Because this is my space and I can.

This is my blog, my space.  This is mine, so I will empty my guts here.

In the middle of my last class, my husband texted me asking if I knew what was going on in Connecticut.  When I replied I had not, he filled me in.  And in that moment my heart broke.  But it is not as broken as the parents of those babies.  My will seal itself up, but their's will forever be cracked and smashed and black and empty in a way I can only hope I never have to understand.

It is sad that we lock our children in buildings everyday so they can safely learn. They should have open windows and freely move through the space with no fear.  It is deplorable that we even bother with trials of these people, and yet I respect our judicial process enough that I understand why we must.  We're falling apart.  I feel as humanity is slowly stretching itself at the seams punctuated with the abrupt tearing and slicing and shattering of us.  Yet, we continue accepting behaviors and trying to explain them away...

Leaving school today, a beautiful sunny day in December, I saw a window opened in a classroom.  All the students are gone for the day, so only the teacher remains.  My first thought was how accessible the room would be to someone wanting to hurt people inside the school.  That's screwed up on so many levels. My second thought was how nice I bet it was inside the classroom with the breeze and fresh air.  That should have been first.  Viewing an open window as an opportunity for crime is just bullshit.

This is not a God issue or a gun issue.  It is a people issue.  To turn it into anything else is ridiculous.  But it will be.  We love to take a tragedy and try to make sense of it by finding something to blame other than ourselves.  It is never us.  No, never. We make concessions for everyone for every reason.  Divorced parents, mental illness, bullying, bad music, bad video games...at what point do we look at ourselves as a culture and point the finger back?  When does it become our responsibility to take care of each other?  I'm not a liberal by definition, but I do believe it takes a village to hold us together. 

It has been mentioned there is a possibility of mental illness playing a role in this tragedy.  That said, does that make it okay?  Someone posted on a news site this should be a wake-up call to how we are dealing with mental health in our country.  While we certainly don't do the best job, to use this as evidence for the failure of that system is not acceptable.  There are plenty of people with mental illness who function everyday without violence, and we don't know enough yet to make that call in this case.  Besides, I can accept (in some twisted way) mental illness for murdering your own mother, but there is no sense when you then leave and drive to a school and murder innocent babies.  There has to be a line, and I draw it there.

I have no point here, really.  I'm sad. I'm angry.  I'm scared.  I'm pissed.  I want to cuss and hit things and hug my babies and pray. Don't make this the Calvary Cry for your personal goals.  Don't tarnish the memory of these untarnished souls by making them a statistic for your political motivations.  Do look around you and see what we are evolving into:  a culture of instant gratification and "Imma get mine, by God!"  Do ask what you can do because we can all do something...even if it's just telling our own children 'no' sometimes.  

Beyond all of our religious and political differences, there is one basic human rule:  Don't harm others. Is that so hard?

Chapter, Song, and Verse...Or Whatever That Saying Is...

First, I would like to say "You're welcome!" to the gentleman who drove past me and smiled as I was performing my personal rock concert in my car.  I was alone, a strange thing for me, and an old mix started playing in the CD player.  I started off strong with Liz Phair...But if you're tired of looking at my face, I guess I already am...(Divorce Song. Go now and listen to it.  You'll thank me, too!)  After some Union Station and Beth Hart, I finished with Purple Rain.  There was air guitar.  I might have been louder than the speakers.  Well, probably.  However, there is no way to quietly sing this song.  For the love, he only wanted to see her laughing in the purple rain. Sheesh.

So, that's how I rolled today.  Just me and my thoughts...alone for several hours in the car. Yep, me and my thoughts. (taps foot softly)

Yeah, so my thoughts are like a gaggle of preschoolers after about 12 boxes of Oreos with 72 ounces of chocolate milk chasers.  Anxiety makes your brain a little, um, fast sometimes.  My Better Half refers to it as Conversational Turrets because my brain jumps from one place to the next with no reason.  I counter, however, that it makes perfect sense to me and that's all that really matters.  I can explain the 6 degrees of separation between our vacation destination and getting a spanking in Kindergarten for spraying milk on my teacher.  (Vacation was in Florida where I also went for vacation when I was in third grade with my aunt and uncle who lived in Atlanta and my best friends used to go with me to visit because they had been my best friends since we were two when our dads got to be friends and we'd even been in school together since Kindergarten but I started school with one sister and on parent's day we had milk but the teacher couldn't get there fast enough because she was talking to another parent and ignoring me so I stabbed the milk with my fork because we still had those then and the milk was frothy from me jostling it so it sprayed all over the teacher who happened to FINALLY make it over to me.  See?  Perfect sense.  Might be a step more or less than six, though.)

I got to spend some quality time with my daddy the other day.  We took J to Shriners for a check-up.  All is well.  New braces for his legs are being made currently, and I eventually caved and let him get the ugly-ass 'Blue Snake' pattern.  Kids becoming independent sometimes blows.  All of a sudden they think they have a sense of fashion...but they don't, which is why I am looking at Hurricane C in her hot chocolate shirt and spring green capri pants. I digress.

On the way home, my pops and I talked about random things...just a casual conversation, really.  There were things we talked about, though, that I didn't know about him.  Parts of his childhood.  Why he's claustrophobic.  My nana.  He's always been my daddy, the fixer of all things broken:  cars, toys, air conditioners, stereos, hearts...whatever needed fixing.  It sort of dawned on me in that "duh" kinda way that I knew him as how I saw him, but less so as how he was shaped and molded into that person.  The stories that we all have about growing up?  Yeah, our parents have them, too.  Believe it or not, they are real live people who did things before they had kids.  Who knew?

That day was long.  The appointment was almost 3 hours behind and we didn't get home until after bedtime.  It was not one I'd like to repeat....except.  There will be a time when my daddy will be like my nana....a whisper in my ear, a voice I still hear clearly in my mind.  But he won't be here...HERE with me to share the stories of how he grew up and why he is, to me, the most wonderful daddy ever to bless the Earth and possibly several other planets.  I wouldn't trade those long days for anything in the world.  They gave me memories.

It's the time of year when we all rush around with our brains on overdrive.  I swear I don't know how we make it all happen, but shortly there will be gifts around the tree, food on the table, and lights galore.  We will head to church on Christmas Eve to sing and light the candles.  It's my favorite part of the tradition we have.  Plus, Hurricane C informed me Baby Jesus (you have to pronounce it "BaaayBee Jaysus". She's twangy.) needed a big birthday party and she was concerned he wouldn't have enough people show up so we had to go.  Bless her.  

If you are having one of those "oh, shit!" moments where you have no idea what to get someone, consider giving them some time.  Lunch.  A walk in the park.  Just time to talk, tell stories, and share a part of your life with them. Let them share their life with you. Turn off the cell phones, iwhatevers, and give them attention.  Look into their eyes, listen carefully to their words.  You'd be amazed.  Promise.  You're welcome.

What You Leave Behind...Patterns of Letters, Words, and Deeds

This morning was one of those mornings where it was looking like a good day to stay at home...clean the crumbs from last nights pizza, drink some coffee with the pumpkin spice creamer (which should NOT be seasonal, btw), and work on some school stuff.  Then I realized the time had changed and I could really do some of these things and still make it to church.  So I bailed on the kids and husband and took my arse to church.

I have been a bit lax in church lately...life has been happening at a pretty quick pace.  I haven't been on here much despite starting two or three other posts.  I just haven't found time or heart to finish them.  We've been wrestling with some family stuff, and the whole family is just, well, busy. Hence, our pew has been lonely.

As it should happen, because it is me and this is how all things happen to me, our wonderful and amazing pastor decided today to recognize All Saints' Day.  To do this, we did a roll call of those who have passed away this year.  Honestly, I knew one of the seven.  I knew others' names, but couldn't pick them out of a line-up.  It was sobering.  It was sad.  It made me cry and snot come out of my nose and of course I had no tissue.  I wanted my return sermon to be full of rainbows and unicorns and uplifting messages to carry me aloft through the week.  

I looked over the names in the bulletin.  There they were in alphabetical order recorded in black ink on bone-colored paper for eternity as they were on funeral bulletins in the previous months.  It hit me that one day this is what would be left of me...my name in black ink on a page.  People will see my name and they will have memories attached to it.  Did they know me?  Was my heart good?  Did I right my wrongs?  Is my legacy one my children will be proud of?  How will they feel when they see my name in black ink on bone-colored paper?

I remember the pressure I felt when picking my children's names.  It was a good, welcomed feeling, but I wanted to make sure they had good, strong names to carry them throughout their lives. My eldest was named after my great-aunt.  My grandfather helped raise her and always talked about her while I was growing up.  I have keepsakes of hers to pass along to my daughter one day.  My son was named based on #8 down in the crossword puzzle of that day's paper.  My father and I looked at it, looked at my newborn son, and we knew that was his name...and it suits him perfectly.  Our baby girl was named after months of debate and multiple variations.  Her name is as strong as her personality...it is a regal name, classic and timeless.  They are all the epitome of their names.  Strong, graceful, resilient.

What will we leave behind?  When your name is in black ink, what emotion will it bring to those who see it?  Our names are more than names...they are patterns of letters attached to our deeds, the remnants of a life lived how?  People will one day put my name in their family tree and genealogy research.  I hope they will see that name...my name...and feel a sense of gladness it is there.  I hope I leave behind a name in black ink that is overwhelmingly full of goodness.

May your week be full of things that make your name full of goodness.