True Love

Today is Valentine's Day and this is a special holiday for me in general. Although I don't think people should be forced to show affection to each other because of one specific day, I do love the idea of showing people how much we love them. It is mostly special, because my grandparents were married on this day 61 years ago. They have always been an example of love to me. My grandfather cherishes my grandmother and my grandmother is devoted to him. Their example of steadfast love has been a vivid reminder of what love is about.

And this Valentine's Day is one where this reminder is especially strong. I am reminded that love in all of its glory and romance and goodness is also about pain. Love means taking a part of yourself and giving it to someone else. Love means attaching your happiness with another's so that their joy is your joy and their pain is your pain.

My grandparents are spending this anniversary in the hospital where my grandfather is clinging to life. As we sit in the small waiting room, I realize what a gift love is. It is because of love that we weep and ache and are so drained. It is love that draws us to the dark waiting room. It is love that wakes us from our sleep and in our own sicknesses brings us to this place. It is love that causes us to have this pain. It is 61 years of devotion and building a life together that causes my grandma to struggle with contemplating a life without him. It is this life they have built that has led to four children devoted to their parents and nine grandchildren and 4 great-grandchildren and numerous in-laws and church family - all who love and all who ache.

So is this love worth it? By all means! It is this love that we share that allows us to hold each other up in our shared grief. It is love that has given us so many great memories and made us the people we are today.

We love my grandpa. We love him so much and we want him continue sharing his love with us. The part that gives me hope is that God loves him more. As we weep, God weeps. Each tear He holds in His capable hands. God loves us and loves my grandpa and unlike us, God is powerful to effect change. God has a plan and loves us.

So here is my valentine's challenge. Tell people that you love them. Tell them now, tell them why. Be specific, be genuine. Do it again tomorrow, and forever. Don't let a day pass without the people you love knowing that you love them. Surround them with it so there's never a doubt. And even when that love causes pain, for whatever reason, it will be there firmly planted. Love is never without pain, but pain can be endured with love.

The Mendelssohn Effect

I was home alone the other night. I don't do well with that. I am an extrovert in the truest sense. I can sit and do nothing. I can be still and be quiet. I just want someone else there doing that with me. I hate being alone for extended periods of time - especially when I don't have a project to complete.

So I was sitting at home trying to watch pointless TV (my favorite kind) and I was feeling down. I was thinking about all the things wrong in the world (this is what I do when I'm home alone) and I was starting to get to a bad place. I shook myself, figuratively, and said, "You are an independent and free woman. You have a free night, so spend it as a free woman should. Go out and do something. Go alone. Have fun!" I listened to myself and changed my clothes. I didn't look particularly cute, but I didn't look like I had just come from my dark room with my thirty cats, either. I decided to go to Barnes and Noble (one of my two 'happy places') and either spend my gift certificate or just browse. I like to get lost in the shelves and feel the books. I like to see the Cheesy Christian Romance Novel section and realize that I've read every book in it. I like to calculate the percent of the books I've read on the 'classics' table (is that double nerdy or triple?).

I felt like an independent woman and I congratulated myself for my positive courage. I got in my car feeling strong and ready to face the world. My radio came on and the beginning of Mendelssohn's Wedding March from Midsummer Night's Dream came trumpeting through my speakers. I laughed so hard I had to stop driving. Courage came crashing down as I continued driving. "Laugh it off, you can blog about it."

I made it to Barnesy and I started perusing. I went to the teen fiction section and avoided the temptation to talk to strange teens about book choices (I do this a lot. I have in fact recommended the Twilight and Uglies series to several kids that I didn't know). I wandered through Christian fiction (I did call my daddy just to hear a friendly voice). I heard an author talk about how he got into writing as I looked at the math section. But as I exited my safe harbors, I discovered that Valentine's day had struck a magic decorating stick on the rest of the specialty tables. The cooking section was all about pink hearts and cooking for two. The movie section was classic love stories and music for the mood. The children's section had kiddie versions of Corduroy's Valentine's day and the all time classic, "I'll love you forever." A woman opened a book and it played music - that's right, Mendelssohn's Wedding March!

I decided to check out my cousin's picture of her cake that was recently published in a prominent magazine...a wedding magazine. I picked up the Knot and decided not to buy it. After an hour of meandering, I decided to drive home. I felt good about my night of independence. I shopped alone and made a fun night out of it. I am woman, hear me laugh heartily at Mendelssohn.

Girlish, churlish, screams

or how I went from being "one of the guys" to the girliest of girls.

I grew up with only brothers and only boy cousins. I was and am a tomboy princess, as my sister-in-law likes to call me. I learned that crying was for wimps and nothing really hurts as much as someone else could make it hurt. My brothers would tell me to stop crying after they hit me or did something mean by saying, "Wonderwoman wouldn't cry." And I agreed and toughened up. I learned to be strong.

If I did girly things like squeal or get grossed out by snot or farts or licked fingers in my ear, it would only get worse. I learned to tough it out. I also learned that the only way to be included was to participate in boy things. I did yard work and construction and car repairs and boxing matches and video games and paint ball and I blended in. I was still a girly girl (pink hockey socks), but I was one of the guys.

Last Saturday, we had a great day at the Kellar's house. They are a couple at our church who are going to sell their house and needed some help doing some landscaping...major landscaping. We're talking tree removal and dumpster filling work. I was there early and left late. I was right there with the boys pulling weeds, working electrical trimmers (which I gladly handed over), climbing into the dumpsters again and again and again to dump the trash can of leaves and debris. I jumped out of the way from a falling limb and landed in a cactus. Did I complain? No. A little blood and scratches add character. I got pricked through the glove with a thorn that bled a lot. I sucked on the blood and moved on. We had work to do.

Near lunchtime, I helped my uncle move a table from the back yard to the front. We lifted together and I walked backward. There was no question of, "Can Brenda handle that heavy lifting?" I just grabbed it and we went. I looked over my shoulder as we were exiting the gate and I noticed a giant black widow crawling on my sleeve. Without thought or hesitation, I dropped the table, danced over to my other uncle and screamed, "Get it off, get it off...please!" I turned to him and he swiped at my shoulder a couple times and let it hit the ground. "I got it." "Thanks," I calmly responded and I picked up the end of the table to resume my walk.

Yesterday, while going through my sweaters in my closet, I decided to take everything off the top shelf to find a sweater I had misplaced. Somehow, that disturbed a resident that I did not know we had, a small mouse. I saw it from the corner of my eye as it scampered under my bed. I gasped (did not scream) and jumped on my bed. I giggled at myself, but I still couldn't move. "Julie, there's a mouse in my room!" I screamed to my roommate. She had an equal amount of girlish fear. I set traps which have yet to be visited by the new house guest, but I have to dispose of the potential dead bodies and I feel a visceral sense of dread.

When did I become such a girl?

World of Strings makes world of difference

In the previous blog, I wrote about a rather discouraging interaction with the slightly stoned and incompetent worker at Whittaker Music. Well, here is the complete antithesis to such melancholy drama - the World of Strings.

I found the store and entered through an old doorway into what might be a stringed heaven. Dana, my trusty sidekick, joined me as we walked past guitars and music books. A somewhat stringy haired young man made eye contact with me and asked, "What can I do for you?"
"I need a new string for my dulcimer," I replied as I lifted my case slightly.
"Ok, do you need a full set or just one string?" I held back the shimmering tears as I said, "I just need the bass string."
"Well, let's take a look. Do you have the old string?"
I tried to old back the growl as I said, "No, the first store I tried lost it."
"Ok," he was totally mellow too, but in a non-annoying and productive way. He looked at my manual and saw the range of diameters and said, "Yeah, 21, that will be fine." I followed him to the string drawers as he searched for my string. "This so much better than my last experience..." I proceeded to tell him about my last experience and he laughed a little. "Yeah, that store's gone downhill since they changed owners." He knew exactly what kind of loop I needed and said, "I don't have a 21 but I have a 22 and the difference won't be that noticeable."

He then restrung and tuned my dulcimer while I looked at dulcimer books and bought some ukulele books for my grandpa for his birthday. I walked into a room that was all string basses (I drooled for one, but I can't buy one until I have room for it).

Overall, the experience was joy-filled and so rewarding. I now am learning new ways to play my dulcimer (with awesome fingerings that the guy showed me) and better chords (I've been guessing this whole time). I will go back to World of Strings anytime I have any instrument issues (or when I want to drool over some uprights). Thanks, World of Strings, for putting my faith back in music stores and mellow musicians.

The Congregational Meeting

I found this in my "edit" box and realized I had never published it! So even though it was written in January of 2009, I'm posting it now:

When people hear of a two hour meeting on a Friday night about the happenings and finances of a church, most don't think, "Oh, fun!" and mean it. But I also think that those people have not been to our church's congregational meetings. If you keep the right perspective and know what to look for, these meetings can be more entertaining than an episode of Gilmore Girls.

It begins with the arrival, as many things do. We all pull into the parking lot around 7:30 or 7:35 for the meeting and find our seats. I always like to sit next to a commentator. A commentator is a person (usually my dad or Uncle Dal or Uncle Dave) who will whisper jokes, comments, or sidebars during especially funny or boring moments. Tonight, I pulled up a chair next to Uncle Dal in a row inhabited by some of my other family members, ensuring plenty of running commentary.

Then we sing as a group. We sing a hymn and it ties us all together and reminds us of why we're there - to worship God in all things. We then pray to remind us again, that this is God's church and that all of our planning and preparing is nothing if God is not with us. I sometimes forget at work meetings that we don't start everything with prayer and it surprises me when our principal just up and starts talking during the meeting. And sometimes I bow my head in a Pavlovian response when we get to the end. Years of church training, I guess.

Then everyone talks about the reports of different committees and councils. This is where the love-fest begins. "Are their any questions about the youth ministry report?" "We love what they are doing!" That's it. That's how most discussions go. They are filled with thanks for what people have done and efforts made and how God has blessed us.

This evenings love-fest ended with Rev. Kellar (a retired pastor who fellowships with us) standing and speaking about how blessed we are as a congregation that we can meet peacefully, how our pastor is a peacemaker, how my dad, Mike, does an unusual ministry with the youth (that sentence drew snickers from our row...). How our music ministry and Diana Curtis are about worshipping God and not glorifying our abilities. How the instruments assist in worship rather than distract from it. Have you ever had your heart fill with love so that it is almost palpable? I get that way sometimes when I am with my church family and this was one of those moments. Rev. Kellar was praising God for our unified and blessed church and the blessed members were joining him. It was a good way to end the first half of the meeting.

The two halves are separated by the serving of pie in the kitchen. I get to help and I love seeing everyone and catching up. Maddie, who's 6, gets to tell me about how she plans on eating her pie from the inside out. Helen Hayden, who is one of the founding members of our church, selects a piece that she'll take home to save for later. We joke about how everyone is voted in unanimously to any position that we vote for. I whisper to my Uncle Tim, "I voted for you!" Which is true...Uncle Dal did too and added smiley faces and hearts to his ballot.

The second half is laborious but fun as we watch Dave Gekler try to speed it up as much as possible and then talk about potential changes that could be made to the church - each of which I am horrified by. The night usually ends with the statement, "Not until Brenda gets married!" Tonight's was talking about changing the lights in the sanctuary. "We can get rid of those ugly chandelier things." I gasped in horror and my thought was, "But they've been up there forever! They were up there for my parents' wedding and both my aunts'. They need to be their for mine!" and Uncle Dave came to my rescue by saying, "Not until Brenda gets married!" and we all laugh.

I think I love them because we all love each other so much. I know that I am related to so many of the members there, but they all feel like family. We know each other by face and name. We express our love for each other and we share in our desire to serve God most faithfully. What a great way to spend a Friday night.

Mellow Musicians Make Me Mad

I play the dulcimer. It's a beautiful wooden instrument with four strings. It's easy to play and is a great American instrument. No one knows what it is. Well, almost no one. My father attempted to build one for my mother and it ended up being a catalyst for their relationship. My mother purchased one for my father on their 25th wedding anniversary and I stole it. A month ago, I broke the bass string on this instrument. I was advised to go to a music store and buy a new string.

I preface this with one addition, I am well aware of the rarity of my instrument and that my restringing a dulcimer is probably something few people who work at a music store have done. And still, I am peeved.

I entered Whitaker's music store with my broken string and my manual that described the range of diameters of my bass string. The only person in the store was the clerk who strummed his guitar, playing no song in particular. He smiled politely as we entered and continued his strumming. I walked toward him with determination and said, "I would like to replace the string on my dulcimer. This is the broken string." He continued strumming and smiling vaguely to himself. I waited and he didn't respond so I continued, "The manual says it should be between, .014" and .021"." No response.

Finally, he put down his guitar and said, "Sure, a dulcimer, uh yeah." His sarcasm was dripping from his lips and I handed him my string. "Huh," he eloquently commented. "It could be like a guitar string, but does it have to have this loop thing at the end?" I agree that this is a valid question and one to which I did not have an answer. So I went back to the car and brought in my dulcimer. Before I continue, I feel the you cannot understand this experience if you are not reading his words in the proper tone. You must imagine every surfer/hippie that has ever been parodied and mix that with early twenties garage bander, then slow it down twenty fold. This is our guy.

"Oh, yeah, of course a dulcimer," he said as he took it from the case and screwed up his face in confusion. Yeah, I get that it's a strange instrument. Get me a string. "So what made you pick up this?" "It was a gift from my mother to my father and I stole it." "Stealing is good," he smiled as he tried to place the dulcimer on some sort of stand and as it slid off the stand, he removed it.

We spent the next 10 minutes with him trying to replace my string. If I interjected anything, he would get confused and need to start over. He paused once to help another customer and then returned with my broken string in his hand. He seemed to have forgotten what he was trying to do because he tried to restring it with my broken string. "Nope, that won't work. Oh, wait, what am I doing? That's your string you came in with." He then tossed my string over his shoulder and tried to attach a violin string. He unwound it and realized it was too small. "Maybe we could try a cello string?" He looked to me as if I was the one who knew what to do. I shrugged and did not hold much hope. He walked back toward his cabinet of strings, did not pull out any more and said, "I don't think I have any strings long enough. Did you try online?" "No," I replied, thinking I thought a music store might be a little more helpful that the internet.

I packed up my instrument and asked for my string back. "Uhh...huh, that's weird. Where did it go?"

"I saw you throw it over your shoulder."

He looked up in utter dazed astonishment, "I did? No."

"Yeah, remember you accidentally tried it back on my dulcimer and realized it was the wrong one and threw it over your shoulder."

"Really? That's weird." He then looked for it for another 5 minutes.

"That's ok. I'll just go."

"No, this is really ********. You like come in here all wanting help and stuff and not only can I not help you, I make it worse by losing your string. {expletive}"

"It's fine."

We left the store and my friends and I just started laughing. "Wow," I said, "that would have been the biggest waste of time, except I write a blog and that made that experience awesome."

What are some kids thinking?

At the end of third period today, I noticed a kid had writing on his hand. This kid hates school and often ditches to hang out with his older brother. He is a quiet and unassuming kid during class. He plays the "if I don't get noticed then I can skate by" philosophy. I waver about which battles to fight with him. Showing up every day was our first goal. So when he does show up, but doesn't have his homework, should I press him about that or just have him accept his zero quietly? I usually just make sure he does his class work and don't press the homework issue for fear that he will not show up again. I figure that it's better that he be at school and gain something from my class than not be there at all.

So I looked at his hand and saw three symbols: a swastika, an anarchy symbol, and a pentagram. I waited until the bell rang and I knelt by his desk.

Me: I noticed some symbols on your hand. Did you draw those?

Bob: No...yes...

Me: Why did you choose those symbols?

Bob: They're things that I like.

Me: Really? Do you know what anarchy is?

Bob: Yeah, they teach people to hack and stuff.

Me: Well, no, anarchy means that there are no rules and no order so basically the biggest and strongest win. It means that I can take your backpack and there's nothing you can do about it. It means I get to do anything I want to you if I'm stronger than you. What about the swastika, do you know what that is?

Bob: Yeah, it's the Nazi symbol.

Me: Do you know what the Nazi's believed?

Bob: They hated the Jews.

Me: Do you feel that way?

Bob: Not much.

Me: Do you realize that the Nazi's hated more than just the Jews? They hated every race that wasn't white. The Nazi's would have hated you. They murdered many people just because of their race or beliefs.

{At this point, "Bob" started to get up to go to his next class.}

Me: I want you to wash this off of your hand, because those symbols are evil. I'll call your next teacher and let her know that you'll be late.

I wrote a note to our counselor so she can talk with him more. Later that afternoon I saw another two kids: one with a new haircut and a drawing on his arm and the other was his friend.

Friend: Doesn't he look like Hitler with his new haircut?

Me: No, he looks like a rockstar!

Haircut kid: Yeah, I have half of a Nazi symbol on my arm.

Me: Is that half of a swastika?

HC kid: No, no. It's a lightning bolt, see. {It was a lightning bolt}

Me: Good!

Friend: Nazi's are cool.

Me: Excuse me! Do you know what they stand for?

Friend: They hated the Jews.

Me: Not just the Jews, but a lot of other groups of people too.

Friend: They're still cool.

Me: (not very successfully holding back my angry glare) They murdered 12 million people and would have murdered even more if they were not stopped. {the lecture continued for a while}
So no more swastikas, ok?

Friend: I get it, they're not cool.

The kids are reading Anne Frank right now and I think that they see the Nazi's as some kind of video game bad guys. The reality of the situation doesn't seem to hit them. I want to take all of my kids to the Simon Wiesenthal or something so they can have an idea of what fear, pain, evil, sin, and truly vile actions the Nazi's were responsible for. I wish these kids would see outside of themselves and look to the struggles of others with empathy and concern and a desire to act in such a way as to make genocide and hate be defeated. I know that it is ignorance and not a true passion for the Nazi's that make my kids delight in such shocking symbols, but if they could see for themselves what those symbol really mean, I think that they would have a clearer perspective and perhaps a greater purpose in their own lives. Well, there's my soapbox. I will now stop preaching to the choir.