Politification Part I: Lefties, Righties and Tighty Whities

I feel ya, Keanu.
I feel ya, Keanu.

About a month ago I started reading a little non-fiction book called Pastrix. The book cover boasted: the cranky, beautiful faith of a sinner and saint. I like reading about cranky people and faith is good, so giddy-up!

The more and I read, the more I began to pick up on the author’s associations with ______political party. Though the majority of the first-person narrative was both interesting and insightful, the stories were funny & challenging, and the writing was good, the associations with the political party really started to rub me the wrong way. She even began to identify herself as a “______ Christian.” And the more she did this, the less I read.

I wondered… why am I doing this? Why can’t I read this book anymore?

And then a very sudden thought came to me: true *Christianity is not associated with any political system.

I mixed this around in my head a bit, waited a good month, and then started to write. And as fair warning, these next few posts may come off as pretentious at times.  It’s more my writing style  than believing I’m some sort of political genius. Let’s just make one thing clear: I’m not.

(commercial break)

 Christianity is not associated with any political system.
(Right now I’m envisioning Bob Costas reiterating that in his amazing, liquidy man-voice and squinting that horribly red eye of his… poor soul.)
p.s. See E, I was right… there was something wrong with his eye and it’s like trendin’ big time on google. 

By what strange means do I make this claim??!!!

A story:
There once was a people group that God was really involved with. He brought them out of captivity, blessed the socks off ‘em and made (and kept) some pretty bold promises. (If you’re like, LOL I’m not a Christian, yo. just look up the historicity/# of copies of the bible compared to other ancient writings. It’s pretty wild.)….Back to the people. They became known for their strength and though nomads for many years, became famous for their God—a deity who actually showed up and did real stuff and wasn’t just a statue.

Over these people, God appointed judges and He also chose to speak through specific individuals, called prophets. He was active, ruling the people fairly & justly… but the people got bored. They didn’t like not having a person rule; a guy like the other nations had who wore a little tiara and stole their land and shit. So they asked God for a king. God, needless to say, wasn’t too happy. He was their King, the only fair, just, and all-knowing One out of the bunch. Though hurt, He conceded (He’s no bully)  and gave them what the wanted, a king.

 

image credit: the brick testament
image credit: the brick testament

Time after time, even the good kings showed themselves to stink in one area or another—whether it was making poor decisions in war, or being a bad dad (which led to more bad kings), or having so many wives (which was often a political allegiance) the nation became over-run with perverse, unjust horrible things.

Fast forward a couple thousand years, annnndddd here we are…still led by people (who may not wear silly tiaras but, ultimately,  still stink at what they do at least somewhat). Even the really good ones– even the really moral, or intelligent, or well-spoken ones— they’re human too.

God never stunk at being a ruler.  He knew His people and still does. It’s pretty clear that God would’ve kept it His way: no kings, no political parties, just Him being the good ruler and perfect shepherd He is. So should we ever let ourselves fully associate as being liberal or conservative?

In my mind, being a liberal or conservative has about as much to do with Christianity as underwear models. (see, I finally tied in the tighty whities.)

Your thoughts?

Confessions of Non-foodie-blogger

The mommy-blogger letter seemed to be relatable… and after a rough couple days  wrestling with cauliflower pizza crust and concocting a stir fry that tasted like ferret food, I decided this post was unavoidable.

Confessions of a Non-foodie Blogger

Dear Foodie-bloggers,

* I tried to make your cauliflower pizza crust (which you swore was “sooo not nasty”) and what I got was a personal pangea pizza, which I ate alone.
….Correction, E took one bite.

it didn't taste bad... it also didn't come off the foil. #sprayorpay
it didn’t taste bad… it also didn’t come off the foil. #sprayorpay

 

*  I made these apple muffins once and now I’m afraid to be alone with them.

* Kale is the devil’s lettuce. You can’t make me; I won’t touch it.

* Sometimes I wonder what kind of body-shaping spanx hide under those aprons. Not sayin, just sayin…(i would be grossly overweight if i were you)

* True or False…Confessions by Usher… playing in my head right now.

* I added flour to homemade broccoli cheddar soup once (to thicken it a bit, of course.) But then I added a lot… It was so gross. I asked you how to fix it on twitter and you actually tweeted back… which didn’t make anything better because all you said was, “You did what?”

* The great all-seeing-eye of Michelle Obama watches you…

* I know you secretly make bank despite giving away all those recipes. (thanks for the recipes, btw)

* I can’t ever spell recipes right the first time.

* When I take pictures of what I bake on my iphone, it looks like I’m using a photo-filter titled “dog-pee.” I’m jealous of  your shinning photos.

* Squash soup is weird. I know it; you know it. Moving on.

* Tony Chachere’s Original Creole Seasoning… you neglect its spicious mastery. #payhomage

* True or false, Confessions by Usher… still in my head.

* Lastly– I’ll admit– I like you.
Yes, yes, yes… you and the mommy bloggers. You make the interweb world a more wonderfully mouth-watering place to be. So keep showing “the man” what’s what and making money off of giving away those delectable dishes. We’re all a little fat & happier because of it.

Here’s to hoping some crazy huge person doesn’t sue you,
Cheers!

~ Meg

Those Winter Sundays

Those Winter Sundays

by Robert Hayden

Sundays too
my father got up early
and put his clothes on in the blue black cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.

I’d wake and hear the
cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he’d call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,

Speaking indifferently
to him,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love’s austere and lonely offices?

Dear Mommy Bloggers

First things first…(for those that don’t know) what are mommy bloggers?
Mommy bloggers are basically any woman who blogs and at some point mentioned her child. Lots of people do it. It’s a thing.

… As I typed in “What are mommy bloggers,” to give you  a simple definition of the term, here’s what popped up on Google. It was too lol (laugh-out-loud)  (or, for you moms, lots of love) not to share.

mommy bloggersMy favorite is “what are mommy arms?”

I digress.

Dear Mommy-bloggers,

I’m not a mommy.  I openly admit that I “just don’t get it” cuz I’m not yet a sweaty, sleep-deprived, unconditionally loving (with bouts of logic),  breast-milk-benefit-preaching parent… yet.

I am, however, a person with ears and eyes, which sometimes work coherently enough to send little electrical signals to my brain (which I first spelled as brian….).

See? I’m poking fun at myself too!–While still tickling the flabby (or Michelle Obama-fierce) under-arms of all you mommies. Let’s laugh together! Let’s sip margaritas! (Okay, I’ll sip a margarita and you can have your homemade sugarless vodka lemonade.)

…Did I mention you’re great? loved! and paid by all those diaper-ad people!
Bravo! Keep it up and stuff! Meanwhile I will write too– but probably less about diapers and my awesome homemade quiches and more about… other relationships, mini-revelations, and simple or hilarious anecdotes.

In true-serious-earnestness though, without the stories from women like you, the web would be a little more convoluted with pictures of insanely skinny, yet large-breasted women and those adorable cat memes (see below).

fwpc1-300x212

Thanks to you, instead we have a lot more  kick-a** recipes and well-written monologues about loving little, stinky, messy humans. Thank you. We like what you write; we really do.

I just hope that even though us other women are not quite yet in your club– you’ll still read our stuff once and while, still offer your insights and learn from ours. I even hope that sometimes you’ll read our blogs and articles and books for the pure enjoyment of sharing in something bigger than being mommy. For the beauty of sharing in the experiences of hurting, loving, healing and all the in-between that comes with being human.

Stay cool, mommies.
Sending big love to you (& the hubs, kiddos, and quiches)

~ Meg
(and the other non-mommy-bloggers)

Truth, Tears, Anger, and Grace

It’s been a blah day. Did I say day?–month. January is notorious as “divorce” month, and it is undoubtably the coldest month for northerners to endure. So yes… blah. Picture the adults from Charlie Brown kind of blah. Everything a blur of garbled words, of unconscious motion. And the sense that the -11 temp had somehow seeped into my heart. Trying to turn up it’s heat only fogged up my mind.

I needed truth and grace when all I seemed to have was tears and anger.
This lovely exposition popped up in my google search; since then, I’ve been reeling.
It’s a talk given by a speaker whom I love, only days after 9/11.

First the prayers. Individuals from different backgrounds and cultures praying for a hurting nation after the greatest tragedy since Pearl Harbor. A city and nation which prided itself with accomplishment and  power was left unhinged. And the grieving began.

And.. so did the lame-sauce “answers” for the tragedy:
1. We are being judged–for (Democrats) our lack of care for global justice (Republicans) our lack of moral values.
2. THEY are the evil ones (even subhuman.) WE are the good.

In the midst of this, the best leaders spoke not of answers.  They spoke of hope– a hope to see new life come blazing from the ashes.

And then this story

Jesus hears a good friend of His is dying. So he hits the road and on the way into Bethany, meets up with both of the sisters of his now dead friend, Lazaras. Though Jesus is intending to (and later does) raise Lazarus from the dead, he also responds very acutely to what he’s hearing from Lazarus’ sisters.

the first sister

Martha said to Him, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died. But even now I know that whatever You ask of God, God will give you.” Jesus said to her, “Your brother will rise again.” Martha said to Him, “I know that he will rise again in the resurrection at the last day.” Jesus said to her, “I am the resurrection and the life. He who believes in Me, though he may die, he shall live.”

There’s the truth that no one was expecting. Jesus claims not only to hold the power to raise the dead, but claims to embody that power–to be new life for anyone who believes. But he doesn’t stop with speaking the truth…

the second sister

“Then when Mary came where Jesus was and saw Him, she fell down at His feet, saying to Him, “Lord, if You had been here, my brother would not have died.” Therefore, when Jesus saw her weeping and the Jews who came with her weeping, He groaned in the spirit and was troubled. And He said, Where have you laid him?” They said to Him, “Lord come and see. Jesus wept. 

Truth, Tears, Anger, & Grace Why is it that out of those four all I really hear about from  Christians are the two bookends–truth & grace.
Though it’s translated “He groaned in the spirit and was troubled” the actual Greek words used refer much more to the emotion of anger. He was angry. Angry at death and the havoc it had already caused. And though he knew he would conquer it, death was still worth being mad at.
And then He was sorrowful, and in his tears he didn’t just weep out of sorrow for His own loss. I believe His own grief was for not just the temporary loss his friend’s life, but the lives of countless others before and after. The sting of death was felt by God even before the cross, and He wept.

grace, a gift undeserved

While still grieving, Jesus told the people to roll away the stone over the tomb where they’d  placed Lazarus. Four days his corpse had been rotting, so with some convincing, they consented.

Then they took away the stone from the place where the dead man was lying. And Jesus lifted up His eyes and said. “Father I thank you that You have heard Me. And I know that you always hear Me, but because of the people who are standing by I said this. that they may believe that you sent Me.” Now when He had said these things, He cried with a loud voice. “Lazarus come forth!” And he who had died came out bound hand and foot with grave clothes. Then many of the Jews who had come to Mary and had seen the things Jesus did, believed in Him. But some of them went away to the religious leaders and told them the things Jesus did… Then from that day on they plotted to put him to death.

Jesus raised Lazarus from the dead knowing  this would eventually lead to his own death– all as a prequel of what he did for the rest of humanity on the cross. He knew pain, injustice, tragedy more deeply than any human to walk this planet. And he did not stop there;  to prove that suffering is never a waste, He made a way to God through His own. He died so that real death would never have to touch anyone again.

Whether or not you can believe this story to be historical truth, the process with which Jesus grieved–truth, tears, anger & grace will always be the only complete way to find hope amidst evil, tragedy, and death.  This kind of hope doesn’t seek cheap answers. This hope weeps, curses loss, and yet rubs the joy of new life in the face of death.

**this is my own mini-recap of a talk given by Tim Keller entitled “Truth, Tears, Anger, and Grace” props to him.

the bible passage can be found in the book of John, chapter 11.

The Beer Store & Other Short Stories

beer_store_end_of_rainbow

The Beer Store

Walking into a beer store* and asking where you can find one single can of beer is kind of like walking into Burlington Coat Factory and asking where you can purchase a mitten. One  mitten.  Oh, there are the looks as you roam aimlessly through aisles of whisky and vodka, then stare shivering into coolers of 6-packs. Finally, your helpless eyes meet those of an employee. One beer?  Upon consenting for help, the employee– who happens to have koolaid-orange facial hair– starts yelling across the store to the other, somewhat haggard, hippyish employees about where to find ONE beer. Now two of them  stand on either side of you telling you, yes, Surly is surely the answer. It’s the best. I’ts MN beer for Paul Bunyon’s sake. So you take it. (All this for beer cheese soup, you think) And you take another bite of your apple because you are starving for dinner, and you and walk up to the counter. You fiddle with your purse, trying not to ooze apple juice onto the counter and you hear the cashier say, “so it’ll just be the one beer and an apple?” And you look up, maybe half-expecting a judgmental smirk,  to see something like acceptance–in a stranger’s smile….

*I prefer beer store over liquor store. the word liquor seems nasty and harsh and looks kind of ugly and nearly threatens to infuse you with guilt or that gene that supposedly makes you susceptible to Alcoholism.

The Pocket Knife

You are hungry. And it’s never good to grocery shop when you are hungry. Even  beef-flavored tea begins to sound good by the time you pull (not push) a staggering, on-its-last-wheel cart up to the cashier. You unload your cart methodically– dry stuff and cans,  eggs & dairy, veggies and fruit.  All the while you look sideways to the man in front of you, who’s very bushy head is leaning deep into his shopping cart’s belly. The cashier-boy waits patiently. Then you notice it– something in Bush-man’s hand. He is making little jabs with it. It’s a pocket knife. He is trying to cut out his coupons with a pocket-knife dull enough to clean your ears with. It takes nano-seconds for your brain to jump all over the place. How will this young, pre-pubescent cashier react? Will he ask Bush-man to put the “weapon” away? Is there such thing as grocery-store security? Are pocket knives legal to display in public?
Cashier boy leans out of his little cashier cocoon. He says, sir, If you’d like I can scan them right from the book. Bush-man grunts in acknowledgement. You smile. Cashier-boy  scans flawlessly…

Guilting Grandma

It’s been a long week. You come home to the smells of fermenting garbage and a chill that says your furnace is still not working properly. Usually, you loosen your stuffy dress clothes while leafing through a pile of bills. Tonight though, one lone letter has the familiar slant of grandma-script. So you open it, feeling the corners of your mouth lift a little at the lightness of thoughtfulness coming to rest on you.

Dear________ you read, 
I am disappointed in you. I have not received a thank-you card from you for sending you a  birthday card or Christmas card,..and I was not included in the thank-you for the wedding gifts from _____relatives . I write this only hoping to teach you a lesson….

You stop, pick up the phone and dial your grandma. You mention the letter, apologize for your lack of thoughtfulness (recalling in your mind the very in depth hand-written thank-you,  sent for her wedding gift).

You know, it’s not only you, dear. She is saying, I won’t say names,… but your two brothers… Oh the tact! You mute the phone. You laugh. You let out all the tension like a balloon. You are practically snorting and your grandma is saying … And your cousins, all of them male, … You laugh a bit more…have also forgotten to say thank-you. You take a deep breath, take the phone off mute, apologize again. You are smiling now, telling your grandma you love her. And, at this moment, you are thankful.

It’s little stories like these that I wish to put in my zine. Nothing necessarily profound, but hopefully all very real. I will also be critiquing our local “pastry” shop’s donuts. (which may or may not include gas station donuts.) In this way the zine will have something consistent with a spattering of short stories. I want to hear from you! What do you think? Did you like/dislike the 1st person?  Should I start a new blog for the zine writings only? Is the donut idea totally loco? (A little loco is okay with me.)

Tonight, E tells me, “do something you enjoy,” and “come back before it’s too dark.” So I take the spare key, swing onto my bike, and hit the trails.
I could think about the smells of roasted sugar-summer air, or the colors of retreating sun. But it’s 8 o’clock. All I really think about is that my face is now a death sentence for the unsuspecting flea and mosquito parade just beginning. I fear for my nostrils, keep my head down.

Despite the distractions,  fresh air helps me think. And on a bike or a walk is when most ideas come to me. Some are terrible, I should admit,* but tonight I decide I am going to resurrect my childhood dream of becoming an “artiste” (I still can’t spell) which has morphed many times, but is not completely lost– so long as I do not let it be. I decide I am going to write a zine.

I live by the sweetest paths!-- here's some pics of a zine I love
the paths I love and the zine that helped inspire me

On Dreams

Children—classmates, and kid-neighbors, little cousins, and daycare buddies—all of them future firefighters, inventors, astronauts, presidents. Many of them now slipping so silently into turtle shells of adulthood apathy. It’s me too. I have a stinky, confining shell, it’s illusion of safety and responsibility too easy to believe. I want out. I want to dream

To let a dream shift and change with time, I think is almost necessity, but to lose it altogether? Nothing less than living in fear, or worse, apathy.

And this is why I’ve decided [finally and with no compulsion or sanity whatsoever] to write a zine. “What’s that? And “Why?” (you probably won’t, but possibly might ask).  I’m not entirely sure. I just know that a zine can be anything, though it usually comes in the form of a smallish, hand-made/self-published booklet. Maybe I should call this a chapbook? Doesn’t really change a thing either way. The best part about all of this… I’m going to do it here, sharing this process with whoever wants to see it– because writing is a conversation. So I fully expect that what I initially write and what I eventually print, fold, staple and probably never sell, will be a constantly change form. And boy does this excite me.

* I once had a mini-dream to tweet for big bird. Not mimicking a bird-call, but  creating 144 characters about the life of an over-sized, misunderstood golden condor.  I thought it would be fun, semi-ingenious, appealing to the masses of millennials who worshiped his (its?) synthetic feathers. Tweeting on the struggles of life without giant bird seed, the joys and perils of livin’ on the street? Somehow, I never got around to it.

Hello again.

 “To gain your own voice, you have to forget about having it heard.”
—Allen Ginsberg, WD

It’s been too long.

It’s been months of engagement, and more of marriage. It’s been transition and change and everything small in-between.

It’s time to write again.

I don’t really know what made me decide. Maybe it’s the fact that it’s cold again and I’m sitting outside wearing my husband’s red-checkered flannel.
Maybe it’s just time.

It’s definitely a less than ideal time. (E is currently letting out mini-grunts as he tries to fix our screen door, only inches away from my requested “alone” time.)

And I still haven’t figured out my blogging “niche” so who’s gunna ever really read this and follow it religiously and flood my inbox with adoring comments.

But I’ve got to keep going.  I’ve got to keep recording the funny, the simple, the wildly strange things that help me learn to really live.

If I don’t I’ll just keep walking around my quiet little condo, narrating in my head. Sometimes in British accents.

And, though listening is important, if I never speak at all, am I really part of the conversation? I suppose this is utterly confusing and the best way to ditch the 6 followers I probably still have.  So for those of you readers (if “you” even exist) who are lost, here you go: For me (and many others I think) to read is to listen; to write is to speak; to live  without the conversation is to never fully live.

I could start every post with “it’s been too long.”
But I don’t want to.

I want to write.

Am I ready?
Nope. I’m not ready. Never ready.
And it’s embarrassing to know that I’m not sure I’m doing this well, not sure I’ll ever reach beyond this little blog. But at least I will not grow numb to the conversation. I will will not forfeit the few words I have that must be heard. And most importantly, I will hear what hundreds of thousands have joined in on throughout all of history. And what a beautiful, strange sound it is.

Stories

Stories are my calling.  Not just the writing, but the seeking, the holding of stories, listening as humanity groans and rejoices…
Image

I wake up too early for a morning without an agenda.
A muted-white light comes in through my window, tells of no sun,  just water-laden sky. I try to rouse the dog for a walk, give up, and slip on my shoes and sweatshirt anyway. A brittle mist brushes my eyelids. I blink, let my legs fall into rhythm, hoping the forecast will wait.

I don’t know if I’m walking to write, or pray, or just be.
I don’t know a lot of things. And I wonder, more often now,
is it fair to write? Is it right when I’ve hardly read, or thought, or formulated anything worth anyone’s time? Is it good for me now? Should I wait a while longer? Stay silent until the business of life stills and allows?

A cardinal sings like the world is watching, somehow perched on the tip of a spruce.
Between streaks of water and ice, a sand-packed can of chew stands open on the street.
A dog announces his dislike of me, a few awkwardly flapping ducks fly overhead. And, as I’m nearing home, a letter.

Water and sun washed, it lies flat on a bank of snow.

A gift? A piece of trash. I read it anyway, hoping stationary in blue and pink pastels, dated 1985 was written long ago that I am not being invasive.  A few words in and I think I might see their faces, a little boy, a sister far away, and a woman leaning over her counter and scribbling between washing dishes and getting ready for advent season.

 There’s dramatic confession, no account of a travel adventures. It’s just a few words on a page, a lost or left snapshot, a piece of their story.

…I believe in the power of stories – that when we tell our own, we find communion and when we truly hear another’s, we make our first steps towards peace.  I believe in my calling to bear witness to life, to hold a corner of your grief, to laugh with you until tears roll down our cheeks.  So please, pull your chair up close to mine.  Extend your wounds, your scars, so I can trace them softly as you tell me the history behind each one. — emily wierenga

 

 

Walking Miss Daisy

The foolish man seeks happiness in the distance; the wise grows it under his feet. – James Oppenheim

Walking with a dog is something I never thought I could love. My family’s dog is anxious and desperate, constantly pulling at his leash, choking himself as I grit my teeth.
And yet here I am–happy–walking an old, loving Golden, watching our feet blur in tandem, feeling my nose grow stiff in the cold. The neighborhood is laced in fall colors, a dusky blue sky pronounces the cool perfectly.

I lose track of street names, how many times I’ve turned right or left. We are in a maze of cul-de-sacs and developments and then, this sudden, almost misplaced hill on our right. Maybe it’s part of someone’s yard, maybe not. Either way, it is so strange and disconnected; it seems fair game for footing.

I find myself speaking aloud to the river of gold-auburn fur beside me.  “Do you want to go up Daisy? Yea, girl?” She lunges ahead.

I agree. Something feels right about climbing to higher ground.

It’s a steep climb, requires a lot of toe and calf work, even a bit of deeper breathing.
I find myself imaging a giant tribal chief buried beneath the soil, remembering the Indian
burial mounds on the land where my father grew up.

At the top, I turn and look.

It’s not looking down the tops of red and brown-tinted trees that gets me. Not even how wonderfully part of the elements I feel–the wind abrasive and untamed. It is nothing I can define or express. I am glad for no other reason than simply being.