A Road Less Travelled

Dishes. I hate washing dishes. Every day, several times a day, there are dirty dishes looking at me. They demand to be cleaned. And I have to wash them quickly or else they will grow new dirty dishes. I wonder sometimes if the next dirty dish will be the one that will drive me mad. I find the thought of ‘accidentally’ dropping an entire stack of dirty dishes somewhat tantalizing. Sure I will have just broken seven plates, but at least then I won’t have to wash them. Sometimes I think that my life is wholly devoted to the washing of dishes, the sweeping of floors and the chopping of potatoes. And of course I chop potatoes for supper. And then I have to wash the plates the potatoes were on and I have to sweep the floor the potatoes were dropped on. It is a never ending cycle that feeds itself. There are times, in truly unguarded moments, that I think I might like to go to college. At least then I could have some stimulating conversation that wouldn’t involve dishes, floors or potatoes. I would attend a literature class and get into a really rousing argument with someone. We would discuss books over fifty pages long and we would discuss characters whose names are not Ralph S. Mouse. Maybe I would go to a restaurant and someone else would sweep the floor and I would not order potatoes in any variety. Oh, it would be a good life. But then I think about my future. I would like to be a mommy to lots of children. And lots of children dirty lots of dishes and lots of floors and eat lots of potatoes. So I guess I should just learn to deal with it. And more than that I should learn to rejoice in it. Maybe I’ll write more about this some other time, but for now I have to go wash dishes.

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Children just think differently. They wonder if invisible people can see each other, and are we invisible to them? They think diapers are funny. They hear “Don’t interrupt unless it’s an emergency.”, but unlike us they know that emergencies consist of such dire events as the need for a glass of water, the need to yell at someone who just sat on an invisible friend, and the need to tell everyone that there’s a bird, yes, a real live bird just outside the window. They think quiet means not yelling at the top of their lungs, and yelling doesn’t count if it was an emergency (see above). They also think interrupting doesn’t count if otherwise they’d forget what they were going to say.

Ok, some of those are only partly true, but children still think differently. Sometimes I just don’t know how to drive home what I’m trying to say in a way that they’ll understand. “Yes, I know I said to stop talking, but that was before I needed to ask you a question.” “Yes, it still counts as grabbing even if you were just holding on really hard instead of pulling.” “Look, it’s my hand, attached to my arm and I was using it. Please don’t just grab my hand and start tying my fingers in knots.”

I would write more but I’d better go see what crazy ideas the children thought up with while I was typing…

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Usually I think poetry should rhyme. Usually the poems that I write aren’t very good.

This is an exception to the first rule. I leave it to your judgment whether it’s an exception to the second.

It always seemed a waste

walking through the snow

leaving footprints

marring the unbroken sheet.

But now I walk with a friend

with laughter or tears

leaving footprints

side by side in the snow.

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Memorial Day. Memory Day. A day to remember those who have died. I know it is supposed to be a day to honor those who have died for our country, but I want more than that. God is good to us in death and I want to remember His goodness. The time I could see God’s blessing on me the clearest was when my mom died. I am not afraid of death. And I am not afraid of talking about death. And so I will remember.

My mom’s death was probably the death she would have picked out. She was out in her garden and she was stung by three wasps. Her body was falling apart in other ways and she had always been mildly allergic to bee stings so her body just couldn’t take care of this new stress. And she died. She died very quickly surrounded by her family. I sat outside her intensive care room and wrote in my journal with her pen. Maybe sometime I’ll share those thoughts. The support from the church was wonderful. A member of the church who also happens to be a doctor came and stayed with us, pulling whatever strings he could to make this easier. He answered my questions when I just couldn’t figure out what was happening. And so she died. Her heart slowed down and then just stopped. Saturday, July 19, my mommy went home.

The next couple of days are a blur. People came and were wonderful to us. The elders took care of most of the funeral arrangements so Dad didn’t have to. And God continually showed me how good He is. Maybe four days after my mother died I set up a dinner for seventeen people. I have no idea how I did that. By all rights it shouldn’t have been possible. There were plans for me to sleep at my brother Jonathan’s house the night of the 20th, but on the way there Seth and I were listening to Rich Mullins’ song ‘Hard to Get’. It got to the part of the song that asks ‘Did You ever now loneliness / Did You ever know need?/ Do You remember just how long a night can get / When You are barely holding on and Your friends fall asleep?’ and he pulled the car over and just cried because everyone was asleep at the house and he wouldn’t be able to sleep and he would be alone. So I went back with him and we sat on the front porch, eating Little Ceasar’s pizza and laughing and crying. And most of my immediate grief happened right then. Most of my mourning happened on that front porch. And I think this was so I could be a support to my father in the days to come. By all rights I should have slept at Jonathan’s house that night, but God was good to me and granted me this time. There are more stories of God’s grace that all happened in one little week, but they can wait. He who would tell a story must know when to stop.

I look forward to Heaven. I look forward to sitting next to my mom telling her how our God was good to me when she died. But for now I wait. And for now I will remember.

Linda Anderson Ben-Ezra
March 9, 1952 - July 19, 2003

Happy Memorial Day

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I went to a graduation last night. (Yes, it was the same one Gabrielle went to.) Being in that sort of mood, or maybe just being really tired, I cried. It was a homeschool co-op graduation; each set of parents gave a amusing, heartwarming or inspirational speech while presenting their child with the diploma. It wasn’t even smarmy, it was very nicely done.

As I sat watching and digging through my backpack for a tissue the thought wandered through my head, “I didn’t have this.” It wasn’t a complaint, more of an observation. On further contemplation I realized I was glad that my ‘graduation’ wasn’t like this. This was lovely and seemed to suit those graduating, but it just would have felt silly stuck into the middle of my life. We always changed my ‘grade’ (though we didn’t follow grades strictly) on my birthday, so my official graduation day was my eighteenth birthday. My schoolwork tapered off a couple days early to clean the house for James and Theresa’s visit. You could say my last two days of high school where spent on Home Ec.

The plan was that two days after my birthday I would come back to IL with James and Theresa. The day before we were supposed to leave we packed a lunch, and got ready to go. Then we found out there was an ice storm coming. To stay ahead of it we had to leave early and travel through the night. By morning everyone was exhausted and we ate bologna sandwiches for breakfast because that was what we’d packed. Thus was my graduation.

Funny and different and hard on the stomach, it fits my life perfectly. I wouldn’t change a thing.

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I was at a graduation on Friday. Next to my own and my sister’s it was the best graduation I have been to. I sat and listened to the commencement speech and all I could think about was my life and my choices. The speaker spoke about dreams. She said that you need to evaluate your dreams according to what God has said. And then, if your dreams are holy, you need to walk the walk. And this will look radical. I took this and I put it next to my life. Do I think my dreams line up with what God says in His word? Yes, I do. Then I need to walk like I believe it. Does this life look radical? To some people it is unbelievable. People sometimes hint that I am freakish in my life choices. She said that a radical life will be difficult. Well, my life is plenty difficult sometimes. But then she asked the question -Is it worth it? Is it worth all your time and effort and struggles and pain. And I looked at my life and I asked that question. And the answer was yes. Yes, it is more worth it than I can express. Yes, and even if it gets harder than this it will be worth anything I must pay. Oh, may God ever keep me in this walk. Amen.

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I do not feel any traces of original thought bouncing around in my head. But I cannot stop writing! That would be admitting defeat. And so, a song…

Feel the sun in my eyes

Swat that clumsy fly

Woke me up from a dream about Heaven

Smellin’ coffee downstairs

Yawn a quick little prayer

And get up at a quarter to seven

Mirror catches my stare

Got some nice pillow hair

And I smile all the way to the bathroom

Scratch my whiskery chin

Now my cranium swims

With questions I can’t wait to ask You

…Like why did You bother with so many stars?

Do You ever play tricks on the angels?

And what happened to all of those dinosaurs?

 
Where’s the Garden of Eden?

And what causes de ja vu?

I guess in Heaven I’ll learn

I’ll be waiting my turn

To ask about quasars and feathers

I hope the line isn’t long

I hope Your patience is strong

It’s a good thing forever’s forever

Do our jokes make You laugh?

What’s Your favorite cartoon?

Can you tell me what’s out past the edges?

And what about UFOs, taste buds, and tornados?

Why do we dream?

Oh, and what causes de ja vu?

Time to call it a day

Time to turn off my brain

 
It’s already half past eleven

Reach to turn out the light

And close my sleepy eyes

And save up the questions for Heaven

I’ll save all the questions for Heaven

I’m saving up questions for Heaven

-Chris Rice “Questions for Heaven�

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If I don’t write a post, this will be the day with the least verbiage since we started our blog. And we can’t have that.

I thought about writing a post earlier, but that meant thinking up a topic and interrupting all my productive activities. So do you want to hear the sum total of my productive activities? I cleaned the top of the stove and washed a total of four pans. Not an impressive accomplishment. Since Theresa was napping (trying to get rid of a cold or flu or something) I did also feed lunch to five children. But all I remember getting done this afternoon is unloading the dishwasher. Although I think the fact that the children cleaned their room should count as an accomplishment for me. They steal energy from us all the time, but especially when they’re working.

Theresa got up feeling slightly better, and I worked on a choker I’m crocheting while reading a fascinating book entitled The Art and Etiquette of Gift Giving. Overall it was a pretty good day and I’m tired now…

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I’ve had to some some rather strange things while talking to the children, but today was another first. I heard these words coming out of my mouth–

“Take your feet off the computer screen.”

But then, it doesn’t compare to what I said yesterday–

“Don’t kill your brother at the dinner table.”

It made sense at the time…

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Shock: 1 a : to strike with surprise, terror, horror, or disgust

Shock: Finding out the world doesn’t work the way you thought it did.

I have been writing about my relationship and my dealings with a woman named Kathey. In many ways she has been a defining moment in my life. A woman said “I need help� and the church has risen up to help her as we can. Our family especially has felt a burden for her. And she tells that she can never say how grateful she is for us. She says that we are the first family she has had in a while and the only family that has loved her. She tells us events from her life that she won’t tell other people. Why? Because we are not shocked. We don’t stand back and say “Oh my! I can not believe that could happen!� I feel sometimes that I should be feeling shocked, but I don’t. I still feel that it is really bad and my heart aches for her that she had to walk that road, but it does not shake me at all. It does not change my opinion of the world I live in. I look at it and I see it and I name it as evil. But it is not evil that surprises. No, far from it. Sometimes I find myself saying, “Yes, that makes sense.� And I shudder that I could think such a thing. But then I look at Kathey and I listen to her tales. And I see the relief when I tell her I understand.

My brothers, my sisters, we cannot be shocked. We may not. It is a luxury we must not indulge in. The world is evil, set that in your minds. If we even once say that “No, that couldn’t happen� we will lose them. The hurting people who have been wounded in ways you never imagined. They will despise us at the first gasp of surprise. Please, I plead with you, look at the world how it really is. We live in today and the days are dark. And we go into the darkness and we bring the light. But the light needs to see the darkness. It needs to see the darkness and accept the fact that there is real evil in the world that does some really horrible things. Because the people coming out of darkness need to know that they do not shock us. They are not out there, different from us. They need to know that we love them. We need to be able to reach out and touch the leper. And yes, you will feel dirty. You will wonder why you feel like you’ve just been dragged through the gutter. But that is where they live. And that is where we need to be.

“I simply argue that the cross should be raised at the center of the marketplace as well as on the steeple of the church. I am recovering the claim that Jesus was not crucified in a cathedral between two candles; but on a cross between two thieves on the town’s garbage heap; at a crossroad so cosmopolitan they had to write His title in Hebrew and Latin and Greek… at the kind of place where cynics talk smut and thieves curse, and soldiers gamble. Because that is where He died and that is what He died about. That is where the churchmen ought to be and what the churchmen ought to be about.�

-George McLeod quoted in Radically Unchurched

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