I hope you noticed that the apostrophe in Mother's week moved. There is another mother I need to throw into the mix of awesomeness --my mother-in-law Paula.
TV did an excellent job of brainwashing me into thinking that a mother-in-law is an unfortunate reality. Whoever it was, she was going to be manipulative, self-serving, obnoxious, and loud. I must have found the exception --well except for the loud part.
If Paula were to die today (which I hope she doesn't) I fully expect at least a thousand people would show up for the funeral. I really don't feel like I'm exaggerating. Sometime around midnight the officiating pastor would have to cut things short and send everyone home grumbling that they had barely begun. Paula is a teacher at a local elementary school; everywhere we go, we run into someone she had as a student. They all shout her name and come running as if she saved their life from a burning building (the more I get to know her, the more likely this scenario seems).
There are some people who do their job quite well from 9 to 5 and make quite an impression on a lot of lives. And then there are those who go into a bug bed infested, 1970s, single wide trailer after work to clean up, take the sick mother some food, and sit on a bug bed infested couch to talk to them like they are actually people. No, this isn't someone involved in a church program, just my mother-in-law doing what seems to come so natural to her.
Mother's Week: Rose Colored Glasses.
Growing up, my mother made me do a lot of things I didn't want to do, embarrassing things like sing in front of the church with my brothers. I always claimed to hate it, but the reason I hated it was because she made me do it. But if I'm honest, I liked the attention. I suppose that makes me a diva. But this isn't about my neurosis. It's mother's day... which I will be stretching out a bit, because my mother is that special. So here's to mom and all the ways that she inspires me. A week of writing is far too little thanks.
My mother claims I looking at the past with rose colored glasses. If she means that I'm leaving out her less noble traits, well maybe, but I'm trying to reveal the core of who my mother was and is, who I know and remember her to be. Maybe I am guilty of idealizing, but that's only because the things that stick the most are the things that were repeated most often. Maybe I'm blocking out memories of her hitting me with a baseball bat; it's more likely that she's just a fantastic woman, which is why it doesn't surprise me that people I rarely talk to are coming out of the woodwork to comment and like the links to these posts on my facebook wall. They are only more evidence that what I'm saying is quite true.
My mother claims I looking at the past with rose colored glasses. If she means that I'm leaving out her less noble traits, well maybe, but I'm trying to reveal the core of who my mother was and is, who I know and remember her to be. Maybe I am guilty of idealizing, but that's only because the things that stick the most are the things that were repeated most often. Maybe I'm blocking out memories of her hitting me with a baseball bat; it's more likely that she's just a fantastic woman, which is why it doesn't surprise me that people I rarely talk to are coming out of the woodwork to comment and like the links to these posts on my facebook wall. They are only more evidence that what I'm saying is quite true.
Mother's Week: Pain
Growing up, my mother made me do a lot of things I didn't want to do, embarrassing things like sing in front of the church with my brothers. I always claimed to hate it, but the reason I hated it was because she made me do it. But if I'm honest, I liked the attention. I suppose that makes me a diva. But this isn't about my neurosis. It's mother's day... which I will be stretching out a bit, because my mother is that special. So here's to mom and all the ways that she inspires me. A week of writing is far too little thanks.
Mom was not unfamiliar with pain. It was common for my brothers and I to play quietly while mom gave herself a shot and spent the entire day in a dark room, fighting off a migrane. It's hard for a son to see mommy hurt, it's even harder when you know that there isn't anything you can do other than play quietly.
I had migraines as a child as well, so those days that mom was out of commission, I could almost feel the insatiable throbs, the fight for a comfortable position, and the longing for a sleep deep enough to forget about the pain. Sometimes I prayed that I could go through the headaches instead of her, especially on days when getting to the dark room to recover was not on her list of options.
My mother is a fantastic cook; due to her particular prowess of cooking great food for over 400 people, a new position was created on top of the cooking committee at our church specifically for funerals, which in Mennonite country can be translated as, excuse for a big meal. I have this theory that at the core of being Mennonite, there is a necessary element of preparing, eating, and cleaning up a giant meal. When someone is born, you have a shower with lots of food, when someone gets married (I broke this tradition) a smorgasbord is expected; even your death is an excuse for people to chow down. Within this culinary driven sub-culture, my mother has a reputation for setting a table you won't soon forget. But what people back home may not know is that a fair number of these gargantuan meals coincided with one of those debilitating (to the average person) migraines.
But my mother is not average --and her drive to care for others continued even when her head was throbbing. Us boys were often on the receiving end of her selflessness. Even when our requests were rather petty, she saw to them, and never held our selfishness against us. Physical pain, self sacrifice, unending forgiveness toward undeserving little twits... sounds like someone else I know.
Mom was not unfamiliar with pain. It was common for my brothers and I to play quietly while mom gave herself a shot and spent the entire day in a dark room, fighting off a migrane. It's hard for a son to see mommy hurt, it's even harder when you know that there isn't anything you can do other than play quietly.
I had migraines as a child as well, so those days that mom was out of commission, I could almost feel the insatiable throbs, the fight for a comfortable position, and the longing for a sleep deep enough to forget about the pain. Sometimes I prayed that I could go through the headaches instead of her, especially on days when getting to the dark room to recover was not on her list of options.
My mother is a fantastic cook; due to her particular prowess of cooking great food for over 400 people, a new position was created on top of the cooking committee at our church specifically for funerals, which in Mennonite country can be translated as, excuse for a big meal. I have this theory that at the core of being Mennonite, there is a necessary element of preparing, eating, and cleaning up a giant meal. When someone is born, you have a shower with lots of food, when someone gets married (I broke this tradition) a smorgasbord is expected; even your death is an excuse for people to chow down. Within this culinary driven sub-culture, my mother has a reputation for setting a table you won't soon forget. But what people back home may not know is that a fair number of these gargantuan meals coincided with one of those debilitating (to the average person) migraines.
But my mother is not average --and her drive to care for others continued even when her head was throbbing. Us boys were often on the receiving end of her selflessness. Even when our requests were rather petty, she saw to them, and never held our selfishness against us. Physical pain, self sacrifice, unending forgiveness toward undeserving little twits... sounds like someone else I know.
Mother's Week: People First.
Growing up, my mother made me do a lot of things I didn't want to do, embarrassing things like sing in front of the church with my brothers. I always claimed to hate it, but the reason I hated it was because she made me do it. But if I'm honest, I liked the attention. I suppose that makes me a diva. But this isn't about my neurosis. It's mother's day... which I will be stretching out a bit, because my mother is that special. So here's to mom and all the ways that she inspires me. A week of writing is far too little thanks.
My mother, Jane to those who love her, (and Delilah, or Diléeah to telemarketers) is a woman of action. My mother doesn't sit around philosophizing about things like I do, she gets things done. The walls I was raised in have witnessed appreciation dinners for teachers (complete with an entire pig roast), fifty or so guests each Christmas Eve, words of compassion and counsel, and more obnoxious teenagers streaking up and down the front porch than one could (or should be able to) count. I don't remember a time when we were prohibited from having someone over, even when Mom had a hard day and we were being jerks for even suggesting it. There was always some sort of treat waiting, along with lots of smiles.
Mom cared about people. They came first, even frustrating people, or people who might want to hurt you, or had hurt you already. Not that my mother was never hurt or frustrated, but it is obvious to me that my she always placed reconciliation in front of justice. My mother taught me that people are more important than being right, or understood, yourself.
My mother, Jane to those who love her, (and Delilah, or Diléeah to telemarketers) is a woman of action. My mother doesn't sit around philosophizing about things like I do, she gets things done. The walls I was raised in have witnessed appreciation dinners for teachers (complete with an entire pig roast), fifty or so guests each Christmas Eve, words of compassion and counsel, and more obnoxious teenagers streaking up and down the front porch than one could (or should be able to) count. I don't remember a time when we were prohibited from having someone over, even when Mom had a hard day and we were being jerks for even suggesting it. There was always some sort of treat waiting, along with lots of smiles.
Mom cared about people. They came first, even frustrating people, or people who might want to hurt you, or had hurt you already. Not that my mother was never hurt or frustrated, but it is obvious to me that my she always placed reconciliation in front of justice. My mother taught me that people are more important than being right, or understood, yourself.
The Problem with 'Fixing' Problems.
I've been
reading a lot of Flannery O'connor lately. I particularly enjoy her characters who are stories within themselves. There is the Bible salesman Manly
Pointer who steals Hulga the angry atheist's prosthetic leg, the chubby girl who
leaps across the table to strangle the subtly racist Mrs. Turpin,
whispering in her ear, "Go back to hell where you came from you
old warthog!", and even a 'Misfit' who kills the overly nostalgic, paranoid, and self-centered grandma. Flannery's characters are hardly
neutral, but rarely contrived; there is something about them that rings very true in us.
Yesterday I found myself in one of Flannery's characters: Sheppard, a single father and psychiatrist who tries to 'fix' people. The problem is, Sheppard tries to fix actions and behavior, rather than work to heal the heart. In the process he simply tries to conform people to his own image.
The problem with fixing isn't new to me. My wife often reminds me she wants me to listen rather than fix it. I've tried (rather unsuccessfully) to be more careful about not telling other people what they should do. What is new to me is what I realized about Sheppard's (and my own) attempts to fix people, it flows out of a desire to control others and thus my environment. If people are more like me, I don't have to try so hard to love them, because their doing what I want them to. Often, in group discussion I steer conversation toward a topic I'm more comfortable with. Or if someone has some differing theology, I try to steer them toward my perspective so I can feel more at home.
The healthy version of the fixer, is the healer. The tragedy in the story of Sheppard is that he never really listened to the heart of his son. When his son, looking through a telescope, insisted that he saw his dead mother waving at them, Sheppard tried to fix the behavior instead of dealing with the issues in his son's heart. He later returned to the attic to find his son hanging from the rafters.
Being a healer isn't as fun. It means listening to people when we think they're crazy, or stupid, or irrational, because often when people say something angry, bitter, or frustrated, their communicating something deeper, something that needs to be drawn out and listened to. Fixing the 'problem' only closes up a wound, leaving the bullet inside.
Also, read some Flannery O'connor; it's fantastic stuff.
Peeing Before the Throne of Grace
Wee toddlers,
standing before the great white throne,
swords drawn,
prepared to fulfill their God-given purpose.
We unskilled swordsmen
dream of an aim, someday true.
But now we are jealous
of the three year old
who leaves only a drip or two
on the snow white seat;
while we stand in puddles
–evidence of a stream of failure.
standing before the great white throne,
swords drawn,
prepared to fulfill their God-given purpose.
We unskilled swordsmen
dream of an aim, someday true.
But now we are jealous
of the three year old
who leaves only a drip or two
on the snow white seat;
while we stand in puddles
–evidence of a stream of failure.
Right now and Later Reasons
There are right now reasons and later reasons.
Right now reasons are things like, because I'm tired, or hungry, or I have a concert tomorrow. Right now reasons put out fires.
Later reasons are things like, because I want to be a good writer, a great guitarist, or someone who might resemble Jesus someday.
It's hard at first to think about later reasons, because the payoff is severely delayed; but as I go back and explore things I wrote before Myspace was popular, I see the distance I've travelled on the never ending road to excellence.
One of the hardest parts of my job as a guitar teacher is convincing people that great musicians are who they are today because they are people motivated by later reasons. Whereas the typical problem for my students is that the early stages of practice are simply going to be boring. Someday I'll figure out how to make it more fun than Halo, but for now it's just going to have to take self-discipline and vision.
To quote a teacher that I really never liked that much, "When God makes a squash he takes eight weeks, when he makes an oak tree he takes a hundred years."
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