Some Questions

I remember the pit that formed in my stomach the moment I heard my Grandpa make a racial slur. It had something to do with “niggers” and a woodpile, and although I didn’t fully understand his meaning, I felt his words’ ugliness deep down in my gut. Rage churned up inside me, but also fear. Grandpa was strong and I felt so weak! I think made a feeble resistance at the time, or later, to my mom, who explained that Grandpa grew up in a different era and didn’t understand that this comment was inappropriate.

But this was not enough. Surely, he knew! To this day, that single comment, along with several others overheard during my formative years, makes me squirm. Those people can’t be trusted. These people are too different. Things spoken in family settings, things I strove to contradict … but things that shaped me, anyway. Our negative childhood realities impact our adult lives like swarms of insects on a hot day. We shoo them away, they return. The cycle seems impossible to escape.

The memory of those rotten words makes me sick. But something else gnaws at my mind. Does other rottenness exist, unperceived? Do I resemble my grandfather, ignorant of my harmful words, my ugly acts?

I call on my loved ones for help, especially those whose childhoods featured different isms than mine. Ruralism. Theism. Monoculturalism. Conservativism. Lower-middle-classism. I ask my believing friends, knowing that my most trusted exhortations have come from Christ’s church. And I ask with a gratitude, with honor.

These are the things that I wonder. Feel free to respond to as many or as few questions as you prefer

1.  What do you wish you could say to people like me, people with my set of isms?
2. What do these current times stir up in your soul?
3. What do you wish your local church knew? What do you wish it would do or not do?
4. Is racism an issue in your life?
5. How frequent or aggressive does it feel?
6. Where does it primarily exist?
7. In the pursuit of growth, enlightenment, or healing – can you  recommend a specific action step, or a resource or book for me or others like me?
8. Anything else you want to say? To me, to the world, about hope or fear or your own isms?

Thank you. I value you and your input so much.

Vitamin Awe

How does the tender bush leaf know

To grow in such a way!

To make its surface, flat and smooth,

Still curve to catch the rain?

How do the water drops decide

To congregate, just so!

To fall and join and then divide

To stand in perfect rows?

They gleam atop these small green plates

A silent, ordered feast

That eyes may see and lives may taste

And praise may be increased.

Vitamin Teed

Teed comes up in my mind pretty often. Slender as a sapling and older than my childish comprehension, he parked his little cart outside the public pool every day and sold candy. I imagined him as a tall man, though I’d never once seen him stand. A crippling injury left him permanently seated, his cart his only ticket to mobility.

I recall his slender face and white hair, his teeth perpetually straight in my mind, brightening his perpetual smile. I can’t imagine we pool rowdies were ideal customers. Jostling, damp, selfish, sugar-crazed and constantly yelling, I can imagine we tried his every last nerve. But Teed never let on. He simply showed up. Every day. Dispensing his candy cigarettes, his pink penny gum with the Indian on the wrapper, and his jewel-toned sugar sticks that would glue your back teeth together if you bit down too hard.

I loved Teed desperately. I hated the fact that he couldn’t walk. We never so much as shared a short chat, but I watched him every day. I adored him for providing me with low-cost snacks. And I coveted his little cart.

Truth be told, any time spent on shore, including my interactions with Teed, brought me joy. I hated the water, after all. It was my dirty little secret. I hated the Arctic-cold area where the hose piped in fresh water, probably straight from the polar ice caps. I hated the way the lifeguards bantered above us and the jarring shrills of their whistles. I hated the way other peoples’ arms and legs flailed around me, hated the discomfort of entering a domain where I knew only one or two friends. I hated the fact that it cost my parents thirty-five cents to get me in – or was it seventy-five? Either way, it was too much. And I hated my ineptitude in the water.

I loved getting out though. Loved the rough heat of the concrete beneath my numb limbs when I lay in the sun to warm up. Loved emerging from the pool portal into the outside world like ants from our nest, streaming in every direction to stretch legs and lungs while the lifeguards took a swim. I loved the park next door, the rickety bleachers I climbed. And later, I loved the innocent rendezvous with biggest my crush, Chris … who’s still my biggest crush today.

Of course I loved rushing to be first in Teed’s line. I loved surveying his wares, hearing his low drawl as he counted back my change. I loved the moment of dignity he gave me when his eyes met mine and he took my few coins. More than the candy, this was my secret addiction.

The pool would always make me nervous, after all. I would always be awkward and shy. But here on dry land, during the moments I conducted business with Teed, I felt my worth. I was important. Trustworthy. Someone with whom an adult shared a smile. I ached to fit in with my friends, and swimming at the pool upped my chances. But as much the high of their affection lured me in, the kindness of Teed kept me coming.

Love – genuine love – saves our days. It carves hidden facets into otherwise shadowy memories, transforming them into priceless jewels. It shows us ourselves through gentler eyes. It transforms us.

I’m grateful for Teed, for his cart. His life wasn’t easy or his vocation ideal, but you’d never have known it, to watch him. Maybe that’s why I loved him so fiercely. He showed me a pattern of who I wanted to be – who I still want to be, even now. Gentle. Honest. And marshalling all that gentle honesty to communicate others’ value back to themselves.  

I don’t have candy, or a sweet cart. I have the miscellany of my own life, as do you. But oh, let these things be our tools -- our weapons in the war for real love. My efforts feel mundane, but I believe that each smile, each steady gaze, steadily chips away. I believe that all acts of genuine love, love like Teed’s can and will change this world’s shape. I believe it enough to keep trying, anyway.

One honest act at a time.

Vitamin Release

My teens wake up unpredictably.

Although we’re still quarantined, school has not been cancelled, so I knock on their doors around 9:00 each day, rousing them for a short huddle and a prayer to get things going.

Today Jared, usually slow to slither from beneath the covers in his dark cave, is stands in his doorway wrapped in his comforter when I walk back from Summer’s room. His presence and his height both surprise me. It’s like finding a Masai warrior in place of a puppy. I yelp, which probably makes his day, and head upstairs. I still can’t believe he’s eighteen.

Summer, fourteen, arrives at the table first, a habit that still feels surreal. For the past two years she’s stumbled to breakfast scowling and last, but today she pays me the supreme compliment timeliness and her beautiful smile. I don’t speak to her, though. It’s best not to push my luck.

Sixteen-year old Ethan, silent as usual, shuffles up next. His morning squint narrows as he lowers his forehead to rest on his folded arms. He will remain like this for the duration of our gathering, his wiry hair the closest thing to eye contact I’ll receive unless I confront him. I purse my lips. Today, like most days, it’s not worth it.

Meanwhile, Jared has mysteriously appeared on the living room floor, spread-eagled, facedown. He asks into the carpet if he can stay there while we talk.

“No way,” I respond. “Come on.”

He obeys at once, silently folding himself onto the nearest bench as I begin.

“Today,” I announce, “we have chores.”

After a few light groans, their eyes start to glaze. I describe the rest of our day while they sleep sitting up. I open my Bible to read a few reverent words. I hope that they’re listening as I conclude with a prayer.

“All right, you can go,” I announce at last. Slowly, resume basic life functions. Summer pats my hand before leaving, and my throat feels a familiar tightness. It’s happened more often lately, this feeling. I’m undergoing long-duration, low-voltage shock as these children mature. Summer has transformed from a scattered littler girl to a savvy teen overnight, keeping detailed to-do lists and caring for her cat without my nagging. Ethan completed an AP science test at home yesterday, needing no input from me to succeed.

And Jared: Jared graduates in several weeks. He’s winding down multiple classes in four different venues, and spending endless hours creating a video for a scholarship competition.

Here, my heart clenches as well as my throat; and I feel it. I’m worried. The competition is international, drawing who-knows-how-many entries. There’s no second prize, only one full-ride scholarship. What if other students have hidden advantages? What if he doesn’t win? Should I encourage him? Warn him? Step in? 

And most of all, what happened to that skinny boy of twelve who struggled to take even small risks?

I sigh. Sometimes, parenting feels my first catch-and-release fish: All giddy  excitement until the trout hit the shore, and then BAM! Sun glinted off that wild, flipping tail. Fish scales flew. And somewhere, a hook lurked that could injure us both.

I want to help! I remember thinking as I executed another fruitless dive for fish. If only you’d just show me how.

But we spoke different languages, that fish and me. And that’s the difficulty with teens. Like the fish, they know: Time to go. I can see it in the wild thrashing that began, for each of them, around age 13. They belong in the broad lake of adulthood. They gasp and resist and strive madly, certain their goal can be reached.

They forget that we’re still attached, that I’ve got to execute the final release. I try to communicate, but they’re too focused on the lake to understand. And so, amid great struggle, I reach in.

I edge closer … sidle up when their eyes settle closed … move with quick, saving speed … and … release.

I feel it happening today.

“I stayed up too late last night,” Jared says after our huddle. He rubs at his dry-looking eyes. “One-thirty, at least.”

I remember those eyes from his childhood – blue, green, and deep enough to make you want to sit down and cry.

“What’s up with that?” My Mom-voice demands. “Dad told you to go to bed soon! I heard!”

Jared smiles at me gently, the smile of an equal, a friend. “He didn’t tell me, Mom. He suggested.”

I inhale.

This is it.

I can feel myself leaning in.

“You know what? You’re right!” I force my voice to sound bright. “You’re eighteen. You decide.”

Just like that, it’s complete. I’ve darted in – grabbed the hook – pulled it out. He is free.

I stand up, collect my Bible and planner, turn away.

I’m not sad. I’m not even surprised. We’ve had exchanges like these for months, after all. This just happens to be the exchange. The one that severs the last tie.

In a flash I see college, marriage, travel, adventure … and competing for this coveted prize? Who knows? It doesn’t matter in the long run. He’s adult. He is free. He’ll decide.

“I should set up a bedtime for myself,” Jared muses as he commences his new life, as I commence mine. “Maybe eleven or twelve.”

I smile and head towards the stairs.

Welcome to the lake, strong, brave fish. You’ll be fine.

Vitamin Root

It’s beautiful! I hear myself

   exclaim. My ardent voice

       surprises me. Such flattery

              has not been my first choice.

I gaze around this foreign ground --

     its gentle, greening land.

I’ve been aloof since we first moved,

    but now I understand

Time, like spring, has softened me.

I’ve stayed here long enough

  to find, despite my stubborn mind

     I'm in a a place I love.

Unseen, my countless memories

   like roots have spread my soul 

      across this place.

I smile and say

      I guess 
         I must be home.

Vitamin Paint

On today's escape from my house, I step into the wind with my hairy dog, Minty. Her black-and-white coat whips behind her, making her look like a motorcyclist or a speed-racing movie star. I grin. My own hair probably looks similar, a mess of brown tangles overwhelmed by the breeze.

Yes, the wind has its way with both of us today, but I don't mind. I'm savoring every step into the spotty sunshine, enjoying the play of shadow and light and discovering as I jog that if I shorten my stride ever so slightly, I can run farther without growing tired.

My mind drifts while Minty wanders, both of us doing what we do best. I'm mulling over the transformation taking place in our shop, a metamorphosis involving my teen son, five colors of paint, and the shape of a massive, patriotically-feathered eagle. Why he chose this for his project, I cannot fathom. It's almost complete now, a masterpiece of brushwork composed entirely from his perch on the on the high rungs of a ladder. 

Ethan's skill inspires the same awe as my surroundings. Greening fields reach toward the sun. Clouds dense with moisture tumble over themselves toward the horizon. The first birds of spring imbue the silence with praise. Creativity - God's or others' - makes every space feel like a chapel.

I slow to a walk to soak in these gifts and other, more earthy details appear, each one somehow featuring paint. Angular, amateur graffiti scrawls red across a gray concrete structure. The road's white-painted fog line catches my eye, then disappears when the pavement crumbles into gravel. On the short bridge over Yellow Hawk Creek, a more legible message meets my gaze: "Love Sex Dreams." It's been there for years, apparently homogeneous enough with the local culture that no one's bothered to conceal it. 

All these messages, all this art. I think of my daughter, a master with brush pens and calligraphy. My eldest son, a wizard with spray paint and templates. My husband, lovingly painting both halves of a cast-off wine barrel with weather-proofing material to create planters to last us for years. And myself, perusing recipes that call for butter mixed with sugar to be lavishly brushed over steaming muffins. Each of us, in our way, wield our paint. Even Minty takes part, emerging from her ramble coated in a thick paste of mud and splattering paw-prints across the dry road. Bold and bright, subtly-hued, or unconventional, our art takes as many forms as our personalities. 

And how will it shine in this season, this quieter, virus-imposed calm? I cannot fathom, but I expect beauty. I consider the faces, the stories of those I love, and I know they will take up their brushes with courage. They will paint joy, beauty, and glory in this world tinged with sorrow. They will use the canvas they've been given, the medium they prefer, and they will paint life. This I know, and this lightens my steps as I follow the crumbling fog line back to my peeling-paint car. Minty and I drive home with the windows down, letting this steely ribbon of road lead us back to the beautiful colors of home.  

Vitamin Accept

Sometimes caffeine helps my faith.

Well, it's probably the Holy Spirit. But I'm sure He works through caffeine.

Oops. There I go again. Just as I typed that last sentence,  I realized that I'm grasping for what I'm about to describe: Control. It's a hamster wheel with me; I'm constantly constantly attaching His power to some set of actions I perform. My contribution to any of His successes is microscopic at best, yet I persist in believing in my own significance.

It's silly, right? Silly enough to form the topic of an essay. But I'd much rather write about the silliness of others. So let's examine two silly twin, instead.

These twins, Jacob and Esau, operated from opposite ends of the spectrum. Esau, red and hairy, reveled in the moment, in meat, and in old-fashioned brute force. Think of an ancient-times Thor, impetuous and bold. Smooth-skinned Jacob, on the other hand, relied on his own strength of mind. Throughout his life, he bargained with God and with people, maneuvering himself into a positions of power, unable to give or accept a free handout, and always grasping for more.

It's on that last bit that both brothers agreed; the driving desire for the best. Esau sold off his birthright, yet expected his father's blessing. Jacob stole Esau's hopes, yet still found the chutzpah to place conditions on his allegiance to the Almighty. Different approaches, same goal: SECURE MY BEST LIFE, NOW. 

• Esau demanded it in his desperation for food ("Let me eat ... I am about to die; of what use is a birthright to me?" [Gen. 25:30-32]).

• Jacob bartered for it in His proposed agreement with God ("If God will be with me ... then the Lord shall be my God." [Gen. 28:20-22])

But why? Why shrug off a birthright when you know you're the firstborn in a God-chosen family with a low likelihood of God "accidentally" letting you die of starvation? Why bargain for God's protection after He's promised unconditional provision just a few moments before? (Gen. 28:15).

It seems silly, indeed, but also uncomfortably close to home.

• I assume certain death immediate access to chocolate, a long walk, or a short nap -- not to mention deeper things like friendship or marital peace. I shrug off my faith in favor of instant, incomplete relief. 
• I mistake God's covenant of salvation for a contract: He proves His goodwill via certain blessings, and then I'll sign the deal. 

Yes, the "silliness" of these twins resonates deep, resonates true. I may not seek control by exchanging my birthright for red stew -- I'd choose cheesy broccoli over that, any day  -- but I operate with the same shortsighted urgency when my favorite craving go unmet.  I may not spell out my terms for allegiance with the boldness of Jacob, but I keep silent track in my mind: I chose self-denial. Where's my reward? I want it now.

Do you see the irony? When I read the story of these silly twins, I can no longer merely observe. I realize I live them, each day.

This year, I long to release my intense (and false) grip on Control, to cease my constant struggle for more, in exchange for an open-handed acceptance of what is.

God's faithfulness ... is.
God's strength ... is.
God's covenant ... is.
God's grace ... is.

No struggle. No contract. No brute force required. These gifts are free, given in love, and my one job is plain. Accept them. Believe them. And live like I know that they're real.

Yes, even more real than the fading buzz of this morning's caffeine.