Bless the Beasts, the Children, and Mom

Somewhere in Never, Never Land beasts and children gather together to plot their annoyance cast on parents.   I saw "Peter Pan" enough to know there was a sinister side--the pixie dust was a symbol for dirt and flying was a metaphor for running in the house.  Why is the crocodile (the beast) a sympathetic character?  He bit off some one's hand, for goodness sake.    Peter literally "kid"-napped Wendy, Michael, and John for the sole purpose of taking them to a place where kids never grow up.  Nice little fairy tale, my eye!

This theory of  pets/offspring plotting against parents was rekindled recently when my two schnauzers did what my two daughters used to do:  bug me when I was trying to talk on the phone.  Never would my daughters try to tug on my clothing, throw their heads back, wail, and sway from side to side....except when I was on the phone.  It was hard not to rule out demon possession (I think there should be a place in their baby books for just that event). This antic never happened when they got spankings, never happened when I had to tell them no, never took place when they scraped a knee or an elbow.  No, this manipulative tool was used ONLY when Mom was engaged in a conversation. 

Today, the once-beloved schnauzers mimicked this while I was writing on the computer.  I suppose they sensed that whether it be phone or computer, I was communicating with anyone other than themselves.  Down they went, first on their haunches, heads tilted back, howling, and then jumped up in unison to scratch my legs.  That was not pleasant at all.

Fortunately, the girls passed through this phase.  Sometimes Emily still gets a little needy, but I just remind her that if it weren't for me, she would not have been born.  Blunt but necessary communication works best with her.  The dogs, however, are just entering this stage of neediness.  They are aging, and the older they get the more they need me to pay attention to them. 

Check your mirrors indeed.   Applying this episode, it is pretty obvious that I ought to consider that my soon-to-be-80-year-old-mother is aging and tugging at my side.  She doesn't do it nearly so melodramatically as my girls and my pets have done.  For the most part, she quietly and graciously addresses the fact that her body is old.  Her phone calls are more frequent, and her sharing of mundane details are signs that she is keenly aware of all that surrounds her.  Her reflections have been written for us to read, stories of a life long ago--not just in years but also in philosophies and ideologies.  Despite the wear and tear on her shrinking frame, her mind and her soul are ever so young.  Still, the simple fact is that she needs her five children to pay attention. 

Tug away, Mother. We are listening.

Mary's Voice

Using some lingo I heard on a Greyhound bus ride once, "therapy is a process."  One never knows where little gems such as this will present themselves. 

True words, though I still get the sense that some folks use this expression to excuse misguided behavior (in other words, as long as a person is seeking help, he or she is given license to continue in that misguided behavior).  Having just issued that rather blunt judgment, let me qualify what I am saying:  issues won't go away overnight, but the efforts to begin reeling in the struggles can and will diminish those issues when both therapist and therapee (that's a great new word I just made up for those of us in therapy) get down to, as Nacho Libre said so eloquently, the "nitty gritty."  That was a very long sentence.  Sorry.  (It's o.k. to apologize in therapy.)

I don't really care about getting bogged down in all that.  I do care about honoring that "process" which has benefited me.  Most of all, it is important to honor the person who has sat across from me. Even if she wasn't hanging on to every word all these 17 years, she certainly made me think she was.  Who knows?  Maybe she was making a grocery list on those yellow legal pads.  Who cares?  I came, I saw, and together she and I and the Creator have conquered all sorts of demons.  Not those pea-green spitting venom type demons.  No, Mary deals in the really bad kind such as co-dependency, martyrdom, enabling, repeat-after-me-you-are-an-idiot sounds in one's head, grief, heartache, yuck, yuck, yuck stuff.  She's good.  And just when a person thinks he or she has conquered them and the issues re-emerge, Mary still says game on, come on down, let's talk.  Really, she's that good.

I once joked that if she were so good, how come I was still in therapy?  We both know that the process never ends.  I go see Mary once a year now--half of that time, we truly talk about the challenges that still exist for me.  The other half is catch-up on our lives.  It is, in a word--delightful.   Our trust in each other is evident.  Obviously, she has enough info on me to write a book that could be on Oprah's bestseller list.  As long as I get a cut of the profit and get to name the actress who will play me in the movie, it's fine.  Mary also trusts me.  She trusted me to take what I gleaned in our sessions through the years and grow.  Though far from old oak tree status, I have indeed branched out to become a woman who is growing ever more comfortable in my own skin, "only more sure of all I thought was true." (Robert Frost) 

But honest to goodness, my favorite part of Mary is her voice.  God simply gave her the mother of all therapists' voices.  It is so awesome that I am going to use the word awesome, which I loathe and seldom use.   I really hope I die before she does because I want her to deliver my eulogy.   People  will just be mesmerized by this  voice which will make me sound far better a person than what I actually was.  Again, really, she's that good.  It would be well worth your money to just go sit on that couch and talk to her about China's economy or those cute little islands in Northern Canada or your income taxes.

After her first tangle with cancer, Mary was inspired to write and record some stories which she entitled "Holy Moments."  The first such anecdotes on Tape One were memories of her childhood years spent in Hamlin, Texas.  Not long ago, I took a school car--an older one--on a school trip.  Because it had a tape cassette player in it and not the CD or MP3 capability, "Holy Moments" was re-visited for the first time in years.  When I arrived to my destination, it was as if I had completed a two-hour session with Mary.

Many of my own holy moments have been in Mary's presence--not a statement to be misconstrued that I  idolize her or see her as a object of perfection. I am complimenting our Creator, who chose to gift this woman with a sense of wisdom and compassion, perfect tools of the trade for a therapist. Our sessions have been holy moments, indeed, because the room where we met always had a Third Party. Mary knows from whence cometh her strength, and it is her ability and her utmost desire to share God's power with wandering souls.

A little tongue-in-cheek approach to the intense world of therapy is a part of the connection Mary and I hold dear after all these years.     A keen sense of humor and wit and banter has been as much a part of our sessions as the tears and the deep sighs of angst.  It is also my intent to communicate the fact that Mary is one of "those" people.  So rare, and yet so obvious, when these people cross our paths.    And she has been this way, I sense, from the day God breathed life into her.  Today, our tandem is special, our bond quite magical, and our social networking extended due to group classes which Mary has taught using The Artist's Way and The Vein of Gold (both books by Julia Cameron).  We share a mutual fondness for most things baseball and football, most things creative and musical.

Mary has lived a lifetime gracing so many of us with that beautiful voice.  And in so doing, has helped us find our own.

Three Hundred Sixty-Five

Many days in the past year--actually in my past lifetime--I have longed to be my dear friend Janie. She's a wonderful cook, pastry artist extraordinaire, inviting hostess, exceptional volunteer, devoted mother and daughter-in-law, and a loyal friend. For the past three hundred and sixty-five days, she has been a widow.

I still want to be her.

You see, Janie experienced in her relatively brief married life what I used to dream of and wish for on bright West Texas starry nights. Freakishly and ever so melodramatically, I would look up in the sky and just know that somewhere my soul mate was doing the same thing--waiting for me to spend a lifetime of traveling, raising children, laughing, playing golf, and cherishing the dreamer I am. On family road trips, I wanted to sit by the window and imagine that one day my soul mate and I would make similar road trips, soaking in the Grand Tetons and the Grand Canyon or doing that sappy walk-along-the-beach thing...into the sunset, of course.

Janie lived my dream. She and her husband Mark, a childhood friend of mine, captured all of those moments even before he became sick. It was as if Dr. Seuss's book Oh the Places You'll Go was based on their lives. And not that they had to go anywhere to enjoy what life had to offer: they found it at home, at church, at hometown football games. Best of all, they found "it" in each other.

Mark's diagnosis and final journey home were but ten and half months apart. Together he and Janie and their two children kept living. Their actions in those months were not desperate attempts to fill in gaps or accomplish a bucket list or even to ensure a legacy. Mark and Janie and their children  lived their family's legacy while it was happening....all along the way. All along the way....during the healthy years and the wonder years, this family demonstrated their appreciation for the miracle that is love.

Three hundred and sixty-five days later, Janie's heart is still broken. She misses her husband with an ache that she doesn't want to go away anytime soon. She lives in the house they shared with the pets and the plants and the photos and the memories that are no more replaceable than Mark is himself. It is not a tortured life, though, as Janie knows better than anyone that she was blessed immeasurably to experience life with this keeper of a man. She is blessed today to see her children honor their father's memory by growing stronger in their faith. Her days are touched by the lives of numerous friends--and some new angels--who shelter her heart and wrap their comforting arms around her. Most significantly, Janie has seen in herself what the rest of us knew was there all along: a strong, confident woman whose spirit's talents are breaking through the surface to blossom in ways she had never imagined. Just ask the young mothers who are in her Bible school class.

Heartache--whether from love unfulfilled or love lost--is a constant in our earthly lives. Each one of the past three hundred and sixty five days has included a tear for Janie, but each morning has also begun with an assurance that love's labor is not lost: Janie knows where her soul mate is. And, on any given starry West Texas night, she knows exactly where to look for him.

An Old Spice Moment

I have absolutely NO idea why this commercial stayed with me all these years. The sailor coming in to port, slinging his duffel bag over his shoulder, getting ready to meet his woman after months at sea, and wearing.......Old Spice. I think the commercial had this catchy whistling background music. It is a visual that I still remember, maybe because I was imagining Uncle Preston and Uncle Clifton, my mom's two brothers, coming home after their WWII South Pacific days and splashing on the Spice before heading down to Rotan's local honky tonk. I don't even know if Rotan, Texas, had a honky tonk. It was just fun for me to think about them two-stepping with the girls after defending their country.

Last week, that smell of Old Spice came wafting into my classroom, which is adjacent to the jr. high locker area. Years of monitoring locker areas have taught me two valuable lessons: (1) boys are basically smelly creatures until they reach the 6th Grade and (2) boys have no concept of how much is too much cologne. More is better to them. Wish they felt the same way about the number of books they take home.

Young Flint had given one of his classmates an Old Spice demonstration. He had not one but two Old Spice products--a deodorant spray and a cologne. I'm guessing he was expecting to break out into an extra sweat during track practice or something. But he decided to give good buddy Merik a demonstration of the potency of the products in the secret confines of his locker. If anyone walked though that locker room between 11:15-noon, they might have thought the entire U.S. Navy was docked.

I love this age. Eleven and twelve-year-olds are socially posturing for their peers' respect and for their own self-respect and trying desperately to "grow up." As their teacher, I feed into that. I want them to grow up, too--turn in homework without being reminded, sit in seats and quit getting up every five seconds to blow noses or kick the shins of the kid next to them. I want them to pay attention to my efforts to show them the world when, up to this point in their lives, all that has really mattered are Gail America and Texas.

But as with the Old Spice locker moment, Sixth Graders still go off in their own mind-boggling world. During a lecture today about Asoka, the great Mauryan warrior/Buddhist convert one student decided it was time to share with me the fact that she likes pumpkin pie while another asked if I had seen "Zombieland." I want to pull out my hair. I want to get within two inches of their sweet little faces and say, "And how does that relate to 300 B.C.?" Instead, I just look at them in disbelief.....and then just a bit of humorous awe. They are children. They are precious children who somehow thought I needed to know something important, too--and pumpkin pie and Zombieland seem to be right up there with Asoka's elephant warriors.

And even after these classic pre-adolescent moments, a part of me wants them to stay right here at this age as long as they can. Sixth Graders are antsy and restless, but they are also eager and easily impressed. They are noisy and talkative; they are also curious and concerned. In their eyes, I see mischief. In their hearts, I sense an incredible urge to please. Best of all, they are not yet jaded to nor poisoned by what often is perceived as a cynical world in our adult years.

Lucky me to have twenty-one students who still want to learn--and smell good at the same time.

I Will Stop and Pick Him Up

You know the Sunday School song....that one where you roll your arms in a spinning motion to simulate forward movement down a road and you sing "If a brother's in the road, I will stop and pick him up...... if a sister's in the road I will stop and pick her up....if a sinner's in the road I will stop and pick him up...and we won't tag along behind."

But, "if the Devil's in the road"--go ahead and sing along with me--"I will run right over him." Kids always loved to perform that last verse, revving up their "engines" to stomp out evil. And that's a good thing.

The trick is this. How do we know when someone is evil or just down and out? Literally, how do we know when to pull the car over, roll down the window, and offer assistance?

I have two daughters. I teach driver ed. I have insisted through the years that such actions might not be prudent; in other words, "DON'T do it--do not stop and pick up anyone!"

But I did last week. And I still have no idea if this person was a devil in disguise or a sinner in need of help--but I do know he was a person in need.

Here's the scenario: it's 1:30 in the afternoon, it's rainy and foggy, and there's a guy on the side of Highway 180 leaning up against a road sign. I notice him but drive by. I keep driving. I keep hearing that song in my head, and other thoughts that remind me I often talk a big talk about humanity and our responsibility to search for ways to help, talking passionately about not waiting until it slaps us in the face. So, two miles down the road I turn around. My justification (if one is needed because at times it is just to reassure people that I am not crazy) was that (1) it is daylight, (2) the weather is cold and miserable and only going to get worse, (3) I am only eight miles out of the nearest town, and (4) I can so I should. However, I am glad that I can pray and drive at the same time because I did.

The man needed to go east, but I was headed west. But, at this point he didn't have too many options so he threw his bag in the back seat, I invited him to sit in the front--muddy boots and all on my new car floor mats--and the turnaround took us back to Lamesa, Texas. In that eight-mile stretch, he told me what may or may not have been his true story.......his mother had died, he had no car but had caught a ride to Roswell for the funeral, he was a Christian, and that he had $20. Not that I needed the explanation. He just felt the need to tell me.

We drove to the Budget Inn where I got him a room for one night. He had the routine down, I must say, and filled out the registration card quickly and efficiently. It struck me as I drove off to my original destination that I did not ask him his name--nor did I look at the card when he wrote it. He was just the brother in the road, I guess.

Now, this isn't about a noble deed. What is noble about doing what we are supposed to do? Did he scam me? Maybe. I just know his physical appearance most definitely indicated a life of neglect (neglect perhaps due to mental issues or neglect due to financial ones). His teeth and his vision were in pitiful condition, and I would venture a pretty solid guess that he was about my age. Did I base my decision on helping him strictly on that sad appearance? Don't think so although admittedly sometimes I do.

Altruism--is it ever pure? I don't know. The motive for good deeds is a slippery slope. At some point, we all have had a reason--be it good or manipulative--for why we help others: "earning" our way to heaven, tax deductions, involvement in community affairs, trying to earn a merit badge, making a resume or college application look better, etc. The bottom line is that sometimes stuff just needs to get done. A man does not need to be sitting on the side of the road in freezing temps. Do something. Maybe I should have called the county sheriff and probably would have had it been dark. But do something.

As powerful as anything he ever said, Jesus spoke these words in Matthew 25 when talking about the final judgment. People, he said, will ask when did they ever see Jesus hungry or thirsty or needing clothes or sick? When?
"We never had the chance to do that for you, Lord!"
"Whatever you did not do for one of the least of these, you did not do for me."

Maybe I did give Jesus a ride last week. The muddy footprints are there on my floor mats to prove it.

Do re mi fa so la ti.............

One of the best parts about being a veteran schoolteacher is that it is temptingly fun to throw caution to the wind. Playing music in my classroom--sometimes LOUD music--is an example of such behavior.(I suspect that if my principal walked past my room and heard the Black-Eye Peas singing "One Tribe" he might ask to see my credentials.)

This semester my 21 Sixth Grade munchkins receive a state quarter when they can answer three questions correctly about the Song of the Day. The questions run from simple matters such as name the artist or guess the song's title, but sometimes I challenge their young minds with the deep stuff: "What is an Okie from Muskogee?"

Music is that language they all speak--trust me, they don't enjoy speaking English grammar all that much as is evidenced by that last test we took on prepositions. But, when I give them the lyrics to Johnny's Cash's ballad "Give My Love to Rose" they can spot the adjectives and adverbs a mile away. Go figure.

 

They have listened to downloads on my I-Phone of new young artists such as Frances Battistelli. But, they have also been exposed to a REAL record....an LP of the Dukes of Dixieland (one young man knew the answers to the questions on that one because his granddad had the same album.)  Classical, Michael Jackson, New Age Enya, movie soundtracks, classic country--and next week I'll play some Charlie Gore. That's my cousin's son who writes and sings his own material.

Kids relate to music. Certainly they have their tastes, but I'm a firm believer that their tastes can be broadened. It's all about presentation.  So, at 11:20 a.m. each day, right before we start our study hall and AR reading time, we either put on the CD, pop in the I-Phone to the music adapter, or open up the turntable and dust off the records. They mark their answers and await the results.

My favorite moment comes when I hear them ask to play the song again or when I hear them ask to listen to music while they work the remainder of the period.

That's music to my ears.