Human Agriculture

I went out to the garden this morning in the early hours (and by early, I mean, 9:30 a.m.). I took my hoe and my muscle power and my determination, and I pulled every single weed out of that rectangle of land. I squashed the grubs and shooed away flies and applauded the ladybugs and earthworms, and I caked layers of dirt under my nails that will take days to clean out. I turned over dirt and threw rocks into the rock pile and weeds into the compost pile. Those suckers didn't stand a chance.

I had a grand ol' time.

On what seems like a completely unrelated note (but really isn't, so stick with me), my oldest daughter will attend Kindergarten next year at the public school just up the road from us. She spent the last year at a private Christian school in our area, and we absolutely loved it. The teacher was amazing, and my daughter would come back every day that she went with more things she learned. We would have really loved to keep her in that school, but of course, expense was the major issue.

The last day of preschool, my husband and I attended the preschool award ceremony. The school principal gave a short speech, where he said he was excited to see the ones that would return next year, and the ones that didn't, his prayer was that they would bloom where they were planted.

See? I'm actually going somewhere with this.

Back to the garden. My little plants growing in that patch of dirt are doing remarkably well. The corn looks great, the tomatoes are just getting ready to blossom, the beans look healthy, we just had a lovely lettuce salad last night from the garden, and my cukes are spreading nicely. But I've put a lot of back-breaking work into that tiny little plot of land. I've hoed it and pulled weeds, I've watered it meticulously when the rain has been slow in coming. If I see the pests trying to take control, I make my own natural bug-repellent and declare open warfare on the little creatures. As a result, my plants are loved, nurtured and healthy. The day I stop taking care of my little garden is the day my little plants will get choked out by weeds, dried up in the sun, or eaten up by pests.

My little girl is going to a school in the fall about which I've admittedly been nervous. But her soil has been tenderly raked. Undesirable characteristics have been carefully plucked. Detrimental outside influences have been chased away. A daily watering of love and nurture has been poured over her. There is no conceivable reason why she will not bloom where she has been planted, as long as we continue the process of careful human agriculture.

Of Colors (and clothes and people and funerals and...)

I attended the funeral this past week of a lovely woman in our church who had lost the battle with cancer. It was a beautiful memorial service, lots of pictures of the woman with her family, and a poignant sermon on the Throne of Grace that was a central part of this woman's life.

As important as that is, I'm not going to get into that. One thing I noticed at this funeral (and at many other funerals I've attended) was the amount of black clothing worn by the family and friends who were left behind. I admit, when I was getting dressed to go to this funeral, I looked in my closet and started flipping through my darker stuff.

But as I pulled out my black dress, I thought about how thoroughly happy this woman is now, how pain-free, how unburdened from life's cares, how joyous, how radiant, how any-other-adjective-that-describes-perfect-bliss she is, and I thought, this should be a celebration!

I didn't go in a Mardi Gras costume. 

But I did choose spring colors - a robin's-egg-blue skirt and a white top, because spring (in my mind, anyway) is a symbol of new life, starting over, entering the pearly gates for the beginning of an eternity with Jesus. It symbolizes hope, freshness, life after a winter of deadness.

I doubt very much that when I walked in to the funeral and sat down on the bench, anyone in that service looked at my outfit and thought, oh, she's dressed herself in a manner symbolizing life. But the meaning was important to me.

So if you ever see me at a funeral, and I'm not wearing the classic blacks or grays, you'll know why. I'm in no way condemning those who choose to do so - it is, after all, a way of showing respect and support for the family of the deceased person - but in my own small way, I suppose I'm celebrating with the person who's finally gone home.

Perspective Shift

I admit, I doubt myself a lot. I feel inadequate the majority of the time. I compare myself to others way too often. 

I watch other stay-at-home moms who somehow manage to keep clean houses, raise well-adjusted children, sign those same children up for extra-curricular activities like dance, soccer, gymnastics, t-ball, etc, and even take on leadership roles in church and in community organizations. I admit to a tinge of jealousy now and then.

The dust-bunnies that line the walls of my house rarely get swept up. Cracker crumbs, Cheerios, toys and puzzle pieces continually jab me in the rear when I sit on our couch cushions. My kids are hardly ever without a ring of peanut butter or jelly around their mouths or crusted on their cheeks. None of our kids are signed up for the local community soccer league (though that's on our to-do list for the Fall).

But...

I gain a sense of accomplishment every time I get a sticky-sweet kiss smeared across my cheek as my son pulls himself onto my lap. "I love you, Mommy, I love you," he lisps. When my daughter brings home artwork from school that says, "Jordyn lovs Mommy yur the best," and I insist on hanging it on the fridge front and center, I feel like I've done something right. When my toddler buries her head on my shoulder, just mine, no one else will do, and nuzzles my neck in sleepy contentment, I'm pretty sure there's still a few things I'm doing well.

I may not be the Martha Stewart of the stay-at-home-mom world, but my kids are well-loved. My home, while not the cleanest specimen of domestic art, is at least livable. I don't run from one organization to another, but I have a job I love using my imagination to spin a tale or two and God has blessed me with a wonderful publisher. I have a church I believe in and a husband who supports me and loves me for who I am, despite my many quirks.

I feel like George Bailey, who's just had a run-in with Clarence, the Angel Second Class. I do have a wonderful life.

Sticks and Stones May Break My Bones...

I was a senior in high school, nearing graduation, the day I went to take my Advanced Placement English exam. It was a bit like taking the SAT's in that the exam was held at a larger school in the center of town and you had to pre-register to take it. Good scores meant college credit.

The exam was unlike the SAT's in that it was composed mostly of essays instead of fill-in-the-bubbles-completely-with-a-number-2-lead-pencil sections.

I loved English. I loved fine writing and classic literature, specifically British literature. Jane Eyre was my favorite. I'd already read the book through four times by that point (in the fifteen years since graduation, I've multiplied that number by at least three), and had written essay after essay after essay on the underlying themes, the Byronic hero (Mr. Rochester), the Rochester/St. John/Jane love triangle, etc. 

I knew, or at least, I hoped that some of the essays in the AP exam would include a question or two about Jane Eyre. All in all, I felt fairly confident, not just about Jane Eyre, but also about most of the rest of the literature we'd studied that year.

The day of the exam, I was in my homeroom getting my stuff ready to go and discussing the exam with my English teacher. I slung my backpack over my shoulder and smiled at her. "Wish me luck," I said.

That dear lady swiveled in her chair to face me, hesitated, then said, "Tama, you're not a very good writer, you know." 

Before continuing on, let me say that I held my English teacher in the highest respect, that I'm sure she had reason to say what she did (because some of my earlier high school papers were pretty atrocious), and that I think she only said what she said so I wouldn't fly too high and crash too hard.

After the words were out of her mouth, though, at that moment, I was stunned. And hurt. I cried the whole way over to the exam. And what a distracted beginning. Instead of focusing on the questions listed on my sheet, I kept hearing the echo of her words in my head... "Tama, you're not a very good writer..." over and over and over again.

I tried to shake it off, to write like I knew I could write, and I did. I wrote some really good answers to some really difficult questions. And then for the final long essay, lo and behold, there was the question for which I had been hoping. Describe how Mr. Rochester is a Byronic hero. Oh boy. I wrote until my hand cramped and then I wrote some more. I finished the last sentence as the timer rang. I handed in my paper with a triumphant smile on my face.

Incidentally, when my results came back some weeks later, I had earned high enough scores to exempt me from at least one semester of English in college. No, I didn't win a four-year exemption. I don't even know if that was an option. But I was pretty pumped.

This story still has a bittersweet ring in my memory. On the bitter side, I still remember the crushing feeling I felt when my teacher said those words. I still remember the intonation and inflection of every syllable. I remember the anger that came after the hurt subsided. Why would she choose to tell me something that was only subjectively true (based on personal opinion) just before a writing exam? Talking about choosing your moments...

On the sweet side, that one little comment has perhaps inspired me more than many other comments I've received on my writing over the years. Perhaps it lit a fire under me, put fuel into my head when writer's block stared me in the face. Perhaps I wanted to prove her wrong because I had such a high opinion of her.

Fifteen years later, I've had multiple articles published in various magazines and newsletters. I have one book on the market, actually pulling in an income (a small one, but it is a first book), and another book set to release this summer. A third book sits on my laptop, gradually growing longer as I add to it day by day.

Those words from my teacher so long ago hover over me as I finish every paragraph and proofread it, urging me to be the best that I can be, to do the best work that I can do, to amuse, to entertain, to encourage, perhaps even to inspire some reader out there who stumbles across my work.

The one thing I learned from this whole situation: toss the bad, take the good. Sure, the timing of that comment wasn't the best, the wording perhaps not the choicest, but the flame it kindled in my writing career has been unequaled. 

Everybody needs a push now and then. So to my English teacher, if you're reading this, thanks. I owe you one. :)

Most Embarrassing Moment

I always get a kick out of hearing people's most embarrassing moments, but I figure if I'm going to weasel it out of other people, I have to be fair and tell my own too. 

So... I have had quite a few moments in my life where I wanted the earth to open up and swallow me whole. The main one that stands out, though, happened in '00 when I was a student at Rosedale Bible Institute (College, now).

Around Christmas each year, the tradition for the community was for everyone to meet at RBI's chapel to hear a group of people sing through Handel's Messiah. The singers consisted of any interested persons who could read music and/or who had a copy of the musical score.

I had never participated in singing Handel's Messiah and the idea of working my way through the Hallelujah Chorus was too much for me to resist. To me, the Hallelujah Chorus was written by an earthly man who was inspired by heavenly vision. It's one of the greatest pieces of music ever written and I was so excited to take part in singing it, inadequate though my alto may be.

We all gathered together in the chapel. 30 or so of us congregated up front, Messiah scores in hand, while the rest of the chapel packed out with listeners. The chapel held close to 500 - about that many showed up.

The musical director tapped his baton on the music stand and we began. The music was difficult to follow for a newbie like me who had never sung through the Messiah before, but it was still beautiful. It ebbed and flowed and swelled and fluctuated and I was completely engrossed.

And finally, we got to the Hallelujah Chorus.

The glory and the majesty of this song overwhelmed me. I sang my heart out. I concentrated hard on the score because I didn't want to add even one false note to the beautiful symphony of voices.

We built up to the climax - the end of the song; the final grouping of Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah, and then the big grand pause before the last Amen. The audience was on their feet, the pause came... that long four count before the final word.

I counted to two, and the last Amen burst from my lips. 

Just me. All by myself. 

It was irredeemable. There was no covering over such a blatant mistake. The music stopped amid an entire auditorium full of uproarious laughter, the director stared unbelieving over his music stand at the upstart alto who had ruined the ending and I hung my head in shame, sincerely wishing I could crawl under a nearby pew and die quietly.

Despite my wish, the show must go on. The director quieted everyone back down and we backed up a few bars of music to try the ending again. Somehow much of the swelling grandeur had gone out of it. Mostly, people tried not to laugh, especially when we hit that four beat pause again and I actually managed to wait the full four beats. I tried to be as invisible as possible under the circumstances.

As it was, my fame spread far and wide after that incident. I never quite lived it down.

But that's okay. Thirteen years later, I still blush when I think about it. But at least I'm past the stage of wanting the earth to open up and swallow me.

So... I've told my most embarrassing moment. What's yours? :)

The Most Important Thing Ever (No Pressure or Anything)...

As a parent of three young 'uns, I shake in mortal terror when every so often, the overwhelming responsibility with which I am entrusted hits me.

Today in our Sunday School class at church, our group had a good discussion about our kids - raising them, teaching them, advising them, instilling a love of God in them. We talked about the disconnect between the current young adult generation (20 to 30 year old's) who in large part have bowed out of traditional church, instead choosing a very passive form of belief... "I don't know what to believe or who to believe in."

We started asking ourselves, what is the disconnect? Is it because we push our kids too hard to believe what we have always believed and what our parents have pushed on us?

And yet (for the most part, exceptions always present), our generation (the 30's to 40's) that were brought up by believing parents and lovingly guided in that direction may have messed around a bit in our younger days, but have largely come back to solid relationships with God.

According to some of the statistics we looked at, the 20 to 30 generation is one of the first generations who is not necessarily following the trend of each generation (returning to the church).

So what's going on? What has changed that makes such a difference in belief mentality?

Mulling this over in my mind while I was washing dishes this afternoon, I thought of something. Who knows if it's correct, but I'll throw it out there anyway. 

I wonder if we've become such an "instant gratification" culture, that young people don't have time, or want to make time anymore, to search for God... to wait on Him.

When I look at the big picture, overall (it seems to me), America has become spiritually stagnant. And then I look at "missionary kids." They live in other cultures, many of them far removed from instant gratification. They are taught in much the same manner we teach our kids, but - and it's a big but - the surrounding culture is so different. They return to the States on furloughs, and many times, these MK's have a hard time finding their slot in society. Why? Because society and cultural norms are almost opposite the culture in which they've been brought up, even though their American parents are teaching them relatively the same values that we are teaching our kids.

These kids are also taught to think, to defend the way they believe, in a way that our American, nearly post-Christian culture rarely teaches our kids to think. 

So... going back to my three young 'uns. Of course I want them to believe the way I believe. More than anything else, I want my kids to have deep, thriving relationships with God - not just a shrug-sure-I-believe-in-God-'cause-what-else-is-there kind of thing.

But this discussion really challenged me to do less telling my kids how to believe and more helping them find their own answers (guided by the Word of God, of course). Knowing why they believe what they do rather than just spouting off rhetoric because my-mama-told-me-so.

I pray every day that my kids recover from my mistakes, because I sure make a lot of them. I pray that in God's grace, He'll pull them to Him in spite of my silly human nature.

Scape-Goatishness

When I was in the fourth grade, our classroom at school looked like a Christmas explosion. Christmas projects littered the walls, a Christmas tree stood in our room with Christmas ornaments slung all over it that we had made in class. Glitter sparkled on the floor, our shoes, everything.

My desk sat directly next to the Christmas tree in the corner. One particular day close to Christmas break, I sat at my desk, doing a reading assignment, when a boy in the class eased behind my seat on his way to some place else. I watched him out of the corner of my eye; he surreptitiously grabbed an ornament off the bottom branches of the tree, bent it into an unrecognizable mass in his hand and threw it onto the floor.

I don't know what this boy's motive was. His reputation as a trouble-maker was pretty well set, and as an adult looking back on the situation, I have always felt sorry for him, wondering what would have caused his constant need to act out. At the time, though, I didn't like him, since I was often the brunt of his bullying.

He passed by and reached his destination - a few desks over where he slid into his seat. The teacher looked up at that moment, saw the swaying branch on the Christmas tree and the destroyed ornament underneath it, and lit into me.

"Tama, of all the people, I certainly wouldn't have expected you to be the one to destroy property. You should be ashamed of yourself, young lady." She went on and on, expressing how disappointed she was in me, how she couldn't believe how I would have so little respect for someone else's work as to destroy it so completely.

I sat there with tears in my eyes, my overly-sensitive spirit taking to heart every single word she said. As I recall, I did manage to say, "But I didn't do it." She overrode my defense because in her eyes, the only possible explanation was that I was the only one near enough to have reached it. Beyond that, I don't know why I didn't tattle on the boy.

He sat and watched me out of the corner of his eye the whole time I was getting my dressing-down from the teacher. Perhaps he expected me to say who did it. It certainly would have been the sensible thing to do.

Maybe I was too shy. His snide little smile that said, "You're not going to tell on me," should have pushed me over the edge to do just that.

Or maybe I didn't tell because that was what he expected me to do. Somewhere under his rough layers, I think, was a hurting little boy who hurt other people because it protected him from more wounds coming his way. Not that I understood that in fourth grade. All I knew was that I was being falsely accused and I was angry about it. But I'm glad I didn't spout off that day, perhaps, if only to teach him that sometimes... it's okay to be the vulnerable one.

Who knows if he learned anything from that episode. Maybe. But I learned from it and I suppose in the end, that's what really matters.