The Crab Chronicles

Fish on Good Friday

On this Good Friday/Passover I wanted to share a few general thoughts about Easter, and finding a church home.

I grew up looking forward to Friday because I knew chances were good we would either get to eat fish sticks for dinner, or macaroni and cheese. My parents raised us as High Church Episcopalian and (like the Roman Catholics) we were supposed to sacrifice and not eat meat on Fridays. We ate fish or mac & cheese instead. If we were really good we might get to go to the cafeteria and partake of both! Plus jello!

Let me explain something important. My parents were both raised Southern Baptist and they remained part of that denomination until shortly after they were married. About six months after the wedding Mom miscarried a baby at about 5 months along. She and Daddy were devastated. Dad's father was also very ill and would die a few months later. Shortly after Mom was discharged from the hospital the pastor of the church they had been attending dropped by the house and told Mom she should be happy because her baby was with Jesus. She was shocked and upset, and he couldn't even understand why. My father was livid when he heard about it.

Mom and Dad then decided to look for a church that felt more like a home. They went all over Augusta visiting mainstream Christian churches, for several years. No church felt quite right. They talked about this one night at a party with some of the neighbors and the neighbors strongly suggested they visit Church of the Good Shepherd, which was [and still is] an Episcopal church.

At last, Mom and Dad felt at home. My one set of living grandparents were horrified, but they got over it. [They took us to their church once and I tried to drink all the little glasses of grape juice in the tray so we didn't have to go back after that...]

I knew very little about other churches as a small child. I just knew about our church. I knew I had to wear a hat or big hair bow, and Mom had to do the same, because women were supposed to always have their heads covered when they entered the sanctuary. I loved seeing Mom sing in the choir because she looked like an angel, although she stopped doing choir after a while. I knew how to genuflect. I knew I was allowed to sit in church with my parents and skip nursery as long as I behaved myself. Mom always carried paper and crayons in her purse for us.

I loved how everyone spoke a lot of the service at the same time. I knew the Lord's Prayer before I started school. I loved hearing the hymns. I loved the vestments. I wanted to be an acolyte one day and light the candles.

It felt like a holy place, our church.

Easter was my favorite holiday. I loved coloring eggs. I adored getting a pretty new dress and a basket full of candy. I loved going to church and showing off my patent leather Mary Janes and white lacy anklets, and comparing notes with other kids as to who got the most candy in their Easter basket.

Eventually, though, Mom realized that our Friday "sacrifice" was not really a sacrifice at all. My brother and I loved meatless Fridays.

After we moved away from Augusta, when I was 8 years old, Mom quit doing meatless Fridays. We were disappointed but we didn't carry on too much because we didn't want her to feel bad.

We got Easter baskets and chocolate bunnies all the way through high school. However, I learned at a fairly young age that the Easter bunny was as fictitious as Santa Claus.

Somewhere around the fourth grade they felt I was old enough to learn the details of what happened to Jesus that caused us to celebrate Easter. I remember being horrified by the thought of the evil Romans nailing our Lord to a cross and leaving him to die in agony. Years later I couldn't watch the movie Spartacus because it had a very graphic sequence showing crucifixion. Ditto for The Passion of the Christ -- you could hear me sobbing all over the theater, embarrassing my date.

I think if we focus on agonizing death we miss the point, however.

I watched the Today show this morning and they had a story where they interviewed a rabbi and an Episcopal priest [both female, yay!] about Passover and Easter, and what we should be thinking about. They basically said the same thing as this, which I found on the Good Shepherd website: "We will offer our lives as active partners in God’s mission, remembering that we are people blessed with an amazing array of gifts and abilities to bless others."

What I think we all need to remember and think about this Easter is very simple: how to remember to be grateful for our many blessings, and bless others. I think that's the message for all of us, whether religious or not, the importance of gratitude, and the importance of healing ourselves and others.

Jesus made the ultimate sacrifice, willingly. So why can't we sacrifice some of our time and energies, as a way of honoring that? Food for thought.

 

An Easter Thought

When I was a little girl I was a tomboy and also a traditional little girl. I liked to play football and kickball with my brother, and I liked to play with my Barbie dolls. Nobody ever told me I had to choose. I always assumed I would grow up and have children the traditional way, of course. Adopting a child never entered my thought process. It never occurred to me that I could possibly love an adopted child as much as a child that I produced from my body. It just didn't seem possible.

God showed me how wrong I was.

After years of failed relationships, of desperately trying to make myself pretty enough, thin enough, agreeable enough, I finally just gave up and asked God for a miracle, on my 40th birthday. I wanted to be a mom. I had failed at becoming a wife, but Mom seemed vaguely possible. I had a friend who had a baby at age 37 and told me all about her trials and tribulations, mothering an infant, which take tremendous patience and stamina. I didn't think I was up for that, not by myself. I couldn't imagine adopting a non baby, however.

By the time I turned 42 I was in the process of adopting my daughter, then age 12. Two years later, I brought home my son.

When we as human beings give up, and think there's no way our dreams will EVER come true, that's when we allow blessings into our lives. I had no idea how I could become a mom. It seemed just impossible. All I could see were obstacles. By turning the problem over to God, though, and getting out of my own way, I was able to turn a huge corner in my life.

The path to motherhood wasn't easy.

The family I eventually got -- two older adopted children and my own mother as a co-parent -- was anything but conventional. Yet we were a happy family.

Skip ahead to today.

I have almost succeeded in selling my house. It's under contract. There will be an inspection soon. It has been a wonderful home. I will dearly miss my yard and my neighbors.

But it's time to move on. Time to downsize.

It's time for a new chapter in my life.

My son is back living at home and will help me with the move, but I'm sure he will be in a place of his own in the near future. That's as it should be.

My newest challenge -- and it's a big one -- is to find the right condo or townhome where I can move to in the next month or so. Right now, because interest rates have been really low for a while, there is very little inventory out there. Nice places are snatched up as soon as they come on the market -- at an alarming rate.

I will not despair, however.

If God could help me become a mom when I couldn't see any possibility of it myself, he can find me a nice place to live out the last years of my life. It's a matter of having faith. It's a matter of getting out of my own way.

This home will forever hold a cherished place in my heart. I have lived here nearly 16 years -- the longest I've ever lived anywhere in my life. My children experienced the love of a mama and a grandmama here for the first time. Cousins and friends came to visit. Kids played in the yard. My mom lived out her final years on earth here. We celebrated Christmases and birthdays here. I was able to write six books while living here.

This old home has served us well. I'm happy it will be a welcome refuge for another family to enjoy. 

Faith can be an elusive thing. It has not always been readily accessible to me. However, I have crystal clear memories of Mom reminding me to always trust in the Lord, always have faith. When we can only see closed doors, God can see how to open doors.

God = Love

Love can make miracles happen. It's the greatest energy source out there.

 

The Geography of Grief

I realized a few minutes ago that I owed a neighbor/friend an explanation of what has been going on with me. He isn't plugged into the ladies gossip network. However, he lost his father last year, so he knows this territory well. I told him my whole life is in flux and I feel overwhelmed sometimes.

At night I watch TV and often reach for the phone to call a friend because living alone isn't a big deal except at night.

Mom and I would chat every night around dinner time, review the day.

Grief is coming in little bursts. I will see something beautiful or hear a piece of music and cry, thinking of Mom.

There are signs of her presence all around. My gardenia bushes bloomed riotously weeks ago and that was that, I thought. However, the other day my gardenia bush offered up one single, gorgeous bloom, and I didn't have the heart to cut it. Mom loved gardenias. I always cut them and put them in her room to enjoy. That one bloom, right at eye level, felt like a message from her to me -- look at this beautiful bloom! Smell that incredible fragrance! I am still here, watching over you...

One thing Elva taught me so well is to appreciate the beauty all around, even in ordinary things.

I keep seeing cardinals in the yard. Mom liked the idea they were a connection between humans and the spirit world. Sometimes when I see them in my backyard a say to myself "Hi Mom and Dad!" or "Hi Memaw and Papa!" If nothing else, they remind me that spirits of folks I love are all around. I firmly believe that.

Going through Mom's clothes, desk, jewelry, papers -- it's a lot. It feels overwhelming at times. I try to remember what my brother always says about overwhelming tasks -- "How do you eat an elephant? One small piece at a time."

My son has been wonderful, and my brother. My daughter has called several times. Neighbors and friends have sent food, flowers, cards. It's truly comforting.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

When the sadness threatens to take hold I remind myself that in heaven we are all young and beautiful, and surrounded by unconditional love.

Mom looked forward to heaven. In addition to my dad, she missed her brother Bobby and her parents, so much.

Right before she died, her cousin Frank passed away. She loved him like a brother and I know that loss rocked her.

In heaven there is no pain. I love that thought. It makes the grief so much more bearable.

As I hugged my son today he reminded me "We will get through this."

Indeed we will.

Chinese proverb: The cure for dirt is soap and water. The cure for death is LIFE.

[I'm doing my best, Mom...]

 

What We Are Made Of

I have been thinking a lot about what makes up a human body. We are in the time of Lent, when we should be thinking about faith, and thinking about how better to honor God.

In the Episcopal Eucharist, which honors Christ’s sacrifice on his last night on earth, we receive the sacraments of bread and wine while the priest says these words: “This is my body which is given for you. Do this in remembrance of me.”

I was thinking about that this morning as I ate my non-holy scrambled eggs.

“This is my blood which was shed for you. Do this in remembrance of me.”

We eat the wafer and we drink the wine, and we receive Christ into our bodies. [For a more complete explanation, check out this page.]

This is what I personally believe: we should fill ourselves with everything Christ represents, every time we put food into our mouths. We should fill ourselves with love. We should fill ourselves with forgiveness. We should fill ourselves with tolerance.

We are what we eat. It may sound simplistic but those words represent so much more. We are made from the water that falls from heaven. We are made from the earth that nurtures the plants. We are made from the bodies of animals who are sacrificed for our sustenance.

Eating may seem mundane or even gross, but it’s so much more than that. We are part of the land. We are sustained by the place where we live and the people who raise our food. This is not mundane. This is profound, and even sacred.

Should we eat food that comes from food factories? Should we fill ourselves with fruits and vegetables that have been forced to grow, with a lot of help from science?

Should we fill our bodies with “foods” like fruit rollups, or should we eat fruit?

I think we need to eat real fruit, grown from water and sunshine and the miracle.

Yes, you read that right. I used the “M” word.

Life is a miracle.

What we sustain our lives with becomes part of our bodies. Our bodies are proof that miracles exist, and they occur every day.

Science has its limits. A doctor can add a sperm to an egg and a zygote may result. What truly starts life, though? I don’t think they really know that. For all the knowledge and science we have, we really don’t know that spark that ignites a new soul. Only God really knows how that miracle occurs.

I have been thinking a lot about how to renew myself. Easter is a time of promise and renewal, and it’s not far away.

Filling my body with Love sounds like a fine way to renew it.

Eating foods grown by small farmers who love what they do, and who nurture their crops sounds like a good recipe. One day, when I can get it, I want to be able to fill myself with meat that was raised by farmers who cared for their animals and who slaughtered them humanely, like my friend Jon Jackson over at Comfort Farms.

We are what we eat.

Let’s choose to become Love. Let’s choose to fill ourselves with real food, and by doing so honor God, honor our bodies, honor our parents who raised and nurtured us, and honor the small farmers who try to feed us the right way.

Let’s fill ourselves with miracles.

Just as a postscript - my friend Stacy over at Down South House and Home invited me to write a guest blog, and I was delighted to do so. Check it out here: LINK.

Moments of Clarity

There are very few compensations when it comes to getting older. You wake up with aches and pains in places you'd forgotten about years before. You look in the mirror and wonder how those gray hairs and wrinkles got there and what, if anything you should do about them. You watch your classmates from high school and college go through their own trials and tribulations and you either think well, thank God it isn't me, or well, I feel so sorry for him/her because I know how that feels. 

Every few weeks, it seems, I hear about another person I went to high school with who has died. 

Sobering. 

Sad. 

Scary. 

One of the very few compensations for getting older is this: clarity. If you're not driven by rampaging hormones of youth, or nagging stress over how to raise your children and/or how to pay your bills, sometimes you are blessed with clarity. 

I don't mean clarity as in I've got it all figured out! Woo hoo!

Nope. 

The best one can hope for is a little piece of clarity.

right, me about age 8, and my brother

I was a chubby kid [quite athletic, but always with some extra lbs.] and I went all through elementary and middle school being teased and/or bullied relentlessly about my weight. I used to wish I was invisible. I used to feel like the biggest (I was taller than all my classmates until I was about 12) ugliest, most awkward person in my entire school. I dreaded going, many days. Yet, if I had been able to step back and absorb this little bit of wisdom I think it would have been easier: When someone says something really mean to you, it's not actually about you, it's about them. Human beings are fundamentally kind and caring (I firmly believe) unless they are afraid or stressed out. When children say and do mean things to each other it's because they are under some stress, 95% of the time, I think. [The other 5% it's because of psychological issues or possibly just evil, but that 5% is a subject for an entirely different blog.]

I saw a story on Facebook the other day about a man whose son was bullied at school. He took time to just sit and talk with the boy who was the bully, to try and figure out what was going on with him. The boy had no father and he and his mother were homeless, and often hungry. The father became a mentor to the bully and turned the situation around entirely. 

Here's the beautiful thing about that: once you understand the stress the person is under, it makes it much easier to forgive them.

Forgiveness heals.

This morning I was watching a segment of CBS Sunday morning about television producer/director Chuck Lorre. Towards the end of the piece he talks about at one time being labeled an ANGRY GUY. His response was brilliant. He said basically that he was angry sometimes but it was because he was afraid, and it manifested as anger because he didn't want anyone to know he was afraid. 

Whoa. 

I was glad my son was watching that with me. 

I think guys often inadvertently become angry because they are truly afraid of something, and it comes out as anger because in the masculine mind it's okay to show anger, but it's unmanly to show fear. 

Huge moment of clarity for me. 

Someone I am close to (not my son) got angry with me recently and it really upset me. I have had to think it through and try to figure out where that anger was from, because forgiveness wasn't coming. 

I've learned one really important thing in my 56 years and it's this: if you cannot forgive, you will never be happy. 

Holding onto grudges may sound romantic and noble and it's the basis of a lot of movies with revenge plotlines but as a practical matter, not forgiving someone is corrosive to YOUR soul, not theirs. I like this quote: holding on to anger is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die.

I have had to try and figure out how to forgive people, over and over, in my life. Sometimes it's quite difficult. 

Sometimes I've had to forgive people who couldn't get past their anger at me. I lost several friends over the last presidential election. Despite my disagreeing with them politically, I still cared (and continue to care) about them, very much. 

I can totally disagree with my friends about who to vote for and still love them. I just wish everyone could do that. 

Anger can also be a manifestation of Depression. I learned that not too long ago and it really caused me to reflect on some situations differently. 

Of course, when someone is yelling at you and being a real jerk, it can be hard to forgive and that's just called Being Human.

Eventually, if you can get to a place of forgiveness, you're doing well. 

I like the meme at right a lot because it's so true. I can be feeling really crappy and take my dog for a walk and feel better. Maybe not awesome, but certainly better. Then I can come home and rub her furry belly and feel a little better. 

Hey, it's better than just eating junk food -- another way to deal with uncomfortable feelings. 

Anyway, for anyone reading this who is younger than late 40's, keep this in mind: the moments of clarity are some compensation for getting old. They make life a lot less awful. 

The Kindness of Strangers

I saw an interview where Lady Gaga was talking about how important it is for people to be kind to one another and I thought awww... what a sweet thing to say, but kind of simplistic. She's right, though.

You don't have to agree with someone's political or religious views to be kind. You don't have to have anything in common. Be kind anyway.

Tonight I started thinking about times in my life when people have been extraordinarily kind to me, and I thought, sometimes there are no words adequate to thank someone... but I want to illustrate my point. 

 

When my father died in 1996 I had a number of people who didn't know me at all nevertheless show me incredible kindness.

When my mom called my office and told my boss dad had died, a lady I worked with offered to leave work and drive me to Augusta -- 2+ hours away. She wasn't a close friend. She was just worried about me driving and crying for 2 hours. I had to reassure her I would be all right. I had just bought my first car phone. I drove alone and cried the entire time, glad that I was alone in the car. I felt Dad's presence with me, though.

A day after I got back to Atlanta I was going through the drive through at a fast food chicken place near my condo and a song came on the radio that reminded me of Dad. I started not to order but I was really hungry. So I blew my nose and tried to stop crying as I ordered. When I got to the window to pick up my food the young black woman noticed my tears and asked what was wrong and I said "My dad died last week." More tears. She handed me my change and my food and then took my hands and prayed with me for a moment. I should have called and told her manager how sweet she was but I didn't think to do it.

Not long afterwards I took some books and cassette tapes (books on tape) back to the library that were really overdue. I told the lady behind the desk I was sorry for keeping them so long but explained I had been out of town dealing with my dad's death. I lived on a strict budget and I was bracing myself to pay a lot of overdue fees but the woman must have seen in my face that I was being truthful and she said "Never mind the fees. I totally understand." I started crying, and thanked her profusely.. 

 

I have the most wonderful neighbors in the world. 

A couple of years ago my mother fell, and my son was away and wasn't answering his phone (he was with friends and the phone had died). I was scared to death. Mom didn't want to go to the hospital. She was banged up but the EMTs said nothing was broken. I decided to try and keep her at home and monitor her. She really hates hospitals. I didn't want to leave her side, though. One of my neighbors went to CVS and bought a potty chair for me to put by the bed. Another neighbor went to Walmart and bought groceries and brought them to the house. Other neighbors walked Lola for me. Everyone rallied around me and helped. I don't know what I would have done without them.

When Michael got home he was so upset he had not been around for me all day, and he cried and apologized. Normally he is very thoughtful and a huge help in so many ways. 

Lola got out of the backyard the other day. She usually wanders around and Mike watches her and she's fine, off leash. He got distracted for a minute and she took off. I was at the doctor. I came home and asked him where she was and he realized what had happened. I was pretty sick with a sinus infection and feeling awful, and I just stood in the house for a few minutes and cried. Michael was very upset. After searching all over the yard and the neighbor's yards, he jumped on his moped and went all over the neighborhood trying to find her. Finally, I calmed down enough to go out to the front yard and call her, and of course I was praying up a storm. In just a few minutes a neighbor that doesn't live close by but is sort of an acquaintance pulled up, saying she had put Lola in the car but then she had jumped out when she heard me calling. Lola came tearing down the street. I thanked that lady profusely.

 

Many years ago, I was in New York City for the first time, age 18, and with a group from my college. We were in town going to plays. We had wandered away from the hotel and we were thoroughly lost -- a bunch of college students from Tennessee looking completely scared, I am sure. A tall, really elegant looking older white lady came up to me and said "What's the matter?" I was 18 and looked younger and I must have looked shell shocked. I said "We're lost and we need to get back to our hotel. Can you help us?" We chatted a few minutes and she ended up walking a couple of blocks with us to the subway, giving us detailed instructions on what train to catch, when to get off, etc. She was the soul of kindness, in big bad New York City. Thanks to her we got back safely and quickly.

 

If I thought about it a lot more I could give other examples. FYI -- I rarely cry, so please don't get the impression that is my normal behavior.

All of these stories illustrate a point I have often made, that humans are basically good, and we should be so grateful. We also need to pay it forward. Doing a kindness (anonymously) for someone who cannot do anything for you is called in the Jewish religion a "mitzvah." I love that term. Kindness is it's own reward. It's what unites us as human beings, regardless of superficial things like class or race or background.

If you want to feel good, and you're feeling low, do something for someone else. Just be sweet. It's why we are all here. It's what makes life beautiful. 

my street, and a rainbow -- right, a butterfuly at my neighbor's house

What It Means to Be Southern

I read a publication called The Bitter Southerner, started by my friend Chuck Reece, and I have thought a lot about the influence of that publication on my inner life. Two of my essays have been published by them Memories of Segregation and A Recovering Food Snob. Both reflect some of my feelings about being southern, but they really only scratch the surface. 

What likely distinguishes me from some Bitter Southerner readers and writing contributors is that I am not actually bitter. 

The only thing that makes me bitter is the idea that I should be ashamed to be southern. I am not ashamed. I am actually proud to be from the south. 

I am also proud to be a Thompson.

Does that mean I condone or agree with everything said or done by any southerner or by members of my Thompson family? No. Not at all. 

There seems to be a movement afoot, though, to be ruthlessly politically correct these days, and I am horrified by that. If anyone not southern expects me to apologize for my region, my family, my southern accent, my southern ancestors, the southern food I like to fix -- well, let's just say it will be a cold day in hell before I'll do that.

I have a friend in England who was asked to remove his flag from his front yard because some people found it offensive. God help anyone who asked me to remove an American flag from my yard. You're offended by patriotism? Too bad. I am offended that you would take offense.

Where is it written that anyone who finds something offensive is to be treated with kid gloves? What is wrong with being offended? I am offended all the time, countless times a day. I watch TV and I get offended. I read books that contain offensive things. Every time I go out in public and see some boy with his pants falling off or a girl showing her boobs I get offended. Conversely, most major religions offend me in some way. My friends and neighbors offend me on a regular basis. So what?

I can sit around and dwell on being offended or I can GET OVER IT AND MOVE ON. People who are constantly offended are inviting negativity and drama into their life and I don't have any interest in that. I choose to live in peace.

I choose to move on. 

I don't fear offending anyone but I don't go out of my way to do it, either.

For example, I know people who actually make money from blogging. That's fine. Good for them. I don't. You know why? If I accepted ads it would imply I approve of the products. If I let an advertiser or sponsor give me money I would have to dance to their tune -- and it would undoubtedly include worrying about offending people. I won't do that. 

I write exactly what I want to write and if you find it offensive, go read something else. It won't bother me a bit. 

Most bloggers I was reading years ago have stopped blogging. I think it has to do with offending people, in part. If you live your whole life worrying about offending someone, you are essentially in a prison of your own making. 

One of the integral parts of the American identity is the idea that we can be who we are without reservation, as long as we don't physically harm someone else. Some want to expand that definition and say we cannot offend anyone else. I don't agree with that. 

Now, I feel compelled to mention a couple of things I consider exceptions. When offensiveness becomes emotionally harmful then it must not be tolerated.

One, confederate monuments. I have never paid much attention to them. Ditto for confederate flags. However, if a black person (or a person of any race, really) finds them offensive, they need to be relegated to history museums. If there were a giant Nazi flag flying in a public space and Jewish people found it offensive would anyone argue about taking it down? Of course not.

Two, sexual harassment. Is it okay for men to sexually harass women? Nope. Never. It's not only offensive it's harmful. Is it okay for women to sexually harass men? Nope again. No human being should ever be made to feel like an object.

 

Now, having explained the exceptions, I want to circle back to my original premise, being southern. If someone is offended by the very fact that I am southern, or they expect me to apologize for it, forget it. I bear no responsibility for what my ancestors did, or what they believed. I won't apologize for their actions. Do I condone racism or slavery? Of course not.

I cherish my southern identity. There are so many good things about living in the south.

I cherish the fact that I was raised to have good manners. Countless times in my life I have been thankful that my parents taught me to be gracious and to have good manners, because manners are, quite simply, kindness.

I cherish the idea that family is important. I can trace my family members back hundreds of years. In college, I was friends with a girl from Michigan who didn't even know the names of her own grandparents. I was appalled.  I can tell you the names of most of my second, third, and fourth cousins.

I cherish the fact that we talk slower, and generally are not in such a hurry. I remember the first time I ever went to New York City, feeling stress just from being in the city, where there were almost no birds or trees, and there were huge crowds of people. It didn't feel like a friendly, welcoming place to me. Ditto for Chicago and Philadelphia. Drop me into Macon Georgia or Raleigh North Carolina, though, and I will feel right at home. I will not feel stressed out. 

I love visiting big cities, but I don't want to live there. [Just fyi I live in Tucker, not downtown Atlanta. My life is far more rural than you might imagine.]

I embrace the diversity of my home. I have friends of all races and religions. Sometimes outsiders think everyone in the south is just an inbred redneck. That's laughable. In Tucker Georgia you can get a great Indian meal, a wonderful Thai meal, Mexican food, Peruvian food, etc. 

I have a dear friend who is black, whose wife is white. He grew up in New Jersey. I asked him recently why he preferred to live in the rural south. He said "Because there is less racism down here." Amen, brother.

Thanks for reading. Don't get offended easily. Don't be bitter, y'all. It's a waste of energy.

 

 

Inviting Magic Into Your Life

I was thinking about the power that words have to alter our lives and it occurred to me that perhaps the most powerful word I know, aside from "God" is the word "magic."

Think about it. From the time you were a child and first heard that word, and likely saw a magician on television or on stage, that word, MAGIC, was potent and mysterious, filled with endless possibilities.

It's sad that so often people are very cynical about the word magic, even more so about the possibility that it might actually exist in the world. I feel strongly that magic does exist, and instead of being cynical about that, we should allow for magic to be revealed to us.

When I was a kid I always watched magicians like Doug Henning and David Copperfield with great enjoyment, trying to figure out how they had fooled me. That's all the word magic really meant to me -- illusion. Or fantasy, in a Disney-esque sort of way. Waving a magic wand was one of my favorite games as a child.I made many "wands" out of drinking straws and tinfoil.

As I have grown older and lived through some very difficult times I have been shown, over and over, that magic does, in fact, exist. Just last night I was feeling discouraged and sad about a situation with someone I love, and within minutes the phone rang. That conversation lifted my spirits dramatically. It reminded me that instead of feeling cynical or dismissive about magic, we should instead embrace that word.

When we allow for possibility of magic, we allow for faith, and for healing.

 

Proof

When I was in college one of my favorite classes was Logic. I was awful at traditional math but I loved Logic. I could take word problems and construct beautiful, airtight proofs using my favorite tools -- words. So I was thinking, could I construct some sort of proof regarding magic? The result is below. Simple, yes, but that's okay. Sometimes the most simple things are the most powerful things.

Love = Magic

God = Love

Therefore, God = Magic

I know my very traditional friends and relatives who read that last part might be taken aback, particularly if they have a rigid mindset about God. Many folks I know would consider it disrespectful or perhaps even blasphemous to say God equals magic but think about the bible. Over and over, there are stories of miracles. What is a miracle if it's not evidence of magic? Moses parted the Red Sea. Think about Jesus feeding the multitudes with only 5 loaves of bread and 2 fish.What about Jesus rising from the dead? Doesn't get any more magic than that..

 

“Live as if you were to die tomorrow. Learn as if you were to live forever.” [Gandhi]

A few years ago I had to have a hysterectomy because some cancer cells were found in my uterus. I am fine now, but the word "cancer" is certainly a wake-up call. I saw cancer ravage my father. I knew it's terrible power. I also knew that it's a word that can change a person for the better. You don't really appreciate simple beauty like a flower, or the song of as bird, or a baby's smile, until you realize that life is finite, and we should enjoy life while we are still here. So cancer is not always a closing off. Sometimes it's an opening up, a way to fully appreciate the beauty all around us. So now I try to actually live as if I am going to die tomorrow. Who knows? I might. I am not afraid of it, though.

Life = Magic

I figured out a while back that if I stop learning, I will be a miserable person. I learn all the time, for the joy of it, not for a grade. As children we so often lose the love of learning, bogged down with homework and tests and obligations. That's unfortunate. As adults, we are blessed if we can re-discover the joy of learning. The energy of learning is its own kind of magic.

Lately I have been learning about how to think about my life in a way that helps me to be more satisfied, and at times even happy.

What we think becomes our truth. I forget who said that originally, but it's a powerful idea. I have been trying to re-order my thoughts. I tend to worry too much. Worry accomplishes nothing except to make me mentally weary, afraid and discouraged. Instead of worry, I try to just pray. I think about the person or situation that worries me, and I ask God to handle it. Sometimes the answer is that there's something I need to do, of course, to assist that process. I am always given that knowledge of what to do, and of course it feels good to be part of the process. Sometimes, though, the best thing is to mentally step aside and let God handle it.

If you think about it, there's a lot of energy in our thoughts. What are we, really, except intelligent animals, separated [perhaps] from other animals by our ability to reason? Our minds are the engines that drive us.

Learning = Magic

 

“Faith is not something to grasp, it is a state to grow into.” [Gandhi]

Faith has to be the greatest fuel of the mind. Faith, at its core, is the ability to trust in something unseen.

Faith = Magic

I interviewed a lady for my blog not long ago and one of the twenty questions I ask interviewees is "Do you believe in God?" About 99% of the time when I ask folks that question, I hear "Yes." This lady didn't say anything. I said "It's okay to say no. I have no issue with that." So she explained that her mindset was geared toward science. I asked her if she believed in love, and she said yes. (Just FYI, she is one of the kindest, most loving people I've ever met.) I just said "Well, in my book, then, you do believe in God, because God IS love." She didn't argue about it. I wasn't trying to convert her to anything. I just wanted her to give that idea some thought.

 

So Jesus said to him, “Unless you see signs and wonders you will not believe.” [John, 4:48]

Jesus knew the power of miracles was twofold: the miracle itself, and its power to turn doubters into believers. Most of us tend towards cynicism and doubt. How easy it is to doubt. How difficult it is to look at a scary situation and have faith that God can and will work some magic -- and perhaps even go so far as produce a miracle -- to help us out.

Miracles happen every day. Ask any nurse or doctor. Ask almost anyone over the age of 70. Ask anyone who survived the Holocaust.

 

The final thought I want to leave you with is this: get out of your own way. Stop thinking too much. Over-thinking an issue has always been my downfall but I am determined now to generate new thoughts, new energy, renewed faith -- all so that life will retain it's sweetness, and worry won't be the overwhelming sickness I generate on my own. Faith is sometimes only possible when God reveals to us his magic, and that's okay.

  photo courtesy of Linda Hasty Harris

Two Sides to a Painful Question

When I was a little girl we didn't usually have serious discussions at the dinner table, but as I grew up, we did, sometimes. My father would often explain why he felt a certain way about a political issue, or why he was voting for a particular candidate, or the correct way to view a situation that he felt the media wasn't covering accurately. We would also laugh and tell funny stories or jokes. What I remember well, though, is him patiently explaining things to me and my brother, and my mom sitting there quietly nodding. 

Of course, like all kids, I grew up and rebelled. When Ronald Reagan was elected I voted for him because my father drove to my college and picked me up, took me personally to the polling place so I could vote for the first time, and then after dinner at home drove me all the way back to school. He told me to vote for Reagan. I figured he knew best. In the years that followed I regretted that decision, particularly after I learned that money for college loans had been cut and some of my friends had to drop out of school. I also learned that Reagan refused to acknowledge the AIDS crisis or push for more funding for research. So I don't really agree with folks who say how great he was, because he wasn't, to me. I graduated from college in 1984, the "boom" time, Republicans would say, and I couldn't find a job anywhere.

When I realized that my dad could possibly be wrong sometimes I started researching how to argue with him, and win. We would get into shouting matches, at times. I remember a vigorous debate on the topic of abortion; then and now a very controversial topic. 

What he taught me, in a broader sense, was that there are always many sides to an issue. If you're going to argue, you need to educate yourself about the issues and argue from a place of knowledge, not just be reactionary.

I've watched in horror the riots in Charlotte in the past few days, and the reaction to the shooting in Oklahoma. I am very sympathetic to the black men who were killed, and their families. I am also sympathetic to the police officers.

First, I should explain that although I grew up in the Deep South, I was raised by Republican parents who went out of their way to make sure I was NOT a racist. In the South, Democrats were the party of segregation when my parents were young. Just FYI. My parents rejected the Democratic party for a lot of reasons but that was a biggie. I was never allowed to use the N word, ever. We had black maids but I had to be respectful, and I never saw either of my parents be rude or disrespectful to any black person, ever. When I started first grade in 1968 I went to a private school, the Episcopal Day School, and there was a black child in my class. The next year I went to public school and there were no black children in the entire school. Then we moved to Knoxville when I was 8 and I was exposed to a more diverse population, although there were very few black families in my part of town. We had, as I recall, one Asian family and one Hispanic family in my middle class neighborhood. (Don't laugh, that was pretty diverse for that time and place.) I never really thought about it as a child. They were just kids, to me. Knoxville was not a terribly diverse place in the 1970's but neither was it a horribly racist place either.

I digressed, a bit. Sorry.

What most white Americans are only now slowly starting to comprehend is that black Americans have always dealt with racism and racial profiling, and it didn't magically disappear after the Civil Rights movement took hold. It continues, and it has made their lives far more stressful than any white person can  ever imagine.

We don't know what it's like to be stopped and harassed by police for absolutely no reason. I had a black work friend years ago who lived in a very nice home, and she told me her husband was stopped all the time by police when he drove through his own neighborhood to his own house. He drove a new car, dressed nicely, and had a college degree and a high-paying job and he was STILL harassed.

My friend who told me about that came from a very affluent and well-educated family. Yet, she had grown up knowing that before her birth her own grandfather had been murdered by the KKK, hung from a tree in his own front yard.

So I am highly sympathetic to the fact that the police stop and harass black folks, and Hispanic folks in some areas, and possibly Asian or other minorities in some areas. It happens every day. It SHOULD NOT happen.

However, my curse has always been that I see both sides to every issue.

 

My first cousin's son is a police detective. He is out there every day, in the community. He was a uniformed officer for several years. He puts his life in danger every time he steps outside his home. That is his job.

I'm sure police officers have a very heightened awareness of danger because they face it all the time. I cannot imagine the stress of knowing every time I left my house to go to work that I might be killed or seriously injured - not just as random possibilities but as statistical possibilities.

According to the National Law Enforcement Officers Memorial Fund: "A total of 1,439 law enforcement officers died in the line of duty during the past 10 years, an average of one death every 61 hours or 144 per year. There were 123 law enforcement officers killed in the line of duty in 2015."

AND - "There have been 15,725 assaults against law enforcement officers in 2014, resulting in 13,824 injuries."

 

Does that risk, give police the right to harass folks who are not white, or to harass ANYONE? No, of course not.

I was a paralegal for many years, and a few years ago I was writing blogs for attorneys. I got an online publication that listed new lawsuits and settlements of lawsuits and I was shocked by how many of those suits involved incidents of police misconduct. It's nothing new.

I think there are solutions to the issues we're facing, as a society, but they are not easy or fast solutions. The problem has been brewing for a long time and it won't be solved quickly or easily.

The problem, however, can be basically boiled down to one word: FEAR

Police fear black folks and black folks fear the police. There is terrible history there.

Are riots and looting the answer? I don't think so. I understand why there are riots and looting. I totally get that. Anger and frustration reach a boiling point. However, riots solve nothing. They accomplish nothing good.They make the police more tense and fearful, as they struggle to control things. Fear breeds fear. Mistrust breeds mistrust.

We have to start and educate our children about Love and Forgiveness. Then we have to be diligent. We have to keep those words in the forefront of their consciousness.They have to be active verbs, not passive new-agey verbs.

We have to talk. Both sides have to be heard and respected.

Both sides have to replace Fear with Love and Forgiveness. What does that process look like? I don't fully know, nor does anybody.

However, we do know that what's happening now - the senseless shootings, the riots, the misunderstandings - those things must be replaced. We have to discard what doesn't work and figure out what does work, and that is going to be a process. In this age of quick fixes and instant gratification, we don't like to do difficult things. We want everything solved in the blink of an eye. That's not going to happen.

I've told my kids I don't care who they love so long as they love a good person. Race is irrelevant. Both my kids are mixed race themselves. They've gone to very diverse schools since they've lived in America. My daughter's boyfriend is black, so obviously she listened.

There's a famous quote that the journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. We have to educate our children. We have to take that step. We have to replace Fear with Love and Forgiveness, or the cycle of violence and mistrust will never end.

 

"Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that." -Martin Luther King

The Incredible Magic of Compassion

One of the privileges of living with an older person is that you learn so much. My mother doesn't sit with a chalkboard and a lesson plan and teach me, like she did with her students years ago, but she teaches me, nonetheless, and her lessons are always important and profound, in ways I don't always recognize until later.

I was thinking today that perhaps the most important thing she started teaching me when I was small, and still teaches me today, is the importance of showing compassion.

In 2005 my mother and I bought this house together. The plan was for her to help me with childcare for my newly adopted daughter, and for us to help her as she grew older. She had lived alone for nine years after Dad died, but the responsibilities of caring for a large house with a pool were starting to feel really burdensome to her. She also wanted to be close to her granddaughter and I'm sure she knew that I was already contemplating another adoption.

Sadly, just a month after we moved into the house, Mom failed to pick up Alesia from school one day and Alesia called me in a panic. I left work and picked her up and we went home to find Mother lying on the laundry room floor with two broken shoulders. She had been on the floor for several hours by then. (Now, when I leave her alone, she wears a medic alert bracelet.)

The first night Mom was in the hospital, I left her sleeping around 9 and came home to be with my daughter, telling Mom I would return the next morning. Mom awoke around midnight and was on a lot of medication and didn't remember where she was. All she knew was that she was scared and in pain. She tried to remember the Lord's Prayer and the 23rd Psalm, but she couldn't think of the words. She got more upset as she struggled to remember, and finally just cried. The nurse came in and said "What's wrong?" and Mom told her she was so upset because she couldn't remember the words to the prayers she had said every night of her life. The nurse said "I will say them with you." She stayed there and said the prayers with Mom, and Mom was able to calm down and go back to sleep.

 

That story perfectly illustrates why I have great respect and admiration for nurses...

 

I was thinking this morning about how important compassion is to every human being. I have struggled to raise two children who were often treated with cruelty when they were small and vulnerable, but somehow they also learned compassion, and they are both gentle and compassionate people.

 

Compassion cannot be taught, not in the way one normally teaches someone something. It's not merely a skill. Compassion has to be received in order to be taught.

 

I have so many memories of learning it from my parents and others - not in any formal way, but in a thousand small ways. I can recall Dad telling me stories to distract me when I was sick. I can recall my grandmother patiently sitting with me and teaching me to read, when everyone else had given up and I felt incredibly stupid and ashamed. I can remember when I was sick and feverish and Mom would sit by my bedside and wipe off my face with a cold cloth. I remember both of my parents taking homemade meals to families in our neighborhood who had suffered a tragedy or just returned from the hospital. I remember Mom patiently listening to my teenaged friends sit at our kitchen table and pour out their troubled hearts to her, without judgment, so they left feeling relieved. I remember Dad going far out of his way to help customers, even when he wasn't working - and his customers were often older ladies without family in town. I remember my brother as a young lieutenant teaching his soldiers how to stretch their food budgets so their kids wouldn't be hungry at the end of the month. I remember a classmate helping me walk off the playground, to the school clinic, after I was hurt - and she is now a nurse, not surprisingly.

 

I witnessed all this and I learned that compassion is a magical thing.

 

Compassion enriches the giver as much as the person who receives it.

 

I have a friend who is a nurse, and I shared with her the story about the nurse praying with Mom in the hospital. Young nursing students nowadays aren't always given enough practice with real human beings. Sometimes they only learn things on mannequins. That's unfortunate. A mannequin cannot show a nurse the importance of soothing a suffering person so they can relax and heal. A mannequin cannot express gratitude. Nurses are in a unique and remarkable profession because they can make such a huge difference in a person's life. 

 

I know people sometimes wonder why I write this blog. It's not for money or fame. I write for a lot of reasons but I was thinking today that one thing I love to do is pass along little insights that I learn. Learning is a lifelong treasure. If we stop learning, we wither and die inside. Learning is the spark that ignites our spirits and gives us reasons to keep getting up every day and trying.

 

Compassion is probably the greatest thing we can learn. It's just a breath away from love. Maybe it actually is a kind of love, the purest kind. Maybe we should think of compassion as true agape (a Greek word meaning "love") -

"Agape is selfless, sacrificial, unconditional love, the highest of the four types of love in the Bible. This Greek word, agápē, and variations of it are frequently found throughout the New Testament. Agape perfectly describes the kind of love Jesus Christ has for his Father and for his followers."

There's a lot being written about how important it is to be grateful nowadays. Gratitude IS important. Whenever anything large or small that is good happens to me, I try to remember to thank God, and to reflect on how fortunate I am to have been raised in a loving home by compassionate people. My resolution today is that when I feel tired or frustrated or angry, I need to remember to reach out with compassion, in whatever way I can. I can love on Lola even when she steals food off the table. I can help Mom put on a sweater even when I just want to watch TV. I can call a friend and let them pour out their heart to me on the phone and just listen. I lead a very quiet life, but there are so many ways I can demonstrate compassion, and I want to get better at it.

It's so important also to show compassion, every time we possibly can. Whether it's in a big way - like spending a day cooking for someone you care about who's going through a rough time, or a small way - as in simply showing affection to your family or pets - compassion enriches us. It's just as important for the giver of compassion as the receiver, because compassion heals us. But it's SO powerful, because our example teaches compassion. Compassion soothes our souls like nothing else. Compassion demonstrates the love of Christ for us and through us, and the repercussions are limitless.

 

If you want to read a wonderful story of compassion, I suggest you read Same Kind of Different As Me. I loved that book so much I bought copies and passed them out to friends and family members. Now it's a movie. Below is a preview. I can't wait to see it.