We Remember. Let's Roll.

(Originally posted September 11, 2010)

It does seem fitting that perhaps the most tragic day in our nation's modern history shares its digits with the nationally recognized code for emergency distress - distressed was certainly how I felt in the aftermath of that event.

In the summer of 2001, we'd just moved to the Springs with Grace in tow, just a mere 7 months after her birth. We were staying with Craig's mom and I had just gotten an unusually cranky infant back to sleep when, bleary eyed, I decide to give up the effort at sleep and head upstairs for coffee. I entered the living room to find my mother-in-law already up - and sitting in the living room with the tv on...an unusual workday routine for her. I opened my mouth to ask what was up, but then couldn't tear my eyes from the images on the screen. With her face in her hands, Mom turned to me and said bleakly, "I think a plane flew into the World Trade Center."

So we watched. And waited - with increasing scores of Americans worldwide, tuning in instantly as word rapidly spread. On that couch, sitting next to Mom, silence seemingly hanging thick everywhere, we watched the second plane careening into the second tower - and could only gasp in shock and then weep in despair as it hit its mark.

Last year, we began the process of educating our two oldest children about the events of that day. We explain to them this was a day of passing - passing of dreams and of hopes and securities and, yes, certainly of life. We tell them Satan started that day, but God finished it: we illuminate that truth with stories regaling the heroism of police, firefighters, emergency responders, and everyday passersby, giving their lives to save others. We remind them that heroes lived - and died - in two other places, as well. We explain the Pentagon. And I've told them the story of Flight 93, in as much detail as is yearly appropriate. I tell them of the anthem, "Let's Roll" and how it was the favorite of Todd Beamer who, against all odds and in the face of almost-certain death, gathered flight attendants, a wrestler, a businessman, a teacher, a coach, and a ragamuffin band of other agents to stand against their hijackers...and, in giving their lives, they spared every one of those at The White House or Capitol or some other vital mark.


We do not fill our children with hate for the souls at the controls of those four planes or for any of the master planners, for that matter; though, we certainly tell them that the want to hate is understandable and, perhaps, even practical. Yet, we saw how big the souls of mankind can be that day. We saw acts of goodness heretofore only imagined in the face of such agony. We saw good conquer evil, if only in the aftermath. And, in the end, what else can we teach them? For we do not want them to hate as we are hated, but to love in spite of it.

Because the aftermath is sometimes the only chance we've got to answer the call of 911.

And we remember.
And we roll.

Crabs. Yeah, You Know The Kind I Mean

If you left children to interpret all of our adult jabberings, someone would end up having crabs.

For real.

When I was a kid, my mom (sorry, Mom, gotta' out ya' here) used to have this one woman I remember she particularly didn't like. At all. Any time she head that gal's name (come to think of it, I don't even know what it was), she'd commence her death spin of name-calling and curse-uttering, usually ending with a muttered chorus of "She has it all." (You're going to have to imagine the tone of disgust).

I din't know what that woman had. But I will tell you that my somewhere-near-9 year old mind grasped that "it" was something one "had" and that "having" it was bad. I mean, B-A-D. Now, it pays to know here that my brother was four years ahead of me in school. Which, for the purposes of this little narrative, meant he was taking Health class. Which also meant he and his friends were lazing around the house one afternoon discovering the horrors of having "it". The only word I could make out before I was resolutely relocated from the room was "crabs." 

And the association was born.

Is this what my mother meant when she said the poor woman had "it" all?

Shivers.

It was a rough next 4 or 5 years, I tell ya', always fearing the claw-footed creatures would infect me in some way. That museum visit to the crustacean exhibit was particularly rough. But then came my turn for Health class - and an especially growdy slide show that proffered the pictorial debut of (among others) crabs. Don't pretend you don't know the kind I mean. The guest speaker, who was probably either fired or relocated to the lunch room, cautioned us - full screen shot behind her pointing finger - on all the manners and methods by which we might contract "it". 

By the end of the school year, my friends thankfully enlightened my ridiculously stupid innocently naive mind that, no, the mother-nemesis was not suffering from an infestation of crabs. Of either kind. Don't pretend you don't know that other kind I mean. If you want total honesty (as if you haven't gotten a serious dose of THAT in this post), I'm not sure I completely grasped the meaning of "it" until...well...right now.

Yep. And this time, I can't even blame it on my mind - whatever its state. Oh, I've long known what my mom  meant by "it": that singular combination of measurements (wallet, house, husband, kids, and 36-24-36) women obsess about. 

Okay, so maybe gals like my  mom might, in that same death spin, mutter about me having it all. I do have a house. I do have a husband. I have a kid; in fact, I've three of them. (The measurements I discard: they're total poo and have been always). I am blessed with shelter, with provision, with love. Isn't that the "it"?

But I'd refuse their premise. "It" isn't any of those things, for that definition centers on status. On materialism. On the temporal. I suppose I do have it all, if by "it" you mean purpose and place. If you mean love and acceptance. If you mean value and vision. That definition centers on identity. On the best depths. On the eternal.

I have it all because I have Him.

Now, if no piece of that story convinced you and you're guffawing, "Nah. I'm not buying. What's one got to do with another?" Well in return, let me ask you this: Who else but God could get a ridiculously stupid innocently naive sold-out-for-Him mind from child to adult by using crabs - and you know the ones I mean - as a stepping stone?

Yeah. 

Think about that.

Make This Place Your Home

Yeah, you already know it.
Because you're cooler than I.
You actually watch American Idol.

No, not really.


But, if you do watch, you already know this guy. I just met his music. It was during a cool-down after a gym beat-down so, since I was practically unconscious anyway, I figured I'd pay attention to the Ipod spin a bit more than usual. And what did my little ears hear?

Hold on, to me as we go 

As we roll down this unfamiliar road 

And although this wave is stringing us along 

Just know you’re not alone 

Cause I’m going to make this place your home 

Settle down, it'll all be clear 

Don't pay no mind to the demons 

They fill you with fear 

The trouble it might drag you down 

If you get lost, you can always be found 

Just know you’re not alone 

Cause I’m going to make this place your home 

Settle down, it'll all be clear 

Don't pay no mind to the demons 

They fill you with fear 

The trouble it might drag you down 

If you get lost, you can always be found 

Just know you’re not alone 

Cause I’m going to make this place your home

This summer's theme has been friendship. I didn't plan on it. I'm not even sure I could have planned on it: it has been too good to be anything other than Him all the way. 

Boy, did I need it. I needed to recover, to heal, to remember that friendship - in its best and purest form - is...well, this song. 

On the tablet of my mind, I've written a hundred times over what I've learned about friendship in the last few months. Each time, my feeble attempts go the way of the giant pink eraser, accompanied by a subconscious "tsk, tsk" - and I know I'm not even close.

Then, laying on the floor with eyes closed and body on fire, I heard them. The words I wish I'd penned, appearing at exactly the moment I was supposed to hear them.

Did you know that most writers use home not as a literal noun to indicate a structure of residence but, rather, as a metaphor for safe haven, for belonging to place...for being part of a family? Too often, home shifts in life. We move where our address dictates, and that's a reality we can't always avoid. Change your zip code enough, though, and you learn a fact you won't soon forget: Home truly is where the heart is. 

In a world of transience with little hope and lots of fear, there are still great friends left. They're the ones who promise, "You're not alone. Don't back down. I'm not going anywhere. Go ahead and blow it. Get lost in your fogs and fears: I'll hold the light. I'll be at the end of the long and narrow road. And when you're done with the demons, the troubles, the tough spots that wear you thin...come on home." 

They're the heart of wherever you are. Near or far. Now and later. 

They'll stand the test of time. 

If you've got 'em, stop looking around.

You've got the best.

You've got a place to call home.

Red-Hot Tongs of Hell Just Ain't Worth the Burn

I ran across this a bit back. Now and again, I've been re-reading it, chewing on it as I usually do with such items. I remain unsure as to what I think about it. I certainly respond to its honesty. I relate fully to some of its content; to other, not as much. And, given that it is, after all, Hurston, I think it's beautifully written.


Aside: Their Eyes Were Watching God. Stack it near the top of your bedside table queue.

What strikes me most, though, is the raw good. The brutal bad. The bruise of sin and the banner of saint. The truth that relationship is hard - most largely because we arrive broken, live redeemed, and die (hopefully) refined. Somewhere exit left on that life freeway, endings become necessary. Enemies may result. Joy will be tainted by stretches of selfishness. In that way, I suppose it really is living.

Still, as for me and my house, we'll be tossing the tongs. Too much of that living just ain't worth the burn.

What thinks you?     

I have known the joy and pain of friendship. I have served and been served. I have made some good enemies for which I am not a bit sorry. I have loved unselfishly, and I have fondled hatred with the red-hot tongs of hell. That's living.  

                                                                       Zora Neale Hurston

A Seriously Itchy Bum

I slip from workaholic to bum real easy.  ~Matthew Broderick

Okay. Not that kind of bum.

I was going to go on (and on) about the uber-relaxed pace of summer.
But then Matthew Broderick (What the French, Toast?!) took the words right out of my mouth.

As I age, I know I'm increasingly in-touch with my bum alter ego - for which I make no apologies. Which is yet another sign I'm aging. Within those two statements, you'll need to wipe away the slime of two predilections - the one to work and the one to please, equally insatiably - to find the nugget of clean. Under all that gunk grins the me who shrugs a "Eh. Why not? It's summer!" to all the otherwise "No!" requests the kids pander. Under all that gunk laughs the me who checks Amazon Prime weekly until - Slap the dog and spit in the fire! - the second season of Downton Abbey makes its debut. Under all that gunk stills the me who gets up at 5:45 to kiss The Man goodbye...and then crawls back into bed with coffee, Bible, book, and blanket.

For us, summer is only two months of time. Then it's back to the real world, whatever that is.
I used to schedule and box and border and boundary those precious 60 days with all that we could do, might see, should go. And, don't get me wrong: you can rest assured I haven't become an entirely different gal between the 20-hoo yah's and the 30-are ya kiddin' me?s. We still have goals and trips and plans and dreams. Those are all good things, don't you  know.

But the other nine months are tightrope walks between work and play, volleying betwixt nose to the grindstone and head in the clouds. Why not be a bum in June and July?

Summer- and its seriously itchy bum - will be over soon enough. 

Pushing Daisies

Have you ever looked fear in the face and said, "I just don't care?"

The first time I ever heard that lyric, I thought back to a sermon some years back. I know, right? What's P!nk got to do with the pulpit? Turns out, a lot  - if you venture into the cobwebbed canals of my brain vault, anyway.

"Control isn't about confidence. It isn't about capability. It's about fear. You want control because you don't want to be afraid." Yep. That's what he said. Not what you want to hear if you are, in fact, embroiled in a great love affair with control (like moi). Moreover, some fibers of your weave you just can't change - you can only snip and retwist and wind in better strands, hoping the tapestry changes for the better. There I was, Control Freak freak, wondering, "Does that flask hold water? Am I really afraid?"

Uh huh.
You already know the answer.
Two clues: I'm writing this post. I also know I'm not the only control freak out there.

Then we had this year. This 365-day (almost on the dot) cycle of hell. Life became a b*&$% on a lawnmower looking to raze our hitherto daisied meadow of love and joy. She did a pretty good job. Now, I interrupt this programming to announce to you - da da da DA! - I'm for Jesus. I don't believe in coincidence. I can't buy random twists of fate. There is no Mother Nature. And destiny doesn't turn on a dime. I believe one God is in control. I believe He does the best job, even (especially?) when I don't get Him. Which is usually when He's messin' with my fascade of control.

That year was a knock-you-while-you're-down stretch of one of those times. We survived. We even thrived. How come?

I learned to look fear in the face and say, "I just don't care." My brother would probably correct me and say, "You mean, you told fear to just f- off?" Ya. That, too. Sometimes you just have to get ugly. Crass. Dirty. Foul. This is war: in the absence of random kismit or strange fate, you have to face that bad must have a reason, must be providential. You've only got one or the other, you know? And life is hard - not always because you blew that choice or misjudged the outcome of that action. Nope. Sometimes life's just the b*&$% on the lawnmower, gunning for you from six yards over. Sometimes there's nothing you can do but say goodbye to your daisies, with a chaser of  "I just don't care. Do what you will. I have purpose. I have meaning. You can't beat me. You can't ruin me. He controls what's meant to be."

These days, I don't need to be in control...as much. Hey, I told you - didn't you read the whole snip, twist, wind bit? I find I need the control less because the fear doesn't dominate anymore. Not a bad ratio to tender come end of the day.

Know what else is true?
When I'm less afraid, I notice one, teeeeeeensy detail...that packs a pert good wallop.

There aren't as many lawnmowers out there.
Quite a few more daisies, though.

That Elf Got Axed

The other day, I checked in on this here blog and realized that sketchy little elf I hired to write it hadn't been doing her job.

I fired her.
You're stuck with me again.

I also noticed that, history shows, I'm more than a skosh absent in the month of May. Since I'm all for the boring and mundane - but not that mundane, I figured I'd mix it up and take most of June off, too.

How was it for you?

That jest isn't too far from the truth though. When I started blogging, I made only three commitments to myself. One: Always tell the truth as best you know it in the moment of writing. (True for all writers, I'll point out). Two: Always be a wordsmith: if you cannot write it well, don't write it (for now) at all. (Here's to hoping you've found that to - er, mostly - be the case). And three: Never make it an obligation. You'll just stop writing it altogether.

Which lands us near July with me typing this to tell you it's not that you don't matter - it's that you mattered too much (there's #1) to leave you stuck with frantic drivel leftover from the battering ram called my life (#2), never mind how much that drivel would have been contrived from just another "must do" rather than "want to".

But what a May and (almost) June it's been! I'm the mom of a now 6th and 3rd grader. Judd starts preschool in the fall. I finished another semester of teaching with only two fails. Hey, you no come, you no pass. Craig and I got some great butt workouts sitting through an array of piano recitals, soccer matches, award ceremonies, and even a graduation. (Parents of school-aged kiddos - Cheeks Unite!) I'm a year older, and I'm four pounds lighter. Of pounds, that is. Not brain cells. But, then again, that may be debatable as I daily fail to recall the simplest bits of data once so readily recalled. Perhaps I should fire that little runner who lives inside my brain, darting through its alleyways to retrieve any given request.

Nah.
He's probably related to that sketchy elf.

And anyways...One axe a month is enough, methinks.