Deja Vu

Remember the baby chicks?  Well, they're back.  But this time I think I like them.

I had my already-pretty-doggone-light blonde hair highlighted and cut this evening.  White-blonde, I think she called the color.   And with the cut, think Mae West gone punk.  (Okay, that could be a delusion of grandeur. Perhaps Dog the Bounty Hunter's ol' lady gone punk.  Yeah, that's probably more accurate.)

Actually, I think I like it.  Prince Michael (so as not to be confused with King Michael, a.k.a. St. Michael, his papa) would probably say I am now the hippest-lookin' jaja around.   And Sweet Callie?  She'd probably just laugh and then drool.  (Now that I think of it, that would just about sum up her papa's reaction, as well.   Ahhhh, thankfully, some things about sailors and construction workers never change.)

Here's to doing things that are wild and crazy!  

Peep!  Peep!

 

I Was God

Okay, well not exactly, but I was the voice of God.  

Okay, what I really mean is that as part of a four-person scripture reading a few Sundays ago, I got to read the words God originally spoke in the book of Samuel.  

I know what you're thinking, pretty cool stuff, huh?  Yeah, that's what I was thinking when I first got the call.  (I mean how often do you get asked to be God!  Especially if you're a woman, and doubly-especially if you're a woman in a church that has Baptist anywhere in its name!)  Yep, I was pretty excited.  

Then I got to thinking about the book of Samuel, and before I even looked up the assigned verses, I was pretty sure I knew what my lines would be.  

Samuel.

Samuel.  Samuel.

Samuel.  Samuel.

S A M U E L !

Yeah, that was the section, all right.  1 Samuel 3:14.  God calls the sleeping boy Samuel, who awakes and moves from his pallet but doesn't realize it's God Who has called his name.  Instead, young Samuel is sure it is his master, Eli, who voices his name in the night and goes running to him rather than God.  

This happens several times before it becomes clear to anyone in the household exactly Who is calling whom.  (This is the point in scripture where, I'm quite sure, if Samuel had had a middle name, we would have learned it.)

Ahhhhhh.  It suddenly became clear why they'd asked me to be God.  I'm a mom.  I'm a grandmother.  And I teach at a public intermediate school.  Of all people, I certainly know what it's like to call a child repeatedly, only to have that child run off in the opposite direction.

I can't help but wonder how many times Papa God has called my name, only to then watch me run off in the opposite direction.  

Sometimes I've heard His voice and, without even looking up, answered, "I'll be there in just a minute; I'm right in the middle of something here . . . "  When that's been my response, I've usually continued being wrapped in my own thing until I've forgotten He even called. Sometimes He's graciously (unbelievably graciously) waited a few moments and then called to me again.  At other times, well, there's no telling what incredible things I've missed out on because I chose to continue doing my own thing.  

While I could boast that I can hardly remember a time when I've spouted off an outright NO!, I've come to realize that that's really what my in-a-minutes amount to. My not-nows to the Almighty God of the Universe are every bit as rebellious as the belligerent, fist-shaking-in-His-face NO!  

Whew.  I'm glad we don't serve the God Who Zaps -- I'd be fried -- but, rather, the God Who Loves, Who Forgives, and Who, in His infinite grace and mercy, continues to call our names, inviting us to join Him wherever He is at work.   

Pamm.

Pamela.

Baby Girl.

May I be quick to recognize His voice.  And to then answer and respond, "Speak, Papa-God; I'm listening." 

This my heart's desire.  Amen

New names. New words.

(NOTE:  I started this post January 1st, under the title "Happy New Year, Whoever You Are!"  I had absolutely no idea where my rambling was going and I set it aside for awhile.  This morning [January 24] it took shape, veering off in a "whole 'nother direction" than I had planned, as is often the case with my writing. Maybe it was watching racism react to the Montgomery Bus Boycott in The Long Walk Home this week with my Teen Leadership classes. Or having one of my sixth graders tell me that we needed to pray for newly-sworn-in President Obama because he is . . . and I won't repeat here the hate-filled inflammatory words my student quoted me to describe the new President -- words my student had gotten from his pastor, who leads a local ultra-conservative church.  Maybe it was from overhearing the sexual-laden filth a sixteen-year-old eighth-grade boy aimed at a fourteen-year-old female classmate.  [And, oh yes, I dealt with it.]  Whatever the reason, here's the result.)

Mama Bug.  Mama Bear.  Mama Muz.  Muz.  Rev.  Queen.  Queenie.  Pam'la.  Pammy.

Just a few of the names I readily answer to, along with Jaja ("Grandmother" in Runyankore, a southwestern Ugandan dialect), Senga ("Auntie" in the previously mentioned language), Preacher Woman,  Booger.  (Don't ask.)  

When I worked construction, the field engineers dubbed me Space Bandit.  (Those guys knew I was blonde before I was.) My youngest daughter sometimes calls me Pammster Hamster, and my father used to refer to me as Daddy's Mess (which he acknowledged as a reflection on his parenting skills rather than on me).  

Still, I don't suffer from multi-personality disorder. Maybe because I once read  an Indian proverb that said, "The child with many names is much loved," and I guess I believed it. Probably, too, because my own "many names" have always made me feel loved. Even Daddy's Mess and Booger.  (I told you not to ask.)

In my head, each name brings with it a certain inflection, a tone -- a memory chip, if you will -- that evokes the faces and voices of people who've made me laugh, cry, giggle, sometimes raise my own voice, or sometimes just grin a little.      

I don't know if no one ever really called me anything bad or if my sanguine brain just refuses to remember. I mean, I do recall the night a man jumped out of his little red sports car at a stoplight and raged, "Bitch!" directly at me because he'd finally passed and pulled in front of the truck he thought I was driving too slow.  And I know "the girl with the big boobs" was an all-to0-common description of me in high school by the guys who couldn't remember the new girl's name.  Still, all in all, I've never been verbally tattooed with something ugly enough, often enough, to have needed emotional laser treatment to have it removed.   

Never been repeatedly called Bitch, as if it were my name.

Or Stupid.  

Or Nigger.  Nigger Lover.

Cow. 

Wetback.

Slut

Raghead.

Worthless Pig.

Hurts to even write those words, but I know that there are those who live with those names daily -- or have lived with them so long that they still hear them everyday, even when there's no one around any longer to spew them.  They are the walking wounded among us.  Some are still oozing from open sores, some hemorrhaging from gaping holes. For others, the tourniquet is temporarily tightened while awaiting surgery yet to be scheduled.

Those of us who bear smooth skin, those who are unmarked  those kinds of scars, or who perhaps do bear the marks and memories of past battles but now walk the road of healing and recovery, must choose to to look to our left and to our right for those who are not yet with us. We must train our eyes to see those who stand, dazed, just off the path, those who are waiting for someone to stop and pour the oil and wine over their wounds, bind them up, and then gently lead and guide them to a place of sanctuary.  A place where old names are replaced with new ones.  Beloved.  Precious.  Mine.  

And we must choose also to stop the hurling of hatred where we are able.  We must not look the other way when weapons of words are used against those who are vulnerable to such attacks.   

Sound lofty and noble?  

Good for a "devotional" thought but hard to put into practical practice? 

Not at all.  How about we start by stopping the forwarding of E-mails that flail against the short-comings -- real or imagined -- of one group or another?  That pit one group against another?

How about refusing to listen to jokes that depend on the humiliation or stereo-typing of one ethnic group or another for their "punch"?  

How about correcting the kid in the grocery store who slurs another kid or group of people, even when we're not that kid's parent and not a certified teacher?  (We teachers already take license to correct kids everywhere, in and out of the classroom.  You should try it; it's actually quite fun.)

How about being sensitive to the inferences we make in front of our children (and grandchildren) about those who differ from us.   

How about refusing to publicly choose a political party for Jesus?  (Believe it or not, I happen to know some fine folks in each party.)   

Little things, people.  Little things.  But we can all start somewhere.  One word at a time.

Remember:  Beloved.  Precious.  Mine.

 

The Pink One

My newspaper reading habits probably say as much about me as anything else. (I'm afraid to guess at exactly what, but I'm sure someone like Patrick Jane of The Mentalist or to the Criminal Minds profiling team could tell you.)  I never start with the front page -- in fact, I rarely ever get to the front page at all -- but instead, mumble each a.m. to St. Michael in my grumpy morning voice, "Gimme my section of the paper," which he knows refers to the Houston Chronicle's "Star" section (it has a big yellow Texas star top-center, duh!).  This is where one finds the comics, "Dear Abby" (or is it Ann Landers?), and the daily crossword.  (Obviously, I'm a lot shallower than I like to think.)   I only venture from this routine on Saturdays, when "my section" includes the "Religion" insert, as well.  

On the Saturday before Christmas, "A Blue Christmas" caught my attention in the "Upcoming Events" listings of the "Religion" section.  A Houston church was advertising a special Monday evening service for those who were experiencing loss of, or separation from, loved ones or just the plain ol' holiday blues during the Christmas season.   I seriously contemplated going.  I could only remember one other Christmas when I'd felt as un-Christmasy as I was feeling now, and that was over thirty years ago when my parents were in Iran and I was a just-turned-twenty-year-old, home by myself, state-side.   Despite a last-minute flight to Atlanta to spend the holiday with a favorite aunt, I don't know that I've ever felt as alone and utterly forlorn as I did that Christmas.  Ironically, the differences between my life in 1987 and my life now are too numerous to list, and yet the overwhelming sadness that wrapped itself around me by mid-December 2008 felt remarkably the same.   Different time.  Different circumstances.  Same darkness.

The first two Sundays of Advent found me lighting the fat purple candles of hope and expectancy that sat on our family room coffee table.  I was right on schedule, echoing the lightings taking place at our local church.  As the third Sunday approached, however, with its pink candle of joy -- usually my favorite one to light -- I wondered how I'd manage to flic my bic when the time came.   You see, I'm not one of those people who likes ritual for the sake of ritual.  (In fact, that's one of the reasons I flinch when I hear someone describe me as religious.  I don't see myself as religious at all in the sense that so much of religion for so many is wrapped up in meaningless rote and ritual that has very little, if anything, to do with a growing, dynamic relationship with Jesus Christ.)  I tend to shy away from doing the usual if it has no meaning, even the "usual" that would normally be meaningful.  Anything that's supposed to be worshipful has to be real for me; I don't want to get in the habit of faking it -- it's too hard a habit to break.  Thus my dilemma:  How to light the joy candle when Casey has struck out.  When there is no joy in Mudville.    

I began to talk about this with Papa-God.  I began to review what joy was supposed to mean in the context of the believer's life, in this believer's life.   Round and round we went.   Sunday Number 3 came, and I did not light the pink candle.  

Monday.  I surrendered.  I chose to practice what I preach.  I chose joy.  And I lit the pink candle. 

In the days prior to and in the days since lighting the joy candle, more than ever before I've been reminded that joy is not happiness.  Joy is not related to my circumstances, to my relationships, to what's going on  or not going on in what I call my outer life.  (My outer life being those things, people, and circumstances over which I have no control but which impact me because they venture into my space.)  Instead, it's about my inner life and what's going on, or not going on, there.  And that's where choice comes in.   I may not have many choices when it comes to my outer life -- very seldom can I control what others think, say, or do.  (Instead, their thoughts, words, and actions stem from the choices they make in their inner lives and how those choices work themselves out and then spill over onto me).  I do control, though, my inner life.  There is where my choices come into play.  I can choose to allow Holy Spirit to take control of my thoughts, words, and actions, or I can let my flesh take over (foolishly thinking that's the real me when it's really not since I'm a "new creature in Christ.")  

Holy Spirit will always walk me in paths of righteousness with an deep, not-depending-on-the-outer-life, abiding joy, while Flesh Woman will consistently look for paths of least resistance leading to momentary, fleeting, flash-in-the-pan happiness, at best.

Hmmm, tough choice?  Not really.  No, YES, really!  I'd be lying through my teeth if I didn't admit that for whatever reason, on some days the choice is tough.  On some days, I shallowly want only the Star section of life;  I don't want to see the front page or the business section or even the "Outlook" section of life.  On some days, like a two-year-old, I just want what I want, how I want it, when I want it, and at that moment, to heck with the cost. 

But for Christmas 2008 and, I pray, for the entirety of 2009, I choose to count the cost, and I choose joy.  

I choose to remember that the foundation for my joy is Jesus Christ.  Therefore, I will choose to stay connected to Him, doing whatever it takes to grow deeper in our relationship.

I choose to allow Papa-God to use difficult times to strengthen my joy, remembering that regardless of the circumstances of my outer life, there is always room for joy in my inner life.  (And I'm a firm believer, if you haven't already guessed, that whatever's going on in my inner life will bubble up and spill over into and out onto the outer life.)  

I will also choose to serve others, knowing that few things bring greater joy than doing something that brings joy into someone else's life.  (Ah, that spilling out thing!)  When we serve others in the name of Jesus, we honor Him, and we experience joy.

And speaking of choices, I will remember that Papa-God chooses ordinary people with ordinary talents and equips them to do extraordinary things and to experience extraordinary joy . . . for this is the life He has designed for us.

[A special thanks to the preaching staff of Church of the Woodlands 

for the principles shared in those last few paragraphs.] 

Here's to lighting the pink candle.  Each of us.  Every day.  

Jaja is Freakin' Super Woman!

Jaja is freakin' super woman!

This is the text I sent to my grandbabies' dad and my husband. I had just successfully dropped off my two-year grandson at his preschool on time. Being on time any where is a big thing for me, but I not only got Michael to the Purple Bears' room with his nap mat, his backpack full of Michael-marked diapers, his sipi-cup, and the class snacks (okay, so I forgot his lunch, but a quick trip to the local Food Mart for a Lunchable solved that problem, and no one was the wiser), but his five-month-old sister was with us, too, dressed, fed, and happily gurgling. All due to Jaja!   

I know I used to do stuff like this all the time twenty-something years ago when I was the mom of THREE under five years old, but dang!  I'm glad this is now the norm for Laine and not the norm for me . . . 'cause I am whooped!

Essentials

There will be days when, no matter how late you got to bed or how early you got up, you will need time with Jesus more than you need sleep.

Hairy Situations

I recently began recording in a pink faux-leather-bound book all of the random thoughts and pearls of wisdom I thought I should put in writing for my daughters. (After all, mothers aren't around forever, y'know.) I was reminded of the power of the written word while reading back through some of my ramblings. I feel somehow obligated to live out the ideals I've put down on paper, and in that sense, I guess you could say that my writing makes me a better me. (And since there's nobody else I'm qualified to be, I should take advantage of any tool that does that.) Thus, I will continue to write not only for my babies, but for myself . . . I'll jot down the brand of candle I think lasts the longest and smells the best -- not just so they'll know but to remind myself that the cheapest isn't always the best -- and sometimes I'll pour out pages sharing with them what I consider to be the essentials to becoming and living as the women God designed us to be -- again, not just to let them know, but to remind myself of how I want to be walking on a daily basis. Yep, everything from the silly to the sanctified. And perhaps it won't be just my babies and me who laugh, muse, and cry; perhaps my sista-friends and sista-friends-to-be will join us on the journey. (And who knows, maybe even a brotha-friend or two!)

An entry from September of this year:

Always keep at least one set of crummy clothes for painting in, doing other nasty jobs in, and to wear when coloring or highlighting your hair. (An old T-shirt with the original neck cut out, wider, for more comfort and "easy on and off" works great as a top.)

Speaking of coloring hair . . . going super light on your own is not always the best way to go. (As I write this I look remarkably like a woman who has two dozen baby chicks nesting in her hair. Papa Muz is NOT happy. Let's hope Clairol's "Natural Instincts" can help.)

Regardless of the outcome, freaking out over one's hair is not an option for the woman who knows who she is and is comfortable in her own skin. After all, hair is only hair -- it can be re-colored, re-cut, or just plain re-grown should all else fail. Life is too short and too precious to do much else other than laugh or simply shrug and say, "Oops!" and then laugh. (So what if Halloween comes early one year.) To be honest, I've had phases in my life where I actually looked in the mirror and said to myself, "Well, it looks like I'm going through a homely phase right now. Not much to do but ride it out and use this time to focus on other things!" Of course, I know that's easier said (or written) than done, but the bottom line is that it can be done -- the choice is mine. (I truly never loved anyone more or less because she had fabulous hair or hideous hair or because she came otherwise beautifully wrapped or in a brown paper bag. If someone overlooks me because I have baby chick hair, the loss is theirs.)

I'd be less than honest if I didn't admit that, yes, -- I have cried over a bad haircut, but I regret it. And I hearby resolve to never do that again. (It's much more fun to laugh.)