Stuff in the News That Bewilders Me

From USA Today.com: So, President Bush “believes the best way to end the black market in labor, which has drawn an estimated 11 million illegal immigrants to the USA, is to legally expand opportunities for foreigners to take jobs that Americans don’t want. ‘By creating a separate legal channel for those entering America to do an honest day’s labor, we would dramatically reduce the number of people trying to sneak back and forth across the border,’ he said Monday.”

That makes sense to me. And yet:

“The House bill by Judiciary Chairman James Sensenbrenner, R-Wis., passed in December, would make illegal immigration a felony and increase penalties on employers. It would also expand 14 miles of fencing along the U.S.-Mexican border by 700 miles, at an estimated cost of $2.2 billion.”

Eleven million illegal immigrants are here. The question is, what now? Isn’t a a “guest-worker” reasonable? Am I missing something, Mr. Sensenbrenner? Are we seriously considering making their presence a felony, increasing our the load our courts and prison systems must bear? What is the penalty now for being an illegal immigrant? And how did we accumulate 11 million of them before we decided to take action?

See? I’m so confused. I need more information and yet, I’m not sure I’d have enough unbiased information to ever really understand these sorts of things.

I’m also confused about Michael Schiavo. Why would a man who claims to shun publicity and decry public interest in a so-called private matter write a book about it? Am I missing something? I have no patience for a man who began dating, having children and cohabitating with another woman while waiting for his wife to die. What ever happened to duty and faithfulness? And why put yourself back in the news just when we were starting to forget that he begged the courts to deprive his wife of nourishment (and water, too).

I wonder about Rusty Yates who is getting on with his life, while his ex-wife faces a second trial in the drownings of their five children. How does one just move on like that? Don’t dead children require at least a decade of mourning? And what kind of woman marries a man with that kind of baggage? This boggles my mind.

And just when you thought a pastor’s wife was a quiet little woman with a beige personality, along comes Mary Winkler with her sassy haircut, three little girls and husband shot dead in his bed. I know. We are all thinking the same thing: What was her motive? Why would she shoot her husband in the back? (Oh wait, I presume guilt. Shame on me.) Still. Why? Why? Why? Why didn’t the vision of her children with a dead dad and an incarcerated mom stop her?

I don’t understand a lot of things today, I guess.

Post Academy Awards Show Blog

I know. I didn’t post for two whole days, which in dog years is uh, two weeks? That annoying thing keeps happening where a thought pops into my head and I think, A-ha! I must blog that! And then the thought dissolves like the bubbles in my kitchen sink just when I’m ready to wash a frying pan.

(Speaking of thought bubbles, twice today at church, I scolded my 12-year old son who was holding a piece of paper up above his head. You can imagine how distracting it would be to sit behind a boy with a paper sign hovering over his head. When I peered closely, I saw he’d drawn thought bubbles and a profound thought: “Mooo!”)

[I have to say: I told you so! Only, I probably forgot to actually tell you so, but I did predict that “Crash” would win for Best Picture (and it did) and that Reese Witherspoon would win for Best Actress (and she did) and that Philip Seymour Hoffman would win for Best Actor (and he did). I rock.

Oh, and how about Will Ferrell and Steve Carrell’s presentation for Best Achievement in Make-up? That presentation was rivalled only by Meryl Streep and Lily Tomlin.]

Okay. Back to the post. Oh, first I have to say that the best way to watch The Academy Award show is to video tape it (unless you are lucky and have TiVo, in which case I loathe you because my jealousy has no rational outlet). If you tape it, you can fast-forward through the speeches, the montages, the tributes and just watch the presentations and the monologue. (Oh, and how funny was that opening?!)

What I wouldn’t give for a coherent, creative thought about now. Um . . . so . . . today was church but we had no lights in the sanctuary because last night, when some of the guys were at the church doing something or another, they smelled smoke. Smoke emanated from the breaker box when all the lights were on. So, no lights today. And the sanctuary smelled like smoke. My husband was a little stressed out about this, but I gave him some clever lines to use like this: (wait until the middle of the sermon and then pause and say) “Is it just me or am I ON FIRE today?” Or maybe point out Big Al, one of his close friends and say, “I don’t know about you, but Big Al is SMOKIN’!” Or even, “Repent, for even now, I smell the burning fires of hell!”

Oh wait. Was that sacrilegious? Okay, let’s move on.

I drove our new “old” van, the one nearly as old as my marriage yesterday. The interior is quite lovely, though the exterior shows minor lumps and bumps and flaking paint if you look closely. Kind of like me, I guess. Maybe that’s why I like it so well. (But we didn’t name it. We don’t name cars. Do you? Maybe we could name it “Daisy,” and then I could say, “Hey, I’m Driving Miss Daisy!” (Did you get that Oscar reference? Huh? Didja? See? I have a theme in this here blog.) I drove from going-out-of-business craft store to consignment store to thrift store to discount store to second craft store to Bed Bath & Beyond before finally drifting home.

The weather had been exquisite all day and I wanted to just pick up the kids and hurry them down to the beach, but first, we needed dinner. And then the sun slipped below the horizon and then my husband said, “Tomorrow,” and I agreed. But today (“tomorrow”) it rained and this afternoon, my 8-year old son cradled his head in pain and cried. Another illness?! (After his bath tonight, he declared this, “The WORST BIRTHDAY WEEK EVER!” I distracted him with a tale of a boy I once knew who was so sick on Halloween he couldn’t go trick-or-treating. Because really, what is more soothing that comparing yourself to someone worse off than you?)

My grandmother turns one hundred years old on Friday. And you know what that means, don’t you? That’s right! A mini-family reunion. She had six children and five of them are still alive. I have dozens of first cousins and we’ve all done our part to procreate. (Well, most of us have, anyway.) We’ll gather from around the country for a catered dinner in her honor and I will obsess all week about dressing to slim and about whether to call my colorist for emergency highlights and debating the merits of robbing a bank to hire a plastic surgeon to remove this double chin.

And I console myself this way: I say to myself, “Self, probably Grandma will live at least another six months and by then, you can be to your perfect size, just in time for The Relatives to see you again!” And then I remind myself that I am not fifteen and the world does not revolve around me and that people will not be noticing my appearance as much as I notice my appearance. That’s what I’ve learned in the past twenty-five years.

It would help if I weren’t related to the skinniest cousins imaginable–seriously, my cousin is tiny and wears a loose size 2 and my cousin, her brother, is Ichabod Crane-ish, and his wife, a girl who lived on my wing in college, is also slim and has never appeared in public without her perfectly applied lipstick and her oh-so-cool Southern composure.

But I can write. See how I comfort myself?

In other news . . . hello March? The daffodils around town are blooming. My crocuses are a happy little enclave of pure white, gold and purple, merrily coloring the drab flowerbed. They are tucked right behind the basketball hoop and seem hopelessly misplaced, but the basketball hoop was a recent addition, haphazardly introduced to the backyard by two men with no thoughts of Feng Shui or aesthetics of beautiful English gardens full of perennials. (As if!)

This is the time of year that I wish I’d planted more daffodils and I am full of regret. That is some kind of metaphor for life, isn’t it? You just have to plan ahead and be patient . . . and actually put the bulbs in the ground instead of just dream.

With that thought, I will wrap this up. But first, one final thought. About George Clooney.

Dear George, (May I call you “George”?)

I want to hate you. You are a cad. You are everything a thinking young woman should despise–your cocky attitude, your inability to commit, your failure to demonstrate your competence at marriage. You own a pig, for goodness’ sake, a pet pig! Your politics are liberal, you have that smirk, your belief in yourself bordering on narcissistic, and yet . . . I can’t help but think you are the Epitome of a Movie Star and tomorrow I’m going to buy a poster of you and put it on my bedroom wall. I don’t think my Republican husband will mind at all.

Oh, and congratulations on winning Best Supporting Actor.

Hugs and Kisses,
Mel

Oprah Fries Frey: More on the Fray

Oh boy, do I love the fury of Oprah–directed at someone else, of course. I think I would shrivel up and melt into a green puddle on the floor just like that wicked witch on the Wizard of Oz who was splashed with water if Oprah ever directed that grim-faced look at me.

I hardly ever watch Oprah because her show comes on at 4:00 p.m. when my house is usually full of children and I’m trying to think up and cook dinner while juggling an assortment of flaming children. Oh wait, no flames. Just kids and juggling. But today, I made a point of turning on the show to watch James Frey look at her with dead eyes and a dry mouth while she demanded to know what was truth and what was false.

Poor James Frey. I mean, sure, he lied and capitalized on his lies, but I felt sorry for him anyway, even though I like the ticked off version of Oprah. I like a person who does not tolerate nonsense. I admire that in a person.

I never read A Million Little Pieces. I probably won’t, either, now that I know it’s basically false. I read an excerpt and I found his writing style unimpressive anyway. And I have twenty dozen books stacked up to read. (I am not lying. Twenty dozen, at least. No exaggeration.)

Right now, I’m almost finished with A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, and although it makes me feel about as old as a Pet Rock, I like it. No, I don’t like feeling as old as a Pet Rock, but I like this book, even though I’m really really really far outside of Dave Eggers’ demographic.

In other news . . . there is no other news.

Sanctity of Human Life Sunday

[Disclaimer: This is one of my rare politically charged posts. Please skip this is my anti-abortion stance will cause your brain to explode and/or make you want to slap me for being insensitive. I have a point of view and sometimes, I throw caution to the wind and express it. You are free to express your opposing point of view, too, of course, but please, be gentle.]

I clipped this newspaper article by George Will last April. Mr. Will cites the case of a fetus in Britain who was aborted at 28 weeks gestation because it was prenatally diagnosed with a cleft lip and palate. Apparently, this fit the British law that abortion is permitted only when “there is a substantial risk that if the child were born it would suffer from such physical or mental abnormalities as to be seriously handicapped.”

I wonder what Bobby Martin, a boy who was born without arms or legs, but who ended up playing high school football (and appearing on Oprah) would think about that? What is his parents took a look at an ultrasound picture and gasped, “Oh no! We don’t want a boy without limbs.”

No one would blame them. Right? Why bring a child into the world only to suffer?

The case I saw on television the other night would certainly fit the criteria for abortion in Britain. The doctors can’t even diagnose this child, a now-twelve year old girl who hasn’t grown beyond the physical size and mental capacity of a six-month old baby. What purpose does such a life serve? Wouldn’t she (and her long-suffering family) be better off if she hadn’t been born?

Then I turned the channel and saw the amazing story of these children and young adults who communicate almost entirely through music. Though their cognitive and communicative skills are impaired, they all display an amazing aptitude and passion for music, specifically the piano. These children with different abilities face difficulties in their lives most of us cannot even imagine. Would we choose to let them live, if the choice were ours to make?

Not all women take advantage of prenatal testing. What happens when a devastatingly imperfect baby is born? Well, in the Netherlands (land of my ancestry, I might point out) “the Groningen Protocol, as the hospital’s guidelines have come to be known, would create a legal framework for permitting doctors to actively end the life of newborns deemed to be in similar pain from incurable disease or extreme deformities.”

Child euthanasia remains illegal everywhere else. Unless, of course, the child is still a fetus, in which case, in the United States, abortion laws which essentially allow abortion at any time. Did you know that “U.S. abortion law, in terms of how late an abortion may take place, is far more permissive than that of other nations such as France, Germany, and the United Kingdom, for example.”?

The Associated Press article by Linda A. Johnson published on March 10, 2005, concludes, “Experts said the Dutch report [of newborn “mercy killings”] will generate discussion but won’t change American opinion or practices.”

I’m sure that’s true. After all, almost ninety-two percent of American abortions aren’t done because a baby is imperfect. They are done for the following reasons:

25.5% Want to postpone childbearing
21.3% Cannot afford a baby
14.1% Has relationship problem or partner does not want pregnancy
12.2% Too young; parent(s) or other(s) object to pregnancy
10.8% Having a child will disrupt education or job
7.9% Want no (more) children

Not because the fetus has no arms and legs. Not because the fetus is missing a chromosome or has an extra one. Not because the fetus is doomed to die of a birth defect at birth anyway. Not even because the mother’s life is in danger.

No. Most abortions are done because of convenience, not the “health” and “life” of the mother, but for her convenience. While our laws bend over backwards to give women the right to abort a baby which might endanger her life–you know the rhetoric, the heart-tugging stories–almost a million conceived human beings are aborted per year. Dramatic stories (like the boy with no arms and legs and his triumph in life) are matched by dramatic stories of women in terrible, disturbing, horrific circumstances. And I’ll agree that there are ethically challenging cases where difficult choices must be made.

But most unborn human beings are simply obliterated for other reasons. Ninety-two percent of aborted fetuses, gone. Over thirty-three million human beings since abortion was legalized.

And if you are a black fetus in America, you have an even higher chance of being aborted before birth. “In the 41 areas for which race was adequately reported, approximately 55% of women who obtained legal induced abortions were known to be white, 35% were black, and 7% were of other races; for 3% of the women, race was unknown. The abortion ratio for black women (503 per 1,000 live births) was 3.0 times the ratio for white women (167 per 1,000 live births). Additionally, the abortion ratio for women of other races (329 per 1,000 live births) was 2.0 times the ratio for white women. The abortion rate for black women (30 per 1,000 women) was 3.1 times the rate for white women (10 per 1,000 women), whereas the abortion rate for women of other races (22 per 1,000 women) was 2.2 times the rate for white women.”

Only 12.9% of our population is black, yet 35% of the women who obtained abortions in 2000 were black.

Why isn’t Ray Nagin outraged by that? Where is Kanye West’s outcry?

Thirty-three years ago, abortion became legal in the United States. Happy anniversary. Aren’t we all so much happier now?

[Check out Barbara Curtis’ post on this topic over at Mommylife. She’s the mother of 12, including childen with Down Syndrome, and a former abortion-rights crusader.

[Edited to remove reference to Ann Coulter from the post, but you can check out her radical viewpoint here.] I hate for the point of my post to be lost in the distaste many have for Ann Coulter.]

My View of the News: Homemaking

I saw Terry Martin Hekker on Katie Couric’s show the other morning, talking about how her idyllic years of homemaking came to an abupt end when her husband of forty years divorced her.

Terry Martin Hekker, the author of this article which was published in the New York Times (you can get a trial membership if you want to read it–or email me and I’ll send you a copy of it,) wrote a different Op-Ed piece years ago for the NYT which later morphed into a book extolling the virtues of being a homemaker. And in her current piece, she doesn’t exactly say she regrets it–she said she’d marry the same man and have the same children, but that she’d go to school when her youngest did and earn a degree so she could earn a living. Because, you never know, after all. She says if she wrote another book, it would be titled, Diregard First Book.

She essentially says she wasted time working for community and charitable organizations when she ought to have been looking out for herself. (Really, if you haven’t clicked away yet, go ahead and read that article.)

Here’s what I wonder:

1) Should all women assume their marriages will end in divorce sooner or later? And if so, will that becoming a self-fulfilling prophecy?

2) If we, as women, refused to date, have relationships with and marry divorced men, would those men honor their vows? Or will this constant partner-switching continually worsen?

3) Did the so-called “Sexual Revolution,” (and the birth control pill) directly increase the divorce rate?

4) Does this woman’s story mean that homemaking in and of itself is a pointless waste of a life?

5) What kind of a loser man leaves his wife of forty years in such a predicament? And what kind of sleazebag woman would marry him?

(Update: Almost instantly, I regretted my questions in number 5–and thought question number 3 was kind of out of place–but I will leave them so the comments make sense. It is clearly wrong of me to call people names, even names which are crossed out as a sort of lame joke. I have far too much personal experience with this topic to be rational and impartial and I realize my questions are over-generalizations and insulting to my readers who also have personal experiences–some more painful than my own, to be sure.

So, I apologize, but I leave this post as originally written–in haste, while babies were rolling around my floor and with particular people in mind. I have appreciated the responses so far and thank you, my diverse band of readers, for offering your perspectives. When I open my brain and dump out the contents, I ought to use a strainer to get the lumps out before hitting “Publish Post.”)

The Requisite Mom Response to Linda R. Hirshman

So there I was, minding my own business, clicking from blog to blog in my Bloglines account when I came across this post about an article written by Linda Hirshman in “The American Prospect” (Linda R. Hirshman is a retired professor and a feminist.)

Ms. Hirshman is concerned that the number of working mothers has dropped. She is concerned that feminism may be stalling, due in large part to women–especially elite women, specifically those who graduate from hoity-toity colleges–choosing to stay at home to raise their children. She says, “Among the affluent-educated-married population, women are letting their careers slide to tend the home fires.”

My hackles immediately raised up and I wanted to have my say. And yet I’ve been busy tending to the needs of my children and decorating for Christmas and trying to prevent my boys from ending up living under the overpass because they refused to write essay answers in complete sentences.

I chose this life, but Ms. Hirshman believes that the choice to stay home is really not a reasonable choice at all . . . she suggests that, “The family — with its repetitious, socially invisible, physical tasks — is a necessary part of life, but it allows fewer opportunities for full human flourishing than public spheres like the market or the government. This less-flourishing sphere is not the natural or moral responsibility only of women. Therefore, assigning it to women is unjust. Women assigning it to themselves is equally unjust. To paraphrase, as Mark Twain said, “A man who chooses not to read is just as ignorant as a man who cannot read.”

Wait a second. What is that supposed to mean? A woman who chooses to spend her time at home raising her own progeny is the same as a woman who is at home raising her own progeny by default? Or the choice itself is ignorant no matter how you slice it? Doing repetitive, invisible, physical tasks is unjust, no matter what?

She thinks that women need to be pried out of their traditional roles. In her words, “Women who want to have sex and children with men as well as good work in interesting jobs where they may occasionally wield real social power need guidance, and they need it early. Step one is simply to begin talking about flourishing. In so doing, feminism will be returning to its early, judgmental roots. This may anger some, but it should sound the alarm before the next generation winds up in the same situation. Next, feminists will have to start offering young women not choices and not utopian dreams but solutions they can enact on their own. Prying women out of their traditional roles is not going to be easy. It will require rules — rules like those in the widely derided book The Rules, which was never about dating but about behavior modification.”

I supposed I am showing my middle-class, non-Ivy-College graduating roots when I express my indignance over Ms. Hirshman’s sneering assertion that it’s necessary to pry women from their traditional roles . . . and I think that when she’s talking about traditional roles, she means women breastfeeding their own babies and diapering their own babies and teaching their own babies to recite the alphabet and count to twenty. You know, it’s the classism and elitism and snottiness of this sort of lip-curled judgment that irritates me, the idea that women need to be rescued from caring for children.

Ms. Hirshman explains, “There are three rules: Prepare yourself to qualify for good work, treat work seriously, and don’t put yourself in a position of unequal resources when you marry.”

I have a simple rule. It’s that wild and crazy, “Do unto others as you’d have them do unto you,” rule. Oh, don’t forget the “love your neighbor as yourself,” rule. As a follower of Christ, I’m actually trying to follow Christ and even if you haven’t read the red letters (many Bibles have Jesus’ words written in red), you probably realize that Jesus was about serving people.

You’ll want to follow along here as Ms. Hirshman dictates, “If you have carefully positioned yourself either by marrying down or finding someone untainted by gender ideology, you will be in a position to resist bearing an unfair share of the family. Even then you must be vigilant. Bad deals come in two forms: economics and home economics. The economic temptation is to assign the cost of child care to the woman’s income. If a woman making $50,000 per year whose husband makes $100,000 decides to have a baby, and the cost of a full-time nanny is $30,000, the couple reason that, after paying 40 percent in taxes, she makes $30,000, just enough to pay the nanny. So she might as well stay home. This totally ignores that both adults are in the enterprise together and the demonstrable future loss of income, power, and security for the woman who quits. Instead, calculate that all parents make a total of $150,000 and take home $90,000. After paying a full-time nanny, they have $60,000 left to live on.

And here we are again, at the point where we have to ask: who is this subclass of people willing to embrace the distasteful task of tending to the children? Are we importing people from Third World countries to do this meaningless work? If daddy’s time is worth $100,000 a year and mommy’s time is worth $50,000 a year, it doesn’t take a math genius to figure out that the child’s time is worth practically nothing. Mommy and daddy (in Ms. Hirshman’s idealized version of reality) are too good for childcare and in fact, they are probably not very interested in mingling with old, feeble, incontinent people, either, or those with impaired mental abilities or lower-than-desirable IQs or those who are ugly. Hire someone else to do that work. It’s beneath the well-educated.

Oh, and don’t forget the most important thing, according to Ms. Hirshman. “If these prescriptions sound less than family-friendly, here’s the last rule: Have a baby. Just don’t have two. Mothers’ Movement Online’s Judith Statdman Tucker reports that women who opt out for child-care reasons act only after the second child arrives. A second kid pressures the mother’s organizational skills, doubles the demands for appointments, wildly raises the cost of education and housing, and drives the family to the suburbs. But cities, with their Chinese carryouts and all, are better for working mothers. It is true that if you follow this rule, your society will not reproduce itself. But if things get bad enough, who knows what social consequences will ensue? After all, the vaunted French child-care regime was actually only a response to the superior German birth rate.”

I guess if you end up pregnant with twins, you’re out of luck. And, really, who needs siblings anyways?

This hostility to children takes my breath away. If women are second-class citizens, then children are junk mail citizens in our society, easily thrown away, discarded without even a glance. Do you think the kids don’t notice that mom and dad have more important things to do than spend time with them?

Ms. Hirshman says, “Finally, these choices are bad for women individually. A good life for humans includes the classical standard of using one’s capacities for speech and reason in a prudent way, the liberal requirement of having enough autonomy to direct one’s own life, and the utilitarian test of doing more good than harm in the world. Measured against these time-tested standards, the expensively educated upper-class moms will be leading lesser lives. At feminism’s dawning, two theorists compared gender ideology to a caste system. To borrow their insight, these daughters of the upper classes will be bearing most of the burden of the work always associated with the lowest caste: sweeping and cleaning bodily waste. Not two weeks after the Yalie flap, the Times ran a story of moms who were toilet training in infancy by vigilantly watching their babies for signs of excretion 24-7. They have voluntarily become untouchables.”

Uh, hello? Sweeping and cleaning bodily waste–which pretty much describes my daily life at the moment–indicates that I am leading a lesser life? Or is that only for expensively educated upper-class moms? For the rest of us in this caste, it’s just destiny? We were born to be “untouchables”? She’s speaking about a tiny percentage of women and implies that most of us– the majority of us, the crazy among us who opted to devote our waking lives to our children–are not leading good lives.

I am insulted and you should be, too.

Ms. Hirshman concludes, “When she sounded the blast that revived the feminist movement 40 years after women received the vote, Betty Friedan spoke of lives of purpose and meaning, better lives and worse lives, and feminism went a long way toward shattering the glass ceilings that limited their prospects outside the home. Now the glass ceiling begins at home. Although it is harder to shatter a ceiling that is also the roof over your head, there is no other choice.”

I never did like Betty Friedan’s “Feminine Mystique,” but I suppose that’s no surprise. I thought she seemed bitter and hurt by the circumstances of her life, but what do I know? I’m just a nose-wiping, diaper-changing, Twinkle-twinkle-little-star-singing, dinner-cooking, “Goodnight, Moon”-reading, woman serving others and apparently, unbeknownst to me until now (thank you, Ms. Hirshman), rule-breaking untouchable.

A related story was featured on 60 Minutes reported in October 2004.

A Few Notes

Once, in college, I knew a girl who liked a boy who liked me. Then, that girl hated me. One night, as I quietly prepared for bed in my dorm room (my roommate always went to bed so early) I heard voices in the bathroom that linked my room to the next suite.

They were talking about me. More specifically, they were mocking me. I stood in silence and eavesdropped in horror until my roommate bolted from her bed and whacked that bathroom door, bringing that mortifying incident to an end.

I still think about how it felt, though, to hear people making fun of me. It’s odd and even today, on occasion, I stumble into the same strange land.

* * *

With regards to the outrage I hear expressed over occasional mis-spending of the $2,000 FEMA debit cards . . . it sure seems to me that once you give someone something, it’s theirs to do with as they please. So, if people displaced by the hurricane wish to buy something outrageous and expensive, they have that right. Why are people so outraged? Haven’t they ever been behind someone in the grocery store who was buying something with food stamps that seemed to them to be inappropriate? Don’t they know people who spend good money on cigarettes and beer while their children receive free lunches? This is just more of the same thing. People who get “free” money seem to spend it a little carelessly, if you ask me.

* * *

Twenty years ago, I met my husband. My summer roommate pointed him out to me and I pulled aside the curtains just in time to see him spit on the ground. He’d been running in the North Carolina summer heat and he was sweaty. He looked nothing like the Man of My Dreams. A few days later, we met after I made a smart aleck remark during a Bible study. Imagine. Me, being sarcastic.

Well, that wasn’t a big stretch, was it?

And twenty years later, here I am, living happily ever after with a man who has ugly feet and a heart of beauty.

I Contradicted Myself and Then I Wrote This

Not even a month ago, I proclaimed
Jennifer Hyatte was stupid. And by “stupid,” I meant “a person who is not very bright.”

Because how bright can you be if your idea of living happily ever after involves helping a felon escape and murdering a prison guard?

Then, a few days ago, I wrote with some sympathy about criminals who look a lot like us. And by “us,” I meant me, of course.

Some time today, in the midst of my illness-induced stupor, I remembered my proclamation about Jennifer Hyatte a few weeks back. I stopped cold. My glaring inconsistencies flashed to neon light and I broke into a cold sweat (although, admittedly, that could have just been the fever). Why, when I read about Jennifer Hyatte shooting a prison guard to free her husband, the prisoner, did I roll my eyes and shake my head at her actions? I easily sorted her into the Stupid Category. And yet, when I read about Judy Brown, who taught at the college I attended, I sat with my mouth agape, stunned. I didn’t think, how stupid is she? in suburban judgment. I felt pity, sorrow that she essentially drove her life off a cliff for love.

I know for a fact that Judy Brown is not stupid. I could not easily slide her into the Stupid Category, which presented a problem for me. Why would someone do something so stupid if one was not stupid? It was so simple to stamp “Stupid” on the forehead of Jennifer Hyatte and move along. That could never be me, I thought, because I am so bright and all.

I didn’t feel any pity whatsover for Jennifer Hyatte and the thing she did for love. I figured if you are stupid and you do stupid things, you ought to pay for it. And none of that has much to do with me.

The truth is that if you do bad things, hoping that good things will result, you are mistaken. Never in the history of the world has it been possible to plant pumpkin seeds and have tomato plants sprout. You get what you plant. (I know all about this, being smarter than the average bear.)

Jennifer Hyatte wanted to live happily ever after with the man of her dreams. So, she did a series of bad things and ended up with . . . bad things.

Sabine Bieber wanted babies in her care to nap peacefully. So, she did a bad thing and ended up with . . . bad things.

Judy Brown wanted someone else’s spouse for herself. So, she did a bad thing and ended up with . . . bad things.

The small bad things ended up sprouting and growing into giant bad things, it seems. And did all the bad stuff start with self-absorption? Some people call self-absorption sin. (Just tonight, I came across that idea in Blue Like Jazz by Donald Miller. I can’t think of a better description of what sin is, really. I’ve always been told that sin is “missing the mark,” as in missing a target, but why? What’s the motivation? Self-absorption.)

If I line up the pieces of these stories, I find self-absorption central in each one. I find self-absorption in my own life, too, even though the very nature of my life forces me to put other people before me. Isn’t that what Jesus asked us to do? To love our neighbor as ourselves? To serve one another? The farther we get from following His instructions, the more myopic we become, until at some point, we can’t see beyond our grabbing hands.

The more we do bad, hoping for good.

Just like Jennifer, Sabine and Judy. Just like me.

Ben Stein Guest-Blogs

I’m suffering from an illness that makes my head explode every time I cough. So, I asked Ben Stein to write my blog post today.

Okay. Just kidding. He wrote this for The American Spectator.

I especially liked point number twelve. Yesterday, I wondered aloud to my husband if liberal Democrats who wish to increase federal government involvement in our lives (healthcare, schools, social programs) are having second thoughts?

Helping A Little

When people are camping out on overpasses because their homes are flooded, it seems silly to be talking about my own internal mini-angst. In a way, Hurricane Katrina has peeled back the layers of those cities and towns and now we can see the poor and destitute, the ones we ignore under normal circumstances. Today, the television brings the faces of those desperate people into my family room with its second-hand furniture and I feel guilty for the luxury of my life.

We have so much.

That’s why I’m sending a donation to The Salvation Army. I once had a friend who lost everything in a house fire. She went to run errands and came home to a sooty shell of her home. People gave her family stuff, trying to help. At one point, they had seven couches in the garage, but no cookie sheets and no silverware. So, even though people are having their children go through their toys and are loading up clothes to send, that’s not really the most helpful idea.

Send some cash. (We donated to the Salavation Army online, but you can also go to the Red Cross website.) A hundred bucks will pay for dinner, a babysitter and a movie. Or it can buy meals for a family of four for two days, a case of water and cleaning supplies (mop, buckets, etc.)