Working from Home.

You know, I seem to have developed the rather selfish habit of laying claim to any vacant room in this house as a haven for my sanity. Currently, I am writing from my daughter's former room, which I have painted and organized to my liking. When I get several thousand dollars, I plan to add a bay window to this room as well as office furniture and an antique oriental rug.

I'm working from home today. I was scheduled to be at the office for meetings....which sounds really important, but kind of isn't. I was actually supposed to be at school for the Teacher In-service, which is a fancy way of saying that I'd correct papers there without the distraction that students provide. Fortunately, there was a snow storm last night and most of today, so that the boss called a "snow day." I kind of love that the teachers got a snow day and the students didn't.

Now I am working hard to correct papers, and finding myself distracted most pleasantly by this blog.

Why, yes, those are my reading glasses on my head. I wondered where they were. Nice furrowed brow. Maybe a bit of Botox...or a tight ponytail is in order. Hello, age.

Yesterday I babysat my sister's kids while she went to work. The kids are adorable; 6, 4, and 2, or close enough to that, anyway. Three fast moving humans pinging off of objects considerably below my line of sight kept me in a state of heightened anxiety for a full seven hours. For some reason, I remember my own children at that age as cherubic compliant persons who thrilled to moments of teachable quiet. The years may have distorted my memory somewhat. The reality of young people in the house is noisier, stickier, and crazier than I had recalled. We moved from potty to minor injury to food to screaming, and back again. It was very intense. I did insist that the TV stay off, as I couldn't process the extra stimulus. You'll not be surprised to hear that I treated them to a full reading of The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere, and also The Spider and the Fly (which I may have dramatically acted out.)  I haven't had such a high-energy, think-on-your-feet, be-creative-before they-are kind of day in recent memory. It was wonderful. My sister has graciously invited me to come back to do it again one day next week. 

I would have taken pictures, but I had the regrettable experience of wearing brilliant red lipstick with no other makeup at all. It made be look quite terrifying. In truth, the lipstick is rather wonderful in its persistence. It's a cheap drugstore purchase that promises to stay on for 24 hours, and it delivers. I woke up yesterday with flaming red lips, and they did not diminish through gooey kisses, hasty meals, nor endless coffee. In truth, the lipstick I am wearing today is the same brand, but a more sedate color. Sedate is my middle name, after all.

You know what? I have got to go get some work done. Honestly! I can't stay focused for the life of me.

Queen of the dung heap

I read a blog written by a stranger, and I've read her blog for years. She's kind of my blogging hero since she manages to write a little something every day. This is a standard to which I aspire.
This other blogger is a woman with whom I have almost nothing in common. She is a career woman with no children and several pets. Her operational morality is significantly different from my own, and she uses language that I do not use....
at least not intentionally.
Yesterday, I took a photo of myself to send to my mother. I happened to be in costume for school, and I thought she might get a kick out of it. I quickly dictated a text message to explain the photo and hit send without proof reading. This never ends well in my experience. Unfortunately, I didn't think to look at what I'd written until several hours later. I was wondering why she hadn't texted me back, and so I looked to see if she'd received my text. Evidently, I had sent a message to my dear mother telling her that the photo was of me dressed as the Queen of Sh**. I called her immediately and begged her forgiveness.

Once my mother was entirely assured that I had not meant to say such a thing, she was able to see the humor in it. Good thing, too. She had likely been questioning my salvation for the bulk of that afternoon. I don't know which alarmed her more, the fact that I would say such a word, or the fact that I would say it to my mother.
I have sent some of the most cringe-worthy messages using voice-to-text. Why do I not learn??

Anyway,
So this blog I was telling you about...
The lady who writes it is as different from me as she can possibly be, and yet I absolutely adore her story and her writing. She talks about the antics of her pets or the mundane events of her days. It's seldom deep or instructive, yet she has this gift for telling her story in a way that frequently makes me laugh out loud. I feel like I know her; she's kept me reading for over a decade. Somewhere there is a psychological diagnosis for someone like me who feels an intimate connection with a stranger they've never met. We used to refer to this brand of voyeurism as "Stalking" but now it's just "Blogging."
There are other bloggers whose stories I used to love, but I don't really read anyone else consistently. Most of the others talk about home decorating or cooking or faith, and I find that I cannot care less about their drivel despite being topics that I am otherwise very interested in. Why is it that the telling of a story I have nothing in common with has the power to hold me enraptured? 
I suppose it's the same drive has pulled us into Autobiographical stories for eons.
One amusing autobiography is that which was penned by Benjamin Franklin. His view of himself is so different than the view that I was sold in history classes. Do you know that he fancied himself quite the ladies man? I read that book years ago, and I remember very little about it. The one thing that stands out to me in recollection is that he was smugly convinced that the entire female gender was woozy with desire for his body.
My drama class just read the biblical story of Nehemiah for the purpose of memorizing parts of it and reciting it in the study of plot and character. If you've not read it, I recommend doing so. It reads like a personal journal, not unlike a blog, and it tells an heroic story that is terrifically relate-able despite having occurred something like three thousand years ago. It's about a man who takes fantastic risks with an epic goal in mind. There's humor and sarcasm and drama and intrigue, all the good stuff to fire one's imagination. The way he tells his story is very direct without the melodrama and hand-wringing that so many of us use to falsely inflate an otherwise palatable story. He explains his goal and details his adversaries, then he walks his reader through the tension to the victory at the end. It's a good read.
The drama class performed their recitation on Friday, which is why I was dressed as a queen of Shushan. No matter that I was not actually on stage, my goal was solidarity with the students; the entire class looked like the cast of Aladdin. Who am I kidding? My goal was to wear an outrageous costume in public. My proclivity for dramatic overtures and sensational costumes is at the heart of my story. Pray that God might redeem it to His use. 

Doctor, Doctor

I've been sick, seemingly since time began, but actually since Wednesday. By "sick" I mean that I have a cold. Thankfully the stomach flu did not wreck havoc on our entire household. This cold, though, seems to be a Man Cold. You've heard of Man Colds? One of the symptoms is a runny nose which renders the hapless victim unable to function, and causes severe complaining. Truly, this particular ailment is know for its gender specific infection, but I have a theory on why that may have changed. It seems to me that the recent concept of gender fluidity may have caused some confusion in the viral world. It may be that the Viruses can no longer discern gender accurately, thereby attacking me with a Man Cold. Whatever the reason, I have been woe-begotten for days.

Naturally, I figured that this would be a splendid time to launch into the Keto Diet. You see, the Keto diet is rumored to cause distressing symptoms at the outset. This phenomenon is known as the "Keto Flu." This can inflict nausea, headaches, and general lethargy until one's body adjusts to the idea of burning one's hips for fuel. I've done it before, and found the weight loss to be most gratifying. The Keto Flu was not a bad price to pay for the results. So, since I seemed resigned to undergo a variety of unpleasant symptoms due to the aforementioned man cold, I figured, Why not? Let's just commit to misery. And so here we are.

Another one of my physical issues, since we're on the topic, is a radical slide into atrophy, given the week of inactivity. I keep careful log of my forays into fitness because I have a tendency to overreact extraordinarily when I haven't exercised in three minutes. I think, "I haven't worked out in FOREVER, and I'm going to be ENORMOUS." And so I throw myself into carbohydrates with utter abandon. This exhibits a spectacular lack of both rational thought and temperance. I write my workouts down to prevent this occasional insanity. So, I currently realize that I am not hopelessly atrophied. Just a little atrophied. I feel better about myself because I am combating the potential expansion with a studied ingestion of Fat. Ironic, but true. And helpful, foreby.

Now that you are aware of the fascinating details of my health, I feel certain you will be better equipped to pursue the remainder of your day.
You're welcome.

Vomit, mice, and intimacy. In that order.

Michael had the stomach flu yesterday, so I have been operating in terror of inevitable contagion for the past 24 hours. I always do this when someone has a stomach bug. I'm petrified of vomit. My initial plan was to avoid all food until a suitable amount of time had passed, but I got hungry. Fear of regurgitation is common, I've found, but usually entirely unnecessary. I mean that most of the time my fear is unrealized, so it wastes energy that could be better employed elsewhere. Mice are another irrational fear of mine. I tend to think of those two things as my only real fears, until I'm confronted by people who are particularly brave.

I started working outside of the home for the first time in an eon. It's a part-time gig, but challenging nonetheless. I'm teaching at a school where I learn more from my students than they learn from me. It's the coolest job ever, and I feel like I've won the lottery because this place gives me a paycheck for showing up and spending time with these remarkable young people.

My drama students were assigned to tell a personal story. I asked them to hone in on a plot line and deliberately employ music, set, costume; all to tell a true story about themselves. My thinking here was that they could learn to eliminate extraneous information and stick to plot, while inviting the rest of us to know them better. These kids took this assignment so seriously. Some of the stories were comical and some were tragic, but all of them were raw and powerful. Several of these young people told stories that they had never told before, and they did it in a way that was heart-wrenching without being contrived. They spoke of life without self pity or melodrama. They told real stories about their own experiences in a way that offered such transparency. I am in awe of that willingness to be known. These are teenagers in the process of knowing themselves, yet they were willing to show some window into their very core to a room full of people who could judge them or condemn them. That is a special kind of bravery.

I've been thinking about what it is that leads to the ability to share oneself so freely. Is it self- assurance? There must be some of that. Is it trust in the audience? That certainly plays a role. There's a willingness to be known. It's rather complex. There's humility, and security, and a deep interest in relationship. On the whole, the process seems deeply biblical. God invites us to know and be known, not only by Him, but by one another. You and I have something of a responsibility for cultivating environments where those entrusted to us will be safe enough to share the deep realities. We must know that we are intimately known and loved by our Creator, so that we can know and love those around us. Why do we struggle so much to do this? I think that most of us have no desire to be intimately known, ourselves, and we don't want to have to deal with the messy bits of others. Intimacy is terrifying.

Watching these kids share their stories was very instructive. There was a lot of hugging. There was a lot of, "Hey, I didn't know you struggled with that. Me too!" There was a mutual acknowledgement of the terrific courage involved in telling these stories. There was zero condemnation or judgement, just love and acceptance. "Perfect love casts out all fear," as the bible tells us. May we apply such courage and love to the relationships in which we participate. May we be brave enough to cultivate intimacy.

In which I summarize the past couple of years

    Spotify is providing the soundtrack to my chores this afternoon. I'm eating an entire bag of potato chips. My stemless wine glass is full of a rather anticlimactic strawberry lemonade. I'm feeling fat, wearing leggings, and wondering why I cut my bangs.
    Bustling about the kitchen, I realized that I'd said the same thing to myself several times in an attempt to mollify a wince-worthy regret over careless words earlier today...when it suddenly occurred to me that this was the very purpose for blogging. Blogging is designed to minimize the crazier aspects of talking to oneself. It's a good idea.
    Evidently, I only blogged once last year. I assure you that I spent plenty of time talking to myself, and much of that time I was downright certifiable. My life is full to the brim with story material, but I've struggled with figuring how to include the more humorous aspects of my life without alienating my children. For years, my children have provided the fodder for most of the writing I have submitted to this forum. As the kids have grown, they have each developed an inconvenient sense of autonomy that is disinclined to be made fun of. For years, decades really, my favorite coping skill has been humor. I now have four adult offspring that I can't really joke about. Well, I can, but I need to exercise some restraint. Whatever that is.
    At this point, all three of my boys are living at home. My daughter is on her own, living far away. I mostly communicate with her via Snapchat. She moved away in August and I have missed her hugs. I miss braiding her hair. I wonder if she's getting enough exercise or good nutrition. She is embracing her independence and working like a dog to pay the bills. She invested in Ferrets, which seemed rather a waste of resources to me, but then, I'm not much of an animal lover. She is. 
    As for the boys, I realize that there's a thing or two you may need to learn in order to bridge the considerable gap between the last update I published and the current state of affairs. Aaron is now 17, with all the attendant self-aggrandizement common to males of that age. He's honestly a really good kid, but the attitude is enough to drive me to drink. Fortunately for him, he was preceded by three siblings, so we parentals know that he'll outgrow the less attractive aspects of his teen years. This should ensure his survival to emancipation. Maybe.
    Speaking of my drinking: I quit. Not for good, I don't think, but for the year. Wine had become rather too daily an event, and I thought that perhaps my enthusiasm for the five o'clock hour was teetering on the brink of religious devotion. This threat of apparent idolatry needed a solution, and a year's reprieve sounded like a good idea. I'm almost to the end of Month Number One, and aside from occasional thoughts of homicide, I believe the experiment is going swimmingly.
    But, enough about me.
    Don has been living at home now for two years. His addiction had reached a fever pitch requiring immediate action, and he asked for help. In truth, we didn't do a thing beyond opening our arms and our home. He took all the steps necessary to  pursue a new way of living. After tidal waves of Meth, Heroin, Hopelessness, and incarceration, Don has finally settled into some kind of peace. He's worked the same steady job for two years, and he has structured a personal routine that works for him. Do you know how unbelievable this would have seemed to me, not so very long ago?
    Michael came home from prison in September. He's in college, he works hard, he's involved in his church. He does household chores without being asked. He has a heart for people. It's like he finally awoke from the nightmare.
    It's like I finally woke up, anyway. How many years have I watched those oldest two boys bent on self-destruction? Yet, here we are in a place of peace and hope.
    We are often drawn to gratitude as we sit around the dinner table in the evenings. This story that we are so privileged to be living is an adventure that I could never have imagined for myself. This God that we live for, Our Creator, has spun for us a magical tale of struggle and redemption. There is beauty and bounty and newness and life.....and I can't believe that we are in this place. What a story we are living! What a God we serve!

Damn Pharisees

We had just arrived in church on Sunday morning when a most instructive even occurred.
First, you must understand that Don was accompanying us for the first time in several weeks. His boss has been scheduling him on Sundays, and he has been most unhappy about it. He told me, "Mom, I need the Jesus time." He told his boss, too, and so he was finally able to join us. Aaron and I made our way into the sanctuary while Don took a quick cigarette break in the parking lot. By the time we had socialized our way in to the back row (our usual spot) we had gained another member to our party in the person of Katrina.
 Katrina is one of my very favorite people. She has a purity about her that I admire so very much. She is a rare soul in that she is often gently amused where a lesser woman might be scandalized, or worse, Judgmental.
We filed into the back row. Katrina first, then me, then Aaron....and Don breezed in at the last second to find himself relegated to the end of the row. "Daaaammmnnnn!" He exclaimed.... Loud enough to be heard by the back several rows, who, to their credit, didn't turn and gape. Katrina positively lost it into quivering convulsions of hilarity. Aaron was obliged to relinquish his position next to me, as Don explained that he needed to be able to relay his numerous edifying thoughts to me throughout the service. Katrina was still doubled over in mirth.
Which brings me to the point which struck me as particularly instructive.
If my fellow church-goers were aware of my son arriving to Sunday service, wafting in on the scent of cigarette smoke and a hearty expletive, they might easily judge him or me. But...they don't know from whence he has come. They don't know that he likely longs to be there so much more than they have in recent memory. They don't know that he has fought addiction and hopelessness to finally grace these seats with his family. He's the very sort that Jesus got so enthusiastic about. He's the very sort that you and I ought to be enthusiastic about. Look around you at church on Sunday. If no one smells like cigarettes....has tattoos....swears....
ask yourself "Why not?"

In which we discuss my day, and my temperance

I cannot, for the life of me, figure out why I don't drink more.
Tim and I have limited any alcohol consumption to the weekends (as defined by his work schedule). It seems that weeknights are when the medicinal properties would do the most good, though. Perhaps we should rethink this arrangement.

I'm in a quiet room, with Christmas lights and peaceful music. The various young people are in their respective rooms. I kind of think this will be what Heaven is like. You don't think that we will be surrounded by people and angels and commotion in Heaven, do you? That is exactly the sort of thing that brings on my longings for adult beverages. I wonder if those will be in Heaven? Only without the sin part, I suppose.

My grandfather and I had a long conversation at his hearth this afternoon. The fire was cheerily flickering away as we discussed a variety of topics including the state of health care in America, death, the dangers of expeditions to the North Pole, my Granny, parole board hearings, and the similarities between bureaucrats and icebergs.
We didn't solve a single one of the world's problems, but the problems seemed a great deal less threatening in his company. Grandpa is steady and gentle, wise and strong. His life experience lends him perspective that no one under 90 could possibly know. It's very powerful.

The hours I spent with Grandpa this afternoon were a much needed reprieve from the hullabaloo of the past few days. Weeks? We've been caroming through December with all the balance of a sailor on shore-leave. Allura moved in, Faline moved back home, three of my kids celebrated birthdays, my husband had his birthday too, we've had out-of-town house guests, and a 20-year-bible-study reunion. And we are only three weeks into December. I've gained weight, lost my temper, grown weary, and shrunk our bank account. But, the tree is beautiful, the shopping is done, the kids are safe and the year is drawing to a close.

If I need a drink, it's because I covet the specialness of the exhale that is the first glass of wine. Yet, here I am. Norah Jones is singing softly, and I am blogging. It's maybe better than a chardonnay.