musings

It makes me sad that someone stole my iron. My last name is printed in big purple letters down the side, so unless someone else has the same big purple last name as I do and took it by mistake, there is no reason why he should have stolen my iron.

It also makes me sad that the books the library sold in their book sale had "DISCARD" stamped in the inside cover. It's like going to an orphanage and stamping "DISCARD" all over the children. How would you like it blatantly printed across your forehead that you're not wanted?

It makes me happy that this weekend I'm going "home" to see my parents and my friends, the latter of which I haven't seen since May and don't know when I'll see again. Next weekend is Vineyard Community Church's "Vinefest" (with hay rides and tackle football and grilled foods), and the weekend after that is a possible Chicago trip with Leiza. Yay.

It also makes me happy that it's autumn, and I wrote an ode to the way the football field looks when the sun is setting on it and casts shadows to the 30-yard line. Glistening helmets, spiraling pigskins, you look happy to meet me.

The chapel speaker yesterday tried to convince us that a relationship with God is not enough, and we, as humans, need human relationships. I was not pleased as he continuously looked out at the auditorium and stated, "God is not enough!" If that's the case, what kind of God is He, who can't fulfill all our needs with only Himself? Not a god I'd want to serve.

Epitomes of autumn in which I have to this moment participated:
~ Anne of Green Gables
~ homemade apple pie
~ ubiquitous pumpkin
~ the marriage of cinnamon and my senses
~ leaf crunching
~ football
~ season premieres of Pushing Daisies, The Office, and House
~ blue skies smiling at me; nothing but blue skies do I see

Delicious autumn! My very soul is wedded to it,
and if I were a bird I would fly about the earth
seeking the successive autumns. ~ George Elliot

((Not quite as good as my ode to football...but okay nonetheless.))

sometimes nothing's a pretty cool hand

I think it's one of the saddest days in history.























January 26, 1925 - September 26, 2008

the fall of man

Fall is in the air. Can you feel it? I can't. But here's proof:

~ Starbucks has begun to serve pumpkin spice lattes again.
~ Olay is reissuing their Winter Retreat body wash that disappeared during the summer, but makes my arms (and probably feet, too, but I tend to notice it less) smell like vanilla.
~ Shane & Shane sang "Oh Holy Night" off their in-the-works Christmas album at their "free fall concert" in front of the seminary last night. Shane & Shane and Christmas music is an ethereal combination.
~ Game 1 of football season was Thursday night. Tomorrow promises to be a good day.
~ It's not 90 degrees today.

My good friend Sarah taught me a valuable lesson the other day. I merely asked her one lesson God taught her while she served in Africa this summer, and she answered, "God is good." I don't know about you, but I've heard that far too often.
Pastor: God is good--
Congregation: --all the time!
And I think my problem stems from the situations in which I've heard people say it. "God really pulled me through it. He is so good." But what if He hadn't pulled you through it? What if you had died, or been maimed, or lost your house or family or shelves of books? Would God still have been good?

Too often I base the character of God off of what I am going through. I feel alone, so God is far. I feel sad, so God has abandoned me. But just because I am scared doesn't mean God isn't comfort. Just because I am unhappy doesn't mean God isn't joy. "God is good" is a fact that doesn't change with the way I feel. It's like a tree, firmly planted in the soil, whose leaves change every fall and spring. Just because the leaves turn orange and fall off doesn't mean the tree has changed in any way. It's the leaves who change, not the tree. God is good. It's who God is, not the circumstance or situation with which I am dealing.

God loves us, wants to heal us, save us, be near us, and because of this I think I think I deserve those things. Why won't You heal me? Why won't You save me? But I've come to realize, it isn't about me. The people in the Old Testament seem to grasp this concept and that of God's goodness, even before Jesus. In 1 Chronicles 20, Joab is about to attack the Ammonites, and he tells his men in verse 12, "Be strong and let us fight bravely for our people and the cities of our God. The Lord will do what is good in his sight."

That's it! They trust the Lord to do what is good in his sight. They might not understand why. They might die! But it isn't up to them. It's up to the Lord. They accept that. And whatever happens, is good. Like Shane Bernard shared last night, Meshach, Shadrach, and Abednego told Nebuchadnezzar, "'If we are thrown into the blazing furnace, the God we serve is able to save us from it, and he will rescue us from your hand, O king. But even if he does not, we want you to know, O king, that we will not serve your gods or worship the image of gold you have set up'" (Daniel 3:17-18). Even if he does not! It's not about US, they're saying. It's about the true King, about His plans, His reign, worshiping Him.

To me, it seems that we should serve God simply because He is Creator and majestic and a thousand other adjectives. But He is also loving and good and wants to be in relationship with us. But that doesn't mean everything will always go our way. Jesus said in John 16, "'In this world you will have trouble.'" WILL! Not may, or could, or perhaps will, but will. "'In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.'" The verse preceeding that declares that Jesus has told us this so that, in Him, we may have peace. In Him, not in this world. "And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose" (Romans 8:28).

I don't know if any of this makes sense. I praise God for who He is, not for what good is going on in my life. I praise God for who He is, not because I'm happy right now. "God is good" doesn't mean "everything in my life is going good right now" (excuse the incorrect grammar). God is good, period. God is good.

I don't feel like doing homework.

invasion of the body snatchers

I've learned a lot about myself this summer that I didn't really know before, or maybe just didn't realize. I've learned that

+ I like the color pink.
+ I have a favorite author. (Three, actually: E.M. Forster's dialog leaves me wanting an entire novel of nothing but, Jerry Spinelli creates prose and characters like God created butterflies (effortlessly, colorfully, and so real), and Louisa May Alcott taps into every emotion my little heart beats.)
+ I don't like bugs. (I've always considered myself a fairly reasonable female, not flighty or fidgety around crawly things, but one night I lay in bed looking at my bookshelves before turning off the light (I often do this), when a spot on the wall caught my eye. "Mommyyyyy," I called in a whiny voice to my mother, who was on the computer down the hall, "there's a spider on my ceiling." She replied, "Your father is going to have to get it." Dad had gone to bed already and his door was closed. I considered this a moment, then called whiningly, "Dadddyyyyy." He didn't stir, so my mom eventually came and got it. I thought my reluctance to get rid of the spider might disclose a hidden dislike for insects, but if that didn't, the invasion last night certainly did. My room was the Hurtgen Forest, with speedy black beetles crawling all over instead of Germans. They kept crawling over my blankets as I lay in bed reading, and I kept calling Mom into my room to dispose of them. Once I leaped out of bed as one raced towards my pillow, and as I stood in the doorway waiting for Mom, one flew - flew! - onto my bedspread. Needless to say, I slept in the guest room feeling like a Polish refugee escaping Hitler's troops. I dreamed I opened my eyes and there were beetles crawling all over the ceiling. I woke up standing in the middle of the room with my heart thumping. Today as I relayed the story to Dad (who should have been my Russian liberators, but instead was slumbering safely in his own room), he asked, "How many were there? Two?" "Uh, two??" I said. "Try six." "Oh," he said, ever wittily, "because there are four right there on the wall." Ha, ha, Dad. John, Paul, George, and Ringo aren't squashable, Beatle though they be.)
+ I love, love, love Chicago. (On State Street, that great street, I just wanna say: They do things that they don't do on Broadway.)
+ I like baseball. It seems to epitomize summer.
+ I miss Ohio.

I've discovered a few things and people this summer, too. My discoveries include

+ A young, swoon-inducing Frank Sinatra.
+ Malted milk powder.
+ Helen Forrest's big band era.
+ 1950s & 60s Jack Lemmon. (He sends me into fits of giggles and sighs.)
+ Jerry Spinelli's other books.
+ John Keats's pathetic fallacy! (The sun kissed away the morning's tears. You don't get much more pathetically fallicilic than that.)
+ A Humphrey Bogart movie I actually like. (I want to join the mob.)

Meanwhile

+ I still love Turner Classic Movies more than...almost anything.
+ I am recognized at the Plymouth Public Library.
+ It's football season again.
+ Summer's over, and to quote Siggy from What About Bob?, "Summer, fall, time to go...."

slice of life, a la mode

My dad handed me an article today about a hand held device where one can access the Internet and buy books online, reading them on the tiny screen. I felt my insides being wrung like a dishcloth. The day books are replaced with computers I will hang myself from the nearest library's roof. Half the enjoyment of reading a book is holding it in your hands, smelling the pages, feeling the cover fluctuate in your hands like a wave in the ocean, noticing accidental ink splotches in the margins. There's something about seeing words on paper that makes me feel as though something has just been created that didn't exist before. One can write, "There once lived a man named Joe," and all of a sudden Joe once lived, where before he didn't. A new character and personality exists, who has likes and dislikes and a family, if you write one for him. It's not just a collection of books I have on my bookshelves. I have a bookshelf of lives between bindings. Computers are the end of life as we know it.

"'What shall I do with all my books?' was the question; and the answer, 'Read them,' sobered the questioner. But if you cannot read them, at any rate handle them and, as it were, fondle them. Peer into them. Let them fall open where they will...If they cannot enter the circle of your life, do not deny them at least a nod of recognition." ~ Winston Churchill

I'm drinking coffee, and it just passed that perfect temperature where it's not hot enough anymore to singe off the flavor, but isn't cool enough to fail to warm your toes. It's reaching the latter stage and I still have half a mug left.

The cat slept with me last night for the first time since September. She jumped up on my bed without so much as a meow of inquiry, then felt around on my blankets as if she had every right, and laid down before I had a chance to protest. "Kitty," I said, lowering my Steve Kluger book (who added a homosexual character to his latest novel and therefore makes it very difficult for me to enjoy), "what are you doing?" She didn't even look at me, but if she were to answer I imagine she would've said something like, "What?" with an attitude.

I've decided to live the life of Jo March, and inherit a large estate from a cranky aunt to fill with raucous boys who give me lots of grist for the writing mill, when I'm not teaching them wise lessons and punishing them for their scrapes by tying them to the bedpost. (Actually it was Nan, a little girl, whom Jo tied to the bedpost. But still.) "I really don't know which I like best, writing or boys" (Little Men, chapter 3).

farewell to you Indian Summer

Yesterday I stepped into the shower with dirty feet from running through the grass barefooted, and I remembered drawing brown designs on the bathtub floor with my toe as a kid when my feet were dirty. The water stung the tiny cuts on my elbows from the grass when I did a somersault to retrieve a Frisbee. My fingers were swollen from the heat and my ball glove, making my hands sweat and smell like leather. It was humid and hot and the sun made my face red and my legs sticky. This was summer.

I'm sorry to see it go. I seem to be having attacks of Christmas anticipation - accidentally hearing the first few bars of "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas," smelling cinnamon pumpkin spiced candles, observing the clerk in Hobby Lobby string white lights on their faux pine trees - and I find myself wishing the last few weeks of this summer away. How have I spent it? Sick, at a funeral, dodging mosquitoes, avoiding the heat, working over 40 hours a week in a windowless basement. It's easy to wish for football and pumpkin pie season when the windows are closed and the air conditioning is blasting, but I realized I've missed all the beauties of summer. Is this what being an adult means? I'm not willing to give up dirtied feet so I can be grown up. Is adulthood one long winter?

I do look forward to winter. In fact, I prefer December to August. I think it's more of a realization of passing time that bothers me, that unsatisfied feeling I have at the end of the summer that no relationships were strengthened and only a handful of books were read, none of them while lying out in the sun with a sprinkler squirting a droplet or two in my direction. I ate a piece of banana cake today and found it flavorless, so I ate a little more as if quantity would somehow make up for quality. That's how I feel about this summer. It has lacked, and I want to drag it out as if with just a little more of it I'll find what was missing and feel completed.

Summer, you old Indian summer,
You're the tear that comes after June-time laughter
You see so many dreams that don't come true
Dreams we fashioned when summertime was new

They're writing songs of love, but not for me

I glanced at the calendar in the kitchen today to see that my grandparents will celebrate their 73rd wedding anniversary this month. 73 years! How many people even live that long?

Curious, I dug through a box of photos, and found so many that had me smiling, and a few that made my heart sad, to see how youth has turned to old age, to see their faces and know just a little of how their lives were lived and what was in their hearts.

My grandmother, Festna, in 1942. She wrote everything on the backs of her pictures, and on this one she wrote: "Festna Lawrence, taken at the 2nd turn in the road from the house going toward Diamond Springs Elizabeth, Ark. Age 24. Taken in Baxter Co." I wonder what she found so fascinating about the rocks.

"Homer Lawrence, Pfc. Jewell L. Lawrence 37257154. Camp Shelby, Miss, just home on a furlough, from Alaska. Taken in June 1945 at Arthur Green's place at Beedeville Ark." My grandpa's the one on the left. The "L" stands for Lee, which is what he goes by. He would've been 32 in this picture.

Left: "Mrs. Festna Lawrence. Taken in 1945. I sent this to Lee while serving in the US Army in Germany." She's a large part Native American. Can you tell?

Right: My grandfather holding my mother, my uncle Curt on the left and my uncle Jerry on the right, in 1956.

My grandma married my grandpa when she was 17 to escape her abusive father, and my grandpa, at 22 and growing up with a hobo father who taught him how to jump trains, simply wanted someone to take care of his home. They were married 10 years before having any children, and while in France during WWII, my grandfather wanted to divorce my grandma for a woman he met in Paris. He didn't; I figured it out one summer sleeping in my mother's old room at my grandparents' house, and my uncle Jerry was born 9 months exactly after my grandpa returned home from the war.

I used to sit next to my grandpa on the couch and watch Wheel of Fortune with him, work on crossword puzzles, ride with him into town for a newspaper in his white pickup truck. I used to sit on the edge of his bed, his room smelling of mothballs and dust, as he finger picked "Silent Night" on his guitar. Now my grandpa, at 95 this August, doesn't remember who my mother is, or that he was ever in a war. I hate the time that passes.