Rocks In My Dryer

Nothing Doing

See this view?

It's mine.

I had major hip surgery 11 days ago (more on that later), and this particular surgery has a long and complicated recovery. LONG. Did I mention it is lengthy?

I can bear zero weight on my operative leg (the right one) for a total of six weeks, so here I sit. Actually, I can only sit in short spurts too. So here I lie. Or lay. Whatever--I couldn't figure out "lie/lay" even before pain meds.

(And let us pause for a moment to acknowledge that if you zoom in on that picture, you will see the name of the socks are "Bair Paws". Seriously. They gave me misspelled socks in the hospital's pre-op room. I took one look at them and started to gather my things and told Hubs, "IF THEY CAN'T SPELL 'BEAR' THEY ARE NOT CUTTING OPEN MY HIP." Thankfully, he talked me off this ledge, as they are the most comfortable socks I have ever worn. Also, and I really need you to work with me and picture this, the Bair Paws gown they gave me had a hose attached and it blew comfy warm air into my gown. I am a chronic spelling snob, but I'm also a chronic cold person, and guess what? Comfort wins. Nice job, Bair Paws people. Atrocious spelling, but great product.)

Back to recovery.

(Side note: Clearly, the FDA should list that a side effect of painkillers is over-use of italics and parentheses.)

I haven't been this helpless since I was a toddler. I can't fix a drink and carry it with me to the couch. I can't sit at the computer for more than a few minutes at a time. I can't sweep a floor or empty a trashcan or drive a car or walk to the mailbox with my husband.

My mother--the Greatest Hero In My World--has all but moved in to run my family. Precious friends are providing weeks of meals and rides for my kids and are coming to sit with me so that I will not be alone.

This is how it will be for much of the summer. Once I can start walking in six weeks, I am assured the recovery will still be slow and my limitations will be many. I am told my joint will not be normal, strong, and pain-free for six months.

And I won't lie to you: This is hard.

Me, the mom of the carpool, the class party, the field trip, the sleepover, the mega-grocery trip--I am a bump on this couch while that world outside my window just whirls along without me.

And I feel it, smacking me in the head every time I look around, the lesson that hangs in the air waiting to be learned: I can still love my people.

Let me repeat that, because I don't fully believe it yet, even though a little part of my brain knows it must be true: I can still love my people.

I sit here, waited on hand and foot, knowing how much work I'm creating for the people I love best. And I can't help. I cannot love them by jumping up and fixing them a casserole or driving to dance class. I can love them, as I sit (lay/lie) here. I can listen, pray, watch, laugh, comfort, but I can't DO.

And guess what? Loving your people by DOING is way easier than loving them the other ways. I realize, painfully, how addicted I've been to proving my love to my family (and myself) by just moving around on their behalf all the time.

The other day, I crutched myself gently out to my front porch because I need to breathe some air. It was starting to sprinkle, and my ten-year-old daughter dashed out past me and began to dance in the rain. I just watched her, easing myself onto a bench. She danced. And I just watched. I didn't run inside to grab my phone and snap a picture of the cute moment. I didn't watch for ten seconds and then tell her, sorry, I have to go inside and fold clothes now. I just watched her. I watched the beautiful length of her legs, and the funny way the hair started to stick to the side of her face. I just watched and savored that moment, right there.

I just loved her.

I am seeing these moments begin to take shape, as I let go of the old ways of loving my family and try to embrace these newer (and harder) ones. I listen to the sound of my husband's footsteps in the kitchen as he prepares my meds and comes to put me in bed, and I pray that God will ease his burdens. I just love him.

When my son needs to discuss a school frustration, I do not cut the conversation short to hop onto the next thing, because I can't--because the only way I can love him is to hear him. And we talk, more deeply than we've ever talked on the topic. I just love him.

I am ashamed how hard it is to slow down and love my family in this new way. I should've learned it years ago.  I wonder what all I have missed when I dashed off to fold their towels instead of watching them dance in the rain?

Teach me, Lord.

 

 

My Friend

Just finished posting an important bit of news at my dear friend B's blog. She surely could use your prayers.

Mark Your Calendars For February 27th!

One month following the 7.1 earthquake that struck Haiti, an all-star cast of musicians is gathering for Help Haiti Live, a two-city ticketed concert event taking place on February 27th, 2010 to benefit Compassion International’s Haiti disaster relief fund.

Don't live in LA or Nashville? Watch the concerts for free (streaming live) on the 27th at Help Haiti Live website. Go ahead and bring your wallet, though--at the website you'll be given a chance to donate to Compassion's work in Haiti. If you've not already done so, this will be the perfect opportunity.

One hundred percent of on-line donations through HelpHaitiLive.com will go to Compassion International’s Haiti disaster relief fund. One hundred percent of net proceeds from ticket sales will go to the same place.

Some of the artists participating in this concert include Jars of Clay, Amy Grant, and two of my personal favorites: Dave Barnes (*squeal*), and Alison Krauss and Union Station (*double squeal*). This will be a spectacular night of music for a great cause--I'll be watching live. Join me!

Help Haiti February 27th - HelpHaitiLive.com from Compassion International on Vimeo.

What We Can Do

"Should we go there?" my eight-year-old son asked me last night as we sat and watched CNN as a family.

No, I explained, we shouldn't--we'd only be in the way.

But I know how he feels. Watching the epic destruction unfold leaves me sitting with a shaking head and a heavy heart, wondering what on earth I can possibly do. Hand-wringing won't help, of course; there is always a course of action, even when the path seems overwhelming.

:: Give. There are people on the ground with access to the tools to help--give to these organizations generously, until you feel the pinch yourself. If you've never been a giver before, let this be a wake-up call and a chance to stretch that part of your heart, and see how your life is changed when you sacrifice for someone else. Compassion has had a strong presence in Haiti for a very long time, and--praise God--their office still stands. You can be sure that your gift will be stretched and used to its very last drop. Here's a great explanation (directly from the Compassion folks) about why their model for disaster relief is so effective:

In this disaster it is crucial that first responders receive support quickly. Because Compassion International ministers through local churches to meet the needs of that church's neighbors, and because these church partners are respected aid workers in their communities, Compassion is uniquely positioned to assess and meet the needs of its sponsored children quickly. This is an advantage of our church-based model in practice for more than 50 years.

:: Talk to your kids. Don't hide tragedy from them. Their world, unfortunately, is a scary place sometimes. Poverty and disaster should be jarring, and seeing it will help them grow into people who want to make things better. Pray together. Brainstorm as a family about things you can give up together to give more generously. Let them feel the pinch, too.

:: Live with intentional thankfulness. When I came home from Africa, I struggled with guilt--why am I comfortable when so many others aren't? I understand a little better now that I can channel those emotions into thankfulness, and I can teach it to my kids. I don't know why my kids are safe and my house is standing and our water is clean. But I will be thankful, and I will take opportunities like this one to re-tune my heart. So many of the things that occupy our minds are fleeting and unimportant. Let Haiti awaken us to a perspective that is laser-focused on what really matters.

Ho, Ho, Ho (and Other Things I'm Thinkin')

A sheepish "thank you" to those of you who have dropped a note to ask if my lack of posting means that something is terribly wrong. 

Things are, in fact, terribly right these days--the book is done (DONE, I tell you, DONE!) and it's off to the printer. I'm so giddy with the new-found freedom that I've celebrated by alternately plowing through my reading list and learning to crochet (and by "learning to crochet", of course, I mean "looping  a bunch of sloppy knots, but gosh, it's fun.") The kids are out of school and they're helping me with holiday preparations (and by "helping", of course, I mean "not really helping at all, but gosh, they're cute"). We're staring down the barrel of an especially action-packed holiday season this year--details to follow, once all the dust has settled.

In the meantime, as a very tiring 2009 draws to a close, I find myself feeling a little reflective about this silly blog o' mine. It started as a hobby, grew into a "job," and it's mercifully, gently settling back into a hobby again, for which I'm profoundly grateful. I've learned so much about setting limits this year; perhaps I'll write on it once I grab hold of the right words. Thank you for bearing with me during a busy, chaotic year, and for the frequent doses of encouragement and laughter you've sent me at just the right time.

I just yawned, which reminds me that, yet again, I've stayed up too late, cramming in all the last-minute Things Which Must Be Done. The presents are sloppily wrapped, and the kitchen floor is covered with sprinkles from our (highly unsuccessful) foray into holiday baking today. The kids played too many video games, and the 8yo has been throwing up all evening. I sigh to remember how I was crabby when I should've been kind today, how I was rushed when I should've paid attention. I'm beginning to think my decades-long tradition of falling short at Christmas may actually be by design: if I had it all together, I suppose I wouldn't have needed a certain Baby to come and rescue me from my own messes.

So I'll sit here, picking cookie sprinkles off the bottoms of my feet, and I'll think about the manger. I'll say a prayer for peace and rest for those of you who are fighting hard battles right now--I know there are many of you.  And I'll think on this, by lovely Madeleine:

He came to a  world which did not mesh,
to heal its tangles, shield its scorn.
In the mystery of the Word made Flesh
the Maker of the stars was born.

We cannot wait till the world is sane
to raise our songs with joyful voice,
for to share our grief, to touch our pain,
He came with Love: Rejoice! Rejoice!

from The Ordering of Love, p. 242

Be merry, my friends--I'll see you back here in the new year.

Is This Thing On?

Hi, blog friends. I'm back. Or at least back-ish. It's been a long and strange several weeks: the normal madhouse of back-to-school chaos (including our first year of middle school), plus the frantic pace of a book deadline, plus the sudden death of my father-in-law. (And by the way, many thanks to those of you who sent such kind expressions of prayer and sympathy--that meant more than you know.) I'm not sure I've ever been sprinting in so many directions at once.

Case in point: I went to curriculum night at my kids' school a couple last week, dashing out the door after a full day of writing and a thrown-together meal of macaroni and cheese. I talked with all the teachers, and I had a nice chat with the PTA president and principal and several other parents. As I was leaving the school, I looked down to see that the entire evening I'd been wearing a giant, streaky blob of macaroni and cheese stuck to the front of my shirt.

NICE.

While I'm quick to kick myself for letting things get so chaotic, I don't want to miss the lessons in the mayhem. Times like this have a way of forcing me to focus on what's important: Turn off the computer and enjoy the cool evening. Love my husband. Check my shirt for wayward pasta. Live and learn.

The good news is that the book is going very well. We're almost to the halfway point, and we're so proud of what we've done so far. You TypePad users already know how many changes are taking place as the new version continue to get up and running, and we're writing this book to the new version of TypePad, not the old one. This has meant many, many hours of poking around in my dashboard, learning the new lay of the land (and, by the way, loving it. I don't always love change, but this new TypePad design has really grown on me.) If you're a new TypePad user (or you're an old one who is still getting up to speed on all the changes), I really think this book is going to be a great help. Sit tight--I'll tell you more about it soon.

In the meantime, I'll continue to be in and out here at my blog, until we hit our final deadline later this fall. OH, the irony that spending many hours a day writing a book on blogging doesn't leave any time for...um, blogging. Also, a quick note--I'm using my personal blog as a guinea pig for implementing some of the TypePad features I'm writing about. Hopefully the changes will be (mostly) unnoticeable to you, but if anything seems wonky, now you know why.

Enough about that. What's new with you?

Grand

I saw the Grand Canyon yesterday, and none of my children fell over the edge, which is a good measure of a successful day at the Canyon, I'd say.  The real measure of a day at the Canyon, in which I try to put into words what I saw--well, that eludes me.  For centuries, people have tried to capture that spectacle in words, photos or paintings, and for centures, they have fallen short.  I'm not sure I'm qualified even to try.

For starters, we saw this:

And this:

My oldest son became pensive, remarking that standing on the edge of the Grand Canyon makes you realize how small you are.  My youngest son coped with the philosophical enormity of that observation by hocking a loogie over the edge.  My four-year-old daughter seemed unable to take it all in (she asked us which of the Disney Princesses we could expect to find there).  I think she thought she was looking at a giant painting, a feeling I can certainly understand.  I felt as if I stood at a masterpiece in the finest museum, my jaw hanging open at the creativity of an Artist who wields a river as a paintbrush.

We stayed long enough to watch sunset, a spectacle we'd been told we didn't want to miss.  Though the crowds had thinned through the late afternoon, a large gathering had assembled at the recommended lookout.  Several brave souls sat right at the edge, their hiking shoes dangling over the precipice.  There was a rumble of friendly conversation all around us, much of it in French, Japanese, Spanish and German.

The sun began its final disappearing act, lowering to touch the western edge of the canyon.  The conversation around us slowly quieted.  We all watched the vanishing sun, vaguely recalling our mothers' warnings that we'd burn our eyes, but how could we look away? 

The sun turned very quickly into a semi-circle on the horizon.  A last, giant burst of orange and purple exploded across the canyon walls to the east.  A few people gasped.  My sons began a countdown: "eight...seven...six...five..." 

Cameras clicked. 

"Down, down, down," my daughter whispered.  There was just a sliver left. 

"...three...two...one..."

And then it was gone.  The dusty, sunburned, multi-lingual crowd spontaneously erupted into applause, the sound of our claps disappearing instantly into the depths around us.  It was such a small thing to do, to clap for the sun and the Canyon, two giant forces so much bigger than any of us, and entirely out of our control.  But we did it anyway.  I guess there's just something in us that needs to say thank you.

One Day At a Time

This post was originally published on July 16, 2008.

Every now and then, motherhood serves you up one of those days.  The days that beat you to a pulp--before breakfast.  The days that make you wonder if you should be saving for college....or reform school.

I'm kidding.

Sort of.

It was just a really hard week last week.  And I crawled into the weekend, my heart bruised and my spirit a little bloodied.  It wasn't pretty.  I wept, and I doubted, and I was mad at my little Offender who, so help me, still makes my heart sing with his crooked smile.  I lay in my bed and cried, and I begged God for something--anything--to redeem this ugly day we'd had. 

I looked over at my laptop.  My sweet friend Robin had sent me this passage:

1 To you I call, O LORD my Rock;
       do not turn a deaf ear to me.
       For if you remain silent,
       I will be like those who have gone down to the pit.

2 Hear my cry for mercy
       as I call to you for help,
       as I lift up my hands
       toward your Most Holy Place.

4 Repay them for their deeds
       and for their evil work;
       repay them for what their hands have done
       and bring back upon them what they deserve.

6 Praise be to the LORD,
       for he has heard my cry for mercy.

7 The LORD is my strength and my shield;
       my heart trusts in him, and I am helped.
       My heart leaps for joy
       and I will give thanks to him in song.

9 Save your people and bless your inheritance;
       be their shepherd and carry them forever.

"The LORD is my strength and my shield; my heart trusts in him, and I am helped."  These are just the words of peace I needed to hear.

Also? "Repay them for what their hands have done and bring back upon them what they deserve."  If I'm not mistaken, I think that's a Biblical way to say, "I HOPE YOU HAVE A CHILD JUST LIKE YOU SOMEDAY." 

Oh, yes. I'm defininitely feeling better now. 

I'm thinking these thoughts, laughing through my tears, when The Offender comes into my room and hops up in my bed.  He can't sleep.  He tells me what's on his mind, and I listen.  And at one point in our conversation I tell him, "you know, you just can't always trust girls.  Believe me.  I used to be one."

Used to be?

The joke hung in the air for just a minute until it washed over us both.  We laughed together, and he leaned in to nudge me with his shoulder.  I placed my hand on the top of his head.  The rumbles of laughter silenced, and we sat there together, a cheeky pre-teen boy and his over-wrought mother.  It was a good silence, the kind that patches up the holes we'd left in each other's hearts that day.

Thank God for the sweet mercy of taking things one day at a time.

I'm kidding.

Sort of.

It was just a really hard week last week.  And I crawled into the weekend, my heart bruised and my spirit a little bloodied.  It wasn't pretty.  I wept, and I doubted, and I was mad at my little Offender who, so help me, still makes my heart sing with his crooked smile.  I lay in my bed and cried, and I begged God for something--anything--to redeem this ugly day we'd had. 

I looked over at my laptop.  My sweet friend Robin had sent me this passage:

1 To you I call, O LORD my Rock;
       do not turn a deaf ear to me.
       For if you remain silent,
       I will be like those who have gone down to the pit.

2 Hear my cry for mercy
       as I call to you for help,
       as I lift up my hands
       toward your Most Holy Place.

4 Repay them for their deeds
       and for their evil work;
       repay them for what their hands have done
       and bring back upon them what they deserve.

6 Praise be to the LORD,
       for he has heard my cry for mercy.

7 The LORD is my strength and my shield;
       my heart trusts in him, and I am helped.
       My heart leaps for joy
       and I will give thanks to him in song.

9 Save your people and bless your inheritance;
       be their shepherd and carry them forever.

"The LORD is my strength and my shield; my heart trusts in him, and I am helped."  These are just the words of peace I needed to hear.

Also? "Repay them for what their hands have done and bring back upon them what they deserve."  If I'm not mistaken, I think that's a Biblical way to say, "I HOPE YOU HAVE A CHILD JUST LIKE YOU SOMEDAY." 

Oh, yes. I'm defininitely feeling better now. 

I'm thinking these thoughts, laughing through my tears, when The Offender comes into my room and hops up in my bed.  He can't sleep.  He tells me what's on his mind, and I listen.  And at one point in our conversation I tell him, "you know, you just can't always trust girls.  Believe me.  I used to be one."

Used to be?

The joke hung in the air for just a minute until it washed over us both.  We laughed together, and he leaned in to nudge me with his shoulder.  I placed my hand on the top of his head.  The rumbles of laughter silenced, and we sat there together, a cheeky pre-teen boy and his over-wrought mother.  It was a good silence, the kind that patches up the holes we'd left in each other's hearts that day.

Thank God for the sweet mercy of taking things one day at a time.

Revelation

Robin of Pensieve is my blog-friend-turned-real-life-friend, and she's is a fireball of energy, personality and heart.  She is so dear to me, and I have been especially moved, on a very personal level, to watch her passionate participation in Compassion's India blog trip.  She has shared words that are profound, gut-wrenching, beautiful and honest.  Before she left, I asked her if she'd be willing to guest post here at my blog while she was overseas, and she graciously agreed.  Robin's powerful words and photo arrived in my in-box this afternoon, and I can hardly wait for you to read on... 

I'm standing in the shower while a perpetual army of water soldiers fights off the day's sweat and filth and emotion when I notice the shelf in front of me.  I mentally tick off seven miniature bottles whose purpose is to clean, condition, soften and fragrance the top of my head to the bottom of my feet..when I lose it.

It's the second time today the tear dam burst when I didn't even know there was a crack in the dike. 

I've seen things this week I shouldn't have.

I've seen things this week I shouldn't have because they just shouldn't "be" to begin with.

Poverty is a wicked assault that seeks to strip away the dignity of those in its path.

January 26, 2009 is a significant date to me; it's when Shaun Groves called me for the first time to discuss the possibility of me joining him on the next Compassion Bloggers trip.   While there's an entire level of insanity for me to leave my husband and children to go, observe and write about a people I don't even know, it was never even a question I had to ask myself.  I said it to him, and in the ensuing months, over and over again to others, "I can think of no better reason to write than to lend my voice to those who have none of their own." 

"Speak up for those who cannot speak for themselves,
for the rights of all who are destitute.
Speak up and judge fairly;
defend the rights of the poor and needy."
Proverbs 31:8,9

If I'm not mistaken, God's tellin', not askin'....

And yet, less than a week ago I was blissfully, ignorantly living the cliched American dream when God appointed a time for me to fly.

For 18 hours and forever, He's given me wings. 

Poverty is no longer a word defined by Webster's; I've seen its generational reach as it self perpetuates.  It's a Machiavellian assault on the innocents.  I despise the injustices I've seen.  I'm angry at the inequity of life.  And oddly, though the potential exists almost to romanticize the poor, I see God at work in and through these circumstances.  Maybe it's in those who suffer, but maybe it's in those who have the means to relieve the burden. 

If you're a regular RIMD reader, you already know Shannon's a Compassion advocate; now, you've heard some of my story.  Compassion International isn't the only child advocacy organization making a difference in children's lives, but it it's the best one I'm aware of.

Look at these kids--they have hope!  Compassion kids are different, you can see it in their eyes (it's always in their eyes...).  We visited four different projects this week and I could see joy...peace...hope in their countenance, something that was noticeably absent in street kids or those wandering villages. 
  

If you've finally reached the tipping point and are ready to sponsor a child in need and release him from indignity of poverty, please click here and you'll meet children who are waiting to hear from you.  At least click through to learn more.

It might just be the first move in a domino effect that breaks the cycle of poverty in a family forever...

because young girls and old women shouldn't have to bathe in the streets.

Hope

I hope you've heard about the Compassion bloggers over in India this week.  Maybe a little part of you has steered clear of their stories.  It's painful to hear about dying orphans and oppressive poverty.  It might be a little more pleasant to think of that as a problem that is happening Over There, which is certainly Not Here, and it's awful, truly, but there's nothing I can do.

But here's the thing.

Compassion's story is, ultimately, a story of hope.  It's about a problem that is slowly but surely being solved, one child at a time, because people like you opened their eyes to the stories. 

So don't fear clicking on these stories.  When you take them to heart, when you take the plunge and sponsor a child, you've become part of the solution.   

Read on, friends, and do something....

Shaun writes about how the Sparkes family in the UK is changing the life of a 12-year-old Indian girl.

Anne writes about living with less so you can do more.

Robin shows us what real hospitality looks like.

Melissa really delves into what God thinks of the poor.

Pete shares a video that shows you what a Compassion project looks like.

And Angie tells us what it feels like when the Gospel sits in your lap.

And They're Off...

This is a big day today for a handful of bloggers.  They're headed to India, to the city Calcutta (or Kolkata, as I think we're supposed to call it now, but I'm sorry, the old 5th-grade geography sticks with me).  They're going with Compassion International to live-blog what they see.  I suspect that they, and those of us following along at home, are about to have our comfy American socks knocked off. 

When Shaun was first telling me about this trip several months ago, he mentioned what a challenge it would be for those bloggers who will try to describe it adequately.  He explained that the poverty on the streets of Calcutta is like no other poverty in the world, so vast is its scope.  Please join in me praying for these bloggers--for their safety, for their families back at home, for their own hearts as they try to tell us some powerful stories.

And please pray, most of all, that their words will resonate with those who have not, perhaps, heard of Compassion's powerful work.  If people can see and understand how Compassion is bringing true hope to a dark situation, and if they'll join in the effort, children will be sponsored.  Lives will be saved. 

So please pray, and follow along with these bloggers as they tell their stories.  (Barring any technical or logistical issues, I'm hoping that one of the bloggers, my friend Robin, will be guest-posting here next week.)  I shared a couple of days ago my concerns about what is not, perhaps, quite right with the blogosphere, and many of you kindly expressed they were concerns you shared too.  But this India trip?  This is the power of the blogosphere at its highest and very best.

Be a part of it, and help spread the word.

No, Really, I'm Fine

I've gotten many kind e-mails from people who have wondered why I've not been blogging as much lately.  Are you shutting it down? they've asked.  Is something wrong?

(By the way, thank you to those of you who have asked.  I'm amazed and flattered that anyone would even wonder.) 

No, I'm not shutting it down, and no, nothing is wrong.  On the contrary, things feel very right right now, as I've wandered through a sweet period of reflecting and wrestling and breathing and re-evaluating what my place should (and shouldn't) be in this curious on-line world.   

I've wondered if I should articulate some of things I'm learning and realizing.  I have now officially started and then deleted eight posts on the subject.  It's the quintessential dilemma for a good Southern girl--balancing one's need to offer an explanation without presuming that anybody really requires one.  Not to mention, one of the most convicting realizations I've come to is that blogging may just fuel in us (and by "us", of course, I mean "me") a need to articulate everything.  I wonder sometimes if our culture is veering away from the very fine art of simply keeping some things to ourselves.  Sometimes the best words are the ones we don't say.   

(In other words, I think writing a 47-part blogging series about Why We Probably Shouldn't Be Blogging So Much might be a little disingenous, don't you think?)

In a nutshell, I entered the Lenten season several weeks ago in a state of burn-out and exhaustion--all of it entirely of my own making.  The reflectiveness and quiet of Lent helped me get a fresh perspective on a few things--things in both my on-line world and in the real one.  I'm coming more and more to the conclusion that we (I) seem to be operating in a fog of sensory overload.   We blog and Twitter and Facebook.  We have cell phones and multiple e-mail addresses.  We're so plugged in we're almost motorized, and it's exhausting. 

I have (and please, insert giant flashing lights here, because I want to be sure I make this clear) been able to witness some beautiful, even life-changing things happen as a direct result of blogging.  There's plenty of good in it, and I would be remiss not to point that out.

But there is undendiable part of blogging that feeds a part of us (me) that is, perhaps, not the most sensible part: the part that craves to "measure" ourselves, the part that is naturally drawn to a false sense of urgency, the part that needs to be heard even when there's not really anything to say. 

In other words, I've spent a little time evaluating (unpleasantly, at times) whether I was not only affected by this problem, but maybe I was also part of it. 

Ouch.

Despite a very sweet time of feeling refreshed and reflective, I can't say that I've come to any brilliant conclusions.  I do not think that blogging is pure evil and must be avoided or society will surely fail.  But I also think that I've probably let myself go a little off-course, when I reflect back to why I started doing this in the first place.  I look back and wonder if I've contributed to the "noise level" that seems to be wearing out me and so many of the women I know.  I think I have, at times, and I'm sorry.

What I do know is that I want to keep at this, but in a way different than I've done it before.  It's almost become something of a personal exercise, seeing if I can navigate this peculiar world in a way that is more balanced.  A very dear friend (and brilliant writer) reminded me recently that the best words are the ones that are punctuated with enough silence between them.  

As evidenced by the rambly length of this post, I clearly do not have much of a track record with silence.

But I'm working on it, and this, for now, is my little workshop. 

Indeed

Arise, arise,

And with His burial-linen dry thine eyes.

Christ left His grave-clothes, that we might, when grief

Draws tears or blood, not want a handkerchief.

George Herbert, Anglican priest, 1593-1633

Jury Duty, Part Two

:: (For part one, click here) ::

It's a strange thing, jury duty. 

One minute, you're snug in your predictable suburban life, driving carpool and paying bills.  The next, you're tossed into a group of twelve strangers, sitting a few feet from a man whose entire future rests in your hands.  It's surreal (for us), terrifying (for him) and messy (for all of us).  It's a system just unnerving enough to make you want to throw out the judicial baby with the judicial bathwater, except that the alternative is no justice at all.

So we did what free and reasonable humans do, I suppose:  the best we can.  We listened carefully.  We held evidence in our hands.  We didn't speculate when there were objections or moves to strike or your-Honor-may-I-approach-the-bench?  We listened to the instructions, and then we read them, and then we read them again.  We handed over our cell phones, for Pete's sake.  We argued (a little) and compromised (a lot) until the wee hours.  And then, our reasonable doubt easily but sadly put to rest, we did justice.

Guilty, on four counts.  Four very serious counts.  Even though the judge gave us clearance to discuss the trial in detail, I don't feel quite comfortable with it, and I'm not sure why.  Maybe because it doesn't feel, entirely, like my story to tell?  

It's probably too easy, I think, to neatly tuck an accused criminal into a safe category of Those People, the ones who walked a path I would surely never walk, who have hurt so many for so long, who must be made to pay. Take a bite out of crime.  Only YOU can prevent forest fires.  But when you sit a in crowded deliberation room with twelve strangers, when you turn a man's life and future over in your hands like State Exhibit 7, when the defendant's mother makes eye contact with you during closing arguments, the lines feel blurry.  The humanity gets a lot more real.

We did the right thing; of that I'm sure.  All the facts in the trial were crystal clear; the facts the judge could share only after the trial were even clearer.  When compassion bumps up against the law, the law wins, because we shaky humans don't have a lot of wiggle room when it comes to establishing order.  When we delivered our verdict and received our instructions for determining the sentence (something Oklahoma criminal juries are uncomfortably required to do), we were given our first access to the defendant's long and overwhelming previous record of convictions.  It was long.  LONG.  As the list was read, I couldn't help but think of the One who listened to my outrageously long list of offenses, signaled the Judge, and said (not being bound, thankfully, by the Great State of Oklahoma), "I've got it covered."

The whole thing lasted until the wee hours of a chilly Friday morning.  The judge dismissed us with a twenty-dollar-a-day stipend and, for dramatic effect, an armed escort to our cars.  In an strange mix of exhaustion, relief, peace and sadness, I cried all the way home.

It's a strange thing, jury duty.

Brothers

They're brothers, ages 10 and 7.  They share a bedroom, a love for soccer, a penchant for skateboarding, and a tendency toward violence of the brotherly kind.  They are mortal enemies and the best of friends, the pendulum often swinging from friend to enemy and back to friend again within 60 seconds.

They're both athletic dynamos.  The older of the two is lean, small, and lightning-fast.  The younger is tall, thick, and strong as an ox. 

Last night, after an especially vigorous session of carpet wrestling, I heard them pause, breathless, to formulate impressive plans.  They determined that they would take the professional soccer world by storm someday, two feisty brothers who would team up to strike fear in opponents.  The oldest would be the speedy, agile Scorer Of Many Goals.  The youngest would be the brick-wall goalie around whom no ball would fly.

Then they went back to the floor for more wrestling, until I went in to interrupt and tell them it was time to head to bed.  We sat on the couch, mom in the middle, for bedtime prayers.  Their sweaty, smelly heads leaned in on my shoulders.  They were still out of breath.  It was the first moment of quiet that room had seen in hours.

The oldest said his prayer, and then I said mine.  And then the youngest, in a voice thick with sincerity, said softly, "Thank you, God, that my brother and I enjoy each other."

I caught my breath.  Yes, thank you, I thought.  Then--I couldn't help it--I peeked open my eyes at the two boys, still sitting at my side.  Something settled over them. 

They were struck by the moment, too. 

The oldest looked over at his little brother, affection unmistakably written on his face.  He gently, quietly nudged him with his elbow.  The youngest returned the glance, and the nudge. 

There was a perfect pause.

And then, at exactly the same moment, they erupted into grunts and laughter, diving for each other and heading straight for the carpet.  I think the .7 miliseconds of tenderness was all they could bear. 

I watched them, smiling, observing to myself that the moment had surely passed.

Or had it?  I'm inclined to think--to hope--that a moment like that settles deeply in the hearts of two sweaty boys.  It surely settles deeply in the heart of their mother.