If you are a mom, then you probably had some sort of “day” yesterday. Maybe breakfast in bed? some flowers? a nap? kids abstaining from arguing? Maybe you also needed to fit in time to celebrate your own mother and/or mother-in-law, too? Continue reading “An Overdue Mother’s Day Gift “
Sometimes an offhanded remark sticks like super glue. Though the person who said it probably didn’t give it much thought, the person it’s being said to does. Continue reading “Fearfully and Wonderfully Made”
Long ago I dated a man who had two kids who—to put it diplomatically—were not exactly well-behaved. On the occasions that we all went to a restaurant, I received looks from other diners that communicated “control your screaming banshee children.” Of course, our relationship was young enough that it wasn’t my place to discipline his kids, so I endured the judgmental stares uncomfortably. Continue reading “But the Greatest of These Is Love”
I took my mom to the bank drive thru the other day. I think these mainly still exist for people in my mom’s generation—though having the little canister get sucked up into the tube is pretty cool. The transaction turned out to be very frustrating because the tellers didn’t see something they should have and ended up treating us rather poorly.
My mom was…ticked. She wanted me to get the teller’s name and complain. I told her to take a breath and let it go. We have bigger fish to fry. But it took her a while to get past it. (Actually, I think given the chance, she’d still give the teller an earful.)
I know I can be guilty of the very same kind of misspent energy, and I bet you can admit to the same. While forgiving little slights isn’t too hard, there are times where it’s just easier to steam at the injustice.
And then there are the bigger fish that do indeed need frying. The kinds of hurts that make it even harder to let go and offer forgiveness.
But no matter how big or small the “fish,” we should always strive to forgive, and here are my ten great reasons why…
Of course, this by far isn’t a definitive discourse on the merits of forgiveness, but I hope that you have found a little something here to remind you how key forgiveness is to a healthy life. And if you didn’t and instead feel like this has been a waste of your time, I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me!
There were some inspiring acceptance speeches given at last night’s Oscars. From Patricia Arquette to Graham Moore, several recipients chose to speak their hearts, and it made the very long telecast that much more compelling.
John Legend and Common’s performance of “Glory” was absolutely beautiful, and when they accepted the Oscar for Best Original Song, their words spoke to my heart. Common recalled performing the song at the Edmund Pettus Bridge in Selma, Alabama and how the bridge was “built on hope, welded with compassion, and elevated with love for all human beings.” Powerful and eloquent.
In 2015, we still need to cross that bridge. We have not yet made it to the Promised Land.
Back in 2013, I wrote a post titled “My Problem with Tolerance.” Though it is neither powerful nor eloquent, I am sharing it again here because it expresses my thoughts on one of the things I think we need to acknowledge if we are ever going to completely cross that bridge.
Don’t you think it’s time?
Please note: this post may have an idea or two that you are not comfortable with, along with an extreme overuse of quotation marks and italics. There may also be some rambling. Proceed at your own risk.
I have an issue with the notion of “tolerance” as a way of coexistence.
When I hear people who are “in favor of tolerance,” I wince a bit. Why?
Here’s my issue: tolerance, by way of definition is a capacity to endure pain or hardship…sympathy or indulgence for differing beliefs…the act of allowing something…the allowable deviation from a standard.
Tolerance implies “permission” from an “authority” or “sympathy” for the different. I find it condescending.
I don’t want tolerance. I need acceptance.
Now, for me, there are times the word tolerance is spot on. For instance, I will use it with my son (“I will not tolerate your using the dog like a wheelbarrow”) because I am an authority figure (most days) for him, trying to set healthy boundaries. Other instances where this word makes perfect sense is in not tolerating abuse of others or the breaking of a law. As the definition goes, these things deviate beyond the standard. I have no issues with not tolerating pedophiles or rapists or anyone else who hurts another.
But it’s not up to me to tolerate another person’s race, religion, age, national origin, marital status, sexual orientation…or any other kind of law-abiding “type.”
It is not mine to offer “sympathy” for what might be different from me. Who am I to tolerate another person’s nationality? And on the flip, who is tolerating mine? Should I breathe a sigh of relief that I don’t hear so many mafia jokes now that The Sopranos is off the air?
To me, it all boils down to Differentism. It’s the one ism that encompasses all the other discriminating isms—because all of them are about being different in one way or another. And what is at the core of Differentism? Fear. Fearing that which is different from you. (Or that you at least think is different from you.)
To me, it is fear that causes so much pain.
Cultures that oppress women and deny girls an education…what on God’s green earth would be a legitimate reason for wanting to keep someone uneducated? Why wouldn’t we be cheering for the support of raising up more women like the young Malala Yousafzai? The more we educate everyone, the better our overall world will be. Why would anyone want to keep another in the dark if not for fear?
Of course, the answer might also be “hatred,” but that is rooted in fear, too, isn’t it?
We fear what we don’t know or understand.
The one thing I see that helps overcome this is…learning. Talking. Connecting. Striving to understand. Realizing we are more alike than different. And while that which is different may not be our cup of tea, it’s not ours to throw stones at, either. Or to “put up with.”
As an American, I am blessed to be a part of a country that reflects the faces of many nations. Unless you are a Native American, your ancestry will cross at least one border. It’s a huge part of what makes us who we are. Our country is not a pedigree but a mutt (and if you’re a dog fan, you know that pedigrees can be sickly and quirky due to keeping the blood so “pure,” but mutts are strong and full of personality). Why are there those of us who see it as “us vs them”? We are both!
But I don’t want America to be a melting pot. You know why? Because it takes and makes everything into one thing—it boils it all down and blends it all up. I want America to be a delicious salad with all sorts of ingredients tossed together that enhance the whole dish. Together better than apart. But not all homogenized–still with the qualities that make us who we are. That shouldn’t just be the American Way, but the way of the world…at least according to me.
We don’t need to tolerate one another. We need to understand, love, support, help, and even celebrate one another.
If you’re still reading this rambling manifesto, go pour yourself a glass of wine (or beer. or vodka. or one of each. or more). You deserve it. But I hope that my tossed salad offers some food for thought about the nuances of the words we use when we talk about one another.
I don’t want you to tolerate me. I hope that you can accept me as I am: a goofy, flawed, work-in-progess.
And I’ll do the same for you.
This is not a downer post—trust me—but…have you ever thought about your own funeral? How you might want it to go…what songs to have played…maybe favorite Bible verses or quotes…or perhaps final words you might want to impart?
Recently my husband shared with me that an old friend of his just went through the death of her mother. What her mom planned was, well…stick with me.
Having personally been through the planning process for a loved one where nothing was planned—and therefore that much harder—I must admit I do have a folder labeled “death planning” in my file cabinet. It’s nothing too crazy, just a place where I might put a song or idea in order to help those who have to plan my funeral know what I would like. While it may sound morbid, it’s really a loving act for those left behind.
Now, the mom of my husband’s friend took it one step further. Well…maybe several steps. I will refer to her as Pearl because I think she is quite a gem. She decided that she wanted to put a little spin on her life and spice it up a bit, and she was very specific in her design of it. Pearl crafted her obituary to include an imaginary Latin lover as her “lifelong companion.”
It was like the George Glass to beat all George Glasses. (You absolutely should get this reference, but in case you don’t…Brady Bunch…Jan’s made-up boyfriend. Sigh. I shouldn’t have to tell you these things, people.)
While some in her family were mortified (pun intended), Pearl’s daughter (my husband’s friend) was her accomplice and thought the idea was hysterical. During the wake, word had it that the gentleman was there, but…he was always in another room. Even the priest was in on it and mentioned the man in his eulogy.
As you might imagine, this put quite a twist on the mood of the event. According to what my husband’s friend told him, it was the talk of the wake, and there was much laughter for those who knew the truth.
I love that Pearl knew how she wanted her time of remembrance spent. You might feel that it is inappropriate, but…I think it’s a riot. In a way, she shares the same sentiment as Christina Rossetti’s poem “Remember” (which may or may not be in my death planning folder):
Remember me when I am gone away,
… Yet if you should forget me for a while
And afterwards remember, do not grieve:
… Better by far you should forget and smile
Than that you should remember and be sad.
Clearly, Pearl knew how she wanted to be remembered, and it wasn’t with tears and sadness, but with mystery and amusement.
She had the last word.
And what a word it was. What she left behind, after a life well-lived, was an unforgettable story for her loved ones to retell and laugh at all over again. What a gift…and what a telling example of the spirit in which she lived her life.
I don’t know what my “last word” will be or if I’ll even have one, but if I do, I hope that it reminds loved ones and friends not to mourn but to rejoice that I have gone Home…and even better if I can do so and leave them smiling or laughing in remembrance.
I didn’t know Pearl, but I wish I had. She really knew how to throw a party.
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