Sharp Knives and Crossroads

A dear friend of mine's daughter ran off with her boyfriend yesterday. As I've tossed and turned tonight, worrying about her and her parents, I keep praying for her and them. Finally I surrendered and got up, figuring my husband might get some sleep that way.

It seems that we've all run off, in some way, at some point in our lives. I remember one such moment, where it seemed I was standing on the edge of a knife, deciding which side I was going to jump off. I recollect a warm, late May evening in a parking lot at college, staring up at the second floor dorm where my friend was standing in the window. She had opted, at that climactic moment, not to run off with me. We were to join our boyfriends and go camping out in the wilderness that last night of school. Forbidden and dangerous. I had a choice to make. I could go back to the locked dorm, ring the doorbell and get chided for being a few minutes late for curfew. Or I could run down the hill and face even bigger choices in the darkness with my boyfriend. In a modern movie, it would seem an obvious and romantic conclusion: choose love. Live! In reality, it could have ruined my life.

I ran down into the twilight. The rest of the night was a virtual fight with myself and with him. Our 2-year relationship was fraught with break-ups, fights, dreams and indecision. He wanted me to marry him. I knew, somewhere in there, that we weren't right for each other. I questioned his commitment to God. He questioned my butterfly nature. I wanted him to be a man of faith. He wanted to keep me, alone, in his gilded cage. At one point in that critical witching hour, he threatened to rape me so that I might get pregnant and feel obligated to marry him. And there I was, stupidly spending the night with someone like that and expecting him to honor my chastity. I cried out to God and somehow got through that blackness without being violated. Morning came. He dropped me at the campus with us both streaming tears. I knew that the only way I could get away from him was to go far away, to go back home and stay there. I cocooned myself like a child with my parents, bruised and broken. A month later, I cracked and spilled to them all that had happened. I spent the next year working during the day and going to a local college at night. I was numb, lonely. So lonely. One evening, almost a year to the day I left the other college, as I was walking across the campus, a brief spring rain caught me far from shelter. It was over in a minute, then the sun shone. Raindrops sparkled on the trees and in the air. The grass was neon and the birds were shrieking with joy. I thanked God for the first time in a year, for all the things good and bad that had conspired. In an instant, I realized that I was free. I was no longer in a cage or under threat. I could be who I wanted to be and who God made me to be. Funny, how you can be completely enslaved and not even know it. Funny, how you can rashly make choices that seem like you are choosing life when what you are choosing is serfdom, and probably to your own passions. 

I've seen my own children wrestle with crossroads, sometimes succeeding, sometimes failing. The right choices don't always mean the safe ones, and if we live our lives just trying to keep from getting hurt, then we'll never truly live. One of my favorite quotes is by Theodore Roosevelt: "Far better is it to dare mighty things, to win glorious triumphs, even though checkered by failure....than to rank with those poor spirits who neither enjoy nor suffer much, because they live in a gray twilight that knows not victory nor defeat." 

The world would have us believe that everything we do should be monitored by our heart. "The heart wants what the heart wants" -- and therefore the heart should get everything it wants, regardless of what is right or wrong. It must be right, if that's what my heart is telling me. But I've seen lives destroyed, children ruined, testimonies dashed, mayhem and murder because of people following their "hearts." Ole' Teddy's quote mentions daring mighty things, winning glorious triumphs, not holing up in the mud with a handsome pig. There is a higher road. I would have never believed, that morning I walked away from that boy, what God had in mind for me. Windows of heaven and all that, mixed with the muck and mire of earth, but still heavenly. He is good, showing love and mercy to those who will cry out to Him. And often even when we don't. Praying for my friend's daughter tonight...

Old Paths and New Ones

I almost cringe to write this most polarizing of words: feminism. There seems to be no way to bring up that word or subject without dragging up lots of opinions with it. I looked it up in the dictionary and this is what it said: "the doctrine advocating social, political, and all other rights of women equal to those of men." Well, that doesn't sound so crazy.

I grew up in the 60s, where social change was all the rage. I remember seeing hippies in Atlanta, colorful and stinky. Some of them moved into an abandoned house near our home. They took to bathing naked in the Powder Springs creek, next to the city park. There was hippie power, black power, women's rights, civil rights, and Gloria Steinem. Sometimes the anger rose up and I saw it close. My Daddy worked at the Atlanta Postal Service. He was kind and friendly to everyone, no matter their color or creed....so he was called ugly names by some who were still stuck in Neanderthal mud. When a black girl in my second grade class was shot while walking along the railroad tracks in our town, Daddy took me to see her in the hospital. He taught us that we were all equal in God's eyes and that no one had the right to hurt another person, except in self defense. But mind you, he was no pushover about that. He said that if someone ever hit me at school, I was to fight back....even if that meant getting suspended. He was raised dirt poor, humble, cold and hungry, but I can't forget how he told me that the blacks in his town faired far worse. God had his hand on my Daddy, way back when... he was progressive in his kindness, discerning and good. He became a Christian when I was twelve years old. Even though he had always been tenderhearted, the Lord gave him a new soul. His love for my Mama and us grew. His devotion to God's Word and ways was fleshed out with profound gratefulness. 

But back to feminism. I was reminded recently of that flaming word when a friend talked to me about the oppression of women in our society. I was frank with her and said that I didn't see it that way. Perhaps it's because of my good Daddy. He raised us like tomboys in the country, doing whatever work he happened to be doing. My whole childhood was full of playing softball and basketball in the front yard with him. He was our coach until high school, then continued to play and coach us from the sidelines, never missing a practice or game. In the middle of all that, I also knew that he loved us girls for being girls. He wasn't using us as surrogate boys. Mama said that when she was pregnant with each of us, he had an uncanny ability to get what he wanted: two girls, then a boy. I loved baby dolls, tea parties and dress-up, and I recall him squatting down and enjoying a cup with my dolls. In high school, when my sister and I were jocks and fully immersed in sports, he encouraged us to also embrace the contrast and joy of being a woman. He gave us hearts of fire, embellished with lace.

We were blessed to be raised by a man who believed that women were awesome and that we could do anything we set our minds to do. Within that culture, I came out with the attitude that I didn't have to live my life competing with men. I loved and admired men. That wasn't even on my radar screen. What I did see, observing the world changing and colliding, was that our society was beginning to show signs of crumbling from the inside out. Sure, there was progress with everyone's "rights" and new frontiers being opened up. There were no excuses as to why it took so long to bring protective legislation for black equality. Us women faced a brave, new world. Expectations changed and America changed. Some of that was wonderful, but much was destructive.

I was encouraged to learn computers, way back when it all started....counselors told me not to feed my artistic side or to delve into my English degree....but to find a career in business and computers. Money, money, money....career! You'll go far! What began to grow in my heart was considered Jurassic by some of my teachers and colleagues. In quiet moments, I saw babies, children's faces, not dollar signs or prestige. When pressed and dressed for work, in my secret thoughts all I could think of was changing the world. But not like my bosses or teachers thought I should. I saw a husband, a warm and beautiful home brimming with creativity. I saw boys named Jonathan, Daniel, Jesse and a girl named Elizabeth. People who weren't swimming with the lemmings. People who, if called upon, would lay down their life for what is right and good. An old, ancient siren song, simple really, harking back to what was before. And I, the simpleton. That was the road I took. Some of my friends who took other roads are now retiring, comfortable, accomplished. I've branched numerous careers off my home tree, with gleeful abandon (but also all sorts of stress).

There are paths that were plowed by both men and women that enable me to have the freedoms and opportunities that I enjoy today and for that I am grateful. But what I pray for, in our country, is that we will embrace the old paths, the good paths, that do not include bitterness and anger, oppression or evil. These need to be re-discovered and traversed. When men begin to value the things that my Daddy and Mama valued, and they begin to swim upstream against the river, defying the culture and taking back their families with love and courage....when women find purpose in what seems simple but turns out profound, in particular the hearts of their children, and we affirm rather than fight each other for preeminence.... maybe we can turn this place around.

Wrasslin', Sparks and Fevers

I never liked wimpy men. I was raised an old-school country girl, an athlete from childhood. When I was single and dating someone, if I began to sense that I might have the ability to beat him up, I'd break up with him. He had to love God, make me laugh, respect me, and be able to best me in arm wrestling. On top of that, he had to ask Daddy for permission to date me. 

When Daddy told me, when I was 13 years old, that all my future dates would have to ask him for permission to take me out, I began digging myself a grave out in the backyard. Our parents were wise to tell us far enough in advance for us to get accustomed to the idea. By the time I started dating, it was a fixture in my brain that this was what I would have to do. And when I went off to college in another state, the same standard was expected. Unbelievable. It was hard to deal with, but I began to see that it was the best thing for me. Even when I dated people that I probably shouldn't have, I had a form of protection. It all may seem a crazy notion to some, that a parent should have this kind of involvement in their child's life, but it's a time-proven principle that still works.

I don't know if love at first sight is always true, but when I saw Ken Norton, sitting there on the third row at church, Mr. Hunky Buff Man, intently taking sermon notes while those shoulders took up two pew spaces, I fell in love. Well maybe not love, but I certainly fell into extremely, curiously interested like. And then there was the night at prayer meeting, when we came in late. Several people said prayers, then I heard a heartfelt one coming from way in the back. I peeked, and there was that nice slice of beefcake praying on his knees in the corner of the room. I mentioned something to my Mama about him. She said, "What about Jeff?" (My current boyfriend). I said, "What about Jeff?" I also conveniently overlooked that gorgeous, spunky girl that was often snuggled up next to Ken. Back to the real world, after a few months I broke up with Jeff when I realized that he was too much of a Mama's boy and spent his Sundays working on his Mustang Mach 1 rather than going to church. I also suspected I could whup him, if it came right down to it.

Ken asked me out (he and his girlfriend had broken up, hallelujer) and talked to my Daddy before I could even blink. An Amy Grant concert in February, a month away. Daddy reluctantly said yes. Ken was a new Christian, brash and young, with a lot of his wildcat-ness still showing. I imagine Daddy was nervous about the writing on the wall. Either way, rather than have a normal dating relationship, we hung out at church functions and with his best friend, Brian. The night of the concert, Brian's date stood him up and we three ended up laughing until we were in pain. We did several things together, but because we were both still burnt from past relationships, we held each other at arm's length. One Sunday night after church, I saw he and Daddy talking on the back row. Daddy didn't think Ken was mature enough. Ken didn't think we were working out well. We quit "dating." That was the best thing that could have happened. The stigma and pressure of a romance was taken away. That was when we began to be true friends. We would talk for hours, on the phone and after our singles group events. We'd sit in the parking lot at church talking in our cars until the police would drive up and ask if I was okay. He and Brian would pick me up for lunch at work. We'd spend weekends, the three of us, doing all sorts of activities. Both of them were men that loved God and were honorable. They were athletic, handsome and terribly funny. Gals at work would ask which one I was dating and I would tell them, "Neither!" It was a wonderful time of fun and healing for me, where I could enjoy unclouded relationships with the opposite sex, fellas that I loved and respected. But I still adored me some Ken, over and above....

Brian took a liking to my little sister, who was home from college. It changed everything. Now, when the guys came over, it was Brian and Melanie spooning and sparking. Which left Ken and I in a somewhat awkward place. One particular evening, Brian asked Mel if she would like to go down the river with him on Labor Day. She agreed. Ken turned to me and asked if I'd like to go too. I said sure, of course. It was no different than most of the weekends over the last summer, where I was usually hanging out with Ken and Brian. We've always enjoyed each others' dry humor and smart-aleck discussions, but Ken overstretched his luck when he came out with: "Good. I asked everybody else and nobody could go, but I knew you would. You always go." My blood began to simmer, as I thought of another of Ken's infuriating statements: "I like you, Rose, because you are safe!" The guys left, to go to a friend's house down the street. As the steam began coming out of my ears, I called our friend and asked for Ken. I told him I was not one of the boys and that I was offended. I said I was not going to go down the river with him and he wasn't going to treat me that way. I hung up. Our family left to go to a movie. When we got back, near midnight, we could hear the phone ringing as Daddy unlocked the door. He said, no kidding, "It's Ken. Now it begins." I said, "Huh?!" Daddy picked up the phone and handed it to me. It was Ken, telling me he was sorry and how I was more fun than anybody and would I please go down the river with him. I grudgingly agreed to go. The river trip was a little disastrous. I was mad and irritated. Done.

Apparently he didn't get the memo. Because after that, I was the best thing since sliced bread. Lightning struck a few days later, when he kissed me in my parents' kitchen. We got married in a fever less than 4 months later, much to the shock of his family. I was young, ignorant and oblivious to the proper etiquette of these things. All I knew was, we were PB&J, peas and carrots, Captain and Tenille, and bees to honey. We were meant to be together. 

Today is our 34th anniversary. We have known all sorts of seas...calm, stormy, rolling, choppy, dead, roaring. Some of the seas have helped us along, some have threatened to kill us. He's had to endure my maddening distractions and rabbit trails, not to mention sad housekeeping skills. I've had to endure his bossiness and rule-keeping. But where one is weak, the other is strong. It's sometimes easy and often hard. Love is a commitment, not a feeling, though the tides of feelings rush in and rush out all through the years. Thank God, His grace is bigger than the both of us. Often, when we're irritated as an inferno at each other, the Lord stops us and makes us think about how we're hurting each other. I think of that long-ago night, where I heard and saw that big lumberjack of a man praying on his knees in a corner. He's still doing that praying. My heart melts. Love can walk through fire without blinking. And I definitely can't beat that boy up.

Dinosaurs in the Kitchen

Over the holidays, I was swatting at cobwebs dangling from our 12-foot ceilings when I again noticed the Velociraptor. His four-inch body lives on a chandelier in my kitchen. He is green and yellow and has a little magnet in his nose, which enables him to adhere to light fixtures, corners of sheetrocked walls and anything metal. I know because that's where he's lived all of his life. At our farm in Douglasville, he had his domain over the hall, perched high on an upstairs corner for many years. When we made the very difficult move from that wonderful home, one of my sons carried him here in a pocket and searched for a special place to transfer him to. He reached up with his absurdly long arms (attached to an absurdly tall body) and placed the Velociraptor on one of the ancient light fixtures in the kitchen, where no one else could reach it without a ladder.

Every time I happen to notice the plastic antedeluvian hanging by his nose from up there, I have a multiple flashback moment. I think of my four children and their adolescences. Our family is not normal. The whirl of images in my mind of those years brings laughter, incredulity, not a few goosebumps, and a new wave of amazement that no one got burned, killed or swallowed up by something. 

All of my kids took great pleasure in trying to touch the 9-foot ceiling in the kitchen. With time, practice and more muscles, they took to bumping it with their heads. There were antics involving jumping from a standing position onto the top of the galley island. Eventually there was a winding crack in the tile, spanning the kitchen and laundry room, caused by a boy creature jumping back off the island onto the floor. 

One memorable day, one of said creatures was jumping over the bar stools that stood sentry. One bar stool -- victory! Two bar stools -- eureka! So let's turn the two bar stools face to face, making the trajectory another foot longer. Here comes the gyrating backup into the laundry room, and then the dash and leap. Mama is sitting in the dining room when the manchild flies over the stools, grazing and toppling the second one onto the tile floor. With a crash, screams of agony, and splinters flying....the stool explodes as the beastie howls in pain. Then laughter, from him and everyone in the room. More snorting and then caution, as Papa runs to Mama's side, where her chair leg is shattered and about to collapse. Meanwhile, everyone is laughing and nobody is in trouble.

I told you we're not normal.

I think of perils -- children flying off absurdly high tire swings, jumping off cliffs into dubious waters,  diving, swooping, climbing, plunging, shooting things, digging into things, mud. Lots of mud. Wrestling matches indoors. Outdoors. Aerial attacks. Fake snakes and rats in my bed. In the microwave. Behind the toilet. Papa wouldn't let me hold them back. My boys became men because he expected them to work like men and then he let them be wild boys, playing with abandon. Liz jumped right in there with them, the calm amidst the storm, our discerning, not-so-tiny dancer. 

It was a whirlwind that hit and then left as quick as it came. When I glance up at the Velociraptor, I flash back in an instant. Sometimes I get a little misty, remembering, wishing for the past, wondering if it really happened, then smiling because I know you can only take so many of those years. These days, the boys come rushing back in with their families, bundles of energy and opinions, and Liz speaks her mind a lot more. That was then, this is now. But it's all good. I am blessed.