This is my semi-lame “Best Books I’ve Read This Year” entry. It’s semi-lame because I only read eleven. Or at least that’s all I remember. Some I didn’t quite finish. If I wanted to write a “Best Of” entry that was not lame, it wouldn’t be very interesting. “Best New Ways to Use Hamburger” comes to mind, as does “Best Ways to Multitask While Giving the Appearance that Your Child Has Your Undivided Attention.” On the other hand, at least I did read 11 books this year—and skimmed several others to write book reviews. That’s a handful more than last year. And many left a powerful impression on me. So here’s my semi-lame list, offered to you because 1) it reflects my year’s spiritual/emotional/intellectual journey, and 2) it seems like a blogger thing to do.
Rock-My-World Favorites
The Proper Care and Feeding of Husbands by Dr. Laura Schlessinger
Death by Suburb: How to Keep the Suburbs from Killing Your Soul by David L. Goetz
The first helped me understand Kevin; the second helped me understand myself. Dr. Laura’s book is a must-read for any woman who doesn’t get her husband. And if you’re lucky enough, like me, to get your husband to go through it first and highlight the parts that most apply to him, all the better. Suburb cemented a lot of the ponderings and stirrings I’ve had during the past two years. The author lives a parallel life to mine and apparently wrote this book just for me. Especially chapter six, which hits the nail on my suburban head. It’s all pretty offensive stuff, especially chapter six, but I devoured every word.
Revelations of a Single Woman: Loving the Life I Didn’t Expect by Connally Gilliam
After finishing the book, I e-mailed the author, an acquaintance, and called it, “Loving the book I didn’t expect.” Struggle is struggle, and Connally shares hers with the kind of transparency and authenticity I didn’t think existed anymore.
Expand-My-World Books
Beyond Charity: The Call to Christian Community Development by John M. Perkins
Palestine: Peace Not Apartheid by Jimmy Carter
Both reflect my growing interest in the poor and the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. Perkins has spent his life loving and caring for our country’s urban poor, and he makes me want to do the same. Carter’s book was a decent, straight-forward introduction to the history of the Middle East conflict. Both books made me think. Ouch.
Spiritual-Growth Books
Intercessors Arise: Personal Prayer that Changes the World by Debbie Przybylski
An Army of Ordinary People by Felicity Dale
When the Game Is Over, It All Goes Back in the Box by John Ortberg
All three influenced, if only for a time, my thinking about God. I got more out of the quotes in Intercessors than the actual words of the writer. Dale’s stories are almost too incredible to believe, but the same could be said of God. John Ortberg could write 224 pages about cockroaches and have me riveted. Luckily, he chooses more interesting topics.
And Finally, Fiction
Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini
On Chesil Beach by Ian McEwan
The Shack by William P. Young
Engaging writing can do a lot for a sad story, which is about all I have to say about the first two. Chesil Beach was especially disheartening. (At least it was short.) I didn’t get caught up in the maelstrom that was The Shack; I actually just read it because I was paid to. Liked the story, loved the way-way-outside-the-box portrayal of God, but other parts made me want to beat my head against heavy objects. If my daughter had been abducted and was presumed dead, the last thing I’m going to want to talk to God about—should I get the chance to hang out with Him—is the relational dynamics of the trinity. The dialogue didn’t feel real to me, though I applaud the author for his creativity and chutzpah.
Books to Read in 2009
A Thousand Splendid Suns by Khaled Hosseini (because I’m a sucker for a sad, engaging story?)
Redeeming Love (because I’ve gotta try Francine Rivers some time, and the book of Hosea intrigues me)
Un-Christian: What a New Generation Really Thinks about Christianity... and Why It Matters (curious)
365 Days by Charla Muller (intriguing, but hope my husband doesn’t get any ideas)
The Glass Castle by Jeannette Walls (heard a lot about it)
The Confident Woman by Joyce Meyer (sent by a friend)
Surprised by Hope: Rethinking Heaven, the Resurrection, and the Mission of the Church
by N. T. Wright (recommended by a friend)
Abandoned By Stanley Telchin (recommended by my sister-in-law; a Jewish perspective to balance out all I've learned from my Muslim-oriented friends)
More by John M. Perkins
Any other suggestions?
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
A Week with New Perspective
It happens every time. Just when I'm comfy wallowing in my own despair, something jars me unexpectedly out of my own little world. Last week’s thoughts on loneliness are replaced today with new thoughts on gratitude. Again. It doesn't make the loneliness go away (And for those who have responded with such heartfelt empathy, don't worry. It's a topic I'll return to.), but it does give perspective.
I’ve recently been given the opportunity to write stories for Compassion International, whose mission is to “release children from poverty, in Jesus’ name.” My raw material comes from field reporters, local Compassion staff who interview the children and families involved in their programs. I’ve done about five so far, all heartwarming and inspirational. Today’s is just sobering.
Mateare is a Nicaraguan town of 31,622 people located 25 kilometers from Managua. The majority of this city’s adults worked at its eight factories, but since July, six have closed, leaving 80 percent of the population without a job or income. And the reason for this? Because of the U.S. economy. Because people like you and me have less money to spend. So Americans are importing less. So factories in Nicaragua close down. And a Nicaraguan family of seven goes from eating three meals a day to one. Just like that, the dominoes fall, and what happens in my backyard rocks someone a world away.
We think things are rough here. They are rough. People are spending less money on car repair (my husband’s business), and we feel the crunch. But it doesn’t mean our family eats less. (On the contrary, stress usually provokes us to eat more.) And I’m obviously not so consumed with finding my children’s next meal that I simply have no time to contemplate my more psychologically complex needs. I don't like to pit one kind of pain against another, but lonely versus hungry? Yeah, I’ll take lonely, thanks. And I’ll eat my weight in cookie dough while I work through it.
My point is that I have it so good, even when I’m not feeling it. And when I’m not feeling it, it never fails that a reminder—like these people trying to feed their five children on a daily ration of coffee, a slice of cheese, and a scoop of beans—drops in my lap. Along with it, these couple of sentences rained down on me today, too. “[God] picks up the poor from the dirt, rescues the wretched who’ve been thrown out with the trash. Seats them among the honored guests, a place of honor among the best and brightest.” (A paraphrase of Psalm 113.)
It's not lost on me—or probably any of you—that the ability to focus on things like purpose, loneliness, belonging, is a luxury. It's a luxury because my babies are fed, clothed, clean (for the most part). Knowing this doesn't fix everything or cure my hurts, but it makes me thankful for a multitasking God who sits with me in my loneliness while simultaneously picking the poor up out of the dirt. And it makes me dream of being the arms He uses to pick them up—which may likely be the prescription He writes for my loneliness.
Mateare is a Nicaraguan town of 31,622 people located 25 kilometers from Managua. The majority of this city’s adults worked at its eight factories, but since July, six have closed, leaving 80 percent of the population without a job or income. And the reason for this? Because of the U.S. economy. Because people like you and me have less money to spend. So Americans are importing less. So factories in Nicaragua close down. And a Nicaraguan family of seven goes from eating three meals a day to one. Just like that, the dominoes fall, and what happens in my backyard rocks someone a world away.
We think things are rough here. They are rough. People are spending less money on car repair (my husband’s business), and we feel the crunch. But it doesn’t mean our family eats less. (On the contrary, stress usually provokes us to eat more.) And I’m obviously not so consumed with finding my children’s next meal that I simply have no time to contemplate my more psychologically complex needs. I don't like to pit one kind of pain against another, but lonely versus hungry? Yeah, I’ll take lonely, thanks. And I’ll eat my weight in cookie dough while I work through it.
My point is that I have it so good, even when I’m not feeling it. And when I’m not feeling it, it never fails that a reminder—like these people trying to feed their five children on a daily ration of coffee, a slice of cheese, and a scoop of beans—drops in my lap. Along with it, these couple of sentences rained down on me today, too. “[God] picks up the poor from the dirt, rescues the wretched who’ve been thrown out with the trash. Seats them among the honored guests, a place of honor among the best and brightest.” (A paraphrase of Psalm 113.)
It's not lost on me—or probably any of you—that the ability to focus on things like purpose, loneliness, belonging, is a luxury. It's a luxury because my babies are fed, clothed, clean (for the most part). Knowing this doesn't fix everything or cure my hurts, but it makes me thankful for a multitasking God who sits with me in my loneliness while simultaneously picking the poor up out of the dirt. And it makes me dream of being the arms He uses to pick them up—which may likely be the prescription He writes for my loneliness.
Monday, December 8, 2008
Thoughts on Loneliness
Here’s a cheery Christmas topic: loneliness. It’s something I’ve been thinking about a lot as I adjust to my new life (still new to me even though it’s been almost a year). It’s something I’m more aware of this month, and I know I’m not alone. Emotions of all kinds seem to be felt more acutely at Christmastime.
As I’ve processed the kind of “lonely” I am, it’s not so much the being alone kind. Lord knows I’m rarely alone. And the turbo-charged bundles of noise and energy that stir around me are pretty good company. Nor is my loneliness solely a product of my downsized social calendar. While not having a Christmas party to attend this year has caused me more angst than I care to admit, it’s not the leading contributor to my loneliness.
So while I’m a little lonely for people and activity, there’s something more there. I think it’s the longing to be known. I want people to know me—not for the things I say, or the way I look, or the committees I volunteer for, or the way my children behave—but for who I really am. As much as I want to hide my dirty insides from the world, I like the idea of some sort of x-ray vision that would allow people to zero in on my soul, on who I really am. No, I’m not really that woman who chatters too much because she can’t bear long conversational pauses. No, I’m not really that fool who repeatedly says things she regrets because she has no filter. Or that selfish hag who seems to care only about herself and no one else. And no, I’m not that mother who tears down her children with just one squinty-eyed look or her friend with one biting comment. I may appear to be those things, but anyone who knows me—knows me—knows that that’s not who I am. Not at my core.
I worked with people who knew me. No matter how bad a day I was having, no matter what foolish, ridiculous things came out of my mouth, no matter whether I succeeded or failed, I was known—and loved in spite of it. I was lucky to have that. Most people search their whole lives for this. I’m searching now, searching for a new place to fit, a new team to play on. I find that it causes me to spend way too much time thinking about things I don’t really care about—my ability to make engaging chitchat, delicious snacks, and beautiful children. It’s a lot of work. And it’s lonely work.
Ever the optimist, I have to find something good in loneliness. The obvious answer is that it makes me more compassionate. How many Christmases have I joyfully, obliviously flitted about, unaware of the silent sufferers around me? A lot. How often do I make quick judgments about people instead of getting to know them? All the time. (And when I do take the time to know someone better, I’m always surprised by how wrong my first impression was.)
My loneliness also teaches me about God. Could this longing to be truly known—and, even more, to be truly loved—be the deepest longing of the human heart? Is this what leads us from relationship to relationship, group to group? Is this what those beautiful young people on TV mean when they say they’re looking for a “connection”?
I think God probably ships us out of the factory with this pre-wired desire to be known. He does this so that we’ll realize, in time, that we are truly known. By Him and Him alone. And I think He does it so that we’ll desire to fully know—not just other people, but God, our creator. Paul said it this way in 1 Corinthians 13:12, “Now I know in part; then [when I join Him in heaven] I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.” I can’t be fully known on earth. I can’t fully know other people, although I can certainly try a lot harder to know them better. But I can trust that there is one who knows me—my name, the number of hairs on my head, my loneliness, and the x-ray–vision condition of my soul—and yet loves me more than I can imagine. It's that I cling to when the loneliness comes.
As I’ve processed the kind of “lonely” I am, it’s not so much the being alone kind. Lord knows I’m rarely alone. And the turbo-charged bundles of noise and energy that stir around me are pretty good company. Nor is my loneliness solely a product of my downsized social calendar. While not having a Christmas party to attend this year has caused me more angst than I care to admit, it’s not the leading contributor to my loneliness.
So while I’m a little lonely for people and activity, there’s something more there. I think it’s the longing to be known. I want people to know me—not for the things I say, or the way I look, or the committees I volunteer for, or the way my children behave—but for who I really am. As much as I want to hide my dirty insides from the world, I like the idea of some sort of x-ray vision that would allow people to zero in on my soul, on who I really am. No, I’m not really that woman who chatters too much because she can’t bear long conversational pauses. No, I’m not really that fool who repeatedly says things she regrets because she has no filter. Or that selfish hag who seems to care only about herself and no one else. And no, I’m not that mother who tears down her children with just one squinty-eyed look or her friend with one biting comment. I may appear to be those things, but anyone who knows me—knows me—knows that that’s not who I am. Not at my core.
I worked with people who knew me. No matter how bad a day I was having, no matter what foolish, ridiculous things came out of my mouth, no matter whether I succeeded or failed, I was known—and loved in spite of it. I was lucky to have that. Most people search their whole lives for this. I’m searching now, searching for a new place to fit, a new team to play on. I find that it causes me to spend way too much time thinking about things I don’t really care about—my ability to make engaging chitchat, delicious snacks, and beautiful children. It’s a lot of work. And it’s lonely work.
Ever the optimist, I have to find something good in loneliness. The obvious answer is that it makes me more compassionate. How many Christmases have I joyfully, obliviously flitted about, unaware of the silent sufferers around me? A lot. How often do I make quick judgments about people instead of getting to know them? All the time. (And when I do take the time to know someone better, I’m always surprised by how wrong my first impression was.)
My loneliness also teaches me about God. Could this longing to be truly known—and, even more, to be truly loved—be the deepest longing of the human heart? Is this what leads us from relationship to relationship, group to group? Is this what those beautiful young people on TV mean when they say they’re looking for a “connection”?
I think God probably ships us out of the factory with this pre-wired desire to be known. He does this so that we’ll realize, in time, that we are truly known. By Him and Him alone. And I think He does it so that we’ll desire to fully know—not just other people, but God, our creator. Paul said it this way in 1 Corinthians 13:12, “Now I know in part; then [when I join Him in heaven] I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.” I can’t be fully known on earth. I can’t fully know other people, although I can certainly try a lot harder to know them better. But I can trust that there is one who knows me—my name, the number of hairs on my head, my loneliness, and the x-ray–vision condition of my soul—and yet loves me more than I can imagine. It's that I cling to when the loneliness comes.
Monday, December 1, 2008
Happy Christmas Holidays? Or something?
It's finally December, and I can stop feeling ridiculous for listening to nonstop Christmas music. Despite the cold weather, it’s still my favorite time of the year. But there’s something that’s popped up in the past few Decembers that makes me scratch my head. It’s the uproar over “Happy Holidays.”
These are pretty benign, cheerful words on their own. The offense, apparently, is that they remove Christ from Christmas. That it’s another attempt to take God out of our culture. The American Family Association has launched a boycott of stores who use the “Happy Holidays” salutation in place of "Merry Christmas." My local Christian radio station proudly boasts: “It’s not Happy Holidays—it’s Merry Christmas!”
I wonder what Jesus thinks about all this. It’s hard for me to picture Him getting all worked up about it. I’m thinking Jesus is pretty secure in the fact that Christmas is all about Him. It also makes me wonder about the dual responsibilities of Christians to stand up for truth and to love our neighbor as ourselves. Without question, there is a time to rise up, at any cost, and speak out boldly in favor of biblical truth. Where would we be if the disciples and early Christians hadn’t done this? What would our world look like if people like William Wilberforce and Abraham Lincoln hadn’t taken an unpopular stand for truth? The examples are endless.
But is “Happy Holidays” an assault on truth—something we need to jump in the ring with? Or is it simply a convenient phrase for a multicultural society? Here’s what I learned on Wikipedia: “Though Christmas has been celebrated since the 4th century AD, the first known usage of any Christmastime greeting, ‘Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year’ was in an informal letter written by an English admiral in 1699. The same phrase appeared in the first Christmas card, produced in England in 1843, and in the popular secular carol We Wish You a Merry Christmas.”
For centuries, Christians presumably honored Jesus and celebrated His birth without any catch phrase at all. But today, it seems like “Merry Christmas” is as important to us as the virgin birth. So much so that people are willing to picket uncooperative businesses and lecture sales clerks who happen to utter the wrong greeting.
“Truly he taught us to love one another. His law is love and his gospel is peace.” I am beautifully convicted by these words from one of my favorite carols. I’m not saying we all need to hold hands, sing Kumbaya, and embrace whatever feels good to the masses. But I’m just wondering if this isn’t the time to focus more on His message of love—through generosity, kindness, humility, service—rather than demanding people use our pet phrase.
Does anyone think I’m completely missing it? If so, write me. I’d love to hear the other side.
These are pretty benign, cheerful words on their own. The offense, apparently, is that they remove Christ from Christmas. That it’s another attempt to take God out of our culture. The American Family Association has launched a boycott of stores who use the “Happy Holidays” salutation in place of "Merry Christmas." My local Christian radio station proudly boasts: “It’s not Happy Holidays—it’s Merry Christmas!”
I wonder what Jesus thinks about all this. It’s hard for me to picture Him getting all worked up about it. I’m thinking Jesus is pretty secure in the fact that Christmas is all about Him. It also makes me wonder about the dual responsibilities of Christians to stand up for truth and to love our neighbor as ourselves. Without question, there is a time to rise up, at any cost, and speak out boldly in favor of biblical truth. Where would we be if the disciples and early Christians hadn’t done this? What would our world look like if people like William Wilberforce and Abraham Lincoln hadn’t taken an unpopular stand for truth? The examples are endless.
But is “Happy Holidays” an assault on truth—something we need to jump in the ring with? Or is it simply a convenient phrase for a multicultural society? Here’s what I learned on Wikipedia: “Though Christmas has been celebrated since the 4th century AD, the first known usage of any Christmastime greeting, ‘Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year’ was in an informal letter written by an English admiral in 1699. The same phrase appeared in the first Christmas card, produced in England in 1843, and in the popular secular carol We Wish You a Merry Christmas.”
For centuries, Christians presumably honored Jesus and celebrated His birth without any catch phrase at all. But today, it seems like “Merry Christmas” is as important to us as the virgin birth. So much so that people are willing to picket uncooperative businesses and lecture sales clerks who happen to utter the wrong greeting.
“Truly he taught us to love one another. His law is love and his gospel is peace.” I am beautifully convicted by these words from one of my favorite carols. I’m not saying we all need to hold hands, sing Kumbaya, and embrace whatever feels good to the masses. But I’m just wondering if this isn’t the time to focus more on His message of love—through generosity, kindness, humility, service—rather than demanding people use our pet phrase.
Does anyone think I’m completely missing it? If so, write me. I’d love to hear the other side.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Thankful List
I'm a huge fan of gratitude. So in honor of Thanksgiving, here’s a list of Things I’m Surprisingly Thankful For (after the obvious things like God’s grace, my family, my country, my bed, uninterrupted sleep, etc.)
E-mail, so adult conversation is only a click away
Online shopping, because dragging all my kids Christmas shopping is sometimes more adventure than I’m prepared to deal with
My husband, who grows with me instead of away from me
65-degree days in November
Family that lives close by (no really, I’m thankful for this)
Halloween candy that the kids have forgotten about
Books so meaningful that they seem to be written just for me
Braden’s unshakable sense of right and wrong
Addison’s sincere desire to care for her parents when we’re old
Brooklyn’s confidence and ability to roll with anything
Camryn's cheeks, because she’s all our other babies rolled into one, except balder and yet still somehow cuter
Naptime
Summertime
Reliable hot water
Struggle, because it refuses to leave me the same
Change, because as much as I hate it, I’d probably hate the alternative even more
My minivan, because it keeps me from ever thinking I’m cool
My age, because I’m a whole lot smarter at 38 than I was at 37
Hand sanitizer
Marshmallow cream
E-mail, so adult conversation is only a click away
Online shopping, because dragging all my kids Christmas shopping is sometimes more adventure than I’m prepared to deal with
My husband, who grows with me instead of away from me
65-degree days in November
Family that lives close by (no really, I’m thankful for this)
Halloween candy that the kids have forgotten about
Books so meaningful that they seem to be written just for me
Braden’s unshakable sense of right and wrong
Addison’s sincere desire to care for her parents when we’re old
Brooklyn’s confidence and ability to roll with anything
Camryn's cheeks, because she’s all our other babies rolled into one, except balder and yet still somehow cuter
Naptime
Summertime
Reliable hot water
Struggle, because it refuses to leave me the same
Change, because as much as I hate it, I’d probably hate the alternative even more
My minivan, because it keeps me from ever thinking I’m cool
My age, because I’m a whole lot smarter at 38 than I was at 37
Hand sanitizer
Marshmallow cream
Monday, November 17, 2008
A Tale of Two Trips
Just 72 hours ago, my toes were livin’ it up in the Pacific Ocean. It’s been a good year for my toes. When I took my two older kids to the beach and Disneyland in May, I never dreamed I’d be back in Southern California—steps away from Disneyland but $200 from actually entering—just six months later.
My first trip was a year in the making. My friend Kim researched every detail and laid out the perfect itinerary for our two families. Every plan was expertly executed, right down to being the very first people through the Disneyland gate. The weather, the Disney Fast Passes, strangers, servers, and even the children cooperated beautifully. It was the perfect trip.
Flash forward to a few weeks ago, when I was asked to fly to Orange County to meet with a group of people I’m helping with a book. After a five-minute conversation, Kevin and I booked three tickets, deciding he and the two younger girls would go with me. We boarded the plane Thursday with a possible rental car reservation and a few Google maps of various beaches. (I cringe as I think of Kim reading this.)
People may think the biggest difference in airplane travel is first-class versus coach. That is not true. The biggest difference is the age of your traveling companions and whether or not your lap is occupied by another person. Flying with anyone older than six is the first-class of airplane travel. Under six? You might as well be dragged behind the plane by your ankles. In May, I dozed on the plane. In November, I worked up a sweat trying to keep my 19-month-old’s sucker out of the hair of the lovely lady in 8D.
In May, I experienced one of those rare fantasy moments that moms dream of, watching my children frolic on the beach, hair blowing in the wind and giggles oozing out of them. I left for my recent trip with similar expectations. What I did not envision was my four-year-old catching a stomach virus. Or Kevin saying, “The beach is a great place to throw up, Brooka. You’re either making bird food or fish food.” I didn’t plan on buying my daughter a $50 outfit at the Disney store when we became desperate for a change of clothes or frantically fishing for the sick bag on the airplane.
I had hoped to re-create a bit of the magic we experienced in May at the Rainforest Café in Downtown Disney. We caught a glimpse of it when we were seated at the exact table I’d dined at six months earlier with Braden and Addison. The magic began to fade when Brooka threw up at the hostess desk. It was completely extinguished when she hurled for the sixth time near the animatronic elephants. (How many times can you say, “I’m so sorry” to a table full of strangers?)
And then there was our sweet baby—terrified of sand, surf, seagulls, and especially the fake thunderstorm at the Rainforest Café. But at least she was cool with Brooka's vomit.
Still, it was a good trip. Both were good trips. One was good in a blissful, idyllic sort of way, the other in a chaotic, what-now sort of way. How often do I tell my children, “You get what you get”? I guess God thought I needed a reminder of my own. Sometimes you get paradise. Sometimes you get puke. But as long as your toes are in the Pacific, it’s all good.
My first trip was a year in the making. My friend Kim researched every detail and laid out the perfect itinerary for our two families. Every plan was expertly executed, right down to being the very first people through the Disneyland gate. The weather, the Disney Fast Passes, strangers, servers, and even the children cooperated beautifully. It was the perfect trip.
Flash forward to a few weeks ago, when I was asked to fly to Orange County to meet with a group of people I’m helping with a book. After a five-minute conversation, Kevin and I booked three tickets, deciding he and the two younger girls would go with me. We boarded the plane Thursday with a possible rental car reservation and a few Google maps of various beaches. (I cringe as I think of Kim reading this.)
People may think the biggest difference in airplane travel is first-class versus coach. That is not true. The biggest difference is the age of your traveling companions and whether or not your lap is occupied by another person. Flying with anyone older than six is the first-class of airplane travel. Under six? You might as well be dragged behind the plane by your ankles. In May, I dozed on the plane. In November, I worked up a sweat trying to keep my 19-month-old’s sucker out of the hair of the lovely lady in 8D.
In May, I experienced one of those rare fantasy moments that moms dream of, watching my children frolic on the beach, hair blowing in the wind and giggles oozing out of them. I left for my recent trip with similar expectations. What I did not envision was my four-year-old catching a stomach virus. Or Kevin saying, “The beach is a great place to throw up, Brooka. You’re either making bird food or fish food.” I didn’t plan on buying my daughter a $50 outfit at the Disney store when we became desperate for a change of clothes or frantically fishing for the sick bag on the airplane.
I had hoped to re-create a bit of the magic we experienced in May at the Rainforest Café in Downtown Disney. We caught a glimpse of it when we were seated at the exact table I’d dined at six months earlier with Braden and Addison. The magic began to fade when Brooka threw up at the hostess desk. It was completely extinguished when she hurled for the sixth time near the animatronic elephants. (How many times can you say, “I’m so sorry” to a table full of strangers?)
And then there was our sweet baby—terrified of sand, surf, seagulls, and especially the fake thunderstorm at the Rainforest Café. But at least she was cool with Brooka's vomit.
Still, it was a good trip. Both were good trips. One was good in a blissful, idyllic sort of way, the other in a chaotic, what-now sort of way. How often do I tell my children, “You get what you get”? I guess God thought I needed a reminder of my own. Sometimes you get paradise. Sometimes you get puke. But as long as your toes are in the Pacific, it’s all good.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
One Week Later
The first election I remember was in 1980. I was in the fourth grade and paid more attention to the TV reporters than the multiplication tables I was supposed to be memorizing. That was a fateful night not only for Ronald Reagan, but also for me. That night, I began to dream of being a journalist. And though that dream has been modified over the years, my curiosity and zeal for watching election coverage remains strong.
Last Tuesday was no different. I sat down to watch with my usual sense of curiosity and competition. (It’s a lot like watching a horserace.) Over the next four hours, I experienced the gamut of emotions as it became more and more clear that Barack Obama would be our next president. But it was the feeling that came last—the one that lingers a week later—that surprised me most. It was this giddy, hopeful feeling. Sort of like the hopeful anticipation that comes when I walk my kindergartner in to her first day of school. Added to that was my great sense of pride—trite as it may sound—in democracy and America.
I watched black journalists barely contain themselves, casting all professionalism aside so they could celebrate this moment like everyone else. I was most moved by Pierre Thomas, an ABC reporter who always appears professional and poised, confident and composed. But not Tuesday. Tuesday, as he stood with a group of students at Morehouse College in Atlanta, this polished journalist became an actual person instead of just a TV personality. He got real and shared his story—how his father told his little boy that this day would never come, that a black man would never be elected president in a country such as this. Thomas sobbed as he told a national audience how much this moment meant to him. And the students behind him told their similar stories with their own tears. Their joy was contagious, and it cut across party lines, at least in my house.
Later, I read a quote from another black journalist. Months ago, he wrote that if Obama could become president of the United States, everything he believed about white people would be disproven. That statement plows me over like a freight train.
So though I was not, and am still not, Obamamanic, I am a very proud American. I’m a hopeful American. Today I asked a wise friend of mine, an expert on international events and the Middle East in particular (not to mention a Republican), what he thought of Obama. He responded, “In addition to our melting economy, he has the huge task of uniting the nation. I hope that we, the Christians, will set the pace rather than encourage the spirit of division.”
I can’t say it any better than that. Let’s set the pace.
Last Tuesday was no different. I sat down to watch with my usual sense of curiosity and competition. (It’s a lot like watching a horserace.) Over the next four hours, I experienced the gamut of emotions as it became more and more clear that Barack Obama would be our next president. But it was the feeling that came last—the one that lingers a week later—that surprised me most. It was this giddy, hopeful feeling. Sort of like the hopeful anticipation that comes when I walk my kindergartner in to her first day of school. Added to that was my great sense of pride—trite as it may sound—in democracy and America.
I watched black journalists barely contain themselves, casting all professionalism aside so they could celebrate this moment like everyone else. I was most moved by Pierre Thomas, an ABC reporter who always appears professional and poised, confident and composed. But not Tuesday. Tuesday, as he stood with a group of students at Morehouse College in Atlanta, this polished journalist became an actual person instead of just a TV personality. He got real and shared his story—how his father told his little boy that this day would never come, that a black man would never be elected president in a country such as this. Thomas sobbed as he told a national audience how much this moment meant to him. And the students behind him told their similar stories with their own tears. Their joy was contagious, and it cut across party lines, at least in my house.
Later, I read a quote from another black journalist. Months ago, he wrote that if Obama could become president of the United States, everything he believed about white people would be disproven. That statement plows me over like a freight train.
So though I was not, and am still not, Obamamanic, I am a very proud American. I’m a hopeful American. Today I asked a wise friend of mine, an expert on international events and the Middle East in particular (not to mention a Republican), what he thought of Obama. He responded, “In addition to our melting economy, he has the huge task of uniting the nation. I hope that we, the Christians, will set the pace rather than encourage the spirit of division.”
I can’t say it any better than that. Let’s set the pace.
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