2012: The Year of Reconciliation

Did I hear Him right? Or was that just me talking?

The Year of Reconciliation

Rule of thumb is when you think you've heard a word from the Lord, you wait and see. If it happens, it was Him. If it doesn't, it was indigestion.

Now some of you are reacting like I did in the last post when the girl started talking about her third eye. This is weird!  And well it may be if one didn't believe in a personal, living God who interacts in the present with his children.

Compelled by a strong sense I prayed about the new year, last year early in January 2012. (See Pray, Pray, Pray Jan 2012 post).

And I thought I heard:

The Year of Reconciliation

Wishful thinking, I doubted again. What is this some kind of Chinese mimic impersonating as  the small voice of God?  The year of the snake. The year of the monkey, my mind mocked. 2012 will be the year of Reconciliation again was impressed on my heart in inaudible words. 

OK. That sounds good to me! Let her roll!

There were too many broken friendships. A family rift that brought waves of profound sadness and left a deep ache in their wake. Cards sent, but not acknowledged. Phone calls unreturned. Missing birthdays, milestones and sharing daily life. Absent dinner partners. No close friends to call for spontaneous nights out.

Sweet friends, deeply loved relatives, relationships that had been soured by money mishaps, hurtful words. Even death had ripped through a segment of relatives, 7 years long. All these waiting, begging, praying to be reconciled and restored.

Could it be possible that God was going to answer all these in one year?

So the days, weeks and months went on. I fasted and prayed periodically for these people. Fasted and prayed, fasted and prayed. God could do it on His own, but wants us to be a part of it, learning deep truths about Him in the process, never discovered had we not prayed. Prompted by Him, enabled by Him, we find prayer is the catalyst.

One Sunday we returned home from church to find the start of the first reconciliation sitting in our kitchen. A friend of our boys stayed all afternoon and apologized for well meaning actions that had caused conflict in our household. Tears and embraces later we were on our way to healing.

Next, the second came in the form of repaid debt. Wow, now I can look these people in the eyes when I run into them.

Then there was a letter declaring love to a 7 year-long estranged family member. She called the next day. This was HUGE for us all. Finally that letter was written that broke the silence, followed by a waterfall of happy crying, conversation, and catching up.

And lots and lots of long-overdue laughter. This family member was the Queen of Laughter and boy, had I missed it - and her - back again from 7 years of famine. We now feast on the release of reconciliation.

Finally, the unexpected one, well, they all were unexpected.  I didn't have the face-to-face meeting of my 3-decade long adopted daughter on my list of reconciliations. I talked regularly to her. After an attempt to lunch with her that was followed by 3 years of silence, I wasn't ever going to suggest meeting again. But when she said, "Why don't we meet up?" before an October 2012  visit to California, I was once again bowled over by God's long list of relational restorations He was blessing our year with.

Only He can do this. Only he can humble a heart to ask forgiveness when one wants to defend their position, stand their ground. Only He can soften a person to declare love from an open heart, when pride wants to close it tight.

Only God can do that. 

What freedom and joy and richness in the renewed relationships!

Truly blessed because of Him this 2012, the Year of Reconciliation.

What will 2013 bring?

I have an idea and I'm praying about it.....

Purple Stones and Other Worthless Idols

I put it off as long as I can.

Going to Sally's Beauty supply to buy hair product to cover my dark roots. It's such a foil ridden, hair-in-my-face, bending over backward to get the back strands, bleachy, messy ordeal. For 2 hours I look like a metal Medusa. That's what it takes to highlight this scandalously long hair, as my daughter puts it.

But I went, picked out the packet and two bottles of developer because they were on sale and stood in line to pay.

The cashier with blood-red dyed hair and eyebrows to match was fumbling and fighting with a receipt, tearing it in half, apologizing, dropping things and otherwise having a very difficult time of ringing up her customers. As I approached my turn, she said,

"Have you ever had one of those days where you seem to be all thumbs and clumsy?"

"All the time," I replied.

While she explained to me the difference between 30 volume and 20 volume developer, I noticed a pretty purplish marbled stone on her register.

Charoite

"Is that amethyst?" I asked.

"No, it's something I can't really pronounce...charo...sharite...something like that." She went on, " it opens the frontal chakra and the back lobe chakra and the third eye, you know, so your mind is aware, thoughts are clear and everything is flowing smoothly through your body."

I was a little rattled by the 'third eye' thing but blurted out

"It doesn't seem to be working for you today,  does it?"

Did I really just say that? The verbal filter thins out as we enter the deeps of middle age.
But she wasn't offended. Instead she picked up the rock, caressed it and kneaded it in the palm and fingers of one hand, punched register keys with the other and said endearingly, "I just love it."

Collecting my package and walking away I pondered. Is that rock going to help you when you need help? Will it rescue you when you need rescuing? Worthless idols, dead objects that have

no eyes to see
no ears to hear
no heart to love you back.

Just like the worthless things I spend my time on: stupid TV shows that I think are going to make me feel better or the rush of  a new purchase to perk up my day,  dark chocolate, excessive sunning, or....a myriad of other things that disappoint and leave me empty.....

I also felt really guilty for not being gracious and telling her about the love of Jesus,

the true and living God.

Maybe someone kinder will speak those words and give her more than a lump of lavender granite to place her faith in.

The Incredible Shrinking Paycheck - Ode to the Hill

Finally got my 2% cost-of-living raise.  Boy, was I looking forward to seeing a higher number on the net pay line of my stub.

To my surprise and dismay, the amount was lower!  By 3 dollars! Come to find out my OASDI taxes had increased 6 dollars more a month than my raise. 

I guess I should be happy, at least it was a wash. It could have been less!

How was your January paycheck's bottom line? Bigger? Smaller?

But I'm really not happy. In fact, I'm pretty bothered and upset.

So,

Pardon me while I get political, don my hippie clothes and sing a protest song.

Ode To the Hill

Tax my paycheck

Tax my phone

Tax my land and

Tax my home

Some things should be left alone.

Tax the middle

Tax the rich

Tax our work

To scratch some itch

That health care plan is such a bitter

 Pill to swallow. 

 Leaves our check books

hollow.

Tax my liscence

Tax my car

Tax the gas that

Won't go far

Lowering the income bar.

Recent raise

Was a just a wash,
It now pays

 New Budget laws.

Passed at midnight
while we all were sleeping. 

January pay stubs sent us weeping. 

Snubbed and stiffed,

We wakened to disaster,
finding ourselves plastered

at the bottom
of
the
fiscal
cliff.

While some sit pretty on the Hill.

All due respect to the Hill, but

We have had our fill.

Tax our kids, Next

Tax our breath!!

Tax us all to death!

Copyright A. Marbury Shaw 2013

A Letter to My Son on His 20th Birthday

My third son graduated from highschool on a Wednesday and the following Sunday he was in New York City with a couple of job interviews and a friend's couch to sleep on.

He is now in his second year of college, has a place to live and is supporting himself.

Today on his 20th birthday, I wrote to him:

Dear Son,

You are 20 years old today! No longer a teenager - almost a full grown man- making his way in this world, and decisions that a man makes to conquer his world.

You know, it was part of God's commission to Adam in the Garden - to care for creation, subdue it and order it. The call of a man is the same today.  God gave the earth to man - its systems, subjects and soil, to governance responsibly. College will give you the tools to effectively accomplish that commission and to fulfill God's purposes for your life.

I'm praying for the best year ever for you, son; that you would have a renewed mission and clearer vision for your life. 

I can't imagine feeling any prouder of you than I already am. But I'm certain you are going to astound us all with your future accomplishments!

All my love and a very Happy Birthday!

Mom, xxooo

***

I'm trying a different parenting approach this year with my three nearly grown adult sons:

Affirmation, not Accusation
Nudging, not Nagging
Asking questions first, giving Advice second
Suggesting, not Stating the obvious course of direction.

My son really is doing well. But I fear he could stray from his schooling goals in a heartbeat; that fun, friends and motorcycles could distract him from the reason he pays 2/3rds of the amount of my mortgage for a small bedroom and lives 1100 miles away. It is for his education, unequivocally. Oh, and to have a little fun along the way.

We'll see how my method works...

The Disappearing Piano

First you see it. Then you don't. Sorta like magic. Black in my book. That's the way these large beautiful instruments keep disappearing, being replaced by overpriced electronic impostors.

Granted, synthetic piano sounds have come a long way since #8 on the DX-7 in the early 80's. (Love that patch!) There's nothing like the old Rhodes or a good electric piano and funky or techno synthesized sound banks. New timbres inspire creativity, for sure. But not at the expense of losing the natural acoustic. 

All the sampling in the world can't come close to its sonorous overtones, velvet tone, and lively harmonics. The longer, the better. I've got my eye on a premium  Steinway at Chafin Music http://chafinmusic.com/pianos.aspx. Trade my Kawai in and it'll still put me back to make that black beauty mine!

Maybe I just don't appreciated the wonders of 21st century technology. But how can a tiny chip and fibers ever produce the sonic richness that organic materials of ebony, strings, wooden hammers and felt can? Can you simulate A-440? Make 440 vibrations per second by artificial means? How can the thin spectrum of electricity transfer the nuances of human touch? 'Touch sensitivity' features and weighted keys try, but fall sadly short of responding to the sharp hit of fingertip, gentle dip of wrist, lift of hand, elbows and all manner of technique, arm and shoulder pressure and, last but not least: expression of heart.

I think that's what the poser keyboards are missing:

HEART.  

Their piano sounds have the resonance of a leaky faucet drip in a bathtub ....

and are equally annoying...

                                                 ...dink,

                                                                               plink,  
                                                             
                                                                                                              dink, dink, dink....

This personal beef all started when a large local church began changing out their grand pianos with double keyboards, whose manufacturer's name is a four letter word, not coincidental, in my opinion. The pianos took backstage - literally - but could still be found in use for a choir practice, funeral or low profile worship set.

I really can't blame the guys who made the decision. They're guitarists after all.

They      know      not      what      they      do.

They can pick up their acoustic instrument anytime, sans the need of amp, cables nor electricity. Though I have to say, the latter version dominates the majority of the 200 decibel song stylings. Variety of arrangements wanting.

First, the maple grand in the fellowship hall went missing.

Then the 9 foot satin Yamaha in the main sanctuary vanished from the vast backstage (It had long left front and center).

Finally, the 5'2" in the choir room was hauled off last week.....

"They're so much trouble to keep in tune."
"Our worship culture really doesn't call for grands on the platform"
"The budgets need a year-end replenishment to return them to the black." (Yup! - after the pricy purchase of 6 replacement keyboard sets).

All the pretty grand pianos.

Sold off,

one by one,

leaving an artistic and asthetic void,

an eerie vacancy,

the absence of interpretive pathos.

An unsettling barrenness in the musical landscape.

The Illustrated Disappearing Slip

Before I leave the 'riveting' Disappearing Slip post, I'd like to add 3 illustrations recently gathered.

Antique lawn pantaloons and embroidered half slip from 1880's (and earlier).
Pantaloons worn by Mildred Crompton-Smith as a girl.

Number 1 - In a plain white box my mother saved a chemise, slip and 'lawn pantaloons' (hmm...lawn pantaloons?..Does one wear them only on the lawn??) that were my great grandmother Mildred Crompton-Smith's.

Complete with drawstring and convenient opening in the back

Embroidered half-slip circa 1880's

Number 2 - Unsolicited, with the topic fresh on my mind, my mother in law told her story on Christmas Eve of how her built-in slip saved her from embarrassment when skirt met with blustery day, neighbors watching.

Grandma Bernice underscoring the necessity of a slip, saucy look in eye.

Number 3 - And then there's Miss Hathaway.

Anne Hathaway's unintentional wardrobe malfunction underscoring the necessity of, uh,

any kind of undergarment.... actually. 

  Anne was worried about underwear lines showing through her especially snug gown at the Les Mis debut. One person commented on my last post that a Spanx (the latest body shaping invention), would have done the trick. Forgoing certain pieces of clothing should be limited to a date with your husband, alone, I think, not in the presence of millions. 

That's all I'm going to say about that because I promised my daughter I'd be nice to the usually demure Hathaway who is starring in our favorite Victor Hugo classic.

Long live this latest endangered species.

A Very Human Christmas

Grandmother Herta Schenk-Allen circa 1915, Harrisburg, PA.

 Uncle Ralph delights in decorations - picture window perfect.

My parents, Walter & Isabel Allen, 1950, Hollywood CA.

A  newly-wedded couple's Christmas.

After so many Christmases you'd think I'd learned to approach them realistically. That is - without this expectation of flawless people, mealtimes and moments.

Regarding the top photo of Grandma Herta. Looks iconic and idealistic, doesn't it? One Christmas entry from her husband, my grandfather Sherman's diary read like this:

Dec 27, 1914: Cold & clear. I am in disfavor with Herta. Sing cantata by Brewer, The Holy Night. 
Dec 24, 1915: Gift trouble with Herta (probably mine to her not satisfactory) We have the children in for the tree 5-7 P.M.

Not so perfect as it looks.

When I returned to work 2 days after Christmas, my friend refused to talk about her Christmas. Of course, I had to know more. "The day started with crying and ended with crying, " she said.

"Oh well, how bout that?  I cried in the middle of it, " I exclaimed!  So between the two of us,  we rounded out the whole day for a not-as-special-as-we'd-hoped-for, teary Christmas.

Ours started beautifully with Handel's Messiah on the record or CD player (whichever one is working at the time...For unto us a Child is Born...), Betty Crocker's Jolly Breakfast ring, a traditional coffee cake my mother always made, hardboiled eggs, orange juice, coffee. I've expanded the menu with mini-quiches and bacon or sausage. We fill our Christmas plates and gather round the tree for a great time of gift opening.

Mother-in-law joined us. 

After the grand finale gift of a ping-pong table (to lure my son and his teenager friends to hang out at OUR house), the dinner prep starts. Table set for 8.

Mother in law said she's going home. She's tired. I had offered a nap earlier anticipating her fatigue,  to which she had been offended that I thought she'd need one. "No, I'm going home. " She resolved.  No Christmas dinner together? This nearly a cardinal sin in my book. You have to be together for Christmas, with your best on, the silver out, ham, scalloped potatoes, cranberry salad, roasted carrots, crystal goblets and wine glasses of Martinelli. You have to stay.

"Let her go",  my husband says. After which I receive a spousal lecture on being insensitive to averting a Christmas catasrophe. "Do you want a cranky old lady at your dinner table? I'm trying to keep peace on a holiday and you are oblivious to anything but your precious dinner."

So I remove one place setting and chair and continue preparing for 7 for dinner, wiping tears. I just wanted a Christmas with the whole family present!

Then, while halving grapes on a cutting board,  the special Christmas moment snuck up on me.... unexpectedly. You have to watch for them or you'll miss them entirely:

Son and friend in the kitchen, while I cook, we see how many lyrics to White Christmas, Silver Bells, and Chestnuts we remember by heart. It was sweet, the 3 of us outdoing one another singing accapella. His mother passed from cancer last year and he is here for Christmas dinner.

Just as I am serving, he announces he has to go. Granted, dinner is an hour and a half off schedule because of unexpected mid-day lecture and cry-spell, so it's partly our fault.

"Another family invited me and I thought I'd be done by now and make both dinners. Is that rude, Mrs Shaw?" I wanted to shout "YES! It's very rude!" But I didn't and smiled as I removed another place setting and chair from the dining table, now set for 6. Both leaves in the table we are all really spread out now.

Meanwhile, my work-friend who started and ended her Christmas crying, said she kept getting unexpected guest at her Christmas Dinner. Son is not welcome at girlfriend Christmas table because he had not formally met the father. So he stays home. She adds a place setting and chair. Then girlfriend comes. Add another. So her table is the exact opposite of mine. Too late to undo everything and add a leaf, she has squeezed 8 people on a table for 6.

It's hilarious to me to think that these two opposite developments were happening at the same time, in different houses, a few miles apart, each mother of the house a little frustrated and disappointed that our Smitten Kitchen/Martha Stewart meal was not transpiring as expected.

It was after all, and always will be, a very human Christmas. And we will take what we can get, both prickly pine needles and lovely spicy scent, with a grateful heart.

The Disappearing Series - Post #2

At the risk of being labeled something uncomplimentary, I venture into the second post of the Disappearing Series.

There used to be racks and racks of them in the lingerie department of May Co, Macy's and Sears:

white
black
cream

In a variety of styles:

half

full length

mini

knee high

mid length

                                                                                        with a myriad of trims and ribbons and fabrics

Lace hemmed

Ribboned

Bowed

embroidered

silky

satiny

polyestery

cottony

When I mentioned this missing-in-action item to my 30 year old daughter, I was surprised someone from her generation would reply, "I know mom, I went shopping for one the other day and could not find them anywhere!  She was a victim of 

The Disappearing Slip!!

Full ones that include a bodice (certainly out of underwear-style now) make great warm weather nighties.

AND they had a practical purpose. That's right, a sartorial function.

What to do when the underwear lines are showing through a clingy or sheer dress??? Put on a slip.

Yes, that's right, put on a silky piece of lingerie to smooth out the dimples and dumplings our less than perfect bodies develop when squeezed by elastic-edged undergarments.

Now a strange thing has developed in our freer-than-ever couture culture. Instead of putting ON another piece of underclothing to hide the lumps and bumps, we simply take what little underthings we are wearing.

OFF! 

And replace them with stringier, abbreviated versions, thereby leaving less between us and the view of the whole wide world.

I hate to say it but, we have a problem here. Because most of us could use a little fabric between our skin and the weather. Very few of us possess the body tone to carry this look off without attracting attention to the repeated movement of extra flesh.

For everyone's sake, girlfriends. 

Let's still the jiggle. 

If you are more inclined to take advice from an 80 year old than a 30 year old, here's this: On Christmas Eve, my mother in law recounted that while removing gifts from her trunk, a stiff breeze was blowing. Neighbors gathered across the street on the driveway. An unexpected gust blew the swishy part of her dress practically waist-high. Had it not been for the slip under her skirt, the neighbors would have had an eyeful. It was a close call, she giggled with a Santa-like twinkle in her eye. The wonders of the slip demonstrated!

Likewise, the  absence of this item can produce embarassing moments. (Presuming blushing still exists). Once a month families gather on stage at church for baby dedications. The singers, of which I am a part, and band remain on the platform during this important moment in a parent's life, to provide a little underscore of music.The young moms in clingy stretch cotton-T maxi dresses, front lit by the stage lights, leave nothing to the imagination, due to what's (not) underneath.

The band guys fidget awkwardly and try to figure out what to do with their eyes.

The 1960's full slip was featured in Mad Men's Maidenform episode. And had a brief come-back about 5 years ago when someone got the novel idea of turning the underslip into an outer dress. By adding glittery sequins, pearls and other embellishments, it was marketed as a cocktail dress....didn't hear or see anything about them afterwards...just an interesting article of a wannabe trend that never took off.

It's very likely I'm behind the times. That I'm going 20 in a 60 mile-an-hour fashion runway. Just as was Scarlett O'Hara when Rhett Butler chided her that pantaloons had long gone out of style. Even so, back then they had nine yards of fabric to maintain their modesty. Seems that's a fading fad, too.

Enough of my futile rant about limping lingerie in the 21st century.

Here's to a Merry Christmas and a stylish 2013.

May Santa slip a slip in your stocking.

Otherwise, I think you can find them online.




=

The Disappearing Christmas Card

What is it about this stage in life where one constantly looks back, rather than forward??
Immersed in photos and life stories of my ancestors rather than the current living, I obsess with remembering the good ole days instead of happy expectation for the days to come. Why not relish the beauty of the present, rather than lament the loss of the past.

It's not healthy. One should focus on today and looked forward to the future.
After all God is a God-of-the-Now and we should walk in that. Carpe Diem! Live in the present.

However, with the soon passing of 2012, allow me to indulge myself (It's-my-blog-I-can-cry-if-I-want- to) and launch a stream of posts called

The Disappearing Series 

Here I will remember and maybe mourn the loss of items, customs and events that  have gone out of fashion. Things that made life more polite, civilized, rich and genteel. (Now there's a word straight out of "Gone With The Wind")!!!

So, first: The Disappearing Christmas Card.

Sorry, but an email just doesn't cut it. Those animated cards from American Greetings.com are cute, I admit. But there's nothing like the surprise in the mailbox that is not a bill or advertisement. 

It's a human touch

written with 

 the energy of a loved one's hand, 

 thoughts of their mind 

living emotion of their heart

all encapsulated in the handwritten address.

There. 

Walk to your mailbox.

 Reach in the cool tin hollow. Feel the texture of linen paper. Hear the seal snap.  Anticipate the contents while you tear it open with dinner knife, letter opener or index finger. 

Let your heart be tickled.

Sadly at my house, laziness has won with printed names and photos.  The Costco picture cards are getting old, but they are so time efficient. My mother would pore over each card and add a personalized note. The envelopes trickled out as she completed a few each night. 

An annual message of care at Christmas goes a long way.  Traditionally the list begins with the wedding guest book and grows over the years.  

My list has shrunk.  There are names in my Christmas Card Record book, I don't even recognize anymore. Were they college friends in LA, young couples from our Newport beach days? Or folks from our child rearing era in Thousand Oaks, California. After 14 years in Florida even friends have changed. Hard to keep up.

Perhaps that's one of the things we'll do in heaven. A thousand years to rekindle relationships.

While on earth, Christmas Cards keep them going. 

A text message is better than nothing,  I guess. "Merry Christmas to all our Friends" sent out to all your contacts says something, for sure. Try to respond to the group text and you've launched mass confusion rather than stoked the love.

Social networking has captured our complete attention. So much faster than a card or letter. But has it made us more loving and caring and really fostered meaningful friendships? Has it really improved our social or family life? Maybe some say yes.

Did you read the article where the person with 400 friends tried to have a get-together and none of the 400 'friends' came? 

The Shaws hang our Christmas cards on two long ribbons on the front door. The space needed is less and less with each year.  Where once there were three ribbons, now there are only two. 

Four cards are hung to date with ten days left till Christmas.

Multiple trips to the photo counter, and arguments with husband over photos and wording made it truly a labor of love. But so worth it!

Oh, and in case you didn't get our card in the mailbox at then end of your driveway....

consider this post your Holiday Greeting.

Electronically!!

:):) 

lost in the forest of seventeen

They say it happens at age fourteen for girls. Overnight some alien starts inhabiting their bodies, replacing the girl that was known and loved with an impossible, emotionally charged, otherworldly being. This lasts for about 3-5 years before the old girl returns and the family is once again right side up.

For boys it happens around seventeen. They enter this forest preceding adulthood, leading the parents into the woods to find their lost son. Whatever moral compass or map they seemed to own in childhood is suddenly lost as they discover a world of new senses, experiences and manly power - a dangerous combination.

Attempting to rescue and prevent impending disaster, I follow blindly into the woods.

And soon we were both lost. Vision truncated to a few feet in front of me. Occasionally a trace of his whereabouts as I stumble in the dark and sunless green.

This forest of seventeen.

Gnarly roots protruding, I trip on clues. Like Visine-to-get-the-red-out, odd items hidden under hedges and behind pots, getting sick on the bedroom couch in the middle of the night....because you ate something bad last night??? Couch is put out for bulk trash. Stunned, my face hammers into a pillar of bark. Smack hard,
staggering, dazed,
wondering what just happened.

I wonder all the time.

Conversations are spoken as if through a smoky glass. Furtive glances replace eye contact. Garbled words for plain answers, lacking logic. Stories don't line up. Reality warped and stretched like carnival mirrors - shapes distorted and confusing.  The fog lays heavy, through the thickly growing arbors.

 I brush him sometimes and sense him near, but not really. The light has left his eyes.

Some mothers, less sensitive to privacy,  break through by scanning text messages and caller ID to confirm the bad friends and suspect girlfriend. I sum up the sketchy evidence and draw frightening conclusions that may or may not be true.

Knees are raw from praying, heart sore and eyes empty of tears.

I'm not sure when we will see light again.

Did you leave a trail of stones or bread? Anything to help us find our way out to

clear skies and

cleansing sun,

honesty, truth, innocence.

So far, not even a dot of light on the charcoal horizon...







(Note to concerned readers: We are not in crisis. After raising 4 boys, this is a collective, general reflection of a stage I've noticed some sons go through. We are fine, though never without need of God's grace and guidance.)