Thoughts on Halloween

Last year, on November 1st, Huntsville's paper ran a story about a suicide that happened night before, on Halloween.

It was not immediately recognized that the suicide had even happened because neighbors had mistaken the body hanging in a tree for a Halloween decoration.

This is just wrong.  Seriously, any holiday that has decorations that can be mistaken for an actual dead body and vise versa is disturbing, to say the least.  And it continually amazes me that Christians continue to support a holiday like this.

I have friends that will say here that I'm just sucking the fun out of life and over-reacting.  They'll say that it's just a fun time for kids to dress up and play around.  I know they'll say that because they've said it to me.

I have friends who will tell me that by not participating in Halloween, I'm missing out on the hugest missional opportunity of the year.  That this is the best time to meet people and engage my neighbors. I know they'll say that because they've said it to me. 

To these friends, I will continue to say that death is not a joke.  Witches and evil is not a game.   My neighbors are there all year long.  And my kids play dress up with them in June just as much as they do in October.

I have wrestled over and over with the concept of churches having Halloween parties.  On the one hand, it is effective in keeping children safe on a notoriously dangerous holiday.  On the other hand, many churches are not doing this when they choose to throw a Halloween party on the Sunday before Halloween, which of course, does not keep the children safe on the night of Halloween.

But just as importantly, when I look at the church activities around me, I don't see any counter-cultural redemption being offered.  The world around us is glorifying death and evil.  The church is simply ignoring that part of it and not countering with any productive alternative.

If the church wants to impact our world, why are we not sending a message on Halloween?  Why are we not overtly celebrating the life that Christ gives us, while the world around us celebrates death?  Or perhaps we should be remembering death and evil on October 31.  But we need an attitude of reverence and sobriety toward it - a reminder that this life is finite, and there is a reality awaiting us in the end.  We certainly don't need to pretend that evil spirits are cute blow-up toys.

The logical question here is why I'm not doing something like this, and the obvious answer is that I am, as best I can, in my home with the sphere of influence that I have.   And I am writing here to help others see that celebrating the fun in Halloween without changing the unholy macabre message is no better than enjoying sex without the commitment of marriage.   It can certainly be done, but it is not the healthy way to approach it.

And now I brace myself for all the condemnation that I unfortunately anticipate from my brothers and sisters.

Celebrity Mania

A few night's ago, I posted about how old I was getting, and in my posting, I went to YouTube to link up some videos of some great songs.  And in linking up videos of great songs, I found an interesting "related" video, which was Eric's Clapton's "Tears in Heaven" being sung by everyone and his brother, including Ozzie Osbourne, which lead me to a song by Kelly Osbourne, and I will be the first to proudly admit that I had no idea that Kelly Osbourne had a music career.  I will not be so proud to admit what I did with the rest of my night once I found this out.

But I will admit it, nonetheless.

I spent the next 2 hours (2 hours, people!) watching videos of Kelly Osbourne talking about Dancing with the Stars, drug abuse, and weight loss.  The culmination of the evening was watching a 2005 episode of The Osbournes, wherein Kelly's drug addiction is discovered.

I wish that I could say that this is the only time I've done something as weird as this, but it's not.  I actually did the same thing about 3 months ago, except over Katy Perry.  Why?  I know.

Actually, I do know.  It's because these people... these ones who make crazy amounts of money and do insane things with their lives in front of us all... they are people.  And when I see things that open up their insecurities it reminds me that I get to pray for them.   I get to approach the all-powerful, loving God on their behalf.

I am able to feel with them, regardless of the fact that I only know what they are allowing me to.  I still know enough to realize that there is a lot of pain in the celebrity life, just like there is pain in my life.  There are insecurities and fears.  There are thoughts of death and regret.

And there is hope.  No matter where someone is, no matter what they've done, no matter .... anything.

Because our hope - the hope of humanity - doesn't rest in humanity.  It rests on a graceful and capable God. 

While the Cat's Away

So, Billy was out of town this week.  He got home late last night.  I didn't mention this before because you just never know what kind of creeper is reading your public, yet personal blog.  So, back off, sickos... cause he's back now.

Anyway, when Billy's gone, I tend to like to have projects to do to keep myself occupied, particularly in the evenings when the kids are in bed, but also throughout the day so I can just forget that I can't count down the hours until he pulls in the driveway after work.

This week, I decided to upcycle some scrap wood that was left in our garage by the last owner.  They were originally shelves in a closet, but that closet is now stuff full with a massive water heater, so the shelves no longer fit.

My project, which was top secret, was to create a headboard for the master bedroom.  It was only top secret because I didn't want Billy coming home expecting it to be done, in case I decided to simply lay around and watch TV all week.  Cause I do that sometimes, when there's nothing good on facebook.

So, this week, I changed this:

Into this:

I know.  It's amazing that a scrap of wood can become a queen-size bed and two night stands, as well.  Haha! Anyway, I do love the headboard. 

But as much as I love it, this post wouldn't be complete if I didn't brag about a couple of other things I did while Billy was away.  First of all, I actually unloaded the dishwasher every day and did not - I repeat did NOT - do so by simply using the dishes straight out of it.

I also dug a large hole in an attempt to remove a tree in our backyard, only to find the root bent at a 90 degree angle a foot underground.  This is an indication that the tree was a sprout off of a root of a bigger tree, and rather than dig up the entire yard by hand, I decided instead to use my drill to cut the tree down.  At some point, I should probably go fill that hole up.

Yet another feat of feminine strength that I accomplished was digging another hole in order to remove a fence post, only to find the base of the post cemented to the patio.  Yeah.... that's not coming up.  As a back-up plan, we will now be using the metal fence posts and installing a chain link fence instead of a nice wooden one.  C'est la vie.

In the evenings, and some afternoons, I engaged in muchas conversaciones en español con mis amigas nuevas de italki.com.  Amigas!  Who am I kidding.  I freaking paid them, okay?  That's what it's come to.  I now pay people to talk to me.  Line up, folks!

Too Old to Care

So this evening I had a little reprieve from motherhood and found myself alone in the car.  I go there often just to be kid-free.  I crouch down in the backseat where no one can find me and dip Nutter Butters in my latte.  That's not true.  I don't even like lattes.

I was actually on my way to my missional community/small group/connect group/E-group/name of the month for the event at which 15 or so people that gather weekly to share a meal and be involved with each other's physical and spiritual lives. 

And I (gasp!) turned the station away from the Christian music that we normally endure/sing along with at the top of our lungs.  It really just depends on the day and how judgmental I am feeling.

I found this station that was playing "Somebody I Used to Know" by Gotye (warning creepy content in that link).  So, I stopped.  The station surfing, not the car.  It wasn't that monumental.

The next song that came on was "Every Breathe You Take" by the only man that I would marry if Billy died prematurely.  I was pretty pumped. 

And then I almost cried.  Because the announcer got on and told me I was listening to Lite 96.9, the best variety of the 80's, 90's, and today.  And it confirmed what I'd already started to expect.  I am old.

On this topic, I may as well confess that realizing my elderly status happened earlier today while applying my makeup.  As I leaned in to blend a spot of foundation, I saw a grey hair that needed plucked.  This is not a big deal.  I've had some of these making appearances for a couple of years.  I've gotten over it, the same way I've gotten over telling a roomful of mid-twenties kids that I'm actually solidly in my 30's and that story I told you about when I was 5th grade? Yeah, that was in the 80's.

Back to the hair.  This morning it was a new issue.  It was the fact that after I plucked one grey hair, I quickly noticed 5 more.  As I began to tackle them, 3 more popped into view.  Soon enough it was apparent.  I have too much grey hair to pluck.  Which makes it almost official... I'm too old to dye my hair.  Because I decided a long time ago that I would not dye my hair for the rest of my life.  But that I would grow old gracefully and take the grey hair as a sign of wisdom or something honorable like that.

So, you know what I did on the way home from small group?  I listened to Eric Clapton on 96.9, and it was glorious.

Emergency

So, a couple days ago we had this little incident.  Or rather large incident that turned out okay in the end.  It's all about perspective, I guess.

We were outside.  I was enjoying the fresh air and reading a book.  It's something I do often. Amazing how outdoor play provides me with the kid-free moments I strive so hard toward.  The kids enjoy riding their bikes and scooters along our ridiculously long, though somewhat narrow, patio.

Then I heard a clatter.  I jumped up to see what was the matter.  Actually, no I didn't.  I actually internally rolled my eyes because I knew that Brian had fallen, as he likes to do.  I don't even think I flinched.

It was only when I heard crying that I glanced up, about to tell him to suck it up and move on.  Don't judge me, the kid is constantly crying over little things.  It's his first response.

(Note to self: The moral to the story from "The Boy Who Cried Wolf" is true.)

(Note to self 2: Try to stop using cynicism as your first response.  It is probably more unattractive than a little kid crying.  But I probably can't stop this.)

Unfortunately, when I looked up there was some blood.  Just a tad.  And double unfortunately, by the time we got inside, there was more blood.  As in tons.  Pouring out of his mouth uncontrollably.  If you need a mental picture think of trying to stop water from a fire hose with a paper towel.  This was the effectiveness of my attempts to reign in the bleeding.

Blood was on the kitchen floor.  Yum.

It got on the carpeted steps.  Not so bad since in blends in and hello! we don't eat there.

This is getting long, and I'm afraid you will all be sorely disappointed at the anti-climactic destination of this verbal journey.  Anyway... here we go.

I called the dentist's office, which was closed on a Thursday at 1:30.  Apparently, they take a freakishly late lunch.  So, I called the emergency number, which then paged a dentist who never returned my call.  "Hi!  I'm a mom with a kid bleeding to death in the bathroom, but please, just finish your Chinese buffet before tending to me!"

Meanwhile child is leaning over the bathroom sink so blood can pour directly down the drain.   We are attempting ice, but it's not going so well.

Finally, after another unsuccessful call, I decided that they should be back from lunch at 2, and I drove to the office.  We waited about 1/2 hour, but since the bleeding had slowed to a crawl, it was okay.

And the mouth is okay, too.  One tooth was knocked back, but was not loose, and it actually corrected itself over night.  So, now we just have a swollen lip and purplish grey gums.  I will spare you the pictures.

(I actually didn't take pictures because... I'm sorry... but once this heals, I never want to look at it again.)

Progress is a Good Thing

I have this little quirk.  It's an annoying one, for both me and my family.   It's called perfectionism.

There are times when I can see the negative effects on them, so I know it's there, but really... let's face it.  I live with this all the time.  Okay... ?  Like all the time.  My family, burdened though they be, are only exposed to it when it has bubbled up so much within me to escape through overflow, somewhat remniscent of a volcano, but not quite that violent cause let's face it, I could never muster that much passion.  I just don't really do those extreme emotional outbursts.

So, this quirk of mine is something that has been a life-long companion, really.  At times, I have been thankful for it honestly because my perfectionism has pushed me to do more than I might have otherwise done.  Other times, it rears its ugly head and reminds me that doing something halfway isn't worth doing, and there's just no way I can pull this one off well enough.  The result?  Don't even try.

In that way, I feel like I've missed out on a lot of experiences that I might have enjoyed.  But that's in the past now, and it's not really what I want to talk about anyway.

This summer, I found a blog called Fluent in 3 Months that I could describe as intriguing.   I could also describe it as unbelievable, although as I found it I wanted desperately to believe it, and as I continue to read, I still do believe it.

It claims exactly what you think it does - that you can be fluent in a foreign language in 3 months.

So, I started.  3 months ago, I embarked on my journey to fluency en español.  And I am not fluent.

There are times when I would look at a blog like this and tell myself that I'm the one that failed.  After all, it's obviously possible, as Benny, the Irish Polyglot has proven.  But I haven't done it.

But wait... let me tell you what has happened.  Only let me tell you in Spanish:

Miéntras, no puedo hablar español con fluencia, he mejorado mucho en los meses.  Antes no puedo hablar con cuálquier personas porque no estaba seguro.  Pero ahora hablo con mis amigos latinos muy menudo.  Mis conversaciones no están perfectos, pero puedo comunicar bastante.  A veces uso palabras que no son la mejora pero sigo aprender cada día.  Puedo entendir casi todas las cosas que leo y cuando no sé una palabra buscar para ella.  Mi gramática necesita atención y esto es que trabajo ahora.  Cada día, también aprendo nuevas palabras.  Un día, sé que haré poder a hablar con fluencia.  Por así aun que no tengo fluidez ahora, tendré fluidez un día.

So, today, I'm reminding myself and anyone else who needs to hear it that it doesn't have to be perfect to be worth my while. I'm reminding myself that progress is a good thing.

The Story of My Life

Mark Batterson wrote in his book In a Pit with a Lion on a Snowy Day something along the lines of "Live you life in a way that you have stories to tell."  His point, simply enough, was that God has a story He's telling and He invites us into it.  This seems to indicate that we ought to make our choices about life based on what we can say about it at the end of the day.

I don't really like this idea.

I get it.  I just don't look at it that way.

Because what I see over and over is that our "stories" often involve other people who become objects.  If our motivation becomes telling a story, it ceases to be getting to know people.  But these people are real.

I am real.

My life isn't a story.  It's real life.

Sometimes, my day is abhorrently bland.  Somedays there is nothing to talk about when my husband walks in from work.  Nothing but losing another sock in the laundry.  Other days are more exciting.  I may have had a conversation with my neighbor, maybe even one that delved into the afterlife and opened her eyes to a new idea of Jesus.

And it is exciting, and I will tell that story.  But I don't want to have those conversations in order to tell the story.   I want to have those conversations to build a relationship with a real person with real struggles, real victories, and real emotions. Someone who is my friend, not my project.  Not the supporting character of my plot.


My life.  Her life. Your life.  They are all precious, unique things that warrant more than an ulterior motive of telling stories. 

I Do That

When I was in college, I came home one weekend and visited my high school for a football game.  It was a cool evening, but comfortable.  Not one of those shiver-in-your-seats-as-you-suffer-through-the-misery-of-high-school-sports kind of nights.  Even still, I probably would not have gone were it not that my parents had the tradition of attending home games whenever possible.  So, I joined them, along with a friend who I'd brought home with me.

The memorable event of the night was a long run.  The kind that starts at your own 30 yard line and keeps going... and going... and going.  The kid dodged opponents.  He stumbled, but kept running.

The crowd grew louder with excitement, anticipation.  We sensed what was coming as he crossed midfield, maneuvering into enemy territory.  He kept going.... to the 40.... the 30...  and suddenly...

An obnoxious thundering came -- shaking the stands, interrupting my natural heartbeat.  But it wasn't in the sky.  There was no rain threatening this remarkable play.

The disruption to my attention came from my mom, sitting next to me, pounding her feet with fury on the bleachers.  She accompanied the footwork with hoots, "wooooooo"ing her team toward the goal.  It was a surprising moment, having come out of nowhere, just like the play itself.

Eyes wide, I turned to my friend to see a similar reaction from her.  We looked back at my mom as the play wound down, questioning looks covering our faces.

"I do that," she informed us.

Shock remained for another second or two until my 20-year-old self burst into happy laughter.  My friend joined me, understanding the subtle humor in the situation.  And I have never forgotten that night.

I admire my mom for that moment of confidence, doing what she wanted to do to support her team, regardless of the response she got.    When questioned, she didn't apologize for the inconvenience.  She stood her ground and let me know, "I do that."

She had invited me into her world, brought me along for the fun, and expected me to accept it how it was.  This is not to say that she was the kind of person to never want to change or to better herself.  She was always doing that, by the grace of God.  But this was something that need not be changed, yet was questioned by someone.  Why should she apologize for who she was or doing things that brought her joy?

There are things that I have been made for.  Things that are important to me and may or may not be what others want to see in me.  And I ask myself, "Who do I do this for?"

This is a new blog.  It may not last.  I've tried this before, but a common link through previous attempts is that I have tried to provide something for someone else.  I have tried to join the mommy bloggers, the social justice bloggers, the do-it-yourself/how-to bloggers.  Today, I begin by inviting you into my world ... un-apologetically ... to experience what I do.