no idea what to wear for this kind of thing, although I do want to be comfortable. The weather has been so weird lately so who knows what I'll end up with ...)
- Make chili in the crockpot (for Don, when he comes home, as well as for my parents, as compensation for watching my kids all afternoon while I'm gone)
- Clean out the car of car seats, stroller, kid stuff
- Run to the bank to get some cash for the trip
- Probably about 6 other things I'm forgetting ...
- Get the kids washed up, brushed up, and dressed
- Feed the kids lunch and get Aidan ready for school
- Drop Aidan off at school
- Head back home and settle Grace down for her nap
- Hop in the car and I'm off!
A crazy, crazy day ahead of me. Unfortunately this event sold out so quickly that we weren't able to get in to the auditorium for the keynote address. Thankfully they set up some kind of live feed at an adjacent auditorium, so at least we'll get to hear it that way. However, because of that we won't be able to attend the hors d'oeuvres or the Q&A with Frank McCourt (bummer!) but I think that's actually a blessing. Looking at my morning, then driving a tense two hours ... if our original plans were in place I would have to go straight to the event as soon as I got there, jumping right into a full afternoon and evening, followed by a full, brain-exhausting day of workshops tomorrow, plus another tense drive home (in the dark ...) -- yes, I think that skipping those things this afternoon will be a good thing. I can get to my friend's house and crash for a bit instead. Sigh.
So! Time to go. I'm sure I'll have lots to write about when I get back. Please pray that my kids will be OK without me (I'm sure they will, but you know how kids are ...), and pray for safe travel. Like I said, I don't like driving long distances by myself, highways make me nervous, and I have some weird kind of "night blindness" so I can't see well at night (which will make the trip doubly nerve-wracking on the way home). But despite all of that, this is gonna be great ...
So this morning is going to be a whirlwind for me. I have a little under four hours to do the following:
- Put all of the dishes away that I washed last night
- Wash the dishes that are in the sink (or maybe I'll leave that for Don ...)
- Pack (can't forget my books! And I have no idea what to wear for this kind of thing, although I do want to be comfortable. The weather has been so weird lately so who knows what I'll end up with ...)
- Make chili in the crockpot (for Don, when he comes home, as well as for my parents, as compensation for watching my kids all afternoon while I'm gone)
- Clean out the car of car seats, stroller, kid stuff
- Run to the bank to get some cash for the trip
- Probably about 6 other things I'm forgetting ...
- Get the kids washed up, brushed up, and dressed
- Feed the kids lunch and get Aidan ready for school
- Drop Aidan off at school
- Head back home and settle Grace down for her nap
- Hop in the car and I'm off!
A crazy, crazy day ahead of me. Unfortunately this event sold out so quickly that we weren't able to get in to the auditorium for the keynote address. Thankfully they set up some kind of live feed at an adjacent auditorium, so at least we'll get to hear it that way. However, because of that we won't be able to attend the hors d'oeuvres or the Q&A with Frank McCourt (bummer!) but I think that's actually a blessing. Looking at my morning, then driving a tense two hours ... if our original plans were in place I would have to go straight to the event as soon as I got there, jumping right into a full afternoon and evening, followed by a full, brain-exhausting day of workshops tomorrow, plus another tense drive home (in the dark ...) -- yes, I think that skipping those things this afternoon will be a good thing. I can get to my friend's house and crash for a bit instead. Sigh.
So! Time to go. I'm sure I'll have lots to write about when I get back. Please pray that my kids will be OK without me (I'm sure they will, but you know how kids are ...), and pray for safe travel. Like I said, I don't like driving long distances by myself, highways make me nervous, and I have some weird kind of "night blindness" so I can't see well at night (which will make the trip doubly nerve-wracking on the way home). But despite all of that, this is gonna be great ...
Thursday, November 1, 2007
A "Hallowed" Eve
At 7:36 p.m. last night, I looked over at Don over the two heads of our cuddled kids, all four of us sitting together on the couch watching It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown! and I smiled as I said, "I'm really, really happy right now."
It's true. I was very happy. I was flushed and I was tired -- beyond tired -- but I was really happy. We were all starting to decompress from the busy-ness of the day as we settled together on the couch, one body melding into another, big and small alike. It had been a beautiful day for us all, including the weather which was absolutely gorgeous. We had some time to kill when we got home from school, but Aidan couldn't wait to put on his costume. So while I got things ready, Aidan saved the world -- Super Hero style -- from the vantage point of our backyard while Grace helped "Pop Pop" do some yard work.
Finally, it was time for Phase One of our Halloween Adventure. The kids were dressed and we paid a quick visit upstairs to see Grandma and Grandpa and, of course, the cameras were clicking away.
We then drove to meet my sister-in-law at her house, tackling their neighborhood together. Aidan was ecstatic, racing from house to house with his cousin and some other neighborhood kids. The funny highlight of that visit was a comment that my nephew made when he received a gobstopper. Not knowing what it was, Michelle tried to explain it to him, and then he said, "Oh, yeah! I know what this is! It's a suck ball!" Well, that's one way of describing it ... !
Grace, however, was fit to be tied through all of this. I guess I should have known better than to dress my upbeat, energetic little girl in the costume of a depressed donkey. She was miserable. She strained at the straps of the stroller; she wrangled her way out of the top half of the costume. Thankfully she was appeased by Spiderman's generosity of a small bag of pretzels from his growing stash, but even my Super Hero was getting weary by that point and we decided to head back home.
After a crazy, interrupted, doorbell-ringing dinner of meatloaf, tater tots and corn, we planned Phase Two of our Halloween Adventure. Aidan switched costumes, transforming now into the Blue Power Ranger (thank goodness for older cousins who grow out of their things just in the nick of time!), and this time it was Daddy's turn to tackle the neighborhood with the kids. With an unadorned Grace on his shoulders and a Blue Power Ranger by his side, they visited our immediate neighbors, my aunt and uncle, and some other outrageously decorated homes alone the way. Meanwhile, my task was to clean up the house and answer the doorbell, which rang non-stop. My poor, poor dog. For a Beagle, Jack doesn't bark much. But when it comes to the doorbell, he goes nuts -- as if it's his destiny to serve as our second doorbell. If I missed the bell the first time around (which, of course, would never happen), his Beagle Bellow would be sure to capture my attention. I couldn't believe how many kids came to our door (and poor Jack will be hoarse tomorrow), but it really was awesome. I had so much fun, and you could see the kids were enjoying themselves too.
I got nervous, however, as our four big bags of candy started to dwindle in no time. I got so desperate, in fact, that after the kids came back home, I raided Aidan's stash and picked out all of the crappy candy and/or stuff that he would not (or would not be allowed to) eat -- any and all hard candy, peppermints, gobstoppers, disgusting taffy, a few lollipops, bubblegum (can you believe someone gave him leftover chocolate from Valentine's Day? Gross!). All of that quickly went out the door too (except the foil-wrapped chocolate bears holding hearts that said "Be Mine." Those went in the trash). Finally at 7:50 p.m., with my kids heading off to bed and just a couple of pieces of candy left, I turned off all the lights and locked the door for the night.
I use the word "hallowed" very, very loosely to describe our evening. While it was not holy or consecrated or venerated in any way, it was indeed "set apart" in a way that was very special to us. We bonded as a family, we bonded as a neighborhood, the kids bonded together in a sweet, delightful way. And as we four cuddled on the couch together last night, hugging and patting, with Aidan looking up at me saying, "I love you so much, Mommy!" ... it was indeed a very special day.
It's true. I was very happy. I was flushed and I was tired -- beyond tired -- but I was really happy. We were all starting to decompress from the busy-ness of the day as we settled together on the couch, one body melding into another, big and small alike. It had been a beautiful day for us all, including the weather which was absolutely gorgeous. We had some time to kill when we got home from school, but Aidan couldn't wait to put on his costume. So while I got things ready, Aidan saved the world -- Super Hero style -- from the vantage point of our backyard while Grace helped "Pop Pop" do some yard work.
Finally, it was time for Phase One of our Halloween Adventure. The kids were dressed and we paid a quick visit upstairs to see Grandma and Grandpa and, of course, the cameras were clicking away. 
We then drove to meet my sister-in-law at her house, tackling their neighborhood together. Aidan was ecstatic, racing from house to house with his cousin and some other neighborhood kids. The funny highlight of that visit was a comment that my nephew made when he received a gobstopper. Not knowing what it was, Michelle tried to explain it to him, and then he said, "Oh, yeah! I know what this is! It's a suck ball!" Well, that's one way of describing it ... !Grace, however, was fit to be tied through all of this. I guess I should have known better than to dress my upbeat, energetic little girl in the costume of a depressed donkey. She was miserable. She strained at the straps of the stroller; she wrangled her way out of the top half of the costume. Thankfully she was appeased by Spiderman's generosity of a small bag of pretzels from his growing stash, but even my Super Hero was getting weary by that point and we decided to head back home.
After a crazy, interrupted, doorbell-ringing dinner of meatloaf, tater tots and corn, we planned Phase Two of our Halloween Adventure. Aidan switched costumes, transforming now into the Blue Power Ranger (thank goodness for older cousins who grow out of their things just in the nick of time!), and this time it was Daddy's turn to tackle the neighborhood with the kids. With an unadorned Grace on his shoulders and a Blue Power Ranger by his side, they visited our immediate neighbors, my aunt and uncle, and some other outrageously decorated homes alone the way. Meanwhile, my task was to clean up the house and answer the doorbell, which rang non-stop. My poor, poor dog. For a Beagle, Jack doesn't bark much. But when it comes to the doorbell, he goes nuts -- as if it's his destiny to serve as our second doorbell. If I missed the bell the first time around (which, of course, would never happen), his Beagle Bellow would be sure to capture my attention. I couldn't believe how many kids came to our door (and poor Jack will be hoarse tomorrow), but it really was awesome. I had so much fun, and you could see the kids were enjoying themselves too.
I got nervous, however, as our four big bags of candy started to dwindle in no time. I got so desperate, in fact, that after the kids came back home, I raided Aidan's stash and picked out all of the crappy candy and/or stuff that he would not (or would not be allowed to) eat -- any and all hard candy, peppermints, gobstoppers, disgusting taffy, a few lollipops, bubblegum (can you believe someone gave him leftover chocolate from Valentine's Day? Gross!). All of that quickly went out the door too (except the foil-wrapped chocolate bears holding hearts that said "Be Mine." Those went in the trash). Finally at 7:50 p.m., with my kids heading off to bed and just a couple of pieces of candy left, I turned off all the lights and locked the door for the night.I use the word "hallowed" very, very loosely to describe our evening. While it was not holy or consecrated or venerated in any way, it was indeed "set apart" in a way that was very special to us. We bonded as a family, we bonded as a neighborhood, the kids bonded together in a sweet, delightful way. And as we four cuddled on the couch together last night, hugging and patting, with Aidan looking up at me saying, "I love you so much, Mommy!" ... it was indeed a very special day.
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