Post 100

Like The Baby’s school, many kindergarten classes celebrate the 100th Day with special activities centered around the theme 100.  The Baby is my fourth kindergartner.  We’ve worked hard to muster the same enthusiasm for her journey as we did for our first child.  I confess that quest has been uneven as we simply are not, and can not pretend to be, the same parents three kids and seven years later.  However, serendipity intersected her 100 Day countdown with my 100 posts milestone, and I am newly baptized with the novelty of the Benchmark 100.

The Baby’s teacher has planned a week long celebration to commemorate their 100th Day of School.  Mrs. asserts that there is just too much fun to accomplish in one day!  The Baby will skip count, sort, read books, share 100 Day items and write stories to amass in a class 100th Day of School book.

I thought it might be fun to think of some ways broken hallelujah can join the party. BLOGs can celebrate 100 too!

Many blogs have more than 100 posts, and are way more clever than this, (See my blog roll) but bh features special activities centered around the 100 theme. Here are some suggestions on how YOU can celebrate too!

	First thing, pull up your Facebook page and mark this 100th bh post by adding brokenhallelujah.org to your page (if you haven’t yet).
	Next, follow me on Twitter, @jaelBH.  P.S.  It would thrill me if someone _other than The Husband or my BFF_ would send me 100 XOs.
	Read a post you have yet to read, or reread a post you liked and leave a new comment.  Extra credit given to new comments that are also 100 words in length.
	Read the first 100 words of a post backwards.
	Skip-Couting by 10: Enjoy 10 sips of wine, read a melancholy post, and laugh at me.
	See if you can eat 100 Cheetoes before you finish reading the About page.
	Skip counting by 25: Identify 4 bh core ironies.
	In no more than 100 seconds, find three things we packed for our Virginia Beach trip.
	Behavior Count/Skip Count by 10 hybrid: What are the Top 10 most often words used in broken hallelujah?
	Skip Count by 25: See how fast you can find 4 typos.
	Identify your favorite artist’s version of “Broken Hallelujah”.
	Skip Count by 25: Consider 4 things that are possible for your life that are not currently in place.
	Skip Count by 5: List 20 things that you adore about yourself.
	Snuggle your baby(ies) for 100 totally unplugged minutes.
	Skip Count by 10: Sing loudly in the shower for at least 10 minutes.
	Skip Count by 5: Mani/Pedi, baby!  You deserve it.
	Remind yourself 100 times over the next week how much value you bring to relationships.
	Make yourself a playlist of your favorite 100, 25, 20, or 10 songs.  Go for a long walk at your favorite spot and lift your voice in Praise!

Well I heard there was a secret chord
That David played, and it pleased the Lord
But you don’t really care for music, do ya?
Well it goes like this
The fourth, the fifth
The minor fall and the major lift
The baffled king composing Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah

Well Your faith was strong but you needed proof
You saw her bathing on the roof
Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew you
she tied you to her kitchen chair
And she broke your throne and she cut your hair
And from your lips she drew the Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah

Well baby I’ve been here before
I’ve seen this room and I’ve walked this floor
I used to live alone before I knew ya
I’ve seen your flag on the marble arch
Love is not a victory march
It’s a cold and it’s a broken Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah

Well there was a time when you let me know
What’s really going on below
But now you never show that to me do you?
And remember when I moved in you?
And the holy dove was moving too
And every breath we drew was Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah

Well maybe there’s a God above
But all I’ve ever learned from love
Was how to shoot somebody who’d OUT DREW YA
And it’s not a cry that you hear at night
It’s not somebody who’s seen in the light
It’s a cold and it’s a broken Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah

Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah

Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah

His Legacy Perseveres

Three years ago today, Steven John Metsker, 49, passed from this life.  He left behind a wife, Alison, and his two daughters, Sarah-Jane and Emma-Kate.  His love of his family was his North, heart, home and compass.  Though his formidable talents enabled him to write books, master his profession, deliver value to his colleagues and clients, and serve as an eager, able and wise mentor as reflexively as most of us draw breath, his passion in life was to breathe Light into the dreams and talents of his community.  As such, Steve supported Alison’s passion for Maine, travel and cooking, and delighted in camping trips and school excursions with his daughters.  He was an especially present father, and foreshadowed the shifts in relationship that would evolve as his girls moved into their teenage years with relish.  Unlike the wary concern of many parents, Steve, looked forward to figuring it all out with girls.  He opined that he was aware that there would be difficulties ahead, but that he was certain that it would all be resolved because of the strength of their relationships thus far.  He spoke with deep confidence about their relational base, the homes they had carved for each other in their hearts.

Steve loved figuring things out and enjoyed an intellectual base that would have intimidated the rest of us were he not so generous and humble.  Truth be told, he was something of a genius with language.  He worked his swift mojo with computers as well as puzzles, and woe be unto the poor soul on the opposite side of a gaming board.  He’d never make an opponent feel bad about it, but there was no winning a game of words, logic or strategy against Steve.  He respected people too much to simply let them win, and yes, he really was just that brilliant.  He was the kind of man who got up every morning at 5 a.m. to work until his family rose at 7 a.m., so that he could develop his interests, author his books, and study new trends in trade journals, yet would be available for family time. He balanced his excellence and intellectual appetites with service.  He was an ardent supporter of his wife, daughters and co-workers, especially those colleagues fortunate enough to work on his teams.

A signature phrase that Steve shared with such teammates was a single word of encouragement, commonly repeated, that became something of a mantra within his firm, “Persevere.”  With a simple nod, shoulder clasp, or characteristic smile, when Steve said, “Pesevere,” it meant more than be persistent, or refuse to stop.  When Steve said, “Pesevere,” he asserted his complete faith in the person to whom he spoke.  When he said it, it became a talisman, a promise that the solution sought was possible, and that the party working the puzzle had the mind, heart and pencil sharp enough to excavate the solution.  This was Steve’s essence as a husband, father and mentor, it was his passion in life to breathe Light into the dreams and develop the talents of others.  More than a brilliant intellectual, Steve was smart enough to realize there is no higher degree of mastery than to support others as they stretch toward their goals. He steadfastly partnered others in their journeys to pursue the calls upon their lives despite difficulty or obstacles.  Steve modeled value and perseverance.

Steve was my husband’s best friend.  My husband doesn’t love many or often.  His reserved nature is balanced by fierce loyalty.  Once you are in with my husband, you are all the way in.  My husband loves as deeply and well as he does selectively.  Above all else, my husband loved Steve Metsker .  This kinship was further seeded by an absolute respect for who Steve was as a husband, father and professional.  Steve was a daily picture of quality through relationships that my husband honored. Nothing prepared my husband for the gifts of Steve’s friendship or the grief of his death.  He was undone by both in turns.

The last time I saw Steve was in the hospital shortly before he passed.   During the visit, Steve and my husband chatted about work, critiqued movies and discussed audio book titles.  When it was time for us to leave, I challenged Steve to a family game night, qualified by the caveat that we did not have to face him in Trivia.  Among his final words to me were, “I want that.  I want all of that.  I want all of it, the games, the family night, those times.” As we walked to the door and looked back to extend our good nights, Steve waved at us both, nodded, and smiled his perfectly hopeful, completely encouraging, totally loving, perseverent smile.

Steve understood his situation and its potential impact.  Private communications he had evinced this.  He was clear, but chose to remain hopeful.  Steve dwelled in possibilities, a fairer House than Prose to gather Paradise.

Our thoughts have returned to him like magnets over the days, months, and now years since he left us.  He had called us to persevere, and in our own truths, and along our own paths, each of us has attempted to put our feet to that charge and walk it out as a way to continue to love him intentionally and connect with his character.  Over the span of time, I have been struck by how much more intensely spiritual a word persevere is than what I had originally heard as Steve coined it as a legendary, firm pledge.  As I have sat with it and partnered others who grieve Steve, I recognize his mantra is as much an oath of faith as it is a cry to continue onward.  To persevere is to accept the difficulties of a situation as a matter of course.  It demands we grok the darkness of despair, confusion and inertia that precedes epiphany, healing and movement.  It maintains that each of us is perfectly positioned to manage the dynamics in which we find ourselves immersed, because we innately intuit that we are simultaneously Provided with the resources, talents and ingenuity to surmount those challenges and reconcile growth.  To persevere is the pearl of great price.

As C.S. Lewis asserts, “The virtue of courage is a prerequisite for the practice of all other virtues otherwise one is virtuous only when virtue has no cost,” and Steve no more wished to pass when he did than did we.

He did not go gentle into that good night; he did rage, rage against the dying of the light.

That said, Steve died as he lived.

Courageously.

Well.

Aware.

A model of perseverance.

As certain as he was of potential outcomes, I contemplate the poetry of his charge to persevere.

He left us with this single call and the humble model of his excellent life.

I like to believe he knew how much he was loved and needed.

I like to believe he knew how much we would call upon his strength and example as we strove to persevere in the vacuum of his premature demise.

I honor how majestically Alison, Sarah-Jane and Emma-Kate have lifted each other, Faith, Light and Love to persevere.

Grace beyond Mercy, they vaulted their own brokenness to help us Rise.

I honor Steve’s family who celebrates his anniversary with tears and pedicures.

With pedicured and well muscled feet,  they deeply commit to walking out his legacy in their lives together.

We miss you, Steve.

We love you, buddy.

We persevere.

Well there was a time when you let me know
What’s really going on below
But now you never show that to me do you?
And remember when I moved in you?
And the holy dove was moving too
And every breath we drew was Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah!

Trophy

Last night 12 year-old boy comes home with a plastic trophy filled with candy after the school dance:

The Boy:  I won this.

The Mamma:  Really!  Wow!  How fun!  Was there a dance contest?

The Boy:  Uh.  No.  Cutest Couple.

The Mamma:  Couple of what?  Socks?  You didn’t wear gloves….

The Boy:  Cutest couple, <mumble, mumble that sounds suspiciously like, ‘You stupid, old woman,”> Cutest Couple, Mamma, not nicest pair.

The Mamma:  Oh. <The Mamma lowers head between legs and frantically breathes in-and-out of Chipolte take-out bag.> What do you mean couple? <She gasps breathlessly, after slowly lifting her head.>

The Boy:  I took K.  We were a couple.  Everybody voted.  We won.

The Mamma:  <From ground, The Husband checking carotid artery for pulse, croaking, not groking.> What exactly do you mean you took K?

The Boy: <Looking down at his mother as if she’s not only acting like a complete idiot, she has the IQ to match,> I texted her two weeks ago.  She was my date.

The Mamma:  <Unable to speak as The Husband frantically tosses Ativan down her throat as if candy from a Peez dispenser.> Hmmfff?

The Boy:  Yeah.  No big deal.  We were like very causal.  Meant nothing.  We were just, you know, the cutest couple.

**************************************************************************************************

Yes, it really happened.

Aspects of the conversation were changed to protect the innocent.

No, The Husband did NOT really medicate me.

Absolutely, I am way too immature to handle this.

Most days The Boy and I compete to see who can act the most 12.  I often win.  12 was one big year of pain and dysfunction for me.  I remember it vividly enough to have flashbacks.

Yet, it’s not like I shouldn’t have seen this coming…

When a series of events culminated to The Boy’s cellphone being confiscated for a couple of days, I can now look back at the encounter through a different lens.  When it happened, The Boy looks at me with such agony that it was as if I had chopped off his manhood.  He was mortified.  As we rarely have to consequence The Boy with anymore than a good talking to, I thought he was simply indignant that I went there… used my big, bad Mamma power and took his phone.

Come to find out when he got the phone back the morning before the dance, he had 17 messages waiting for him.  My boy like had to explain… I didn’t have my phone with me… I’m not ignoring you… We are still on for the dance… See you there….

Glory!

My son is old enough to have to manage dating situations and massage the esteem of girls.

<The Mamma lowers head between legs and frantically breathes in-and-out of Chipolte take-out bag desperately hoping that is the only part of girls he will ever-ever massage.>

The Husband’s out of town… where’s that Ativan bottle?

How calmly does the orange branch
Observe the sky begin to blanch
Without a cry, without a prayer,
With no betrayal of despair?

How calmly does The Mamma blanch
Observe The Boy’s strutting panache
With a righteous cry and much prayer,
With total and transparent despair…

There’s a blaze of light
In every word
It doesn’t matter which you heard
The holy or the broken Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah!

Sort & Polish

As many of you may recall, I am a wiper. I am lulled by the smell of Windex and the process of polishing the counter tops to a sparkly shine soothes me like hot tea with honey comforts a scratchy throat. I also like to sort and organize. There is more delicious pleasure for me to tidy one of the kids out-of-control sock drawers than eating a lollipop. Naturally I’d prefer to do both at once, but I’m just saying, if I had to choose, I’d pair those socks and line ’em up like soldiers in squads by color.

Tonight I found something more satisfying than wiping the kitchen counter after The Husband has made a pancake brunch for the babies. I finally yielded to The Husband’s prodding to categorize the blog. The process demanded that I review each post and sort it by category. It was the virtual equivalent of pairing socks, and prompted the same kind of relief that comes with ferreting a plank out of the corner of your own eye.

The experience was similar to dumping out the contents of a messy drawer onto the floor or watching 17 clowns jump out of a Volkswagon at a circus… Like how in the Big Top did I cram all that junk in there? It helped connect me to my own content as I organized it for easier reader use.

It makes me wish that I could as easily categorize myself.

How cool would it be if my emotions and behaviors came with a Mailbox…

If you wish to access The Mamma, Press 1.
If you wish to access The Wife, Press 2.
If you wish to access Hope & Growth, Press 3.
If you wish to access Blame, Worry or Offense, please stay on the line to find Forgiveness.
If you you hear someone shrieking mindlessly, disconnect immediately, that’s not me.

I categorize blog posts more cleanly than I behave.

My internal counter top is greasy.

If there’s a category for that epiphany, perhaps its Humbled.

There’s a blaze of light
In every word
It doesn’t matter which you heard
The holy or the broken Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah!

Top 10 Things I Do that I Don’t Want My Kids to Do:

1. Think girls are worth less than boys.

2. Believe Wheaties in an old Cool-Whip bowl is a great dinner.

3. Reject mistakes as part of the mastery cycle.

4. Judge fragile insides by the robust, outward appearance of others.

5. Lie awake at night wondering, “Why me?”

6. Consider the F-word clever because it can be every part of speech.

7. Opine school clubs and extra-curricular activities are a waste of time.

8. Say “Yes,” when the right answer is “No.”

9. Say “No,” when the right answer is “Yes.”

10. Employ anger as a versatile, default emotion.

Spit!

Wait!

I mistitled the list!

It should read: Top 10 Things My Mom Did That She Didn’t Want Me to Do.

And even though
It all went wrong
I’ll stand before the Lord of Song
With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah!

the Onion Makes Me Cry…

the Onion makes me cry again today with their post New parenting Books Sparks Outrage:  (Their satirically brilliant post below.)

New Parenting Book Sparks Outrage

Last week, Penguin Press published Amy Chua’s book Battle Hymn Of The Tiger Mother, which criticizes “Western” parenting and advocates an “Asian” approach that includes forbidding playdates and being highly critical of children in order to make them more successful. Here are some other tips from the book:

• Take your children to Chuck E. Cheese’s and let them play any game they choose, then make them watch as you burn their tickets
• Ice cream is a great motivator for kids; promise them that if they do everything you ask, they can have some when they turn 18
• Inform your child that televisions receive all of their power from flawless renditions of Brahms’ Violin Concerto in D
• Only let your children have a pet dog if they can tame the most rabid dog at the pound
• Should your child express interest in spending more time with his or her friends, simply pack up and move several hundred miles away
• To ensure academic excellence, inform your children that there is a mark higher than an A-plus and then shame them for failing to attain it
• Replace their frail little limbs with less fragile prosthetics
• Remember, you may have to put up with one or two suicides before you finally craft that perfect child you’ve always wanted

I love the clipped tonal quality of these outrageous suggestions. I imagine a stiff-lipped, speaker with the impeccable posture only genuine, Zen control can erect from the human spine. Her words intone this clearly elucidated smack from the diaphragm, like a Cambridge neurologist enunciates a prognosis. The tension is delicious, and unsavory enough to make  readers worry if they can get to the potty on time.

Anyone with a finger on the pulse of the media cycle knows Battle Hymn Of The Tiger Mother did more than strike a vein of controversy, it severed an artery. The blood spray has stained even the coolest of shirts. People are well beyond offended by Chua’s book, commentators are rabid and hysterical.  High pitched and raving, these percussive utterances spit from the throat though loose, moist lips that splatter saliva as rapidly as they shoot words of outrage like machine gun fire.

What exactly has our American, parental panties in such a bundle over this one? Why is everyone so offended?

Why Battle Hymn of The Tiger Mother Sparks Such Outrage

Penguin Press opened Pandora’s box last week with their release of Battle Hymn Of The Tiger Mother, by Yale University law professor, Amy Chua.  Certainly, Chau unapologetically details how she and her husband chose to raise their two daughters in “the Chinese way,” that emphasizes academic excellence and individual superiority over social engagements and extra curricular activities. However, the backlash of controversy in response to her book exposes the very insecure fish bellies of modern parents.  Here are some possible reasons our American, parental panties are in a bundle:

• We’re more like Ron White than Sartre.  Like yesterday we were snuggling on a beanbag chair naked, eating Cheetos, and we said, “Yeah.  We could make a baby.  How hard could it be?”
• My daughter is the Props Manager of her high school’s Drama Club.
• My daughter plays concert Kazoo.
• My 187 pound, 12 year-old daughter goes to the bathroom whenever she wants, usually during Oprah commercials.
• We wanted our 15 year-old daughter to play Carnegie Hall too, but she had to drop out of school to go to rehab before her baby is born.
• We’re going to get around to teaching our daughter Mandarin Chinese once she brings up her F in English.
• I don’t know which friend’s sleepover my daughter’s attending; she hasn’t been home since Friday morning.

I’ve told the truth, I didn’t come to fool you
And even though
It all went wrong
I’ll stand before the Lord of Song
With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah!

Headlines

Part of the rhythm of my daily behaviors include email, texting, Google, cnn.com, interacting with blogs and phone conversations.  I admit being more plugged in than some users, and far less than others.  Compared to The Husband, who also tweets, Facebooks and develops iPhone apps, I am a lightweight.  Round about Thursday last week, I wondered if I have become desensitized by my exposure to news stories.

Note that in my list of things I typically engage in during the day, TV was not among them.  I don’t watch local or national news broadcasts.  I realized years ago I had neither the schedule nor stomach for the pundits of media.  I hadn’t realized how little I had insulated myself from the dismal tone of national coverage. Like radiation mutates cells, has my attitude slowly distorted into ugly shades over time?

I’ve captured headlines since Thursday for your consideration:

31 Dead in Moscow Suicide Airport Bombing

31 confirmed dead and over 200 injured in a terrorist suicide booming in Moscow.

Steelers Versus Packer Super Bowl

NFL predicts record breaking sales for these two rival teams with zealously loyal fans.

You Know You’re An Extreme Parent If…

More information about Tiger moms, includes something of a check list to see if you are an extreme parent.  I failed. I think.  Help out on this one.  “You know you’re a great guide to your child if…”

Why do we care Julie Bowen, of the hit TV comedy Modern Family, shared a picture of herself breastfeeding her infant twins on Lopez Tonight?

Julie Bowen… Hot body on a hot show?  Certainly.  Her breastfeeding jugs (however lovely and life-giving to her suckling babies) worthy of a news story?  Not.

Why do Ugg boots cost $140-200 dollars?

These are boots that market ugly.  I don’t understand.

How can Don’t Ask, Don’t tell military expulsions cost $50,000 per expulsion.

Clearly, this begs the even more obvious puzzler, why are we still expelling soldiers, sailors, marines, and guards men on the grounds of homosexuality?

Woman versus Police Horse

Really?  Really?

What exactly makes Kat Von D a celebrity again?

Leather, body art and Reality TV, right?  Or is it the men on her arm?

Even if you like junk food, this year’s review of school lunches will trigger your gag reflex and convert you to wheat germ.

Tough Times for Men and Women in Blue

Please God, let it not be, we’ve become desensitized to cop killings.

I do not understand, but accept acts of unspeakable violence are part of our social fabric.

I do not like football, but concede millions of people are ardent fans.

I can not, however, understand why we’ve become a nation of celebrity-peeping Toms.

I do not believe our fiber has so dissolved that slapping police horses and killing cops is ubiquitous.

I reject this cynical bias.

_Stop_

I know the world is messy.

_Stop_

I know there are horrors enough in the dark to keep me up a lifetime of nights.

_Stop_

I know reports of such sells fear and ads.

_Stop_

I know nothing seems special compared to these suicidal-homicidal-psychotic-chicken-paste oozing-Packer-under-dogging-ugly-boot-lactating-horse-slapping-inked-out- nymphs-headlines.

_Stop_

I get that the neighborhood 7th grader who stuffed mail boxes and plans to collect old blankets and towels for SPCA animals this Saturday morning doesn’t play with the same panache .

I see why a surprise bridal shower for a soon-to-be-deployed-Army-doctor doesn’t compare to a hip check list that let’s you know if your helicopter parenting has escalated into extreme parenting that races your kids down a highway to nowhere.

I know, too, however that the only eternal commodity of this world is relationships.

Community service matters.
Surprise showers matter.
Calling your mom matters. Especially when you don’t want to and do anyway, because she really wants to connect with you.
Showing up matters.
More walking, less talking matters.

I don’t find recent headlines inaccurate as much as I suspect their motives.

They seek to incite, not to edify.

This is a bittersweet world, however, our potential to be of good use to each other bests our capacity to get it horribly wrong, and is less often the stuff of headlines.

As for me and my house, we look for reasons to believe that this is true.

Faith does not impair reason, it imbues Mercy.

I did my best, it wasn’t much
I couldn’t feel, so I tried to touch
I’ve told the truth, I didn’t come to fool you
And even though
It all went wrong
I’ll stand before the Lord of Song
With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah!

Vocabulary’s Eloquence

The Boy brought home this delicious vocabulary chart this afternoon.

It has sat next to my work station in the kitchen all night, and I have picked it up several times to simply admire its subtle eloquence.

I have had more interactive, geek fun with this simple chart than I care to confess here.

You all know about my sink fetish now, (see Verdicality Grooming if you don’t know what I mean and track down the references) and I had wanted to go at least a week before further discrediting myself. However, isn’t this chart simply elegant?

Ask me.
Come on,
ask me;
I know you want to know.

What  kind of twisted, geek gaming is to be had with a diagram of such subtle grace?

Ah, me… so much fun:

1. First, and obviously, a Mamma’s gotta see if she doesn’t know more of the definitions than the kid, right? Game on! Who cares if he’s in the seventh grade, and I am supposedly better educated, it’s competition hour, Baby!

__No. It’s not important. I am not going to tell you who won or how many I knew the first time. And unlike my son, I didn’t have time to preview the list before we fenced terms__

2. Aren’t you just drawn like a magnet seeks North, to write down as many words you know that fit the terms’ patterns? Challenge level players must recite lists alphabetically for points to count.

3. Submissions!  Certainly there are some juicy, grand terms not included in the chart!  List as many as you can.

4.  Emendations!  Clearly there are terms that made the cut that are just too on the chin.  Which such obvious bricks would you toss from the load?  Justify each answer with a Haiku.

5. Make word-chains sentences.  The only words in sentences must be terms in the same order as the graph and the sentences must make contextual sense.

What’s sad about my idea of fun this week, is that I have done each of these activities.

At least once,
if not more,
and others not listed,
and People,  I enjoyed it.

Words simply fascinate me.  I love their consistent flexibility.

I love their liquid and transformative natures.

I see words in a chart, and I don’t see bars, I greet freedom.

Words invite us to wander around Purple, regal fields of intentional Creation and render possibilities.

Language liberates captive ideas to bridge discovery and miraculous healings.

Well I heard there was a secret chord
That David played, and it pleased the Lord
But you don’t really care for music, do ya?
Well it goes like this
The fourth, the fifth
The minor fall and the major lift
The baffled king composing Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah!

Veridicality Grooming

So, yeah, my name’s The Mamma, and I’m a veridicalholic, and I’ve had accurate fact, based perceptions for 15 days.

<Hi, The Mamma.>

The reason I am at this Veridical Anonymous meeting is because I don’t want my issues to cause my kids problems.

At its core, veridicality means truthful or veracious.  Veridical testimony can be directly supported by concrete evidence.  Psychology operationally defines veridicality as the correct perception of an object, that is, the perception of an object that dovetails the object’s real (objective) properties as opposed to its (subjective) or interpretive connotations.  Furthermore, in the field of Psychology, veridicality also veers more toward the esoteric; that is to say, truthful,yes, but of or relating to revelation in dreams or hallucinations, etc. that appear to be confirmed in subsequent experience.

As a Mamma, my primary parental function boils down to grooming.

Who knew grooming had such veridicality context!?

I prepare and fix.
I cut and trim.
I mend and wash.
I wipe and polish.
I tend scrapes and breaks.

That’s the truth.  Veridicality extraordinare.

Every maternal duty I perform could be categorized as a grooming behavior.

I prepare meals and help children prepare their homework.  I cut their bangs and trim their nails.  I am also responsible for cutting the budget, trimming expenses, and getting the yard cut by someone. Anyone?  I mend socks and wash laundry.  I wash loads of laundry more endless than the seas.  I wipe noses and counters.  I polish nails and furniture.  I tend scraped knees and am something of a savant with a glue gun.  Can anything really break if there’s a glue gun and enough glue sticks in the house?  I mean, come on, I’ve got two.  Large, for industrial jobs, and petite, for jewelry and knick-knacks.  I know how to mend.

That’s truthful.

Veridicality.

However, honestly, it’s tough to keep objective the subjective work of relational grooming as a Mamma.

Yes, I prepare meals and help children prepare their homework.  I expect that, and whatever self-indulgent complaining I might do about it on the side, waxing poetic about the mind-numbing aspects of how much time it takes to plan the meals, write the shopping list, buy the food, pack the food in the car, unpack the food at home, prepare the meal, and clean up after the meals… and don’t even get me stared about Long-Term Research Projects the kids bring home every two weeks, it’s like I ALWAYS have my period on this type of cramp-inducing schedule!  Nonetheless, panty-liner in place, I am efficient in the realm of the physical demands of parental grooming.  Relationally, however, grooming becomes more of a maternal stretch.  How do I prepare my children for rejection?  How do I prepare myself to accept they will lie to me as I strive to prepare space for each of them to grow their own characters grated from the expectations set by our God, house, circle and world?  Why is it that when I must prepare to tell them that they alone are not able to attend the co-ed party at a friend’s house whose parents I don’t know that I all but have to wear Depends so I don’t have a situation panty-liners simply aren’t designed to cover?  Why is it when I prepare my heart to begin a new day with my babies, instead of it being flooded with rainbow colors of hope, like Love’s own Covenant, it prepares legalistic lists like the pharisees, like a spiritual fracture or OCD?

That’s truthful.

Veridicality.

What’s true?

Indeed, I am responsible for cutting the budget, trimming expenses, and getting the yard cut.  I expect that as a natural outcome of having a body, living with 4 children who also have bodies, and owning a home instead of a condo.  I expect nails and grass to grow back.  However, I am MUCH less gracious about mistakes or bad habits growing back.  Yep, I am a hypocrite too, but, dammit already, once I’ve done the soulful lecture, given the encouraging talk, metered the appropriate consequence and hugged the it’s-all-going-to-be-okay-hug, why does the errant behavior grow back?  Like I ever, ever, got frustrated at one of my kids that their nails grew too quickly, or their hair was too long?  Really?  Why doesn’t it feel the same?  It’s all just cutting and trimming, right?

That’s truthful.

Veridicality.

What’s true?

Yeah, okay, I only mend clothes in an emergency.  Like, if one of my kids is in serious love with something, or a Halloween costume goes kinky, or I have to wear something, then and only then, I mend clothes.  I have actually only mended 5 socks, and well, yes, they were just that special.  However, I wash more laundry than a lifetime, centurion insomniac has ever counted sheep.  I live with five other people.  Jeans with blown-out knees and dirty laundry are more common than colds in our house.  I do more loads of laundry in a week than toilets flush in this house.  Do the math.  The number is just that big.  Yet, I get frustrated if I have to have the same discussion over and over with one or more of the kids.  Like really, and those of you who are regular readers, this won’t surprise you. Really?  We have to talk about the litter box again?  And go over the chart or board or plan de jour?  Again?  Like, do you expect me to kill the cats or scoop the waste myself?  I don’t think so.  And then we all have to get over it again and mend relationship?  Running a marathon uphill is less cardiovascular.  Can’t I just tell my children what to do once, and the problem will be mended?  I have never complained that it’s time to give a baby a bath, or wash Baby Girl’s hair, or even wash out the sink.  I love to see and smell my kids squeaky clean.  Frankly, I am a bit of a freak about my sink.  I love to wash it, and don’t leave it wet.  I always dry it out with a cloth so it’s shiny.  Yep, I am just that sick.  Too bad it doesn’t translate when I am tasked to wash away angry words said by a confused adolescent or overtaxed husband.  Where’s my compulsion to wash when it’s time to clean grievance and forgive?  My track record simply isn’t as consistent there.

I am a recreational wiper.  Really, I wipe my kitchen counters as a go-to anxiety reducing strategy.  Yep, really.  I buy Windex in bulk.  I like how it smells more than a rich waft of a freshly baked brownie.  I am just that kind of sick.  I wipe noses and counters with complete alacrity.  It doesn’t gross me out.  It doesn’t bother me.  I am only uncomfortable if you tell me I can’t wipe a dirty nose or counter top.  That said, I am not oh-so smile-on-my-face-song-in-my-heart when it comes to wiping out a debt or a grievance.  I can rehearse a grudge like one big, drag-queen diva on a stage belting out a tune from Yentl. I have to wipe out my right to be right?  My left hand is all but a CPA with record keeping, folks…  I gotta wipe my righteous indignation?  I need to forget? Like wipe away my being offended like the tide?  Really?  Over and over again… cause my kids aren’t listening and they still don’t clean the litter box, and oh, by the way, one of them lied to me again.

That’s truthful.

Veridicality.

What’s true?

Yeah, I polish nails and furniture and mend scraped knees like Florence flapping Nightingale, but polishing and mending relationships is so much harder.  The central reality that makes it feel so much more challenging is completely subjective.  I expect to drown in laundry and I expect my children to listen to me the first time every time and learn from their every mistake too.  Only one of the two premises has any basis in reality, yet I operate in a constant state of denial that I have to say it again, like, “How many times have I told you…” That cliche has been around so long it has surprised cave men. I just ain’t gonna be the Mamma who only has to say it once.  Dammit, dammit, dammit!  And I’m not going to cure sibling rivalry either, so I have Oreo pie accidents and eat two slices in the middle of the night in my underwear.  Yes, for the record, I am eating a lollipop.   And I’m tired.  I’m mean, I’m here, I won’t quit, but I am weary in my marrow.  And what do you mean, children?  I am supposed to cultivate meaningful relationships with each of you individually and still keep up with your laundry, homework and extra-curriculars?  You outnumber me and your father travels!  I can’t do it!

That’s truthful.

Veridicality.

What’s true?

The most veridical thing that I can assert at this point is that in my own strength I can only keep up with their laundry.

OK, sorry, some of you know me, usually, I can’t even manage that.

If I objectively list everything I am supposed to groom, or facilitate the grooming of, as a mother and wife, I will archive a job description for which none would apply.

Like ever.  Even in a recession as deep, dark and long as this one, Beloveds. And that’s true enough.

However, if you want to talk to me about truth relating to revelation that appears to be confirmed in subsequent experience, I got me one heck of a Big Brother.  He wipes debt like I go after a counter top.  Verily, I say to you, He was born for it.  I got a written promise that His plans are to prosper and not to harm me.  And up to and including the kids putting toxic waste in my rice pudding, that’s true enough too.  I got this wholly, holy fruit lives inside of me like some supernatural, turbo-pack to equip me to groom like a salon before a red carpet event grooms A-list celebs.  Only this equipment could care less what I wear or look like.  In fact, outward appearance isn’t even on its compass, this centers exclusively on the Heart, Truth and Home.

So, yeah,one way or another, in terms of veridicality, being a Mamma most often comes down to grooming.

The onus is to accept the relational aspects of grooming as reflexively, and with as much unflappable expectation, as we address physically grooming our children or homes.  True, relational grooming is more difficult because it calls upon us Mammas to get our egos out of the way and  to access Godly cleansers like Grace, Forgiveness and Love.  The task is to remove blame instead of coffee stains and mend fences before bra straps.

No matter how clean I keep my house, my house is not in order unless the people who I love that dwell here sleep well, and safely, and trust like breath that they are adored and beloved.

So, yeah, my name’s The Mamma, and I’m a veridicalholic, and I’ve had accurate fact-based perceptions for a term, and because I am one fleshy mass of human id, there’s no transformation of my identity without God.

And I am gonna keep showing up and doing this program, because it’s not just my job, it’s my call.

Eternally.

Lovingly dedicated to Mona, whose soul-time with me today on the phone inspired this post.  Love you so.  xoxoxo

I did my best,
it wasn’t much
I couldn’t feel,
so I tried to touch
I’ve told the truth,
I didn’t come to fool you
And even though
It all went wrong
I’ll stand before the Lord of Song
With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah!

see “One Chinese Mother’s Voice” on BlogHer

BlogHer is an awesome space.  It’s like one big, cozy den in a real girlfriend’s house.  It makes me think of my friend, TJ’s, house.  Her place slings hash and parties more than any NYC bistro. Everybody feels happy and heard in her bright, citrus kitchen… children, couples, adults, girlfriends, and in-laws alike.  TJ knows her crowd, speaks the truth, and lives in a land where polka dots meet sass.  So when I’m stuck at home with a sick kid, or actively avoiding laundry, or coming down off work, or checking the pulse of recent headline buzz, I show up on BlogHer like I often wander over to TJ’s house.  I love places where I don’t have to worry what I wear, Starbucks is always welcome, and make-up is entirely optional.

I plugged into some BlogHer voices like passive-agressive earbuds more than usual last week, in bold procrastination of my urgent need to plan and host a weekend event.  I had one big case of Mamma- Performance-Anxiety, and believed I couldn’t consummate.  While there, I read “One Chinese Mother’s Voice,” The post is not only provocative and profound, but it challenged me to Surrender on a new level.

The post speaks for itself, and I encourage you to read it.  Though its entirety compels, an Hallelujah rose like a phoenix from the ashes when she sang:

Sure, the little voice produces an adult who knows how to work hard, achieve, and get into an Ivy League school. She believes she can accomplish anything if she puts her mind to it.

But that little voice also produces a person who worries about not accomplishing enough and frets about the next accolade.

The little voice produces a person who cannot accept the fact that there are actually things hard work alone cannot accomplish.

The little voice produces a person who can’t accept the fact that her competence comes in Christ alone.

The little voice produces a person who can’t accept the fact that she needs a Rescuer.

The truth is, all the hard work, grittiness, and achievement in the world cannot make you right with God.

That comes from admitting to Jesus that you can’t work hard enough, that you don’t know all the answers, and that you really can’t be confident of anything in life except Him.

When you let God’s grace invade every part of your life, it’s not so easy to suddenly turn that little voice off.  Thankfully, God’s grace, embodied in Jesus’ love, speaks a whole lot louder than the little voice.

Ester Feng, http://www.blogher.com/frame.php?url=http://www.estherfeng.com,  unglued me like bad 80’s hair on a too humid day.  The Holy Dove moves through her to minister to my heart.  Her premises about “the little voice,” are not to be denied.  In a cathartic spasm of PTSD, I realize how my own little voice still sometimes deafens me from the Still, Calm Voice of Peace.  I wish to plant no such little voices in my children’s intellectual maps.  Have I constructed a family culture wherein anxious children measure accomplishments with fretting fingers, strumming ever-shifting emotional abacuses in search of the next accolade?  Have I embedded the message that they need a rescuer like an in-grown toe nail to falter their steps in Faith?  As I intone the mantra, “Quality matters,” have I diminished their reality that true competence comes in Christ alone, and that there are things their hard work cannot independently orchestrate?  Is my own heart a place that Grace invades so that I may lead them toward Godly relationships and Love?

I walked away from the screen the first time I read Feng’s post, and knew she’s struck a secret chord, and like David pleased the Lord.

This Mamma needs be still, and know that God will be God to my children.   Only His voice may speak clearly enough to consistently mute the noise of this percussive world, so that my children may turn to him as their Him as their Portion Deliverer.

I need to be inside-out on Message with this Truth… My children belong to Him, and all the interactive book reports, music lessons, soccer tournaments, and healthy lunches in the universe don’t compare to the Glory of the Provision He brings to the lives of my children through Love.

Surrender.

Love wins.

Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah!