Category: Howling Sea Lane

Howling Sea Lane, Lancient History

With Frenemies Like These, Who Needs Anything?

the outside lane

One of the most effective displays of mean-girling I’ve ever been party to happened at a wedding.  I was sitting with a group of women, some of whom were good to casual friends of mine, all of us mutually acquainted and all of us having spent time together at some point or other.  One of the women suggested a group photo of “all the girls”, then handed me the camera and asked me to do the honors.

She looked me right in the eye and smiled, and oh…I had to smile back.  It was startling and vicious, and an elegantly driven knife.  Of course I was crushed, but at the same time I was impressed.  If I had to be socially murdered, at least it was done artistically.  We held each others eyes a little longer than necessary, acknowledging what had happened.  I nodded to her, then I snapped the picture.

I also did my best to cut her head off in the photo, and might have even put my finger over the lens of the other few pictures I was asked to take in rapid succession.

Now, I don’t pretend to think I am an easy person to enjoy.  I give myself a very harsh review.  I am a strange combination of shy and social, and an even stranger mix of confident and insecure.  I think I laugh too loudly, talk too animatedly, have a weird sense of humor, and know I tend toward arch sarcasm when I am nervous.  Most of the time I am in a group setting I am nervous as a Chihuahua.  I have strong opinions, high standards, and do not suffer fools well. 

Taking all that into consideration, I am never surprised to find myself on the outside.  I don’t like being on the outside, but I never really blame anyone for leaving me there.  My feelings might be hurt by it, but I’m not offended.  I realize that I might be an acquired taste.  Besides, I’m an only child.  Only children are born outsiders–we have no ready made peer group, so we learn to exist on the fringes. 

We also learn to entertain ourselves.  Shut me outside the candy store, and I’ll Little Princess myself into happy fantasy. 

I had occasion to run into this woman recently, and I did my best to avoid her.  Funnily, I had been feeling my outsider status keenly until I saw her eyebrows wagging above someone else’s head.  That was all it took.  If that’s what was inside, I was exactly where I belonged.

I turned happily off to my attic grate.  Better to be friends with someone’s pet monkey than Miss Minchin.

Although…I am still grudgingly impressed by her artistic hostility.  No, not even grudgingly.  I’m just impressed.  That was a masterful play and it had its full, desired effect.  Three years later and the blood still drains out of my cheeks thinking about it.  Impressive.

Howling Sea Lane, Lancient History, Religion

Father Where Art Thou?

the outside lane

By now you’ve probably all seen the AP news report about a Massachusetts third grader, who has been denied access to a local parochial school due to his parents’ sexuality.  Since I was on religion yesterday, I thought I would pick up the thread and share my opinion here. 

Prefacing all of this with the understanding that it is entirely legal for the school to refuse entry to any child, I want to talk about why I have a personal problem with the decision.  First, let’s go back to Matthew. 

Matthew 19:13-15 (King James Version)

 13Then were there brought unto him little children, that he should put his hands on them, and pray: and the disciples rebuked them. 

 14But Jesus said, Suffer little children, and forbid them not, to come unto me: for of such is the kingdom of heaven. 

 15And he laid his hands on them, and departed thence. 

Jesus did not ask his disciples to do a background check on the adults bringing the children to him.  He did not ask if little Ezekiel’s parents were his followers, or if Elizabeth’s mother was still smoking crack, or if Alpheus’ fathers were still gay, or if Delphine was still being raised by her aunt because her mother was in prison and they weren’t sure who her father was.  And if he was aware of each child’s individual situation, he did not look over them with a finger against the side of his mouth, tapping away the ones who weren’t good enough until he found the ones whose parents lived up to his idea of pre-Christian standards.  No.  He touched each and every one of them, loved them individually, and then went on his way.  Such is the King of Heaven. 

More to the point, when Jesus taught he didn’t require your holiness before you were allowed to listen and learn.  He didn’t ask that you pass a test of righteousness, or be without sin.  He didn’t even ask that you be attempting to live according to Levitical law.  He asked nothing of you, and gave everything of himself.  

Jesus did not ask you for money.  He gave you fishes and loaves. 

Jesus did not ask you for your righteousness.  He gave you his own. 

I get so angry and so aggravated at the Church universal, and how exclusive and exclusionary it is.  You can’t come inside unless you fit the standard mold. 

There is a local christian (and I am always being purposefully distinctive about upper- or lower-case letters) radio station that advertises with the slogan, “Safe for the whole family.”  You would be hard pressed to find a piece of their marketing that would not lead you to believe the slogan ought to be, “Safe for the whole straight, white family, which includes at least two children.” 

I worked for an international religious organization for years.  Some things they got very, very wrong, but other things they got right.  One of the things they got right was that everyone was accepted into the church*.  Liars, cheats, drug addicts, fornicators, adulterers, gay, domestic abusers, gang bangers, strippers, abortionists and anything else you could want to shake a finger at, they were there sitting next to me.  The only things that required background checks or agreements regarding lifestyle choices were teaching positions–and that’s as it should be. 

How do people learn if they can’t be taught?  Imagine if the public school system was able to turn away a child because of the color of his skin.  How could that child learn, and grow into a man who could earn a living and participate as a citizen?  We aren’t so far away from that time in our secular history, and we all agree that it is wrong.  So why are we still shutting the church doors on people?  “I’m so sorry,” we say, with a prim little smile on our lips and sorrowful eyebrows, “but we just can’t have you in here.  When you stop drinking, you’ll be welcome.  But until then…  Tsk.  I’m sorry.  We just can’t.  Think of the children.” 

Yes.  Think of the children.  Please, for the love of God, think of the children. 

I attended Catholic school as a non-Catholic, and I am grateful for the education I received.  I am also grateful for having been forced to actually read the Bible in its entirety, and for having Mrs. Cardenas and Sister Sue Ann there to try and decipher it for me.  Though I did not make a decision for Christ until I was in my twenties, those ladies laid a foundation for me.  And isn’t that the whole point of having a religious school?  Even if I had chosen to continue in an agnostic existence, I am a better person for having learned the philosophies taught by Jesus.  

Aren’t religious schools intended to be places to instruct children on what your religion believes are the right and proper ways to live?  In that case, wouldn’t you be welcoming the ones whose backgrounds were contrary to your own with wide arms?  Aren’t those the children who need you the most?  Aren’t those the parents you want to win over with love?  Aren’t you in the business of saving souls through education?  And isn’t your god strong enough to overcome any taint that some poor heathen child might bring into your camp?  Aren’t you called to be a light unto the world? 

One of the things the ministry I worked for got wrong was money.  Money money money.  Toward the end of my time there, it was all about getting money.  We were in a meeting one morning, discussing just that.  We were instructed to pray that God would cause something to happen that would deliver over to our ministry the finances of wicked men and women based on this scripture: 

Proverbs 13:22 (King James Version)

 22A good man leaveth an inheritance to his children’s children: and the wealth of the sinner is laid up for the just. 

I’ll save my full Old Testament/New Testament rant for another time, and just say this:  Either you believe Jesus fulfilled the OT or you don’t.  You shouldn’t be mixing and matching Levitical law and the commandments of the Christ to build your doctrines.  That said, I asked in the meeting, “Shouldn’t we be praying that God [being no respecter of persons, who would do for anyone what he did for Paul] rescue the wicked, and turn their eyes from darkness to light, so that they turn to Christ?  And that way, doesn’t the wealth of the wicked become the wealth of the just?” 

If looks could kill.  They didn’t like my idea.  

Because even when you are righteous it is easier to pray for someone’s destruction than someone’s salvation.  And even when you are righteous it is easier to judge someone else’s lifestyle and avoid them than to share a cup.  (I am thinking of my grandmother spraying down furniture with Lysol in front of him when an openly gay friend of my cousin would visit her house.  Embarrassing!)  And even when you are righteous it is easier to say no to one child than have to explain to however many other children that even though your religion does not condone the lifestyle that this child’s parents lead, your god still loves that family and sees them as part of his family.  And, in fact, loves that family so much that he sent his son to die for them, just like he did for you. 

Do you see?  I get so angry!  God loves gays and God loves druggies.  God loves prodigal sons.  And do you know what?  God loves the ones who never love him back.  

I am a mother first and foremost and I want you to know that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation will ever be able to separate my son from the love I have for him.  Nothing he does could make me stop loving him.  Nothing could make me give up on him.  He doesn’t have to be anything other than mine, and I birthed him, so that will never change.  He could deny me all he wanted.  He could change his name.  He could run to Timbuktu.  I am still his mother, and I would still love him.  And I would never, ever give up on him. 

God feels that way about you, about me, about Hitler, about Tom Cruise, about Rick James, about Betty Ford, about Marc Jacobs, about Ellen Degeneres, about that guy who lives next door to you, about your 7th grade science teacher, about that homeless man, about every single child in his creation.  That love doesn’t go away.  That love doesn’t die.  That love is perfect. 

The religious school is upset because the little boy in question only has mothers, and has no father.  I’ve got news for them.  That child has a Father, and it would serve them well to talk to Him about admission requirements.

*After Amy, who worked and sat in the congregation with me at this institution, read the post she reminded me:  I agree completely, except that I would say “that church” wasn’t accepting of everyone. You commit any crime known to man and be accepted but I dare you to be a divorcee in that church. Even though every gosh darn person in leadership was divorced [and they had created a whole new doctrine to allow divorce of ministers], you’ll be
treated like an outcast.

Howling Sea Lane, Religion

FISHing for Business of Fishers of Men

the outside lane

Context is everything, isn’t it?  You take one detail out of context and the whole story changes.  Out of context a stolen handkerchief becomes all the evidence Othello needs to believe Iago’s whispered machinations.  A half-heard conversation is the plot device in half of all romantic comedies.  Religion certainly suffers from contextual conflagration.  I am initimately familiar with that one.

We end up with cards and door-talkers on our front porch all the time, advertising this or that service.  Lawn, handyman repair, babysitting, you name it.  I don’t pay much attention to any of them, but the surest way to get me to throw a business card or flyer away is for me to spot an Ichthys (Jesus fish), cross, or dove on it.

I’m a Christian.  I am just wary of people who use symbols of faith to advertise their business.  I know that the various emblems are supposed to signify trustworthiness, or solidarity, or make me feel comfortable doing business, but I can’t help feeling that if you are willing to take something holy and full of meaning, something that should inspire reverence and awe, and slap it on a piece of colored copy paper as a means of recommending your ability to snake my drains, you aren’t taking it as seriously as you should.  So, my brain connects the dots to the conclusion that you don’t take the message of Christ seriously, and therefore don’t take me seriously, and won’t mind trying to charge me $500 for a new toilet when all I need is a $3 orange plug thingy.  No thank you!

Think about that.  Do you think Moses would have had an image of the Ark of the Covenant stamped on his business card?  Why, or why not?

The why-not is easy.  The Ark of the Covenant belonged in the Holy of Holies, and all it was was a container for the Ten Commandments.  How much holier the image of the cross, the fulfillment of every other commandment and the symbol of our salvation?  It’s not just a throwaway.  It means something other than that people should shop at your knick knack store.  I say this as someone who used to have an Ichthys on her car.  Reformed whatevers are always the worst, aren’t they?

But I digress.  I was talking about context and had in mind Matthew 6:19, which reads from the NIV: “19“Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy, and where thieves break in and steal. 20But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where moth and rust do not destroy, and where thieves do not break in and steal. 21For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.

Usually, when we hear this scripture, it is in reference to monetary wealth or ownership of things, but when you look at the verse in context of its chapter, we are actually talking about prayer and charity, and whether we prefer God’s reward for our acts of righteousness, or the praise of men. 

I think this is why the use of holy symbols for personal gain bothers me.  A cross on your business card is shorthand for set of very detailed and defined characteristics.  What you are asking me to do, when you have that dove of peace stamped on your card, is make a connection between your business model and Jesus Christ.  You are asking me to make a mental connection between the service you are offering, and the service Jesus offered.  And as much as I need my air conditioning, it is a stretch to assume that your ability to fix my leaking coolant is akin to Jesus’ ability to save my eternal soul.  The context of the symbol means everything.

More, you are enticing me to give you my business based on a public show of your religion.  This means you are asking me to give you my business based on your having trumpeted your righteousness in the streets–exactly what Jesus warns against in Matthew 6. 

I should know your business is christian in its practices by reputation and living example, not by a logo that any thug can draw.

Howling Sea Lane

Cancer

the outside lane

You have met several women through the Women Worth Knowing profiles.  Of those women, five have had some form of cancer that required surgery, and three of them required further intensive treatment.  I think it is safe to say that every woman you have met has been affected by the disease in some way.

I lost a grandmother, sister-in-law and Karen’s mom to lung and breast cancer respectively .  My mother and an aunt beat colo-rectal and breast cancer respectively.  Friends have had varying success against skin, uterine, brain, and breast cancers.

It is an insidious disease and the word alone is terrifying.  The treatments aren’t much better.  No one gets excited over hearing they get to have chemotherapy or radiation.  It’s not like you’re getting a vicodin vacation.

Irene walked the Susan G. Komen 3-Day a couple of years ago.  She came back with stories of survivors and of those left behind.  I’ve done a couple of walks and am always looking around at the crowds wondering, “If this many people have had this disease, why aren’t we further along with a cure?”

I have no idea what to do to help medicine progress.  I am in no way, shape or form a scientist or doctor.  I hated biology, and anatomy grossed me out.  All I know to do is donate to vetted groups.

I do wonder, if we encouraged more girls into science and technology, would we have a better chance of effecting a cure?  Not that cancer doesn’t affect men, too.  After all, my husband lost his sister, my nephew lost his mother, and my father and uncles-in-law have had their personal battles with the disease and how it has affected their own daughters.  According to this report, men are 40% more likely to die from cancer because they don’t like going to the doctor.

What I know for sure is this:  Early detection and vigilant follow-up are the life savers.  Ladies, get your yearlies and get your mammograms, and when it’s time, get your colonoscopy.  An age-recommended colonoscopy is what saved my mother’s life. 

Gentlemen, get thee to a proctologist hence!  Believe me, the girls know it’s uncomfortable and no fun.  We’ve been getting groped, and had strange fingers and cold instruments jammed up in us since puberty.  But if turning your head and coughing means you get to live to see your grandson’s Little League games, isn’t it worth it?

Do all the self exams, and have a physical every year.  If we can’t accomplish a quick cure, at least we can do our best to prevent and early-detect it.

Howling Sea Lane

Leeantha

the outside lane

My family moved to Texas from Virginia, landing in what is still my mother’s house, on November 3, 1981.  As was my wont with all of our moves, I went around to the neighbors and announced my arrival.  I was my own welcoming committee.

One neighbor opened the door and freaked me right the hell out.  She was old and gnarled, and her fingers were twisted and stained black, and when she spoke it was like she was forcing her voice up through broken glass and barbed wire.  The interior of her home was decorated like a 70s Black Angus restaurant.  I panicked, but remembered my Girl Scout manners and tried not to look horrified.  Then, I got out of there as fast as I could.

Later, I learned that Leeantha (Lee) had undergone a tracheotomy and was told she would never speak again.  She showed them–it sounded like every word hurt, but she spoke, and spoke, and spoke.  She wasn’t as old as she looked, either, only in her late 60s, and though her fingers were bent with arthritis, the ungodly hue had been caused by dye, not dead limbs as I had feared.  She turned out to be a very invested neighbor, and even babysat me for the first couple of years we lived there.  You know what I mean by invested, don’t you?  You have a neighbor like that, too.

I loved Lee as much as a kid can love anyone who wants to tear her away from MTV and force her onto a dairy farm in the middle of summer vacation.  That’s quite a lot, actually.

Lee’s family was interesting in the italicized meaning of the word, and as time went on, it fell into disrepair.  Her house was always pristine, though.  So was her yard.  She razed it of trees in the early 90s, hating leaves, and often insisted that my parents do the same.  When she thought my mother’s hand planted St. Augustine grass was too tall (it needed to be 3 inches high before getting its first mowing), she thundered over into our yard on her riding mower and tore it right out of the ground with helpful enthusiasm.

I visited my mother this weekend, and was worried to see that Lee’s yard was knee high.  I asked if Mom had heard anything.  See, Mom’s work hours and Lee’s waking hours are at odds, so she hadn’t been able to rouse her neighbor to answer the door when she would try to check on her.  Mom said she hadn’t, and she was trying to find out what was going on.  She had asked a couple of other neighbors who didn’t know anything, but who had seen her son and granddaughter coming and going.

This morning, my mother called me. 

Lee died six weeks ago.

I said that her family had fallen into disrepair.  Apparently, her son tired of her and asked the State to take over her care.  She was taken into a nursing home, where she died.

Obviously it isn’t a block party kind of neighborhood.

My mother was upset that she hadn’t known, though there wasn’t much way she could have.  We had both seen family members coming and going from the house, so other than the lawn, there was no reason to think anything was wrong with Lee.  I was always a little afraid that Lee would die in the house and no one would find her until her cats had eaten away half her face.  (Reason #342 why I will never have cats.)

“Robert had her cremated,” my mother mourned.  “She didn’t want to be cremated.”

“Mom, she’s dead.  She doesn’t know she was cremated,” I reminded gently, worried that she was going to take it the wrong way and ask me if I was going to have her cremated against her wishes.  Then I would have to tell her my plans for her demise.  My mother is going to become jewelry.  Better than worrying that her grave is being mowed, or thinking about worms.

I also reminded her that in a home, Lee was around people, getting fed, and didn’t die alone.  But I am sorry we didn’t know where she was.  We would have visited.  At the nursing home, there’s always someone there to open the door.