Staples and the human condition
August 16, 2010
image courtesy of photobucket.com
Today’s the day we’ve all been dreading. My family, I mean. It’s a day that has been in the back of our minds for the last three months, stuck there like a burr that we couldn’t seem to get out. The fact that we didn’t really have to worry about it made it hurt a little less. It was a day we knew would come, yes. But it was also a day that would come later.
Today is later. The last day of summer vacation.
My wife is back to school already, busy with setting up desks and planning and copying and whatever else teachers do. My children seem to be going through the five stages of grief (my daughter has made it to the last stage, acceptance. My son is still stuck on denial).
The first week of school is always tough on everyone. Add to that a few pages of revisions from the publisher to go through, and that means it’s time to hunker down and wait out the brewing storm.
As such, I’ll be doing a little re-posting this week of things you might’ve missed the first time around. The first on is over at katdish’s site. And appropriately enough, it’s about back-to-school shopping. Hop on over there. Say hey. And remember, it’s not just the school kids who can start all over again.
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A conversation with God
August 13, 2010
image courtesy of photobucket.com
I was at the book fair the other day and found a copy of The Prayer of Jabez for $2.99. I’d completely forgotten about that book. Which is odd considering how popular it was ten years ago. Seemed like everyone had a copy of that book. Or the Bible study. Or the journal. Or the workbook or the copy for teens or women.
It was quite the industry really, and the reasons for it were pretty apparent. Say a little prayer, and God will bless you in abundance. It almost seemed too good to be true, but there it was. There was even a verse to back it up.
I never bought a copy. Didn’t even buy the $2.99 copy at the book fair. Not because I didn’t (and still do) want to be blessed in abundance, but because once upon a time I said my own version of Jabez’s prayer without knowing it. The answer I got was a little different than his. And though that prayer was uttered at years ago, I still remember that conversation between God and me.
It was like this:
“You there, God?”
I’m always here.
“Can I tell You something?”
Of course you can.
“I have dreams.”
Wonderful! Everyone should have dreams.
“They’re great dreams. Really great.”
I should hope so.
“Yeah. So, I was wondering if, You know, You could make those dreams come true.”
Of course I can. Why else would I give them to you?
“Oh, I don’t know. Lots of reasons, I guess. Wait. You gave my dreams to me?”
Where else would they come from?
“I don’t know…me?”
I give you the desire. You do the work. Life is a partnership between you and Me. Not 50/50, though. More like 100/100. You give your all, I give Mine.
“Great! So I can have my dreams?”
If you work and you believe, yes. But certain things have to be done first.
“Like what?”
Great dreams require great people. So first, I must make you great.
“Now I like the sound of that. So I’ll be popular and rich?”
Popular and rich doesn’t equal greatness.
“Then what does?”
Love and kindness, faith and trust. Trust especially. You need to understand that it’s not your happiness I want, it’s your trust.
“Okay.”
Are you sure? This isn’t going to be easy for you.
“Sure it will. I can be that sort of person if it means I’ll have my dreams.”
You don’t become that sort of person to get your dreams, you get your dreams because you’re that sort of person. There’s a difference.
(Silence.)
You think your dreams will bring you success, but some of the most miserable people in the world are the ones who’ve gotten everything they’ve always wanted. Stuff doesn’t bring joy. Only I do.
“Oh. So maybe my dreams aren’t all that good for me?”
Parts are. Not all. But that’s okay. I can give you better things than those.
“When I become great.”
You don’t have to be great for Me to bless you. But for your dreams, yes. You must be great.
“I still want to be great, even without the dreams. But the dreams would be nice.”
Wonderful!
“So…when can we start?”
We can start now.
“I was hoping You’d say that. Then I pray You’ll give me love and kindness and faith and trust and make me great.”
Good. But remember, there are two things that I must give to everyone in order to make them great and realize the dreams I have for them.
“Grace and blessing?”
No. Time and trial.
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The tough lessons of a heart exposed
August 11, 2010
photo courtesy of Claire Burge
For proof, I will point out that I have neither blond hair nor a fair complexion. She does. Her eyes are blue. Mine are brown. And if you look carefully, you will see that her fingers are both long and thin. Mine are shorter.
Yet we share bonds. Like her father, she is quiet and reserved. Quick to laugh, yet given to bouts of melancholy. We both wear our hearts on our sleeves and try to roll up those sleeves so we may appear to be tougher than we are, but we both find they do not stay rolled up for long. Sooner or later, we are both exposed to the world again. And we both profess a love of words, both reading them and writing them.
It is this last point that has proven to tether us to something beyond father and daughter and into new worlds with skies that shine with the brightness of story. I will wake up in the morning to find several torn spiral notebook pages on the kitchen table. On it are the scribblings of an eight-year-old who has found the magic in saying something by saying something else. Her tales are full of mystery and princesses. And she will often find at her bedside scraps of paper upon which I have written my own tales, these of wonder and faith.
Ours is a symbiotic relationship of the most rewarding kind. Our words bounce off one another and back to our own hearts…
The nice folks over at High Calling Blogs have invited me to write this piece for them today, so please head over there to read the rest. Unless, of course, you have yet to read Old Yeller. Trust me.
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The fear of letting go
August 9, 2010
image courtesy of photobucket.com
The wails were coming from near the concession stand on the other end of the parking lot where I had noticed a church group was selling hot dogs and offering to wash cars. We all turned in the general direction and wondered what had caused the commotion.
None of us saw anything until my son pointed into the sky and said, “Look!”
We did, but there seemed to be nothing but blue sky and sunshine. But then I squinted and saw it. High above us, dancing with a hawk.
A balloon.
My daughter took the opportunity to offer her usual take of part philosophy and part practicality: “You gotta hang on to stuff,” she said. “If you don’t, it’ll just float away.”
Point taken.
My family finished shopping, winding into one store and out another, until we had each crossed our necessities off our respective lists. The end brought us to the concession stand. Hot dogs and a car wash were offered, but only the hot dogs were accepted. “I wash my own cars,” I told the nice lady. She didn’t understand. Guy thing.
“You two want a balloon?” I asked the kids. Which was a stupid question, really. What kid doesn’t want a balloon? I’m thirty-eight years old, and I wanted one…
To read the rest of this post, hop on over to katdish’s site. And please, don’t be afraid of the balloons in your life…
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Stuck
August 6, 2010
image courtesy of time-herald.com
So that’s what I do after work. And since I’m a giving sort of fella, I grab some nasty, artery-clogging food for my family, too.
There is only one more obstacle for me to overcome, and that is getting out of the parking lot. At ten in the morning or one in the afternoon, this would not be a problem. But it’s almost 5:00 now, which means I’m smack in the middle of what passes for rush hour around here.
The majority of the traffic is flowing from my right to my left, out of town. Where I need to go. Traffic from my left to my right into town is sparse, almost negligible. And since there is no turning lane, I can’t sneak out. I’m stuck.
The lady who pulls alongside to my right, however, is not. She’s heading the opposite direction into town.
The problem is she can’t see. Her car is one of those tiny little things that seem to run on a mixture of electricity and the hippie vibrations of Mother Earth. It looks like a roller skate. I, on the other hand, drive a massive, thumb-your-nose-at-the-energy-crisis SUV. She can’t turn right because she can’t see the traffic, which is the exact opposite reason why I can’t turn left. We’re both stuck.
However.
If there is one remedy for a bad mood that outperforms a cheeseburger and an order of onion rings, it’s doing a good deed. I look to my left to make sure there is no oncoming traffic, then look to her.
Go, I wave.
She stares at me.
I look again—go.
The woman inches out toward the edge of the road, craning her neck to look past my front bumper. She can’t see. She stops.
I check again. Still no traffic.
GO.
She shakes her head—No.
Fine.
I look to my right and see what seems to be five miles worth of cars, trucks, motorcycles, and motor homes. I’m going to be here a while. I look to my left again. Nothing.
The woman is still trying to inch her way past my bumper. The dance she does with her head to try and get an angle—any angle—to see is both strange and comical. She looks at me again.
GO!!
NO!!
Grr.
I take my right hand and make the universal sign for her to roll her window down. She does.
“The road’s clear your way,” I tell her.
She smiles and says, “I’ll wait.”
“I promise, it’s clear.”
Another smile, and a “Thanks, but I’m okay.”
I check the traffic again. She’s still clear. I’m still not. The thought finally crosses my mind that I could back up and let her see for herself, but there’s a truck behind me.
“Why won’t you go?” I ask her.
“Because I don’t trust you,” she says.
What?
“Why don’t you trust me?”
She shrugs. “Thanks, though!” she says, and then she tells me the conversation is over by rolling up her window.
I lean back in the driver’s seat and try to make sense of what’s just happened. Have I just been stereotyped? Profiled? Do I look untrustworthy? Was it my music (Trace Adkins) or my tattoo (sophisticated redneck)? I don’t know. All I know is that when I finally manage to pull out five minutes later, she takes off the same time I do.
Which I guess says something. It’s a lot easier to gain someone’s trust through your actions than your words.
That said, if you’re ever beside me and can’t see past my bumper, and if I happen to wave you on and say the way is clear, please go ahead and pull out onto the road.
You can trust me. I promise.
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I’m a writer whose first novel, Snow Day, will be published by FaithWords in 2010.
But don’t let that fool you. I’m just as confused as anyone.
And that is fine with me, because the great thing about wandering around in the fog is that you never know what you might run into.
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