Valentine's morning, I had to go to the grocery store. I hadn't planned on it but we needed eggs. I walked in and was surrounded by balloons and flowers and men trying desperately to figure it all out. I have watched this before on other Valentine's Days. Before it had amused me, but this time I felt curious. I saw one particular man wondering around, clueless. He went from the stuffed animals to the cards and back again. These guys are what HEB thrives on. They know he is clueless and would buy anything if he thought it would make his girl happy. I felt sorry for him. Later as I was finishing up, I saw him again with a red and white puppy in his hand. He looked satisfied with it but was still scrambling for more. It was kind of pathetic to watch.
I was curious about what makes a guy decide what to buy. Or for that matter what makes a girl want a red stuffed puppy. It is something I have struggled with myself. What to do with Valentines Day. For years, I declared I wanted nothing. It was better than being disappointed. Then in the last few years, I realized I want something but what? My poor husband!
Finally this year I think I have an idea. I want something from the heart. I know that doesn't help my husband much but I finally understand. Once he gave me a bear and I loved it. This year I got a card with his words inside and I cried. It was perfect because his heart was in it. If he had showed up with a stuffed puppy, flowers and balloons I probably would have been mad. Because I don't think that would have expressed his heart. Not this year.
Before he gave me the card, I could feel the disappointment sitting, waiting to pounce on me but I held off....hoping. And his card surpassed all I could hope for. It described what we have, what we don't have and who we are and how he loved it all and wanted more. After I cried, I laughed hysterically at all the misspellings. It was awesome.
Someday, when I am skinny (if I ever live that long), the perfect thing will be candy. Until then, that's just one more thing I don't want!
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Monday, February 16, 2009
choice
Living with deadness is a choice, my choice. Allender says that living as a dead soul is an assault against God, who creates life. "To live as a dead being before the living God is to say that death is preferable to life with Him."
"The refusal to be dead is the choice to admit and embrace our existence; I am not a shadow, a quiet ghost, a substanceless vapor. I am a person who can enjoy and be enjoyed by God and who can relate to others in a way that draws them to an enjoyable relationship with God."
This feels true and real today in a new way. Exciting. Scary. Sad. Hopeful.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
The Bride
The bride is going across town to take her bridal portraits. It is June and it is hot outside. She is driving his truck and feels loved in this truck. It smells of him, the groom. She has her hair in curlers, in public, but she doesn't care. She feels pretty today. She even goes through a drive through to get a drink. Who cares if she looks silly. The big white dress is hanging in the truck. Ruffles and lace.
She is going alone. Nobody came along. Alone feels peaceful. Protected.
As the wedding gets closer, this peace fades and the bride feels impatient to get to the day. Little bits of the joy of the day are leaving, taken away. She wrecks her car, then worries about getting it fixed in time to take the trip. Moving her belongings, picking her cake, sewing dresses - it feels overwhelming to do alone. Her mother doesn't like the cake. The cake topper is childish. The flavor is wrong. It is all too expensive. Words feel like little stabs.
The day before, the bride is informed she must attend another wedding on her day. It is the right thing to do. Find the time. She doesn't fight for herself. Another stab. A little blood is leaking out. Sitting at that wedding feels like torture. Her mother says it was the most beautiful wedding ever. Another bandaid is needed.
Finally the time arrives. No more deciding. Right or wrong. It is done. The orange cake was supposed to be pink but it doesn't matter. Her nails didn't get done but she ran out of time. The white dress is on, covering the wounds and bandages. She hopes he won't see. If he knew, would he stay? It feels like a chain is on her foot. She must be careful to hide it as she walks. All the baggage is covered up. The door opens and he is waiting there. She wants to run - away from her dad's elbow. To him, the groom. She is bouncing now, like a sprinter before a race. Anxious to start. Why is it taking so long? The music is slow. She must control her urge to speed up.
The groom has finally come. She has looked for him for a long time. She gave up. He tells her about The Groom. The One who is coming to take the bride home. The Groom doesn't care about the wounds. He knows them and loves anyway. He sees it all. No hiding.
She is going alone. Nobody came along. Alone feels peaceful. Protected.
As the wedding gets closer, this peace fades and the bride feels impatient to get to the day. Little bits of the joy of the day are leaving, taken away. She wrecks her car, then worries about getting it fixed in time to take the trip. Moving her belongings, picking her cake, sewing dresses - it feels overwhelming to do alone. Her mother doesn't like the cake. The cake topper is childish. The flavor is wrong. It is all too expensive. Words feel like little stabs.
The day before, the bride is informed she must attend another wedding on her day. It is the right thing to do. Find the time. She doesn't fight for herself. Another stab. A little blood is leaking out. Sitting at that wedding feels like torture. Her mother says it was the most beautiful wedding ever. Another bandaid is needed.
Finally the time arrives. No more deciding. Right or wrong. It is done. The orange cake was supposed to be pink but it doesn't matter. Her nails didn't get done but she ran out of time. The white dress is on, covering the wounds and bandages. She hopes he won't see. If he knew, would he stay? It feels like a chain is on her foot. She must be careful to hide it as she walks. All the baggage is covered up. The door opens and he is waiting there. She wants to run - away from her dad's elbow. To him, the groom. She is bouncing now, like a sprinter before a race. Anxious to start. Why is it taking so long? The music is slow. She must control her urge to speed up.
The groom has finally come. She has looked for him for a long time. She gave up. He tells her about The Groom. The One who is coming to take the bride home. The Groom doesn't care about the wounds. He knows them and loves anyway. He sees it all. No hiding.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Words
When did I come to believe that my words become dangerous? Someone asked me that tonight after watching me struggle to say good things that seem frozen in my mind. I feel mute. So I am vomiting every message that I can think of that I ever got about my words.
When I was little, my sisters talked for me. People would ask what my name was and before I could answer they would say, “ Her name is Katy” “How old are you?” people would ask and they would say, ‘”She is 4 .”
In 1st grade when I started school, I talked all the time and I would get bad marks on my report card saying I talked too much in school. My parents thought the teacher did not know who I was. Eventually I got a spanking in school for talking. The rule at our house was if you got a spanking at school, you got one at home. So if I told the truth, I got into trouble. So not telling felt safer. It has always felt huge to me that I lied to them but what choice did they give me.
I remember feeling really brave when I was about 13 and smarting off to my dad. I kept pushing him with my words. I remember sitting at the dinner table. The tension is rising and my sister are squirming, wishing I would shut up. He told me to stop being a smart aleck and I said back, “Well I may be smart, but my name is not Aleck” I thought he would kill me. I don’t remember him touching me but he was so mad. I was sure he would explode or have stroke or something.
I was talking on the phone once with my cousin and she asked if we were coming over there that day and I said, “Yeah maybe.” I did not mean anything. We got together with my dad’s family a lot on the weekends. Well she must have said something to her mom, who is my dad’s sisters. He hated this sister and she must have said something to him. Probably something rude. They cannot talk to each other without an explosion. He chewed me out for promising to go over there which is ridiculous. Not like he ever listened to what we wanted to do anyway. But we did go over there and I was somehow at fault.
I love words. I love English and I love journalism. In high school I was editor of the school newspaper. I loved the edginess of saying things that were true but nobody wanted to hear . Asking hard questions, criticizing the system. One time the cheerleaders at a football game did a cheer that my dad felt was racist. Basically they were mocking stereotypical black dialect. He was griping about it and I told him he should write a letter to the editor (which was me) So he did. I loved him for it. It felt like he got me for once. I got all kinds of grief about it at school but I was secretly proud of him for rocking the boat. The newspaper staff did not get into trouble for that but we got into plenty of trouble with the Principal. We were constantly told to not print something and that if we did he would shut down our department. I loved my teacher. Mama Marge, we called her. She encouraged me to study journalism at the school she thought was great. I wanted to be a journalist and change the world with my words. That idea got shelved to do lack of money so I became an accounting major at the local college. And I hated it. And I quit.
I am a word nerd. I like to look in a thesaurus. I like grammar rules and spelling correctly. I had to look up smart aleck just to make sure i spelled it right because it would drive me crazy for it to be seen as a mistake.
If having too many words gets you into trouble, then not having any makes you invisible. I can be invisible. Literally, I have stood in line and have the person behind me waited on first. Mike has seen this happen more than once. Once I was in a cell phone store. There was nobody in the store but me and 3 of my kids. The 2 employees were talking behind the counter and I was waiting. This went on and on and they were not doing work. They were just talking. I waited and waited and finally after about 10 minutes I butted in and asked if they could help me. Amazingly enough, one of them says to me, “Oh I thought somebody else had helped you.” There was nobody else in the store.
When I got married, my mom’s best friend made the cake. I asked for lemon cake because I love it and she said no because too many people don’t like flavors. Ok. So much for bridezilla. The day of the wedding, I am astonished to see the cake is cherry flavored which I hate and yet I cannot say anything because she did this as a favor to my mom.
As an adult, I distrust women who talk a lot. They feel too big and wear me out. They intimidate me.
I have just learned to shut up. It is easier. My husband loves to talk so I let him. Sometimes he talks on top of me, answering questions for me and I feel invisible again. Sometimes it feels easy when he talks for me.
My messages - don't talk, choose your words carefully, don't speak the truth, don't ask for what you want, my words are unnecessary, shut up and be a good girl, use precise words
When I was little, my sisters talked for me. People would ask what my name was and before I could answer they would say, “ Her name is Katy” “How old are you?” people would ask and they would say, ‘”She is 4 .”
In 1st grade when I started school, I talked all the time and I would get bad marks on my report card saying I talked too much in school. My parents thought the teacher did not know who I was. Eventually I got a spanking in school for talking. The rule at our house was if you got a spanking at school, you got one at home. So if I told the truth, I got into trouble. So not telling felt safer. It has always felt huge to me that I lied to them but what choice did they give me.
I remember feeling really brave when I was about 13 and smarting off to my dad. I kept pushing him with my words. I remember sitting at the dinner table. The tension is rising and my sister are squirming, wishing I would shut up. He told me to stop being a smart aleck and I said back, “Well I may be smart, but my name is not Aleck” I thought he would kill me. I don’t remember him touching me but he was so mad. I was sure he would explode or have stroke or something.
I was talking on the phone once with my cousin and she asked if we were coming over there that day and I said, “Yeah maybe.” I did not mean anything. We got together with my dad’s family a lot on the weekends. Well she must have said something to her mom, who is my dad’s sisters. He hated this sister and she must have said something to him. Probably something rude. They cannot talk to each other without an explosion. He chewed me out for promising to go over there which is ridiculous. Not like he ever listened to what we wanted to do anyway. But we did go over there and I was somehow at fault.
I love words. I love English and I love journalism. In high school I was editor of the school newspaper. I loved the edginess of saying things that were true but nobody wanted to hear . Asking hard questions, criticizing the system. One time the cheerleaders at a football game did a cheer that my dad felt was racist. Basically they were mocking stereotypical black dialect. He was griping about it and I told him he should write a letter to the editor (which was me) So he did. I loved him for it. It felt like he got me for once. I got all kinds of grief about it at school but I was secretly proud of him for rocking the boat. The newspaper staff did not get into trouble for that but we got into plenty of trouble with the Principal. We were constantly told to not print something and that if we did he would shut down our department. I loved my teacher. Mama Marge, we called her. She encouraged me to study journalism at the school she thought was great. I wanted to be a journalist and change the world with my words. That idea got shelved to do lack of money so I became an accounting major at the local college. And I hated it. And I quit.
I am a word nerd. I like to look in a thesaurus. I like grammar rules and spelling correctly. I had to look up smart aleck just to make sure i spelled it right because it would drive me crazy for it to be seen as a mistake.
If having too many words gets you into trouble, then not having any makes you invisible. I can be invisible. Literally, I have stood in line and have the person behind me waited on first. Mike has seen this happen more than once. Once I was in a cell phone store. There was nobody in the store but me and 3 of my kids. The 2 employees were talking behind the counter and I was waiting. This went on and on and they were not doing work. They were just talking. I waited and waited and finally after about 10 minutes I butted in and asked if they could help me. Amazingly enough, one of them says to me, “Oh I thought somebody else had helped you.” There was nobody else in the store.
When I got married, my mom’s best friend made the cake. I asked for lemon cake because I love it and she said no because too many people don’t like flavors. Ok. So much for bridezilla. The day of the wedding, I am astonished to see the cake is cherry flavored which I hate and yet I cannot say anything because she did this as a favor to my mom.
As an adult, I distrust women who talk a lot. They feel too big and wear me out. They intimidate me.
I have just learned to shut up. It is easier. My husband loves to talk so I let him. Sometimes he talks on top of me, answering questions for me and I feel invisible again. Sometimes it feels easy when he talks for me.
My messages - don't talk, choose your words carefully, don't speak the truth, don't ask for what you want, my words are unnecessary, shut up and be a good girl, use precise words
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