Pirates in the Mist, A Siren's Song, and Me

Courtesy Mad Penguin Creative

Given the mist almost too thick to see through, the bones scattered around, and Jack Black's wide-open eyes, you knew nothing good was asunder. Sirens lurked in the water. Legend had it that both their beauty and song were enough to kill a man. The rich appeal was enough to make many a man risk life and limb to possess them.

If you've seen the movie, you know the sirens appeared as mermaids of translucent, shimmering beauty. Until they revealed themselves for what they were and looked more like underfed piranhas intent on their first big meal in a decade or so. The battle became one of life and death as the greedy men became believers in the warnings they'd heard.

Courtesy Mad Penguin Creative

Son #1 and I were talking about life, the universe, and lots of things. Re-entry into his old world has been fraught with challenges. He's been ready to abandon ship and take off for the wild blue yonder again. I told you so. Once given the freedom to fly, no one feels good being tethered to the earth again. “Why,” he asked, “does life have to be like this? It wasn't like this in Australia. Things were calm and peaceful not one drama after another!”

Oh, Obi-wan....where is Yoda when you need him? I let his frustration come rushing out waiting until it was my turn. How do you let the young ones down easy? How can you tell them the truth without breaking their spirit? I smiled a wan smile and did my best.

“Life is messy. The only reason it wasn't messy 'down under' is because you didn't carry your life with you. In a funny way, you had an intermission from life. You had huge responsibilities to the client corporation. Yet, you were far enough from home that the normal cares of life got lost in the fog and mist.” Then, I reminded him of some days at the office when tensions ran high. He had been immune because the source of the tensions didn't concern him. Good job – if you can get it!

Pecos, NM 2011

I long to escape to a land that would paint reality with the picturesque implication of a stress free environment brush. I get a glimpse when I visit a place like New Mexico. Surely, if we moved there, life would be grand. Until...the mountain temperature plummeted and the winds begin to howl. Then, I would long for the sandy shores of some tropical retreat. Until...the clouds of a Cat 5 hurricane began to build as winds began to build. The winds of life are messy. They follow us no matter where we go.

When we are riding along, my husband and I will muse about how the places we pass look like the kinds of places you'd want to stay. I laugh. “Just the picturesque implication of a stress free environment,” I say. “We'd be the same people when we got here...with the same stresses and strains. When we blew in on the winds of chaos, we'd pull down the real estate value instantly.”

Courtesy Mad Penguin Creative

Such is the call of the siren's song. “Psst. Here. Come over here! Life'll be better over here!” The spotless future taunts us every time we catch a fleeting glimpse. The beauty is almost translucent. We strain harder thru the mist in hopes we can catch up before it's too late.

In a world where commercialism and instantaneous gratification sing to us several times an hour, there is always a siren in the mist. Stoking our fires of discontent. Prodding us to want more. Whetting our desire to get more with less effort.

Courtesy Mad Penguin Creative

Where is the perfect curriculum that will frustrate our homeschooled kids the least and require the least preparation on our part? Where is the spouse that will do more and require less? Where is the diet or supplement that will negate habits, metabolism, and biology? Where is the school that will require as little of us as possible but educate our children well enough to compete in a global economy? Where are the people that will fill the churches with spotless parents whose flawless children don't present messes that have to be cleaned up in the process of learning, living and growing. Where is the government that will be all and do all relieving its people of personal responsibility? Where, oh where, is the siren in the mist?

Courtesy Mad Penguin Creative

The siren's sweet call is enough to drive a man mad. The cottony dampness of restlessness, discontent, and aimlessness breeds endless searching for the next, newest, best thing. Before we know it, our greed overcomes us and that which we desire possesses us. The translucent beauty that beckons has become the emaciated piranha that threatens to devour us. Our searching and hoping leaves us as drained and weary as if we'd been in battle with the pirates trying to escape the trap of the sirens in the midst. God rest our weary souls from sirens in the mist.

Matthew 11:30 (Amplified Bible)

For My yoke is wholesome (useful, good--not harsh, hard, sharp, or pressing, but comfortable, gracious, and pleasant), and My burden is light and easy to be borne.

Courtesy B. Creasy

1 John 5:3 (Amplified Bible)

For the [true] love of God is this: that we do His commands [keep His ordinances and are mindful of His precepts and teaching]. And these orders of His are not irksome (burdensome, oppressive, or grievous).

"Dear Old People...."

Courtesy M. Horrocks

It was one of those rare times. I was fully present in my own moment rather than being preoccupied by the moments of others. Lucky for me, I was in no hurry. Any other passerby might not have slowed long enough to notice the white haired lady going through the motions of her day. If taking note, you might have choked back a feeling of pedestrian walkway rage while brushing past her on your way to who knows where.

Even tho' both her advancing years and ambling pace suggested the time had come, no trace of stooping shoulders broke her regal carriage. I would soon learn that her conversations mirrored both her pace and bearing.

Courtesy A. Huges

The air was heavy with uncertainty as we gathered around the conference table. Chit-chat flowed in grudging spurts while total strangers with a common goal searched for mutual rhythm. The perfunctory get-to-know-you banter unfolded. She made her presence known in the same deliberate manner with which she walked. Her words were measured and slow; her demeanor was regal and composed.

In another place, she might have been chosen foreman of the jury but not because she was pushy, flashy, or loud. Persistence would have been the winning attribute. Conversations followed her unspoken directive alhto' she seemed unaware that she had become the de facto director of the table.

Some began to shift uncomfortably as they waited for polite openings that would allow other bits of conversation. When those attempts faltered, the assembled began to offer muttered regrets. One by one, they shuffled off to meet the next obligation of the day. I remained waiting – altho' for what I did not know.

Courtesy Mad Penguin Creative

Eventually, her stream of consciousness dialog stuttered to a halt. She sat staring out into space lost in a world that only she could see. I waited till her unflinching gaze returned again to me. The shadow of a sag danced around her impeccably straight shoulders. “I feel.....as if I am growing...no....I am obsolete,” she sighed as a forlorn smile that never reached her eyes flickered and died away. 

 

The comment surprised us both. I sat groping for the politically correct thing to say. I smiled back. With the same sense of tortured resignation that she had spoken, I replied, “Yes. It happens before we know it. We rush through life trying to get it all done. Then, we wake up one day and realize it is time to step aside and let the younger ones take over. I have wondered who I want to be when I grow up. Now I realize I'm almost out of time.....”

Courtesy Mad Penguin Creative

In other bits of conversation, she had revealed details about a confusing life filled with painful circumstances. Even in her advanced years, she had not given up on trying to rearrange the chaos of life into something meaningful. Thus it was that our partnership was sealed. We sat in silent companionship feeling the things that the heart cannot find words to say.

I rushed to lunch the next day hoping to snag just the right seat. I settled in beside her eager for yesterday's pattern to repeat itself. I could not contain myself and breathlessly forged into one of the awkward silences that fall over tables of strangers gathered for large meetings. Without ceremony, I blurted, “I'd like you to know something. No one is obsolete when they have a heart like yours.”

Courtesy Mad Penguin Creative

Her eyebrows lifted in genuine surprise. Others at the table listened more closely than before. “Yesterday you told us about the way you host lunches for young mothers and children. In my experience, seniors often feel as if they are 'done' with that season. It's hard to get senior volunteers for church nurseries much less have them invite a young family home. I can speak to how invaluable you are to lonely young women whose husbands have busy careers and whose families are far away. You will never be obsolete as long as you tackle the messy business of caring for young families. They may not think to tell you, so I will....thank you. Thank you for what you do for them.”

Her impassive expression melted away as the sunshine of an unguarded smile warmed her face. She sat and let my words sink in as if unaccustomed to being noticed much less affirmed. Again we sat in silent companionship knowing there were no words to say what the heart could only feel. I clasped her hand for a moment and said a silent prayer that I would do just as she has in the days to come.

Courtesy Mad Penguin Creative

My friends used to chuckle at the poem “Warning: When I am Old, I Shall Wear Purple”. Even tho' we were still young enough that our purple wearing days seemed far removed, I shuddered while they chuckled.

A few days ago, I chuckled when a Facebook status update began, “Dear Old People....” and concluded with the cheeky young fella's wish that folks his grandparent's age not slow him down in traffic. Ignorance is bliss when you do not see the future coming. By the time you do, you will wonder how you became the one with the plodding gait and the hesitant hand at the wheel of the car.

When I am old, I shall invite the young ones and their mothers over to play...and ask that they wear purple. I will look off into space and see a time and place that only I can see. I will remember the friend I met in passing and hope that she remembers me. I will hope that on a day when I feel invisible and obsolete, I will be as brave as she has been.

Courtesy B. Creasy

Psalm 71:18 (American King James Version)

Now also when I am old and gray headed, O God, forsake me not; until I have showed your strength to this generation, and your power to every one that is to come.

Connecting the Dots During the Game of Life

I ask myself, “What have you learned?” Perhaps it is the respiratory infection that clouds my thinking or an ADD brain in an information overload world, but I am aimlessly searching for a bullet list. How do I make a concrete list about visceral experiences? I expected that Son #1 would learn a lot through his international adventure. I hoped I would learn as much. I hoped we'd both be able to quantify and qualify the experiences.

When the foggy film of jet lag began to evaporate, I asked, “Can you come up with a bullet list of what you learned while you were away? The 5 big things. Just 5?” He stared at me with an empty gaze. I could see his brain start to fire. He stared out in space and shook his head as if trying to organize his thoughts. The light of understanding flickered out just like a match flare on a windy day. Too soon.

I chuckled. “Don't worry. I'm having trouble with that as well. We both need to rest and percolate on it for a while. I know we learned something. We just need time to figure it out.” Rest overcame him again. The respiratory crud washed over me in waves demanding any extra energy I might direct toward lofty, bullet list driven thoughts.

Courtesy Mad Penguin Creative

Somewhere between sleep and productivity the finger of time reached up and poked me. “Look,” it said. “Remember?” The conversation came back to me. I tried oh-so-hard to recall the scene. I found myself squinting as I tried to visualize the memories.

It was a normal, mundane school day. The kind that peppers the lives of those of us who step out of the traditional mold of schooling. We were going thru the motions, so we could check off one more of our required 180 days. This day, a discussion of Tom Friedman's book, The World is Flat, was on the agenda.

Courtesy Mad Penguin Creative - Australia 2011

The premise at hand concerned the impact of technology on employment. Technology had 'flattened' our world making it easier to do business all over the globe. Of course, having married a technologically inclined fella and having birthed 2 more, we were all about technology. The more the better. I had no idea as we read the book where life would take Son #1. Looking back, it almost gives you chills.

On this boring, unremarkable day, I alluded to Son #1's struggles with insomnia. I said, “You know....the world of work you will navigate will be unrecognizable from the one your dad navigates. For all we know, God designed you with a 'backward' biological clock because he wanted your most productive hours to be when the other side of the world is awake. For all we know, you will be doing business with some entity that is hard after the work day when we are sleeping. Your hours of productivity may uniquely suit you to conduct business with someone half a world away.”

Courtesy Mad Penguin Creative - China via O'Hare Int'l. - 2009

The days and weeks rolled on. We did what needed to be done to fulfill the letter of the homeschooling laws. After that obligation was fulfilled, he immersed himself in photography and photo-editing. He spent long hours doing research about different countries in far off places. He compared the cost of real estate in Eastern European countries. He learned to comb cyberspace for obtuse bits of information. Some days, I questioned my own sanity for staying true our decision to homeschool to the end of his high school career. In the end, what would come of all this creative approach to learning?

Courtesy H. Wills

The dots of life were amassing before my eyes. At the time, they were a confusing, messy maze that often made no sense. In the scariest times, even Son #1 looked back with wonder and dismay asking, “Maybe we should have done something different at some point in time?” Oh, the agony. 11 years of hard labor had left us both with nagging doubts, questions, and insecurities.

In those horrid moments of doubt and confusion, I would think back to our 3^rd year of homeschooling. In those days, I would administer one set of achievement tests. As a control, we would hire an outside testing agent to administer another set of for comparisons sake. If anyone accused me of 'throwing' the test I gave, we could always show that the independent test confirmed my results.

Courtesy Mad Penguin Creative - China 2009

As I prepared for our 4^th year at home, I was ready to buy curriculum but hesitant to do so because neither set of tests results were back. I feared buying something that was ill-suited to the direction scores would show I should take. As I walked through the huge warehouse, I breathed a prayer over and over again. “Help me. I have no money to spare. You know what he needs. You know I know his strengths and weaknesses. Help my choices magnify his strengths and bolster his weaknesses. Help me.”

The scores for both sets of testing came within a few days of each other. Once again, the independent scores verified the scores for the testing I had administered at home. When I looked at the sub-test scatters and compared them with the curriculum I purchased, I breathed a sigh of relief. My good God had heard and answered my prayer. My purchases matched his needs. The dots connected.

Courtesy Mad Penguin Creative 2011

I am laughing now because, if you have read much of this blog, you can connect the dots for yourself. Once upon a time, not so long ago, I talked to my son about the future. I hypothesized a world in which he might do business with an entity whose days occurred during our nights. Once upon a time, he wandered the globe via the computer. His passport allergic mom turns the pages of his little booklet and runs her fingers in wonder over the stamps for China and Australia. Business has taken him to places I have only dreamed of. To places where our day is their night.

Tonight, I can almost hear it. My good God laughs at his own sense of humor as tears of wonder spill down my cheeks and onto the keyboard as I type. Who knew? God likes to play connect the dots too....

Courtesy B. Creasy

Psalm 139:16 (NIV)

your eyes saw my unformed body. All the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be.

The Real Me...I Don't Want You to See....

Courtesy Mad Penguin Creative

It was the worst of times but not even close to the very worst of times with no best of times in sight ahead or behind of me. There were only 3 of us then. #4 was about to make his appearance. The monster was still lurking in the shadows leaving me to do battle with an unknown opponent. 

 

During the course of that day, I had reflected over my past and remembered another mean season. I firmly believe that God wastes nothing in his economy: time, money, effort, experience. Nothing. Knowing that truth, I also know that awful,earlier time prepared me to withstand a future relentless season of pain and despair. In that hazy time of long ago, I had coped with chaos by taking time each day to make lists. 

 

My survival lists included things I had done well that day as well as things for which I was thankful. I have to tell you: the first lists required painful effort. The ideas came slowly because I was convinced that I was a wasted, useless excuse for a human being. Over time I amazed myself. The obligatory list of 2 items per heading per day became 5 and then 10 and 20. 

Pecos, NM October 2011

 

 

Pollyanna that I was, I gathered us together at the end of yet another long, draining day and chirped, “Let's take some time to talk to each other about the things that have gone right today and what we are thankful for.” 

 

My eager to please 6-year-old sat expectantly, ready and willing to join in the game afoot. The grizzly bear sitting across from me glowered. Lightening, born of agony inspired rage, flashed across the room with a force that nearly knocked me off my feet. He growled his intense refusal. I sat, as I had so often, crestfallen and defeated. I choked my way through the remaining duties of the night until I could seek my refuge in isolated solitude. It was years before I offered the idea again.

 

Courtesy Mad Penguin Creative

If you have read much of this blog, you know that the grizzly bear eventually faced a sad, hard truth which, in turn, freed the child that had cowered in fear for decades. Once free from the prison of fear, he was free to express thankfulness and joy. He still struggles to acknowledge those things at which he excels, but he can accept appreciation when his excellence impacts others. Gathering to share our list of 'thankful things' has become a treasured time of family laughter and bonding. It was worth the decade long battle it took to get us there. 

 

Knowing that thankfulness is my daily ritual, I wonder why I have a visceral reaction as we navigate the American season of collective Thanksgiving. The reaction puzzles me, perplexes me. Facebook reminds me over and over again. The status update pops up, and yet another friend denotes those things that evoke thankfulness. I have been invited over and over to join in the ritual. I want to. My fingers flicker over the computer keys. I can't. 

 

Courtesy Mad Penguin Creative

Yes. I could force myself and do it by rote. I could make a list that would make you happy and send chills down your spine if I chose to apply artful creativity to my effort. I tell myself it is my duty and that I should be ashamed. My heart does not respond to the chastisement. My fingers cannot follow through. 

My status blank remains empty save for the humorous pictures I share that evoke much needed comic relief. “What is wrong with you,” I ask myself. Only silence echoes back. It is the same silence that deafened me last year when I struggled with the same, sad old dilemma. Last year this time, I thought I surely would have conquered myself by this year this time.  

 

I ask myself if I am uncomfortable sharing deeply personal things in such a public way. Then, I burst out laughing because you and I both know. Given what I have written since May, I've burned that bridge already. I ask myself if I am a rebel who fights against convention. Yea, that's me. The hard core biker babe who is a rebel without a cause. Sigh. I know. You know that's not me either. 

 

Courtesy Mad Penguin Creative

This season is deeply meaningful for me. Like you, I am wounded with the battle scars of life. Yet, I am still keenly aware of the multitude of things that deserve my thanksgiving. This hesitance of my soul is a reminder that my arm wrestling match with God continues. The process of figuring out who I am and where I'm headed has not concluded. Every time my fingers flicker at the behest of my willing heart only to freeze as my soul flinches, I know we are still wrestling, my good God and I. I feel alone and shamed every time Facebook announces yet another list of thankful things.

Courtesy Mad Penguin Creative

Consolation often comes in an unexpected package. As October became November, a friend who survived a scary bout with cancer updated her status: 

“Let me just say for the record: I am so glad that October is over! Not crazy about breast cancer awareness during the *whole* month, reminding me at every turn of last year. Maybe, the further away from my diagnosis and recovery, I'll feel more like "celebrating" being a survivor. But this year, it honestly made me angry that I'd lost a year of my life and had to relive it at every turn :-/” (Reprinted with permission of G. Gagne)

Courtesy Mad Penguin Creative

Her battle was different, but there I was smack dab in the middle of her post. I could see her struggle between thankfulness and horror. How thankful she was to have survived but how horrified she was at what her survival had required. I understood the cry of her heart because I feel it every time my fingers twitch above the keyboard. My heart tells my fingers how thankful we are to have survived. My soul asks why survival has required, and continues to require, so much so often. 

 

And then it happens. I am thankful. I am thankful for friends who fight to survive. I am thankful for friends that remained while I fought to survive. I am thankful for you because you have come along to cheer me on as I continue the fight toward wholeness of heart and soul. I am thankful for friends brave enough to speak the truth about their battles. I am thankful. Simply thankful. 

Courtesy B. Creasy

Isaiah 25:1 (Bible in Basic English)

O Lord, you are my God; I will give praise to you, I will give honour to your name; for you have done great acts of power; your purposes in the past have been made true and certain in effect.

Square Peg in a Round Hole

Courtesy Mad Penguin Creative

Like any teenagers, my sons have struggled to feel a sense of belonging. As Son #1 navigated high school, my friends and I encouraged him about the common denominator of his age. We've fought different battles with Son #2. In reality, his struggles have the same root. Kids are all trying to figure out where they fit and why they don't fit where they want to fit. Such has been the human condition since the days of Cain and Abel.

From the captain of the football team to the lowliest nerdy or goth outcast in the school, no one feels as if they have it all together nor that they are unconditionally accepted. Some kids wear more convincing masks, but down deep inside, no one is completely at peace and secure. Not even the homecoming queen dating the captain of the football team or the National Merit Finalist.

Courtesy Mad Penguin Creative

When he struggled the most, I worried that Son #1 might consider a permanent solution to his temporary state of affairs. Every time the news reported a teen suicide, I shuddered inside wondering if we might, on some horrible, unimaginable day, find ourselves in that same sad boat. Now, I wonder the same thing about Son #2 on his worst days. It's a fraidy cat world, I tell you.

I email friends at the drop of a hat to ask them to cover my boys with a protective cloud of prayer. Not only do they pray, often they send personal notes to tell the boys that these awkward years will pass and that life gets easier as you get older. Those same friends have trembled with me as Son #1 roared off across the Pacific and into his future. They will rejoice when he returns home for a few short weeks before heading back across the sea. How lucky am I to call them my friends?

Courtesy and In Loving Memory of Christina Jones Hooker

That's the good news. Here's the trickier truth: rarely, in our heart of hearts, do we outgrow the nagging, ill at ease sense that we don't quite fit in. Some days are better than others. Life just clicks along and allows us a brief respite in which we feel loved by someone every step of the day. Those days are few and far between for most of us. Some of us are more paralyzed by the struggle than others.

It's a foregone conclusion, given my life history, that I'd feel like a square peg trying to fit in a round hole. I used to think it was just me. I used to think I was the only one who felt as tho' I was always one step out of sync with everyone around me racing to catch up as I fumbled to get into the right cadence. I'd be a reality show if Holly-wood was interested in telling the world about real people living a real life. I can see the sponsors flocking to that show, can't you? Roll my eyes.

Courtesy Tracy McFerrin Greene

The more I write, the more I learn that I'm a poster child for the disaffected fraidy cats of the world. Truth be told, I'd rather be a Victoria's Secret or Sports Illustrated kind of pin up girl than the poster child for all the lonely  and disaffected fraidy cats. (Sorry Mamma. At least you aren't here to faint.)

Remember this truth on your bad days. No one has figured out the cadence. Everyone is trying to figure out how to shave off rough edges to facilitate slipping into those sleek round holes society assures us are the ones that lead to happiness. Everyone has a fraidy cat hidden deep inside that says you are not good enough and do not belong.

Courtesy Aly Hughes

Wanna know a dirty little secret? I woke up in one of those funks the last 3 days. Wondering what mental illness has seized me that I would get uppity enough to start a blog and hope that people would 'like', 'share', or 'follow' me on Facebook. The conviction again seized me that God has no use for me and that my efforts are wasteful and, in the end, will come to naught. For me or him. I must have forgotten who I was – the girl clamoring to be God's head cheerleader who couldn't even get a job as manager of the team.

Reluctantly, I dragged myself to an event so that Son #2 could have what all traditionally schooled families question us about: socialization. The last thing I wanted to do was socialize. That feeling ramped up when I realized Son #2 was faltering because of some confusing peer interaction. Why had I even bothered? I should have stayed in my shell and avoided the world I would never fit into anyway.

Courtesy Jessica Paine

I did what I tried to teach Son #1 to do. I put on a mask. It's the one I call, “Hey! There you are! You are just the one I've been looking for!” It helps me cover the truth when I think the truth is too toxic for you to handle.

I made my way around the venue from person to person and conversation to conversation. No one knew how hard I was working. I was relieved because it was finally time to head home when a lovely lady I've met only once walked up. She reminded me of our original meeting and then began to tell me how this blog resonates with her. The fraidy cat in me listened with amazement and realized again, we are all just a bunch of stray fraidy cats looking for a place to call home. Welcome home. I'm glad you came. Love you long and strong. See you again tomorrow?

For Tammy in Greer.....because she had no idea! ;-)
 

Isaiah 49:15-16 (Amplified Bible)

Courtesy B. Creasy

[And the Lord answered] Can a woman forget her nursing child, that she should not have compassion on the son of her womb? Yes, they may forget, yet I will not forget you. Behold, I have indelibly imprinted (tattooed a picture of) you on the palm of each of My hands; [O Zion] your walls are continually before Me.

Life...the Ultimate Reality Show

The words snapped me up short as surely as if they were a noose tied around my neck. I jerked around to face my son who was then in his mid-teens. “What did you say?” I almost snapped.

Poland 2009 Courtesy J. Swett

He looked startled and maybe a bit nervous. He repeated his comment. None of it remains with me today beyond a single phrase: starter marriage. Even now, the memory of those 2 words makes my breath come in ragged sweeps as my pulse skyrockets. Thankfully, his passing comment opened the door for what seemed a useful conversation about the changing values in our world.

The phrase he introduced me to was just beginning to be bandied about and is self-explanatory. Marriage #1 – the one you just do to get it over with so that you can move on from the practice round to the one you really mean to last till death do you part.

Courtesy C. Swett

Oh my, fraidy cats. If you've seen any of the news cycle the last 48 hours, you've heard the chatter about the reality show marriage that lasted only 70-something days. The young lady under the microscope was quoted as saying, “It just didn't turn out to be the FAIRY TALE I had hoped for....” This ill-fated affair of the heart was, it seems, her 2^nd attempt at marriage. Starter marriage #1 lasted about 4 years. It didn't take as long this time for her to realize that life is not a fairy tale and hit the delete button.

Was the muti-million dollar marriage all a publicity stunt/hoax bent on milking the post-wedding glow of the future King and Queen of England? Did they make many more millions of dollars than the wedding was purported to cost? Whether the drama is real or concocted, the networks find it lucrative, or they would not continue to promote and cover the train wreck unfolding.

Courtesy Mad Penguin Creative

At what cost? As a homeschooler, I am often asked, “But what about socialization?” when skeptics question how it is possible to raise anything but a social misfit in the petri dish of homeschooling. Research indicates that much of the socialization occurring among today's teens takes place via social media. So much so that a host of kids vie for the next most compelling spot on the ever newer and more compelling reality show. Kids yearn for fame like young men of my day yearned for sports contracts after years of hard work. No hard work required now...just aim for infamy via Utube and hope to go viral. The less moral and more risky your behavior, the better.

After being inundated with the unreality of reality TV, will our younger generation connect the dots? Will they buy the myth that 'starter marriages' are the savvy new way to excuse a self centered, unrealistic expectation regarding what real life entails? Or, will they wake up and smell the coffee and want more than the plastic lives lived by plastic people who appear to live the 'good life' before our eyes.

Courtesy M. Horrocks

Kim Kardashian seems to have believed that her fairy tale, multi-million dollar, made-for-TV wedding would launch her into a fairy tale marriage. Had anyone told her that love is not a feeling but an action? Had anyone told her that more then 50% of the time, love is what you do not what is done for you. Life is not a fairy tale in which the beautiful princess gets swept off her feet day in and day out. Life, in fact, often involves picking up a broom and sweeping up the poop of life. Whether you feel like it or not, get paid for it or not, are rewarded for it or not.

One of my best friends is presently going through an unwanted divorce after more than 25 years of marriage. It is a sad fact that not all marriages will stand the test of time. I have seen first hand how hard she fought and how long she held on in the hopes that her situation would reverse itself. Sadly, it did not. She did not ask for a fairy tale. She did not walk away until there was literally no remaining option. Her battle indicated that marriage was worth fighting for.

Courtesy Mad Penguin Creative

I am sad for the beautiful reality show princess. I am sad no one has told her that, in the quest for fame and fortune, she has cheapened herself by making marriage look as if it is both frivolous and expendable. She will age and discover that beauty is fleeting and in the end, riches do not satisfy.

I wonder when the day comes, will she look back and regret the time she spent building her 'brand'. Will she wish she had instead spent her time in the pursuit of serving others? Will she wish that she had enriched her soul instead of her pocketbook? It's a fraidy cat world, I tell you. None of us will make it without each other. Remind the ones you love, we are all worth fighting for even when life hands you a broom and says, “Sweep up the poop.” 

Courtesy B. Creasy

Ephesians 4:2 (Bible in Basic English)

With all gentle and quiet behaviour, taking whatever comes, putting up with one another in love;

 

The Girl in the Puddle

This day in time, you'd think someone had lost his mind. Back then, cars didn't have seat belts, and kids didn't use booster seats. The Surgeon General had not warned anyone that cigarettes cause cancer.Bottled water didn't come in containers that contained PBA's because water came out of a tap, and everything else came in glass bottles. No one had measured crib slats nor decided of what kid-friendly surfaces playgrounds should be composed.

I suppose, then, it is not a huge leap to understand how a school could decide that an appropriate playground surface was asphalt. We went home for the summer, came back in the fall, and found that our beloved playground had been completely surfaced in asphalt. Knee-scraping, head-cracking asphalt. Makes your toes curl in horror, doesn't it?

I had a love hate relationship with that place. As eager as I was for the freedom of recess, I hated what the powers that be had done to our mid-day haven of rest. Despite the atrocity, that surface offered a magical moment I've never forgotten.

The late summer rain had come and gone. The puddles had disappeared into the thick, humidity laden air waiting to be recycled into a new thunderstorm. My friend and I had wandered far afield that day as we dreamed the dreams that little girls dream when lost in play. Carefree preoccupations muffled our awareness of what was going on around us. Unbeknownst to us, the class was preparing to return to the classroom.

The teacher had warned us all to stay away from the lone remaining puddle. What can I say? It was huge. Kids were born for puddles. We had not mounted a full tilt assault because we were good little girls who minded our teacher. It had taken us most of our recess period to meander ever closer to the forbidden promised land.

Courtesy Mad Penguin Creative

At last, we stood in awe at the perfectly mirrored surface. It was as if we were looking through Alice's magic looking glass. “Look,” I said, “It's like magic! It looks as if you could just step into the puddle and right into an opposite and perfect universe!”

As I spoke, I lifted my 2^nd grade foot and held it poised above the puddle wishing I could do just so. Wouldn't life be grand if perfection required only a simple step through a looking glass into a perfect universe of our own design? My foot dangled in the air with ballerina-like precision. If only...if only I could slip into that other world.

Courtesy Mad Penguin Creative

The ear-splitting shriek of the teacher's playground whistle startled me so completely that I nearly fell into the puddle. I suppose it was the grace of God because it must have been his angels who steadied me, or I surely would have taken a bath. “I told you girls to stay AWAY from that puddle! Don't you dare step in that water,” she said with a warrior's cry as shrill as her whistle.

My little chin began to quiver. I was the one who got a perfect 'O' for 'outstanding' in my marks for citizenship. Had she forgotten who I was? I tried to reassure her that she had it all wrong as I vainly told her about that new and magical place I had discovered.

The urgency of her day pushed us forward. I looked over my shoulder as we filed inside knowing that when I again escaped the classroom, the sun would have robbed the playground of its magic.

Courtesy Mad Penguin Creative

Over 4 decades have come and gone since then. She died just a few years later after a courageous battle with cancer. I am now old enough to be the mother of a teacher just the age she was that day on the playground.

I close my eyes. I am again the little girl whose dainty shoe is poised just above the puddle. Now as then, the puddle sky is bluer, the puddle trees greener, and the 2 fairy princesses far more royally resplendent than the reality reflected by the puddle.

I smile and wonder where the time went and how she became me. Where is the little girl who saw wonder and magic everywhere? How has she become the aging face staring back from the mirror while I look for traces of the girl whose face I saw in the puddle. 

Courtesy B. Creasy

Psalm 37:25 (NAS)

I have been young and now I am old, Yet I have not seen the righteous forsaken Or his descendants begging bread.