No News Is...

“And that’s the way it is, Wednesday, May 9, 1973. This is Walter Cronkite, CBS News. Good night.”

“But the BIG story on Action News is (fill in the blank: house fire, overnight shooting, or car accident).”

Time was, I was a news junkie. No one could scoop me on happenings, around the block or around the world. I was a particular expert on pop culture. I loved the “feel good “stories, royal weddings and such, but also knew the rehab status of everyone from Elvis to Michael Jackson. I could hold my own when discussing the Middle East or dastardly doings on City Council.  We got the daily newspaper, which I devoured front to back. From acrimonious political campaigns to local cat ladies, from the space shuttle to space-y actors—I was virtually unstumpable.

At some point recently, the internet and cable TV, and the 24/7 barrage of data, overwhelmed me and I quit checking the news, cold turkey. I couldn’t begin to keep up with all the disgraced sports stars and toppled governments. Plus, it was all too depressing! I yearn for a simpler time, when the manageably-sized morning paper was flung onto your porch, and the avuncular network anchor told you what you needed to know every night at 6 PM.  Now, it has to be a pretty darned big story to get my attention…only disasters or scandals on an epic scale register on my info-meter. It’s all too, too much to process, at least for me. I figure, if it impacts me directly I’ll hear about it. Otherwise, ignorance is bliss!

My sole exception? NPR in the car. For some reason, I can handle the flow of events when chronicled on “All Things Considered” or “Morning Edition.”  And I ONLY listen in the car (perhaps because my alternatives are the classical station that plays mainly obscure works by the 19th century Alsatian composer Gustav Snortfelter, or rock with tons of commercials.) Catch me after a long road trip and I’ll tell you what’s happening, locally and globally. On my ridiculously brief daily trek to work, I’m lucky if I can get Shadow Traffic and the daily weather forecast before I arrive at the office. 

 So I am one of the poorly informed these days, and I hate it. I’m at least 2 presidents behind in Egypt, and I may be the only person on the planet who doesn’t know the name of Kate and William’s baby (I was pushing for Spike—was I right?) I take a deep breath and flip on the set, and am immediately turned off by all the SHOUTING (note to Fox and MSNBC alike: volume does not equal effectiveness).

Is there a kinder, gentler way to ease back in to following the news? Perhaps a return to the weekly Gazette circa 1776, complete with ye olde spelling? Nope, Pandora’s box is opened and there’s no going back. But I wonder, do today’s kids know more of our collective story—or less?

Free Write

Playpen member Casey's terrific novel!

I belong to a writer’s group at home. These accomplished women have been meeting for many years (I am a fairly recent addition), supporting one another in their writing careers. “Playpen” includes a former reporter for the Philadelphia Inquirer, a screen writer, several novelists and teachers, even a pair of writers who have published a book together. We meet monthly, and everyone brings news to share, as well as a helpful tip or two (website, new outlet for submissions, etc.) I find the group wonderfully affirming and inspiring.

In the summer at the beach, I often hit a pretty substantial writer’s block. Which makes no sense to me: here I am in a beautiful setting, with spare time I never have in Oreland, and I sit on the porch facing the dreaded blank page. This year, I decided to meet the problem head-on. I attended a “free write” hosted by the Rehoboth Beach Writer’s Guild. I had no idea what to expect, but hoped it would jump-start some creativity.

The event, attended by six people with their laptops, was a series of writing prompts given by the group’s leader. These prompts ranged from lines taken from poems, to New Yorker cartoons, to random words on slips of paper. Everyone had five minutes to write about each topic, then to read their work aloud. Wow, was that eye-opening! I discovered that, while I think of myself as a “fast” writer, I’m nowhere near speedy enough to come up with compelling material on the spot. My fellow attendees, all veterans of the free write, churned out paragraph after paragraph of really good stuff, some touching, some funny. I, on the other hand, wrote mostly drivel, and was embarrassed to share it at all (you could pass, and for one prompt I did—at that point I was tempted to pack up and go home, where at least I could be alone with my blank page.)

One of the writing prompts. My output was less than stellar.

 Will I go back next week? I’m not sure. It was a little discouraging, and I do a fine job of discouraging myself already. But it definitely took me out of my comfort zone, and I think that’s a good thing. I’ve never taken a writing course of any kind, and have decided that my “voice” is what it is—I’ll never write a thriller (the only one I’d scare is me) or a romance (I’m such a prude that I’d blush if my characters even kissed). I write, basically, one kind of thing: spiritual essays about my life, with (hopefully) some humor. My kids often urge me to try another genre (“something edgy” says Rose, predictably), but I’m afraid to stretch very far.  I’m so poor at challenging myself in general, whether it be trying a new sport, or really putting myself out there as a writer and speaker. If it’s hard, I shy away. And I know I miss so much.

So OK. I’ll try the free write again. I can only get better, right?

Mission Time

Rosebud Team (can you spot me?)

I wrote the following 10 years, and 10 mission trips, ago. This Sunday morning 35 of us will head to San Ramon, Costa Rica, and once again will have the profound experience of sharing God’s love with the “least of these.” May we be respectful of their culture, loving and giving, and, always, awed and humbled by the power of God’s Holy Spirit at work in us.

Our camp took place over a thousand miles from Christ's Lutheran, in a community called Two Strike, on the Rosebud Reservation in South Dakota. Two Strike faces the same problems that plague the whole reservation: rampant alcoholism, unemployment, depression and despair. Daily, a large assortment of Lakota children of all ages waited outside the decrepit community center as our team of leaders drove up. Few parents were ever in sight. The ten year olds held tiny siblings on their backs; the five and six year olds arrived alone, having traveled  from one of a collection of tumble down houses that lined the community's single, winding road.

These children came to camp hungry. They came to camp exhausted. Many of them arrived dirty, wearing the same clothes day after day. Some also wore fresh bruises and cuts from beatings they had received the night before. Because their toys were normally sticks, and the mangy dogs they played with in the road, these children clutched their new markers and crayons with wonder. While there were planned activities throughout the day, they would have been content to sit and draw, or be carried around by the teenage counselors. These children needed massive amounts of love, and they soaked up the care and attention they received like flowers in the sun.

We couldn't call our Two Strike Camp a Bible school, indeed were asked not to mention Christ at all. Many of these families bore the scars of the Christian boarding schools, where their ancestors had been systematically abused, stripped of their language, their culture, and their dignity. The deeply beautiful and profound Lakota spirituality had, until recently, been practiced underground. Now they are beginning to reclaim this part of their heritage, and do not want another kind of religion forced on their children.

We didn't sing about God, but I have never felt His presence more strongly than in that small, dusty building. We never mentioned Jesus by name, but our teenagers fully lived their faith that week, bringing nourishing food, playing games, telling stories, and most importantly, hugging and holding the poor little ones who are so very close to His heart. None of us who were there will ever forget them: Baby Joe, Taytum, Sonny, Ashke-win, Outlaw, Skyla. They will haunt our dreams. Will they have a chance, even a chance for a decent future? I think they will, because Someone has brought them into our lives, Someone who loves them more than we do.

Jesus loves the little children. All the children of the world.

God bless Two Strike, San Ramon and everywhere.

San Juan Comalapa, Guatemala, July 2011

Living Large

The Forneys near the start of their journey, in Oregon

My dear friends Dennis and Becky Forney have embarked on a three+ month, cross country bicycle trek, literally pedaling from Oregon to Delaware. Dennis blogs about their journey, the landscape they traverse and the colorful characters they meet, daily.  I am green with envy (when I am not green with nausea, at the recounting of the steeeeep climbs and narrrroooow roads and wicked weather they have faced thus far.) Unless I am reincarnated as Lance Armstrong, I am very unlikely to follow in their tire tracks. Even the thought of driving a car along their route is daunting to me in the extreme.  But there is a part of me that wishes I could be the adventurous Forneys, could attempt what they are attempting, could live large.

I live small. Small as in: I have a five block commute to work. When I’m not working, I’m writing from home. My travels are few and far between, and when I am out, I always seem to miss interviewing the Most Unforgettable Characters. My chance encounters tend towards perfunctory nods and smiles in grocery checkout lines, on the train. Why am I reluctant to engage? Lord knows my ace reporter Julie comes home with volumes to recount from her interesting conversations with strangers. All I know is I perpetually miss the scoop, and don’t take the time to really notice my surroundings either.

My friend Pat died Tuesday, way too young, after a heroic battle with cancer. This past weekend, I finally started to sort the huge chaotic bin-full of papers under my bed. There I found notes from, and the obituary of, another good friend, Kem, who lost her battle years ago, at age 52. Tomorrow is promised to no one. I know that.  So what am I waiting for?

OK then, what should I attempt? Among the bold and daring things I’ve tried over the years: a jungle canopy tour in Costa Rica (does staring up at the sky, teeth gritted, count as experiencing the thrill of the zip line?); snorkeling in Jamaica (note to self: perhaps a huge breakfast might NOT be the preferred prelude to a bumpy boat trip into Montego Bay);  a small-plane hop to Nantucket in very dense fog (according to Steve, I entertained the other passengers with audibly prayed  “Hail Marys” the entire way from Boston). So bold and daring hasn’t panned out very well for me so far.

But I am inspired to step it up a little, starting right now. I may never be Becky and Dennis, my action heroes. Not even close. But I can still have adventures, even if they’re small ones. I can try some new things this summer. Talk with some new people.  And even when I’m in my daily routine, I can try to be much, much more aware of the beauty of the world, of life itself.

Meanwhile, my thoughts and prayers will go with the Forneys as they ride on, across America. Traveling mercies, guys.

From Sea to Shining Sea: Dennis' blog

http://capegazette.villagesoup.com/p/barefootin/6584

Help!

Strange days around here.

Steve, the ultimate do-it-yourselfer, has been hampered by an unexpected injury. He fell off his bike on Friday morning, a freak accident after a long and successful early morning ride. Dislocated shoulder, with the possibility of injury to the rotator cuff; we'll know more after his MRI. The poor guy has been in a lot of discomfort, and the most uncomfortable part has been that he needs, and has to accept, help accomplishing various basic daily tasks. He must endure his wife tying his shoes and buttoning his shirts for him. He couldn't drive Sher and Yaj to their church gigs on Sunday, oh horrors! (Amazingly, I am quite capable of operating a motor vehicle, and took over chauffeur duty with no problems.)  Tomorrow's after-school drama club performance programs will be put together and folded by the family tonight and--you know what?--I think we can handle it. As he impatiently waits for healing, we try to reassure him that we can hold the fort until he is 100% again.

Steve pre-spill (and he was wearing his helmet riding)

 But even as I tsk-tsk about his stubborn independence and intense dislike of asking for aid, I realize it is a huge issue with me, too. I remember breaking my arm back in 1982, and having to ask Steve to wash my hair. Hated every minute of it. Late pregnancy was always a trial, because towards the end I couldn't easily carry laundry baskets upstairs alone, and needed to (gasp) request assistance.

In many ways we have not progressed far beyond the toddler "me do it MYSELF!" phase. Perfectionism is part of it (after all, nobody does it better than us, right?). So is a teensy bit of control freakiness. I think a major factor is our desire not to bother other people, who have busy lives of their own and don't need to be pitching in with ours.

As a result, we do most everything solo--even the things we don't exactly do well, even the things that we waste time, energy and money doing that others could knock out in a trice. I look at my chaotic closets and drawers, and church files at the office, and it crosses my mind that a born organizer could HELP me. Nah. Better to shove everything closed and pray no one comes in to look at my "system."

Growing older, I realize that someday I will be physically and mentally unable to do all that I can do today. I remember my Grandma Berrigan hanging onto her car keys well into her late 80s (even after she drove onto a neighbor's lawn, mistaking it for her driveway), and realize I'm a chip off a willful Irish block. Steve's German forbears were no slouches in the pigheadedness department, so we are quite the pair.

Inevitably, there will come a time when we won’t be going it alone anymore. Maybe we’d better practice letting go. Maybe we both need to stop thinking of “help” as a four-letter word.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_detailpage&v=OZWJ3tkujPo

Commence-mints

Sher's graduation day from Curtis

Greetings to the Class of 2013! On behalf of the faculty here at the University of Big Expensive Buildings, I salute you. UBEB will miss your smiling faces and hefty tuition payments here on campus next year. Please come back for your Masters. Our motto: one degree is never enough! Let us finish clearing out those bank accounts once and for all. It’s our pleasure!

I was asked to deliver a few words of knowledge and advice to you graduates today. I can comply with at least some of that request, and deliver a few words to you. The knowledge and advice you’ll need to seek elsewhere. 

Just kidding! I do have a few nuggets to impart, bite-sized bits of wisdom for your futures.  Think of these as “commence-mints” that you can chew on and learn from. If nothing else, they will freshen your breath.

1)      All you really need to know, you did NOT learn in kindergarten. Kindergarteners learn to weep and beg Mom to stay, push and poke their neighbors on the Circle Time rug, and make chocolate milk come out of Mary Smith’s nose. None of these behaviors will serve you well in the corporate world. 

2)      Practice patience. It is indeed a virtue. Remember, you are going out into a society full of crashing bores, many of whom will be your bosses. Do your yoga breathing and cool your jets. Look at ennui as a natural part of being an adult, and you’ll be much happier.

3)      Clean your room once in a while. Dust that pizza box collection and take those empty beer cans off the windowsill. Since you will no doubt be back living at home for the foreseeable future, a modicum of orderliness will elevate the household mood considerably. 

4)      Reconsider that tattoo if it takes up more than 50% of your available skin surface. Unless you land a job in the arts, you may have to wear real people clothes to work. Nothing says “huh?” more than a medical student with “Live Fast, Die Young” peeking out from his lab coat. 

5)  You have inherited a real mess of a world from us—wars, hunger, climate change. Tidy it up! That should give you all something to do! You’re very welcome!

6) Remember to floss. Not sure why I said that because I always forget. But it seems like good advice, doesn’t it?

7) Think of your parents and teachers as the wind beneath your wings, when you step off the precipice of life and fly high! Oh, wait, humans don’t have wings. Never mind.

8)  Whenever you get discouraged, remember this: Bill Gates never graduated from college. Neither did Steve Jobs. You DID. Feel better now?

Well, that’s all I've got. Who were you expecting, Oprah? In a few minutes, you will cross this stage and receive your diplomas. It will be a magical moment, and the culmination of 17 years of education.  Try not to trip.

Congratulations to the graduates! 

Legacy

OK, so I won't have a tombstone. I'm good with that. My sister Mo has a grave, and we rarely get a chance to visit it. I plan to be donated to science, though I fully expect science to say: "Thanks, but no thanks. Your body is incredibly uninteresting. No need to investigate whatever you happened to die from." So then I will be incinerated and made mulch of, or scattered out to sea. My dad was cremated, and one of our family stories was the jaunt on a boat out into Delaware Bay with Tom's cremains. Little Evan insisted on accompanying us. It was a windy day. As we prayed and scattered, the breeze picked up and literally flung bits of Grandpa into Ev's face. Evan was unaware of it at the time, and we sure weren't going to tell him. He knows now, of course, about his ashy baptism, and we laugh about it.

My resident composers-counting on them for music!

PJ and Jules on Guatemala mission trip--counting on them for eulogy!

I have my funeral pretty much planned out. Sher and Yaj will (through their blinding grief of course) compose a gorgeous string quartet. Evan will play Copland's "The Resting Place on the Hill." Rose will sing whatever she wants, because her voice is so beautiful that it won't really matter. "Give Me Jesus" will factor in. PJ and Julie will deliver clever but heartfelt tributes.  Boy, I wish I could be there!

I’ve been thinking lately. What is my legacy? What will I leave my little corner of the world once I shuffle off this mortal coil?

A body of writing, for one thing. Good or bad, I have been relatively prolific over the years. My target audience for it all? Now that I think of it, it’s really been my kids. I’ve painted a picture of my life in words in hopes that they will come to understand their neurotic, insecure, but very well-meaning mom.

What else? My small part in "raising" an amazing group of young people from Christ's Lutheran Church--people of great compassion and enthusiasm for doing God's work in the world. I have been so lucky to be one of their mentors for the past 11 years, and I celebrate their dedication and accomplishments and big, big hearts.

Finally, I will leave the world my most precious treasure: my family. I am incredibly proud of each one of them, and have been so blessed to be their mother. They will live on (God willing) long past my last breath, to gift the universe with their talents. I wish with all my heart I could afford to leave them more of the things that money can buy. I pray they will be content with the things money can't, foremost of which is my forever love for them.

Believe me, I am in no big hurry for my swan song, and hope I have many years left on earth. But if I died tomorrow, I would be very glad to know that there is a small legacy after all.

...But for the Grace of God

Rose and Julie in a Boston race

My Rosie went to college in Boston, and often ran through its streets. She has scads of friends up there. My dear young friend Carrie is in school there now, and was actually at the Marathon. My first thought on Monday was, “Is everybody OK?” Miraculously, our friends seem to be fine, physically if not emotionally. But a gaping wound was opened with those two explosions, and it will take a lot of time for that city to really heal. Who will be held accountable for this tragedy? A 19 year old boy.  Even if he lives to be brought to justice, the lost cannot be returned. There are no do-overs when evil strikes. Nothing can be undone.

Last week at Sunday School gathering, I talked with the kids about forgiveness, Christ’s mandate for us to pardon one another “seventy times seven” times, no matter what. Yesterday, we had the opportunity to put our words into action. I gave the children pens and paper, and asked them to write two notes. One will go to Jeff Bauman, a double-amputee and the hero who helped identify the suspects for the police. Predictably, the children wrote letters of praise and encouragement to Jeff, and I know he will be cheered by reading them. The other? The other will be sent to the hospital where a young man named Dzhokhar Tsarnaev fights for his life. He is responsible for three deaths and scores of serious injuries, all possibly in the name of some hideously twisted view of the Muslim religion. His brother, by many accounts his mentor and the mastermind behind this heinous crime, is dead.  So what do you write to a murderer?

Here’s what they wrote: Jesus still loves you. You did a horrible thing, but God forgives you. Change your ways. Get well. I’m praying for you. Who knows if he will ever see these notes, and, if so, what effect could they possibly have?

Maybe, just maybe, these notes and others like them (my Lutheran colleague Rich Melheim came up with the idea and I hope many other churches will follow) will create a chink in his armored heart.  Perhaps the seeds of reconciliation will be sown, and he will become, as Rich puts it, “the most loving person in prison.” But even if he doesn’t…

I hope the kids came to understand, even a little bit, that “there but for the grace of God go I”—go us. Any of us could have a child who turns to violence, a brother, a friend. Tsarnaev could BE us, given different circumstances—let’s not kid ourselves about that. We are a hair’s breadth away from the living nightmare we cause for each other, we dreadfully flawed human beings.

Tomorrow I will mail both sets of letters, with prayers for both young men—the injurer and the injured. And I will continue to believe that no one, no one, is beyond redemption.  With the grace of our endlessly loving God.

Here, Kitty Kitty

Crash!!!!

What was that incredibly loud middle-of-the-night sound coming from downstairs? I needed to know! And so, of course, sent Steve to find out. Here's what he found out: the frisky feline we are cat-sitting for got into the upstairs bathroom, found a small opening underneath the cabinets, somehow squeezed herself through, landed above the kitchen ceiling (the clear panel over the lights), broke said panel and went crashing, panel and all, to the ground. The panel shattered. Ruthie did not (although it probably counts against those nine lives of hers). Since then, every door has been shut tight, to try and prevent another Kamikaze Kat incident while she's on our watch. I'm pretty sure Ruthie will figure out another means of putting herself in harm's way before long, though.

It was sort of the same with Evan when he was small. He could flatten himself almost to pancake width and get into seemingly inextricable spaces, including getting his head stuck between the bannisters on the staircase (a moment of sheer horror when my folks were visiting. Thank God big strong Grandpa came to the rescue and pulled the spokes apart to release my little wiggleworm). It was also Ev who introduced our family to the neighborhood on moving day in 1989. Our doorbell rang, and I opened it to find a couple of folks who'd been walking down the street. I thought they'd come to welcome us. Instead, they’d come to inform us that our tiny three year old was standing, spreadeagled, in an upstairs window in his pajamas. Thanks for the heads up, neighbors!! Yes, a terrible mother has moved to town!!

Evan and his rescuer, my dad

What is it about cats and kids and curiosity? If they truly want to get in (or out), it seems there's not a latch or gate or barrier that can keep them from reaching their destination. They are hard-wired to explore their world with every means at their disposal, and to look at that world as a safe and wonderful place. It doesn't occur to them that they might be endangering themselves, not a bit.

Moving into the risk-happy teens, with car keys and increasing freedom, our children continue to seek new and exciting experiences, and we parents are left to threaten them with...what? Grounding. Grounding for missing that curfew, for taking that terrible chance...it's what we have to do to keep them from getting hurt. But even with all of our precautions and consequences, there will be kids, as there will be cats, whose curiosity trumps our best efforts.

So there we are, forever coaxing our loved ones away from peril. We have to do this; we should do this. But let’s always leave room for a little wonder and daring in their lives. The world is, after all, a marvelous place—and cowards (like me) miss most of the fun.

I watch Ruthie, perched in the window much like Evan was that long-ago evening, plotting her next adventure. I envy her…and wish her luck.

I'm Gonna Make You Love Me

On the phone with my sister Carolyn in Hawaii last night for our Easter chat.  C confessed to being very bothered by something. Someone she’d thought of as a friend had suddenly turned ice cold and “dropped” her.  I thought my sis was better off without this person, and told her so. But I completely understood her upset. It’s how I live my life.

You see, I am a compulsive people pleaser. I come by it naturally. My mom Joanie couldn’t bear to have anyone on earth dislike her. To that end, she was constantly bending over backwards to be warm and friendly and always agreeable.  Mom, 70 years later, remembered, and OFTEN talked about, her failure to keep a classmate’s friendship in elementary school. Apparently this child was a big stinker, but that didn’t matter—little Joanie took everything she said and did incredibly to heart. In later years, our across the street neighbor took delight in switching moods on Mom: one day a delightful buddy, the next, a nasty adversary. Mom always blamed herself, and redoubled her efforts to please this un-pleasable woman.

Joanie (left) with a true friend

So that was my role model growing up, and I was an excellent student. As a result, my “friends” included a parade of girls who would invite me over to play, and then send me home in tears. I kept coming back for more, though, because my ever-shaky self-esteem ruled the day. In high school, I utterly exhausted myself in my quest to be universally loved. It never once occurred to me that there might be people who wouldn’t like me if I stood on my head and spit nickels. No, no—surely there was something I could say or do to win over the whole world!

Me at age 11--what wasn't to like?

Well, I haven’t improved all that much. At 56 I still often yearn for complete acceptance by every soul I encounter. It’s not just a matter of being generally nice to folks—there’s nothing wrong with that. But when I obsess about people who, for whatever reason, don’t care for me—well, that is a huge waste of time. And besides, why do I think I’m so swell that the entire population has to find me irresistible?

I am working on it, and there are small signs of progress. Being left off a guest list here and there is not a calamity. In fact, it may be a good thing, a sign that I’m finally beginning to own my personality, to be the real me—even when “me” rubs somebody the wrong way.

Among my kids, I have a couple of people pleasers, and I hate that I’ve been a poor role model for them in this area. If I could give them one message today, this would be it: just be yourself.  God made us all unique for a reason. Rejoice in your uniqueness. Revel in the people who truly love you. For the rest, be nice, and if they still don’t like you, let it go.