I read this question tonight: Why is it so difficult to be humble?
The first thing that came to mind was the drilled-in, "Christian-ese" (pronounced similar to "Japanese" if you don't know-- we tend to make our own culture and language at times. I'm not sure it's a good thing, but I digress) answer of "Because we have a sin nature."
While this is true, I felt the need to dive a little deeper. And deep is where I found myself.
God quickly led me down the path of True Motives and opened the too-familiar door of Selfishness.
I don't go out of my way for people often. I think of it, and I want to, but I simply don't. Sometimes there's a financial reason, but usually it's straight up laziness. Occasionally I will actually act on something. I'll see a need I can meet, and I do it. I do my best to keep it under wraps-- partially because I'm not a huge fan of the awkwardness of attention, and partially because God says:
"So when you give to the needy, do not announce it with trumpets, as the hypocrites do in the synagogues and on the streets, to be honored by men. I tell you the truth, they have received their reward in full. But when you give to the needy, do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing, so that your giving may be in secret. Then your Father, who sees what is done in secret, will reward you." (Matt. 6:2-4)
And not for the "reward" part. I don't know what that would even look like (aside from joy), and I would feel overwhelmingly unworthy.
Anyway, so I do these things "in secret." But I still harbor this underlying longing to be noticed. It's so backwards. Part of the awesomeness of meeting a need secretly is the excitement of the secret itself. I don't know how things work for you, but it's a sad truth in my world.
I thought about all this with the "humility" question. And I came to this simple, but profound conclusion.
We seek our worth from people.
If God was really the closest person to me, if my self esteem was determined by what He thought of me, I would have nothing to brag about. I would be whole and complete in His eyes and arms.
But I am not in that place.
And since I'm not, I seek instead to be filled with what other people think and say about me and my actions. The only way to have that desire met is to let people know how "great" I am (in a sneaky way of course), so I can have pride in myself. If that pride is extracted or annulled, I'm left with humility, and that means I may never get noticed. And that, my friends, is scary.
Our pastor said this:
God + Nothing = Everything
God + ________ (<---- anything you can think of) = Fear
Lord, help me to quit trying for peoples' approval and to look solely to You. Blanket me in the natural humility that comes from a closer walk with You.
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Friday, October 8, 2010
Is the Lord's arm too short?
People say God is a crutch. I think they mean it to be cruel, but without Him, I know I'd spend a lot more time lying around on my face than I already do. And with the daily use of that crutch comes a sort of addiction.
One way I get my "fix" is through prayer-- just talking things out. "Gossiping" to God about all the stupid things in life, complaining about my own selfishness, just an overall venting. The bonus to blabbering it all out to Him (instead of a tangible friend) is that not only can no one get hurt, but sometimes He fixes the problem then and there. He's so cool and such a powerful friend to have.
Anyway, sometimes my prayers can become repetitious, and I have trouble saying what I'd like to say. I can't think creatively, and while I'd like to go deeper, I just can't. And so I have a few of Stormie Omartian's books, "The Power of a Praying _____."
This morning I was sitting down with her "Power of a Praying Wife," and I came across this prayer:
Lord, help me to be a good wife. I fully realize that I don't have what it takes to be one without Your help. (**There's that crutch again!)
Take my selfishness, impatience, and irritability and turn them into kindness, long-suffering, and the willingness to bear all things.
Take my old emotional habits, mindsets, automatic reactions, rude assumptions, and self-protectiveness, and make me patient, kind, good, faithful, gentle, and self-controlled.
Take the hardness of my heart and break down the walls with Your battering ram of revelation. Give me a new heart and work in me Your love, peace, and joy (Galatians 5:22, 23). I am not able to rise above who I am at this moment. Only You can transform me.
It's so simple and straight-forward. Yet I cannot digest it. I slowly took in each of those words: patient, kind, good, faithful, gentle, and self-controlled. In the sincerest, most honest part of my heart, I had to bare my emptiness to Christ and admit that I have none of those attributes. Not one. It's hard to even type that kind of authenticity. Because I don't want to admit it. I like to think I'm at least good. But I know my heart.
And so I sat there in complete humility, knowing He is the only path to the kind of change I need. But it's impossible. Since somewhere in elementary school, I can remember trying to be kind. Less sarcastic and harsh. It's ongoing, and I see no potential for victory. My selfishness blocks pretty much any of those wonderful traits. But I LOVE it. I like my world to look exactly as I want it to look. In raw truth, I don't want to give up my focus on myself.
In short, I see no end.
Then I looked to the next page in the book, where there's always a quaint little verse printed. And it read this:
"Whatever things you ask for when you pray, believe that you receive them, and you will have them." Mark 11:24
And it lead me to question how much I really believe God. Do I think He's not strong enough to change me? Do I think He doesn't love me enough to care? I know the answers to these questions.
In the Old Testament (Numbers chapter 11 to be exact), when the Israelites were in the desert, God provided miraculous manna to feed them. Every day. They got sick of it, which is understandable. But then they complained and whined about how they'd rather be in slavery. God heard about it (of course), and got a little ticked off. So He pulled Moses aside and said this: "The LORD heard when you wailed. . . You will eat meat. . . You will not eat it for just one day, or two days, or five, ten or twenty days, but for a whole month—until it comes out of your nostrils and you loathe it."
Moses, being the human he is, basically said, "Yeah, okay. Whatever. You couldn't feed meat to all these people if you killed every sheep they had."
*Laura shakes her head in pity for Moses*
God responds with something I can never forget. Instead of sand blasting Moses' face off, He simply answers with a question followed by a statement. He says, "Is the LORD's arm too short? You will now see whether or not what I say will come true for you."
How can I come before the Being who thought up the universe, and think He can't or won't change me? God, show me up. Your arm is not too short.
One way I get my "fix" is through prayer-- just talking things out. "Gossiping" to God about all the stupid things in life, complaining about my own selfishness, just an overall venting. The bonus to blabbering it all out to Him (instead of a tangible friend) is that not only can no one get hurt, but sometimes He fixes the problem then and there. He's so cool and such a powerful friend to have.
Anyway, sometimes my prayers can become repetitious, and I have trouble saying what I'd like to say. I can't think creatively, and while I'd like to go deeper, I just can't. And so I have a few of Stormie Omartian's books, "The Power of a Praying _____."
This morning I was sitting down with her "Power of a Praying Wife," and I came across this prayer:
Lord, help me to be a good wife. I fully realize that I don't have what it takes to be one without Your help. (**There's that crutch again!)
Take my selfishness, impatience, and irritability and turn them into kindness, long-suffering, and the willingness to bear all things.
Take my old emotional habits, mindsets, automatic reactions, rude assumptions, and self-protectiveness, and make me patient, kind, good, faithful, gentle, and self-controlled.
Take the hardness of my heart and break down the walls with Your battering ram of revelation. Give me a new heart and work in me Your love, peace, and joy (Galatians 5:22, 23). I am not able to rise above who I am at this moment. Only You can transform me.
It's so simple and straight-forward. Yet I cannot digest it. I slowly took in each of those words: patient, kind, good, faithful, gentle, and self-controlled. In the sincerest, most honest part of my heart, I had to bare my emptiness to Christ and admit that I have none of those attributes. Not one. It's hard to even type that kind of authenticity. Because I don't want to admit it. I like to think I'm at least good. But I know my heart.
And so I sat there in complete humility, knowing He is the only path to the kind of change I need. But it's impossible. Since somewhere in elementary school, I can remember trying to be kind. Less sarcastic and harsh. It's ongoing, and I see no potential for victory. My selfishness blocks pretty much any of those wonderful traits. But I LOVE it. I like my world to look exactly as I want it to look. In raw truth, I don't want to give up my focus on myself.
In short, I see no end.
Then I looked to the next page in the book, where there's always a quaint little verse printed. And it read this:
"Whatever things you ask for when you pray, believe that you receive them, and you will have them." Mark 11:24
And it lead me to question how much I really believe God. Do I think He's not strong enough to change me? Do I think He doesn't love me enough to care? I know the answers to these questions.
In the Old Testament (Numbers chapter 11 to be exact), when the Israelites were in the desert, God provided miraculous manna to feed them. Every day. They got sick of it, which is understandable. But then they complained and whined about how they'd rather be in slavery. God heard about it (of course), and got a little ticked off. So He pulled Moses aside and said this: "The LORD heard when you wailed. . . You will eat meat. . . You will not eat it for just one day, or two days, or five, ten or twenty days, but for a whole month—until it comes out of your nostrils and you loathe it."
Moses, being the human he is, basically said, "Yeah, okay. Whatever. You couldn't feed meat to all these people if you killed every sheep they had."
*Laura shakes her head in pity for Moses*
God responds with something I can never forget. Instead of sand blasting Moses' face off, He simply answers with a question followed by a statement. He says, "Is the LORD's arm too short? You will now see whether or not what I say will come true for you."
How can I come before the Being who thought up the universe, and think He can't or won't change me? God, show me up. Your arm is not too short.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Not to Be Cliche
Nine years ago this morning, I grabbed a bowl of Frosted Mini Wheats and sat down to watch the morning news on Chicago's WGN. As far as I knew, it was a normal morning. The news showed a smoking building. Between my crunches, I heard them say something about a "plane accident" and one of the "Trade Buildings" or something along those lines. At that point, I had very little knowledge of the towers. I gathered that it was in NY, but nothing more.
Before my bowl of cereal was even gone, the newscaster became very disoriented and was stammering. I realize now that what he was trying to do was to somehow cover the fact that the second building had just been hit (Wow, tearing up as I type this. Didn't expect that one). There was confusion and chaos in the newsroom for sure.
I considered calling my boyfriend Rodney. But he worked third shift and was sleeping. I figured it would still be news to him when he woke up in the afternoon, so I let him sleep. One of his coworkers called and woke him anyway.
Well I got ready for school, and off I went. By the time I got into the car, they were already mentioning terrorism and Osama Bin Laden. I thought everyone was a little fruity for pulling out the big "T" word. I mean really? They called the Oklahoma City bombing terrorism. Some planes got on the wrong course and hit some buildings.
But just during my short trip to school that morning, one building had fallen, and they had convinced me that it could indeed have been a terrorist act. But seriously "terrorist"? I didn't even fully understand the meaning of the term.
I felt like my mom,listening to WBBM on my drive in to ECC that morning. On the walk from my car to the building, the parking lot was not filled with the usual thump of bass from peoples' rap music, but the buzz of broadcasters' voices. Every car.
The almost constant sound of jets flying overhead in and out of Midway/O-Hare Airport was gone. Never in my entire life had I heard silent morning skies in the Chicago area.
Walking into school was even more sobering. People rushing to and from classes and couples snuggling together were all replaced by the bulk of the student body standing in front of the large, dingy-pictured television. Everyone watching for something new. Something redeeming. Instead there was more coverage. More NY, and now the Pentagon.
I found a guy I had gone to high school with but had never talked to. I stood by him. Partially because he was big, and it gave me the first feeling of safety I had had in the last hour, and partially because it was just a familiar face. I remember saying to him "I don't want to go to war." He calmly shook his head-- still staring at the TV screen.
Breaking away from the television, I began the trek to my class. Many people were crying in the hallways. I came across one friend of mine who was just a total wreck. Her mom worked in the Sears Tower. The news told us that it was being evacuated, but cell phone reception wasn't a usable thing at that point in the day. I remember thinking about my own parents who worked about 30 miles from the city. What if it changed from planes to bombs?
I found out later that the daughter of my mom's boss had been living in NY at the time and working downtown. She reported seeing bits of body parts and lots of paper flying in the air. It's funny the things you remember when you're in a situation like that. I imagine there was so much more to see and hear and feel. But that's what she told about.
Anyway, to class I went. Our professor came in with a straight face and told us that we were going to go on with our day as if nothing had happened. "These are terrorists," he started. "Their intention is to mess up our lives. And so that's what we're not going to let them do." Something like that anyway. One girl was sobbing. I wanted to hurt him. I didn't like him before that, but man oh man he's lucky I love Jesus and needed to keep a good example in front of my peers. I understand his intentions. And none of us knew how to react. I just think he chose poorly.
I got home and started journaling about the day's events. In fact, I remember writing that even though this was impossible to process "now," I knew that it would one day be "just a page in Aspen and Jeremiah's history books." It's funny now to think about my kids being named that long ago :) Anyway, I couldn't even remember Bin Laden's name to journal it. Which is also funny now, since it's a name we'll never forget.
I went to Lone Star that evening to work. Understandably, not many people came in for steak that night. Something about cherishing family, yadda yadda :) So the bartender, manager, and I sat for most of the night watching the news and video footage of Iraq getting the heck bombed out of it by "an unknown assailant." Ha! You don't kick the shin of the biggest kid in class and expect him not to retaliate.
The few guests that we did have come in were very authentic. There wasn't the usual small talk and useless upselling. We talked about the obvious things.
I don't remember much else from the day. I'm sure my journal would enlighten me, but that would require finding it :)
What I do remember is going to bed that night. It's the only time I've ever been afraid that I may not wake up the next morning.
I wish I knew someone personally that I could thank for helping all the victims of 9-11. I can thank the troops who have spend the last 8 years (or whatever it's been) fighting for not only our freedom, but the freedom of the citizens of terrorist countries. I can hardly imagine such selflessness. Thank you.
Before my bowl of cereal was even gone, the newscaster became very disoriented and was stammering. I realize now that what he was trying to do was to somehow cover the fact that the second building had just been hit (Wow, tearing up as I type this. Didn't expect that one). There was confusion and chaos in the newsroom for sure.
I considered calling my boyfriend Rodney. But he worked third shift and was sleeping. I figured it would still be news to him when he woke up in the afternoon, so I let him sleep. One of his coworkers called and woke him anyway.
Well I got ready for school, and off I went. By the time I got into the car, they were already mentioning terrorism and Osama Bin Laden. I thought everyone was a little fruity for pulling out the big "T" word. I mean really? They called the Oklahoma City bombing terrorism. Some planes got on the wrong course and hit some buildings.
But just during my short trip to school that morning, one building had fallen, and they had convinced me that it could indeed have been a terrorist act. But seriously "terrorist"? I didn't even fully understand the meaning of the term.
I felt like my mom,listening to WBBM on my drive in to ECC that morning. On the walk from my car to the building, the parking lot was not filled with the usual thump of bass from peoples' rap music, but the buzz of broadcasters' voices. Every car.
The almost constant sound of jets flying overhead in and out of Midway/O-Hare Airport was gone. Never in my entire life had I heard silent morning skies in the Chicago area.
Walking into school was even more sobering. People rushing to and from classes and couples snuggling together were all replaced by the bulk of the student body standing in front of the large, dingy-pictured television. Everyone watching for something new. Something redeeming. Instead there was more coverage. More NY, and now the Pentagon.
I found a guy I had gone to high school with but had never talked to. I stood by him. Partially because he was big, and it gave me the first feeling of safety I had had in the last hour, and partially because it was just a familiar face. I remember saying to him "I don't want to go to war." He calmly shook his head-- still staring at the TV screen.
Breaking away from the television, I began the trek to my class. Many people were crying in the hallways. I came across one friend of mine who was just a total wreck. Her mom worked in the Sears Tower. The news told us that it was being evacuated, but cell phone reception wasn't a usable thing at that point in the day. I remember thinking about my own parents who worked about 30 miles from the city. What if it changed from planes to bombs?
I found out later that the daughter of my mom's boss had been living in NY at the time and working downtown. She reported seeing bits of body parts and lots of paper flying in the air. It's funny the things you remember when you're in a situation like that. I imagine there was so much more to see and hear and feel. But that's what she told about.
Anyway, to class I went. Our professor came in with a straight face and told us that we were going to go on with our day as if nothing had happened. "These are terrorists," he started. "Their intention is to mess up our lives. And so that's what we're not going to let them do." Something like that anyway. One girl was sobbing. I wanted to hurt him. I didn't like him before that, but man oh man he's lucky I love Jesus and needed to keep a good example in front of my peers. I understand his intentions. And none of us knew how to react. I just think he chose poorly.
I got home and started journaling about the day's events. In fact, I remember writing that even though this was impossible to process "now," I knew that it would one day be "just a page in Aspen and Jeremiah's history books." It's funny now to think about my kids being named that long ago :) Anyway, I couldn't even remember Bin Laden's name to journal it. Which is also funny now, since it's a name we'll never forget.
I went to Lone Star that evening to work. Understandably, not many people came in for steak that night. Something about cherishing family, yadda yadda :) So the bartender, manager, and I sat for most of the night watching the news and video footage of Iraq getting the heck bombed out of it by "an unknown assailant." Ha! You don't kick the shin of the biggest kid in class and expect him not to retaliate.
The few guests that we did have come in were very authentic. There wasn't the usual small talk and useless upselling. We talked about the obvious things.
I don't remember much else from the day. I'm sure my journal would enlighten me, but that would require finding it :)
What I do remember is going to bed that night. It's the only time I've ever been afraid that I may not wake up the next morning.
I wish I knew someone personally that I could thank for helping all the victims of 9-11. I can thank the troops who have spend the last 8 years (or whatever it's been) fighting for not only our freedom, but the freedom of the citizens of terrorist countries. I can hardly imagine such selflessness. Thank you.
Sunday, September 5, 2010
Echos of Footsteps
I run. While that could easily branch out into any number of deep thoughts, today I am referring simply to the action of running. Running as in marathons, expensive shoes, dogs chasing you, awkward encounters with cars and intersections. Old fashioned burn-off-your-legs running.
The route I typically take brings me under two sets of overpasses. One of these sets shadows a wider, more open section of road. But the other is built into a hill with the road lying closer to its cement legs.
Gosh I am sucking at writing today. "Cement legs?"
Here's the jist. When I'm running under the tighter overpass, I can more easily hear my footsteps. It used to annoy me because it made me self-conscious. My right foot falls louder (which I assume means harder) than my left. And since I don't know what that indicates, I don't like it.
I've come to accept the fact that one foot is louder than the other, and I don't care anymore. In fact, I almost find solace in the sound of my footsteps. To the point where I feel a sense of loneliness once I'm past the bridge. I'm back to being all alone. Just me and the road. For miles.
It occurred to me today that the echo is like God's daily presence. I'm not talking about Him moving or speaking or doing amazing things-- which He does :) But His simply "being" in my life. It's quiet. It's barely noticeable. But once I'm out from under it, I'm lonely. I want the echo. I want to hear and to know that someone's there. I can't see it. I can't touch it. But it's comforting, and I KNOW when it's not there.
Ha, another aspect of it that I just thought of is that we can run to it and run from it :) We all do one or the other. In fact, I'd venture to say that we're all choosing one of those options at every moment of our lives.
It's certainly not the strongest analogy I've ever run across ("run" get it?), but it was interesting candy for my brain this morning.
The route I typically take brings me under two sets of overpasses. One of these sets shadows a wider, more open section of road. But the other is built into a hill with the road lying closer to its cement legs.
Gosh I am sucking at writing today. "Cement legs?"
Here's the jist. When I'm running under the tighter overpass, I can more easily hear my footsteps. It used to annoy me because it made me self-conscious. My right foot falls louder (which I assume means harder) than my left. And since I don't know what that indicates, I don't like it.
I've come to accept the fact that one foot is louder than the other, and I don't care anymore. In fact, I almost find solace in the sound of my footsteps. To the point where I feel a sense of loneliness once I'm past the bridge. I'm back to being all alone. Just me and the road. For miles.
It occurred to me today that the echo is like God's daily presence. I'm not talking about Him moving or speaking or doing amazing things-- which He does :) But His simply "being" in my life. It's quiet. It's barely noticeable. But once I'm out from under it, I'm lonely. I want the echo. I want to hear and to know that someone's there. I can't see it. I can't touch it. But it's comforting, and I KNOW when it's not there.
Ha, another aspect of it that I just thought of is that we can run to it and run from it :) We all do one or the other. In fact, I'd venture to say that we're all choosing one of those options at every moment of our lives.
It's certainly not the strongest analogy I've ever run across ("run" get it?), but it was interesting candy for my brain this morning.
Saturday, July 31, 2010
Summer Lovin'
Reasons I am deeply in love with summer (in no particular order):
- Feeling the sun's oven-breath on my skin
- Fireflies
- Shoelessness (and socklessness. C'mon)
- The beach
- The beauty of sunburned cheeks and highlighted hair
- The task of "folding" laundry is simpler when it's primarily dresses/skirt to be hung.
- The sound of wind rustling leaves. Oh, I love that sound.
- I became a wife in the summer
- Freezy Pops
- The smell of freshly cut grass
- The look of freshly cut grass
- My kids can play OUTside
- Fires in the pit out back
- Park visits, repetitive as they can be at times
- Longer days
- Summer nights
- Star-watching while laying on a warm, country road
- The pond by my house has frogs that fill the air with their sounds
- Packer fans are on the DL
- Picnics
- I fist earned the name "Mom" in the summer
- The sound of rain
- Playing in the rain
- Playing in the ensuing mud
- Washing the car outside with someone and soaking each other
- Humming birds
- Fresh vegetables
- No need to scrap ice from the car, shovel the driveway, or risk frostbite
- Hammocks
- Cook-outs
- The soothing hum of box fans
- Laughter and screams from children running through the sprinkler
- The blueness of the sky
- The smell of gasoline from a lawn mower, boat, ATV. . .
- Air show
- All the good movies come out
- Taking my kids out for ice cream and watching them eat it too slowly to stay clean
- Spending so much quality time with good friends
- The temperature
- Everyone has their vitamin D, so they're generally happier
- Outdoor coffee dates
- Because of the nice, even heat, I can pick out my kids' clothes for a whole week straight
- Grass under my feet
- Big, dumb June bugs
- Sitting on the front steps to paint my toenails
- Fireworks
- Thunder storms
- Dewy grass
- Sunflowers
- An even layer of sand coating the carpet in my mini van
- Feeling the sun's oven-breath on my skin
- Fireflies
- Shoelessness (and socklessness. C'mon)
- The beach
- The beauty of sunburned cheeks and highlighted hair
- The task of "folding" laundry is simpler when it's primarily dresses/skirt to be hung.
- The sound of wind rustling leaves. Oh, I love that sound.
- I became a wife in the summer
- Freezy Pops
- The smell of freshly cut grass
- The look of freshly cut grass
- My kids can play OUTside
- Fires in the pit out back
- Park visits, repetitive as they can be at times
- Longer days
- Summer nights
- Star-watching while laying on a warm, country road
- The pond by my house has frogs that fill the air with their sounds
- Packer fans are on the DL
- Picnics
- I fist earned the name "Mom" in the summer
- The sound of rain
- Playing in the rain
- Playing in the ensuing mud
- Washing the car outside with someone and soaking each other
- Humming birds
- Fresh vegetables
- No need to scrap ice from the car, shovel the driveway, or risk frostbite
- Hammocks
- Cook-outs
- The soothing hum of box fans
- Laughter and screams from children running through the sprinkler
- The blueness of the sky
- The smell of gasoline from a lawn mower, boat, ATV. . .
- Air show
- All the good movies come out
- Taking my kids out for ice cream and watching them eat it too slowly to stay clean
- Spending so much quality time with good friends
- The temperature
- Everyone has their vitamin D, so they're generally happier
- Outdoor coffee dates
- Because of the nice, even heat, I can pick out my kids' clothes for a whole week straight
- Grass under my feet
- Big, dumb June bugs
- Sitting on the front steps to paint my toenails
- Fireworks
- Thunder storms
- Dewy grass
- Sunflowers
- An even layer of sand coating the carpet in my mini van
Monday, July 26, 2010
The Root Note
I attended a 2-hour meeting today. With my kids. Do I have any takers on guessing how much of the actual meeting I listened in on? You get the idea. And since they were basically ignored (with the exception of course of the constant "Knock it off" or "Don't do that again" kind of thing) for the 2 hours, they came home needing even more attention. Making lunch proved difficult with constant demands. Demands like start the movie, chocolate milk please, no, I wanted strawberry milk, pick me up, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE, I want to go outside, I need to go poopy. On and on it went. Add to the demands about 200 gigga-Jules of energy (per child), and it was a quick run to my cell phone to text the husband and ask what my chances were of possibly getting out of the house tonight. His response was that he took the night off specifically to spend it with me, but that I could go anyway :) He's my favorite.
I was bragging about this privilege to a friend of mine, and she asked where I was going. I gave her the typical "Caribou" to which she responded, "Have you ever been to The Root Note?" I had never heard of the place, but she said it's "a hippy place," which is a turn-on for me. So I tried unsuccessfully to find it on-line, called to check on the very important "free wi-fi" info, and began my journey to the place.
It must be newer, because even though it's store front can't be found on Google Maps, it's easily found on 4th Street across from Coney Island and Deaf Ear Records.
Off subject a bit, I took a walk around down town a few weeks go with my kids that jump-started a love for this city that I've hated for so many years. I like the artsy, quaintness of its age and it's old, dingy, knick-knacky stores.
Anyway, you walk in the door to an ordering counter, inlaid with natural stones. There is an herb garden growing to your immediate right. A pleasant, very "chill" guy walked up to take my order. I tell him I'm usually a coffee drinker (since their chalk-board menu says nothing about coffee), and he offers me tea as a change-up. My fear was that hippies have outgrown coffee. Thankfully, I was wrong. So I unconfidentally ordered a "mocha-minty thing," completely spacing that I need it to be decaf if I intend to sleep any time in the next several days. Oh well. At least I ordered a small. He says he'll deliver it to me.
So I begin to stroll the lengthy cafe, trying to stay inconspicuous-- like I'm not a nube, but am instead a cool, sophisticated regular. Down with the times. I see several people lounging in the squishy couches. One guy with a fanny pack and beret covered a couch with just his "stuff" but was sitting away from it. I was almost to the end of my loop, so I slid into a table against a wall behind a thin, hat-wearing, multi-braceleted, multi-pierced maybe 18-year-old guy who was writing away in his leather-bound journal.
I unloaded my laptop only to realize I had chosen one of the only tables without an outlet nearby. Of course, the journaling, decorated teenager ahead of me had one just above his head. Another option was directly beside what would be a distracting table of yappy, yuppie businessmen. They turned out to be having a meeting about a play one of the men was evidently writing and possibly directing. Though their clean, dressy appearance put them as out of place as my grandparents at a Metallica concert, they were very much in their own element.
I began my move toward the men and noticed that my movement had attracted the attention of the teenager-- who was actually a woman in her late 30's. Oops. Anyway, I broke the awkwardness and answered her unspoken question with "I need a power outlet. I can't believe I forgot." Without blinking, she offered to pick up all her things and move so I could take the table. "I'm low tech tonight," she assured. I graciously took her up on it, apologized, and moved in.
A few minutes later, a pleasant, "chill" young lady with dreds, uniformed the same as my cashier glided to my table and smoothly, jokingly apologized for accidentally making my coffee a large instead of small. Thinking only of the amount of caffeine I was about to ingest, I returned her demeanor and jested that I wasn't sure I could handle that kind of mess-up, but that I'd let it slide this time.
For the record, it is g.o.o.d. coffee.
Right now, I'm listening to "Stairway to Heaven" on classical guitar, and it's incredible. Just a side note.
The table in front of me has a single, waxy leaf in a vase of water. The entire length of ledge above my head is lined with syrups for coffee. There's a hot-tub shaped wooden box in the corner by the playwrights with big rocks and plants over a black tarp-- as if to make a pond but missing the water. The lighting is accomplished with typical cone-shaped, naturally colored, down-facing glass fixtures.
"Chill" is the best word for The Root Note. I feel as though I should drop my voice low and smooth it out like hot fudge in order to speak here. I should also have sun glasses and a beret. It's a sweet place, and I recommend it.
I was bragging about this privilege to a friend of mine, and she asked where I was going. I gave her the typical "Caribou" to which she responded, "Have you ever been to The Root Note?" I had never heard of the place, but she said it's "a hippy place," which is a turn-on for me. So I tried unsuccessfully to find it on-line, called to check on the very important "free wi-fi" info, and began my journey to the place.
It must be newer, because even though it's store front can't be found on Google Maps, it's easily found on 4th Street across from Coney Island and Deaf Ear Records.
Off subject a bit, I took a walk around down town a few weeks go with my kids that jump-started a love for this city that I've hated for so many years. I like the artsy, quaintness of its age and it's old, dingy, knick-knacky stores.
Anyway, you walk in the door to an ordering counter, inlaid with natural stones. There is an herb garden growing to your immediate right. A pleasant, very "chill" guy walked up to take my order. I tell him I'm usually a coffee drinker (since their chalk-board menu says nothing about coffee), and he offers me tea as a change-up. My fear was that hippies have outgrown coffee. Thankfully, I was wrong. So I unconfidentally ordered a "mocha-minty thing," completely spacing that I need it to be decaf if I intend to sleep any time in the next several days. Oh well. At least I ordered a small. He says he'll deliver it to me.
So I begin to stroll the lengthy cafe, trying to stay inconspicuous-- like I'm not a nube, but am instead a cool, sophisticated regular. Down with the times. I see several people lounging in the squishy couches. One guy with a fanny pack and beret covered a couch with just his "stuff" but was sitting away from it. I was almost to the end of my loop, so I slid into a table against a wall behind a thin, hat-wearing, multi-braceleted, multi-pierced maybe 18-year-old guy who was writing away in his leather-bound journal.
I unloaded my laptop only to realize I had chosen one of the only tables without an outlet nearby. Of course, the journaling, decorated teenager ahead of me had one just above his head. Another option was directly beside what would be a distracting table of yappy, yuppie businessmen. They turned out to be having a meeting about a play one of the men was evidently writing and possibly directing. Though their clean, dressy appearance put them as out of place as my grandparents at a Metallica concert, they were very much in their own element.
I began my move toward the men and noticed that my movement had attracted the attention of the teenager-- who was actually a woman in her late 30's. Oops. Anyway, I broke the awkwardness and answered her unspoken question with "I need a power outlet. I can't believe I forgot." Without blinking, she offered to pick up all her things and move so I could take the table. "I'm low tech tonight," she assured. I graciously took her up on it, apologized, and moved in.
A few minutes later, a pleasant, "chill" young lady with dreds, uniformed the same as my cashier glided to my table and smoothly, jokingly apologized for accidentally making my coffee a large instead of small. Thinking only of the amount of caffeine I was about to ingest, I returned her demeanor and jested that I wasn't sure I could handle that kind of mess-up, but that I'd let it slide this time.
For the record, it is g.o.o.d. coffee.
Right now, I'm listening to "Stairway to Heaven" on classical guitar, and it's incredible. Just a side note.
The table in front of me has a single, waxy leaf in a vase of water. The entire length of ledge above my head is lined with syrups for coffee. There's a hot-tub shaped wooden box in the corner by the playwrights with big rocks and plants over a black tarp-- as if to make a pond but missing the water. The lighting is accomplished with typical cone-shaped, naturally colored, down-facing glass fixtures.
"Chill" is the best word for The Root Note. I feel as though I should drop my voice low and smooth it out like hot fudge in order to speak here. I should also have sun glasses and a beret. It's a sweet place, and I recommend it.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
On the Offensive
Every now and then, one or both of my kids makes the decision to amp up their energy level. Sometimes it's caused by a lack of sleep. Sometimes it's too much sugar. It always happens to my daughter after bath time. I have yet to fully understand this anomaly. Whatever the reason, my daughter picked tonight as her night to surge our world with electric energy.
It took no time at all for us to decide that our evening plans would include a trip to our local McDonald's Play Place. Of course that room is always a grab bag for who your kids will get to play with. Age, temperament, size, shyness are all unpredictable and uncontrollable variables.
I sent Rodney into the den with our little lions while I ordered a cone-in-a-cup and smoothie to share (which our 1-year-old quickly confiscated). Yes, obviously sugar isn't ideal when the 3-year-old is already off the chain, but I figured she would be playing so hard that it wouldn't matter.
Upon my arrival at our table, a little girl in tears who I would guess to be about 8 rushed past me to her unsympathetic father. Also in tears and on her heels was what I assumed to be her little brother. She complained that "that kid" punches really hard. The dad simply argued that she had been laughing and playing just minutes before and that she was fine.
The only other table in the area was one with a man in his mid to late twenties with the physique of a UFC fighter, a man probably in his early sixties, and four kids-- three beautiful, blond boys and one pudgy little girl. They seemed well-behaved enough. I suspected the man in his twenties was the father, but he said almost nothing the entire visit. It was instead the grandfatherly man (who actually looked a lot like the guy on History Channel's show "Mail Call") who asked if "his kids" were doing anything wrong.
The crying girls' father brushed it off, but the older man forced a little boy to apologize anyway. Fair enough, I guess. Sometimes kids hit, right?
This particular Play Place has several "windows" that allow visual connection between children and adults. And only a few minutes after the kids had cheered up and gone in to play again, I saw one of the blondies punch the previously-crying boy twice. From where I was, I could not tell whether it was provoked, but I began to feel very uncomfortable. I considered heading home, but I figured I was the only one who had noticed, and maybe there was some sort of rivalry going on in the tubes.
A little after that, our kids finished up and joined the other awkwardly playing children. All the girls followed each other and seemed to have fun. Then I noticed again, the same little boy (probably only about 5 years old) leaning over his sister and just letting it go. I saw about 4 punches before she got away. No crying, no screaming for help. Just fleeing.
About this time, our one-year-old decided for the first time in his short life that he too could conquer the tunnel system all on his own. I was so proud that he had done it! He challenged those tubes of pink and yellow and had found himself in a little box with a "window" that faced our table. Beaming with excitement, he yelled for us and, as every kid does, slapped against the plexiglass to get our attention. We returned his excitement, waving, smiling, and blowing kisses to our proud adventurer.
One of the blond brothers (no older than 2) popped his head into the window beside our little guy, and we waved at him too. He quickly stepped back and shoved our boy into the window. My heart stopped. Over the next few half seconds, I convinced myself that maybe it was an accident.
I was wrong.
Our little guy bounced off the plexiglass and staggered backward a few steps only to be shoved again, this time cracking his forehead against the corner by the window and proceeding to smash his face into the window again.
My heart sinks into my chest, causing a physical heaviness just remembering these events. Rodney stood up to offer our baby boy any possible support as he was now crying. The other little boy was still standing by him.
What would you do?
We have no power to discipline the offending toddler. I was in a skirt and unable to crawl through the tunnels. I think Rodney was just too stunned to know what to do, and on top of it didn't want to disappear from our son's line of vision.
Again the grandfatherly man asked if "his kid" had done something. I didn't learn until later that Rodney hadn't noticed our son's head hitting the corner before being met with the window. So he assured the man that although his little boy had pushed ours, our son was exaggerating it with all his crying. The older man sent his girl in to investigate. She found our little guy and brought him down to us.
Rodney and I agreed that we thought it best to head home, but our daughter wanted "5 more minutes" that we reluctantly gave her. Much less than 5 minutes later, she too came out of the tunnel maze in tears complaining that her head hurt. I didn't bother to ask why, but instead gathered up our things and kids and headed out.
The short ride home was full of our emotions. I grew up in a home with parents that spanked, but beyond that, there was no physical touch of any kind really-- good or bad. Rodney grew up in a very different environment.
He pointed out that while we don't know much about those kids' lives, we can logically deduce that violence is the norm for them. And it breaks my heart.
I think about the little boy who was less than 2 years old and about how, unless he gets out of that family and life, he is doomed to live that way. Not only him, but any children he may have after him as well. No woman will be safe with him. Obviously, these are big conclusions to jump to. And even if they're not true about those little boys (and the poor girl), it IS true about others.
My heart is sad and heavy.
When we got home, I threw my kids in the tub. As I was washing my son's hair, I noticed a large knot that had formed from the assault. And at the risk of sounding cheesy, I thought of Jesus.
First of all, my son was completely undeserving of the treatment he underwent. He was innocently joyful to see people he loved dearly. But he was blocking more of the window than the other little boy wanted. So he hurt my pure, sweet son.
Secondly, by the time I had noticed the knot, according to the nature in children, he had completely forgiven the other little boy. My son was playing and laughing. There was no grudge, no attitude of defeat. It was as if he had never been offended.
It makes me indignant to think about someone carrying out an unprovoked attack on my innocent, non-offending son. But God did it on a much larger scale. Wow.
"I'll never know how much it cost to see my sin upon that cross." Thank you.
It took no time at all for us to decide that our evening plans would include a trip to our local McDonald's Play Place. Of course that room is always a grab bag for who your kids will get to play with. Age, temperament, size, shyness are all unpredictable and uncontrollable variables.
I sent Rodney into the den with our little lions while I ordered a cone-in-a-cup and smoothie to share (which our 1-year-old quickly confiscated). Yes, obviously sugar isn't ideal when the 3-year-old is already off the chain, but I figured she would be playing so hard that it wouldn't matter.
Upon my arrival at our table, a little girl in tears who I would guess to be about 8 rushed past me to her unsympathetic father. Also in tears and on her heels was what I assumed to be her little brother. She complained that "that kid" punches really hard. The dad simply argued that she had been laughing and playing just minutes before and that she was fine.
The only other table in the area was one with a man in his mid to late twenties with the physique of a UFC fighter, a man probably in his early sixties, and four kids-- three beautiful, blond boys and one pudgy little girl. They seemed well-behaved enough. I suspected the man in his twenties was the father, but he said almost nothing the entire visit. It was instead the grandfatherly man (who actually looked a lot like the guy on History Channel's show "Mail Call") who asked if "his kids" were doing anything wrong.
The crying girls' father brushed it off, but the older man forced a little boy to apologize anyway. Fair enough, I guess. Sometimes kids hit, right?
This particular Play Place has several "windows" that allow visual connection between children and adults. And only a few minutes after the kids had cheered up and gone in to play again, I saw one of the blondies punch the previously-crying boy twice. From where I was, I could not tell whether it was provoked, but I began to feel very uncomfortable. I considered heading home, but I figured I was the only one who had noticed, and maybe there was some sort of rivalry going on in the tubes.
A little after that, our kids finished up and joined the other awkwardly playing children. All the girls followed each other and seemed to have fun. Then I noticed again, the same little boy (probably only about 5 years old) leaning over his sister and just letting it go. I saw about 4 punches before she got away. No crying, no screaming for help. Just fleeing.
About this time, our one-year-old decided for the first time in his short life that he too could conquer the tunnel system all on his own. I was so proud that he had done it! He challenged those tubes of pink and yellow and had found himself in a little box with a "window" that faced our table. Beaming with excitement, he yelled for us and, as every kid does, slapped against the plexiglass to get our attention. We returned his excitement, waving, smiling, and blowing kisses to our proud adventurer.
One of the blond brothers (no older than 2) popped his head into the window beside our little guy, and we waved at him too. He quickly stepped back and shoved our boy into the window. My heart stopped. Over the next few half seconds, I convinced myself that maybe it was an accident.
I was wrong.
Our little guy bounced off the plexiglass and staggered backward a few steps only to be shoved again, this time cracking his forehead against the corner by the window and proceeding to smash his face into the window again.
My heart sinks into my chest, causing a physical heaviness just remembering these events. Rodney stood up to offer our baby boy any possible support as he was now crying. The other little boy was still standing by him.
What would you do?
We have no power to discipline the offending toddler. I was in a skirt and unable to crawl through the tunnels. I think Rodney was just too stunned to know what to do, and on top of it didn't want to disappear from our son's line of vision.
Again the grandfatherly man asked if "his kid" had done something. I didn't learn until later that Rodney hadn't noticed our son's head hitting the corner before being met with the window. So he assured the man that although his little boy had pushed ours, our son was exaggerating it with all his crying. The older man sent his girl in to investigate. She found our little guy and brought him down to us.
Rodney and I agreed that we thought it best to head home, but our daughter wanted "5 more minutes" that we reluctantly gave her. Much less than 5 minutes later, she too came out of the tunnel maze in tears complaining that her head hurt. I didn't bother to ask why, but instead gathered up our things and kids and headed out.
The short ride home was full of our emotions. I grew up in a home with parents that spanked, but beyond that, there was no physical touch of any kind really-- good or bad. Rodney grew up in a very different environment.
He pointed out that while we don't know much about those kids' lives, we can logically deduce that violence is the norm for them. And it breaks my heart.
I think about the little boy who was less than 2 years old and about how, unless he gets out of that family and life, he is doomed to live that way. Not only him, but any children he may have after him as well. No woman will be safe with him. Obviously, these are big conclusions to jump to. And even if they're not true about those little boys (and the poor girl), it IS true about others.
My heart is sad and heavy.
When we got home, I threw my kids in the tub. As I was washing my son's hair, I noticed a large knot that had formed from the assault. And at the risk of sounding cheesy, I thought of Jesus.
First of all, my son was completely undeserving of the treatment he underwent. He was innocently joyful to see people he loved dearly. But he was blocking more of the window than the other little boy wanted. So he hurt my pure, sweet son.
Secondly, by the time I had noticed the knot, according to the nature in children, he had completely forgiven the other little boy. My son was playing and laughing. There was no grudge, no attitude of defeat. It was as if he had never been offended.
It makes me indignant to think about someone carrying out an unprovoked attack on my innocent, non-offending son. But God did it on a much larger scale. Wow.
"I'll never know how much it cost to see my sin upon that cross." Thank you.
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