"Oh, Come, Oh Come"

Do you wonder if other people see what you see? Colors, for instance. We can never know for sure if we’re seeing the same thing. And what about thought patterns or daydreams? Do other people think about a thousand thoughts, some random, some linear, in the same way I do? Last Sunday, these thoughts occurred in about five minutes.

My pastor took his place on the platform while the choir was singing. He turned his head to the right to look back at the choir; then 180 degrees the other way. Oh yes, there she is. His wife.

A young trio sang the story of the angel, Mary, and Joseph. From my view in the choir, I saw a woman who had to be the mother; from the first note, she was enraptured, beaming.

Beautiful things. The husband - even at work - remembers his wife, needs to see that she’s there. The mother, proud and joyous, enjoys a moment that is part reward but mostly grace, as her child uses his gift so worshipfully, so well.

“Long lay the world, in sin and error pining, ‘til He appeared and the soul felt its worth.”

All is good in my world; I have four children and a son-in-law whose souls have felt their worth. They want to honor the Savior. They love the things their parents love. It’s almost too good to be true. On cold mornings, the alarm rings, and my husband turns it off. I don’t even have to know how to set it. He reads my blog, laughs, cheers me on, looks for me in the choir.

Looking out onto the congregation, singing Christmas hymns, aware of all these blessings without and within, my heart almost breaks from the fullness. But there are others who come to mind.

Yesterday I took a friend home from the hospital to her stark and cold apartment. Cindy is a nurse, single, a missionary waylaid by illness. She’d had a coughing fit, and could not exhale or inhale. “I thought I was going to die, and all I could think was that nobody would know.” She managed to open her front door to seek out a neighbor. The cold air opened the passage enough for her to breathe again.

She had a pinhole opening to breathe with, so the doctor put in a metal stint. She feels better, having breathed at 50% the norm for many months. The stint was an option before, but carries risks; it could migrate and puncture her aorta and she’d die instantly, so until last week she was waiting to see if she improved. She hadn’t.

She doesn’t complain; she doesn’t whine. She apologizes for “being so needy” lately. She’s excited about her Cocoa Puffs and chips. “All that organic eating didn’t help,” she reasoned.

She asks me to pray for her niece’s husband, recently sent home from Iraq. A big strapping sergeant sent in to deal with the aftermath of car bombs. He can’t eat meat anymore. He woke up one night to find himself holding a gun to his head. His wife wants him to sleep in the other room.

DeAngelo, 8, wouldn’t sit still during our tutoring session this week. Abandoning math, reading, I say, “Why don’t you write a letter? I’ll help you.”

He’s excited. “I’ll write one to my mom.”

“You start with “Dear” – D-E-A-R.”

He can spell “Mom” and does so with a flourish. I think we’re on our way. He’s engaged, concentrating.

He’s waiting. “What do you want to say to her?” I prod.

“Why do you hate me?” This rolls off his tongue as quickly as, “I gotta use.” He doesn’t look sad or introspective. It’s not a plea.

“Your mother doesn’t hate you, DeAngelo. She can’t help it.” On crack for years, shot in the face by one of her boyfriends, she can’t “deal” with the children. They’re being raised by their aunt who took them when their grandmother died a few months ago. There are seven boys in the house.

“Yes, she does. She hates me.”

I can no more convince him otherwise than I can get him to focus, settle down, do his work. I wonder when he crossed this threshold, entered this grown-up land of disillusionment.

“Oh, come, oh come Emmanuel, and ransom captive Israel. Who mourns in lonely exile here….”

Corset Lessons, Week One

I thought that wearing a corset for 30 days would give me profound insights; that I’d be able to trace the decline of civilization right back to the change in women’s clothing. That after my treatise, women would swear off Spandex forever. At the least, I myself would emerge more disciplined, self-controlled, even (do I dare say it?) – statuesque.

Instead, I have no brilliant thoughts, no sense of purpose or gathering fortitude. I feel miserable, sorry for myself, and basically haven’t thought of anything but my torso since I bought and started wearing this contraption a week ago. So much for deep, spiritual lessons.

I now applaud the women who gleefully threw away their girdles as they donned their miniskirts and fishnet pantyhose. They weren’t rebels casting off all tradition in favor of hedonistic pursuits; they were gasping for air.

I’ve decided that wearing a corset killed brain cells and thwarted achievement. Women in corsets weren’t CEO’s, presidents, or Nobel Prize winners. It wasn’t male domination at all; when women finally were able to fully expand their lungs, they began to make their mark on the world.

Additionally, corsets made women grouchy, desperate for diversion. How many portraits of women in corsets show them smiling? And why did the women in Jane Austen’s world spend so much time gossiping and playing parlor games? They needed something to do.

I bet a too-tight corset is what got Marie Antoinette’s head cut off. When you can’t breathe you can’t be bothered with the hunger pangs of ill-dressed peasants. You get short-tempered. You say things you later regret. You run off to the Petite Trianon at the slightest provocation.

All that said, I’m still wearing it. Not that anyone is making me do it. I don’t really know why I’m doing this. Perhaps it’s because Cheryll ran a half-marathon and Cindy lost 30 pounds, and Pat is doing Boot Camp in a parking lot at 5:30 a.m.. I have such a dismal track record with resolutions. I have worshipped at the altar of Comfort every day. Maybe this is a kind of penance. I’m not sure.

Lessons from a Corset: Origins

Sitting at the computer, munching on pecans and pretzels on a full stomach, I feel fat. I straighten up, hold my stomach in, make a mental promise. My improved posture is short-lived. I’m not even aware of when it happens, but the next time I check myself, there I am again – all slouchy, an invertebrate glob.

I try again. Same song. It’s hopeless. Nothing but willpower will do, but there’s none to be had. Why do I let it all hang out? Because I can. Spandex, sweat-pants, elastic waists; even my blue-jeans are stretchable, designed to accommodate the most slovenly of positions.

So what do I start thinking about? Corsets. Ah, yes, the corset. If I were wearing a corset, I wouldn’t be slumped and spilling out. With a corset, there is discipline, definition, contour, constraint. Think leash, fence, bit and bridle. Think strong, hearty, prairie-woman, back straight and tall. Think law, the narrow way, standards, absolute truth.

What is wrong with me? I have bills to pay, food to cook, lessons to plan, prayers to pray, and here I am searching for corsets on Ebay. I learn that real corsets cost $280, that there are websites extolling the virtues of girdles (by and for women and men), and that most corset advertisements have the word “fetish” in them. It’s time to take a refreshing, mind-clearing walk in the woods.

While on the walk, breathing fresh air, praying to my Creator, (who created Eve to wear NO CORSET!!), reciting scripture, looking at the beauty of my beloved Wolf River Nature walk, I come to my senses.

I will buy a corset. I will wear it for 30 days and record my observations. It will become my first book. It will be called, “Lessons from a Corset.” (Delusions of grandeur are frequent visitors in my musings.)

It has been three days since I bought and started wearing my "corset". It’s 9:51 p.m., and I can TAKE IT OFF!!!! More later.