As I See It

I love the show Glee. We didn’t actually become Gleeks until about a month ago when my dad (after he himself jumped on the band wagon) bought us the first half of the first season on DVD. He thought it was awesome and was sure we would enjoy it. He pestered us for a few days about watching it, and we reminded him we didn’t have unlimited time to sit in front of the TV. We have a baby, man are they a major time suck.

Not that I didn’t want to watch the show. I think Jane Lynch (she plays Sue Sylvester, the coach for the Cheerios and ultimate hater of all things Glee, on the show) is brilliantly funny, and I am as much a fan of musicals as the next girl. We just hadn’t ever gotten around to watching, and then, frankly, I kind of forgot about it in all our frenzy over the final seasons of LOST. And you know, having a baby.

However, we found the time. I don’t know if it was the catchy rendition of “Don’t Stop Believin’”, the cute male lead, or the fact that I secretly related to the ambitious and competitive Rachel Barry (played kind of satirically by Lea Michele); whatever it was, I was hooked. We consumed the DVD’s with zeal, and awaited the rest of season one with baited breath.OK, not really, but we were excited.

Now, you’re probably thinking, this is a post to encourage you to watch. It’s not, in fact, this is not even really a post about Glee. Nonetheless, it was inspired by the show, and some background from it is required. The second half of the first season started on FOX a couple of weeks ago, and the much anticipated (at least for the followers of the show) Madonna themed episode was upon us. I started the episode with a normal amount of expectation for what would ensue: fun, frivolous television and some clever re-imagining of some of her famous diddy’s. I was met about twenty minutes in with something pretty unexpected: an emotional weight on my chest.

Glee is the kind of show you watch for shear entertainment and the guilty pleasure of getting caught up in teen romance, it’s not synonymous with human drama or revelations. One of the big themes of the Madonna episode was, as you can imagine, sex and, furthermore, “taking ownership of your body”. Sex is a big focus for a lot of things, but anything connected with Madge is going to be bursting at the seams with it.

The lead male on the show is named Finn. He is a cute, average, teenage football player with a great voice and leadership potential, but he’s also a virgin. He and Rachel have a puppy love type of connection, but are both too stupid to be reasonable and actually be together. Meanwhile, Rachel is secretly dating the lead from the rival Glee club down the road. Finn is propositioned by another member of the team to lose his virginity (she has her own motives in mind). As you may have expected, so is Rachel, by her boyfriend. There is a  Like a Virgin montage in which they all perform the song as though experiencing bliss, but the montage ends where it begins, on Rachel, preparing to lose “it” with her prospective Cassanova. She can’t go through with it, and you assume, the same will be true for Finn. They cut to him in a seedy motel room with Santana, the girl who sought to steal his virginity, looking confused and empty. “I thought I would feel differently after, that didn’t mean anything.” He says, and he looks to her for consolation. She shrugs and informs him, “It takes about 20 times for the sense of accomplishment to set in.”  As the episode nears an end, Rachel and Finn come face to face, knowing what the other was planning to do. Finn, ashamed of himself, says he wasn’t able to go through with it, “Waiting for the right one I guess.” However, Rachel has already claimed she did “it”.

Clearly, this is nothing that abnormal for prime time television. If you ever watch TV you will find yourself constantly bombarded by this sort of sexual message, but that’s not what this post is about either. The episode finished and I clicked it off. As I got ready for bed, I continued to think about it.”I feel really sad for some reason over Finn.” I said to Nathan, after brushing my teeth. He kind of chuckled at me, but I was serious. I considered my feelings over the next few days, and I came to a conclusion as to why, of all the times I have seen that sort of thing happen on screen, this time bothered me. Finn’s realization of the emptiness he felt by making that experience so meaningless was real, real and burdened.

When you think about sex, some of us probably have a pretty clear and defined opinion about how, when and why it should be done. Or at least we should, especially before doing it. For many though, it is such a fuzzy, muddy point of conflict that the real intention for sex is often removed from the conversation completely. Especially where teenagers are concerned, teenagers with no real frame of reference. Sex is portrayed as something to achieve, a right of passage into adulthood, even when you aren’t adult enough to vote, pay taxes, or even, in many cases, drive a car. The view that sex is an expression of married intimacy and further, Godly intimacy is an ever-fading perspective. For many, it isn’t until it is too late, that they begin to change their ideas about sex.

In my early teens I had an opinion about sexuality that differs greatly from my view today. There was a time when the sexual image of the world was so appealing to me that, no matter what the Bible or my mother said, I believed that having multiple partners was acceptable. I didn’t fully understand sex, since it was something that I just saw from a distance. My perception of it came from romantic love scenes and written words, not actual, real life information. As I got older and began to have my own brushes with romantic love and the mine-field it brought with it, my perspective on the act of sex changed. I began to understand how altering it can be, and this I drew not from sex itself, but false intimacy in general.

Watching Finn wallow in the mistake he made, I felt his sadness deeply. So often, when that choice is made, and the destiny for that first experience is taken from a person, the hopelessness that follows is debilitating. Or, in many cases, just numbing. The average age in the US to lose virginity is 17, and by graduation from high school more than 50% of teens have done the deed, to put it crudely. Many teens begin experimenting with sex as early as middle school, and tragically, sometimes before. Part of the problem is that no one is willing to explain, clearly what it means to have sex. I like to think of the affects of  sex outside God’s design as being like breaking a piece of pottery and then trying to put it back together. You never really can unless you are willing to put in the work to make it right.

In a world where the value of ones purity is measured by how early it’s lost, I begin to wonder what the point of fighting for it is in the first place? If everyone is doing something, it becomes the norm. We are  called to be set apart from the standard of the world, though, in it but not of it. Having a higher standard when it comes to our sexual choices is a good start.

When I was younger, most of my girlfriends wanted to wait to have sex until married.  I even believed, unless Russell Crowe came along, I would as well, despite my lofty talk about what I wanted to do. For me, it was a play, and I was acting out a role. Fortunately, my character didn’t find a romantic lead that wanted to pluck me before my time. Of my group of friends, only two of us made it, and just barely in a lot of ways. For a girl there are always opportunities, boys it’s a little different. Girls are the minority still in the realm of wanting to do it early, but that margin is closing rapidly. If you have a daughter in public middle school or high school, she has probably already been approached, or at least overheard an approach to start the whole thing. Girls run a gauntlet that, frequently, leads them to bed a guy way before they are emotionally ready. There is a message being sent that wanting to have sex is as much for the girl as it is for the guy. Feminism at its lowest.

In the mix of all of this sexual temptation, however, there is one major thing forgotten: the heart of the Father should play a role. Watching this all play out on a TV show was weird for me, but what was weirder was realizing that so many people who have found themselves in Finn’s position do not realize that Jesus can heal that broken place. “After you have sex like that, you really can’t take it back.” I made this statement and then realized, in an embarrassing moment, that, in fact, was not true. Virginity doesn’t come back. The actual act cannot be erased, but the spiritual significance of the act can. God is willing to put in the work to repair the broken pieces.

There are so many things that are worth experiencing before sex, but for so many young people that is the thing they want to experience the most. It’s a head scratcher for me, now married and having had a baby. Sex is just a part of the myriad of ways to express love, intimacy, romance, and commitment, but so often it is the only method people talk about. It’s that attitude that confuses kids and leaves them, like Finn, dumbfounded when they are no more satisfied after doing it than before.

But what can be done about this conflict? Maybe nothing. We, as believer’s have to be willing to confront this issue, without prejudice or judgement, in order to counteract the magnetism of the worldly view. In the midst of all this confusion, there needs to be at least some light shed, some hope given.

Christmas has always been my least favorite major holiday. I think it goes back to when I was eight-years-old and my Christmas was ruined by poor gift-giving on the part of my parents. Childhood scars run so deep. I was a feisty, fun-loving kind of child. I had little use for fancy things or grown-up sensibilities. I liked imaginative play and the outdoors. So, when my parents got me diamond earrings and a jewelry box, I was a little disappointed. Scratch that, I was pissed. What could I do with those? Then, on top of my snub, my older brother received every stupid thing on his blasted list. Yep, everything. I was also a very mischievous and vindictive sort of kid, so, not content to just stew on my own, I tried to ruin his and my parents Christmas as well. Yeah, I was a peach. Thank the Lord for maturity and spiritual discipline. I have mostly left that sort of behavior behind. Mostly.

Of course there are things I love about this time of year. I love the smell in the air as it chills. I love drinking wassail and eating sweets until I swear I will never eat another sweet again. I love playing Mexican Train with my family, getting through three rounds before it breaks down in a quarrel of accusation and competitiveness. I love that this time of year there is always something fun to do, always something pretty to see. Over the years my beef with Christmas has dwindled into a mere annoyance. It has become less a problem of my wish-list and more an issue with overspending and commercialization. Most years I come away from celebrating with a depleted bank account and an unsettling sense of emptiness about the whole thing, which I quickly brush off as indigestion. Even for me, a believer, the holiday feels more like a shit storm of gifts and food, and less like a celebration of Jesus, family, and our blessings.

The other day I read an article about the Obamas’ and their “non-religious” celebration of the season, and some of my less attractive feelings about Christmas came screaming back. Our new “people’s President” has decided not to display the 18th Century Nativity Scene in front of the White House this year. This nativity has been displayed by every other President since the mid 1700’s, but Mr. Change thinks himself above that. Though you know he would never put it that way. Which brings me to my first major problem: Why are we celebrating Christmas as an either-or-holiday anyway?

Christmas has become another opportunity for people to segregate themselves. Either you believe Christmas needs Christ in it or you are just doing it for the gifts and merriment. Drunkenness and commercialization, or Religious introspection and piety. It’s so annoying I could just skip it. What about believing that, first of all, Jesus wasn’t born in December surrounded by Santa, a Christmas tree, and a bunch of tinsel; and second, believing it’s OK to just celebrate. Because, lets face it, the way we celebrate this holiday in America is just as much about Santa and his sleigh as it is about Jesus and the manger.

Christmas needs to be about the gathering of those dear to you. It shouldn’t be a statement of your faith, because that tarnishes your faith if it is. We don’t have to make a declaration about the state of our soul by taking a stance at Christmas. Pagans celebrate Christmas. Atheists put up lights and sing carols. No, Christmas needs to be about showing love to others, to those important to you, to strangers, to enemies.

Do we really need one more thing to separate us in this country? I used to work at a title company where most of my co-workers weren’t believers, or were seriously good at hiding it. I loved these people. They were real, funny, edgy, and full of strange beliefs and interesting anecdotes. And every year at Christmas we gave each other gifts. We put up a tree in the office. We sent out a card to our customers. There was no big discussion about whether or not the holiday we were celebrating was a “Christian thing” or a “Non-Christian thing”. Our belief system didn’t separate us because we chose to respect each other enough to not make it an issue, to not bring it up.

Respect becomes the problem. We have an issue in this country with respect. I don’t like to parade my opinions as fact, nor do I like to argue a point. I find the whole task of converting someone to my way of thinking kind of tedious, and, frankly, and little futile. However, many Americans, especially those in entertainment and politics, seem to think it is their job to make everyone feel the same way about things, all the while hiding behind a guise of individuality and the right to personal freedom.

To a degree I agree with that. I believe we all have the right to do whatever we want, God gave us free will. But, I also believe, within that right we must respect each other and ourselves. I do not agree with a lot of decisions I see people making. I do not believe that the choices of many are wise, but I do believe it is not for me to judge, only to remain true to my own belief within a corrupt world. It is my responsibility to raise my son accordingly. It is not my responsibility to condemn. God gave us a guide to a fruitful life, it’s up to us to follow it.

Tolerance is important. I am not someone who believes I know everything. (I know a lot. I’m very wise.) Only God knows everything. When you think about Christmas this year, I implore you to try something that may be a little different. Be a believer who loves those who aren’t. Or be someone who isn’t a believer and tolerate those who are. Christmas is a celebration of family and friends. We give because we love each other, not because we are Christians and not because we aren’t. I gave gifts to my coworkers, not because we stood together on the side of the line that said, “Keep Christ in Christmas”, but because they touched my life throughout the year and I wanted them to know.

If I had been wise beyond my years, I would have been thankful beyond comprehension that my parents gave me something so special when we had so little. As I have grown up I have learned that every gift has a purpose, and the purpose of Christmas isn’t material gifts, it’s something deeper. It’s showing you know someone. It’s honoring relationship. It’s blessing. It’s being blessed. This year, don’t be like Obama and make Christmas a political issue. Make it a love issue.

Pregnancy is magical. There is life growing within you. You feel the evidence every time your baby stretches, punches or kicks. You glow with fertile roundness. Everyone loves to see a pregnant woman. They hold the door for you. They open up extra check-out lanes at the grocery store with a smile. People who would otherwise never look your way or say a word to you, suddenly become verbose inquisitors. It is a beautiful, life-affirming time. Right?

Well, what about being late? What about when you cross the 40 week mark? What about when you thought you would be done with this glowing, brilliant time and yet, somehow, you aren’t? What about when your ass continues to expand and your hips feel like they are going unhinge from the sheer weight of your ever expanding uterus? What do you do when you feel like an actual planet, with gravitational pull and your own atmosphere?

You walk. You keep moving forward. You hope that, Earth’s gravity will somehow rip the baby you have so lovingly cherished for nine months from the confines of your blessed, dark womb and into the great, bright world the rest of us reside in.

You squat. You bear down into the floor. You believe that somehow if you can just get your legs wide enough apart for light to shine in, your precious bundle will follow the light, something you are sure he instinctually knows how to do.

You talk, loudly. Then you have your husband crouch down to a place you haven’t seen in months and exclaim with great authority as this child’s father to “Please, pretty please, come out and play.”  This you do in expectation that surely the baby will be courteous enough to comply.

Then, when none of that works, you cry. You sit on a hard chair in your backyard, the wind blowing sweetly across your skin, and you let it go. These are not tears of sadness. These aren’t even tears of anger or impatience. These are the tears of woman who is willing to admit when she is beat. The tears of woman who knows that truly nothing is in her control. Finally, she has seen she is not the author of this baby’s life, but just the facilitator of his coming forth. And these tears, somehow, bring clarity.

You pray. If your are wise you have been praying the whole time, listening for the answer, and trusting for the best. Though, if you are honest, you have probably also been telling the Lord what you want, instead of asking Him, as the child’s creator, what His thoughts are on the subject. So you pray again, first for forgiveness, forgiveness that you thought you could figure out His plan within the confines of your limited imagination. Then you pray for help, begging Him to look down and see you here in this state.

Then you wait. You wait for your Heavenly Father, who is also the Father to the one you carry, to answer. And you continue to wait. Not out of false humility or conjured patience. You don’t pretend you are thrilled with your current condition. You don’t paste on a smile and spout uplifting, if shallow, inspirational diatribes. You just wait. Honestly, totally, and without expectation.

You wait because you know that the journey you are on has been ordained by Him, and he knows when it is going to end. You wait because what fun would there be in knowing all the answers and having all the pieces laid out for you? You wait because you’d rather be late by the worlds clock, but right on time by God’s.

You wait.

***Updated***

8/18/09

Sometimes you have a day where everything is wrong. A day where the only thing that really goes right is that the sun rises in the east. A day full of harsh moments and strange changes in plan. That was my day yesterday. I drove through and got chicken nuggets out of desperation for food (since being pregnant has meant reluctantly including meat in my diet). Hungry, worn-out, and hoping for an easy meal, I asked for honey mustard sauce for my nuggets. After parking so I could scarf my food before continuing on with my day, I pulled out the container and tried to open it. Nothing. The container wouldn’t open. As I sat there, tugging at the foil, the picture of my day fell into place. This day was like feudally trying to open something that refused to budge.

I dropped the honey mustard sauce in my lap and stared through my windshield, the events of my day washing over me like a wave of sand. Suffocating. Grainy. Unnatural. The compulsion towards self pity is so strong, that often, it feels impossible to overcome. There is an ease in sinking into your own misery and fears. There is a magnetism that pulls out every thought you have been keeping at bay in these moments. And if you sit there long enough, you will forget that God uses days like this for days that are harder.

So then, I dug in the bag for a napkin so I could eat my naked nuggets, only to find another honey mustard sauce container. I pulled it out, and, unlike the first, it opened easily. 

Most of the time life feels like that first container. You tug, pull, and force it to open up. And most of the time it doesn’t. But then, without even asking, you find the other container, the one that opens without struggle. Often, God has that other container ready for us, but in our impatience and frustrations, we never even look for it.

Bad days are good. Crying is good. Kicking the kitchen cabinets is good. Screaming at a knife that just won’t cut through a sweet potato is good. There is no real bad day, there is only the emotion of letting the bad day get the better of you. Because, lets face it, bad days happen so that tomorrow can be a good day.

The word says in Psalms that “Weeping may last through the night, but joy comes in the morning.” As night fell on my bad day I was still banging around in frustration over the things that had made it bad. I was happy to wallow. As I tried to focus on cooking dinner, my husband entered and asked if I needed help. 

What you may not know is that since Nathan has gotten a full-time job in Dallas I have tried to become a really awesome, self-sufficient, superwoman. Now, my drive to do so (and be pregnant at the same time), resulted in me getting a minor electrical shock and a major scolding from my doctor. So when Nathan asked, “Do you need some help?” as much as I wanted to say no, I needed it ever so badly. And saying yes was all I needed to realize that God was standing there too, asking if He could help me.

A lot of times in our drive to succeed at life’s everyday challenges, to achieve that balancing act between sanity and chaos, or to win the little battles, we forget that the word says “The Lord is my light and my salvation, whom shall I fear?” There is God, standing in your kitchen as you gripe about the work situation that makes you want to puke, or the injustice you encountered on a daily errand, or the incredible idiot that you are for allowing yourself to make that mistake, and all he wants to do is hand you that other honey mustard container. 

Last night I took it, opened it up, and saw the answer to what I was looking for, easily accessed and completely compassionate, enclosed. At the end of a bad day I chose to see good. I chose to pet my puppy. I chose to hug my husband with relief. I chose to not see the many hurdles ahead, but see the source of my energy to jump them. And this morning joy definitely came. At 6:30 am my niece Lily was born, bright, beautiful, and surrounded by hope.  And the weeping of yesterday? Pale in comparison to the joy of the morning.

I initially began reading the Twilight series for two reasons: I was suspicious of its merits and I wanted to see what all the fuss was about. I feel very strongly about judging things for oneself, not developing opinions or damning another’s creativity without at least checking it out for yourself. Now, I am not saying you have to watch, read, or experience everything out there, quite the opposite really. I’m just saying, don’t judge based on someone else’s judgements. That said, I am going to now reveal my insights on a series of books that are enthralling teenage girls around the world. A series that I read for myself. This is meant merely for educational purposes.

The Twilight series spans four novels. It centers around the character Bella Swan, who, at the beginning of the series is seventeen-years-old and a junior in high school. Bella is both stubborn and reserved, as well as being a walking accident-waiting-to-happen. As the story begins she is moving to a town called Forks in northern Washington to live with her Police Chief father, Charlie. Upon enrolling in school Bella meets and falls in love with the mysterious, “vegetarian” vampire Edward. Edward and his “family” are compassionate vampires, feeding on animals rather than humans. As the plot moves along, Bella is pulled deeper into the supernatural world with Edward and those around him. 

The Twilight series is romantic, suspenseful and full of action and drama. In other words, every teenager’s fantasy. On the one hand, as an adult woman, I was engrossed. I read the books as fun, frothy, emotionally complex entertainment. They are not great literature and they do not try to be. They are a guilty pleasure. They are dark and full of subtly sexy tension and conflict. However, for a teenager, these novels would hold a very different connotation and intrigue.

Edward and Bella are irrevocably passionate star crossed lovers. They are more than a little obsessed with one another; they believe that they cannot live without the other. While the writer, Stephenie Meyer, illustrates their rather genuine love affair with great poignance and passion, I feel it would be hard to sell a teenage girl that this is not how love is meant to be or how it rarely is. And therein lies my first qualm about these novels. The books are about young love, young love that ends up lasting an eternity. It revolves around Edward and Bella’s passion for one another and the odds that are stacked against them. This particular story line would appeal to teenagers natural inclination towards believing that lust and infatuation are the same as love. 

I am not saying that the central characters to the story do not love one another, in fact, I felt deeply that they did(however unbalanced they were in it), but I also have concerns that teens who read these books will feel the same way and try to emulate it. I do not believe it is the author’s job to protect against that, that would compromise her creativity. But I believe that any parent who would consider to let their teen read these books would be wise to check it out for themselves.

Bella is seventeen when the story begins, and as it comes to a close, she is almost nineteen. In the later books the obvious and palpable sexual chemistry the two main characters have is both blush-worthy and inherently mature themed. And, once again, as an adult married woman I could chuckle and smile, if embarrassed a little myself. So, I guess, what it boils down to for me is that teens already have the ideas, why condone it in a novel? Edward is a vampire and he watches Bella sleep at night, how many kids do you think read that and left their bedroom window open for their boyfriend?

One positive on the teen-sex front in the Twilight series is that Bella and Edward do not actually have sex, at least, not outside of marriage. I’ll let you deduce what I mean by that. However the final novel is fairly graphic and mature, and not just where sex is concerned. There is vivid imagery that is disconcerting and dark, as well as plot twists that were unnerving even to me. 

Something I found interesting was the difference in Meyer’s vampires and the traditional ones of Anne Rice or even Buffy the Vampire Slayer. In Buffy in particular the vampires do not retain their former personalities or the essence of their humanity, they do not remain who they once were when they are changed. Also in Buffy, the only vampire who does not feed on human blood is Angel, and only because he was cursed with a soul. The vampires in Twilight remain very much themselves after they are transformed. They are more like immortal beings whose diet just happens to be blood than demon-possessed creatures. However, the majority of the vampire population is not good or humane. 

Overall, I enjoyed the books on a personal level. There is a certain intrigue and mystery about them that appealed to my sensibilities. It is hard not to get sucked in to the drama. It is hard not to feel attached to the characters and want them to survive. It is well written and vivid. I would recommend them for an older teen audience, but not for the squeamish.

There are aspects, like in anything, that I had to kind of gloss over. I would not say they represent anything Godly, not at all, but supernatural and entertaining definitely. They are about commitment, passion, and love. I do not believe that they are meant to be anything more than fun and romantic. They are very well marketed to their desired audience, an audience more interested in extreme emotions than life lessons. I liked them, but was torn by my interest in them and read them with a guarded heart. So, take my opinion as that opinion, but I hope this sheds light on a series that pretty soon almost every teenager in America will have read. And maybe, not every teen should.

Lately I have found myself less annoyed. More pressed for time, but less annoyed. Busier than usual, but still, less annoyed. Under normal circumstances, the impending political upheaval(and yeah, I believe we should brace for a serious fruit basket turnover), rush of the approaching holiday season, and general, all-around ugly state of the world, would have me bitching without taking a breath.

So what if Newsweek decided to post a blatantly skeptical article about Sarah Palin’s often radical religious beliefs (Palin Believes), with much focus on her apocalyptic views and being spoken to by the Holy Spirit? Yeah, who cares that now, more than ever, the church needs to rise up, not as a bunch of flaky people who seem to have their heads in the sand, but as the body of Christ operating as a righteous example? What does it matter that everywhere you look there is resentment and anger, even in the supposed safety of the Church itself?

Truthfully none of this really is worthy of annoyance, because God is grand, faithful, and evident, and without this knowledge I would probably be somewhere beating my head repeatedly against a wall. I am not saying that we should ignore it, but I am suggesting to find a way to see through it.

Last week my husband, my family, some friends, and myself were at the Grand Canyon. None of us, excepting my mom who had gone when she was ten, had seen the Canyon in any other way than photographs or movies. Upon our arrival we were met with a sight that most descriptive words could not encompass in there tininess, since they were created from the limited understanding of human thinking. There was an awe, yes at the great divide that created a tear in the fabric of the Earth before us, but more at the brilliant, inspiring power of our God.

I told Nathan at one point, looking over the rim and sensing my own heart pounding rapidly at the sight, “How could someone not believe in a creative God when viewing this?”. There was an urgency in my body to propell myself off the rim, or at least stand at the very edge. “I must not miss anything”, I thought to myself. In reality, there was no way I could see it all or understand how massively expansive and dangerously beautiful it was. My mind couldn’t wrap around it.

Just as my mind cannot wrap around the one who created it. God created an earth that is so stunning and wonderful, and yet he concerns himself with us. If you look at all he has done, stand in awe for a moment, because he created you too. I say earth before, not world, because the world is where the mire and muck resides. It is where what God planned and intended has been uglied by the enemies nasty designs. But, somehow, God is in that too, shedding a light when we walk through it.

Which brings me to this moment, where we have to have eyes to see beyond the bad weather of the current world climate. God is faithful and good. He gives and he takes away. He remembers promises. It was important for me to see the Canyon, go out on a ledge and trust my savior that it wasn’t my time to parish. To stand close to something that so represented His indescribable vastness and my own wonder at Him, and to be afraid, but exhilarated.

I may have never known the affect it would have on me to see the Canyon had I never gone, but I know now where I am because of it. There are inevitable times in life when you look around and realize that you are having an experience. Not an experience that just resides in your memory as, “Oh, that one time I ate really good French food” or “That time we built sandcastles at Destine”, both enjoyable, but not altering; an experience that digs deep into your spirit and reminds you that, yes, you are alive and not alone. An experience that changes the way you have previously viewed yourself or your world.

It wasn’t just the Canyon, the fear of falling fast into it, or the beauty of it alone, but that I was willing to open myself to whatever God had to do with me there. To push myself to go out and dangle my feet over. It was the awareness that even in a world where death is prevalent, silver linings few, and the consensus that hell is closing in isn’t an uncommon one, God is still grand. God is still making miracles.

It is a miracle in itself to be able to stand in one place and not need to move. It is a miracle to be able to capture a moment, despite what goes on around you. But more than that it is a miracle to realize you can never fully understand God, all His facets, colors, textures. Like the Canyon, you don’t need to see Him all, to know He is greater than you and to rest in the knowledge of that.

Remember that when you grow leery of the stock market, or wonder where the money for the bills is going to come from, God created the heavens and the earth and still knows your name. He is not like us, He does not get distracted, or too busy. His hand can carve a canyon in the earth, He knows how it all works and is not surprised by anything. He knew the elements in the water and wind would erode the earth just right, to create something so beautiful I am left breathless. It is not a simple task to be the Creator, but still He never tires.

I was born on a September Eve, the same day as the hurricane hit Louisiana. The same day that my Pappa died in the flood. She had fled, Mamma, to keep away from the waters, taken Mojo the mutt and run like the devil was chasin’ her. And he was, at least the devil that lives in the deeps of the ocean. She was ridin’ fast and furious toward the Texas border, she believed then that the waters were scared of the Lonestar state. They wasn’t, as she found out later, they wasn’t afraid of anything.

I was born in a car, I was early and tiny, but screamin’, she said later, screamin’ like I knew what was chasin’ us. My skin was like greased porcelain, she said, but she didn’t care. My lips looked like tiny rosebuds in spring, soft and delicate, she said she had to kiss them. Even then, she knew I was special. I suppose Mamma’s think that about all their babies, faith in the little one’s, wishin’ for better than they got themselves. My Mamma, she was right though, more than you may think.

It was strangely warm that night, the wind from the ocean seemed to set a deep and moist blanket over everything it touched, cursing the land in it’s invasion. The first hospital Mamma came to was in a town called Newton, like fig or Sir Isaac, I suppose. The docs thought Mamma was a pioneer woman, deliverin’ a baby in the backseat of a car with the assistance of a mangy mutt. Mamma said when you have no choices it’s pretty easy to make the right one, or the one that seems heroic.

She named me Julip, she said I was sweet like sugar and strong like the bourben that made her favorite drink so good. But, Mamma said, the mint leaves must be bruised, sometimes even crushed, to bring out their flavor, and most likely, so would I. Mamma was smiling, but sad all the same when she said it. Sad cause she knew more than a Mamma should. She fell then, into a deep sleep, and dreamed of Pappa lookin’ at her through a dingy glass door. Smilin, his grey eyes full of tears, but his mouth was smilin’. She wasn’t surprised when the air had cleared around Lake Charles, when they were able to get out, families be reunited, that Pappa didn’t come. That he never would come.

She was good about it, never one to make a big fuss, full of untapped power and strong, sweet tenderness. She said she patted Mojo’s head, kissed my round cheeks, and cried just a little that I would never know him, the man she called Mister. She would later tell me stories about his soft, strong hands, his loud laugh, the kind that fills a room with joy and forces you to smile. She would pretend that he was just a man to her, just her partner in the world she left; but I would always know, deep down, he was more to her than air.

She picked herself up then and set about creating a new life, carving it out of grief and deep, deep pain. Out of loss came a home, with a white door and a tiny rose garden. Mamma took a job with one of those doctors there in Newton, one of the one’s who thought she was a pioneer, named Dr. Longbow. He liked her spirit and that she could type, she liked that he paid well and they had a daycare. Mamma calls those kind of relationships symbiotic.

She did filing, answered his phone, and set his schedule. Just normal stuff, stuff Mamma never thought she’d be doin’, but stuff she was thankful to have to do. It was like that for a long time, Mamma, Mojo and me, goin’ and comin’, comin and goin’. Then one day, when Mojo was too old to see, and couldn’t hardly hear me, he went out to the yard and was out there for a while. A while too long. When I found him he was cold, long gone. I touched his fur, wonderin’ if he knew I was touchin’ it, and cried. It wasn’t until my tears hit his fur, salty and warm, from the deepest place within me I knew I had, that I discovered why I was so special.

Mojo flipped over in my hands, licked my nose like a thank you, and trotted away. He was Mojo again, but he was young, alive, and he was gonna get me into a heap of trouble.

I think that I have always liked avocados, at least since my taste buds matured and I realized green is not synonymous with gross. I have always liked them on a sandwich or as guacamole. They have always been a nice garnish to Mexican food, or a great addition to a salad. However, it wasn’t until recently that I began to see them as more than a tasty treat with appropriate foods.

When I decided to go vegetarian I had to find foods that not only possessed the essential nutrients to keep me alive and operating smoothly, but also that would fill me up and taste good. The avocado is a perfect match, for a lot of reasons.

Avocado’s are not so much a “low fat” option, in fact one medium sized avocado has as much fat as a burger, but that is where the comparison to fast food ends. Of the 30 grams of fat only 4 grams are saturated fat, leaving the other 26 to be monounsaturated (good fat), which actually helps to lower cholesterol. There have been numerous studies done on the affects of a diet including avocados and a lower risk of heart disease.

The addition of avocados to the diet also has the benefit of added variety, not to mention an all-together healthier choice, in your meal options. My husband and I eat these delicious sandwiches or wraps daily for lunch, they consist of: organic whole wheat tortillas or whole grain bread, hummus, pine nuts, capers or olives, baby spinach leaves, cucumber, peppers, red onion and a half avocado each. Nathan and I used to eat Lean Cuisines or canned soup for lunch on a regular basis, occasionally Chick-Fil-A (pre-vegetarianism), or whatever we could scrounge up. We now make it a point to eat these sandwiches and the result is feeling full and getting something good in our bodies daily, without a lot of work

For me I have seen an overall improvement in my skin quality as well. Some of it has to do with eliminating the hormone interference with meats (I still do dairy and cage-free organic eggs, with no antibiotics or added hormones) and an increased intake of water rich veggies, but a lot of it is related to gaining essential vitamins from food sources (and not supplements).

Avocados, besides being beneficial to your heart are chalk full of essential vitamins and minerals key to your overall well-being. With 60% more potassium than bananas, avocados also have the highest fiber content of any other fruit- 75% insoluble and 25% soluble. Fiber is essential for intestinal health as well as weight management (and who couldn’t use that?). They are loaded with B vitamins which among other things, support and increase metabolism, maintain healthy skin and muscle tone, as well as enhance immune and nervous system function. The only B vitamin not found in the avocado is B-12 which you can only get from animal products (which vegans must get from a supplement). Avocados are also high in vitamin E and K, which help with blood quality and wound healing.

Sure all of those things can be gained from other foods, but you will be hard pressed to find another food so substantial in them that tastes so good. All that being said it is important to remember that all good things can become bad if over-indulged in. Since avocados are high in fat, even though it is good fat, it is still fat that can deposit itself on your thighs, tummy, or butt without ever asking. Most research would recommend eating half a medium avocado a day, which can actually cause you to lose a small amount of weight and retain less fluid.

So, in conclusion, enjoy a daily bit of avo and head towards a healthier, fuller relationship with food.

When was the last time you visited the land of child, just to remember the view? You know the land I am referring to: where Oz and Narnia are not distant fantasy worlds, but home. It is the land of simple imaginations, laughing uncontrollably, and longing for adventure. The air is heavy with mystery, but somehow always sweet. Sure there are fears and villains, but you always triumph over them. Then there is the ever pressing desire to leave, expand your horizons to find the bigger world somehow. It is only when we cannot get back there that we realize what we have left behind.

I like to joke with people that I reside in this wonderful world more than in my own, but mostly, it is just my imagination that does. I recall the ideas of a childlike mind with astounding clarity and insight. My personal writing style lends itself to the fantastic, supernatural or dreamy. Whimsy is my close friend and wonder my confidant. But the truth is, finding my way back to Neverland has proven rather challenging.

This week I was in California for a wedding. The ocean was gloriously clear and blue, all while being slightly ominous and disconcerting. I was suddenly aware of my tininess, or of the vastness of the Earth around me, not sure which. There was a sense that I could stand there, watching wave and smelling sea for hours, and yet, somehow I felt myself turning to the next thing, the next sight, the next activity. The shear joy of this experience was cut short by my own expectations, by the world around me that screams constantly “move”.

Later in our trip we had the option to go to Disneyland. Let me preface this by saying, that I own and frequently watch (alone, with popcorn, singing blissfully out of tune) a number of classic Disney animated films. Part of me lingers in those movies. They were there in my childhood, carrying me through some wonderfully challenging growing pains. They bring a smile to my lips and often tears to my eyes. There is something inherently more real to me in those stories than in anything I have viewed in my adulthood.

So, needless to say, I was thrilled to visit Disneyland. We got there just after lunch, paid for our tickets (ouch, not cheap) and grabbed a map. I am an organized person, often leaning on structure and order to prevent me from feeling uneasy. I like to know how I’m going to get there, which is the opposite of most kids, who prefer to know when, with little care for the in between. This goes to the very heart of why as a child, we were constantly wishing we were grown, unaware that the journey is where all the fun is.

I felt like a little girl, walking through the castle; posing with Walt and Mickey; hopping on the carousel, up and down, up and down, breeze and smile. Then, on to the next ride. I have a knack for cutting through a crowd without being touched and leaving my companions far behind, this comes from years of trying to avoid physical contact from strangers. My husband was constantly reminding me of this as I marched toward Toads Wild Ride or loped in the direction of the Matterhorn. At one point he caught me by the shoulder and looked me square in the eyes, “We’re on vacation, not a mission.” I strangely felt like I was. How was I going to squeeze in everything so quickly, I was torn between savoring the moment and not missing anything.

Upon first examination this may seem like the reaction of a grown-up, and were I doing it to just get out of there, just get on with it, maybe it would be. However, if you’ve ever been anywhere with a child, that they actually want to be, they race through it, gathering up every ounce of visual stimuli and capturing the entire experience in one fail swoop. It is only when they are sure they are not going to miss anything that they slow down or go back.

I think I often try to be childlike just by being whimsical and wide-eyed, by being impressed or being hopeful. By dancing to my own drum or watching an animated film. I am someone who is proud of my connection to kid-land. Happy to be there, wish I could stay. But, as I look at the Disneyland experience, one thing becomes clear: I am neither child nor adult. Neither drawn to one world more than the other. I can find my way in my imagination to that magic that allows my creativity to soar, but I will never be able to stay there. Nor should I. There is life to be done and choices to be made.

So, maybe I will stay a while on the sand, watching the waves and savoring a few moments away. But I must return because the most childlike thing of all is not missing what’s going on in the here and now, and not stopping until you’ve done it all. I’ll always have Neverland, but it isn’t “the second star to the right, and straight on till morning”, it’s in me. And you too, if you are willing to look.

This weekend, as rain and wind blew in from Ike down south, I went to go see a movie that was expected to be clever and funny. I sometimes like a movie in spite of myself . Often I feel moved or compelled to enjoy a film just because I have decided before hand that I am going to like it. I had a glimmer of this as I sat in my seat to view the Coen brother’s new film, Burn After Reading. I had an expectation going in of what the movie would be like, of how amused I would be or how intrigued I would feel. However, those expectations were soured as the reality of the movie became clear.

It wasn’t one aspect of the movie, so much, that turned me off, but the composite of a bunch of things put together. To begin with, you will hear a lot of positive feedback about this movie(for the most part critics love it), but I am not convinced that is because of the film itself, but rather that every Coen Brother’s movie of recent history has been raved and well-received. The movie follows, bizarrely at times, the intertwining lives of a group of narcissistic federal workers as they collide with unexpected black mailers from a local gym. I, frankly, am not 100% sure what the movie was even about half the time. Was is about the ridiculousness of the American government? Did it mean to poke fun at those we trust with our National Security? Was it merely a statement on how ignorance can lead to disaster? These are questions I will never know the answer to, because, honestly, I’m not sure the filmmakers know.

John Malkovich plays the angry, drunken Osborne Cox, who is at the middle of this ever-swirling pot of insane, selfish characters. The film begins with him being fired, cursing his institution, and leaving to write his “memoirs”. His wife, a harsh and severe doctor, chastises him and tells her lover(played by George Clooney) she wants out. Clooney, a sex addicted perv, seems intent on one thing only: having his cake and eating it too. Through a series of unfortunate events(that hardly make sense), two employees at Hardbodies gym(Frances McDormand and Brad Pitt) get a hold of a disk containing what they ridiculously assume is valuable intelligence belonging to Osborne Cox. McDormand’s character, Linda Litzke, is single, obsessed with getting plastic surgery, and frankly, a little slutty. She and Chad(this would be Pitt, who is my only bright spot in the whole movie) begin to foolishly blackmail Cox. All goes straight to hell and thus supposed genius is born.

I won’t tell you how the film comes together, or why I lost interest towards the end. Should you decide to see the movie, I’d hate to ruin it for you. Be prepared for shocking, unnecessary violence. I usually think that violence is more effective when you don’t necessarily see it, but the Coen Brother’s do not agree with me, and make it very clear in this film. Besides that, the film is filled with cursing to rival most. It annoys me how supposedly intelligent, educated people, seem to have such a limited vocabulary. But beyond those two elements there are strange, surprising sexual scenarios that may have disturbed me more than the language and violence combined.

Maybe it was my own fault that I did not enjoy this film. Maybe I should have known or expected it to present the way that it did. But, I have a tendency to still want cinema to be, I don’t know, clever, pretty, saying something real. I would say NO to Burn After Reading, not because it was like watching the toilet bowl flush, but because it’s not a real movie. It is pointless, empty, violent, and frankly, not even that funny. Brad Pitt is humorous, engaging, and sympathetic, but he is not in the movie long enough to make up for everything else. Don’t go see it, but if you do, be warned: you view at your own risk.