I'm sitting in the waiting room looking through magazines, pictures of houses with gardens and wide plank floors, trying to forget why I'm here. I can't though. Stella is toddling around and everyone she meets lights up at her antics. Horrible, horrible thoughts cross my mind. I picture her in a wedding dress, someone putting lipstick on her, and I wonder, do I write her a special letter for that day? Is it fair, to make her sad when she should be so happy? Is it selfish? Would she even be sad, or just feel obligated to read it? It is fairly certain she won't remember me by then.
By then she'll have moved on, been loved, not quite so well as I would have loved her, but loved by someone. I think of this hypothetical someone and I'm at once grateful, jealous, filled with a sadness that pulls me apart. Of course I'd want him to move on. I never want him to move on! How could he? How could they all? All the earth, turning, people moving on and on without me as though I was a fly someone swatted away.
Calm down, calm down, I think. You don't want to cry here. Shouldn't my faith make me strong now? Shouldn't the way I handle myself show the world how Great a God I trust? But, my kids. It's not just me. If it were I could face it all, but my babies, without the insane love that a mother feels, who will help them, who will never give up on them, who will spend every last breath, dollar, minute on keeping them safe? And it dawns on me finally as I'm lying on the table, the gel spread over my breast and the tech asking me questions, that I know He will. He will protect them, guide them, love them and comfort them. He will never leave them or forsake them. And He'll do it all better than I ever thought I could. I don't feel insignificant now, only relieved.
The specialist comes in and smiles and I know it will be ok. Just some bruised tissue he says, from when you offered your breasts to feed them. It happens, a little damage, a scar, a harmless mark of motherhood. No chemo, no cancer, no writing letters for the days I'll miss. And I say thank you, but I'm not so relieved as I was a moment before, because the burden is still lifted. I don't have to be everything anymore. He takes away and gives back so much more. So I thank God then, for the lump.
Wednesday, September 4, 2013
Wednesday, July 17, 2013
Just Some Old Poetry
Here's a couple of old poems I found while looking for lost chapters of my novel. This is from at least 8 years ago, so pardon the angst.
Forgive this
insistence
on unveiling.
When hailing truth
the failing youth
doesn't seem to bring
the wisdom I thought it would.
My friend said,
and in the end bled,
"Love stands a test,
and time is but one."
What fun! This steadfast
head cast nobly
shoulders squared
and heart bared
a valiant soldier marching
his overarching ideals.
This feels too strong for me
Not wrong you see,
but I'm too tired for action
and words are all that's left
to give me satisfaction.
And another one:
You were mine, to have, to hold
You were warmth when my hands were cold.
And I loved you young, and
I loved you old
and I loved you even though.
Forgive this
insistence
on unveiling.
When hailing truth
the failing youth
doesn't seem to bring
the wisdom I thought it would.
My friend said,
and in the end bled,
"Love stands a test,
and time is but one."
What fun! This steadfast
head cast nobly
shoulders squared
and heart bared
a valiant soldier marching
his overarching ideals.
This feels too strong for me
Not wrong you see,
but I'm too tired for action
and words are all that's left
to give me satisfaction.
And another one:
You were mine, to have, to hold
You were warmth when my hands were cold.
And I loved you young, and
I loved you old
and I loved you even though.
Saturday, June 22, 2013
Ephesians 5 Poem
-->
I was proud and alone
Split the marrow, shatter the bone
His hands gathered splinters,
Pressing gently from the ash.
Trash into treasured child,
Our treasures now are trash.
And when we laid it out
On the altar where it burned,
The scent of the sacrifice.
The lessons that we learned
Rose with wafting pleasure
To heaven, and to God
It was absolutely nothing
It was everything we had.
Burnt the untrue word
Burnt the ragged shirt.
Burnt the clench of anger
Burnt the mocking smirk
Burnt the flippant turning
From the suffering of others.
Burnt the blindness that kept us
From seeing our own brothers
Burnt the comfortable chair.
The last, as it burned, sending sparks into the air.
And leaving all we were
Split the marrow, shatter the bone
His hands gathered splinters,
Pressing gently from the ash.
Trash into treasured child,
Our treasures now are trash.
And when we laid it out
On the altar where it burned,
The scent of the sacrifice.
The lessons that we learned
Rose with wafting pleasure
To heaven, and to God
It was absolutely nothing
It was everything we had.
Burnt the untrue word
Burnt the ragged shirt.
Burnt the clench of anger
Burnt the mocking smirk
Burnt the flippant turning
From the suffering of others.
Burnt the blindness that kept us
From seeing our own brothers
Burnt the comfortable chair.
The last, as it burned, sending sparks into the air.
And leaving all we were
Upon the soot-stained floor.
We arise, not less, but more.
A shining, glittering thing.
Duty, yes, to every cell, a promise.
Beauty, too, and know this
That God has formed us together
No longer two alone
A humble reproduction of the
Love that was his own.
So when the ghosts come whispering
Of two long gone lonely souls,
Banish with this thought
Those cold and doubting spectres:
There is no room for ghosts
In the space where our hands meet.
The bire, our bed
The fire, our sheets.
Recall then, the conflagration of the self
And the holiness of a creation
That began as destruction.
Filled so full of sacrificial love
That every step echoes with
It's gracious song.
A gift for a gift,
Not a wrong for a wrong.
From His face we learn the truth:
That truth from His eyes shone,
Whatever the circumstance
We will never be alone.
We arise, not less, but more.
A shining, glittering thing.
Duty, yes, to every cell, a promise.
Beauty, too, and know this
That God has formed us together
No longer two alone
A humble reproduction of the
Love that was his own.
So when the ghosts come whispering
Of two long gone lonely souls,
Banish with this thought
Those cold and doubting spectres:
There is no room for ghosts
In the space where our hands meet.
The bire, our bed
The fire, our sheets.
Recall then, the conflagration of the self
And the holiness of a creation
That began as destruction.
Filled so full of sacrificial love
That every step echoes with
It's gracious song.
A gift for a gift,
Not a wrong for a wrong.
From His face we learn the truth:
That truth from His eyes shone,
Whatever the circumstance
We will never be alone.
Thursday, May 2, 2013
Great Expectations or On Turning 28
If you had asked me at 18 what I thought the next ten years would have in store for me, I would have anticipated:
living in NYC
authoring several books
traveling to many new places
having lots of friends who were very different from me
becoming a professor
maybe finding a boyfriend that I could stand to be around
looking to make an impact on the world through my professional career
Instead I am:
living with my family in the town where I grew up
done with traveling for the near future
friends with other moms who are a lot like me
a lawyer
spending every day with the husband I adore
looking to impact the world by educating my children and living my life for Jesus
While most of us view 30 as the milestone age, I feel that today, marking 10 years into my adulthood, is as good a time as any to look back, to assess. Yesterday I pulled out a devotional book that I had started (and lost) as a teenager. I realized as I read through the verses that while the years have passed and I've accomplished some things, my spiritual life has been crawling along at a snail's pace. A few pages into the devotional was a pledge, unsigned by me, to commit to daily devotions for 10 weeks. I couldn't help but wonder if I would be different today if I had stuck with that Sunday school class, if I had made that commitment.
I do pray daily, but still read the Bible sporadically. Part of me (the prideful part) says go buy a devotional for adults, you've been a Christian almost your whole life, you don't need this kids' book. But deep down, I know that I'm just a baby, and that many of us are just babies in Christ. I don't know Jesus the way I want to. I've decided to finish this book, and to commit to daily devotions for the next 10 weeks. Hopefully I will be starting a habit that will continue long after the book is finished.
If anyone else wants to check it out, this is the little devotional book I'm talking about: Spending Time Alone with God It's written for middle/high school and it's simple but solid.
living in NYC
authoring several books
traveling to many new places
having lots of friends who were very different from me
becoming a professor
maybe finding a boyfriend that I could stand to be around
looking to make an impact on the world through my professional career
Instead I am:
living with my family in the town where I grew up
done with traveling for the near future
friends with other moms who are a lot like me
a lawyer
spending every day with the husband I adore
looking to impact the world by educating my children and living my life for Jesus
While most of us view 30 as the milestone age, I feel that today, marking 10 years into my adulthood, is as good a time as any to look back, to assess. Yesterday I pulled out a devotional book that I had started (and lost) as a teenager. I realized as I read through the verses that while the years have passed and I've accomplished some things, my spiritual life has been crawling along at a snail's pace. A few pages into the devotional was a pledge, unsigned by me, to commit to daily devotions for 10 weeks. I couldn't help but wonder if I would be different today if I had stuck with that Sunday school class, if I had made that commitment.
I do pray daily, but still read the Bible sporadically. Part of me (the prideful part) says go buy a devotional for adults, you've been a Christian almost your whole life, you don't need this kids' book. But deep down, I know that I'm just a baby, and that many of us are just babies in Christ. I don't know Jesus the way I want to. I've decided to finish this book, and to commit to daily devotions for the next 10 weeks. Hopefully I will be starting a habit that will continue long after the book is finished.
If anyone else wants to check it out, this is the little devotional book I'm talking about: Spending Time Alone with God It's written for middle/high school and it's simple but solid.
Wednesday, April 17, 2013
What Kind of Heroine Do We Need?
I am currently writing a book in which the protagonist is a young girl. I am also raising a daughter who will grow up surrounded by fiction and will likely identify with at least some of the female characters in those stories.
I had a blog post drafted that singled out a few exemplary female characters in children's and young adult fiction, including Hermione Granger and Katniss Everdeen, as well as some less than inspiring characters, like Bella from the Twilight books. I looked at each one and decided which ones I thought would be the best role models for young girls, and therefore the "best" sort of female characters to create. After looking at the list and looking back at my own character, I started thinking about what it is that we really want and need from these fictional women.
I think it would be easy to say that what young women need are strong, independent, intelligent characters to act as role models for them and to promote self-reliance and maturity. But really, that way of looking at fiction might be too simplistic.
If the stories we read are just tricked out after-school specials, then yes, bring on the superwomen. But what is the real point of immersing oneself in a fictional story? Is it to practice the role of someone great, then put down the book and assume those positive qualities? I don't know anyone, (maybe with the exception of a biography reader), who really reads like this.
I do know plenty of Hermiones, but, luckily, very few if any Bellas. What I'm trying to say is that, in the real world, the women I know are strong, intelligent, creative, persevering, passionate, and not waiting around for a prince to come and save them. So why do some of these awesome women love to read Twilight (or Shades of Grey, for that matter)?
I don't think it's because they are secretly Bella, or Anna. I think that by entering a fantasy world temporarily, they are able to lay down the expectations of greatness that weigh on us constantly, and relate to the damsel in distress. By reading about characters who have nothing, (no skills, no advantages, no exciting abilities, who are utterly passive), and yet are thrown into excitement and adventure nonetheless, the readers stop putting themselves in competition with the character, and instead are able to escape into the fictional world.
What I think is attractive about these stories, usually romances, is that a character who is basically a blank slate at best, and offers very little to admire on her own, is still able to effect change, just by being present in the story. This kind of indulgent writing has a message all its own: everybody is special. Every lame-ass heroine deserves to have her story told, and "every pot's got its cover." (This last phrase was one my grandmother used when she heard that some particularly weird person got married.)
The message isn't true, not everyone is important, and not everyone will get a steamy romance, but it is comforting, isn't it? It may be the comforting message a young girl can escape to now and then, when she's facing the harsh reality, that women are expected to balance every previously delegated role perfectly, all while looking like a beauty queen, and princes are few and far between.
Needless to say, I hope to create a character young women can look up to, and I hope my daughter enjoys reading about female characters who get things done. But maybe I won't cringe if she wants to indulge in a dumb romance now and then. Because after all, who cares what she reads? It's what she does when she's done with the book that matters.
I had a blog post drafted that singled out a few exemplary female characters in children's and young adult fiction, including Hermione Granger and Katniss Everdeen, as well as some less than inspiring characters, like Bella from the Twilight books. I looked at each one and decided which ones I thought would be the best role models for young girls, and therefore the "best" sort of female characters to create. After looking at the list and looking back at my own character, I started thinking about what it is that we really want and need from these fictional women.
I think it would be easy to say that what young women need are strong, independent, intelligent characters to act as role models for them and to promote self-reliance and maturity. But really, that way of looking at fiction might be too simplistic.
If the stories we read are just tricked out after-school specials, then yes, bring on the superwomen. But what is the real point of immersing oneself in a fictional story? Is it to practice the role of someone great, then put down the book and assume those positive qualities? I don't know anyone, (maybe with the exception of a biography reader), who really reads like this.
I do know plenty of Hermiones, but, luckily, very few if any Bellas. What I'm trying to say is that, in the real world, the women I know are strong, intelligent, creative, persevering, passionate, and not waiting around for a prince to come and save them. So why do some of these awesome women love to read Twilight (or Shades of Grey, for that matter)?
I don't think it's because they are secretly Bella, or Anna. I think that by entering a fantasy world temporarily, they are able to lay down the expectations of greatness that weigh on us constantly, and relate to the damsel in distress. By reading about characters who have nothing, (no skills, no advantages, no exciting abilities, who are utterly passive), and yet are thrown into excitement and adventure nonetheless, the readers stop putting themselves in competition with the character, and instead are able to escape into the fictional world.
What I think is attractive about these stories, usually romances, is that a character who is basically a blank slate at best, and offers very little to admire on her own, is still able to effect change, just by being present in the story. This kind of indulgent writing has a message all its own: everybody is special. Every lame-ass heroine deserves to have her story told, and "every pot's got its cover." (This last phrase was one my grandmother used when she heard that some particularly weird person got married.)
The message isn't true, not everyone is important, and not everyone will get a steamy romance, but it is comforting, isn't it? It may be the comforting message a young girl can escape to now and then, when she's facing the harsh reality, that women are expected to balance every previously delegated role perfectly, all while looking like a beauty queen, and princes are few and far between.
Needless to say, I hope to create a character young women can look up to, and I hope my daughter enjoys reading about female characters who get things done. But maybe I won't cringe if she wants to indulge in a dumb romance now and then. Because after all, who cares what she reads? It's what she does when she's done with the book that matters.
Sunday, March 17, 2013
Out of the Rut and Onto the Road
I have bent over backwards to play this role. The perfect mom, the perfect wife. I have swept, mopped, dusted, organized, laundered, straightened, ironed, fixed, shopped, cooked my way through the dreariest parts of winter. I have researched, read, taught. I have nursed, changed, bathed, snuggled, kissed, and rocked to sleep. I am tired, and I am ready for a change.
It is time, I think, to say no to a few more invitations and requests, to let the dishes and the laundry sit until I'm ready, to let the kids stay in their pajamas. It is time to stay inside even when I just feel like getting out. It is time to let someone else have the babies for an hour while I sit and write. It is time to let Stella have a bottle, and let someone else give it to her.
It is time to take a week off from elaborate school plans, and just snuggle up on the couch and read books to my babies. It is time to say no to more work, even though I want to be making money so badly.
It is time to shut everyone and everything else out, and write the story I've been thinking about for so many months. It is time to treat my characters like the friends they are, instead of shooing them away so that I can check everything else off my list. It is time to be alone. It is time to enter a new world. It is time to write.
It is time, I think, to say no to a few more invitations and requests, to let the dishes and the laundry sit until I'm ready, to let the kids stay in their pajamas. It is time to stay inside even when I just feel like getting out. It is time to let someone else have the babies for an hour while I sit and write. It is time to let Stella have a bottle, and let someone else give it to her.
It is time to take a week off from elaborate school plans, and just snuggle up on the couch and read books to my babies. It is time to say no to more work, even though I want to be making money so badly.
It is time to shut everyone and everything else out, and write the story I've been thinking about for so many months. It is time to treat my characters like the friends they are, instead of shooing them away so that I can check everything else off my list. It is time to be alone. It is time to enter a new world. It is time to write.
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