Hot, Cool, Rad

One of the tragedies of my childhood (aside from the fact that I actually used the word “rad”) is: I never owned a pair of jelly shoes. Oh, those glittering confections of webbed plastic! Recently, I discovered my friend Claire was also denied this most basic Token of Coolness, and we commiserated together. Apparently I felt so deprived and so driven still to attain the pinnacle of Coolness that my wildest first grade daydreams were devoted to the accumulation of jelly shoes and all things fluorescent (because anything fluorescent was also Certifiably Cool):

In retrospect, dear parents, I accept that you were merely safeguarding the best interests of my feet and pride by refusing me a pair of coveted jelly shoes. I accept that you, mes parents, stood like firm stanchions amid the crashing surf of elementary school fads. I know that you did this out of love for me, because you knew that one pair of jelly shoes would eventually lead to me looking like a radioactive isoDope (ref. above journal entry).

Nevertheless – it was, clearly, a bitter pill to swallow.

*CUT!*

Meredith laughs out loud for a long, long time.

It Will Make Perfect Sense

Children find joy in the nonsensical. They can create, unbound by the strictures of the adult mind.

I spent an evening a few weeks ago with a wonderful family from my church and played with their little daughter M while waiting for dinner. M showed me proudly a map she had drawn that day (studded with many huge swimming pools, of course) and said, “I thought we could have a pretend adventure.”

So we played pretend, and M said, “How about I’m your puppy and you’re my owner.”

I did as instructed, taking stage directions from my puppy:

“And then I ate some alphabet soup, and pretend it made me a talking puppy!”

Puppy talks. Cue me:

“What!? How did you become a talking puppy?!” (Crucial to act like she hadn’t just told me the answer to this.)

“I ate some alphabet soup, and the soup went to my tummy and the letters went to my head!”

Well, it makes perfect sense to the child mind.

I love being reminded of what the child mind is like, how its medium is imagination and its ingredients fairy tales, and how it delights to create the surprising. I think I might need to look at life this way while I’m waiting for God. He, too, acts – and exists – outside the realm of human sense. When I’m searching for straight blueprint lines, I forget that His thoughts are not my thoughts, and His ways not my ways.

I succumb easily to the temptation to say, “But it doesn’t make sense what you’re doing, God!”

I need to stop looking for the rational. Because God doesn’t create His adventures that way. And at the end of mine, if I were to ask Him, “How did you do that?!” I imagine His answer would be similar to the talking puppy’s: “The soup went to my tummy and the letters went to my head.”

And it will make perfect sense, then.

“For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways,” declares the LORD.

~Isaiah 55:8

Best Friends For Never

Yesterday I stumbled upon an article in The New York Times online titled “The End of the Best Friend.” The article describes the efforts of certain educators to monitor friendships and “discourage anything that hints of exclusivity.” Apparently, The Best Friend has become “unhealthy” in our Tolerance-worshipping society. One New York summer camp even employs “’friendship coaches’…to help every child become friends with everyone else.”

Ah, yes, that is the goal, is it not? Everyone being friends with everyone. A sterilized emotional world in which toes are never trampled, feelings never hurt.

“’I don’t think it’s particularly healthy for a child to rely on one friend,” said Jay Jacobs, the camp’s director. “If something goes awry, it can be devastating. It also limits a child’s ability to explore other options in the world.’”

How interesting. Is not a child’s choice of friend an integral part of ”exploring options”? And where do these programmed relationships leave those – like myself – who by nature are not social butterflies? Who flourish in small groups and one-on-one interactions? Will the disappearance of The Best Friend indeed eradicate bullying and cliques – in a word, pain? The logic in this thinking is wrong on multiple levels, but for one, preference does not necessarily equal exclusivity and neither does forced social diversity necessarily result in “courtesy, respect, and kindness to all”.

What about the Bible – are we not commanded to refrain from showing favoritism? Yes, we are – within the context of showing love to the Body of Christ. The Bible also clearly promotes close – not superficial – friendships. In fact, Proverbs 18:24 says that “a man of many companions may come to ruin, but there is a friend who sticks closer than a brother.”

The educators referenced in the Times article miss the opportunity to teach that we can show preference without being cliquish. We can love all while at the same time only opening our hearts to a few.

But how can they teach what they have not known? The article reflects a longing for an acceptance deeper than mere social inclusion. Dear brothers and sisters in Christ, we are called to exemplify love to a culture so desperate for it that its adults, acting from a history of pain, will attempt to clone it in the test tubes of childhood.

You’re Not in Kindergarten, Part 1

That’s right – if you’re reading this, you’re not in kindergarten. You have graduated from the age of cubby holes and finger painting, passed on from the era of bringing your teddy bear Felicia to show-and-tell and eating Goldfish at snack time. Wait – I still eat Goldfish for snack, so scratch that last one. But you get my point. My previous posts will I hope convey my love of children and childhood; however, there are certain things we should outgrow.

My encounters with the general public over the past few weeks (really, over the past few years) have convinced me of the need for a review of elementary etiquette. So, let’s review:

A. Don’t Tattle

Sure, there are a few exceptions (the “hey, my neighbor is smoking pot” kind of exceptions), but for the most part tattling still isn’t cool. Remember how it wasn’t cool in kindergarten? Newsflash – it sounds even whinier and dumber when you’re 40. Example: your homeowners association sends you a violation letter for improper storage of trash can. You call the management company and say, “Yeah, hi, um you guys sent me a letter about my trash can? Well, I’VE BEEN KEEPING MY TRASH CAN BY THE STREET FOR 15 YEARS!!! And why didn’t you send a letter to that house on the corner with the trailer parked in the driveway?! I know that’s against the covenants but y’all never do anything about that…” See? It sounds juvenile and no, this is not you standing up for your rights or anything noble like that – this is you tattling.

B. Don’t Whine When You Don’t Get Your Way

Wow – huge one. A tough lesson, learning to accept the word “no” from an authority figure. No, you cannot have that popsicle. No, you cannot bite people. No, you are not allowed to play on the roof. But let’s face it – your mom was right. Life isn’t fair, so if you don’t get your way, deal with it.

At some point in life, you may want to have a pool party at your community pool from 2-4 on Saturday, but the management company may tell you that pool parties are only allowed from 10-12. You might not want to have your party from 10 to 12, so you might request an exception to the guest policy so you can have a pool party during non-pool party hours. You may be told that an exception cannot be granted. You might start going on and on about how the rules are ridiculous and how you’ve been frustrated with the little “kings” running the neighborhood for a long time, and you may make the person on the phone repeat what they’ve already told you, just in case they maybe didn’t mean it – “So, you’re telling me that (fill in the blank)?!?!?!” Yes, I am. And this is whining. We could  condense what you’ve just said to, “But that’s not faaaaaaaair!! Come oooon-nAH! – pleeeeez!? Aw this is so stupid. Stupid rules…muttermutterSTUPIDmuttermutter.”

B1: Don’t Threaten When You Don’t Get Your Way

This post is getting long, so let me end with this. When you were 7, maybe it worked if you told your brother that if he didn’t play Legos with you then you weren’t going to share your new Ninja Turtle with him. Or whatever. But now that you are – at least in terms of age – an adult, threats such as “I’m going to call the state representative Robert Burr” or “I’m going to call Channel 11 News RIGHT NOW!” don’t make you sound scary. The same goes for what I fondly refer to as The Pocket Attorney Threat: “Oh, yeah? Well, I’ll be contacting my attorney!!!” Pocket Attorney is ineffective and reminds me a plastic desk toy.

 And he/she makes you sound like a kindergartener.

Happy Kisses

As a little girl, I feared the normal kid things, like: Roman chariots attacking and burning Portland, the house catching on fire, the open closet door at night, getting the chicken pox, getting the flu, burglars, being bombed (we lived by the airport during Desert Storm), the creepy basement with the dark doorway leading who knew where. I slept with slippers on my feet in case there were foot-loving bugs in the bed. Each night I scrupulously cocooned myself with stuffed animals, making sure the side near the scary crack between the bed and the wall was well defended.

It didn’t help that I had the misfortune to attend one really horrible public school for 3 months, during which time I was scarred by the librarian’s ghost story readings. After hearing one story in particular, I added an extra level of protection at night  – there now could be no empty space behind my head.  Thanks to that librarian, my imagination introduced a new ghost to my bedroom’s cast of characters: a pale, wailing woman behind the headboard, rocking….rocking….and somehow, with a pillow helmet, I was safe from her.

For me, night was the time for monsters. Even when bribed I refused to sleep with my back to the door. A witch’s hand might creep slowly up over the edge of the bed to snatch me while my back was turned…or worse – Something Scary might come through the door, so I needed to be watching. 

This was why Dad instituted the Happy Kiss tradition. After I was tucked in with the lights out, I hugged Sarah Doll and waited. Not afraid as long as the hall light was on. That meant Daddy was still awake, still protecting me. And in a little while he would come to check on me and give me one last kiss before going to bed – the Happy Kiss. How comforting to see his familiar teddy bear frame softly shadow the doorway. A memory I can almost reach out and touch…almost.

Eventually I became Too Grown Up for Happy Kisses, but I never outgrew my fears. I find in a spiritual sense I am still afraid to turn my back on the door of my life. I struggle to trust my Father to keep watch over it, to trust Him when He tells me everything that crosses the threshold does so only because He allows it to. And sometimes all seems total darkness; the comforting light seeping under the door isn’t there. I see no evidence of His presence. Is He sleeping? Maybe I need to make sure He’s awake? Is He really keeping me safe?

But unlike my earthly Dad, my heavenly Father neither slumbers nor sleeps. His faithful assurances of love and protection I could never outgrow. He is watching, so I can rest.

“For darkness is as light to you…” Psalm 139:12

Looking Through Prisms

This morning, the Adult Meredith is embarrassed that I used the word “rainbow” in yesterday’s post. She says it’s silly. Why is it silly? She can’t really say. But Little Meredith thought it was a great word, and she used it in almost every journal entry from 1989:

“I have rainbow crystals in my window. When the sun shines through them, they make little rainbow spots on the wall. I like to watch them dance.”

“I have some sharpened crayons. I also have some new headbands that are rainbow colors.”

“Today I found my pony, with her glittering stars and moon and her curly horns. She had rainbow hair with all different colors. My favorite.” (No, really?).

I became a BIG fan of Lisa Frank.

I “wrote” my first journal while sitting on the edge of my bed in my pajamas, telling Mom and Dad what I wanted to say because I couldn’t write yet. The result is an unselfconscious freedom that is often…OK, it’s often silly…and even lapses into a completely different language sometimes. Example:

“My little hat/Is so decat/As sodas from amoda/Parret from pioda moda/In dosa hair.”

But really – is it really so silly simply to be who you are? To be blissfully unconcerned about What Other People Think about your voice? And most wonderfully – not to care what you think about your voice?

I want to while away a February afternoon at the kitchen table again, pretending to be an inventor with water and food coloring, watching the plumes of red and blue and yellow and green plop, curl and feather in the glass. I’ll end up with all the same color, olive green and black, and I’ll be happy with that.

This blog is partly an experiment in learning to use the voice God gave me, the one He put in me infinitely before I was a fuzzy flicker on an ultrasound. Because I spent 20 years forgetting the things I knew at the kitchen table, and it turns out they were important. So I’m going to mix my colors, and I won’t care if I end up with olive green in the end, because

olive green is beautiful.

Plays Well With Words

I love words. I once told my parents that words were my toys. Sadly I suppressed the little girl in me as I grew up, and I miss her. She looked at the world and didn’t see parking lot dirt in plastic Superbowl cups, goldenrod, willow bushes. She saw tea in a china cup (but mom didn’t), gold leaf confetti, secret rooms and leafy passages.

She was right about words. They, like toys, are bright. They are all the colors in the crayon box. Words sparkle, build, tumble, sing. They bring a purple-geranium pop to a boring porch railing.

But now, being not 6 but 26, I know that words are not always like toys. Sometimes they break or cut or slap or topple the tower of blocks just when you’ve built it higher than ever. Sometimes they pinch the corners of your eyes with hot tears; or they dig a dark hole for you to hide in.

The reason for today’s post is to remind myself and anyone reading that words are powerful – even one can conjure an ethereal mind picture complete with subtlest blending of shades and colors that fades around the edges of memory. And it’s refreshing in a world of adult thoughts and adult words to play for a moment:

Rainbow

Rainbow is walking into the ice cream shop at the farm when I’m 6, and I see the paper ice cream cones hanging from the ceiling, and the air is sweet-cold and I ask dad if I can please, just this once, order the bubble gum kind. Rainbow is the thick, perfect crust of sprinkles on top of the cone and feeling the tinyness of each one on my tongue…

Play with me!

Oscar the Bulldog

Deap breath – begin.

This blog is me stepping out of my comfort zone.

It’s like this:

When I was 6 or 7, when we lived in The Brown House, I was playing in the back yard. Suddenly a bulldog named Oscar materialized out of the woods. He might as well have been the Grim Reaper, because he occasioned my first near-death – so I believed – dog experience.

I looked up and saw the dog. I immediately stopped playing and started screaming. Cue mass kindergarten panic as my two younger brothers and our friends J & L also saw the dog, also screamed and ran. At the front door we had minor problems actually getting inside because we formed a small pushing glob and couldn’t pull the door open. Thankfully, Mom came to our rescue.

But for some reason I now forget, I ended up being the one to slip carefully out the side door so Oscar wouldn’t see and sneak over to Ginny in The Red House to borrow a rope. For Mom to tether Oscar. Meaning, he was not on a leash, but sitting tamely in the yard – where he might Get Me!

Starting a blog is for me like that moment of stepping out, the suspense of not knowing what will happen after that.

Another deep breath.

What happened was that Oscar the Bulldog became a story - he was told and retold, shaped into a perfect story bead.

I guess what I’m saying is: each step I’ve taken in these past 20 years has led to a story. Like how I saved the world by borrowing the rope that tied Oscar to the tree that time when I was 6. So I’m going to take this step and share my thoughts and my life with you, because I believe that my necklace of stories is a tiny strand of the Big Story: how God so loved the world by nailing his Son to a tree.

And because I want you to know that Story, I will tell you mine.