Have you ever had one of those days where you were just off? You know, nothing is going right, and everything you touch turns into the worse version of what it was before? I had one of those days today, and I just wanted an escape. Phone a friend, mobile shout out, easy button? Yes, I will take two of each. It wasn't anything particular making me feel all scrambled up (as Taryn says). Just...everything. Kids whining and fighting too much over silly things, puppy peeing in the house right AFTER she came in from going outside, full sink AND full dishwasher, getting to the phone right after the caller hangs up on what they think will be an answering machine...bleck. Off day.
I can't always put my finger on the worst part when I have these less then stellar days. Usually one thing after the next falls short of "good enough", and I keep plugging along until I can't take it and get snappy with the closest living being. Today was a bit different. Today I know exactly when I hit rock bottom. It was the moment when I got mad at the chicken. Literally. I could feel myself getting angry...at Jayme's dinner. I don't care much for chicken, but I make it for me betrothed none the less. He is always happy to be fed, but tonight he was having to eat AFTER the kids went to bed...so it was pretty late for dinner and he was borderline starving. I wanted to make him something different than the usual chicken on the grill, and I wanted it to be gooooooood! I followed the "recipe" on the bisquick box for chicken tenders, but first I coated them in Texas Pete hot sauce to spice things up. I thought I would get lovely, crisp, chicken pieces with a hint of spiciness.
What came out of the oven thirty minutes later (15 minutes past the box's indicated cooking time) was a mess. The crispiness never...crispified...and what coating was on it just stayed stuck to the perfectly cooking-sprayed and correctly placed aluminum foil. I found myself looking at a bare naked chicken breast, and it did not look good.
That's when I felt myself get angry at the chicken. I did EVERYTHING right this time. I foiled, sprayed, coated, preheated, and timed this mess. Seriously? Ridiculous. I could have done better if I had slapped a little of my own spice concoction together and tossed those babies on the grill. I heard myself think, "Stupid chicken! I did all the work, you just had to turn out right. Don't think for a second that you held up your end of this deal".
I cut up the chicken hoping to try and throw some of the coating in with it and to hide the absolutely ugliness of the whole piece of meat sitting on the plate. You can rest assured I cut that chicken up with some extra muscle behind each slice. I had a little bit of a point that I still needed to make to that foul bird. And then, I took a deep breath and gave to Jayme with a quiet disclaimer that it did not turn out as I intended.
Then, unexpectedly, I felt better. I had gotten mad at the chicken and what did I take that anger out on? Said chicken. That was pretty enlightened of me. Usually when I get angry at situations I just snap at my kids or my dogs, or Jayme. This time, I got angry at the thing I was upset with. Granted, it was an inanimate object, and as such had done nothing wrong. But my sanity is not the point here. The point is, I think I did good. In this particular situation, getting mad at the chicken goes in my "win" column. I feel so proud. ;)
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
So Help Me God
Roe V. Wade did more than just give a woman the "right to choose". It was the beginning of the public acceptance of the mistreatment of children. Children had long been mistreated quietly, but the public acceptance is what changed the undercurrents of the culture. Since 1973, when the case was decided, something like 50 million babies have been aborted in America. Millions of lives ended because the life of an adult has been deemed more valuable than the life of a child.
My sister in law is a federal prosecutor. She works strictly in child crimes and child exploitation. She has dedicated her career to being the voice of children who need one. A LOUD, SCREAMING, DEFIANT voice against the men and women who have treated them in detestable and deplorable ways. Previously, as an FBI agent, she worked to catch these same types of individuals, those preying on children. Now she works to get them the maximum sentences for their crimes. She has been scolded before, by a federal judge, for asking for jail time for a man who had been convicted of selling children into sexual abuse. "Do you know what jail time will do to a man?" the judge asked. She stared at him, unbelieving, as he said, "How dare you ask for that?" But she knows how he dares. She knows that he is a part of an Amerian culture that believes that an adult life is more valuable than a child's. We may not say it, but our actions show it.
Consider Caylee Anthony. A beautiful little baby girl, born to a nineteen year old, immature mother from a dysfunctional family. I remember when she was reported missing. I remember because Taryn was her age, and from the photo the family released to the media, they had the same pink Playtex sippy cup. I remember praying with Taryn that the family would find their lost little girl. We have followed the case closely in our house, maybe too closely. The remains of the little girl were found just ten minutes from our house, a few blocks away from little Caylee's home. The apartments where her mother claimed to have taken her to for the nanny to watch her are apartments that I drive past almost daily, on my way to work. This happened here. In our city. We watched almost every moment of the trial, even recording portions that we wouldn't be home to see. Wanting to see the case. See the evidence. Judge for ourselves what had happened, and see justice for Caylee. And yesterday, despite an excellent prosecution and over three hundred exhibits of evidence, the jury decided that Caylee's mother was guilty only of lying to the police. Nothing else. Why? There are a few reasons they will give when they start contacting the media, but so far they have chosen to hide behind anonymity. I am glad. I don't want to see the faces of the people who let down Caylee Anthony. It is more fitting that they are just anonymous Americans, representing the multitude for whom the life of a child is less valuable than the life of an adult. And whatever reasons they give, they will not say that it was because Caylee's life was less valuable than Casey's. They would never say that. They may not even know that they believe it. But that is our culture, and that contributed to their decision on the side of injustice.
So, today I am hugging my kids a lot. I am telling them that they are precious, and loved, and special. I am playing cars with them, and giant bowling on the patio, and letting them give me "shots" from their doctor kit. I am teaching them what God has said about their value. And I am telling people in my world what I believe, which is that the smallest and most vulnerable lives are the ones that we have the greatest duty to protect. Jose Baez said if anything comes out of this case it should be that the death penalty is wrong. I believe that if anything comes out of this case it should be that children are easy targets, and that it is up to us to take the bulls-eye off their forehead. That when someone takes advantage of their smallness and their innocence, that we stand up for those little lives and hold those wicked adults responsible for every act, and every failure to act, that caused that child harm. I intend to make whatever difference that I can. To this I swear or affirm. So help me God.
My sister in law is a federal prosecutor. She works strictly in child crimes and child exploitation. She has dedicated her career to being the voice of children who need one. A LOUD, SCREAMING, DEFIANT voice against the men and women who have treated them in detestable and deplorable ways. Previously, as an FBI agent, she worked to catch these same types of individuals, those preying on children. Now she works to get them the maximum sentences for their crimes. She has been scolded before, by a federal judge, for asking for jail time for a man who had been convicted of selling children into sexual abuse. "Do you know what jail time will do to a man?" the judge asked. She stared at him, unbelieving, as he said, "How dare you ask for that?" But she knows how he dares. She knows that he is a part of an Amerian culture that believes that an adult life is more valuable than a child's. We may not say it, but our actions show it.
Consider Caylee Anthony. A beautiful little baby girl, born to a nineteen year old, immature mother from a dysfunctional family. I remember when she was reported missing. I remember because Taryn was her age, and from the photo the family released to the media, they had the same pink Playtex sippy cup. I remember praying with Taryn that the family would find their lost little girl. We have followed the case closely in our house, maybe too closely. The remains of the little girl were found just ten minutes from our house, a few blocks away from little Caylee's home. The apartments where her mother claimed to have taken her to for the nanny to watch her are apartments that I drive past almost daily, on my way to work. This happened here. In our city. We watched almost every moment of the trial, even recording portions that we wouldn't be home to see. Wanting to see the case. See the evidence. Judge for ourselves what had happened, and see justice for Caylee. And yesterday, despite an excellent prosecution and over three hundred exhibits of evidence, the jury decided that Caylee's mother was guilty only of lying to the police. Nothing else. Why? There are a few reasons they will give when they start contacting the media, but so far they have chosen to hide behind anonymity. I am glad. I don't want to see the faces of the people who let down Caylee Anthony. It is more fitting that they are just anonymous Americans, representing the multitude for whom the life of a child is less valuable than the life of an adult. And whatever reasons they give, they will not say that it was because Caylee's life was less valuable than Casey's. They would never say that. They may not even know that they believe it. But that is our culture, and that contributed to their decision on the side of injustice.
So, today I am hugging my kids a lot. I am telling them that they are precious, and loved, and special. I am playing cars with them, and giant bowling on the patio, and letting them give me "shots" from their doctor kit. I am teaching them what God has said about their value. And I am telling people in my world what I believe, which is that the smallest and most vulnerable lives are the ones that we have the greatest duty to protect. Jose Baez said if anything comes out of this case it should be that the death penalty is wrong. I believe that if anything comes out of this case it should be that children are easy targets, and that it is up to us to take the bulls-eye off their forehead. That when someone takes advantage of their smallness and their innocence, that we stand up for those little lives and hold those wicked adults responsible for every act, and every failure to act, that caused that child harm. I intend to make whatever difference that I can. To this I swear or affirm. So help me God.
Monday, July 4, 2011
July 5
Today is the Fourth of July, the birthday of America. I consider myself patriotic and, as I announced in church yesterday, I am "USA to the core". (Long story, don't ask.) I am celebrating today, along with so many of my fellow Americans, the day that this country, the greatest democracy in the history of the world, was formed. It is worth celebrating, and worth remembering.
But today, I am also thinking of July 5, 1776.
In my innocence, ignorance, and poor mastery of US History, I think I always imagined the 4th of July as the end of the struggle. The end of the War with Britain. It makes sense really, all of the celebrating, and the fire works, one would naturally conclude the celebrating was for the end of the fight. But it didn't happen like that. America declared it's independence from Britain on July 4, 1776, but the war didn't end. Britain didn't read the Declaration of Independence, and say, "Turn all of the boats around boys, they say they are independent now. They even wrote it down". Quite the contrary. They came at the petulant Americans with renewed fight, and vigor. They would show this pompous little "nation" what a real army was like, or so they intended.
The battles raged on, the casualties climbed. In fact, the famous words spoken by Nathan Hale when he was executed (without trial), "I regret that I have but one life to give for my country," were spoken after July 4.
It sits heavy on my chest when I read about life for those first Americans. The times themselves were brutal. Felling trees to clear land and build houses, log by log. Sleeping on hay pallets, and eating what you killed, or grew yourself. No plumbing, no electricity, limited healthcare (people died of diarrhea for Pete's sake) and an utter lack of anything the least bit convenient. But these people, with homes to build, land to cultivate, and families to feed were so convicted in their beliefs that they found the time to fight the fight. They didn't say, "Gee, I would love to help you Thomas, but my seven kids need me to plant the crops, and hunt the bears." They needed to be free from British control, and they needed to follow the call they knew was given to them by God. So, they did it.
I am painfully aware how lucky the pioneers of this great country are that I wasn't among them. If they were counting on me to fight the Brits, we would all still be saying, "bloody hell, and jolly good" because I am a victim of my own busyness- both real, and imaginary. I can't even stop and play CandyLand with Taryn sometimes because "I have to mop the floor". And I have a steam mop that I plug in and mop with! I don't even have to make soap and haul water up from the river. My goodness!
And it's not just the sacrifice that they were so good at, but their bravery too. The brutality of a war with musket balls and bayonets is frightening. A war where you didn't shoot until you saw the whites of their eyes. For the record, I do not ever want to be close enough to see the whites of the eyes of a person with a weapon who has orders to kill me. And on top of that, they had limited medical treatment, antibiotics, and pain relievers. You either died from your wounds, or died of infection. Not good odds! Despite that,they fought. Oh that I could be so convicted! Oh that I would have such a stirring in my heart for what I believe in that I would be selfless, and brave simply because I must.
Sure, I am patriotic. In fairness though, that's easy to say from my couch watching the Olympics, from my picnic blanket under the stars watching the fire works, or even in my seat near the dugout at the major league baseball game with my hand on my heart as I sing every inspirational word of the National Anthem.
I am grateful for true American patriots. Not just nostalgic Americans, like me, but people, throughout history and today who felt conviction for this nation, honored that conviction, and that gave their time, money, loyalty, and lives for this country. One of my former students just started his career at the United States Air Force Academy. He also happens to be the eldest son of my very best friend. I am proud of him. I am proud of him for what he knows that he has signed up for, and for what his seventeen or eighteen year old mind couldn't even conceive. I am proud that he is a patriot in the making. That he is giving the next decades of his life to this country. Giving back. Paying a debt that he knows, only to some extent, that he has. I hope the Air Force Academy, and military academies across our nation, are full of "Jamies" because it makes me feel better about the future of this country. That's the part he doesn't know that he signed up for. The part where his choice gives me hope.
Thank you patriots-young, old, and those alive only in history books and stories told around dining room tables. I am sorry if I have diminished the reality of your sacrifices and your bravery by calling myself a patriot. I guess I should call myself a theoretical patriot; that seems more accurate. Thank you for being actual patriots, and know that I do not go to sleep at night without thinking of my debt to you- without thinking of July 5.
But today, I am also thinking of July 5, 1776.
In my innocence, ignorance, and poor mastery of US History, I think I always imagined the 4th of July as the end of the struggle. The end of the War with Britain. It makes sense really, all of the celebrating, and the fire works, one would naturally conclude the celebrating was for the end of the fight. But it didn't happen like that. America declared it's independence from Britain on July 4, 1776, but the war didn't end. Britain didn't read the Declaration of Independence, and say, "Turn all of the boats around boys, they say they are independent now. They even wrote it down". Quite the contrary. They came at the petulant Americans with renewed fight, and vigor. They would show this pompous little "nation" what a real army was like, or so they intended.
The battles raged on, the casualties climbed. In fact, the famous words spoken by Nathan Hale when he was executed (without trial), "I regret that I have but one life to give for my country," were spoken after July 4.
It sits heavy on my chest when I read about life for those first Americans. The times themselves were brutal. Felling trees to clear land and build houses, log by log. Sleeping on hay pallets, and eating what you killed, or grew yourself. No plumbing, no electricity, limited healthcare (people died of diarrhea for Pete's sake) and an utter lack of anything the least bit convenient. But these people, with homes to build, land to cultivate, and families to feed were so convicted in their beliefs that they found the time to fight the fight. They didn't say, "Gee, I would love to help you Thomas, but my seven kids need me to plant the crops, and hunt the bears." They needed to be free from British control, and they needed to follow the call they knew was given to them by God. So, they did it.
I am painfully aware how lucky the pioneers of this great country are that I wasn't among them. If they were counting on me to fight the Brits, we would all still be saying, "bloody hell, and jolly good" because I am a victim of my own busyness- both real, and imaginary. I can't even stop and play CandyLand with Taryn sometimes because "I have to mop the floor". And I have a steam mop that I plug in and mop with! I don't even have to make soap and haul water up from the river. My goodness!
And it's not just the sacrifice that they were so good at, but their bravery too. The brutality of a war with musket balls and bayonets is frightening. A war where you didn't shoot until you saw the whites of their eyes. For the record, I do not ever want to be close enough to see the whites of the eyes of a person with a weapon who has orders to kill me. And on top of that, they had limited medical treatment, antibiotics, and pain relievers. You either died from your wounds, or died of infection. Not good odds! Despite that,they fought. Oh that I could be so convicted! Oh that I would have such a stirring in my heart for what I believe in that I would be selfless, and brave simply because I must.
Sure, I am patriotic. In fairness though, that's easy to say from my couch watching the Olympics, from my picnic blanket under the stars watching the fire works, or even in my seat near the dugout at the major league baseball game with my hand on my heart as I sing every inspirational word of the National Anthem.
I am grateful for true American patriots. Not just nostalgic Americans, like me, but people, throughout history and today who felt conviction for this nation, honored that conviction, and that gave their time, money, loyalty, and lives for this country. One of my former students just started his career at the United States Air Force Academy. He also happens to be the eldest son of my very best friend. I am proud of him. I am proud of him for what he knows that he has signed up for, and for what his seventeen or eighteen year old mind couldn't even conceive. I am proud that he is a patriot in the making. That he is giving the next decades of his life to this country. Giving back. Paying a debt that he knows, only to some extent, that he has. I hope the Air Force Academy, and military academies across our nation, are full of "Jamies" because it makes me feel better about the future of this country. That's the part he doesn't know that he signed up for. The part where his choice gives me hope.
Thank you patriots-young, old, and those alive only in history books and stories told around dining room tables. I am sorry if I have diminished the reality of your sacrifices and your bravery by calling myself a patriot. I guess I should call myself a theoretical patriot; that seems more accurate. Thank you for being actual patriots, and know that I do not go to sleep at night without thinking of my debt to you- without thinking of July 5.
Saturday, July 2, 2011
I Am Who I Am
I admire women who are quiet. I don't mean silent, or keeping their thoughts to themselves. I mean quiet, in a way that is full of grace and dignity. Who, when they speak, you listen. You listen because you know that they are not an endless fountain of words, but rather wait to speak when when something is worth saying. I am not one of those women. (Just ask Jayme.) I dislike that about myself. I always have something to say. Some sarcastic remark, or witty little quip. Something to make myself laugh, if nothing else. I am sure that my friends could find this exhausting because I do too sometimes. Not usually. Usually I am giving myself mental high fives for how funny I am. But always, I am striving to spend more time being still, and gracious, and speaking less, but more profoundly. Telling myself to learn to wait to speak until I have a little gem of wisdom to share.
I also admire women who are uninhibited. Not crazy wild, mind you, because that is just embarrassing. More like brave. Willing to try new things. All of my life I have had this issue with trying new things. Basically, I don't. I don't try things that I could quite possibly fail. I try new variations of old things. For example, I am good at basketball, so I will play on a new team. I can sing, decently, so I will sing in a new choir, because I have sung in choirs before. However, trying something completely unknown is not at all exciting for me. Jayme went to this boot camp class at his gym and came home telling me it was the best workout of his life, and I should try it. Quite frankly, I should. But going to a new gym to join a public exercise class absolutely terrifies me. I have never done that before. Not even anything like it. I have no frame of reference, but my imagination immediately goes to the worst case scenario. One in which I can't do any of the moves, and I hurt myself. It's awful to admit, but quite frankly the thought of trying the class makes me struggle to breathe. I am in a constant battle to live outside of my comfort zone because I admire women who do, and I want to be more like what I admire. Those women who don't even bat an eye before they run out to try yoga or join a zumba class, or sky dive. I have to think they are living life to the fullest, while I am living life safely in my mind.
I admire people who are organized. I am SO not. I have multiple junk drawers in the house, and I hate them. I organize them regularly, but an organized junk drawer is sort of an oxymoron. I mean, wasn't the junk drawer born out of a need for a place to throw everything that doesn't have a rightful place? I say yes. But still, having three is too many, and surely most of that stuff could be made to have a rightful place, or could be thrown out. I know it. And I fail to fix it. That makes me so disappointed in myself. I know, this is a bit dramatic, but that's my way. Disappointed in myself over my multitude of junk drawers, when there are so much bigger things for me to focus on. The junk drawers are just symbolic though. Symbolic of the unkempt areas of my life that I want to be better at keeping control over. So even as I reorganize my junk drawers for the twentieth time, I admire those people that I know exist, for whom junk drawers are just myths. They have a place for everything, and everything in its place. They are what I long to be.
I could go on for years, I admire women who are good cooks, and mothers who hide zucchini in the brownies to make sure their kids get enough veggies. I admire people who run in the rain just because if they didn't they would miss their work out for the day and that would drive them crazy. I admire people who can have a face to face confrontation without getting emotional, or who can express themselves verbally. I generally find myself wanting to say, "hold on, I would like to continue this disagreement but could we do it in writing, please?" In real life, that doesn't generally fit into the plan.
So what to do? Well, all that I can come up with is to keep appreciating and recognizing things in others that I admire. And honor them for those qualities, rather than silently appreciating them. I need to strive to add some of those qualities to my life, all the while realizing that I am me. I can watch Julia Childs on TV, but can never be Julia Childs. I could go skydiving, but I would hate every minute of it until it was over (at which point I would brag excessively about my bravery). I am who I am. I can be better. I can organize the junk drawers, and I can try new things when they aren't unreasonably risky, but I can't ignore the "Jen Blueprint" that God designed me with. Continue growing, reading, learning, and keep challenging myself to be the best version of me that I can be, and learn to be satisfied with that.
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