A few weeks ago I wrote about a young woman I know with four children, for whom I pray, with whom I'd lost contact. I got a single comment on the blog post, reminding me to pray, reminding me that it's worth it to pray.
I had been praying for this young woman, and thinking enough about her to merit a blog post, but that comment spurned me on to pray more specifically. More specifically that I'd be able to get back in contact with this young woman. More specifically that I'd be able to be a part of their lives again, that the Word of God could once again have entrance into their home, perhaps by way of the Sunday School paper, or a calendar.
This past Saturday, I was busy. My grandma's doing poorly, I had a babysitting gig, things felt hectic, but I'd been away and decided it really was high time I visited around my Sunday School neighborhood. I arrived to my usual houses and the first person I saw, out playing on the lawn, was her little six-year-old boy. I got out of my car, at least 90% sure that I was seeing things, but he came running up to me. "Miss Joanne, Miss Joanne!" His older sister (but not the oldest, who was with her grandma) came up, a boundless ball of seven-year-old energy. "We miss you!"
Many hugs ensued. "I've missed you, too."
Here, right in front of me, was an answer to a prayer I'd been praying. I had been praying, but honestly, until I saw their happy little faces, right in front of me, it didn't cross my mind that I really hadn't exhibited a lot of faith in my prayers. Did I think I could get back in contact with them? Yeah, I mean, I guess so. Did I firmly believe it? No.
Their mom was in one of the apartments, getting water. When she came out I gave her a big hug. I'd really, really missed her. She had the baby with her--a beautiful little boy named Anton Jr. He's perfect. We didn't talk much, my friend and I, but I got her new number and she said I could stop by their new place sometime. I played tag with the two little ones for a few minutes, by which time she'd packed up the baby in the car and was ready to go.
I stood in the parking lot, waving them away. The wind was slightly biting, so as soon as they were gone I carried on, but you have to understand, my smile was brighter, my steps were lighter. The Lord showed me, in this small but incredible way, that of COURSE He's able. The fact that she and I overlapped by probably only ten minutes, on a day where I had enough going on that my schedule was so unpredictable, is such a little picture to me of how the Lord orchestrates everything.
So if you're praying for something, for someone, keep at it. If you're praying for a single mother of two who recently had a birthday, keep at it. If you have a broken heart, keep praying for grace. If you know someone who is still lost in their sins, keep praying for their salvation. If you know someone who's in over their heads, keep praying for them to seek out the Lord in their depths. If you know someone who daily is choosing to reject this world and choose Jesus, keep praying that they might continue to train their eyes on Him and Him alone. If you know a broken family, pray for healing. If you know of someone who has a big decision coming up, pray for wisdom.
The Lord our God is able. He is mighty to save, and His grace is sufficient for all of our needs. His mercies, which are new every morning, are available for us. May we daily seek Him, may we daily make our requests made known until God. He's got this.
Showing posts with label LifeStory. Show all posts
Showing posts with label LifeStory. Show all posts
Monday, February 8, 2016
Thursday, January 14, 2016
Intersections
I've known her for years. I met her daughter first. A beautiful little girl named India with huge hair and bright eyes. "Can I come to Sunday School, too?" I was out visiting and India had found me on my rounds.
"Sure! I'll have to talk to your mom first, though." So she brought me to her mom. Mom welcomed me in and talked to me about the Sunday School. She thought it was important if kids went to church, even if, like her, they one day realized they didn't need it any more. "We don't just outgrow Jesus," I told her. "No, no, of course not," she agreed, "I know God is important. I just don't really think it's for me."
But her daughter came to Sunday School anyhow. That wild hair and those bright eyes that were so intelligent. When India's two little siblings--a girl and a boy--got a little older she'd bring them too, though she wasn't that excited about it. "My mom said they have to come," she'd huff after taking forever to round herself and them up.
Not everything was smooth sailing in the home, of course. "Me and their dad? We never got married," mom told me, "there just wasn't a good time, and he's away now, of course."
Of course. He'd stolen a car (call me jaded, but at this point in my life stealing a car is hardly the worst offense, as far as I'm concerned) and been locked up for a while. The little boy hardly even knew his daddy, but that didn't stop him from talking about dad for weeks after their sporadic visits to the prison. Father's day came and went, more than once, but at least they had a dad. They were pretty stable, as far as families go. "And we'll be getting married when he gets out," I would hear.
And then one day it happened. I had gone to their house, just to see if the kids were coming to Sunday School the following morning. "Miss Joanne?" It wasn't surprising to hear a strange man know my name--this happens all the time, though "Miss Church Lady" is the common moniker. "Yes, that's me!" I brightly introduced myself to this strange man, only to have him introduce himself right back at me as the kids' dad. "I've heard a lot about you, and I'm so glad you take my kids to church. They really need it, you know?"
He'd heard about me from jail. I think that was a scrapbookable first in my life.
I was happy to meet him, though. I'd heard about him a lot, too.
He and she and the kids were so happy. He was still on parole and couldn't live with them--the projects are not a place you're allowed to live right away, apparently. They knew they'd have hiccups, of course, but they'd stayed together a long time and they'd be fine. Their little family of five finally had a chance at a life together.
But they weren't. They weren't really together, and they definitely weren't fine. There were rifts that I didn't see for a while, but she confided in me one day that they weren't sure they could make it work. "What if we can't do it? I wanted my kids to have us both. And he's out now. They should have us both. But we both changed so much when he was on the inside. Neither of us realized how different things were going to be."
After that, it was really just a matter of time, a matter of all the pieces finally falling down. His parole allowed him to move into a little place a little more towards the respectable side of town. Sometimes they would all go to stay with him. I'd go on a Saturday afternoon and she'd be alone in her little apartment. "I'm sorry, Miss Joanne. They're at they're dad's and I was going to go. But we fought, so I came home. I didn't want them to have to leave their dad's, though, so I let them stay over there. I hate for the kids to know we're having troubles. Try again next week."
She still had no use for God. She put herself into this unraveling mess, she told me. She'd take responsibility. This didn't have to do with God. This was just life.
"Maybe I shouldn't have gotten pregnant in the first place," she said, as if it might have fixed her issues. "But we were going to get married!"
Time passed and things formally ended. Now instead of working on the relationship, they worked on a schedule.
"You'll have the kids on weekends, and we'll do every other school holiday." That sort of thing.
"We'll start seeing other people." That sort of thing.
After all that time--and the beautiful, crazy-haired girl who'd wormed her way into my heart at age 6 was now a responsible young lady of 10--after all those years of promises to each other, things were changing. All the commitment they had felt was easily dissolved, because all those promises had been inked only in words, so easily spoken, so conveniently put aside.
She spent a lot of weekends away, after that. India and the two younger ones were at dad's, and she'd go to stay with her own mother, looking for stability and an understanding heart. But then the time came when I noticed that she was around more, and I kept hearing from others in the neighborhood "Did you hear that she's together with Anton?"
I knew Anton, of course. I know a lot of them. Spend lazy Saturday afternoons anywhere and you become as much of a fixture as the next person, even if they mostly think your name is "Miss Church Lady."
Anton was solid. He was kind. All the neighborhood kids loved him, and he (respectfully and in a trustworthy manner, because it's 2016 and you have to specify) loved them back. He was friendly and when the kids begged him to show off his standing backflip to me, he would. I was impressed by him, because he had a job, because of his standing backflip, because he knew how to keep his language clean, because of his way with kids, because everyone thought highly of him. We weren't friends, but we knew each other.
He's the one who told me. "You knew I was with her, yeah?"
"Yeah,"
"We're having a baby, did you hear?"
No. No, I hadn't heard.
She was in the process of moving. A different life, a different place. We'd talked about it before and she was trying hard to make things better for her little brood of three. I'd see the kids, they'd come to Sunday School from time to time still (India was finally old enough to be in my class, but missed so many Sundays because of her dad's schedule that she never felt like she was fully a part of the goings-on, so her enthusiasm waned considerably), or I'd run into them at the park. "Yeah, she's having a baby," they confirmed.
"I was so mad that I cried when she told me," the biggest-sister-to-be confided. "I liked Anton, but not as my mom's boyfriend."
But still, I never talked to her. I'd go to their place and ask to see her, but she'd be napping, or in the shower, or in the basement, or anywhere else but there at the front door. The first time I met her I'd been invited in. Not now, though. Now she was like a ghost.
And finally they moved, and I had no forwarding address.
Then one day, by chance (except that I'm a Christian and I know it wasn't chance), I met them at the library. The two younger (now middle-to-be) siblings came flying up to me, smothering me in hugs. She was turned toward the counter and didn't angle her body towards me. At all. "Congratulations," I told her sincerely, understanding at once that after all this time she thought I didn't know.
"New life is always exciting, and wonderful!" I went on to tell her that I knew she'd be such a great mom to this one, too.
"Oh, you've heard?" She now turned fully towards me. She was about seven months along, and there's no way I wouldn't have noticed, even if I hadn't been looking, even if she'd tried to use a counter and a stack of books to cover her belly.
"Of course! Anton told me, and the kids have talked to me about it, too."
At that point she opened up a little bit. "It's going to be a boy," she said. "India--who's at her dad's today, I'm sure she'll be sorry she missed you--was so upset when she heard it was a boy. She just thought I'd still be together with her dad, you know? And if she had to have another sibling, she wanted a girl to make up for it."
She kept squirming, like she wanted to tell me something. Something to make her feel better, or possibly make me feel better. Finally, it came out. "Maybe I shouldn't have gotten pregnant, Miss Joanne, but I really think it's going to work. I can feel it. Did I tell you? It's not the right time for us now, but we're going to get married!"
One of my other Sunday School kids still goes to school with her daughter India. I heard that she delivered a healthy baby boy at the end of October, though nobody has been able to tell me his name. I don't tell this story for any reason--moral, social, spiritual, or otherwise. I was just praying for her today, and her little brood of four.
"Sure! I'll have to talk to your mom first, though." So she brought me to her mom. Mom welcomed me in and talked to me about the Sunday School. She thought it was important if kids went to church, even if, like her, they one day realized they didn't need it any more. "We don't just outgrow Jesus," I told her. "No, no, of course not," she agreed, "I know God is important. I just don't really think it's for me."
But her daughter came to Sunday School anyhow. That wild hair and those bright eyes that were so intelligent. When India's two little siblings--a girl and a boy--got a little older she'd bring them too, though she wasn't that excited about it. "My mom said they have to come," she'd huff after taking forever to round herself and them up.
Not everything was smooth sailing in the home, of course. "Me and their dad? We never got married," mom told me, "there just wasn't a good time, and he's away now, of course."
Of course. He'd stolen a car (call me jaded, but at this point in my life stealing a car is hardly the worst offense, as far as I'm concerned) and been locked up for a while. The little boy hardly even knew his daddy, but that didn't stop him from talking about dad for weeks after their sporadic visits to the prison. Father's day came and went, more than once, but at least they had a dad. They were pretty stable, as far as families go. "And we'll be getting married when he gets out," I would hear.
And then one day it happened. I had gone to their house, just to see if the kids were coming to Sunday School the following morning. "Miss Joanne?" It wasn't surprising to hear a strange man know my name--this happens all the time, though "Miss Church Lady" is the common moniker. "Yes, that's me!" I brightly introduced myself to this strange man, only to have him introduce himself right back at me as the kids' dad. "I've heard a lot about you, and I'm so glad you take my kids to church. They really need it, you know?"
He'd heard about me from jail. I think that was a scrapbookable first in my life.
I was happy to meet him, though. I'd heard about him a lot, too.
He and she and the kids were so happy. He was still on parole and couldn't live with them--the projects are not a place you're allowed to live right away, apparently. They knew they'd have hiccups, of course, but they'd stayed together a long time and they'd be fine. Their little family of five finally had a chance at a life together.
But they weren't. They weren't really together, and they definitely weren't fine. There were rifts that I didn't see for a while, but she confided in me one day that they weren't sure they could make it work. "What if we can't do it? I wanted my kids to have us both. And he's out now. They should have us both. But we both changed so much when he was on the inside. Neither of us realized how different things were going to be."
After that, it was really just a matter of time, a matter of all the pieces finally falling down. His parole allowed him to move into a little place a little more towards the respectable side of town. Sometimes they would all go to stay with him. I'd go on a Saturday afternoon and she'd be alone in her little apartment. "I'm sorry, Miss Joanne. They're at they're dad's and I was going to go. But we fought, so I came home. I didn't want them to have to leave their dad's, though, so I let them stay over there. I hate for the kids to know we're having troubles. Try again next week."
She still had no use for God. She put herself into this unraveling mess, she told me. She'd take responsibility. This didn't have to do with God. This was just life.
"Maybe I shouldn't have gotten pregnant in the first place," she said, as if it might have fixed her issues. "But we were going to get married!"
Time passed and things formally ended. Now instead of working on the relationship, they worked on a schedule.
"You'll have the kids on weekends, and we'll do every other school holiday." That sort of thing.
"We'll start seeing other people." That sort of thing.
After all that time--and the beautiful, crazy-haired girl who'd wormed her way into my heart at age 6 was now a responsible young lady of 10--after all those years of promises to each other, things were changing. All the commitment they had felt was easily dissolved, because all those promises had been inked only in words, so easily spoken, so conveniently put aside.
She spent a lot of weekends away, after that. India and the two younger ones were at dad's, and she'd go to stay with her own mother, looking for stability and an understanding heart. But then the time came when I noticed that she was around more, and I kept hearing from others in the neighborhood "Did you hear that she's together with Anton?"
I knew Anton, of course. I know a lot of them. Spend lazy Saturday afternoons anywhere and you become as much of a fixture as the next person, even if they mostly think your name is "Miss Church Lady."
Anton was solid. He was kind. All the neighborhood kids loved him, and he (respectfully and in a trustworthy manner, because it's 2016 and you have to specify) loved them back. He was friendly and when the kids begged him to show off his standing backflip to me, he would. I was impressed by him, because he had a job, because of his standing backflip, because he knew how to keep his language clean, because of his way with kids, because everyone thought highly of him. We weren't friends, but we knew each other.
He's the one who told me. "You knew I was with her, yeah?"
"Yeah,"
"We're having a baby, did you hear?"
No. No, I hadn't heard.
She was in the process of moving. A different life, a different place. We'd talked about it before and she was trying hard to make things better for her little brood of three. I'd see the kids, they'd come to Sunday School from time to time still (India was finally old enough to be in my class, but missed so many Sundays because of her dad's schedule that she never felt like she was fully a part of the goings-on, so her enthusiasm waned considerably), or I'd run into them at the park. "Yeah, she's having a baby," they confirmed.
"I was so mad that I cried when she told me," the biggest-sister-to-be confided. "I liked Anton, but not as my mom's boyfriend."
But still, I never talked to her. I'd go to their place and ask to see her, but she'd be napping, or in the shower, or in the basement, or anywhere else but there at the front door. The first time I met her I'd been invited in. Not now, though. Now she was like a ghost.
And finally they moved, and I had no forwarding address.
Then one day, by chance (except that I'm a Christian and I know it wasn't chance), I met them at the library. The two younger (now middle-to-be) siblings came flying up to me, smothering me in hugs. She was turned toward the counter and didn't angle her body towards me. At all. "Congratulations," I told her sincerely, understanding at once that after all this time she thought I didn't know.
"New life is always exciting, and wonderful!" I went on to tell her that I knew she'd be such a great mom to this one, too.
"Oh, you've heard?" She now turned fully towards me. She was about seven months along, and there's no way I wouldn't have noticed, even if I hadn't been looking, even if she'd tried to use a counter and a stack of books to cover her belly.
"Of course! Anton told me, and the kids have talked to me about it, too."
At that point she opened up a little bit. "It's going to be a boy," she said. "India--who's at her dad's today, I'm sure she'll be sorry she missed you--was so upset when she heard it was a boy. She just thought I'd still be together with her dad, you know? And if she had to have another sibling, she wanted a girl to make up for it."
She kept squirming, like she wanted to tell me something. Something to make her feel better, or possibly make me feel better. Finally, it came out. "Maybe I shouldn't have gotten pregnant, Miss Joanne, but I really think it's going to work. I can feel it. Did I tell you? It's not the right time for us now, but we're going to get married!"
One of my other Sunday School kids still goes to school with her daughter India. I heard that she delivered a healthy baby boy at the end of October, though nobody has been able to tell me his name. I don't tell this story for any reason--moral, social, spiritual, or otherwise. I was just praying for her today, and her little brood of four.
Tuesday, February 24, 2015
Humans of Everywhere
Have you guys seen those books, you know, Humans of New York, or maybe Humans of the Subways, or whatever? Full disclaimer, I don't think I've ever read one, but I'm familiar with the concept because I have a cousin who is purportedly the instigator of this project, which is similar by nature. Funny, I talk to dozens of people everywhere I go, but never have I talked to this particular cousin about this particular project. Of course, we live far away one from another. I saw on the website that the original People of Pictou County project was started in May of 2013. For all I know I haven't even seen her since then. Shameful, yes.
Anyhow, I have never started a project like that. I don't go around canvassing for cool stories or interesting vignettes from the people I meet. But... Sometimes I think I should. I could literally write a book about all the different cool stories I hear, the little glimpses into so many different lives. Sometimes they're non-consequential, like someone telling me that they had an arranged marriage, sometimes they make me cry (sir, I have never forgotten you), and sometimes they're just... cute.
(I have, in the spirit on irony, pretended to trademark the "LifeStory" phrase, even. I gave it up after about a day, though. It was tedious and not at all ironic, when it came down to it.)
The other day, for instance, I was in the store, trying to make a return. There was an older couple in line in front of me and they were likewise making a return, and, as is the manner of my whole life, somehow they started talking to me about, you know, their whole life.
Years ago she was on a blind date with a guy who ended up just being stupid. I mean, throwing popcorn at her in the movie theater kind of stupid. She was trying to make him stop ("He was embarrassing and rude!") when another theater patron came to her rescue. ("I told him to stop disturbing the rest of us and leave his gal alone!") As is the manner with all cute stories, there was a twist: patron B realized that he knew patron A, and felt embarrassed that his "friend" would treat a gal like this. When the girl realized that someone sided with her on the rudeness of her blind date ("I vowed never would I endure a blind date again! Of course," she added slyly, "I didn't have to!") she demanded that he (the friend of the blind date) take her home.
("Were you there with another person?"
"Yes, but we were there as friends, a group of us, and I sent them all home together.")
This didn't mean he was off the hook. No way, no friend of this rude boy was a friend of hers. So, when they got home, she had him drop her off a block away from her house. And pretended to go into some random house till her left.
So, when he came back the next day to find her ("She was smart, and she was sassy! A gal like that is hard to come by!") she wasn't at the house he expected. Undeterred, he went on to the next house. Also, the next. Also, the next. He went to every house on the block until he found her. And even so, she wasn't so sure about him. She did decide to give him a chance, though, because she admired his tenacity.
I'll spare you the details of their whole story, though I'm pretty sure I got the whole thing, but one notable detail was that on their first real date they went to this fancy restaurant and they were seated and then she started seeing other meals as they were coming out and looked him straight in the eye and said, "I don't have money for this, and neither do you. We're not eating here." and they left. ("We had a burger instead," he said. "It's all I wanted anyhow.") "That was more than 55 years ago," she said proudly, "and I've been saving him money ever since!"
By this point we had two sales clerks and about half a dozen onlookers enjoying the hilarity of this couple's cuteness. We'd both finished our returns and were just standing to the side of the desks, talking like we were best friends.
"Sweetie," she told me, "we hear about all these kids who just quit on their marriages, and we just can't understand that. We've been married 55 years now, and we had some rough times, but I love him. And more importantly, I like him."
His arm was around her and drew her a little closer and beamed, "She's my gal. I wouldn't have it any other way."
We talked longer (of course), but when they left the store they were holding hands, happy to show the world (OK, me, two clerks, and half a dozen other strangers) that they were happy. That after 55 years it's possible that you can not just still love someone, but like them, too.
Anyhow, I have never started a project like that. I don't go around canvassing for cool stories or interesting vignettes from the people I meet. But... Sometimes I think I should. I could literally write a book about all the different cool stories I hear, the little glimpses into so many different lives. Sometimes they're non-consequential, like someone telling me that they had an arranged marriage, sometimes they make me cry (sir, I have never forgotten you), and sometimes they're just... cute.
(I have, in the spirit on irony, pretended to trademark the "LifeStory" phrase, even. I gave it up after about a day, though. It was tedious and not at all ironic, when it came down to it.)
The other day, for instance, I was in the store, trying to make a return. There was an older couple in line in front of me and they were likewise making a return, and, as is the manner of my whole life, somehow they started talking to me about, you know, their whole life.
Years ago she was on a blind date with a guy who ended up just being stupid. I mean, throwing popcorn at her in the movie theater kind of stupid. She was trying to make him stop ("He was embarrassing and rude!") when another theater patron came to her rescue. ("I told him to stop disturbing the rest of us and leave his gal alone!") As is the manner with all cute stories, there was a twist: patron B realized that he knew patron A, and felt embarrassed that his "friend" would treat a gal like this. When the girl realized that someone sided with her on the rudeness of her blind date ("I vowed never would I endure a blind date again! Of course," she added slyly, "I didn't have to!") she demanded that he (the friend of the blind date) take her home.
("Were you there with another person?"
"Yes, but we were there as friends, a group of us, and I sent them all home together.")
This didn't mean he was off the hook. No way, no friend of this rude boy was a friend of hers. So, when they got home, she had him drop her off a block away from her house. And pretended to go into some random house till her left.
So, when he came back the next day to find her ("She was smart, and she was sassy! A gal like that is hard to come by!") she wasn't at the house he expected. Undeterred, he went on to the next house. Also, the next. Also, the next. He went to every house on the block until he found her. And even so, she wasn't so sure about him. She did decide to give him a chance, though, because she admired his tenacity.
I'll spare you the details of their whole story, though I'm pretty sure I got the whole thing, but one notable detail was that on their first real date they went to this fancy restaurant and they were seated and then she started seeing other meals as they were coming out and looked him straight in the eye and said, "I don't have money for this, and neither do you. We're not eating here." and they left. ("We had a burger instead," he said. "It's all I wanted anyhow.") "That was more than 55 years ago," she said proudly, "and I've been saving him money ever since!"
By this point we had two sales clerks and about half a dozen onlookers enjoying the hilarity of this couple's cuteness. We'd both finished our returns and were just standing to the side of the desks, talking like we were best friends.
"Sweetie," she told me, "we hear about all these kids who just quit on their marriages, and we just can't understand that. We've been married 55 years now, and we had some rough times, but I love him. And more importantly, I like him."
His arm was around her and drew her a little closer and beamed, "She's my gal. I wouldn't have it any other way."
We talked longer (of course), but when they left the store they were holding hands, happy to show the world (OK, me, two clerks, and half a dozen other strangers) that they were happy. That after 55 years it's possible that you can not just still love someone, but like them, too.
Thursday, February 19, 2015
Holy Nudges, part 2
I recently posted about holy nudges, a thing which I think is very real, and am sobered when I think of all the times I ignore said holy nudges.
For instance, right after I posted last time (okay, well, maybe not right after, but maybe within the next few weeks) a number of times I realized I was ignoring holy nudges. And who just reminded me about them? Me. In this very blog and with my own words. Guys, I have a lot to learn.
For instance, on a Christmas-related flight I took during the holidays there was a lady who was talking to me in an airport (a stranger? Talking to me? Say it isn't so) and I was tired and fine with talking, but when we got on the plane (me quite a ways in front of her, because of Southwest boarding procedure) and she came and found me and said she was glad the seat next to me was still free, I'll admit--I maybe resented my openness of face. Why do *I* have to be the one to talk to every stranger I've ever met. Why can't I just nap? So I leaned into the window and pretended to sleep. Because I was very, very tired (I don't pack until the night I go places--a horrible habit, and one that detracts from my sleep quite dreadfully) and because I was already people'd out for the day (having spoken to every traveler and TSA agent I'd smiled at that day already). So I really was trying to doze off and the Lord kept telling me to talk to this woman. That I really should. Come on, Joanne, get with the program.
It took a while. An embarrassing while, actually. I'm ashamed to tell the story but share because a) accountability and b) it is a good reminder that when the Lord asks us to do something, we really should.
So, when I finally worked up a right spirit, I sat up and started talking to the woman, who was indeed just sitting upright, eyes open, waiting for a listening ear. (This story won't make any sense unless I also tell you that she had a very heavy accent. We may begin.)
"Is this your final destination?" I asked. (Nothing like a little travel-flavored small talk to get things started, I've discovered.)
"No, no, once we land I have to take the bus for a few hours."
"Oh, are you visiting family, or going on a vacation?"
"My brother had birthday today."
"Are you two close?"
"Yes, very."
"Well, that's very exciting!"
She stared at me. And stared at me. And suddenly I thought, you know, planes are really loud places, and she has an accent. Maybe I heard her wrong?
So I tried again. "Your brother's birthday--it's today?"
"No. My brother died today."
Uhhhhhhhhh.
It was awful. She was trying desperately to get down to see him and in the airport got the call that he had passed away. He had no family with him when he died, she had already left her own family so she had nobody with her when she heard, and there she was, just alone in the airport, trying to be with her brother, discovering it was too late.
No wonder she wanted to talk.
That was the thing, though. We talked about it a little bit, I hugged her (albeit awkwardly, we were on a plane and all) and then she just breathed a deep sigh, leaned her head back, and slept.
She could have been sleeping that whole time, probably, if I'd spoken to her sooner. But I was being selfish and childish. But thankfully the Lord persevered with his holy nudge and I bit the proverbial bullet. And I need to, because she needed someone, and, for whatever reason that person was me.
"Take my lips," that song says, "and let them be filled with messages from Thee." I'm a Christian, so that ought always to be my prayer, and I'm someone who gets LifeStory'd ALL the time, so I need to be mindful that the Lord probably wants to use these multitudinous occasions as more than just a casual encounter--He has plans for my conversations.
"Take my life, and let it be consecrated, Lord, to Thee."
For instance, right after I posted last time (okay, well, maybe not right after, but maybe within the next few weeks) a number of times I realized I was ignoring holy nudges. And who just reminded me about them? Me. In this very blog and with my own words. Guys, I have a lot to learn.
For instance, on a Christmas-related flight I took during the holidays there was a lady who was talking to me in an airport (a stranger? Talking to me? Say it isn't so) and I was tired and fine with talking, but when we got on the plane (me quite a ways in front of her, because of Southwest boarding procedure) and she came and found me and said she was glad the seat next to me was still free, I'll admit--I maybe resented my openness of face. Why do *I* have to be the one to talk to every stranger I've ever met. Why can't I just nap? So I leaned into the window and pretended to sleep. Because I was very, very tired (I don't pack until the night I go places--a horrible habit, and one that detracts from my sleep quite dreadfully) and because I was already people'd out for the day (having spoken to every traveler and TSA agent I'd smiled at that day already). So I really was trying to doze off and the Lord kept telling me to talk to this woman. That I really should. Come on, Joanne, get with the program.
It took a while. An embarrassing while, actually. I'm ashamed to tell the story but share because a) accountability and b) it is a good reminder that when the Lord asks us to do something, we really should.
So, when I finally worked up a right spirit, I sat up and started talking to the woman, who was indeed just sitting upright, eyes open, waiting for a listening ear. (This story won't make any sense unless I also tell you that she had a very heavy accent. We may begin.)
"Is this your final destination?" I asked. (Nothing like a little travel-flavored small talk to get things started, I've discovered.)
"No, no, once we land I have to take the bus for a few hours."
"Oh, are you visiting family, or going on a vacation?"
"My brother had birthday today."
"Are you two close?"
"Yes, very."
"Well, that's very exciting!"
She stared at me. And stared at me. And suddenly I thought, you know, planes are really loud places, and she has an accent. Maybe I heard her wrong?
So I tried again. "Your brother's birthday--it's today?"
"No. My brother died today."
Uhhhhhhhhh.
It was awful. She was trying desperately to get down to see him and in the airport got the call that he had passed away. He had no family with him when he died, she had already left her own family so she had nobody with her when she heard, and there she was, just alone in the airport, trying to be with her brother, discovering it was too late.
No wonder she wanted to talk.
That was the thing, though. We talked about it a little bit, I hugged her (albeit awkwardly, we were on a plane and all) and then she just breathed a deep sigh, leaned her head back, and slept.
She could have been sleeping that whole time, probably, if I'd spoken to her sooner. But I was being selfish and childish. But thankfully the Lord persevered with his holy nudge and I bit the proverbial bullet. And I need to, because she needed someone, and, for whatever reason that person was me.
"Take my lips," that song says, "and let them be filled with messages from Thee." I'm a Christian, so that ought always to be my prayer, and I'm someone who gets LifeStory'd ALL the time, so I need to be mindful that the Lord probably wants to use these multitudinous occasions as more than just a casual encounter--He has plans for my conversations.
"Take my life, and let it be consecrated, Lord, to Thee."
Wednesday, June 26, 2013
Your LifeStory (TM) caused me some actual tears, sir
I get LifeStory'd (TM) a lot.
What does that mean? It means people see me in the grocery store/airport/gas station/walking down the street and they somehow decide that they should talk to me. A lot. About their whole life. I know I've mentioned this before, but that's because it's a real think that happens to me. Frequently.
And I don't mind. People tell me that I'll get sick of it, and I'll get jaded, and start presenting an unfriendly face to the world, and... I might. I hope I don't, but I might. But for now, people LifeStory (TM) me and I don't particularly mind.
So yesterday, when I was at the mechanic (because yes, I do the car stuff. Two oil changes, a spare tire, and two brake issues within the past week and a half, if that says anything) this older fellow started talking to me. This is nothing surprising--they all talk to me.
(I'm not being vain or anything--in fact, in all fairness, I'd usually rather be reading a book than talking to a stranger about his LifeStory (TM), so don't think any virtuous thoughts of me--but people just do talk to me. It's not that I think I'm a magnet for humans, I just... have that kind of face. Or something.)
Anyhow, he began by asking if I was waiting long (he'd seen me there earlier with another car, when he first got there, and thought I'd been there for forever. Which... basically I was, but only because I brought up three cars in the same morning, haha) and then was talking about how his car didn't have many miles on it, because he doesn't get out much, because he's old, mostly, and his wife had a stroke a while ago and it's hard for her to travel. I could tell this was building towards something. People always feel you out to see if you have time, and then when you present your, "Yes, I'm listening," face, they just roll right towards their story.
And I know, this is where I could call it quits. I didn't have to put my book in my purse when he started talking to me. I didn't have to get him a drink of water when I saw him struggling up to try to get it himself, but I just couldn't help it. I'm not sure which comment did me in--the "It's all the radiation treatments I've gotten have just worn me out," or the "My hip replacement from two years ago just didn't take." Either way, this man needed somebody to help him up and get him his water. And that's a fact.
Once I got him water, though, we were pals.
So I settled in to hear his story. Which he told.
Before I tell any of it, I just want to say that usually people tell me their story and I'm like, "Wow, I'm so sorry," or "That's incredible!" and try to throw something in there about the Lord and we go our merry ways. Very rarely do I actually feel some sort of real pain/sympathy for the person because... well, I don't know them. I'm not trying to sound awful, but once I've had the conversation, our time is up. Chances of us meeting again are slim. (Unless you're the crazy lady I met at our library who I think sometimes STALKS me because of how often I see her. But... she needs the Lord, so I never turn her down when she sees me on the street--how does she always find me??--and asks for a ride to work and stuff. So we talk and she's still not saved but we're working on it.)
Anyhow, as I said--usually I just enjoy the fact that I can gospel these folks and move right along my way.
So this man started talking about how his wife didn't like him to do yard work, because sometimes he falls and can't get up (it's the bum hip again) and his son-in-law is always like, "I wish my wife would tell me not to do yard work!" and they always get a big laugh out of it. Well... step-son-in-law. This is his second wife he was talking about. His first wife, he told me, died a few years ago. Unexpectedly.
She'd had RA for years, and had a number of health problems. She also had occasional heart problems, and one day she was having heart arrhythmia and so they went into the hospital, and he was sitting in the waiting room, waiting for the cardiologist to come out and let him know if they needed to do anything about it. Then someone came up to him and addressed him by name, and identified himself as the hospital chaplain. "This is such a strange hospital," he thought to himself, "that the chaplain knows my name for no reason."
But of course, it wasn't for no reason. His wife had died. Out of the blue. They were in their early 70s, and (besides the serious RA) doing pretty well. But there he was, sitting along in the waiting room. They didn't think it was a big deal--they hadn't even thought to call any family members when they brought her into the ER. Nobody was there with him, and they all lived too far away to call. Besides, he wasn't a cell phone man, and this was seven years ago. He didn't have a cell phone, and he didn't carry their kids's numbers on him anyhow. He is the Lord's, so he wasn't totally alone, but... sometimes you wish you had another human presence with you. Someone to take your arm, walk you to where you need to go, and take care of the little things that feel so insurmountable when sorrow strikes.
So they let him come back and see her body. They gave him her watch and her purse. He had his moment of sorrow, and when it was done, found his car in the parking garage, got into their car by himself, and drove himself home to their empty house, looking over at the purse that was on her seat--the only part of her that came home with him from the hospital.
And then... he didn't know what to do. He called the kids, but they were all far enough away that they didn't get there right away. Their friends were too old to come in at a moment's notice. He puttered, and saw on the calendar that she had some appointments coming up, so he called up the doctor's office to cancel them. "Why are you cancelling an appointment four months early?" the secretary queried. He explained--"My wife. She died."--and that was it. In that moment when he had to say it out loud he let the sorrow overtake him.
He said he was a broken man that day.
Um, you think? By this point he was crying, and so was I. We did eventually move on to stories about his grandkids, and the new wife, and how he met said wife number two, and what it was like to move away to his house of 47 years to a new home, and the fact that wife number two had suffered from a stroke just two years ago. We no longer were crying. We mopped up our tears and moved on. Just like in life. Sorrows come, but... so do grandkids. And mundane grocery shopping experiences. But sometimes there are moments when the tears catch up with you and you need to find a stranger with whom to cry. And this is my point--I don't usually cry during these sessions. People will tell me terrible things they've suffered--loss, abuse, trauma, and I sympathize, give them a shoulder to cry on, and walk away extra thankful for my life.
But this man. Something about his story hit me. I almost never cry with strangers. I think the people at the mechanic were surprised as well--they see me in there all the time (if they had a need for somebody to do nothing but answer phones, I would be hired, as they remind me all the time), people chatting me up, and usually I'm friendly and polite, but I don't usually cry. When it came time for him to go I helped him up and once he was gone they asked me if I knew him. No.
Or rather, I didn't used to.
But for a few brief moments, he needed to talk. And in those moments, I listened. And he didn't just talk, he sorrowed so deeply for a love that was lost. For the pain of being alone. And in that moment, I was there.
And I didn't know him before, and I'll probably never see him again, but in that one moment, anyhow, I knew him.
What does that mean? It means people see me in the grocery store/airport/gas station/walking down the street and they somehow decide that they should talk to me. A lot. About their whole life. I know I've mentioned this before, but that's because it's a real think that happens to me. Frequently.
And I don't mind. People tell me that I'll get sick of it, and I'll get jaded, and start presenting an unfriendly face to the world, and... I might. I hope I don't, but I might. But for now, people LifeStory (TM) me and I don't particularly mind.
So yesterday, when I was at the mechanic (because yes, I do the car stuff. Two oil changes, a spare tire, and two brake issues within the past week and a half, if that says anything) this older fellow started talking to me. This is nothing surprising--they all talk to me.
(I'm not being vain or anything--in fact, in all fairness, I'd usually rather be reading a book than talking to a stranger about his LifeStory (TM), so don't think any virtuous thoughts of me--but people just do talk to me. It's not that I think I'm a magnet for humans, I just... have that kind of face. Or something.)
Anyhow, he began by asking if I was waiting long (he'd seen me there earlier with another car, when he first got there, and thought I'd been there for forever. Which... basically I was, but only because I brought up three cars in the same morning, haha) and then was talking about how his car didn't have many miles on it, because he doesn't get out much, because he's old, mostly, and his wife had a stroke a while ago and it's hard for her to travel. I could tell this was building towards something. People always feel you out to see if you have time, and then when you present your, "Yes, I'm listening," face, they just roll right towards their story.
And I know, this is where I could call it quits. I didn't have to put my book in my purse when he started talking to me. I didn't have to get him a drink of water when I saw him struggling up to try to get it himself, but I just couldn't help it. I'm not sure which comment did me in--the "It's all the radiation treatments I've gotten have just worn me out," or the "My hip replacement from two years ago just didn't take." Either way, this man needed somebody to help him up and get him his water. And that's a fact.
Once I got him water, though, we were pals.
So I settled in to hear his story. Which he told.
Before I tell any of it, I just want to say that usually people tell me their story and I'm like, "Wow, I'm so sorry," or "That's incredible!" and try to throw something in there about the Lord and we go our merry ways. Very rarely do I actually feel some sort of real pain/sympathy for the person because... well, I don't know them. I'm not trying to sound awful, but once I've had the conversation, our time is up. Chances of us meeting again are slim. (Unless you're the crazy lady I met at our library who I think sometimes STALKS me because of how often I see her. But... she needs the Lord, so I never turn her down when she sees me on the street--how does she always find me??--and asks for a ride to work and stuff. So we talk and she's still not saved but we're working on it.)
Anyhow, as I said--usually I just enjoy the fact that I can gospel these folks and move right along my way.
So this man started talking about how his wife didn't like him to do yard work, because sometimes he falls and can't get up (it's the bum hip again) and his son-in-law is always like, "I wish my wife would tell me not to do yard work!" and they always get a big laugh out of it. Well... step-son-in-law. This is his second wife he was talking about. His first wife, he told me, died a few years ago. Unexpectedly.
She'd had RA for years, and had a number of health problems. She also had occasional heart problems, and one day she was having heart arrhythmia and so they went into the hospital, and he was sitting in the waiting room, waiting for the cardiologist to come out and let him know if they needed to do anything about it. Then someone came up to him and addressed him by name, and identified himself as the hospital chaplain. "This is such a strange hospital," he thought to himself, "that the chaplain knows my name for no reason."
But of course, it wasn't for no reason. His wife had died. Out of the blue. They were in their early 70s, and (besides the serious RA) doing pretty well. But there he was, sitting along in the waiting room. They didn't think it was a big deal--they hadn't even thought to call any family members when they brought her into the ER. Nobody was there with him, and they all lived too far away to call. Besides, he wasn't a cell phone man, and this was seven years ago. He didn't have a cell phone, and he didn't carry their kids's numbers on him anyhow. He is the Lord's, so he wasn't totally alone, but... sometimes you wish you had another human presence with you. Someone to take your arm, walk you to where you need to go, and take care of the little things that feel so insurmountable when sorrow strikes.
So they let him come back and see her body. They gave him her watch and her purse. He had his moment of sorrow, and when it was done, found his car in the parking garage, got into their car by himself, and drove himself home to their empty house, looking over at the purse that was on her seat--the only part of her that came home with him from the hospital.
And then... he didn't know what to do. He called the kids, but they were all far enough away that they didn't get there right away. Their friends were too old to come in at a moment's notice. He puttered, and saw on the calendar that she had some appointments coming up, so he called up the doctor's office to cancel them. "Why are you cancelling an appointment four months early?" the secretary queried. He explained--"My wife. She died."--and that was it. In that moment when he had to say it out loud he let the sorrow overtake him.
He said he was a broken man that day.
Um, you think? By this point he was crying, and so was I. We did eventually move on to stories about his grandkids, and the new wife, and how he met said wife number two, and what it was like to move away to his house of 47 years to a new home, and the fact that wife number two had suffered from a stroke just two years ago. We no longer were crying. We mopped up our tears and moved on. Just like in life. Sorrows come, but... so do grandkids. And mundane grocery shopping experiences. But sometimes there are moments when the tears catch up with you and you need to find a stranger with whom to cry. And this is my point--I don't usually cry during these sessions. People will tell me terrible things they've suffered--loss, abuse, trauma, and I sympathize, give them a shoulder to cry on, and walk away extra thankful for my life.
But this man. Something about his story hit me. I almost never cry with strangers. I think the people at the mechanic were surprised as well--they see me in there all the time (if they had a need for somebody to do nothing but answer phones, I would be hired, as they remind me all the time), people chatting me up, and usually I'm friendly and polite, but I don't usually cry. When it came time for him to go I helped him up and once he was gone they asked me if I knew him. No.
Or rather, I didn't used to.
But for a few brief moments, he needed to talk. And in those moments, I listened. And he didn't just talk, he sorrowed so deeply for a love that was lost. For the pain of being alone. And in that moment, I was there.
And I didn't know him before, and I'll probably never see him again, but in that one moment, anyhow, I knew him.
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
The Princess Complex
I love fairy tales. Worlds where girls grow up to be princesses, have some sort of adventure, and live happily ever after. I'm sure a lot could be said about the happily ever after, but I'm not going into that right now. Also, I wan to go on record as saying that when I was a kid I never had any interest in being a princess. I just liked to read about them. Anyhow, I just read an interesting article on Christianity Today's website (well, I want to be clear that it was actually on the blog Her.meneutics, which I like a lot better than CT itself, because CT has issues and I have issues with CT, but anyhow, yes, I read the Her.meneutics blog from time to time) about Karen Kingsbury's book The Princess and the Three Knights.
Now. I know I've said it before, and I'll probably say it again, but I don't think Karen has the most... varied imagination ever. Most of her books have the same plot, and they usually center around stories of her family. Thinly veiled, of course, but since I read her dedications (all eight pages of them) I can follow her family enough to see through the veil. I'm on to you, Karen. Anyhow, I've solved that by not reading her books any more, so I'm over it.
But anyhow, I've read the book in question, and... I didn't think it was terrible. I thought the story wasn't that creative (a young girl stands aside as young men vie for her hand, and one shows that his love for the Princess would never endanger her, thereby gaining the approval of kingdom and king and winning her hand), but I had nothing against it. Does it lean towards arranged marriages? I suppose, though let's be honest, which country has the least divorces? India? I thought so.
As a side note: On my way home from California in January I sat by a couple in the plane who LifeStory'd (TM) me, and they asked a few times if I was married, and when I was getting married, and why wasn't I getting married? I tried to explain that marriage was going to involve some young man who hasn't shown up and, quite frankly, isn't showing up very swiftly, as far as I can see. We tried some other topics, but eventually they again shifted the subject back to marriage (we'd been talking about the Lord, actually. They were Hindu, and so we discussed the Bible and virgin Mary and various related topics) by asking, "Haven't your parents heard of arranged marriages?"
I said that they had, but such things aren't so much done these days. Then I heard further their LifeStory (TM) and their saga of their own arranged marriage, and how they ish-arranged marriages for their children, though with a way out if the kid thought the spouse was unsuitable. They told me I could pass that along to my parents. Which I did. We all got a good laugh over their dismay at me being more than two decades old minus a husband. Anyhow, they were a nice couple. I gave them a calendar with some Bible verses on it, but they explained that they appreciated the gesture but weren't interested in converting. We talked about it for a while, and Salvation, and what it means according to the Bible, but they seemed less than impressed. So. I hope they get saved. The end.
Anyhow, the Her.meneutics article has a problem with the Karen Kingsbury story. More than one, actually, but basically the author of the article is worried that girls will read the tale and become a wallflower who cannot think for herself. Or speak for herself. Perhaps a valid point (though really? a little girl will grow up unable to think for herself because she one time read a picture book wherein the princess did nothing other than gasp and be happy that a husband had been found?), but what I thought was funny were the comments on the article. Most people seemed to agree with the author, stating their reasons as to why such princess books were bad for children, and something about a funny scene in Shrek 3. Never seen it, but apparently all the regular princesses (Snow White, Sleeping Beauty, Cinderella) think that help will come if only they act accordingly (act sleepingly, and scrub floors, for instace). Anyhow, I have three things to say, both in response to the article, and also to the Shrek thing (which I haven't seen so I probably shouldn't be discussing, haha, but I'm only speaking for the scene in which the princesses do their sleeping/floor scrubbing).
1) Uh, the man's job is to protect. There are still some girls who assume that there is some guy who will act as her protector. Not naming any names, for fear of being branded as, you know, having a Princess Complex, but I'm just putting that out there.
2) While I agree that girls shouldn't sit about doing nothing, and dreamily saying that someday their prince will come, I have to say, is it so bad to be just doing your thing whilst you wait? I mean, maybe you excel at mopping floors (a la Cinderella) and help out a lot of people by doing such... did that make Cinderella hopelessly inept because all she knew was cooking and cleaning? Okay, so she'd never had to [fight/get out of tricky situations/whatever else may have happened in Shrek] but she was doing what she knew how to do. While I doubt she was doing it heartily as unto the Lord, I'd like to think it's kind of the same concept.
3) My final point is that many of the comments in response to the article centered around the fact that the readers were upset that the book seemed to make marriage be the happily ever after. "We are going to teach our daughter differently," the comments seem to say. Uh, so you're worried that your daughter will read this book and then get the terrible idea that marriage is a great career choice (to borrow from my sister's phraseology)? You and your husband are married, ma'am. Do you worry that your daughter will see that you and your husband are (hopefully) contentedly married and then get the frightful idea that *gasp* she might want that, too? I'd just like to point out that most people who are married with children will probably give their children the idea that marriage is often what you do with your life. So... there's that.
Anyhow, I didn't mean to wax so eloquent. I just read the article whilst I was reading up on things (that's another thing--I sort of didn't look at any blogs or anything while I was away, so now I'm looking back to see what I may have missed over the last three months) and thought I would share it. The actual point of this entire long-winded point was mostly to say that if you do want a good picture book about Princesses, I HIGHLY recommend the book The Princess and the Kiss. As far a picture books about princesses go, it's pretty much my favorite. So. You should all read it. And your children should read it. It focuses less on the happily ever after and more on purity. Which I guess leads to the happily ever after, in this case. But anyhow, as far as storybook lessons go, it's a good one.
PS, if any of this has offended you, as not being empowering enough to women, I'm... sorry?
Now. I know I've said it before, and I'll probably say it again, but I don't think Karen has the most... varied imagination ever. Most of her books have the same plot, and they usually center around stories of her family. Thinly veiled, of course, but since I read her dedications (all eight pages of them) I can follow her family enough to see through the veil. I'm on to you, Karen. Anyhow, I've solved that by not reading her books any more, so I'm over it.
But anyhow, I've read the book in question, and... I didn't think it was terrible. I thought the story wasn't that creative (a young girl stands aside as young men vie for her hand, and one shows that his love for the Princess would never endanger her, thereby gaining the approval of kingdom and king and winning her hand), but I had nothing against it. Does it lean towards arranged marriages? I suppose, though let's be honest, which country has the least divorces? India? I thought so.
As a side note: On my way home from California in January I sat by a couple in the plane who LifeStory'd (TM) me, and they asked a few times if I was married, and when I was getting married, and why wasn't I getting married? I tried to explain that marriage was going to involve some young man who hasn't shown up and, quite frankly, isn't showing up very swiftly, as far as I can see. We tried some other topics, but eventually they again shifted the subject back to marriage (we'd been talking about the Lord, actually. They were Hindu, and so we discussed the Bible and virgin Mary and various related topics) by asking, "Haven't your parents heard of arranged marriages?"
I said that they had, but such things aren't so much done these days. Then I heard further their LifeStory (TM) and their saga of their own arranged marriage, and how they ish-arranged marriages for their children, though with a way out if the kid thought the spouse was unsuitable. They told me I could pass that along to my parents. Which I did. We all got a good laugh over their dismay at me being more than two decades old minus a husband. Anyhow, they were a nice couple. I gave them a calendar with some Bible verses on it, but they explained that they appreciated the gesture but weren't interested in converting. We talked about it for a while, and Salvation, and what it means according to the Bible, but they seemed less than impressed. So. I hope they get saved. The end.
Anyhow, the Her.meneutics article has a problem with the Karen Kingsbury story. More than one, actually, but basically the author of the article is worried that girls will read the tale and become a wallflower who cannot think for herself. Or speak for herself. Perhaps a valid point (though really? a little girl will grow up unable to think for herself because she one time read a picture book wherein the princess did nothing other than gasp and be happy that a husband had been found?), but what I thought was funny were the comments on the article. Most people seemed to agree with the author, stating their reasons as to why such princess books were bad for children, and something about a funny scene in Shrek 3. Never seen it, but apparently all the regular princesses (Snow White, Sleeping Beauty, Cinderella) think that help will come if only they act accordingly (act sleepingly, and scrub floors, for instace). Anyhow, I have three things to say, both in response to the article, and also to the Shrek thing (which I haven't seen so I probably shouldn't be discussing, haha, but I'm only speaking for the scene in which the princesses do their sleeping/floor scrubbing).
1) Uh, the man's job is to protect. There are still some girls who assume that there is some guy who will act as her protector. Not naming any names, for fear of being branded as, you know, having a Princess Complex, but I'm just putting that out there.
2) While I agree that girls shouldn't sit about doing nothing, and dreamily saying that someday their prince will come, I have to say, is it so bad to be just doing your thing whilst you wait? I mean, maybe you excel at mopping floors (a la Cinderella) and help out a lot of people by doing such... did that make Cinderella hopelessly inept because all she knew was cooking and cleaning? Okay, so she'd never had to [fight/get out of tricky situations/whatever else may have happened in Shrek] but she was doing what she knew how to do. While I doubt she was doing it heartily as unto the Lord, I'd like to think it's kind of the same concept.
3) My final point is that many of the comments in response to the article centered around the fact that the readers were upset that the book seemed to make marriage be the happily ever after. "We are going to teach our daughter differently," the comments seem to say. Uh, so you're worried that your daughter will read this book and then get the terrible idea that marriage is a great career choice (to borrow from my sister's phraseology)? You and your husband are married, ma'am. Do you worry that your daughter will see that you and your husband are (hopefully) contentedly married and then get the frightful idea that *gasp* she might want that, too? I'd just like to point out that most people who are married with children will probably give their children the idea that marriage is often what you do with your life. So... there's that.
Anyhow, I didn't mean to wax so eloquent. I just read the article whilst I was reading up on things (that's another thing--I sort of didn't look at any blogs or anything while I was away, so now I'm looking back to see what I may have missed over the last three months) and thought I would share it. The actual point of this entire long-winded point was mostly to say that if you do want a good picture book about Princesses, I HIGHLY recommend the book The Princess and the Kiss. As far a picture books about princesses go, it's pretty much my favorite. So. You should all read it. And your children should read it. It focuses less on the happily ever after and more on purity. Which I guess leads to the happily ever after, in this case. But anyhow, as far as storybook lessons go, it's a good one.PS, if any of this has offended you, as not being empowering enough to women, I'm... sorry?
Thursday, September 8, 2011
Bordering on Sorrow
Went to Borders today. Again. For about the 12th time since they announced their doors were closing for good. It was sad. Everything good is gone, and most of the bookshelves are sold (3 book cases for $99? they'd better be sold!) and it feels like the end of an era. I appreciate Barnes & Noble and all, but Borders was always my favorite. I feel bereft knowing my children will never know the store as anything other than "that store that's been out of business for FOREVER but Mommy just won't let go of." Sigh. (I'll teach them the no-preposition-at-the-end rule at some point. For some reason they just won't follow it when finishing that sentence.)
I befriended one of the employees, and he cheerfully gave me the scoop, which is to say, this last price break (everything 70-90% off) is going to be the lowest they go (as far as he knows) and that the two stores near us are closing officially next Thursday. We also discussed the liquidation company that now technically owns Borders (and if by that I mean that there is no such thing as Borders any more--they don't exist...) and Books-a-Million (we don't have any in the vicinity, but one just bought the location of one of our Borders and so we'll finally have one. Silver lining, I guess...), and why this particular employee has decided to retire instead of try to find a new job after Borders shuts down for good. All in all, it was fascinating, albeit a bit sad, and then he gave me some extra discounts at the cash register. I love when people start telling their LifeStory (TM) to me and next thing I know we're friends. Or something.
But seriously, I'll miss Borders. I've had such good times in there! I used to compel people to go into the kid's section and read Children's books to one another, just because it seemed funny. I met some Christian teenagers in Borders one time who were looking for the "perfect Bible" for one of their friends, and we ended up discussing why they thought Arphaxad was such a cool name and the merits of bringing shovels with you when you went camping. I one time lost a cell phone case in Borders. And parked too close to some lady (so she says--I maintain that I was within the lines of my parking space) who called me to the front courtesy counter to have me move my car. My brother and I would field trip there to mock vampire books. My friends and I would go and covet their expensive craft books. I got my first copy of Pride and Prejudice at Borders. I went to Borders after the third book in The Giver series came out (Messenger) and looked at it sadly, right after my brother died, because he'd so been looking forward to it coming out. I read it for the both of us. My friend and I went to an Apolo Ohno booksigning there. Borders was where I always deliberated over my journal choices, debating which one had the best line width and appropriate bindings. I bought birthday gifts there, and prizes for my Sunday School class, and generally enjoyed smelling their books.
I'm going to miss that.
Borders, I'll miss you. Thank you for 40 years of bookish awesomeness.
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