The Best Measure

Periodically, I find myself in little "disagreements" with God.  Oh, it's not that I find myself having whole arguments with Morgan Freeman's voice in my head; I just struggle with assimilating my experiences with my beliefs, or what the world believes.   All truly spiritual people are compelled to examine and analyze their experiences in order to make sense of them in light of our beliefs, whether they be religious, moral, social, or political.  In the last few months, I found myself somewhat troubled in trying to resolve some observations of the world around me with the principles that I hold, quite literally, sacred.

My experience centered a great deal on the fact that it's been a distastefully explosive political year, going beyond mere political posturing and into the realm of sickening hate-mongering.  Combine that with the fact that I'm both very committed to the idea of equality for all but still evolving in my understanding of our government, and I wound up with a perfect storm of disillusionment on my hands.  This is so complicated that I don't even have a clear place to start in the narrative, except for the one event that polarized my spiritual and moral standards:  that Chick-fil-A brouhaha this summer, when CEO Dan Cathy made anti-gay statements in a radio interview and as a result, demonstrations supporting both sides of the argument were staged at the company's stores. 

I had, to be honest, an immediate disdain for Mr. Cathy's remarks, not only because I considered it bad business practice, but also because I adamantly support equal rights for all, including same-sex marriage.  In fact, I have so much to say about that issue that I'll have to make it another blog, or several blogs, entirely.  But this summer:  Mr. Cathy made his statements, more as an individual than as a CEO, and got raked over the coals for it.  The cyberworld went BOOM!, and next thing we knew, there was a day of chicken feasting to support the company, and a subsequent day of picketing.  I thought they both were pointless.  These two sides are not likely to ever convince the other.  But then, my brother and I never give up arguing our different views of the political spectrum, knowing full well that we'll never turn one red or the other blue.  I think we do it out of love, hoping the other will at least scoot a little in our own direction, bringing us closer to a shade of purple we can both live with.  Maybe a similar kind of love is the reason the same-sex marriage/anti same-sex marriage proponents keep at each other, believing there is grounds for a compromise everyone can be happy with-----but no, I don't really believe that.  I wish I could.  And that wish gone awry, like Langston Hughes's "Dream Deferred," is where I found my feelings surfacing during the demonstrations this summer. 

Bluntly, I felt somewhat sickened at the sight of people lined up to buy chicken sandwiches in the name of their religion.  It seems so far off from my understanding of Jesus, and of the Christianity that I have always practiced.  But my reaction alarmed me for the same reason.  I am fully convinced of God's love for me----and for every other person on the face of this planet, even those who never hear the name of Jesus between the cradle and the grave.  To me, that show of support of Chick fil A was demonstrating the exact opposite:  that Christ's followers (and therefore Christ) considered themselves better than others.  And THAT, I know, is not the message of Jesus.  I vowed not to do business with them until I had resolved my thoughts and understanding of the situation to my own satisfaction.  But when the picketing of the restaurants took place a few days later, I had a similarly discontent reaction.  While I believe whole-heartedly in the American right to demonstrate peacefully, I had, literally, a visceral reaction to the whole mess.  I said before I felt sickened, and I meant truly, physically sickened.  How could we put our beliefs on display, either side of the argument, over something as ridiculous as chicken?!  I did my best to put it all out of my mind.  It didn't stay gone very long.

Only a few weeks later, I was in Mardel's one evening buying school supplies.  For those who don't know, Mardel's is a Christian bookstore owned by the Mart Green family in Oklahoma City, the same people who own Hobby Lobby, which is closed on Sundays like Chick fil A.  (I've always admired that practice to, as both businesses say, "promote family time," even though it inconveniences those of us with limited shopping hours.)  The Green family is also the group that bailed out Oral Roberts University a few years ago when it was insolvent and in crisis.  I haven't looked deeply into their business philosophies or religious practices, but the items Mardel's carries lead me to believe they support prosperity theology.  I can't logically or theologically get behind that; everything I've seen in life demonstrates that God doesn't reward us financially for following Him.  But that, too, is another blog.  The point is that I probably wouldn't shop at Mardel's very frequently, except for the fact that they have a great school supply section.

That evening, I wandered into the t-shirt section, a huge selection of t-shirts with Christian themes, to look for some gifts.  There are two walls covered with designs, probably numbering over 150, not to mention others hanging on rounders most of the length of the store.  I read each one, craning my neck back to scan from the ceiling on down.  After a while, I began to feel a little light-headed from the looking back and forth, up and down, as well as the fact that I hadn't eaten much that day because of the relentless heat.  The t-shirts on the rounders provided a little distraction for a while, so I went back and forth between those and the wall.  I began to notice the few shoppers in that section, and they seemed so....distant, maybe even unfriendly.  Now I know logically that I might have just had low blood sugar at that point, even though I wasn't shaky or clammy.  But I suddenly felt just as put off as I could be by the in-your-face-ness of everything in that section, as though everyone there felt just a little superior to me, that you had to shout your beliefs from your clothing, not just the way you lived your life.  And if I tell the truth.....I felt as though none of them could or would think for themselves, which is to say, I felt a little superior to them, too. 

It was a bitter, terrifying moment. 

I paid for my purchases and left as quickly as I could.  Once I was in the car, I picked up the phone a couple of times, thinking to call Mary Beth, my dear friend from church, who has a gift for seeing right into the heart of a situation and making it make sense.  What held me back was the inability to even explain what I was feeling.  It was a cumulative effect from both experiences, and it felt as though I was rejecting not just the American version of Christianity, or prosperity theology, but that I was questioning Christianity as a whole.  If you think horribly of me for that last sentence, know that I thought no less of myself when I wrote it;  I've been sitting here for 10 minutes trying to figure out how to go on.  To reject Christianity would be akin to negating my whole life, from a blessed childhood with my parents' upbringing rooted in church and high moral values, to my own career, which I claim as a calling from God. 

My terror at the feelings I experienced that night did not go away.  While I wasn't living in a state of shock or coming apart at the seams, it was not a good time.  I was facing the beginning of a school year like no other, with many extra burdens and the loss of two peers in my department.  I flung myself into those tasks and those changes with more energy than I've used to get going in any year I can think of, and that turned out to be a blessing.  The challenges took my mind off my crisis of belief, and the time I spent working left me little time for ruminating on the significance of what was going on in the world around me.  I even stopped listening to NPR for several weeks in order to stop the flow of any political information related to religious ideologies.  Instead, I reverted to my drug of choice when I'm feeling overwhelmed by the world:  country music.  I quickly learned the most popular songs on the radio and spent my 45 minute morning and afternoon commute singly along mindlessly.  It should have been no surprise to me when that same country radio provided me with a resolution to my crisis. 

Just a couple of weeks ago, I was driving to the family ranch after school on Friday evening, headed over to help my mother care for my sister's baby girl for the weekend while she and her husband took a little trip for their anniversary.  I was tired but looking forward to time with Allie, my god-daughter and main source of enjoyment this past summer.  As I find myself on the road a lot at sunrise and sundown, I love both times of day, and evening is when I am most contemplative, resolving events in my mind.  That evening was no exception; I was parsing the week as it grew closer to sunset.  When I was approaching the turn from the two-lane highway to the backroad, a Keith Urban song that is popular right now came on.  It had annoyed me before---he's not one of my favorites---but I'd not really paid attention to the words, either.  Suddenly, I DID hear what he was singing about, a soldier on a battlefield, questioning whether he had made a mistake: 

"And the answer rang out clear from somewhere up above

No greater gift has man, than to lay down his life for love.

And I wondered, would I give my life?
Could I make that sacrifice?
If it came down to it, could I take the bullet?  I would,
Yes I would, for you."

I don't know why everything coalesced around that moment, and around song lyrics that were no great poetry, but as quick as a lightning strike, it all did.

...The baby of the baby sister I've always said I could defend to the death with my bare hands.

...The family I belong to that tried always to live by a good moral code.

...The Christianity that fostered that moral code.

...The God who called me to teach.....and to teach and treat everyone equally.

...The students I've vowed to protect with my life, who, when they asked, I've told, "Anyone who comes in here looking to hurt you will have to go through me and every other teacher in this building." 

And I knew, at once, that there was no way I was turning away from my faith.  I knew---I remembered what I have believed for many years---that I only have to concern myself with  my own faith, not anyone else's, nor anyone else's concept of mine.  It was a palpable relief I felt, reminding myself that I would, like the speaker of that song, do whatever I was called to do, and that I would do it not just for those who believed the same as me, but for all of my students. 

That's the best measure of Christianity I know of.  Perhaps demonstrating by choosing a certain day to shop at a Christian-owned business is what others know as their best measure.  Maybe it's wearing blingy crosses or praying in the streets.   For some, it might be giving away all the money they make or feeding and clothing the disenfranchised.  But all I have to worry about is whether I'm living by my lights, whether my conscience is clear and my heart is right with God.  For tonight, at least, I will sleep soundly---I am right with God, and with myself.

Home Matters

What is the mythic hold that "home" holds over us?  Is this a development of the modern era, or does it go all the way back to the caveman?  Did coming back to that rock abode and the lingering smell of last night's dinner roasted over the fire inspire the same sense of comfort and safety in those family members that stepping in the back door to our favorite Scentsy aroma does now?  I don't see how it could, but then, we all have a concept of what home should be like, from our own frame of reference.  I think, however, that it must be part of the human condition to crave a domestic haven from the vagaries of life.

Forty years ago this past June, our family moved into what has remained home base for us all.  It was two years in the making, because Mom and Dad were determined that everything down to the last nail would be paid for before it was put in.  I might be wrong, but I think they met that goal.  It's not a terribly remarkable house, but to me, it's an icon of peace.  The story of it is almost as much a part of me as are the sights, sounds, and smells I associate with it.

This pinkish-brick split level stands at the corner of the section my great-grandfather John Welker acquired when he traded the land he staked in the Land Run, somewhere in Payne or Noble county, just a short time after the Run.  The house was built by Henry Martin and Ted Osborn, highly skilled homebuilders and craftsmen who were also neighbors and customers.  Dad asked Henry several times to build the house, but he had too much on his plate to work it in.  But a freak hailstorm wiped out his wheat crop, and he took the job to make up for that loss.  I don't know the time frame for sure, but that must have been around 1970.  And another local, Loyd Wilson, built all the cabinetry for the house.  Mom and Dad did and still do take pride in doing business locally whenever possible, a policy they passed on to us all.

The thing that amazes me the most is that Mom stained and varnished almost every square inch of the woodwork in the house---cabinets, paneling, baseboard, EVERYthing.  That includes two full bathrooms and two half baths, a paneled kitchen and family room, half-paneled hallways, built-ins for a sewing counter, the office, and a rec room, and partial paneling in the basement, plus the doors for three bedrooms, the office, three pocket doors, and nine closets....a virtual lumberyard of wood that looks as beautiful today as it did when we moved in.  She cared for it religiously; that might have been our best lesson on why we don't let things get torn up or trashed.  I would feel physically ill if I ever did something to damage that golden-brown evidence of her painstaking care and pride of her home.  Of course she painted, but I've also seen her fix plumbing and electrical issues, large and small.  There well may be many other things she did as part of creating this home; her father was a carpenter, and she knew a lot from him, as well as teaching herself.

Grandad was still working when this house was built, and with Pryor 100 miles away, he wasn't able to do a lot, but I recently learned of a contribution he made that solved a mystery for me.  The main level is the only one with floor joists; everything else is concrete.  But that main level is just as sturdy as the rest, producing almost no noise, even though several of us walk very hard on our heels.  At Christmas, my brother told my brother-in-law that the floor joists were 3" x 16".  Now I'm no craftman, but I've seen a little bit of carpentry done over the years, and I didn't even KNOW such a thing existed.  They don't;  these mammoth slabs of wood were part of the old powder plant at Pryor, where Grandad worked during World War II, and they came to us through him.  No one knows how he got hold of them----maybe he helped with the demolition of the plant or got them from a friend.  However it came about, those massive planks, which took several men to move, have left that floor as strong and level as it ever was.  If I didn't have a terror of damp, dark, close spaces and the critters that lurk there, I'd love to crawl up under there to see them.

Another feature I find unusual, and unusually comforting, is the concrete floor upstairs----of course, that means it's practically a concrete bunker down in the basement.  That basement is partially above ground, with windows at ground level, and a patio door at the end, but I've never felt afraid there during a storm....and out there on the eastern edge of the open plains, we've had more than a few brushes with tornadoes and ferocious straight-line winds.  I don't know exactly how Dad managed to get this cement ceiling done, but he's a master of plotting, planning, and devising.  Bo says he remembers it, and that there were posts all over the basement holding up some kind of forms or framework they used to pour the cement in.  And he would know:  he was a busy little boy, just four years old when we moved in, and he had spent his days down there during the previous two years, tinkering and building and telling wild stories that even now Henry will smile and shake his head at when he recalls them.  My clearest memories of those two years were pushing a chair up to the sink when I got home from school to wash Mom and Dad's lunch dishes (which were really pretty minimal) and standing on the back patio, possibly singing and dancing, a pasture of cattle for an audience.  I might have just dreamed doing that, but I have a sharp vision of standing on that patio imagining I finally had a real stage, consciously thinking it would be a great place to perform from while I waited for a glorious career to arrive. 

I remember, too, the first meal we had after moving in that June: we had hot dogs from our microwave, the likes of which I'd never seen or heard of, but was in awe of.  And we got to watch _Gunsmoke_ on our brand-new color TV while we ate.  It was maybe somewhat less than miraculous, but if I remember it so well after 40 years, how can I overlook that?  How can I put aside all that house came to mean to me?  The smell of the air conditioning in the summer was and still is unlike any other on earth.  The sound of the back door and how we jerked it closed, or the muffled sound of the grinder at the elevator on Saturday mornings from my childhood bedroom;  the texture of the wallpaper Mom and I hung in the entry, up the stairs, and in the hall when I was 16 (and that I threatened to run away over because she's such a perfectionist); the long-outdated but still functional green kitchen countertops----I could identify them all, anywhere they were presented to me.  I spent God only knows how many hours practicing at that piano in the corner of the living room, where my 18-year-old nephew Logan has plunked, then played, then performed as he grew up.  Every once in a while, I look at the marble hearth in front of the fireplace and can remember standing at the teller counter in the old First National Bank building in Pawnee, where that marble came from when they tore the building down.  I remember Dad and I sharing a nightly popcorn ritual, popping it up in a Wagner Ware saucepan, never asking if the other wanted it, just wordlessly presenting the other with a bowlful passed through the cabinet window into the family room.  There is no way to separate all that from my person----or from my home.

When Mom and Dad announced a few years ago that they were moving out and that Sheri would be living there permanently, that they would mostly live in Arkansas, I was devastated.  I think my exact words were, "But I won't have a home anymore?"  definitely stated as a question.  One of them, I don't remember which, said, "You have a home.  Your home is in Broken Arrow."  Logic was not what I was after----I just wanted to know that I had the home base I had come back to all my life.  I needed the safety of that physical place, but also the feeling of "home" by having everyone there together.  I've learned to live with the reality that we haven't all been together on a regular basis in 25 years except at Christmas, and that what home represents isn't something that changes just because the situation is a little different.  I sleep in a different room when I visit---but that was true long ago.  My sister and her husband are so gracious with me, letting me come to stay whenever I want, that I haven't felt as torn as I was afraid I might.  Our figurative campfires are still lit, and I am still welcome.  That's more grace than many people ever get, and I've had it all my life, and I am so thankful. 

I. O. U. .....

....and I owe myself one official blog.  But a real, thoughtful blog won't be happening tonight.   I just returned, at 10 to midnight, from the emergency room at the Claremore Indian Hospital, where I spent 6 HOURS to get a full leg brace (that I can't get in the car wearing, and it slides down anyway) and 4 painkillers (identical to the ones I have for migraines) for a left knee that has gone completely wonky.  This started earlier in the week when the first major rain front in about 16 years rolled through, and it was so bad last night that I couldn't walk without holding on to the walls and the furniture.  I still couldn't really walk on it today, so off I went this afternoon to get some help.

Strangely, in much the same way that taking a car to a mechanic magically "fixes" the problem so that the owner looks like a nervous Nellie, I am able to move my leg better now after sitting in said ER for 6 hours.  I just wish I'd not had to waste that time there.  And oh, I am so grateful for Indian health and would be destitute without them, and certainly less medicated---but this may be the only fringe government agency that is forced to do more with less to an even greater degree than educators.  What worries me the most is that I truly believe in the Affordable Care Act, that universal health care should be a right, not a privilege, yet I see what happens in almost all of the IHS agencies and how overwhelmed they are, and I can't help but think that we'll face those same problems in medical industries when the ACA goes into effect.  I still know, because of my own experiences, that ACA is the right thing to do, but I wonder how many of these bugs will be worked out ahead of time, and how many will have to be growing pains we all suffer through together.

But that's a problem to unravel sometime when I'm more clear-headed and less frustrated, and AFTER a nice hot meal, which I haven't had since 10 a.m.  

I feel like I'm cheating with such a short blog.....but not too much.  After all, I was nearly wild to get out of there in time to get home and post before midnight.  While blogging shouldn't be uppermost in my concerns right this minute, I'm GLAD the worry is there, because now I know----I'm in this thing.  I've made a habit, and for once it's a good one!

Single and Loving It

There's a fact I love to stun my speech students with every year:  all research confirms that up to 80% of the message we convey is NON-verbal information.  It's not what we are saying that counts the most; it's the body language, facial expressions, and emotional impact that an audience remembers.  Any teacher knows this well.  We can, with practice, give a pretty accurate rating of how much any given student is paying attention to and processing what we're doing in class.  The posture and eyes are the giveaways.  Really, don't we all do that?  Maybe it's a girl thing, but I know I'm accustomed to looking for messages that people don't even know they're sending. 

One that I'm especially used to interpreting is the "Why are you single?" look:  a head tilt, eyes cutting sideways with a little squint.   Depending on who I'm around, I sometimes don't even have to read it----it's a straight-out question.  I find it odd, because if I were to ask most people "Why are you married?" they'd be pretty insulted, and rightly so.  "Why SHOULDN'T I be single?' is the only logical response, but it doesn't satisfy anyone.  At least as I've aged, I don't hear the question as much.

I heard some surprising statistics this summer about how many more single households there are now than just a few years ago.  I don't remember which website I saw it on originally, but I did find a pretty good summary on CNN Money:  "Only 51% of adults today are married, according to census data. And 28% of all households now consist of just one person -- the highest level in U.S. history.... Until recently, no culture in human history had sustained large numbers of people in places of their own. Today more than 40% of households have just one occupant in cities..."  Ah, now there's a large part of why I have long been put on the defensive about my choices---I have, with the exception of the one year in Austin, always lived and worked in small towns.  Even now, though I have a Broken Arrow address, I don't consider myself a city dweller, since I live far enough out that I don't even have to go through a light to get out of my neighborhood onto the Creek Turnpike and speed off to Locust.  Small towns are full of families, extended generations living on adjoining property, and, I fully believe, far too many marriages of all sorts of unhappiness, from silent despair to angry strife and beyond.  So why, WHY, is this something I need to subscribe to? 

The question, then, is really "Why NOT be single?"

Why not?  Because I am shy and awkward and don't meet people easily?  Yes, that's true, but nothing hinges on that.  I've even dated several men who talked with me about marriage---and that was pretty much always the moment that I was done.  Not that I went running, but I really had to examine the relationship and whether I could see it being enough to sustain me for the rest of my life.  No, never.  I just never bought in.

Why not?  Because I am a control freak?  Maybe, but I don't think people see me that way unless they've been teenagers in one of my classes, where I know I can be one rigid bitch about how things get done.  No, it's not the control-freak issue that keeps me single, but something close:  I am totally and completely capable of handling my life.  I don't need anyone to do that for me.  That, unfortunately, is not a very attractive quality to high-quality men (and I will NOT have any other kind!).  They want vulnerable; they want the drama and the romance of playing the superhero.  Even more unfortunately, a capable woman IS attractive to a variety of sub-par men who need or want someone to drive their lives FOR them.  I'm not going to regale you with any tales about Peter-Pan never-grow-up men, but BELIEVE me when I say, their numbers are legion.

Why not?  Because I've never been in love?  Definitely not so---See my Learning through the Ages blog about that one.  I just seem to have remarkably bad taste at choosing that one, who may or may not have been in love with me, but who was never actually in the running.  In the bitter duality of most true, real, raw life experiences, I know two things:  I wouldn't trade that time in my life for any price, but if I had married that one, I might well have wound up dead or in prison.  It's a ridiculous statement when I read it----and still I resolutely stand by it.

Why not?  Because I don't fit the American standards of beauty?  I've been convinced of that, oh, only my entire life.  Though as I've grown older and seen myself age, I've realized that I DID have some good qualities to work with. I was just never easy with myself and able to see them until I was LOSING them.  So I not only didn't have the right qualities, but I was so self-conscious and awkward that I projected no confidence at all---oh, confidence:  the best of beauty, by any standards, in any age. 

Why not?  Because I never saw a lot to envy about marriages?  This---this!---is possibly the kicker:  I've come to the (very dangerous) conclusion that marriage is not very advantageous to women in general, and that it's possible that humans aren't meant to mate for life.  That may seem like a wicked, immoral idea, but it's not about the morality, just the facts.  How many marriages are deeply satisfying in the everyday sense---a true partnership, deep affection, enduring passion, continuing interest in discovering life together, common values and goals?  Not many.  I can name the ones I admire on one hand.  Not more than five!  What does that SAY about the venerated institution?  It leaves me somewhat breathless to think of so many people joining up with the team, having never really thought about whether they truly want to join, or just think they have to join and play. 

Why not?  Because I have standards that are too high?  No.......I don't even know what I'd want, except in a very generic sense.  He must be of the best moral fiber and willing to do right.  He must have a job that I can respect him for, hopefully one that feeds his soul.  He must be smart, wise, but humble in spirit.  He must be kind and open-minded, but also confident and capable.  He must love the good in not just me, but everyone, without having to criticize every flaw.  He must be my best friend, an equal partner in everything----but willing to be my fortress in times of difficulty.  And---oh, please, ye gods!---he must have a sense of humor.  I suppose all these things may add up to standards that are too high.  But to buy in for a lifetime---yes, they are more than reasonable. 

I'm a comfortably single person.  I like to do my errands alone; I get them done much faster that way.  Going out to dinner by myself is a TREAT, just me and a book and my own thoughts.  I don't have any worries about pleasing anyone else's tempermental tastes, and I can stay up all night if I want, peace and solitude both inside and out.  That peace is worth more than a lifetime of unhappiness, bound to someone less than the best.  I'm VERY proud of the fact that I haven't been divorced, simply because I thought I "had" to be married to be counted as something in the world.  I AM something:  I'm a Single Person, happy and complete in that, and open to what life brings.  I'm absolutely confident I've made the right choices for my happiness.  I hope you are, too, dear reader. 

Blog Cheat (poem)

So far, I've done all my blogs in one sitting, the night I posted them, and published them with a quick review, though they were basically rough drafts.  This week, I knew what I wanted to write about and that it would be complex and layered, and I wanted it to be just right.  I started working on it last night.....and I'm still only on paragraph #3, barely started on the content, and stuck.  Now I have to punt.  So I'm pulling out one of my old pieces of poetry, one of the very few that I'd ever share with the world, to keep me on the Saturday-night posting deadline.  Even as important as that goal is to me, I'm having trouble clicking that "publish" button; I play my life with a game face, and putting my poetry out there feels dangerous, like I just showed my cards.  But here it goes....


Witness

I bow down at the Church of Words;
Strong nouns and verbs are my prayer.
With precise adjectives I'll win their souls,
And the Host will heal all split infinitives.

I lead a choir of vivid characterization.
We praise the fresh and beautifully spoken.
On our altars we light flames of feeling
And lay wreaths of shining phrases.

I carry the cross of words.
Pain is my rosary, passion my crown of thorns.
The poems pierce my hands and sides
But I fear only a wordless God.

                 cjw 1996