It was time to get the ratty Rodeo Drive heirloom chair out of the garage and make it a part of the family. It was November 2009, and we called the good-guy upholstery man who ran for Congress, has a signed photo of himself with Ronald Reagan, comes to your house with giant books of fabric swatches, and who was referred by an Eagle Forum Tiger Mom.
He arrived in the evening so hubby could sit alongside and witness the momentous purchase. Mr. Upholstery Man saw my swatch pick, a stately chair pictured in a torn out newspaper ad and saved for the day when we'd saved a little (read aLOT of) spare cash... enough, even, to have a second identical chair built to match. WELL, so we didn't really have a set-aside; we just didn't have monthly college tuition bills to pay anymore, and the new freedom called for celebration.
The day had come, and I knew exactly what I wanted. Except, Mr. Upholsterer didn't have my pattern. Before "plan B" was all signed and sealed, Mr. Upholstery and DH agreed that they liked this little swirlie pattern, and because I tend to like anything swirlie, I gave in. As we got ready to push away from the table, I sensed buyer's remorse start to creep over me. I began to suspect this pattern, small and busy, would overpower the senses. And yet, Upholstery Man was a professional, and he disagreed, so I gave in again. Christmas came and went, New Years 2010 passed by, and then most of January disappeared before delivery day arrived.
I was... mortified? Ticked? Vindicated? All of the above? Yes. Nasty, too. Pretty obviously disgruntled. Delivery Boy left inahurry. He saw what I saw. The pair look like they belonged in a bordello. Well, sigh. They were meant for our bedroom... (...yet remained in the living room all year, after several bottoms found them comfy, convenient, inviting.)
The point of this little excursion down bad-memory lane is to tag the year 2010 as the Year of Rain; or, the Year of When It Rains It Pours. What followed was a saga of numerous other misapprehensions: of Bible Bookshelves purchased at a BibleBookstore Going Out of Business Sale that got their feet wet in the art room before I figured out they'd fit in another room (--they really did shelve Bibles in their former tour of duty, so ruining sacred shelves just felt Wrong); of rainstorm after rainstorm ungluing each caulk-fix in the leaky art room; of watching OS and a very skinny friend labor under the weight of those huge floor-display shelves, spinning them in a most brilliant manner in order to wedge them just-so beneath a sloping aluminum roof; yet, they had to be moved twice more. Floods at the back door, psyche-accosting bordello chairs smirking at my front door. Termites appeared. We ignored them. A roof leak re-appeared in a bathroom. Roofers who tended to it smeared black tar across white fascia board. When called on to fix it, they didn't. My tutoree didn't re-up. My SAT proctor job didn't re-up. My oil painting dream died. My counselor didn't want to talk about She-Pastor-Persecutor, so, I stopped going. That makes, uh, ten-or-something tries at counseling? Then, one night, I quipped a rant at the Celebrate Recovery women. The shame sent me into a 'withdrawal from society' that led to my new Zygote mentality and this silly attempt at forging spiritual growth through a public bflog. What began with high hopes for hubby & me to start each day in bedroom prayer-chairs, ended in a heap of soggy concrete and a Christless Christmas. Go Team.
Rain.rain.Rain.rain. 2010 won't come again, but tho the trials seem behind, history's always on rewind.
My chairs still remind me of pubic hair, and the 6" termite hole in the den wall (nicely sprayed, thank you very much) is neatly covered up by a giant painting of moonlight I found in a neighbor's trash can, and the Oils class that lasted only three sessions before I began to sense Nero fiddling while Rome burns produced a barley passable half finished landscape; but my gut doesn't hurt anymore when I look back on 2010. And counting down this birthyear50 is becoming a helpful tool, sculpting my beleaguered mind with a new purpose: to embrace my failures and believe Christ, that His strength can be perfected in my weakness.
It could happen.
PS:
Anna, I am sorry I felt it was my place to coach you about sounding professional. Looking back, I can hear it couched in my usual self-important tone. I am an ass. Thank you in advance for the 'Whatever' response I'm pretty sure you'll offer.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Sunday, January 23, 2011
SOHLS: Sanctity of. Human Life. Sunday.
This day use to be the circled box around which the entire calendar year revolved. I made it my purpose to insure 1200 bulletin inserts were ordered for the Sunday bulletin, at least once paid for out of my own (husband's) pocket. There was a literature table. Videos. Volunteers. All because some good soul handed me a full-color glossy leaflet at the Stanislaus County Fair sometime in the mid 70's. There was much red. The gauze, the fluids, the hacked apart baby. I was stunned, stymied, outraged. And then I forgot about it. A UCSD classmate named Mike Ebert awaked the outrage in the early 80's when he sponsored a campus wide showing of the video, "Assignment Life." Mike went on to become a missionary in Japan. I went on to... write a letter to the editor. To the campus newspaper's credit, they published it, and I'm sure my pride glowed for years over my stellar effort.
Then a pregnancy. A hastily planned wedding. A Dallas Theological Seminary pastor who chided me for being such a sinner. My head was down, but my purpose growing. Dobson. Bauer. Colson. My calling became sure, thanks to these better men. Then, a move to another city ...and "Operation Rescue."
Enter furrowed brows, more shunning pastors, subtle disapprovals. One chronic visage spoke a continual 'you are not welcome here.' This time, it wasn't over my scarlet letter. I guessed it was because I am angry, prone to outbursts; generally offensive; and I heard once that I look like someone she once hated. Being a non-relational child of dysfunction, not prone to thrive in a Nice People Only church, I just tried to ignore it, hoping and even praying that one day, by osmosis, I might become One Of Them... and now 22 years have gone by. Against my better judgment, we stayed. And I am still waiting.
DH insisted we stay. I certainly floated the Let's Get OUTa Here idea. He insisted that resolution is our duty. Reconciliation was our calling. Of course he was right, so, I placed a call one day. Asked this wife if we could talk. Take a walk. She said NO. I recall the phrase, "I am sure I do not want to do that." It's been some twelve or fifteen years, so I'm sure I've embellished it some. But the message was clear. I was not welcome to go near this person. I have been sure to steer clear. And scowl back.
Another pastor, ensconced behind his big pastor desk, surrounded by tall shelves full of big pastor books, scowled as he looked up from his work one day. I was directing worship dramas, and I'd been told he had acted well in years prior. I poked my head in and asked if he'd help me out; let me cast him in the next drama. He growled at me to leave him alone and not EVER ask him again. Ouch.
This same pastor, years later, promised to secure a Donald Sunukjian sermon tape I'd ordered for $3. He never delivered, and I never pursued it, but I do often see $3-bills upon his face when he walks by. (How did I muster the courage to even bring it up? Repeated affronts should've kept my head spinning enough to steer clear of him, too.)
Why do we go here again?
OK, so, the point is, after a few Celebrate Recovery pointers, I am supposed to be able to set all this to rights. I now have the tools to forgive and heal, become better and less deserving of scorn. The babies I used to pray for outside abortion mills and the mothers I used to bless with volunteer time at a shelter will all manage just fine without my service while I sort this all out, take refuge in a sweet preschool classroom, and wait for grace.
Broken. But not
Forgetful enough to be
Mindful that my self-doubt
Stalls my service to the least of these.
O HOLY YWH. Help my childish heart.
End the national tragedy of our forgetting You.
--- --- --- ---
"The splendor of a King, clothed in majesty!
Let all the earth rejoice!
He wraps himself in light, and darkness tries to hide!
It trembles at his voice.
CHORUS(1):
How great is our God, sing with me!
How great is our King, and all will see.
How great is our God!
VERSE(2):
And age to age He stands
and time is in His Hands
Beginning and the End,
The Godhead, three in one: Father, Spirit, Son;
the Lion and the Lamb.
CHORUS(2)
Name above all names
Worthy of all praise
My heart will sing: How. GREAT. IS. our King."
--Chris Tomlin, slightly amended
Then a pregnancy. A hastily planned wedding. A Dallas Theological Seminary pastor who chided me for being such a sinner. My head was down, but my purpose growing. Dobson. Bauer. Colson. My calling became sure, thanks to these better men. Then, a move to another city ...and "Operation Rescue."
Enter furrowed brows, more shunning pastors, subtle disapprovals. One chronic visage spoke a continual 'you are not welcome here.' This time, it wasn't over my scarlet letter. I guessed it was because I am angry, prone to outbursts; generally offensive; and I heard once that I look like someone she once hated. Being a non-relational child of dysfunction, not prone to thrive in a Nice People Only church, I just tried to ignore it, hoping and even praying that one day, by osmosis, I might become One Of Them... and now 22 years have gone by. Against my better judgment, we stayed. And I am still waiting.
DH insisted we stay. I certainly floated the Let's Get OUTa Here idea. He insisted that resolution is our duty. Reconciliation was our calling. Of course he was right, so, I placed a call one day. Asked this wife if we could talk. Take a walk. She said NO. I recall the phrase, "I am sure I do not want to do that." It's been some twelve or fifteen years, so I'm sure I've embellished it some. But the message was clear. I was not welcome to go near this person. I have been sure to steer clear. And scowl back.
Another pastor, ensconced behind his big pastor desk, surrounded by tall shelves full of big pastor books, scowled as he looked up from his work one day. I was directing worship dramas, and I'd been told he had acted well in years prior. I poked my head in and asked if he'd help me out; let me cast him in the next drama. He growled at me to leave him alone and not EVER ask him again. Ouch.
This same pastor, years later, promised to secure a Donald Sunukjian sermon tape I'd ordered for $3. He never delivered, and I never pursued it, but I do often see $3-bills upon his face when he walks by. (How did I muster the courage to even bring it up? Repeated affronts should've kept my head spinning enough to steer clear of him, too.)
Why do we go here again?
OK, so, the point is, after a few Celebrate Recovery pointers, I am supposed to be able to set all this to rights. I now have the tools to forgive and heal, become better and less deserving of scorn. The babies I used to pray for outside abortion mills and the mothers I used to bless with volunteer time at a shelter will all manage just fine without my service while I sort this all out, take refuge in a sweet preschool classroom, and wait for grace.
Broken. But not
Forgetful enough to be
Mindful that my self-doubt
Stalls my service to the least of these.
O HOLY YWH. Help my childish heart.
End the national tragedy of our forgetting You.
--- --- --- ---
"The splendor of a King, clothed in majesty!
Let all the earth rejoice!
He wraps himself in light, and darkness tries to hide!
It trembles at his voice.
CHORUS(1):
How great is our God, sing with me!
How great is our King, and all will see.
How great is our God!
VERSE(2):
And age to age He stands
and time is in His Hands
Beginning and the End,
The Godhead, three in one: Father, Spirit, Son;
the Lion and the Lamb.
CHORUS(2)
Name above all names
Worthy of all praise
My heart will sing: How. GREAT. IS. our King."
--Chris Tomlin, slightly amended
Thursday, January 6, 2011
I'm Sorry, Mags
"How else can we expect to survive a world that is unremittingly vicious? We numb ourselves with trinkets. We distance ourselves with promises of nice and happy. But God doesn’t want us to have "nice and happy," because He knows it will never satisfy. He offers Good, True, and Beautiful and knows our souls, made in His image, can settle for nothing less.
Nevertheless, we hunker down with flocked trees and smiling wise men, watching our kids unwrap the toy that will be the best thing they’ve ever seen for a grand total of one week, if we're lucky;
and we tell ourselves that if we just make enough gingerbread men together, maybe we can stave off the darkness a little longer."
--LINDSAY STALLONES ON DECEMBER 22, 2010 AT 5:00 AM / evangelicaloutpost.com
you and I, dear daughter, agree with each other, for starters. The above statement, from your own e-mail link, is proof. Christmas should be about everything else, buT not JUST @ presents.
I love you; I love your giftings, your dreams, your lore, and your persevering heart, AND I'M SORRY I was angry all december.
I'd spent my wad, and somehow missed the GIFTS YOU'D HOPED FOR. I felt horrible, and asked YOU for those "catalog hints." then MY TEMPER FLARED AGAIN, and I chucked the catalog. again. when my anger subsided, I FINALLY went to the bas blue website and the one thing i'd delighted to get you was ...out of stock.
"And your brother wanted contacts. And your sister wanted clothes. . ." I suppose the only way to prevent such travesty is to only shop at the 11th hour. My habit of collecting stuff throughout the year only serves to clutter up the holiday cheer.
"stuff" sticks to me like cat hair on wool pants. By the time December rolls around, the stuff stash feels old and infertile. After sitting up in my closet for nine months, it's slightly stale and less than love-filled. It's not the "good, true and beautiful" your web link lady longs for.
Study and pray with me, then, for a way out of Christmas as we've known it. We don't want it just because everybody else does IT. Why celebrate the author of the universe with a universal violation of his tenth commandment? We want to respond to a creator saviour who draws us, to use your Brit-Lit expression, farther up and further in... to a "walk" with him that is singular and custom built; not mass produced or "made in china for the ash heaps of january."
And I'm glum because your brother, like an American Christmas, is a hapless clone. with no discussion at dinner tonight over what did and DIDN'T happen in vegas, I was left to a miserable set of wild imaginings. The deafening absence of jolly banter over his three days and two nights in sin city spoke volumes, especially now that his friends have made it a regular destination. "How To Crush A Mum In Twenty-One Easy Lessons."
Or, did I just imagine that your Dad was avoiding the subject?
It all leaves me very intent to give up on prayer. Hence, our little Bible-Club verse today spoke volumes:
"Beware, brethren, lest there be in any of you an evil heart of unbelief in departing from the living God; but exhort one another daily, while it called "Today," lest any of you be hardened through the deceitfulness of sin. For, we have become partakers of Christ IF WE HOLD THE BEGINNING OF OUR CONFIDENCE TO THE END." --Hebrews 3
O, Man. I am SO POOR IN SPIRIT.
Nevertheless, we hunker down with flocked trees and smiling wise men, watching our kids unwrap the toy that will be the best thing they’ve ever seen for a grand total of one week, if we're lucky;
and we tell ourselves that if we just make enough gingerbread men together, maybe we can stave off the darkness a little longer."
--LINDSAY STALLONES ON DECEMBER 22, 2010 AT 5:00 AM / evangelicaloutpost.com
you and I, dear daughter, agree with each other, for starters. The above statement, from your own e-mail link, is proof. Christmas should be about everything else, buT not JUST @ presents.
I love you; I love your giftings, your dreams, your lore, and your persevering heart, AND I'M SORRY I was angry all december.
I'd spent my wad, and somehow missed the GIFTS YOU'D HOPED FOR. I felt horrible, and asked YOU for those "catalog hints." then MY TEMPER FLARED AGAIN, and I chucked the catalog. again. when my anger subsided, I FINALLY went to the bas blue website and the one thing i'd delighted to get you was ...out of stock.
"And your brother wanted contacts. And your sister wanted clothes. . ." I suppose the only way to prevent such travesty is to only shop at the 11th hour. My habit of collecting stuff throughout the year only serves to clutter up the holiday cheer.
"stuff" sticks to me like cat hair on wool pants. By the time December rolls around, the stuff stash feels old and infertile. After sitting up in my closet for nine months, it's slightly stale and less than love-filled. It's not the "good, true and beautiful" your web link lady longs for.
Study and pray with me, then, for a way out of Christmas as we've known it. We don't want it just because everybody else does IT. Why celebrate the author of the universe with a universal violation of his tenth commandment? We want to respond to a creator saviour who draws us, to use your Brit-Lit expression, farther up and further in... to a "walk" with him that is singular and custom built; not mass produced or "made in china for the ash heaps of january."
And I'm glum because your brother, like an American Christmas, is a hapless clone. with no discussion at dinner tonight over what did and DIDN'T happen in vegas, I was left to a miserable set of wild imaginings. The deafening absence of jolly banter over his three days and two nights in sin city spoke volumes, especially now that his friends have made it a regular destination. "How To Crush A Mum In Twenty-One Easy Lessons."
Or, did I just imagine that your Dad was avoiding the subject?
It all leaves me very intent to give up on prayer. Hence, our little Bible-Club verse today spoke volumes:
"Beware, brethren, lest there be in any of you an evil heart of unbelief in departing from the living God; but exhort one another daily, while it called "Today," lest any of you be hardened through the deceitfulness of sin. For, we have become partakers of Christ IF WE HOLD THE BEGINNING OF OUR CONFIDENCE TO THE END." --Hebrews 3
O, Man. I am SO POOR IN SPIRIT.
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