For those of you who have been following The Blog, you know that my son tried out for the travel soccer team. Well, he made it. Which is great because being part of this team is real exciting for him. He is, in every sense of the word, a team player. Last year he was part of a Destination Imagination group. During the DI competition his team went bowling as a way to kill time until the awards ceremony. It was something to watch my son. He was giving everybody high-fives after they bowled, shouting out words of encouragement and in general seemed more concerned about his teammates than himself. Cool kid (now if he could only treat his little sister so well!)
My son is a decent soccer player, but without question there are better players on his team. His coaches know this, so do his teammates, and my son is aware of it as well. He does get playing time, but he has yet to start a game. I am not one of those parents that believes my child is entitled to be treated as a superstar just because he has a pulse. If I were his coach I would not start him either. What I can't wrap my mind around is the fact that not only does my son know he is on the second string but he is okay with it. It does not bother him. He plays when his coach tells him to go and sits and cheers when he is on the bench.
My son has many of my personality traits, but we are very different when it comes to how we handle not being on the first team. Now, before you jump to conclusions, I too am very much a team player. If I am not in the game I don't pout. I want whatever team I am on to win and if my presence on the bench will make that happen then so be it. But, I want to be on the first team. Always. Badly. Not being one of the best motivates me to work harder. I am never okay with being second string (or third or, gulp, fourth). I want to be good enough to be out there when it matters. This applies not just to sports but almost any activity I am part of. If I am auditioning for a play, I want the lead part. That is who I am.
I have spent a good bit of time trying to figure out my son. Is his acceptance of being second string a sign of an emotionally secure young man who is comfortable with who he is and what he can, and cannot, do? I would like to think so, but I also wonder what it says about his motivation. Part of me wants him to be a bit upset with not being the best, to use it as an incentive to work harder and push himself to see just what he is capable of achieving. Then I wonder if I am projecting my own insecurities and issues on the poor boy. Just because I have this aching feeling when I am not the best at something does not mean he has to. What if I am the messed up one here, unable to accept who I am? Just because you are not the best at everything does not mean you are a failure. Or at least that is what I have been told.
So, as I am trying to sort this all out I begin to ponder why it is that God has given us these seemingly conflicting ideals - contentment and desire. Neither one is inherently bad, though both can be misused. I do believe that you can become too comfortable and that the need to be the best can consume you. What I don't know is where the balancing point is. How much contentment and how much desire? When is it time to work harder and when is it okay to say this is as good as it gets? Does God love me the way that I am? If so, why does so much of scripture talk about trying to be more holy, more faithful, more just, more loving? I am not perfect, and never will be, but what limitations are acceptable and what needs to be changed?
I wonder if the answer lies in why we strive (or don't try) to be better than we are. If the driving force is insecurity, the need to be the best because deep down you don't believe in yourself (the flip side of this is not trying because you don't think you will ever be good enough) then we are likely chasing after the wind. No matter what we do it will never be enough. If however, we are trying to be the best we can be out of gratitude to God, then we just might find that we can do more than we ever thought possible. Work hard, push yourself as an act of joy to see what is just over the horizon, but do so with the knowledge that at the end of the day God loves you no matter if you are in the starting lineup or on the bench. And because God loves you, it is okay to love yourself regardless of what string you are.
This is what I hope and pray motivates my son. God gave him some athletic ability and he is happy to do what he can with it. It may never make him millions of dollars (so much for my early retirement) but that was never the point of playing soccer. He just loves to run and play. He likes the coaching, loves being part of the team, and knows that his self-worth is not tied up in his place in the lineup. I hope that he can live his whole life like this. May you live your life in this joyful frame of mind as well.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Trip to the Zoo
Warning - what follows may not be for the faint of heart or those with weak constitutions!
So, our family headed off to the zoo the other day. I am always torn about the ethical implications of zoos. Some of the habitats are so small it just seems wrong to keep the animals all penned up. Then again, conservation efforts are more successful when we can see animals up close and some of the more entree prone creatures (I'm looking at you Mr. Antelope) just might have a longer life-span within the friendly confines of the zoo.
On this particular day I successfully repressed my moral quandaries and joined my wife and kids on a trek to see all that nature had to offer. At the far end of the zoo was a large complex devoted to primates, the not-so distant cousins of we human beings. "Let's go check it out," my wife and I suggested. The kids did not seem that excited about our impeding family reunion. But, being the outstanding parents that we are, my wife and I chose the path of least resistance and told them that we were going to the primate house because...because...we said so. Yeah, because we said so! Being the outstanding children that they are, my kids complied in body while leaving their spirits back with the elephants.
The primate house is in a big building. The animals have indoor and outdoor areas in which they can play, eat, just hang out or do their business. Our zoo has a large gorilla population so we went inside and proceeded to watch the young gorillas leap and fly all over their habitat. My two youngest children loved it (so did my teenage daughter, but she was never going to let me see her enjoying herself). This was such a great family moment, my wife, our kids, and hyper-active primates. If ever there was a Norman Rockwell moment, this was it.
Then it happened. An adult female gorilla was sitting with her back to us. Suddenly, she turned herself around, looked directly at my oldest daughter and myself, and then promptly vomited into the palm of her hand. Then, before we had time to experience the appropriate amount of disgust, the gorilla began to eat that which she had just regurgitated. Welcome to the primate house, humans!
I am happy to report that neither my daughter or myself lost out own lunch (but for a few seconds it was close). After the initial shock wore off we wondered if the gorilla was sick (mentally and physically). We started to look around for an employee to tell them about the problem, but could find none. It was at this point that I decided to do what all good middle-class Americans do when we can't report a problem to the authorities - we opted to flee the scene. Unfortunately, my youngest kids, who had not witnessed the gorilla enjoying its own version of fast food, were having too much fun watching the juvenile gorillas to leave.
I returned my attention to the female gorilla who was still sitting in the same place, only a new group of people were standing in front of her. Once again, she looked them in eye then regurgitated her regurgitation. This family was not as discrete as my daughter and I and started freaking out, which of course drew my two youngest over to see what was up. When they saw the gorilla eating its own vomit they started screaming. You can't plan this kind of family fun, dear reader. Some gifts just come your way by chance.
Because the gorilla's actions involved bodily emissions my kids really did not want to leave, hoping to see the animal puke in its hand again. The gorilla did not disappoint. By now it began to dawn on me that this gorilla may not have been physically ill, or even that mentally unbalanced. On the contrary, the look in her eyes convinced me that she knew what she was doing. You want a show, I'll give you a show! Having fun at the zoo now? Make sure you stop for a snack on your way out!
Yes, I believe that the gorilla was messing with us. Whether she was doing this out of boredom, frustration, or because she needed some professional psychological help is not clear. What was apparent was that the one in control of the situation was on the side of the glass with all of the other gorillas. I was the primate on display, the one held captive by the whims and gag reflexes of this gorilla. She knew it, even before I did.
Control can be really deceptive. You might think you have it, only to discover that it was just an illusion. The ability to walk upright and create zoos (with gift stores and over-priced food vendors) does not mean that we humans are really in control. God gave us stewardship over this earth and with that comes some influence over other parts of creation. But it is not absolute or universal. We are not God, even if we think we are. To remind us of this fact God has conveniently given us a few reality checks including upchucking gorillas.
That to me is the most important function zoos can play. In the midst of the artificial environments we create, in spite of our best efforts to control our world, we come face to face with the simple truth that we cannot make the creation do what we want. We can guide it, nudge it, even sedate it, but if the gorilla wants to puke in her hand as a sign of independence then she is going to do it. All we can do is watch. Or walk away. Most of us with small children will be forced to watch even though we really want to walk away.
Thank you, Ms. I-will-eat-my-own-vomit-just-to-gross-you-out Gorilla. You may have churned my stomach and put me off my dinner, but you taught me an important lesson - stay away form the primate house!
So, our family headed off to the zoo the other day. I am always torn about the ethical implications of zoos. Some of the habitats are so small it just seems wrong to keep the animals all penned up. Then again, conservation efforts are more successful when we can see animals up close and some of the more entree prone creatures (I'm looking at you Mr. Antelope) just might have a longer life-span within the friendly confines of the zoo.
On this particular day I successfully repressed my moral quandaries and joined my wife and kids on a trek to see all that nature had to offer. At the far end of the zoo was a large complex devoted to primates, the not-so distant cousins of we human beings. "Let's go check it out," my wife and I suggested. The kids did not seem that excited about our impeding family reunion. But, being the outstanding parents that we are, my wife and I chose the path of least resistance and told them that we were going to the primate house because...because...we said so. Yeah, because we said so! Being the outstanding children that they are, my kids complied in body while leaving their spirits back with the elephants.
The primate house is in a big building. The animals have indoor and outdoor areas in which they can play, eat, just hang out or do their business. Our zoo has a large gorilla population so we went inside and proceeded to watch the young gorillas leap and fly all over their habitat. My two youngest children loved it (so did my teenage daughter, but she was never going to let me see her enjoying herself). This was such a great family moment, my wife, our kids, and hyper-active primates. If ever there was a Norman Rockwell moment, this was it.
Then it happened. An adult female gorilla was sitting with her back to us. Suddenly, she turned herself around, looked directly at my oldest daughter and myself, and then promptly vomited into the palm of her hand. Then, before we had time to experience the appropriate amount of disgust, the gorilla began to eat that which she had just regurgitated. Welcome to the primate house, humans!
I am happy to report that neither my daughter or myself lost out own lunch (but for a few seconds it was close). After the initial shock wore off we wondered if the gorilla was sick (mentally and physically). We started to look around for an employee to tell them about the problem, but could find none. It was at this point that I decided to do what all good middle-class Americans do when we can't report a problem to the authorities - we opted to flee the scene. Unfortunately, my youngest kids, who had not witnessed the gorilla enjoying its own version of fast food, were having too much fun watching the juvenile gorillas to leave.
I returned my attention to the female gorilla who was still sitting in the same place, only a new group of people were standing in front of her. Once again, she looked them in eye then regurgitated her regurgitation. This family was not as discrete as my daughter and I and started freaking out, which of course drew my two youngest over to see what was up. When they saw the gorilla eating its own vomit they started screaming. You can't plan this kind of family fun, dear reader. Some gifts just come your way by chance.
Because the gorilla's actions involved bodily emissions my kids really did not want to leave, hoping to see the animal puke in its hand again. The gorilla did not disappoint. By now it began to dawn on me that this gorilla may not have been physically ill, or even that mentally unbalanced. On the contrary, the look in her eyes convinced me that she knew what she was doing. You want a show, I'll give you a show! Having fun at the zoo now? Make sure you stop for a snack on your way out!
Yes, I believe that the gorilla was messing with us. Whether she was doing this out of boredom, frustration, or because she needed some professional psychological help is not clear. What was apparent was that the one in control of the situation was on the side of the glass with all of the other gorillas. I was the primate on display, the one held captive by the whims and gag reflexes of this gorilla. She knew it, even before I did.
Control can be really deceptive. You might think you have it, only to discover that it was just an illusion. The ability to walk upright and create zoos (with gift stores and over-priced food vendors) does not mean that we humans are really in control. God gave us stewardship over this earth and with that comes some influence over other parts of creation. But it is not absolute or universal. We are not God, even if we think we are. To remind us of this fact God has conveniently given us a few reality checks including upchucking gorillas.
That to me is the most important function zoos can play. In the midst of the artificial environments we create, in spite of our best efforts to control our world, we come face to face with the simple truth that we cannot make the creation do what we want. We can guide it, nudge it, even sedate it, but if the gorilla wants to puke in her hand as a sign of independence then she is going to do it. All we can do is watch. Or walk away. Most of us with small children will be forced to watch even though we really want to walk away.
Thank you, Ms. I-will-eat-my-own-vomit-just-to-gross-you-out Gorilla. You may have churned my stomach and put me off my dinner, but you taught me an important lesson - stay away form the primate house!
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
School Pictures
My two youngest kids came home from school last Friday afternoon. That, in and of itself, is nothing out of the ordinary. In each of their backpacks was a surprise - school picture proofs. Look, I realize that I am getting older and my ability to recall details of past events (like what I had for breakfast this morning) is slipping away. However, I am absolutely sure that when I was in school we did not do pictures so very early in the year. It was at least October or November before we had to go through that little exercise. Not with my kids. Mid-September and already we are being offered the chance to memorialize the educational experience through timeless photographs...and CD's.
The real shock came not through the timing of the school pictures but in the price tag. The company that supplies the photos is proud of what they do. Very, very proud. They are not shy, even in difficult financial times, to request that I hand over a minimum of $45 for their basic package. I have to admit, I like it when people are bold. No apologies, no begging, just the brash assertion that my child's image is so priceless to me that I will gladly pay large sums of money to possess it. Well played, school picture people. I like your style. Just one question before I empty the checking account- what do school pictures have to do with school?
School pictures are another one of those fascinating traditions that no longer make sense to me. In the dark days before digital cameras and Photoshop getting a good picture required some skill (and lots of retakes). Now, "professional" school pictures just seems pointless. If I want an embarrassing photo of my kids why do I have to pay someone for it? All I have to do is whip out the old cell phone and bam, instant humiliation. When I was a kid school pictures used to be sent to all the relatives around the holidays. Now, thanks to the good folks at Facebook, I can send my children's bad hair moments all around the globe in a matter of seconds. I can even threaten to make it my profile picture if they don't clean their room or eat their veggies. And don't think I have not played this card. Often.
But it is the connection between school and pictures that still escapes me. What about 3rd grade is so unbelievably earth shattering that I need a 8x10 color glossy of my child? Are educational opportunities so rare that the mere presence of my offspring in school warrants a Polaroid moment? What is even more bizarre to me is that the picture does not actually show my kid doing anything schoolish. Send me a picture of my little one hunched over their desk intently trying to solve a math problem and we might be able to do business. Or, how about a shot of them reading aloud to the class, or passing a spelling test, or in the science lab (with those awkward lab goggles on) and you might inspire me to open my wallet.
Perhaps, as is often the case, I am missing a larger point (beyond an income stream for the school). Maybe we have become so accustomed to school pictures that we don't even question why they exist We send them to school all dressed up (or at least not looking like they do most days) and then pony up to buy the pictures because that is what we think we are supposed to do. But who said we had to do it? Where is it written that enrolling my child in school means we have to involve a photographer? Why can't I just get them to school on time, make sure they do their homework, and leave it at that?
I get concerned when we start to do things out of habit. In the school, the church, whatever the situation, doing something just because we have always done it is not the best way to approach life. When we lose the meaning behind our actions, when we no longer remember why we do what we do, passion and excitement fade away. This does not mean that we should stop doing things just because they are a habit. Rather, I think that rediscovering the purpose behind our actions can give them new life, or, in some cases, will lead us to make changes in our behavior. Either way, we are better off when we live our lives with a purpose rather then as a habit.
The real shock came not through the timing of the school pictures but in the price tag. The company that supplies the photos is proud of what they do. Very, very proud. They are not shy, even in difficult financial times, to request that I hand over a minimum of $45 for their basic package. I have to admit, I like it when people are bold. No apologies, no begging, just the brash assertion that my child's image is so priceless to me that I will gladly pay large sums of money to possess it. Well played, school picture people. I like your style. Just one question before I empty the checking account- what do school pictures have to do with school?
School pictures are another one of those fascinating traditions that no longer make sense to me. In the dark days before digital cameras and Photoshop getting a good picture required some skill (and lots of retakes). Now, "professional" school pictures just seems pointless. If I want an embarrassing photo of my kids why do I have to pay someone for it? All I have to do is whip out the old cell phone and bam, instant humiliation. When I was a kid school pictures used to be sent to all the relatives around the holidays. Now, thanks to the good folks at Facebook, I can send my children's bad hair moments all around the globe in a matter of seconds. I can even threaten to make it my profile picture if they don't clean their room or eat their veggies. And don't think I have not played this card. Often.
But it is the connection between school and pictures that still escapes me. What about 3rd grade is so unbelievably earth shattering that I need a 8x10 color glossy of my child? Are educational opportunities so rare that the mere presence of my offspring in school warrants a Polaroid moment? What is even more bizarre to me is that the picture does not actually show my kid doing anything schoolish. Send me a picture of my little one hunched over their desk intently trying to solve a math problem and we might be able to do business. Or, how about a shot of them reading aloud to the class, or passing a spelling test, or in the science lab (with those awkward lab goggles on) and you might inspire me to open my wallet.
Perhaps, as is often the case, I am missing a larger point (beyond an income stream for the school). Maybe we have become so accustomed to school pictures that we don't even question why they exist We send them to school all dressed up (or at least not looking like they do most days) and then pony up to buy the pictures because that is what we think we are supposed to do. But who said we had to do it? Where is it written that enrolling my child in school means we have to involve a photographer? Why can't I just get them to school on time, make sure they do their homework, and leave it at that?
I get concerned when we start to do things out of habit. In the school, the church, whatever the situation, doing something just because we have always done it is not the best way to approach life. When we lose the meaning behind our actions, when we no longer remember why we do what we do, passion and excitement fade away. This does not mean that we should stop doing things just because they are a habit. Rather, I think that rediscovering the purpose behind our actions can give them new life, or, in some cases, will lead us to make changes in our behavior. Either way, we are better off when we live our lives with a purpose rather then as a habit.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
A Chip on the Shoulder
I came across this interesting article today. The author was talking about certain athletes and how they achieve greatness because they play with a massive chip on their shoulder. They take perceived disrespect and turn it into motivation to prove their critics wrong. I guess Michael Jordan was a master at this, even making up a controversy with another player to get himself fired up. The creation of enemies provides a reason to go to war, to make sacrifices, to push your body to the limit. Money only motivates for so long. After you have a big pile of it, why suit up for another game? Proving your critics, your enemies wrong, well that never goes out of season.
The need to have enemies is not restricted to the world of sports. Richard Nixon remembered every insult (real or imagined), every critic, every loss and used them to create the impression that he was the underdog. Nixon needed to believe that he was an outsider, unwanted and unloved. Historians have written whole books about why he had this persecution complex, but there is no doubt that Nixon felt the world was full of enemies and defeating them gave meaning to his life.
Over the past few weeks the media has had a feeding frenzy over the planned burning of the Koran by a minister in Florida. Why the leader of a church with less members than my daughter's marching band deserves national, no, international, attention is a topic for another time. What became clear through the Burn-a-Koran-athon is that the members of this church are very similar to Jordan and Nixon. At least to the extent that they need an enemy. In another time and place Communism would have served their purposes, or Catholics, or Jews. But in the early decades of the 21st century Islam easily fits the bill as public enemy #1.
There has always been a strand of Christianity that operated with a chip on its shoulder. It is small, but real. The book of Revelation gives voice to those who believe that to be faithful is to fight. What exactly they are fighting changes based on time and location, but it all falls under the heading of ungodliness. This life is a never ending battle between good and evil. Only those who fight the good fight (and preferably are martyred) will be rewarded with eternal life. That the battle never seems to end is of no consequence. In fact, if the battle were to end I am not sure what these folks would do. Heaven is supposed to be a place of peace and rest (after your enemies have been crushed) but I wonder if even the hereafter might look more like the OK Corral than a happy banquet. I mean, how do you stop fighting when fighting is what you spent your whole life doing?
I could go on and on about how wrong I think this attitude is, but it does not really matter what I think. In fact it only adds fuel to the fire. Every criticism, every protest is proof that they are indeed wagging war with the forces of evil. Nothing proves that you do have enemies better than people who scoff and mock and ridicule you. That someone is so angry with you that you feel your life is at stake (the Florida minister took to wearing a bullet-proof vest) is an indication of just how faithful you really are. After all, if your enemies don't want to kill you than you must not be doing enough for the cause.
I feel very conflicted about how to interact with folks who need enemies in their lives. Part of me wants to just ignore them and not get sucked into their game. At the same time I can't stand by and watch people try to start World War III because they believe a final showdown with the forces of evil (currently starring Islam) will bring about the promised kingdom of God. I want to fight back, to stand up for what I think is right, but by doing so have I already lost? Not just the cause, but also myself? Because, rather than see these folks as sisters and brothers I have turned them into enemies, thus becoming what I sought to defeat.
I have no easy answers for these questions. Perhaps you are working through the same issues. If so, I would love to hear what you think is the right path to take.
The need to have enemies is not restricted to the world of sports. Richard Nixon remembered every insult (real or imagined), every critic, every loss and used them to create the impression that he was the underdog. Nixon needed to believe that he was an outsider, unwanted and unloved. Historians have written whole books about why he had this persecution complex, but there is no doubt that Nixon felt the world was full of enemies and defeating them gave meaning to his life.
Over the past few weeks the media has had a feeding frenzy over the planned burning of the Koran by a minister in Florida. Why the leader of a church with less members than my daughter's marching band deserves national, no, international, attention is a topic for another time. What became clear through the Burn-a-Koran-athon is that the members of this church are very similar to Jordan and Nixon. At least to the extent that they need an enemy. In another time and place Communism would have served their purposes, or Catholics, or Jews. But in the early decades of the 21st century Islam easily fits the bill as public enemy #1.
There has always been a strand of Christianity that operated with a chip on its shoulder. It is small, but real. The book of Revelation gives voice to those who believe that to be faithful is to fight. What exactly they are fighting changes based on time and location, but it all falls under the heading of ungodliness. This life is a never ending battle between good and evil. Only those who fight the good fight (and preferably are martyred) will be rewarded with eternal life. That the battle never seems to end is of no consequence. In fact, if the battle were to end I am not sure what these folks would do. Heaven is supposed to be a place of peace and rest (after your enemies have been crushed) but I wonder if even the hereafter might look more like the OK Corral than a happy banquet. I mean, how do you stop fighting when fighting is what you spent your whole life doing?
I could go on and on about how wrong I think this attitude is, but it does not really matter what I think. In fact it only adds fuel to the fire. Every criticism, every protest is proof that they are indeed wagging war with the forces of evil. Nothing proves that you do have enemies better than people who scoff and mock and ridicule you. That someone is so angry with you that you feel your life is at stake (the Florida minister took to wearing a bullet-proof vest) is an indication of just how faithful you really are. After all, if your enemies don't want to kill you than you must not be doing enough for the cause.
I feel very conflicted about how to interact with folks who need enemies in their lives. Part of me wants to just ignore them and not get sucked into their game. At the same time I can't stand by and watch people try to start World War III because they believe a final showdown with the forces of evil (currently starring Islam) will bring about the promised kingdom of God. I want to fight back, to stand up for what I think is right, but by doing so have I already lost? Not just the cause, but also myself? Because, rather than see these folks as sisters and brothers I have turned them into enemies, thus becoming what I sought to defeat.
I have no easy answers for these questions. Perhaps you are working through the same issues. If so, I would love to hear what you think is the right path to take.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Life of a Beta
Soon we will be celebrating a remarkable milestone in our family. Will, my youngest daughter's pet fish, will have survived a whole year in our house. Big deal, right? Well, I am sure that Will is thrilled not to have been flushed down the toilet during the past 12 months. But of even greater significance is that we have kept a fish alive for more than three weeks. If PETA has a watch list for pet fish killers, we are at or near the top. For some reason we are the kiss of death to fish. Come home with us and your days are numbered. And often you don't need two hands to count them out. I think fish at the pet store practice floating belly-up just in case we happen to wander in looking for Goldie XXIV. We are not evil people, really. It is just that whatever genetic trait is required to keep small fish alive is missing from our DNA.
That is until Will came along. For her 6th birthday my daughter wanted a fish. She made this clear to us in August, September, a half dozen times in October, and daily throughout the month of November. Each time she brought the subject up I had a queasy feeling inside. She had no idea what she was asking for, no clue of her family history of fishslaughter, no inkling that this birthday present would be gone before we had blown out the candles on her cake. At first my wife and I employed that classic parenting technique of condivoidence - avoiding the subject by condescendingly dismissing the request as a cute childhood fantasy (most people save this for big ticket items like ponies, but given our track record with fish it seemed appropriate). When that failed we moved on to redirection (how about a Zhu Zhu pet instead. Like a mechanical hamster was really going to be as good as a dead fish). Finally we embarked on to the responsibility guilt trip (having a pet is a lot of work...are you sure you can be the fish's Mommy?...you can't keep your room clean how can you take care of a living creature...and other lame one-liners). We just did not have the heart to tell her the truth about our past misadventures with fish.
So we caved and got her the cheapest fish we could find - a Beta. While male Beta's are pretty to look at, our real intention was to spend as little as possible because we knew where this was going. Much to our surprise our daughter actually fed the fish, read to him, talked to him, drew pictures for him for days, weeks, and months on end. And so Will continues to be part of our family.
What does it say about our clan that only a Beta can survive in our midst? In case you are not up on your pet fish, Beta's are capable of living in fresh, cold water. They don't need much space and their food is pretty cheap. Female Beta's are not that colorful, but the males, in order to attract the attention of the females, are pretty vibrant. They come in wonderful shades of purple and blue and red and green. There is a catch to the Beta. They don't like each other, especially males. You cannot have two males in the same tank or there will be bloodshed. And they really don't like females around that much either ( I will spare you the gory details about what they do to their offspring). Given their general hostility towards other Beta's it is a wonder the species has survived. Loving marriages and stable home environments are not part of the Beta world.
Will is hard-core Beta. He spends a good chunk of his day attacking his reflection in the glass (welcome to our family, you will fit right in). He seems to need his personal space. Loneliness is not an issue for Will, nor is boredom. He appears very content to swim around his little tank, eat his food, and get all Rambo on those other Beta's that he keeps seeing just outside his tank. And most importantly, his lifestyle has enabled him to survived a year in the house of lost fish souls.
Our relationship with Will does not make a lot of sense to me. Sure, he benefits from having a safe place to live and someone to feed him on a regular basis. In exchange, we...well...I don't know what we really get out of it. After a year the excitement has worn off and he does not do any tricks I am aware of, other than smacking his head on the tank as he fights off his reflection. As far as pets go he is pretty boring, but low maintenance.
I think what Will brings to the table (it's okay, PETA, we don't plan to eat him) is his ability to provide my daughter with an opportunity to care for something besides herself. There is a desire in most humans to nurture, to tend to life. This impulse may find its root in the command that God gave Adam and Eve to care for all of creation. For those of us who don't live on a farm pets are a way to connect with the animal world and live out our calling as stewards of God's wonderful creation.
Perhaps this is why I always feel so bad when a fish dies in our care. Until Will, the guppies and other assorted fish were never with us long enough to really form any sort of emotional attachment, but it felt as if we had failed to do our job. We were not being good care givers. So, I guess I am glad that our daughter pestered us into having another fish for a pet. Will has given us a chance to redeem ourselves, to believe again that we can sustain life. Even if it is just in the form of a tiny, solitary fish that is in desperate need of some anger management counseling.
That is until Will came along. For her 6th birthday my daughter wanted a fish. She made this clear to us in August, September, a half dozen times in October, and daily throughout the month of November. Each time she brought the subject up I had a queasy feeling inside. She had no idea what she was asking for, no clue of her family history of fishslaughter, no inkling that this birthday present would be gone before we had blown out the candles on her cake. At first my wife and I employed that classic parenting technique of condivoidence - avoiding the subject by condescendingly dismissing the request as a cute childhood fantasy (most people save this for big ticket items like ponies, but given our track record with fish it seemed appropriate). When that failed we moved on to redirection (how about a Zhu Zhu pet instead. Like a mechanical hamster was really going to be as good as a dead fish). Finally we embarked on to the responsibility guilt trip (having a pet is a lot of work...are you sure you can be the fish's Mommy?...you can't keep your room clean how can you take care of a living creature...and other lame one-liners). We just did not have the heart to tell her the truth about our past misadventures with fish.
So we caved and got her the cheapest fish we could find - a Beta. While male Beta's are pretty to look at, our real intention was to spend as little as possible because we knew where this was going. Much to our surprise our daughter actually fed the fish, read to him, talked to him, drew pictures for him for days, weeks, and months on end. And so Will continues to be part of our family.
What does it say about our clan that only a Beta can survive in our midst? In case you are not up on your pet fish, Beta's are capable of living in fresh, cold water. They don't need much space and their food is pretty cheap. Female Beta's are not that colorful, but the males, in order to attract the attention of the females, are pretty vibrant. They come in wonderful shades of purple and blue and red and green. There is a catch to the Beta. They don't like each other, especially males. You cannot have two males in the same tank or there will be bloodshed. And they really don't like females around that much either ( I will spare you the gory details about what they do to their offspring). Given their general hostility towards other Beta's it is a wonder the species has survived. Loving marriages and stable home environments are not part of the Beta world.
Will is hard-core Beta. He spends a good chunk of his day attacking his reflection in the glass (welcome to our family, you will fit right in). He seems to need his personal space. Loneliness is not an issue for Will, nor is boredom. He appears very content to swim around his little tank, eat his food, and get all Rambo on those other Beta's that he keeps seeing just outside his tank. And most importantly, his lifestyle has enabled him to survived a year in the house of lost fish souls.
Our relationship with Will does not make a lot of sense to me. Sure, he benefits from having a safe place to live and someone to feed him on a regular basis. In exchange, we...well...I don't know what we really get out of it. After a year the excitement has worn off and he does not do any tricks I am aware of, other than smacking his head on the tank as he fights off his reflection. As far as pets go he is pretty boring, but low maintenance.
I think what Will brings to the table (it's okay, PETA, we don't plan to eat him) is his ability to provide my daughter with an opportunity to care for something besides herself. There is a desire in most humans to nurture, to tend to life. This impulse may find its root in the command that God gave Adam and Eve to care for all of creation. For those of us who don't live on a farm pets are a way to connect with the animal world and live out our calling as stewards of God's wonderful creation.
Perhaps this is why I always feel so bad when a fish dies in our care. Until Will, the guppies and other assorted fish were never with us long enough to really form any sort of emotional attachment, but it felt as if we had failed to do our job. We were not being good care givers. So, I guess I am glad that our daughter pestered us into having another fish for a pet. Will has given us a chance to redeem ourselves, to believe again that we can sustain life. Even if it is just in the form of a tiny, solitary fish that is in desperate need of some anger management counseling.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Comfort Objects
All of my children have had comfort objects. These were soft things, a couple of animals and a blanket, that they received when they were very young. In times of stress out came the comfort objects. Road trip - get the comfort object. Bed time - OMG where is that thing! Hours of my life have been lost looking for these precious possessions so that my children could go to sleep.
The thing about comfort objects is that only the child can really choose it. Like most middle-class American kids my children had more than their fair share of stuffed stuff. We could open an outlet mall with all of the furry animal-like things they collected over the years. But only one made the cut and achieved the status of comfort object. Call it the childhood version of Survivor. Or a less-violent Highlander (There can be only one).
I too had a comfort object as a youngster. I believe it was a bear. Age and a general tendency to repress most childhood memories makes it difficult for me to recall its name. After all, comfort objects have to have names. You cannot spend hours upon hours of time - very emotional time at that, with a nameless thing (unless of course you named your comfort object Thing, in which case Dr. Seuss called and he is going to sue you). At some point in my life, again I can't remember when, I no longer needed my bear. I do recollect a feeling of sadness when I let it go to that great bear round up in the sky. It was a difficult decision, but that is what growing up is all about - painful emotional choices.
My willingness to part with my bear did not mean that I was done with comfort objects. On the contrary, I merely replaced furry animals with roasted ones. And carbohydrates. Lots and lots of carbohydrates. Comfort objects have become comfort food. Feelings of stress or uncertainly can easily be avoided with some pasta or pizza or fried (insert any food item). But my go-to food group in tough times is candy. Thank God for Halloween...and Christmas...and Easter. Did you ever notice that major holidays (prime producers of stress) are filled with sweets? Without them I am not sure how I could ever get through a family function.
Comfort objects (or food) make us feel good and safe (and occasionally bloated and gassy). They are reassuring and don't make too many demands of us. They don't argue or talk back (hint-if your comfort object has in the past or is currently talking to you seek medical help NOW!) and allow us to reaffirm the world as we want it.
There are some people who contend that religion is nothing more than a comfort object. We create religious systems to protect us from the outside world, to make a safe space (sanctuary) and to enable us to escape from reality. Know what - they are right. Sometimes. As a minister I have seen firsthand how folks, good folks, can turn religion into their own comfort object. And woe to the one who tries to take it from them. Think a two year old throws a fit if you try and take their blankie, well just try changing something in the church and you will see some major temper tantrums. Not from everyone, just those who need religion to provide them with a safe and secure place to turn to.
Church as comfort object never appealed to me. While my faith offers me great comfort in the face of life's many trials there is more to being a follower of Jesus. If anything, I have come to believe that being a disciple of the living Christ means being uncomfortable a lot of the time. Having faith is a risky business and this Jesus, he lives out on the edge. When I want the comfort of only being around people who think and act the way I do, Jesus pushes me out into a world in which I have to accept, no love, those who may not like me. Right at that moment when I am full and warm and dry Jesus asks me what am I doing for those who are hungry and homeless and naked. And when I clearly see the sinful nature of my adversaries I am invited to take a look in the mirror in case there are a few of my own blemishes I might have overlooked.
The Christian faith has the power to transform lives. Through it God calls us to new life beyond anything we could ever imagine. But that process of transforming can get uncomfortable because we start looking at the world in a whole new way, with God at the center instead of ourselves. That can take some getting used to. But it is worth it. It is so very worth it.
The thing about comfort objects is that only the child can really choose it. Like most middle-class American kids my children had more than their fair share of stuffed stuff. We could open an outlet mall with all of the furry animal-like things they collected over the years. But only one made the cut and achieved the status of comfort object. Call it the childhood version of Survivor. Or a less-violent Highlander (There can be only one).
I too had a comfort object as a youngster. I believe it was a bear. Age and a general tendency to repress most childhood memories makes it difficult for me to recall its name. After all, comfort objects have to have names. You cannot spend hours upon hours of time - very emotional time at that, with a nameless thing (unless of course you named your comfort object Thing, in which case Dr. Seuss called and he is going to sue you). At some point in my life, again I can't remember when, I no longer needed my bear. I do recollect a feeling of sadness when I let it go to that great bear round up in the sky. It was a difficult decision, but that is what growing up is all about - painful emotional choices.
My willingness to part with my bear did not mean that I was done with comfort objects. On the contrary, I merely replaced furry animals with roasted ones. And carbohydrates. Lots and lots of carbohydrates. Comfort objects have become comfort food. Feelings of stress or uncertainly can easily be avoided with some pasta or pizza or fried (insert any food item). But my go-to food group in tough times is candy. Thank God for Halloween...and Christmas...and Easter. Did you ever notice that major holidays (prime producers of stress) are filled with sweets? Without them I am not sure how I could ever get through a family function.
Comfort objects (or food) make us feel good and safe (and occasionally bloated and gassy). They are reassuring and don't make too many demands of us. They don't argue or talk back (hint-if your comfort object has in the past or is currently talking to you seek medical help NOW!) and allow us to reaffirm the world as we want it.
There are some people who contend that religion is nothing more than a comfort object. We create religious systems to protect us from the outside world, to make a safe space (sanctuary) and to enable us to escape from reality. Know what - they are right. Sometimes. As a minister I have seen firsthand how folks, good folks, can turn religion into their own comfort object. And woe to the one who tries to take it from them. Think a two year old throws a fit if you try and take their blankie, well just try changing something in the church and you will see some major temper tantrums. Not from everyone, just those who need religion to provide them with a safe and secure place to turn to.
Church as comfort object never appealed to me. While my faith offers me great comfort in the face of life's many trials there is more to being a follower of Jesus. If anything, I have come to believe that being a disciple of the living Christ means being uncomfortable a lot of the time. Having faith is a risky business and this Jesus, he lives out on the edge. When I want the comfort of only being around people who think and act the way I do, Jesus pushes me out into a world in which I have to accept, no love, those who may not like me. Right at that moment when I am full and warm and dry Jesus asks me what am I doing for those who are hungry and homeless and naked. And when I clearly see the sinful nature of my adversaries I am invited to take a look in the mirror in case there are a few of my own blemishes I might have overlooked.
The Christian faith has the power to transform lives. Through it God calls us to new life beyond anything we could ever imagine. But that process of transforming can get uncomfortable because we start looking at the world in a whole new way, with God at the center instead of ourselves. That can take some getting used to. But it is worth it. It is so very worth it.
Monday, September 6, 2010
Labor Day
Earlier this week I was driving through town with my kids when one of them asks why there was a firefighter standing in the middle of the road with a boot. As the fireman (he was a guy) approached our vehicle I told them that he was collecting money. Which, of course, prompted the "What for?" question. So I tell them that he and the other firefighters are collecting money for the Muscular Dystrophy Association. It had been a long day, otherwise I would have known that giving out information in small chunks to my children only invites more questions. Like, "What is Muscular Dystrophy?" and "Why do they need to collect money?" and "Why do they put it in a smelly boot?" and so on. Welcome to my world.
When I was a kid Labor Day was synonymous with the MDA telethon. I grew up in the Midwest, home of open plains, great BBQ and school districts that felt the need to start educating young minds in mid-August. Back East, I was told, school did not start till after Labor Day, so the holiday had a different meaning (like the end of summer). Since our summer had ended weeks before, Labor Day was this Monday we did not have to go to classes, which meant we could sleep in late, or, if our parents let us, stay up late and watch the telethon. In an age of 24 hour programming on 200 plus channels this may not seem like a big deal. But before cable/satellite TV there was not much to watch late at night. The very idea of being able to watch TV at 3am sounded so exciting when you were 9. Even if that meant watching Jerry Lewis trying to guilt you into giving money for a cause you did not understand. And who was the Wayne Newton dude?
For those of us born after 1965 Jerry Lewis was the telethon guy. Most of us had no clue that in the 1950s he was this hyperactive sidekick to Dean Martin. I am told that Jerry was a professional comedian, which comes as a surprise to everyone but the French. They think he is funny. Really funny (feel free to insert your own joke about the French here). Before the Germans had David Hasselhoff, the French had Jerry Lewis. For me the only thing funny about Jerry Lewis is the spoof that the Anamaniacs cartoon did of him (I think Crusty the Clown on The Simpson's is based on Jerry). The comedy stylings of Jerry Lewis are an acquired taste. Like snails.
I find it truly amazing how the meaning of things can change over time. Labor Day was supposed to be a time in which we honored and celebrated workers by giving them the day off. Everyone else on the planet does it on May 1, but Americans love to be different and we opted to do it in September. I don't remember much talk about labor in my house the first weekend in September (though I come from solid working class stock). Yet, I do remember Jerry, and Ed McMahon, and tuxes and people on television looking rather ragged and hung over. That was what Labor Day was all about.
Notice the use of the word "was." Jerry has fallen victim to technology. He is no longer the only show on TV. In fact, with the advent of digital television, the MDA telethon did not even make it on the main station where I live. It was bumped to the secondary channel. And new causes and crusades have gained the attention of people in America. The Relay For Life gets a lot more press then the MDA telethon does. Not that one is better than the other, just that people's interests have shifted.
Still, who in 1955 would have thought that a generation of people would remember Jerry Lewis as a telethon host and not as a comedian? Or that Labor Day would have a meaning that had nothing to do with celebrating labor? Kind of makes me wonder how I will be remembered in the future. As a minister? A historian? Or something that I can not even possibly imagine right now. However I am remembered I hope it is for doing good. Oh, and that I am widely popular in France.
When I was a kid Labor Day was synonymous with the MDA telethon. I grew up in the Midwest, home of open plains, great BBQ and school districts that felt the need to start educating young minds in mid-August. Back East, I was told, school did not start till after Labor Day, so the holiday had a different meaning (like the end of summer). Since our summer had ended weeks before, Labor Day was this Monday we did not have to go to classes, which meant we could sleep in late, or, if our parents let us, stay up late and watch the telethon. In an age of 24 hour programming on 200 plus channels this may not seem like a big deal. But before cable/satellite TV there was not much to watch late at night. The very idea of being able to watch TV at 3am sounded so exciting when you were 9. Even if that meant watching Jerry Lewis trying to guilt you into giving money for a cause you did not understand. And who was the Wayne Newton dude?
For those of us born after 1965 Jerry Lewis was the telethon guy. Most of us had no clue that in the 1950s he was this hyperactive sidekick to Dean Martin. I am told that Jerry was a professional comedian, which comes as a surprise to everyone but the French. They think he is funny. Really funny (feel free to insert your own joke about the French here). Before the Germans had David Hasselhoff, the French had Jerry Lewis. For me the only thing funny about Jerry Lewis is the spoof that the Anamaniacs cartoon did of him (I think Crusty the Clown on The Simpson's is based on Jerry). The comedy stylings of Jerry Lewis are an acquired taste. Like snails.
I find it truly amazing how the meaning of things can change over time. Labor Day was supposed to be a time in which we honored and celebrated workers by giving them the day off. Everyone else on the planet does it on May 1, but Americans love to be different and we opted to do it in September. I don't remember much talk about labor in my house the first weekend in September (though I come from solid working class stock). Yet, I do remember Jerry, and Ed McMahon, and tuxes and people on television looking rather ragged and hung over. That was what Labor Day was all about.
Notice the use of the word "was." Jerry has fallen victim to technology. He is no longer the only show on TV. In fact, with the advent of digital television, the MDA telethon did not even make it on the main station where I live. It was bumped to the secondary channel. And new causes and crusades have gained the attention of people in America. The Relay For Life gets a lot more press then the MDA telethon does. Not that one is better than the other, just that people's interests have shifted.
Still, who in 1955 would have thought that a generation of people would remember Jerry Lewis as a telethon host and not as a comedian? Or that Labor Day would have a meaning that had nothing to do with celebrating labor? Kind of makes me wonder how I will be remembered in the future. As a minister? A historian? Or something that I can not even possibly imagine right now. However I am remembered I hope it is for doing good. Oh, and that I am widely popular in France.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Marching Band
In the fifth grade my oldest child began to play the baritone, which looks something like a tuba but is smaller. She started out on the trumpet but that did not work out too well. The sounds that came out of the instrument when she tried to play it were haunting. The Exorcist haunting. It was not her fault that her lips were not the right shape or size. Blame Mom and Dad (she did). The baritone was a better fit, at least on the lips front. Poor kid, the instrument was almost as big as she was. Yet, she stuck with it even when she was the only girl playing in the low brass section of the band.
Now she is a freshman in high school and has joined the marching band. Not any band, mind you, but the Grand Pacer Marching Band. What makes it Grand is not clear. But is is, since the word Grand appears on the shirts, uniforms and assorted literature that the school churns out. I guess I will have to take the band teacher's word on this one. It turns out there are two sizes of the baritone: the full-sized concert version and a smaller marching one which she can easily carry (the tuba players still seem stuck in the musical equivalent of hell since they still have to tote that monster of an instrument no matter where they go). My daughter's challenge now is playing and marching...at the same time. Prior to joining the marching band she sort of had the playing part down. If she had, I don't know, practiced, she would be much better. She is musically inclined but adverse to anything that resembles practicing. I like to think she got that trait from her mother but even I am not that delusional. Marching, however, was the real concern. My daughter is an amazingly fantastic kid, full of so many gifts and skills I can hardly believe she is related to me. But she is not the most coordinated human to ever walk the earth. Walking without tripping over something is a challenge most days. Marching in time with a bunch of other kids, well that is tempting fate. Playing while engaging in said march, Lord, help us all.
The first couple of weeks of marching band were rough. Band camp started the first of August when it was really hot and humid (my daughter does not like hot or humid). But as she, I don't know, practiced, she got better and more comfortable. When they had a marching drill contest she lasted longer than over half of the other band members. She was proud. So was I. Only problem was, I really don't know what the point of the marching band, even the illustrious Grand Pacer Marching Band, is.
Let me rephrase that - I know what the point used to be. Long before Jerry Jones and his $100,000,000 video screens people wanted entertainment at sporting events. What evolved to fit that need, especially at football games, was the marching band. Marching bands had it all. They could play music (and play it loud) throughout the game. They could also put on a show that would give the crowd something to watch while the players were in the locker room. Honestly, can you think of anything more captivating than watching dozens of people, in uniforms, marching together in time and making all sorts of shapes and sizes.
In our video age the role of the marching band has been reduced. Yes, they still show up at football games, especially college and high school. But massive video screens and PA systems have put the squeeze on marching bands. They seem to still exist for one reason -tradition.
Tradition has its place. It is just that in American society that place is often behind whatever is new. Our culture loves innovation and we put a greater value on that which is brand new than we do the tried and true. Right or wrong, that is who we are. Forget the flavor of the month, we are all about the flavor of the moment. Age-old traditions and practices are fine until something new crops up to challenge them. Then the onus is on that which is established to justify its continued existence. If it can't then out it goes. And in comes the Jumbo-tron (which was replaced by something bigger and better years ago).
I often wonder where God is in this tension between the old and new. Traditionalists (the minority in our culture but well represented in the church) will talk of the Rock of Ages, the God who is the same today as God was yesterday. God's greatest characteristic is God's unchanging nature. What is is what should be. If it is not broken, don't fix it (and if it is broken, well just leave it alone and maybe it will fix itself). Advocates of change will point to a God who is always revealing Godself. The universe is constantly changing, always in flux. God is at the heart of this evolutionary process. Preserving tradition boxes God in and denies fresh, new revelations of the Divine.
I do not claim to know where God falls in all of this. If I had to guess, and it is just a guess, is that God values both tradition and innovation. And respect. Respect for those who need something predictable to hold onto and respect for those who desire the unknown. God can be found in the ancient and the new, the stable and the still evolving. Where God begins to disappear is when we stop respecting those who need something different than we do. God gets pushed out and replaced by our own desires. That is called idolatry. And it is a bad thing.
May your day be filled with respect, for yourself and for others. May you experience something new and unexpected as well as a little bit of the familiar and established. Oh, and if you have the time, check out the Grand Pacer Marching Band. It is a Grand tradition. But always changing.
Now she is a freshman in high school and has joined the marching band. Not any band, mind you, but the Grand Pacer Marching Band. What makes it Grand is not clear. But is is, since the word Grand appears on the shirts, uniforms and assorted literature that the school churns out. I guess I will have to take the band teacher's word on this one. It turns out there are two sizes of the baritone: the full-sized concert version and a smaller marching one which she can easily carry (the tuba players still seem stuck in the musical equivalent of hell since they still have to tote that monster of an instrument no matter where they go). My daughter's challenge now is playing and marching...at the same time. Prior to joining the marching band she sort of had the playing part down. If she had, I don't know, practiced, she would be much better. She is musically inclined but adverse to anything that resembles practicing. I like to think she got that trait from her mother but even I am not that delusional. Marching, however, was the real concern. My daughter is an amazingly fantastic kid, full of so many gifts and skills I can hardly believe she is related to me. But she is not the most coordinated human to ever walk the earth. Walking without tripping over something is a challenge most days. Marching in time with a bunch of other kids, well that is tempting fate. Playing while engaging in said march, Lord, help us all.
The first couple of weeks of marching band were rough. Band camp started the first of August when it was really hot and humid (my daughter does not like hot or humid). But as she, I don't know, practiced, she got better and more comfortable. When they had a marching drill contest she lasted longer than over half of the other band members. She was proud. So was I. Only problem was, I really don't know what the point of the marching band, even the illustrious Grand Pacer Marching Band, is.
Let me rephrase that - I know what the point used to be. Long before Jerry Jones and his $100,000,000 video screens people wanted entertainment at sporting events. What evolved to fit that need, especially at football games, was the marching band. Marching bands had it all. They could play music (and play it loud) throughout the game. They could also put on a show that would give the crowd something to watch while the players were in the locker room. Honestly, can you think of anything more captivating than watching dozens of people, in uniforms, marching together in time and making all sorts of shapes and sizes.
In our video age the role of the marching band has been reduced. Yes, they still show up at football games, especially college and high school. But massive video screens and PA systems have put the squeeze on marching bands. They seem to still exist for one reason -tradition.
Tradition has its place. It is just that in American society that place is often behind whatever is new. Our culture loves innovation and we put a greater value on that which is brand new than we do the tried and true. Right or wrong, that is who we are. Forget the flavor of the month, we are all about the flavor of the moment. Age-old traditions and practices are fine until something new crops up to challenge them. Then the onus is on that which is established to justify its continued existence. If it can't then out it goes. And in comes the Jumbo-tron (which was replaced by something bigger and better years ago).
I often wonder where God is in this tension between the old and new. Traditionalists (the minority in our culture but well represented in the church) will talk of the Rock of Ages, the God who is the same today as God was yesterday. God's greatest characteristic is God's unchanging nature. What is is what should be. If it is not broken, don't fix it (and if it is broken, well just leave it alone and maybe it will fix itself). Advocates of change will point to a God who is always revealing Godself. The universe is constantly changing, always in flux. God is at the heart of this evolutionary process. Preserving tradition boxes God in and denies fresh, new revelations of the Divine.
I do not claim to know where God falls in all of this. If I had to guess, and it is just a guess, is that God values both tradition and innovation. And respect. Respect for those who need something predictable to hold onto and respect for those who desire the unknown. God can be found in the ancient and the new, the stable and the still evolving. Where God begins to disappear is when we stop respecting those who need something different than we do. God gets pushed out and replaced by our own desires. That is called idolatry. And it is a bad thing.
May your day be filled with respect, for yourself and for others. May you experience something new and unexpected as well as a little bit of the familiar and established. Oh, and if you have the time, check out the Grand Pacer Marching Band. It is a Grand tradition. But always changing.
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