A Father's Heart

It's not that I can't think of anything to write myself. It's just that I keep coming across things I want to share.
My niece Sophie had just arrived in Knoxville as a second semester freshman. Her father, Tim, emailed this to her so she'd have it when she got back to her dorm room after the long ride.

Hey kid,

You made it back safe. That was no accident. God has a plan for you and your degree is part of His plan. Sooo wriggle your toes in the dirt, take a step closer to the edge, breathe deep and jump. While you're falling, you may wonder why you are surrounded by so much air. Nothing is solid; it feels unnatural. Don't worry - you are just passing through. You have a destination. It's the deep, cool water of life and you get there by leaping off the cliff named Easy. Standing on the cliff of Easy, you only get to watch the lake of life.

I am proud of you.

Hold your nose and tuck your legs because darling, when you hit the water, you are going to make a big splash in LIFE.

Dad

Something to Consider for 2008

My daughter Natalie, 21, wrote this in August, but it's a great New Year's piece that challenges me and I wanted to post it here, which I'm doing with her permission.

"An Unpolished Thought"
Natalie Bernardini

I have been thinking lately that my life is pretty dull. Exciting things have happened around me, but not in me. I have been reading all summer, from Harry Potter to The Four Loves, to books on living among the poor to National Geographic, and they all have challenged my thoughts in different ways. I have been learning, of late, about standing for something. I have always been pretty opinionated, thoughtful, but I have realized that something of grand importance has been missing in my life. My mouth moves, but my feet stand still. I sit down, longing for adventure; waiting for something to do with my hands, but I don't move. Why is that?

I think I have been given too much. I am full, but it's not the kind of satisfying fill you get when you eat after a long day of work; it's the kind of full feeling that never goes away. It's almost sickening because it's undeserved. I rarely possess hunger because I rarely struggle. I don't know the pain of searing loss; I haven't been "burned" in love, I do not know what it's like to be without a home. However, I am realizing that spiritually, I have experienced all of these things in full. I believe this is the starting point. I might be "full" physically, but my soul is parched. I find no adventure because I don't take chances. Taking a chance would require loss, possibly the loss of everything for which I have worked. I desire to do great things, but I am unwilling to sacrifice the mediocre things to which I am enslaved.

The challenge seems to be two-fold: first, I have to give up my entire life and then I have to go and do. Not an easy task by any means. Then again, herein lies the issue: it's not a task! I have made it out to be a job that needs finishing. Wrong again; it's a joy above all joys. I am realizing that if I lay down my life and follow Christ WHEREVER He wants me to go, I actually live. The adventure starts here.

I say I want to be able to take a stand for something, but how can I if I have only stood still? If I live in a way that seeks to protect myself from all things that could potentially harm me, strike discord with my daily life, or bring about struggle, I have failed. I have lived in fear, rather than faith. My work is rubbish. I say I want adventure, and I am realizing that God places it before me everyday; I just choose to ignore it. I choose the cheaper, less fulfilling life. One that has turned out to be dull and empty at the end of the day. But, there is hope.

I don't think that we should put down our books and go save the world without proper equipping. Too many people get the "feeling" that they have been called to go spread the Gospel, but they forget that it takes discipline and study of the Word to be effective. Working among the poor, caring for those in need, helping one's brothers and sisters are all actions made of good intention in most circumstances. However, can't anyone do that? It takes more than a motive, more than a "good" or outgoing person to take on the challenge of which I am writing. It ultimately comes down to sacrifice and understanding. Sacrifice of one's life as they previously desired it and the understanding that this sacrifice will bring about immense joy and freedom; and not to mention, adventure!

How I will get to the point of putting myself out there, being bold, yet humble, and also equipping and disciplining myself; standing for what is good and right and fully trusting Christ...I have no idea. I do know that I long for adventure, but one that is lasting; and it starts when I stand up on my feet for once and follow Christ; and that means going wherever He will have me go and doing whatever He will ask me to do.

The Tree Explained

This tree makes me think of a quote my mother repeated many times when my sister and I were growing up. “To thine own self be true.” I can still remember her saying that as she pulled a roast from the oven, although I’ve forgotten the context. She resorted to it when giving advice for most of my childhood and teenage dilemmas.

Maybe it was the elegance of the word “thine”. Perhaps it was the emphasis of “own” that appealed to my growing awareness of self. Then again it could be the presence of the final word, that Mt. Everest of adjectives, that diamond of concepts. I knew nothing of life mottoes, nothing of what this really meant, or its opposite. I just knew that my mother, who wasn’t given to much philosophizing other than with her friends over bourbon and Coke, was trying to impart something that identified her, that she wanted to live by.

Whether you think this tree is awful or beautiful, for those who know and love my mother, all we know is, “It’s perfect; it’s her.” In some ways, this tree is proof of a life lived by this Shakespearean line turned motto. For when a person lives that way, for good or ill, what results is a sterling personality, one of which people will remark, “Well, that’s Joanne for you.” Or, “That’s so Joanie.” Or, “You know how your mother is.”

Every year, my sister and I insisted that we have a real Christmas tree that touched the ceiling. My father would play the part of protesting the prices, threatening to buy an artificial tree, a smaller tree, finding a cedar to cut down. We played along, begging and pleading, arguing it just wouldn’t be Christmas without that smell, a tree that filled the corner of our living room, knowing all the while that he could never refuse us.

He made a big show of placing the lights just so, attaching individual lights to the branches. My mother, who can’t abide things in transition, was always saying, “Oh, hurry up, George. Just put lots of lights. It will be beautiful.”

The final touch, after yards of sparkly garland, after shiny and silken balls, was the icicles. My father would pronounce, “Now, girls, these have to be placed one at a time, very, very carefully.” While my father was strategically placing silver icicles and my sister and I were debating the existence of icicles in red, green, gold, and silver in the natural world, my mother ripped open another box, saying, “No, girls, this is how you do it.” With flourish, she threw handfuls of tinsel in the air at the tree, “Shoom! Shoom!”

The ensuing argument ended with them leaving the tree for my sister and me to finish while they returned to their gin and tonic.

As our tastes grew more sophisticated, we begged her to let us use white lights, chunk the balls, garland, and icicles, string popcorn, to which she said, “That’s no fun. I want lots of glitter, lots of color, lots of shiny stuff. It’s not Christmas without it.” Extravagant, slap-dash, generous, fun. The tree. Our mother.

As the years passed, the 8 foot real tree gave way to an artificial one, which was ultimately replaced by a series of table-top travesties, bringing us to the one you see here. "I had to put all that garb on there because your father just threw those lights on. I'm trying to cover up those white wires."

And yes, on December 26th, they unplug it, pull a lawn bag over it, and my father takes it up to the attic.

My Mother's Tree

I wish all my friends would ponder this tree, try to imagine what kind of person would have this tree. For those of us who know and love my mother, this tree says so much. I will post soon about her. For now, enjoy this picture my daughter Emily took on Christmas Eve.

"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.