Forty

I turned 40 yesterday.  This past year sometimes seems like it’s been a time of gritting teeth and hanging by my fingernails; scrabbling and straining to continue, move on, grow.  But I thought I’d take a moment instead to celebrate the joys in pictures…

Charlie Brown.  My 39th birthday present.  Best present EVER!

Family trip to Hocking Hills.  Carina commandeered the camera and took some artistic shots.  I like this one.

Just after Christmas, I saw this double rainbow while running errands.  Had to stop in a parking lot to take pictures.  It was so beautiful, and signified a promise for a new year for me.

Carina became a teenager this year...She insisted on making her own birthday cake.  A book, blue, of course!  What a mess of frosting!  Blue teeth, blue tongues!  I talk about her birthday on this post:  http://fragileclayjars.blogspot.com/2012/01/thirteen.html

Charlie continues to be a BIG part of my life...cuddling and caring for him is a HUGE part of keeping my mood stable.  He follows me around, wanting to be in my lap whenever I am still.  I wrote about some of his misadventures
here.

 

I took a step of faith and went on a trip to Churchill Downs with my daughter and her 4H group.  I was very proud of myself that I managed to "survive" the trip without the aid of any anxiety medication!  Victory!  I mentioned our trip on this post:  http://fragileclayjars.blogspot.com/2012/05/keep-your-ponies.html

Charlie suddenly decides that nail clipping is not a fun activity, and it turns into a WWF Friday Night Smackdown entertainment.  Carina, instead of helping, grabs the camera and snaps pictures of our struggle.

Charlie has his first birthday, and to prove how totally neurotic I am over this dog, I bake him a dog-approved cake and we throw him a party.  Carina made the hat, and the other dogs got to eat slices of the cake, too.

I survive the Clark County Fair.  I've written a blog about that, so I won't say any more about that here.  You can read about it over here: http://fragileclayjars.blogspot.com/2012/07/i-survived-clark-county-fair-barely.html

Jacob got his driver's permit.  I thought that I wouldn't be able to handle driving around with him, considering I have an anxiety disorder and all, but I'm finding that I'm relatively calm with him driving.  He's a conscientious driver.  I wrote a little about him here.

  As for me, the struggles continue, mostly in the form I wrote about here:  http://fragileclayjars.blogspot.com/2012/01/namaste.html.

"Namaste" was probably my favorite blog post of the year, and the most meaningful to me.  I keep my rock prominent on the island in my kitchen, so I see it often and am reminded that I am not alone; my Father is there.  He desires to lead and direct me.  He wishes to heal me and use my experiences to help others.  He wants me to surrender to Him and accept his grace and mercy and fall into the unfailing love that is surrounding me.  If only I would use eternal eyes to see.

I've known grace this year like I've never experienced it before.  I have received it in abundance, from my Father and those around me who have chosen to continue to faith walk with me.I'm excited to look ahead to a new year, a new decade, with hope in my heart and trust that yes, in all things(even while cleaning the bathroom for the third time), God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.


It's all grace.  And somehow, it all becomes a blessing.  I believe it.

One of my pet peeves

I’m going to rant for a moment about one of my favorite pet peeves.

And I’m even going to be a huge hypocrite, because I’m guilty of doing it myself, and I disgust myself when I do it.

It’s the question “How are you?”

I know it’s a North American social convention, and it means very little, and it is as much a part of “Hello” as anything else; but I wish that when words were used, they would be meaningful and useful.

Especially over the past few years, this question has grated in my ears.  Because no one wants to hear the answer.

I went to a church service on Sunday, and the sermon was about how their church was so counter-cultural and revolutionary, and so concerned about being “real”.  The preacher used an example from a member’s past, a member I happened to know, who used to go to a large church, and who got tired of being one of many.  He got so tired of being asked “How are you?” without the other members caring, that he answered, “terrible” and the people didn’t even hear him, they just continued to pump his hand in the usual handshake, and say, “That’s great!”

And it’s wonderful that this church is trying to break that mold, but guess what?  That same person, who hated that question, who hadn’t seen me in a year of so, had greeted me with a, “Hi Michelle, how are you?” as I entered the church.  And before I could even answer, his back was facing me as he strode off about his business.  I didn’t even get the chance to say I was terrible.  Not that I would have answered that way, but I’m just saying if you’re going to ask a question, at least have the common courtesy to at least fake listening to an answer.  Ii wonder if he knew he was going to be a sermon example.

And I’m sure if he’d known what a struggle this year has been for me, or even this past week, he would not have treated that question so flippantly, but isn’t that the point?  We never know.  People who look like they are all put together are often the ones who are falling apart, and it is dangerous to assume that they need no attention or care.

I do not blame this man, because this question is so ingrained into our culture, that I say it often and without thought.  I wish I did not, and when its barbs hit home, I am reminded how deadly hurtful they can be.

I want to say what I mean, and mean what I say.  I don’t have to ask someone how they are if I don’t have the time to commit to the answer.  I can easily say hello, and it’s great to see you, and move on without offending someone.  If I want to know more or become more involved, it’s simply a case of asking them for some time to talk.  But saying “How are you?” as I pass someone in the hallway is not the appropriate time to ask that question.

What about you?  What do you think about this?

I survived the Clark County Fair (barely)

I haven’t blogged in awhile.  That’s because I’ve been swamped by preparations for the fair, and then living the actual event.  Now that it’s over, and I’ve had the requisite day to be ill and sleep it off, I thought I’d post some musings about my experiences.

This picture is here for shameless bragging purposes only.

First, fairs are dirty.  And if you’re in the horse barn next to the show arena, there is a constant dust storm blowing in your direction.  I would come home feeling like an extra from the movie version of “Dune”.  Even worse, I’d blow my nose, and the boogers were black.  Black!  I don’t even want to know what was going on there.  The best public restrooms were still subject to flooding, a lack of paper towels, an absence of soap, and a general lack of good hygiene.  And don’t even get me started on the piles of poop that I had to skirt on my way between the horse barn and the rabbit barn…

Next, fair food is creatively disgusting.  I know many people get excited about the food, and there are two things that I look forward to:  fair fries and candy apples.  My husband and I bonded over a serving of fair fries many, many years ago on a pre-date (don’t let him tell you it was a date, because it wasn’t), and the fries always seem special to me.  But when you get into things like “bacon cinnamon rolls” or “deep-fried Twinkies”, my arteries start clogging up just thinking about it.

And then there are the ignorant people.  Notice I said ignorant, and not stupid.  Please remember that “ignorant” simply means “uninformed”.  So I’m talking about the parents who take their kids through the horse barn, pick them up, and allow them to thrust their arms into the stalls to “pet the horsey” without knowing anything about the horse’s disposition.  Umm, some horses bite. Especially at fair, when they're all a little crabby and out of sorts.

But then there are the sweet little kids and the adults with genuine affection for the animals.  These are the ones who stop and ask about the animals, who ask permission to touch, who express interest in the animal as a special creation instead of a tool to be used.  The children who look with awe at Carina’s huge Paint horse, with his bi-colored eyes, and dream of riding something so majestic themselves.  The adults who look longingly at Blue, and talk about the days when they used to ride, and the affection they had for their horses.

I think that for the soul who is willing to take a moment, the spirit who is willing to focus beyond him/herself, the part of the fair that is so amazing is the animal barns.  So many children have spent huge amounts of time raising and training all sorts of animals.  I would see young girls curled up in the stalls, taking naps with their calves, children petting their goats, boys shearing their sheep as they stood quite content, children expressing all sorts of affection for their animals.  And these animals knew their master, were comfortable with their master, felt safe with their master.

I am the Good Shepherd.  I know my own sheep and my own sheep know me.  In the same way, the Father knows me and I know the Father.  I put the sheep before myself, sacrificing myself if necessary…This is why the Father loves me: because I freely lay down my life.  John 10:14-17(MSG)

If even a small child knows how to nurture and care for God’s creatures, how much more does our Father care for and love us!

Yes, and through His care and love, I’ve survived the fair! (barely)  Thanks to all the friends and family whose visits, texts, emails, and prayers made this week possible.  I think I’m still sane.  Or at least as sane as I was before this week, which isn’t saying much, I know…

Reflections on the 4th

Sitting in chairs borrowed from my brother-in-law, I hold my husband’s hand like high school sweethearts.  On my other side, my son sits, not yet a man, but wielding the title with aplomb, graciously accepting the teasing of those behind us because he is, after all, the tallest man there, and is perhaps, blocking the view of the fireworks.

I rest my head against Chris’s shoulder, watching the children in front of us, giddy with excitement, still dripping with pool water, dancing on the sidewalk, sitting on towels, hair dripping in pool-created dreadlocks.  Still in their swimsuits, electric with excitement, they “ooh” and “ahh” with every firework that blossoms in the sky.  I hear my sister giggle and realize she is sitting amongst the children, next to my daughter, the girl-who-is-not-yet-woman. 

We look to the sky, watching the planned explosions, the beautiful colors and designs.  I hear Bruce Springsteen’s “Born in the USA” float through the air while fireflies create bursts of glory, praising their Maker.

Immense power and beauty elicited from purposeful destruction; the disastrous un-making that is necessary for the re-construction that creates something wonderful and amazing out of something ordinary and ugly.

 

This Post Has No Intrinsic Value

I had a very interesting experience last night.  (Notice the word “interesting” does not connotate “good” here).  After dinner, Chris went upstairs to take a short nap, and after awhile, I went upstairs also.  I was going to put on my swimsuit to work on cleaning the pool filter, then take a swim.

When I went into the bedroom, Chris was awake, so I lay down with him for a moment, just being silly and a little bit annoying.  A little tickling, a little giggling, you know.  Well, Smokey (Jacob’s dog), who always wants to be in the middle of all the action, came bounding up onto the bed, barking and licking.

Now this is not a problem when my 15-lb Charlie does this.  But Smokey is 60 pounds.  And he has a realllly long tongue.  So when he began jumping on us, it pretty much broke up the party.

I sat up, and as I did, I noticed blood on my arm.  “I’m bleeding!”  I said to Chris (I know, I've got a way with words...).  I wiped the sizable amount of blood off my arm to discover the type of wound below, thinking perhaps Smokey’s toenail had scratched me.  Then I noticed there was blood all over my arm and leg.  My stomach did flip-flops.  Eew.

Chris was sitting up by this time, too.  “There’s blood all over the bed!” he exclaimed, and I looked up to see that the bed was indeed covered in splatters of blood. 

I felt like we were in one of those B-rated horror movies where the teenagers are making out, getting all hot and bothered, then suddenly the guy says, “What’s that dripping on my head?”  And the girl turns on the light, and her BEST FRIEND is impaled on the ceiling above them.

Don’t worry, no dead bodies over here. 

Chris, always the doctor, quickly figured out it was Smokey that was bleeding (the trail of blood on the carpet leading to the dog was a fairly telling clue), but considering Smokey is black, it took a moment to figure out where to blood was coming from.  Meanwhile, the blood was literally splashing off his body, hitting the floor, the banisters, ME…

“Must’ve hit an artery…” Chris commented as I found a puncture on his ear where apparently Cocoa had bit him during one of their “disagreements”.  Applying pressure, I called for Carina to come help.  She looked at me rather funny when I asked her to hold Smokey; “Mom, you’ve got blood all over your face.”  Eeew. 

Here's Smokey with his freakish bi-colored eyes...

...and here's a dingo.  See the similarities?

 And then I had another movie flashback.  A Cry in the Dark, with Meryl Streep yelling out “The dingo ate my baby!”  Which may sound like a really strange flashback, but if you read the book (and of course, being the nerd that I am, I did), the court case centered all around this “arterial spray” that was supposedly found in the family’s car.  That phrase, "arterial spray", has haunted me ever since I read it.  (And, freakishly enough, the baby died in 1980, and her death certificate was issued just two weeks ago.) So I was thinking that I had my very own arterial spray going on from my dog’s ear.  Have I said eeew yet?

Fortunately, dogs are hardy creatures, the blood clotted on its own, and Smokey was quickly distracted with the sound of food hitting his bowl downstairs.  Cocoa looked rather sheepish, sniffing his ear and moping around as if she knew she’d been bad.  But, on the other hand, she always mopes around. 

"Look at me.  I'm so sad."

Fifty Shades of Grey--I Jump into the Fray

Okay, I’m a little hesitant about this, especially because it reminds me of the whole Harry Potter debacle, back in the day.  But I feel compelled to speak my mind about this book, Fifty Shades of Grey, because I haven’t heard or seen my viewpoint out there yet.  Not that I think I’m all that; but because this perspective came to me during a time of prayer, I believe it’s important and relevant and God wants me to tell it.

First, I have to say that I haven’t read Fifty Shades of Grey.  I know that puts me at a disadvantage in a blog dedicated to discussing the book.  I’ve read as many “Surprise Me!” sections that Amazon would let me without actually buying the book, plus the Wikipedia entry (and you know that Wikipedia knows all!), along with a few fan sites.  I wanted to understand the book without actually ingesting the sex scenes that I’ve heard so much about, and I think I managed to get a flavor of the book without the smut.

Okay, I know that sounded judgmental, but I assure you, that’s not where I’m going.  I’ve seen the opinions where the book and its readers are judged as sinful, lustful pornography addicts.  And I’ve seen the opinions that praise the book for its sexual freedoms.  And I’ve seen the opinions that say the book is a lousy piece of crap that never should have been published.

But here’s what bothers me:  The book is about, essentially, a rapist and his victim.  Sure, he’s all “gentlemanly” about it with his “contract”, but it’s emotional manipulation.  She is held captive by him and abused.  And it makes me wonder why women are eating this up.  Why they are turned on by this.  And instead of judging, I wonder if there is something deeper going on.

One thing that comes to mind is the statistic that one in three women has been sexually abused in their lives.  I used to disbelieve this statistic, until recently.  It appears to be true.  Could it be that this book has gone viral simply because of the number of emotionally and sexually scarred women there are out there?

If you were abused, wouldn’t you want to read the story of an innocent woman who was victimized, soiled, cruelly tortured, but somehow brought out the goodness in her abuser?  Wouldn’t you desperately want to believe that, deep within yourself, you had been special, that, just like the protagonist, you could have found the deep scars within the man and turned him into a loving creature?  Wouldn’t you want to believe that goodness and love could come out of an abusive situation?

Or maybe you are stuck in a relationship that simply isn’t doing it for you anymore sexually.  And it’s easier to imagine sex with someone else through fantasy.  Rape fantasies take away the guilt because it’s not your fault that you’re having sex with someone else (or so some wise counselor once told me), so you enjoy this book with its BDSM elements.

Either way, or perhaps neither way, I believe the reasoning behind why you are reading a book is as important as what you are reading.  It may be painful, and it may expose some truths about yourself that you’d rather not explore, but dealing with the issues brings relief and satisfaction far beyond the temporary thrill of an erotic novel.

If you’re married, and need a little spice, why look for fantasy when you can have the real thing?  Are you waiting for him to make the first move?  Do you lack ideas?  Try reading Sheet Music by Kevin Lehman instead.  It might get your blood pumping with something that you can actually do something about.  Or if you have abuse in your past, you may prefer Real Marriage by Mark and Grace Driscoll (although it’s good for the average marriage, too).  These books incite you to think about hot, spicy Godly sex with your husband.

And if there’s something massively wrong with your sex life, don’t bury it.  Get help.  Get medical help, spiritual help, counseling, whatever it is that you personally need.  But hiding in a fantasy isn’t going to improve anything.  Finding out why it’s more interesting to you to read about other people having sex than actually having sex is probably important for your marriage.  Talk.

If you’re single or divorced, and a Christian, then why are you tempting yourself with thoughts that you can’t fulfill?  As the bride of Christ, it is a privilege to remain pure for Him, both in body and in mind.  Perhaps you need to begin or increase your exercise regimen or use this time to increase your intimacy with the Lover of your soul.  I know, easy to say, not easy to do.  But also consider the possibility of a future spouse.  You don’t want him to be clouding his mind with pornography, do you?  Written sex scenes are just as potent as visual ones, especially for women.  There’s a reason Fifty Shades of Grey has been dubbed “Mommy Porn”. 

Summing it all up, friends, I’d say you’ll do best by filling your minds and meditating on things true, noble, reputable, authentic, compelling, gracious—the best, not the worst; the beautiful, not the ugly; things to praise, not things to curse.  Philippians 4:8(MSG)

I’m hoping I don’t sound judgmental.  I wrote what I did, not because I’m such a spiritual giant (because I most certainly am NOT), but because my sin has convicted me and because I’ve seen what damage sexual sin can do to people.  I want the best for you, the best that God has planned for you.