I am from cornfields stretching green toward the end of earth;
watching Daddy hatch speckled brown eggs into living yellow peeps
and a Mama who could crack a chicken-thieving gopher between the eyes.
I am from a big small town
with Friday night football
and state championship basketball dreams that fall just short.
I am from padded pews and basement youth groups, old hymns and camp songs;
unworthy and afraid of a God of judgment, rules and thou shalt nots
until He met me in that dark insecurity with the blazing light of beloved.
I am from feeling just outside the inside
longing for ease of carefree laughter in the midst of admiring crowd;
finding peace in a quiet room of books, prayers, intimate conversation.
I am from Narnia and Middle Earth;
Terabithia and Maycomb, Alabama, and the road to Damascus;
from words that weave hope, bring truth.
I am from high school sweethearts growing up together
toward stained glass pronouncements of to love and to cherish;
twenty years grateful for his integrity, laughter, strength melding into me.
I am from Mom, what's for dinner, I need a ride, where's my homework,
hurry, we're going to be late and I don't wanna go and why do we hafta leave so early.
From hugs in shades of skin intertwined into hearts that beat forever love.
Kimberly Brubaker Bradley's beautiful "I Am From" blog linked me to the South African Heritage Day Synchroblog from SheLoves. Which was actually on Tuesday but I am from a heritage of promptness hijacked by the bossiness of too busy.
Thursday, September 26, 2013
Thursday, September 19, 2013
Parent Meeting
On Tuesday evening the head coach of the mighty mites football team called a parent meeting. He didn't say why, but I had a hunch it had something to do with the sideline parents who were yelling so disrespectfully during a game that security needed to be called to calm things down. Just a hunch.
If you're not familiar with the world of American-style youth tackle football (I wasn't), the mighty mites are ages five to seven. So, kindergarten, first and second graders. This is the level of play in which coaches must focus primarily on reminding kids which DIRECTION to run. The team has eight coaches - two played in the NFL, half-a-dozen played D1 college football, and a couple are police officers. They channel their vast football knowledge into a group of fidgety, excitable, attention-deficient - "squirrel!" - hyperactive little boys. But on Saturday several parents were frustrated with our passing game (OMG - how do six year olds even HAVE a passing game?) - so, yes, security was called.
The head coach is amazing. I'm overlooking the fact that he played for University of Kentucky because 1) his offensive line coach played for IU and 2) he is a man of integrity and character who desires nothing more than to instill integrity and character into the lives of each of the little boys that he coaches. And to respect each parent right where they are. Football is his mission field.
Most of the parents respect him right back, and are grateful for the structure, discipline, work ethic, character and fun these coaches are instilling into the lives of these baby ballers. Most of the parents entered the season the way Trent and I entered the season, I think, hoping the coaches would teach our kids some football fundamentals and also run them enough to take a bit of the edge off their energy. The "yes, sirs!" and touchdown thrills are bonus.
But there's fear and longing in the hearts of many of the parents, too. I hear it. I hear it in the group of dads sitting two rows over discussing when to apply for Trinity football season tickets in the event their (six-year-old) someday starts for Trinity. (Trinity has one of the top high school football teams in the nation.) I hear it in the parents screaming at the coaches about "favoritism!" and "play my kid 'cuz that kid sucks!" I hear it in the parents complaining about the plays being called and how the coaches are SO stupid.
I can only surmise that the dad with NO coaching experience and NO football experience beyond high school is so invested in his son's success that it has completely overridden his good sense.
Part of me gets so angry with those loudmouth parents, especially when they are screaming at the coaches in earshot of my son. I feel so judgmental because just SHUT UP ALREADY. But another part of me feels stabbed in the heart with HYPOCRITE ALERT because I've done my share of ranting and raving and complaining about coaches and playing time and all those other first-world sports problems. (I just tend, by nature, to be rather quiet, so security doesn't get called.) It's clear those dads love their kids. That counts for alot in today's world, when so many parents are emotionally or physically absent. Those dads are at EVERY game and EVERY practice. (I know. I hear them.)
I expected the mighty mites parents meeting to be a spectacle. (To be honest, I was halfway hoping it would be a spectacle. Better blog post.) But the head coach handled it with grace and vulnerability and authenticity. He met each question head on. He shared the great lengths the coaches take to avoid "daddy ball". He discussed the relative merits of offense versus defense. He outlined the depth chart and the coaches' strategies to develop each individual player. He discussed who's playing where and why and what a child needed to do if he wanted more playing time at an individual spot. He talked about the running game and the passing game, the offensive line and the defensive line. He congratulated us that each child on the team (almost) now knows which direction to go with the ball.
And he reminded parents to enjoy watching their kids play. Because this time goes so fast.
I remember this past spring, during softball senior night, the dad of our senior third baseman watching his little girl's last home game. She had decided not to play in college, not because she didn't have the ability (she does!), but because priorities change. Her softball career was winding down. "I just love watching her play," he said. "I'm gonna miss it. I just love to watch her play."
And I remembered an article written the year before in which college and professional athletes were asked the most helpful thing their parents said to them about their sport. The answer, "I just love to watch you play."
So this season I'm going to remember that I do. I love to watch Paul run - head up, shoulders back. I love to watch him take the ready stance, tensed for the "hut!" I love to watch him smacking his teammates' backs as they break the huddle. I love to watch him play. I love to watch Sam step into the batter's box, confident she can handle anything thrown her way. I love to watch her run, long legs quickly picking up steam on a stand-up triple. I love to watch the quick reaction time and teammwork on a short to first to third double play (against BALLARD!) I love to watch her play.
This year I'm making a promise to myself that THIS is what they're going to hear from me - not the plays they missed or then shots they whiffed or the complaints against coaches/umpires/opposition - but that I just really love to watch them play.
If you're not familiar with the world of American-style youth tackle football (I wasn't), the mighty mites are ages five to seven. So, kindergarten, first and second graders. This is the level of play in which coaches must focus primarily on reminding kids which DIRECTION to run. The team has eight coaches - two played in the NFL, half-a-dozen played D1 college football, and a couple are police officers. They channel their vast football knowledge into a group of fidgety, excitable, attention-deficient - "squirrel!" - hyperactive little boys. But on Saturday several parents were frustrated with our passing game (OMG - how do six year olds even HAVE a passing game?) - so, yes, security was called.
The head coach is amazing. I'm overlooking the fact that he played for University of Kentucky because 1) his offensive line coach played for IU and 2) he is a man of integrity and character who desires nothing more than to instill integrity and character into the lives of each of the little boys that he coaches. And to respect each parent right where they are. Football is his mission field.
Most of the parents respect him right back, and are grateful for the structure, discipline, work ethic, character and fun these coaches are instilling into the lives of these baby ballers. Most of the parents entered the season the way Trent and I entered the season, I think, hoping the coaches would teach our kids some football fundamentals and also run them enough to take a bit of the edge off their energy. The "yes, sirs!" and touchdown thrills are bonus.
But there's fear and longing in the hearts of many of the parents, too. I hear it. I hear it in the group of dads sitting two rows over discussing when to apply for Trinity football season tickets in the event their (six-year-old) someday starts for Trinity. (Trinity has one of the top high school football teams in the nation.) I hear it in the parents screaming at the coaches about "favoritism!" and "play my kid 'cuz that kid sucks!" I hear it in the parents complaining about the plays being called and how the coaches are SO stupid.
I can only surmise that the dad with NO coaching experience and NO football experience beyond high school is so invested in his son's success that it has completely overridden his good sense.
Part of me gets so angry with those loudmouth parents, especially when they are screaming at the coaches in earshot of my son. I feel so judgmental because just SHUT UP ALREADY. But another part of me feels stabbed in the heart with HYPOCRITE ALERT because I've done my share of ranting and raving and complaining about coaches and playing time and all those other first-world sports problems. (I just tend, by nature, to be rather quiet, so security doesn't get called.) It's clear those dads love their kids. That counts for alot in today's world, when so many parents are emotionally or physically absent. Those dads are at EVERY game and EVERY practice. (I know. I hear them.)
I expected the mighty mites parents meeting to be a spectacle. (To be honest, I was halfway hoping it would be a spectacle. Better blog post.) But the head coach handled it with grace and vulnerability and authenticity. He met each question head on. He shared the great lengths the coaches take to avoid "daddy ball". He discussed the relative merits of offense versus defense. He outlined the depth chart and the coaches' strategies to develop each individual player. He discussed who's playing where and why and what a child needed to do if he wanted more playing time at an individual spot. He talked about the running game and the passing game, the offensive line and the defensive line. He congratulated us that each child on the team (almost) now knows which direction to go with the ball.
And he reminded parents to enjoy watching their kids play. Because this time goes so fast.
I remember this past spring, during softball senior night, the dad of our senior third baseman watching his little girl's last home game. She had decided not to play in college, not because she didn't have the ability (she does!), but because priorities change. Her softball career was winding down. "I just love watching her play," he said. "I'm gonna miss it. I just love to watch her play."
And I remembered an article written the year before in which college and professional athletes were asked the most helpful thing their parents said to them about their sport. The answer, "I just love to watch you play."
So this season I'm going to remember that I do. I love to watch Paul run - head up, shoulders back. I love to watch him take the ready stance, tensed for the "hut!" I love to watch him smacking his teammates' backs as they break the huddle. I love to watch him play. I love to watch Sam step into the batter's box, confident she can handle anything thrown her way. I love to watch her run, long legs quickly picking up steam on a stand-up triple. I love to watch the quick reaction time and teammwork on a short to first to third double play (against BALLARD!) I love to watch her play.
This year I'm making a promise to myself that THIS is what they're going to hear from me - not the plays they missed or then shots they whiffed or the complaints against coaches/umpires/opposition - but that I just really love to watch them play.
Monday, September 16, 2013
Best Effort
So, my first grader has been getting warnings and calendar marks for talking too much at school. Did you hear that? He has been TALKING. At SCHOOL! To PEOPLE!
Do you remember last year when he communicated only in barely perceptible head nods and shakes? When he wouldn't talk above a whisper? English and school and life was just too overwhelming for the spoken word.
And now he's talking TOO MUCH?
Hoorah! Hoorah! Happy dance. Whoot, whoot, holla', holla'!
I mean... sorry teachers... what I mean is... Dude, I'm so glad you're talking. I'm thrilled you have a burning curiosity about the world. I'm ecstatic you have the words to ask ALL THE QUESTIONS. I'm moved to tears that you now feel safe enough to talk ALL OF THE TIME to LOTS OF PEOPLE.
But now my curious, excited, safe seven-year-old we need to learn how to be quiet and listen when it's time to be quiet and listen.
This takes some effort, people. We have a year's worth of pent up questions and conversation. Questions and conversations that sometimes go like this:
P: "Mom, 'member dat one boy?"
Me: ?
P: "You know! Dat one boy from de place!"
Me: ?
P: "Mom! Dat boy! I played with him! You 'member!"
Me: No idea, but trying to avoid a meltdown. "Um, sure. Okay."
P: "Why he do dat one thing? Why?"
So we've been practicing our "be quiet and listen." A lot. This is the kind of practice I really, really enjoy. For five minutes while I read/tell this story, keep all questions, comments, rememberings and tangential remarks to yourself. After the story you may raise your hand and ask away.
This is harder than I realized for certain seven year old boys. But practice makes you better, right? So we're gonna keep on practicing.
On Friday after school Paul bounced into the car, bubbling over with excitement. "Look! Look! Look at my calendar!" He pulled his folder out of his backpack and thrust it all me as I'm trying to pull out of the carpool circle.
(Side note - Did you know that driving with a child in the car is one of the leading causes of driver-distraction car crashes, according to the American Automobile Association. Someone should pass a law. Seriously.)
Best effort! Talking AND listening. It's been a milestone week!
Do you remember last year when he communicated only in barely perceptible head nods and shakes? When he wouldn't talk above a whisper? English and school and life was just too overwhelming for the spoken word.
And now he's talking TOO MUCH?
Hoorah! Hoorah! Happy dance. Whoot, whoot, holla', holla'!
I mean... sorry teachers... what I mean is... Dude, I'm so glad you're talking. I'm thrilled you have a burning curiosity about the world. I'm ecstatic you have the words to ask ALL THE QUESTIONS. I'm moved to tears that you now feel safe enough to talk ALL OF THE TIME to LOTS OF PEOPLE.
But now my curious, excited, safe seven-year-old we need to learn how to be quiet and listen when it's time to be quiet and listen.
This takes some effort, people. We have a year's worth of pent up questions and conversation. Questions and conversations that sometimes go like this:
P: "Mom, 'member dat one boy?"
Me: ?
P: "You know! Dat one boy from de place!"
Me: ?
P: "Mom! Dat boy! I played with him! You 'member!"
Me: No idea, but trying to avoid a meltdown. "Um, sure. Okay."
P: "Why he do dat one thing? Why?"
So we've been practicing our "be quiet and listen." A lot. This is the kind of practice I really, really enjoy. For five minutes while I read/tell this story, keep all questions, comments, rememberings and tangential remarks to yourself. After the story you may raise your hand and ask away.
This is harder than I realized for certain seven year old boys. But practice makes you better, right? So we're gonna keep on practicing.
On Friday after school Paul bounced into the car, bubbling over with excitement. "Look! Look! Look at my calendar!" He pulled his folder out of his backpack and thrust it all me as I'm trying to pull out of the carpool circle.
(Side note - Did you know that driving with a child in the car is one of the leading causes of driver-distraction car crashes, according to the American Automobile Association. Someone should pass a law. Seriously.)
Best effort! Talking AND listening. It's been a milestone week!
Wednesday, September 11, 2013
Namaste Today
I am not a very good yoga practitioner. (There is probably a name for such a person who "does yoga stuff", but I don't even know what that name might be.) I used to think yoga was a little wimpified. Time is limited, and with only an hour to work out a couple times a week, I thought my workout hour needed to include serious sweat and a bit of pain. Long lovely deep breaths and strange contortions didn't seem to fit the bill.
I also need to admit that I had been a little bit brainwashed against yoga. Not for exercise reasons, but for religious reasons. A elder in a church I used to attend, a man I greatly admired, was opposed to yoga as a spiritual practice that contradicted Christianity. I like to think I am not one to be influenced by others' ideas without thoroughly researching and studying the topic myself, but if I'm honest I took his counsel to heart without ever consulting God on the issue.
But then came a long, hot summer with too many weeks without camp while all the neighborhood friends did have camp and so weren't home to play. Turns out, my son enjoys the Kids' Club at the YMCA and they will keep him for TWO HOURS at NO EXTRA CHARGE so long as my membership is current and I stay somewhere in the facility. Needless to say, I made full use of all my membership perks this summer.
Two hours meant I could (theoretically) run and lift and take a class. There are lots of classes to choose from, and one that often coincided with the Kids' Club hours was power yoga. (Not sure if there is a difference between power yoga and regular yoga, but power yoga sounds way cooler.)
Power yoga kicked my butt. It doesn't LOOK especially difficult - a bunch of people taking deep breaths while standing on one bare foot in a dim room - but I left with shaky muscles and a calm mind.
The instructor opened and closed each class with the blessing, "Namaste." I didn't know what this meant so I ran home to look it up (you know, just in case I was being led down some dark spiritual path). It means - that which is divine in me honors that which is divine in you. Mother Teresa used this to bless those for whom she cared. That part of me that is made in the image of God sees that part of you that is made in the image of God. I find this beautiful.
Most of us remember where we were twelve years ago. I do. We had just moved to a new city with three year old Sam. I had signed up for a Women's Bible study (free childcare) on Experiencing God. Registration and coffee from 8:30 to 9:00 then the study started at 9:00. A few women wandered in a 9:00 with some puzzling news: "I just heard on the radio that a plane hit the World Trade Center." And we thought weird. A single engine, small aircraft must have lost control. So sad.
The introduction to the study got underway, but before too long switched gears as the leader began to fervently pray. God you are our refuge and strength; an ever-present help in times of trouble. May we not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good. And then she shared the news: "The World Trade Center Towers have been hit. The Pentagon has been hit. All appear to be coordinated acts of terror." May God have mercy.
We collected our children and went home to phone calls and covert news reports so as not to scare the littles and prayers. And I heard the cries for retribution and I felt those cries in my own heart and I worried. Oh, God, may we not be overcome by evil. And in the midst of evil we saw the good as friends, neighbors, strangers reached out a hand of blessing to one another. That which is divine in me honors that which is divine in you.
And today, as we remember to never forget, as we ache over a world still shattered by terror, as we debate retribution and bombing strikes and WHAT SHALL WE DO I pray Oh, God. May we not be overcome by evil. May we find a way to overcome evil with good. And I look for a way to Namaste.
I also need to admit that I had been a little bit brainwashed against yoga. Not for exercise reasons, but for religious reasons. A elder in a church I used to attend, a man I greatly admired, was opposed to yoga as a spiritual practice that contradicted Christianity. I like to think I am not one to be influenced by others' ideas without thoroughly researching and studying the topic myself, but if I'm honest I took his counsel to heart without ever consulting God on the issue.
But then came a long, hot summer with too many weeks without camp while all the neighborhood friends did have camp and so weren't home to play. Turns out, my son enjoys the Kids' Club at the YMCA and they will keep him for TWO HOURS at NO EXTRA CHARGE so long as my membership is current and I stay somewhere in the facility. Needless to say, I made full use of all my membership perks this summer.
Two hours meant I could (theoretically) run and lift and take a class. There are lots of classes to choose from, and one that often coincided with the Kids' Club hours was power yoga. (Not sure if there is a difference between power yoga and regular yoga, but power yoga sounds way cooler.)
Power yoga kicked my butt. It doesn't LOOK especially difficult - a bunch of people taking deep breaths while standing on one bare foot in a dim room - but I left with shaky muscles and a calm mind.
The instructor opened and closed each class with the blessing, "Namaste." I didn't know what this meant so I ran home to look it up (you know, just in case I was being led down some dark spiritual path). It means - that which is divine in me honors that which is divine in you. Mother Teresa used this to bless those for whom she cared. That part of me that is made in the image of God sees that part of you that is made in the image of God. I find this beautiful.
Most of us remember where we were twelve years ago. I do. We had just moved to a new city with three year old Sam. I had signed up for a Women's Bible study (free childcare) on Experiencing God. Registration and coffee from 8:30 to 9:00 then the study started at 9:00. A few women wandered in a 9:00 with some puzzling news: "I just heard on the radio that a plane hit the World Trade Center." And we thought weird. A single engine, small aircraft must have lost control. So sad.
The introduction to the study got underway, but before too long switched gears as the leader began to fervently pray. God you are our refuge and strength; an ever-present help in times of trouble. May we not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good. And then she shared the news: "The World Trade Center Towers have been hit. The Pentagon has been hit. All appear to be coordinated acts of terror." May God have mercy.
We collected our children and went home to phone calls and covert news reports so as not to scare the littles and prayers. And I heard the cries for retribution and I felt those cries in my own heart and I worried. Oh, God, may we not be overcome by evil. And in the midst of evil we saw the good as friends, neighbors, strangers reached out a hand of blessing to one another. That which is divine in me honors that which is divine in you.
And today, as we remember to never forget, as we ache over a world still shattered by terror, as we debate retribution and bombing strikes and WHAT SHALL WE DO I pray Oh, God. May we not be overcome by evil. May we find a way to overcome evil with good. And I look for a way to Namaste.
Friday, September 6, 2013
Syria Link Up
On Tuesday evening Sam and I attended a volunteer orientation at Kentucky Refugee Ministries. Louisville and Lexington combined have one of the largest refugee resettlement programs in the United States, with over 10,000 refugees having found new homes in these bluegrass hills. We watched an oldish video showing the worldwide refugee situation. After the video the volunteer coordinator said, "The estimated number of 15 million refugees worldwide is no longer correct. Currently the number is an estimated 22 million. And that will most likely rise due to...well, due to recent events." And a silence fell over the room because recent events weighed heavy in our hearts: oh, Syria.
Many years ago a dear writer friend, Elsa Marston, published FIGS AND FATE, a collection of short stories about growing up in the Arab world - Egypt, Iraq, Lebanon, Palestine and Syria. I fell in love with her characters and with the world they inhabited. I longed to travel to those ancient and foreign lands. Some day. But now... oh, Palestine; oh, Lebanon; oh, Iraq; oh, Egypt; oh, Syria.
I feel baffled and helpless: It's Too Big.
I've tried to educate myself with: 9 Questions about Syria You Were Too Embarrassed to Ask.
In keeping with my preference of getting my news from Saturday Night Live, I read The Onion. Specifically, Al-Assad's commentary: So What's It Going to Be?
and I voted with the rest of America to put boots on the ground by Sending Congress to Syria.
I realized that the international terror alert levels spoof attributed to John Cleese wasn't really written by him, but it's hilarious nevertheless: Syria Conflict Raises Terror Alert Levels Worldwide.
But as much as I want to look away, to laugh it all away, I know that we must stay engaged, we must maintain a Mindful Response to Atrocities.
The decision to strike or not to strike is not mine to make. The aid I am able to send may barely make a dent. But I can reach my hands to heaven and cry to the God of all nations. Oh, God! Why do the nations conspire against you and the peoples plot in vain. The leaders of the earth rise up and band together against the Lord and against his anointed. I can join with the world in Begging Our God for Mercy, Refuge, Peace.
Many years ago a dear writer friend, Elsa Marston, published FIGS AND FATE, a collection of short stories about growing up in the Arab world - Egypt, Iraq, Lebanon, Palestine and Syria. I fell in love with her characters and with the world they inhabited. I longed to travel to those ancient and foreign lands. Some day. But now... oh, Palestine; oh, Lebanon; oh, Iraq; oh, Egypt; oh, Syria.
I feel baffled and helpless: It's Too Big.
I've tried to educate myself with: 9 Questions about Syria You Were Too Embarrassed to Ask.
In keeping with my preference of getting my news from Saturday Night Live, I read The Onion. Specifically, Al-Assad's commentary: So What's It Going to Be?
and I voted with the rest of America to put boots on the ground by Sending Congress to Syria.
I realized that the international terror alert levels spoof attributed to John Cleese wasn't really written by him, but it's hilarious nevertheless: Syria Conflict Raises Terror Alert Levels Worldwide.
But as much as I want to look away, to laugh it all away, I know that we must stay engaged, we must maintain a Mindful Response to Atrocities.
The decision to strike or not to strike is not mine to make. The aid I am able to send may barely make a dent. But I can reach my hands to heaven and cry to the God of all nations. Oh, God! Why do the nations conspire against you and the peoples plot in vain. The leaders of the earth rise up and band together against the Lord and against his anointed. I can join with the world in Begging Our God for Mercy, Refuge, Peace.
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| Photo sources from http://visual.ly/save-syria |
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