9-10-11 12:13

Did I Mention I Write for a Magazine?

Well, it's an e-zine, and it's called Femnista, it's amazing, and the new issue just came out this weekend!! You can find the link to read or download it here: http://www.charitysplace.com My column is on page 16, but I encourage you to read all the other lovely articles covering Austen, Dickens, Bronte and To Kill a Mocking Bird.
Enjoy!

Who Am I?

I’m a Christian.

Did you know that? It’s a serious question, did you know? Not the “Oh her? Yeah, she goes to church regularly.” or “She doesn’t swear or drink or sleep around so she’s probably religous.”

I’m talking about being a person that people call a Christian without being told to, not just where I do go on Sunday mornings or what I don’t do during the week.

Did you know that the term “Christian” was coined by so called “Heathens”? To classify people who believed in Jesus Christ. And back in the day when the word was invented, being called one wasn’t exactly a safe occupation, and yes, it very possibly meant death.

Now it’s... “I’m better than you.”

And honestly, sometimes that makes me cry.

When I say that I’m a Christian, is that what you think I mean? And more importantly, is this idea supported by my actions?

I have, in my younger years given my life to God. I know that sounds like a religious statement. Hearing it often evokes mental pictures of Mother Theresa or one of those crazy curbside yelling fanatics who screams scripture all day long at passing cars. I hope when I said it I meant that I realized that my ideas for my life are useless, shallow and worthless, and I saw that God’s plan for me was better, the best, cause he’s the best, and I wanted to be like him, like Christ. In essence, a Christian.

My realization was a very long time ago. I’ve spent over a decade comfortable in the knowledge that God loved me and I was going to heaven. But, have I been a Christian? No, not always, and mostly... not at all. Whether or not a person grows up in a envorment where church is present most understand somewhat the concept of Jesus. Jesus was that guy on the cross. He feed the poor, he talked to people, all people. And he talked about love a lot.

Love.

Gracious goodness, what a word. Poets have only been striving for thousands of years to figure that one out. It’s beyond complicated. The Christian community claim to love their fellow Christians, yet they are all too eager to call attention to their faults. That they don’t have enough love. I find myself privately thinking like that more often than I care to admit “Those Christians think this about me, they think they’re so much better... “ They... they.. THEY!

But what about me? In my “Christian-ness” am I loving people? And I’m not just restricting this to my fellow believers, approving of their Christian-ness and loving them, it’s easy enough to put on one’s “Church-face” at church and in my public life as the good girl who does (and doesn’t do) the right (or wrong) things.

But you know what? I’ve lived with my “Church Face” long enough to know that the man I claim to serve would hate it. Really really hate it, like spew thee out of my mouth type of hate. Because no matter how holy looking my church face is, it doesn’t love my fellow men like Jesus did. Jesus didn’t judge people, and he commanded us not to, to look at our own selves first, and the one who has no sin to cast the first stone. When I head to church on Sunday mornings and see a drunk stumbling down the street, as I subconsciously straighten my appropriate church clothing and walk past I judge that person if I mean to or not. If I was a true follower of Christ I would love that person. I would hug my fellow human being and, yes, it would dirty my stuck-up church clothes. And I wouldn’t notice. I would give of my money and my time to make sure this person, knows that someone cares. And I wouldn’t give it a second thought. And I wouldn’t do it to look good or because somebody might be watching.

But I don’t.

I don’t give myself to these wonderful human beings that God made and God loves. Not in the way I’m suppose to.

Now I’m about to say something you’ve heard before. Several thousands times. I know I’ve heard it enough times to desensitize myself myself from the magnitude of it. And I’ve heard it from the lips of enough people who said it for the wrong reason. Their church face plastered so obviously on that it makes me want to avoid it all together. But all that doesn’t make it any less true. So please, bare with me.

Jesus died on the cross for us.

So many times it’s me, not us. People say it with an air of importance as if since you acknowledge that it makes them better. So called “Christians” treat it like it’s a high quality insurance company “I have State Farm. I’m in good hands. You’re not in good hands. Poor you.”

What about the fact that Jesus dies for EVERYBODY? And that he did it because he loves them? And what about the fact that he commanded us to do the same? To love people who don’t deserve it and give our lives for them.

I’m very good at talking about the concept of love. I can wax on and on about it without moving an inch out of my comfort zone to actually do some really loving, the kind that’s hard to do.

So basically, I’ve been lying to you.

I’m sorry.

I say I’m a Christian but... I’m not. I don’t follow Christ. I follow me. I follow my comfort zone and what makes me happy. I don’t love my fellow man like I should. I don’t give of myself enough to the people I approve of, much less the ones who it would be a little harder to love, I judge them. I look down on them. You would not believe the thoughts I’ve had about people that God loves enough to die for them. I lie. I cheat. I think myself better, smarter, prettier. I elevate myself to a special position just because I... grew up in Sunday School?

That’s wrong... so so wrong. It’s sin. It’s worse than drinking or swearing or anything else. I have misused the name of my Lord by saying I represent him when I have such hate in my heart.

I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.

I’m sorry for putting my puny problems above the poverty and pain of humanity. I’m sorry for not being Jesus to you.

I’m a Christian.

And the real question is: Do I know that? Do I try to actually be like Christ to everyone I meet? I think maybe I should have anew dream of “When I grow up I want to be..” and I want to be a Christian. The real deal. The way it used to be. I want people who don’t believe in God to see my (probably disastrous, but hopefully sincere) attempts to follow him and think “That girl right there is someone who loves without judgement, without holding back, without pretense or a Church face. Kinda like a man once known as Jesus Christ.”

I know I’m not perfect like him and that I can’t be. And this is my confession. That I’m not. I’m not Christ. But I want to be, with everything in me, I want to be a Christian.

Did you know that?

Frigidarium: A True Story (Of Sorts)

I was trying to compose in my head

A poem, on my way to the shed

(Or garage, but that's hard to rhythm)

And I was taking my precious time

Being optimistic poetic me,

Not knowing what was going to shortly be.

The male members of our home

Wanted cake, frozen and under a dome

Of the ice cream variety

So I'd gone with female piety

To fetch it from the freezer

(I've been told I'm a people pleaser)

My mother told me to surely go

Making sure not to stub a toe

Through the back door since it wasn't locked

As the normal way between the cars was blocked.

My new poem was meant to rhapsodize

On how the magnolia petals lie.

How they crunch beneath my feet

As I walk on their soft, unblemished sheet.

I wanted to rhyme how the night air

And the cricket's beat transports me somewhere.

While my mind was on that

I pulled the door close so it didn't bat

And bang in the wind annoyingly

And bother my mother worry-ingly

I picked my way over garage-y stuff

Which I can tell you, is tough

When one is in pitch darkness

With only a small light in the mess.

I opened the freezer to discover

There wasn't light there neither!

I exclaimed my displeasure

And then felt around for good measure.

But it was a bigger than normal ice box

And I felt out smarted by the fox

Of my own absentmindedness

It was silly of me, I must confess

Not to remember a flashlight

Yet on went I with all my might

And stuck in both my arms

Never thinking of the harms

But I lost my footing

Horizontally positioning was my ending

And then my wandering hands

Came up empty... oh my Lands!

I was stuck in the cooler

Could I be more of a fooler?

Stuck like Pooh, half in half out.

I was most definitely a lout

And believe me, it hurt

As cold began seeping through my night shirt.

I struggled for a moment

And only manged to get more bent

I stopped and started considering

If nosily yelling and bellowing

Was in any way dignified.

If I told myself it was, I would have lied.

In this moment of self reflection

To my amazement and fun

Found the cake that I'd been sent for

Only to end up stuck in the freezer door.

I pulled at it much too promptly

Considering my task fait accompli

Then the lid came off, and with it the cake

How much more of a mess could I make?

I somehow caught them both right side up

But felt most unhappy and cutup.

I was stuck, in the dark

Balancing ice cream cake, what a lark!

Then, Oh rapturous joy unbound!

The wondrous mother of mine had found

Her daughter gone quite long

And worried something might be wrong.

She called from the entry way

To hurry and not delay!

I begged her to turn on the light

And to aid me in my desperate plight.

But alas, my muffled voice

Did not transport, she had no choice

But misunderstand me

And although I could finally see

For, the light she switched on

But to my aid, came none.

I urged myself out with relief

Happy to get past it with my teeth

Deciding not to go the way I came

In truth, I felt rather lame.

I snaked my way between the cars,

Almost like prison bars.

It was not nice going, I admit.

I was near on at the end of my wit

When on the hitching post

My Pj's caught, (this is not a boast!)

I tugged them free at last

And made my way fast

To the door to get inside

And I do not think I cried.

But then, of course, it was locked,

And I sighed and (loudly) knocked.

Only to have it opened to hear

After everything "The cake is not needed, my dear.”

…

So instead I ate Greek yogurt

(Healthier by far) but I still wanted to blurt

Out my woes to you, my friends

To the trivial my life does tend.

Yet it has it's almost charming in the end,

A funny story, is how I defend.

Such horrid rhythms and no meter

I apologies most humbly dear reader.

At the last you must know

The moral to this unnecessary show

Is that poetry is dangerous

And always cause a ruckus.

Ignore poetic magnolias soft and sweet

If you want to keep your feet!

(*Disclaimer* I have never professed to be anything close to a poet. Mostly I just like thought in short verse and capitalizing words in the middle of sentences ;-P)

*Much thanks to Merrill for her awesome-ness!

Fools In Love (Or: A Post In Which Lydia Gives Her Opinion On A Subject She Knows Absolutely Nothing About: Love)

People, in general, are idiots.

My mother, if she read that last sentence, would undoubtedly give me one of her well weathered “looks”. It's well weathered because I have a tendency to blurt out unfinished thoughts bluntly and without sufficient logic to back them up, and most of the time, I deserve the looks, and am smart to heed it by shutting my big mouth, but this time it's different, this time I've thought long and hard about it, asked opinions of several different people and spent an entire life time researching it.

I, as most of you know, am an incurable romantic. I believe there is a perfect someone out there for everyone, that true love exists, and yes, that 'happily ever after' is achievable. From this description it would be safe to assume that, paired with my occupation, as a librarian, and my love of enjoying stories I would be a devoted fan of literature and the silver screen's greatest love stories and couples,

Nope.

Can't stand them.

(I should note here that I complied this list from a sampling of several different opinions on the internet, and I don't hate all the stories on the lists. Jane Austen does, and always will have a special place in my heart, but stories like hers, although on the list, are a definite minority.)

Basically because the characters in theses stories (or at least the main guy and girl) are ridiculously idiotic. Why? Because, this being a love story, they're in love, and if stories are to be believed (they say life imitated art after all) love is neigh on insanity.

"When two people are under the influence of the most violent, most insane, most delusive and most transient of passions, they are required to swear that they will remain in that excited, abnormal and exhausting condition until death do them part." ~George Bernard Shaw

I rarely agree with George Bernard Shaw (after all, Pygmalion, which was on some of the lists, has a rather unsatisfactory ending, although I love Freddie, I can't help but get the feeling that Eliza doesn't really love him) but here he seems to capture my thought exactly.

Now before all the other incurable romantics have me drawn and quartered let me provide evidence for my case:

Romeo and Juliet:

The mention of this Shakespearean masterpiece always seems to entice sighs from the present female company, I have no idea why. Sure, it's Shakespeare. Sure, the title characters are a cute couple, they love through family disapproval, they remain true and dedicated to each other, they are poetically, fully and deeply in love. Despite the fact that they're closer to FOURTEEN then twenty, it's adorable... that is until they both go and die because they think the other is dead. I understand that when in love at 14 one is never thinking straight but isn't it slightly ridiculous that it never crossed either of their minds to verify the information or even check for a pulse! Never mind that if the other one truly loved them that they would want them to stay alive! Some might find the “I can't live without you” sentiment to be true, but I find it a trifle uncaring, and selfish. I know I don't know what it's like to lose someone you love more than life itself, but from my own point of view if I died tomorrow the very last thing I would want my love ones to do would be to follow me. I love them, and I want them to live.

Various Couples of the Arthurian Legend:

Arthur and Guinevere and Lancelot. Ugh. I hate love triangles. The story of Camelot is one of the oldest we have, proof that the “love means I can take leave of my senses and do stupid things” excuse is nothing new. Guinevere has an affair with her husband's best friend which results in the down fall of Camelot. And her reason? Her husband was too perfect. Seriously Lady? You're excuse for bringing about the destruction of the greatest kingdom of all Myth and Lore is the annoying perfection of your royal husband, who, by the way, forgave you for ruining his life and kingdom before going of to die in the war YOU started. Oh I can totally see where you're coming from there. And Tristan and Isolde? She's married, to the man who raised him. And he dies. I really don't see how that's romantic.

Wurthuring Heights:

Both Catherine and Heathcliff marry other people who neither of them love as revenge on each other, and the then they die and become ghosts.

Gone With The Wind:

The film has rather gorgeous costumes... other than that... ugh.

Anna Karenina:

She commits suicide by throwing herself in front of a train. Pleasant.

Casablanca:

Two years later... “Oh look we've all managed to meet up in a charmingly named town and spend the rest of the movie giving each other meaningful looks and not talking about anything important.”

*close up of Ingrid Bergman crying cause she can't decide which man she loves more*

Which man will she end up with?

Her husband, or Humphrey Bogart?

And most importantly: Why Do I even care?

Believe me... I could go on and on and on about how stupid these people act in the name of love, and I just don't understand it, I guess because I'm a romantic, but a practical one. And while I understand that happily ever after isn't very practical I still don't understand why it has to go the complete other direction into death and tragedy , and why the tragic love stories are the one's society remembers and upholds as “true love”.

. How do we even know if their love was going to last longer than a week? Also, when they die, there's no point in their senseless death. Yes, their families reconcile when they die but I have a feeling eloping and bringing home an adorable grandchild a year later might have done the same. Grandparents tend to melt into piles of butter around cute babies. If they'd actually thoughts things through, it could have worked out better. Instead they make a bunch of stupid decisions, is stupidity romantic?In the heat of conversation a couple of weeks ago I declared to a friend that when one half or both halves of a couple dies I did not considered their story to be romantic anymore. At his obvious confusion at my words I've now taken time to rethink what I meant by them. You see, if a person dies to save another, it's the greatest sacrifice they can give, and that's very admirable. But I think death, as well as life, should have some type of meaning. I don't consider the death Romeo and Juliet to be romantic, somewhat because there was no life before the death, they'd known each other all of

So why is love acceptable excuse for being an idiot? Just cause one's senses are dulled with raging emotions it doesn’t mean taking leave of common sense should be considered the norm. Love is one of the reasons that make life worth living and a precious gift from God, it should be cherished -not misused.

Once, a young mother I know told me that when she and her now husband were engaged they'd stay up into the wee hours of the morning talking on the phone every night, and because of her job at that point in time she'd only get four or so hours of sleep a night before having to be up in the later wee hours of the morning, and she survived on that for a while with no bad effects. When asked for an explanation of this phenomenon she laughed and said with an eye roll “I was young and in love!” Now I'm know she didn't mean that she and her husband are no longer in love, but that it's different now, she's a mother of several young children I'm sure she covets every hour of sleep she can muster. Now that, I consider to be romantic. Yeah it was completely goofy of them to deprive themselves of sleep, their fiancee would still be there at a decent hour. Personally, I love my sleep, we're best buds, and I can not imagine giving it up willing like that, no matter how handsome and witty he is, so, for me that would be a simple, yet adorable form of crazy in love.

One of my dearest married friends reiterated the other day how uncomplicated she and her husband's per-marital relationship was compared to most people, and pointed out that nobody remembers the sweet simple couples, just the messy complicated and often horrible relationships. That lead me to ask:

Why?

Why do we as a society revel in the swirling dating lives, marriages (plural) and messy divorcees of celebrities? Is it so we learn not to repeat their mistakes, or because we find it, of all things, entertainment? This is these people's heartbreak, why should we revel in it? Why should we find Scarlett O'Hara's stealing of her sister's fiancee for his money to be “epic”? Why is Ingrid Bergman and Humphrey Bogart's kiss in Casablanca considered to be the most romantic ever when Ingrid Bergman's character is married to another man? Why isn't Albert and Victoria's loving happy fairy tale marriage as famous as Charles and Diana's dramatically tragic one? People tease me for being a romantic, but I don't really see what there is to tease about. As defined by our culture romance is... sad. Is it good that we uphold this sadness as the greatest we can have in life?

I'm still a proud romantic, and I do love a good sappy boy-meets-girl. The ones I tear up over, they aren't perfect, people make mistakes, people die, life happens. That's what I expect someday when I fall in love. I'll make mistakes, yeah, I'll say things I don't mean, and completely mess up. But if it's God's will and I'm going to do my best to steer clear from being a complete idiot. I think my guy and I, we'll be good, and it'll be my kind of romantic, basically: the non-needlessly tragic kind.

'Men and women can't do housework together without quarreling. Different methods, my dear. Men can't help in a job, you know. They can be induced to do it: not to help while you're doing it. At least, it makes them grumpy.'

'The cardinal difficulty,' said MacPhee, 'in collaboration between the sexes is that women speak a language without nouns. If two men are doing a bit of work, one will say to the other, "Put this bowl inside the bigger bowl which you'll find on the top shelf of the green cupboard." The female for this is, "Put that in the other one there." And then if you ask them, "In where?" they say, "in there, of course."'

--C.S. Lewis, That Hideous Strength

Life Is Like An Amusement Park

People often compare life a roller coaster. Up, down, twists and turns, you go upside down, right side up, you never know what coming or what just went, a short 90 second ride and by the time you catch your breath... it's over.

A couple of weeks ago I had the most interesting experience of visiting my first real amusement park and riding my fist roller coaster, and for some odd reason it effected me deeply, and although I didn't intend to discredit "those who who know" I now disagree, let me explain:

Life experiences have ups, downs twists and turns, yes, but life, at least mine, seems to be comprised solely of impossible to make choices and then slow, and agonizingly long waits. Strange as it may sound, but during my fist amusement park visit I noticed several uncanny resemblances to my current situation.

We were lucky enough to be at Six Flags with a private party and compared to normal summer nights the park was relatively empty, and lines positively nonexistent. We had 6 hours to do what ever we pleased as many times as we wanted, a safe thrills seeker's dream come true! As I gleefully ran past long empty waiting areas, hearing horror stories of three hour waits, and of spending an entire day there only to go on a couple of rides. I freely expresses my opinion : I would never do that! I would die of boredom if I tried, and I wouldn't even try to ride if it wasn't as easy to get on as our current 10 minute wait.

And I then considered that to be true, in theory.But... I know deep down that I would wait.

I would complain like crazy and regret my choice like mad, but I would study the twists and turns from afar and know that the adrenaline rush would be worth it because eventually, I would make it to the front of the line, because that's what one does. Like the patient perspective rider you see your life dreams from a distance, excited and anticipating, waiting to live them. But there's nothing you can do, you can't make life move any faster than you can make that line move any faster than it is, and no cutting in line. One is essentially powerless.

You dream of the day when you finally get to the head of the line, strapped in and then off you go! It takes your breath away, everything that was expected but nothing like it! Frightening and entertaining, thrilling and wonderful. No matter how hard you studied it from the ground, and thought Boy, that's high! when actually up there all one can think is, Boy! That IS HIGH! Then the drop... and BAM!

It's over.

You move on laughing, talking, reliving it, on to the next ride, the more wait and then the next adventure. That's the dream anyway... but that doesn't really seem like my life, with all the thrill and adventure. I'm still the person waiting in line.

I think the worst job in the world would be to work at an amusement park. Here is a group of people who spend all day watching other people have fun. The attendants move quickly in, out and around securing harnesses, wishing us, by words and actions a safe and exciting ride. Then watch us go, hear our cries of happiness, see us return, help us out and then do it all over again. It's a worse fate then those waiting in line because there's nothing for them even to wait for, because they never ride. As my favorite author once said, their "Life is a succession of busy nothings."

Yeah. That's sounds a bit like me.

I always seem to be watching the ride up close. Always seeing everyone I know getting on, but never me, never fulfilling dreams, never actually experiencing anything, only living vicariously through other people's happiness because, for some unknown reason, I'm not allowed on the ride until every thing's right. The right day, the right time, the right seat, the right person to ride with... and I don't ever see all those things coming together. Nothing is ever just... right.

I want to be able to "ride" life the way I treat an amusement park. I run from ride to ride, screaming, laughing, planning, always moving, always trying things. Not sticking to the tame thrills, but going boldly toward what scares me, and doing it several times. And when I get to the top, hundreds of feet in the air I was to be sitting with someone who I trust, who's hand I can grab and yell "This is SO frightening, but BOY is it FUN!" And most, importantly, when I leave the park I want to know that I rode every ride I could, that I did things that thrilled me with people who I care about. But first, when every things finally right I’ll get out of line, strap in, and finally go on my ride. I can't wait.