The Pink Room, Chapter 5, A Praying Mom. Part 2

Our old yard had natural clay in the soil and we'd dig in the sand box for the lumps of clay. That or bugs. Or worms. When we took the sandbox out we found all kinds of old spoons. I think Mom was a little surprised.

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The Pink Room: Thoughts About Intentional Living  
Chapter 5/ A Praying Mom.
Part 2 (Previous post contain the previous chapters.)
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We had these neighbors, they were somewhere between an aunt and uncle, and grandparents. They would stop and chat, getting the latest news. Their kids were several years older than us so it was fun for them to be a little nosey, and we were friendly people. 

I loved their two huskies. Oh my goodness, those dogs were soft. I adored,  Kimmie and Keechee. They would have to be brushed for hours a week. In summer we’d see dog hair floating through the air. When the dogs were outside I’d go to their yard and love on them. As a child my hands would disappear in their thick coats, probably up to my elbow. Keechee was the mom, and Kimmie the daughter. Kimmie had one blue eye and one brown eye, which was fascinating to me. Keechee had the roundest face, mostly black, and ice blue eyes—I thought she was stunning. I’d just hang out in the yard here and there to be near them.  Keechee was getting older so she didn’t always come around kids. I’d try anyway—often it looked like standing on the edge of the yard calling to the dog for a while. 

I was standing there, on the edge of the yard one day, and I had the oddest sensation. Something hit the top of my head and it was warm. It was not moving. I slowly reached up and when I did, I quickly realized I had been pooped on. Some stinking bird, at just the right moment, decided to bless me. Everyone there laughed and I was embarrassed. What are the chances? I ran home and washed my hair. I will never forget that feeling. A year later it happened again, this time down my right cheek, I preferred the hair; it was probably the same dumb bird. 

As we got older the dogs did too, we found out one had cancer and the other was so lonely they were both put to sleep. We slowly stopped hanging out in the neighbor’s yard, or with any of the neighbor kids.

For a while there, almost all the house near us had kids around my age. Four houses down, on our side of the alleyway, we rode bikes with those kids; my sister would hang out with the boy across the alley.

Earlier on, there were a bunch of kids that were intrigued by our “fish pond.” We always called it that, but there were never any fish, no water, and it wasn’t big enough to be a pond; just an empty hole.

The rumor we heard was: back in the early 1900s the property was a show house of some kind, with an immaculately kept yard and all kinds of flowering bushes. The backyard had one small “fish pond” we unearthed one summer, and the front yard had a much larger one. In back, it was a steel drum, maybe four feet across and circular, behind some trees and apparently, at one time, had a rock bench seat--that had fallen in.

The pond in front was oblong and facing the road, lined in cement. It was behind hedges and in front of trees. There was a little opening in between two trees, on the side by the house, and those trees lead to two steps. Up two steps, made out of rocks, you would enter a tiny little world—an opening where there was enough room for two people to sit. Inside, where a rock bench was placed into a small mound, you could sit and look over the “fish pond.”

I loved it in there. Other kids did too. My dad would often chase away youngsters. Kids seemed to believe it was a public park. They thought he was mean, but really he didn’t want them to get hurt.

The neighborhood also had a few teenaged girls who would try to get my sister and me to follow along with their plans. They were fascinated with the fish pond and loved it in there as well. There were irises that grew in the front and honeysuckle on the sides. It was a bit like The Secret Garden—a little mysterious, pretty, and different from a typical yard, especially since it amounted to a tiny forest. It was on a business highway with lots of traffic, it was a strange little escape from the city traffic.

The older girls tended to have attitudes my parents disliked, they would do things that were borderline destructive. One day they talked us into throwing large rocks into the fish pond—they were swiftly asked to leave. Beth and I had to remove the rocks. We didn’t see much of them after that. I think Mom prayed them away.

Two houses over there was a little boy who was just a few months younger than me. We went to all the same public schools through the years. When we were very small we’d often play in my backyard. One day he just stopped coming over. I never knew why, but it made me curious and sad. I thought it was me, that he didn’t like me or that I was boring. I never thought I’d know and I buried it and the little scar it left. Surprisingly, at my ten year high school reunion he confessed:

“Do you know why I stopped coming over?”

“No, I just thought you were bored.”

“No, not at all, when I was five, I brought you a flower.”

“Oh my gosh!”

“Wait, I have to tell you this: your dad came outside and asked what I was doing. I told him I brought you a flower and he told me to go home. And I never came back. He was scary.”

He was trying to be sweet and was wounded in the process. I was stunned for weeks. Yep, that would scare a little boy away; for-ev-er. He was my favorite person when we were four, and he brought me a flower. Twenty-three years after it happened we could laugh about it together.

We took very different paths in life. Maybe some prayers for protection were answered—I know they were prayed. I may have been spared a great deal of pain but I will never know. I do wish I would have known about the gesture and I wish we still would have played in the backyard.  …And that I had gotten that flower—even though it was probably a dandelion.

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The power of prayer is mysterious. The more passionate, specific, and engaged the prayer is the more impact prayers seem to have. There seems to be a direct ratio of heart strings to tangible answers. It would make sense that a mom’s prayers would be fervent and effective.

There are some events that do not make sense, as though divinely interrupted or rerouted—between God’s will and impactful prayers, who really can say what is what, all I know is certain unfolding events start, stop and pause without my participation or action.

The turns life takes are sometimes sad and challenging in the moment and many have left me wondering what really happened, sometimes for years. I finally knew why I didn’t see my friend anymore.

I’ve experienced this beautiful thing through prayer—peace if there is nothing else to be gained or understood, there is often peace that comes through prayer. And when I am really fortunate I may also experience resolution and closure.

The Pink Room, Chapter 5, A Praying Mom. Part 1

Interpretive dance, oye. 
The other time I watched it, I sat by a guy who, at one point, ran a tool and die workshop. Manly man stuff. He asked questions through the whole performance, I was a mess. 



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The Pink Room: Thoughts About Intentional Living  
Chapter 5/ A Praying Mom
Part 1 (Previous post contain the previous chapters.)
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Expressions of faith happen in so many different ways. (I’m exclusively referencing Christianity.)

When I was in college, I was introduced to the concept of interpretive dance as a form of worship. Much like, I mean no offense to those who do missions in Africa--I also mean no offense here. I don’t get it and feel awkward when I have to watch it. The first time I saw interpretive dance, it was a couple of young girls in a Methodist church service. I believe it was a conference on Christian Education where I was a presenter. The girls were around the age of eight and intentionally mirrored each other while they performed, but one was much larger than the other and me, with my irreverent sense of humor, I was dying inside—it took so much self-control not to judge or ask if anyone else was seeing what I was seeing. I had these terrible thoughts about that dance not being a mirror and how much farther the wingspan of the taller girl was and many other things I will not admit to. Terrible. 

I came from a place where faith was private and predictable in all its expressions. The church had a liturgical year. Liturgy was the weekly arrangement, it was predictable, and it did not deviate. Sometimes there would be talk of more “modern” worship music and all that meant was piano instead of organ. No guitars, none of those new-fangled guitar things.

Mom was a Lutheran before she married and Dad, a Catholic. Mom wanted us to go to church as a family so we went to the Catholic Church. I didn’t realize until late elementary school that our family said a Lutheran and Catholic prayer at meal times. We, as a family, did other faith-things a little different, too. We gathered each night to say the Lord’s Prayer, we would go around the room and say our own “intention” or short prayer for someone or something, and then we would read a children’s Bible story. One story at a time, the Bible came alive and unfolded with these great illustrations and easy to understand words. As we all learned how to read well, we’d take turns reading aloud. I thought it was normal. It was late in high school before the praying together stopped, and only because of schedules and homework. When we are together it still happened sometimes but mostly just at mealtime. 

Even when we did not pray as a group I am sure they prayed for us. I believe the power of a praying mom might be one of the strongest forces on the planet. A bad friend influence would go away, albeit painfully, still gone. Or a schedule that was overwhelming would figure itself out. Or peace would come when it shouldn’t have. If we were fighting or anxious, Mom would just say, “Satan, flee! You’re not welcome here.” It was sometimes just a whisper, but directly addressing the problem. I love my mom. 

Mom had specific clear expectations for us. We knew what was expected without even being told sometimes, it was that predictable and consistent. I don’t believe I needed to be punished for anything after about age eight. Besides a corrective look or a “you better get your attitude in check” comment, I was a rule follower and I knew the rules. 

The last time I remember specifically disobeying and being punished for it, I was probably six years old. It was when I went into the neighbor’s house, I was friend with the little girl who lived there and she invited me in. She wanted to show me her room. I told her I wasn’t supposed to go in. She said it would just be a minute.

The rule was: you can go over there, but if I call for you, you better come and if I go looking for you I better be able to see you. Well, she called and I didn’t hear and she looked and didn’t see me. I was probably gone for all of ten minutes but I thought it wouldn’t matter and it did. When I went back home, just across an alleyway, I got the “where were you?” talking to, and then was grounded for the first. Nothing serious, I just couldn’t leave the yard that day.  I imagined that the line where the dirt met pavement was electrified like my uncle’s fence, the one for the cows, I stepped on it once and got quite a shock. I would put my toe on the line between the dirt and pavement, just to test, and then stare at the neighbor’s house—I didn’t like her room anyway.

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I got it, really understood, I was asked to do things a specific way and I didn’t see the value so I didn’t listen.  Mom didn’t act angry, I could tell she was, but she did explain that if I was lost or hurt she won’t have been able to help me. I never did that again—I was sad I made her worry. 

I think God does this with us too, He brings us to places where He can calmly explain--show us that are better ways for us. Sometimes the way we think about past hurts finally click into place and that free us; sometimes a person says something that sets us on the right path. If we listen and take guidance He will lead, but we have to seek Him and listen. That’s prayer.

The Pink Room, Chapter 4, Shifts. (The Slowly Evolving Jesus.) Part 3

Oh my gosh--that float, those kids--the chaos. I think I'm the ministry equivalent to Mikey from Life cereal. They knew I'd do the float--I would do anything. Crazy.

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The Pink Room: Thoughts About Intentional Living  

Chapter 4/ Shifts. (The Slowly Evolving Jesus.)

Part 3 (Previous post contain the previous parts/chapters.)

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When I worked in Appleton, I was asked to lead a unique project: making a float to the city’s Christmas parade. I was already overseeing Web sites, designing collateral materials, designing garments, keeping track of the entire merchandise inventory, overseeing all photo and asset collection, and creating retail stores at their large events, why not a float?

It was an endeavor. The goal was to put something together on a trailer that communicated the values and mission of the organization. We were one of a few groups that were faith-based that entered the parade. We were the only organization geared toward youth with a float, and we were beginning to focus on international missions and other causes. How do you communicate, visually, something that represents all of that?  I was left me puzzled. Our application fit nicely into the “other” category.

 

At the time, I was leading focus groups regularly, and our team decided the staff would determine the float’s design and content by becoming a focus group. And so it began. I gathered some bouncy balls, mind bender toys, and Slinkys-- we went through a series of activities and brainstorming. The conclusion was (besides that it is not a good idea to put over-worked adults in a room with bouncy balls) we would begin with a crèche, with only animals no people, there’d be rope lights coming from the manger in eight places. At the end of the eight rope lights there would be a lighted box reading “HOPE”. The boxes would be carried by youth dressed in outfits from all over the world. They’d be dancing to Joy to the world, big band Christmas music from Denver and the Mile High Orchestra. 

The process began with tracking down a trailer and supplies, finding materials for costumes and begging or borrowing the supplies that were remaining—we had $100 for a budget. The Christmas parade is the weekend after Thanksgiving, we began building at the end of October. The end of October in Wisconsin is not normally nice, there is cold rain and it can freeze in the evenings. 

To this day, I’m not sure where some of the stuff came from. It was like the loaves and fishes to me, except it was wood, tools and a trailer. Someone knew a guy that had an extra trailer; another guy just happened to have a ton of scrap wood that looked rustic, enough to build a ten foot tall structure. Someone else loaned their truck; and someone had sound equipment. Tools materialized; there was just enough of what we needed. 

Using a pneumatic nail gun in mittens is another thing I would not recommend. There were old blankets that showed up, we used for covering and making the animals, there was even hay for the manger. I just happened to get some hats the year before at Goodwill, a sombrero and a coolie.  I know, I know, who buys a coolie? —this girl. The only thing I could not find was a kimono. The epic kimono making began. 

I like Hobby Lobby. I go there as often as I can without draining my life savings. I was on the hunt for fabric that looked Japanese and could become a kimono with hot glue. It was cold, hot glue would hold well. If you are dealing with a short kid, you only need about 4 yard of wide fabric to make a fake a kimono.  Three and a half yards became the outfit. Carefully glue all the newly cut parts to their opposite and begin the front. Cut all the way up the middle to the fold, cut a triangle out of the front top for the neck, then fold over all the edges and glue down. The belt was folded and the bow was stuffed with old packing Styrofoam pieces because I had no idea how they do that. Presto! A kimono, of sorts, came into being and it was good. 

The float progress continued through the month. There were five people that committed to the project and helped it come together. Before we knew it, the camel’s head was all that remained to cover. We had enough supplies to do the entire float but not the camels head. (Are you serious?) The entire success or failure depended on making a 2x4 look like a camel’s face. It was right in the middle, it was the tallest animal, it was the largest piece and we ran out of EVERYTHING. 

Earlier that day, a man came through and asked us if we wanted some day old Wonder Bread or buns. I accepted some buns, someone else some bread, but there was much more left for us. We sat staring at the camel, one by one our gazes moved to the Wonder Bread. It did squish awfully well, after all. Could it hurt? Was it right? We didn’t have any other options available at that time. Without saying exactly what happened, I will say: there was less bread and one camel head, shortly thereafter. Hurriedly, the face was shaped and covered and no one was the wiser.

The float was hauled out into the street, lined up, we were right in the middle of nearly 100 floats, and we tested the music. I went back to the office and helped the kids, get their costumes sorted out. It is difficult do work quickly when your fingers are covered in hot glue gun burns. The kid in the kimono asked if the real bows had Styrofoam in them. I politely said I didn’t think so, while I tried on the belt.

Within an hour we were lined up and ready to go. As quickly as it began it ended, in a complete a blur. Our work team walked behind the float, the kids danced and the music blared so loud the broadcast went to white noise and the commentators stopped talking while we passed them. Later I saw the recording, Erin Davidson, a reporter, said, “well, that was loud,” completely breaking script. 

We were awarded first place in the parade. We did so well we were asked to be in a neighboring community’s parade a few weeks later. It is interesting how the only conversations I remember well about that float were the ones that had to do with how we stuffed the animals. When asked if we’d like to save the animals for the next float, with smiles, we said, “no.” 

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We do it all the time, overachieve and put on a good covering. We can present a flawless picture to the outside world. I would have liked to save the camel but the moldy bread would have ruined it. The metaphor may break down because I’m not sure if Wonder Bread molds, but I digress. I could have gone and purchased some more appropriate materials but it was inconvenient at the time. I was tired and sick of being cold. I wanted to be finished. God won’t ask us to do anything God was not willing to do first. Jesus cares enough to lead us back to something as many times as it takes to be fixed, or healed, or our understanding to be changed--He doesn't want our insides hurting, broken, or rotting.

My point is this: if we do the hard work, and do God’s way, the gift is that our insides are put right. I liked that camel but I couldn’t keep it because the inside was rotten. If we do life His way, we get to keep the camel.

The Pink Room, Chapter 4, Shifts. (The Slowly Evolving Jesus.) Part 2

I am not nearly careful enough with negative thoughts. They are easy to let in for me. Rereading this reminded me I need to work on that.

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The Pink Room: Thoughts About Intentional Living  

Chapter 4/ Shifts. (The Slowly Evolving Jesus.)

Part 2 (Previous post contain the previous parts/chapters.)

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God doesn’t waste. I believe that whether you are a fundamentalist, or the farthest from that, or social-justice-oriented kind of Christian or the middle of the road kind or any other kind of Christian--there is real solid truth for you in the Bible and the written word. Whatever type of story or writing you like, you can find it in there. If you are fed my metaphors, you’ll find them. If you want miracles, those are in there too. There is adventure, curious things, mystery, demons, scandal, stories of success, loss, need, conquests, and so so so much more. If you want data, it can be found…there is something for all. 

The Bible is the most profound book there is and to top it off God doesn’t waste anything, so there is some purpose in every bit. There is truth on one or several levels of so many of the stories. No matter how far you dig into a concept, in the Bible, you can learn more. As I grow and study, I am amazed at the continually unfolding meaning. It is mysterious. 

I either learn more because I am different or because I never knew something--culture or geography, or someone reads it aloud that draws attention to a piece I never heard before.

My amazement grows at this as I get older. But it makes sense. If we aim to have a relationship with Jesus and the word IS Him, is His telling, and like anyone that we get to know over time, our experience deepens as they are known to us. If the word is God, words themselves hold real power. The words we speak, we think, the words we hear, the words we read.

We may believe a lie, that word has power over us. If you say “I am powerless,” you will probably be powerless. If you say “I am free,” you will probably see the ways you are free. If you hear positive things about yourself from others repeatedly it is easy to believe positive things—the feeling of being encouraged can change a day for someone or a whole life for others, but the point is, there is power. If we speak encouragement in a self-less way, not only is someone blessed but we are also encouraged and it is doubly powerful. If we read about God, it is what is swirling around in our souls…whatever we read does the same.

Life begets life, darkness begets darkness, and whatever we dwell on attracts more of the same—I find it difficult to change trajectory or to shift the momentum, so I need to be diligent with what words I let in.

More often than not, I believe more negative words. Rarely do I dwell on positives for more than a few minutes--compliments like being amazing, beautiful, or smart. Words I tend to dwell, more often than not, look a lot more like average, dumb, or screw-up. Those seems more believable, most days. 

Jesus cares about this part of our lives—our thought life. He changed the names of the disciples directly impacting their identities, writing a vision of who they would be right on their souls. He told the truth to them, and set people free. God said everything that was spoken into existence was good and pleasing but that people were very good, set apart. Special. We need to remember this. The first thing spoken over us was that we are "very good."

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I used to think that the words in my head did not matter. The truth is that the words in my head are life and death, moving towards wholeness or towards destruction. God wants us to be healthy: joyful, free and whole.

I always knew that Jesus cared what we think about and speak about. God was the word and the word was God. Every word? All words? If this is true in all senses and in terms of physics, we, as believers have an unbelievable power because Jesus lives in us.