The First Rule of Cool

Awakening from sleep, yet another start of the week.  The harassing noise of the alarm clock jars my comfort and rallies me quickly to silence the piercing buzz.  Semi-coordinated, I scuff down the hall to the bathroom for my lava hot shower in order to come to.  The light sting to my skin lets me know that I have the optimum temperature as I stand under the water.  I close my eyes and soap up, pondering my schedule.  As I shut the water and throw back the curtain, I relish the cool waves that wash over me as I reach to find my towel on the rack.  I wrap my over-processed, long black hair in my towel and with a flip and a toss, my turban positions itself firmly on top of my head.

I find my reflection after a wipe with my hand over the mirror.  My shoulders let down as I stare at my blemished face.  Just once, God, could I have nice skin?  Why does my complexion seem to always know where to position a red spot that will distract me from socializing for the week?  I roll my eyes and prepare to primp.  I'll have to do the best I can to make this mess look like something I can live with.  My makeup becomes a mask that I can hide behind.  I feel comfortable now that it is on.  No one can see me.

Next on my list is my hair.  Not to be outdone by any other Heavy Metal Princess, I delight in my home-dyed mane.  Black as pitch.  It is the bane of my mother's existence but it is my jeweled crown.   I need at least 45 minutes to comb, dry upside down, spray, tease, curl, tease some more and then solidify in place with at least a half a can of Aqua Net hair spray.  Once I am satisfied that it is high enough and has no chance of moving or listing in any way, I weakly smile and leave the bathroom.

Last is my costume.  I need to dress the part.  Leopard skin jeans or the ripped ones, maybe a concert t-shirt, lots of studded belts and my favorite, cowboy boots with chains and spurs to complete my look.  I want to look like I walked out of a video on MTV.  If I can't be pretty, then I can be shocking to look at. Either way, I have your attention.  I am so uncomfortable with my appearance that it is easier to look like a freak than a pudgy, ugly girl who tried too hard to look like a homecoming queen.  I am in my garb.  One last fluff of the hair and some hula-hoop sized earrings and it is out the door for me.  No breakfast, I am fat enough as it is.  Coffee and a cigarette will be my only sustenance.

Settling in to my moss green '78 Chevy Nova, the Love Pig,  I make my route to pick up all of my friends that would gladly take a seat in my beater than face ridicule for being over 16 and still taking the bus.  After I have filled my car to the brim, we pull into the parking lot.  It looks like a parade as most of the upper class makes its way from the parking lot, across the green of the town square and into the high school.  Rockers, Jocks, Nerds, New Wavers, and of course the cool kids.  As they walk by, I smooth my clothes and shake my head.  They look my way and my eyes cast down.  I'd rather not see their look of disapproval.  At least no one makes fun of me, to my face anyway.

That was my academic career from '86 to '90.  Every day a Ground Hog Day experience.  Nothing ever changed.  I longed to suddenly become one of the cool kids but it never happened.  I chalked it up to it just being my station in life.  I was nothing special. I was just a sight.  Being named 'Class Individualist' was the highlight of my time there.  I was also noted in the yearbook for my 4'x6' self portrait that to my horror, Miss Lee, my art teacher, proudly displayed in the front hall of the school.  I would have had an easier time if she asked me to strip naked and greet everyone who came in the door.

Years later with the birth of Facebook, I'd make online friends with some of the cool kids.  You know, the ones who always had it all together, got invited to the parties at all the cool kid houses.  Turns out, they didn't live the good life I thought they did.  All those feelings of isolation, rejection, feeling different, like an outsider, they felt all those things too.  That's weird. I thought it was just me.  After I regained my composure from this revelation, I made my peace with the fact that maybe most teenagers just felt like that even if they were cool.

Days ago, I ran into someone from high school.  She was alight with enthusiasm to see me again.  She gushed over and a smile covered her face as she chirped questions and danced in place as I answered.  I kept talking and politely asking about her life, trying to figure out who she was. She looked familiar but I couldn't place how she would have known me.  My mind was a cavern of vague as I grasped at any solid memory.  A conversation, a class,  maybe homeroom or study hall?  Nothing.  I asked a friend of mine about her and she couldn't recall either.  I was ready to end the call when she uttered these words, "She probably just idolized you.  We all did.  You were so cool.  I was so jealous of you."  In my complete disbelief I laughed out loud.  I thanked her for flattering me as I gasped for air but she pressed on with confession.  "I was, I was cool?  Me?"  She seemed to irritate, "Yes, we all thought you were."

Cool is in the eye of the beholder it seems.  Like everyone is trying to attain some status that just never can be found.  All the cool kids were just doing their damnedest trying to live up to the coolness of other cool kids.  A relentless circle of nothingness and eternal frustration especially for the hormonally challenged teenager.

The number #1 rule of Cool is there is no cool.

The Gift

I want you to picture someone who loves you more than anyone else in the whole wide world.  Close your eyes and think about that person. Get a good feel for their face.  They are smiling at you with tenderness and affection.  Their eyes are fixed on you.  They are walking towards you slowly and deliberately with a gift.  With outstretched hands, they are holding this gift out to you.  It is beautifully and carefully wrapped with a large ribbon surrounding the package, fastened in place with a large bow on top of the box.  They are standing now with their gift extended out to you.  All that is required of you is to take it.  I want you to sit with that thought in your mind for just a minute.  Does it make you feel good to think about? 

It's not your birthday, it's not Christmas.  The present is simply because they love you and they want you to know how much.  You did nothing to deserve it at all, they just want to give it to you. They want to experience the joy in seeing you unwrap your special gift.  

You have to reach out for the box in order to unwrap it, don't you?  You need to take it from their hands.  The gift is not the wrapping of course, although it is pretty to look at.  You could stand there with your loved one and just take in the moment but sooner or later you have to take your present from their hands.  It really isn't yours until you receive it.  What is it like to unwrap a special present?  Do you get excited?  Do you thank the giver?  Do you tear open the package with urgent anticipation?

I want you to picture again that loving smile with the gift out in front of you, waiting for you to take it.  Now I want you to focus on their face while you look into their eyes and slap the gift out of their hands, sending it to the floor.  I want you to conjure up that feeling you get just before you send something flying.  Next I want you to envision pushing them to the floor.  What do you think the look on their face would be now? 
What would their reaction be?  Do you think they would be hurt?  What did they do to deserve such treatment? 

Quite a colorful exercise.  The only reason for their wanting to give was simply out of love for you and to see the joy that comes when you receive.  Why would you send their present hurling and them to the floor in rejection?  Do people actually do things like that?  You'd probably think that someone was crazy for doing something so cruel. 

People do it every day.  On any given hour, thousands and thousands of people will stand in front of the One who loves them more than anyone ever will.  They will see Him standing there with outstretched hands, the most precious gift they could ever receive and they it away like it was garbage.  They will tell Him that His present is foolish, stupid and not worth opening.  He will say, "I love you" and they will laugh in His face. 

The next time He comes to you with His gift, I'd like you to ask yourself what the risk is in just simply receiving it. 

God's Macaroni Necklace

"Here, Mama!"

She shoved a rattling string of wooden beads in my face with a beaming smile and gripping fist.  Her eyes danced with pride as she waiting for my reaction. 

"Oh, Honey!  It's absolutely beautiful! Did you make this for me?"

"Uh huh!"

I reached for the necklace and she released her clutch, dropping it into my open hands.  A long necklace of beads and painted wood butterflies as big as silver dollars lay in a pile before me in my palms.  The ornaments were polka-dotted and colored in every bright pastel hue you can think of.  She waited beside me as I stood up to put it over my head and glance into the mirror over the buffet in my dining room.  It looked more like a lei than a necklace.  I smoothed my hands over the butterflies.

"It's really nice, Honey!"

"Are you go to wear it to church?"

I am team teaching a bible study on Tuesday mornings until January.  We were readying ourselves to head out the door when she handed me my surprise.  I hadn't considered that a lei of clanking butterflies would be perfect with my carefully selected outfit. 

"Oh, um.  Well, of course. Yes, I will wear it to church."

I left it on and hoped that I would remember to remove it after I dropped my daughter off at the babysitting room in the building but I forgot about it in the chaos of setting my stuff down on a table and trying to find the child care provider so I could leave Carli to play.  I finally got her settled so I could set up for the lcass when I found one of my teachmates in the study room.  We were reviewing what the morning would be like when I noticed that she kept glancing at my blouse.  It took about 4 times for me to get what was distracting her.  It was my butterflies.  I grasped the beads when I figured it out, chuckled and told her about my gift that morning.  We had a laugh and she went on to tell me about a scarf that her daughter had knit for her in junior high school.

"You don't know how many mornings I'd leave that on just long enough to head out the door and into my car to change into another one."

"I forgot about my necklace.  I didn't want to hurt Carli's feelings."

As I said that I started thinking about what would happen if I'd made a macaroni necklace for God.  I remembered making one for my mom when I was in Kindergarten.  It was an elbow and penne macaroni necklace that was spray painted silver by the teacher.  I was so proud of that necklace.  I couldn't wait for her to wear it.  I am sure she had many of the same thoughts I had about my butterfly one. 

Compared to God's gifts to us, our gifts to Him are like macaroni necklaces.  His gifts are perfect, valuable and hand selected for us.  Our gifts are primitive, easily duplicated and sometimes clumsy.  He loves everyone.  He delights in our efforts to love Him back, just like we do with our children.  His love is perfect though.  I believe He does wear our macaroni necklaces with great pride.  I believe He is eager to show them off to the angels and say, "Look, see what my precious one made for me today."

The Little Me

It's Monday morning.  I roll over with a groan and stretch to the sound of my chirpy pre-schooler who has formally announced the time and is already firing questions at me about our day.  I try to delay the answering in hopes that she will slow down and crawl under the covers for a few more precious minutes of rest.  Like most days, she sits beside me and refuses my unspoken offer of blankets, pushing them away and asking me, "Mama, can we get up now?"

I force my rising and head for the coffee maker.  A couple of hits of my favorite drug and I can try to fien an equal excitement about the day.  The beginning of the week always holds a list of 'To Do's.  Today I don't want to do any of them.  I homeschool my daughter now and though I know there is a lesson scheduled for Monday I am already negotiating how I can do something else by 9:00 AM.  Monday mornings always include the gym.  I need my exercise.  Trust me, the world is a safer place because I work out.  By 10:00 AM I am convinced that I am over tired and under ambitious. 

Against my will, I dress and head for the 'Y' with a crying child who doesn't want to play with the other kids in the playroom while I do my workout.  "Stay home!" she yells as she bounces up and down, shaking her hands and scrunching her face.  I have to admit, it's compelling when normally it is an annoyance.  She settles as we pull into the parking space and I walk her in and down to the babysitting area.  She doesn't even toss back a glance once she sees all of her playmates busying about the toys.  I am still wishing she talked me into her agenda earlier but I am here now so I head to the fitness area.  It's treadmill day.  I don't want to run but I make myself even though I want to hit the stop button about 20 times in the first ten minutes. 

With every step, an ongoing war.  The battlefield is my mind.  The need to discipline myself versus giving in to the desires of the day.  I recalled a buzz word as this went on that I haven't heard since the early 90's.  I remember it very clearly.  It was on the lips of every psychologist and in the discussions of many talk show hosts.  The topic was the Inner Child.  I had a therapist who spent hours with me, helping me to first identify the voice of my inner child, discover what she lacked, and then how to help her.  We spent a lot of time with my eyes closed, picturing what she looked like and how she felt.  Most of my sessions were about her.  This delicate creature within, so damaged.  I had to be careful not to make her worse, I had to tell her that I loved her and that she was safe.  I was even instructed to sit quietly for a half hour every day, give myself a hug, say 'I love you' and see her in my mind surrounded by soft, warming yellow light.  What ever became of her?  I haven't seen her in so long.

She is still there. Her agenda usually doesn't include effort.  She'd rather go willy-nilly, avoiding anything that has to do with work or sacrifice.  I made a french toast breakfast this morning with egg whites.  She wanted eggs, sugar and cinnamon in the mix.  I made two slices, she wanted three and with extra syrup.  I made her have one tablespoon.  She didn't want to go the gym and do penance for any misuse of calories from the weekend, I ignored her whining and got into the car.

I used to spend so much time being careful not to upset her.  I invested so much in making her happy, thinking that if she was that I would be too.  Now, instead of coddling her every whim and weighing it against what I would like to do, I just say, "Get moving!"  Turns out that my inner child needed the one thing everyone told me never give her, a simple spanking. 

Please Accept This Blessing

A day at Wingaersheek Beach last week proved enlightening.  Carli had successfully worn me down about going.  It isn't that I don't like the beach.  I just have a different idea about what to do there than an active 4 year old girl.  Carli squeals and hops toward the water as soon as we put our things down.  She delights in the surf with a beaming joy, begging her reluctant mom with "C'mon Mama, c'mon! Come in with me!".  My aching toes and ankles shock in the frigid water.  She is pulling me like a dog who doesn't know how to walk on a leash with her little arm dragging me further in.  We will do this about 10 times.  We can't just stay in.  We have to leave as soon as we get numb and go play in the sand for 15 minutes and then run back to the water again.  Occasionally this mantra is interrupted by chasing seagulls while yelling 'boo!'.  To Carli, this proves to be hysterical.  She can barely keep her running pace from the laughter.  I am running out of steam about a 1/2 hr into our trip.

My idea of the beach is to park myself in my sand chair, fix it to a slight recline and dig my heels in the sand until it feels comfortable and stay there.  I like to bring a stack of magazines that I have no time for at home and leisurely flip as I either redecorate my home or put together a haute couture wardrobe for the upcoming season all from the laziness of the shore while listening to the hum of fellow beach goers and the slap of the ocean waves.  There is little reason to leave my station.  Imagine my distress when my little baby grew to walk then run and didn't consider the wishes of her mother while visiting the beach.  If I want to read a magazine these days, I have to get used to reading it in 5 minute increments and only when Carli is satisfied to dig by herself for a spell.  No, my fond summer respite has become a mission to corral someone who can't swim and is too friendly to not want to wander off with whomever pays attention to her. 

I endure it because she likes it.  We get to be together and I watch my child enjoy herself even if it means that I have to run around and try to keep up with her while I opine for my chair.  Wingaersheek Beach was a first time trip for Carli.  I was happy to find showers, bathrooms and  a snack shack so close to the shore and Carli was elated to find a sign that she could recognize, a picture of an ice cream. 

"Ice cream, Mama!" she sang out as I held her little hand in my right and tried to hold and balance everything else with my left. 

"Yup, later.  Okay?", I tried to reassure her that it was coming but not right now. 

Who doesn't like a frozen treat after a day at the beach?  I couldn't blame her.  I just didn't want to indulge her at 10 in the morning.  We had to visit the rest room two times and each time I heard the same thing, "Can I get an ice cream, Mama?". 

It came time for lunch which we ate at the snack shack.  I didn't bring much for myself and I knew if I was going to buy lunch for me, I'd need to get some for her. She would not be happy with Goldfish and cut up Smart Dogs while watching mom eat something that came in a cardboard box and wax paper.  We sidled up to the window with a smiling face peering out and placed our order.  The cost of our lunches, most of hers of which I tossed in the garbage, cost about as much as the interest on the national debt.  Lunch plus the cost of parking took all but a dollar out of my wallet.  No worries, ice cream would still be had.  I just would use my debit card.

I announced that we'd get ice creams when we were leaving.  No need to get them now, we just ate.  When the beach ran it's course with Carli after many sessions of dragging mom into the water, chasing the poor water birds, digging and seashell hunts, she announced that it was time to go home.  I agreed.  I was exhausted.  We packed up and made our way to the snack shack, discussing what she wanted before we could even see the building.  We returned to the ordering window and my heart sank as I read the sign, "Credit Card Purchases -$10 Minimum Requirement".  I certainly wasn't going to buy 10 dollars worth of stuff for a 2 dollar ice cream.  I looked down at my wide-eyed little girl and tried to gently explain the situation. 

"Honey, Mama doesn't have any cash on her and the man won't let Mama buy the ice cream with her debit card."

Sadness and confusion covered her face and her smile disappeared as she tried to take in what I said.  I felt so terrible that I was doing to have to disappoint her.  My mind ran with remorse over not just paying for lunch with the debit card and leaving more cash in my wallet. I thought of how foolish it was of me not to check beforehand.  I also didn't want her to start crying.  I tried to explain again and smooth it over with a promise to get ice cream somewhere else.  She didn't want to go elsewhere, she wanted the treat I had been promising her all day and she wanted it at the beach.  As I continued to reassure her a woman came up to me and held out her hand. 

"Here, just take this." she smiled and stuck out 2 dollars and 50 cents in my direction.

I hesitated.   I was so touched by her generosity and strangely ashamed to take it from her.  She stuck her hand out again and I took the money from her grasp slowly, thanking her with a sincere quiet humility.  I ordered Carli's ice cream and took it back to our spot for her to enjoy.  The waves of shame still washed over me as I watched her eat it.  I felt silly for feeling that way.  I didn't do anything wrong and I wasn't a charity case and even if I was, couldn't I allow someone to bless my daughter? 

This woman had two children with her.  She understood what it was like to let a little one down.  She wanted to save the day and I almost didn't want her to.  I had forgotten in that moment what a gift it is to bless other people, especially when the blessing is anonymous.  As I reflected on what had happened, I realized what a gift I had given her by allowing her to bless my daughter.  The times I have bestowed this on others were the moments of the greatest joy.  There was a much bigger gift here than just a 2 dollar ice cream.  I connected with another human being in love. To me, that is worth not having enough money in my wallet.  Who ever you are, Ma'am, thank you. 

Standing True

Hatred.  The word is like a punch in the face.  The very diction has a poignant hiss.  When I've heard the word said, I notice that there seems to be well placed emphasis on the sound of the first letter.  It's like the speaker wants to you to listen up and take notice of what's coming.  No one ever asks what it means.  It always leaves me with a slimy feeling in my spirit to hear the word spoken.

I've been on both sides of the fence.  Lately, it's me feeling the sting.  Not an overwhelming blow that takes you out in one round but a constant stream of short little snaps.  Just when you think that last one stopped smarting it comes again. Snap!  I wish it would stop but it's not going to.  It might even get worse.  You see, I've lived my life pretty harmoniously with most people all my life.  I wanted to blend, fit in.  Sure, I had this thing that I knew deep down inside me.  I told a few people about it and they promised not to judge.  They seemed to be fine with it as long as I never talked about it. I would make them feel uncomfortable, they claimed.  By seeking to win their approval, I agreed.  I could try to live a normal life and forget about what I knew about me.  That nagging, that longing to just be me.  I hid it for so long.  I thought, no one would like me if they knew and once you make a statement like that publicly, well you'd better start living up to it.  No, best not to rock the boat. Besides, what would people think?

The truth about me almost got forgotten for a little while.  I did such a good job of blending in that I even forgot what I knew about me.  You can get good at keeping secrets for a while. Some lies can go on for so long that even you can start to believe them.  Then I thought, I could live two lives.  Lots of people do it.  There could be the me that everyone sees and then the me that only certain people see.  I could do that.  What would it hurt?  It would be better than just keeping it all inside.  I could have my little outlet and then I could go back to the me that the world sees and everyone would be happy, except me.  What if the little crowd of people who knew the real me saw me out with the rest of the world acting like them?  What would I say?  Could I tell my little crowd who I was on the outside?  Certainly not.  They would be upset with me. They'd tell me that I really wasn't like them if I had to hide so I just kept the outside me to myself with my little crowd and hoped that the two would never mix.  I thought it would be easy but it started getting really complicated. 

There came a day of reckoning between the two.  I decided that I couldn't go on pretending to be something I was not. I was tired of feeling ashamed of living two lives and never feeling complete.  It's funny, when you have a day like that you all of the sudden don't care what people think any more.  You just want to be you.  You don't care who knows you or what they say about you. You just want to be you and have everyone love you for who you are or go away quietly. 

I tell everyone about who I am now.  I am freer than I've ever been. I've never known joy and peace like I do now.  I am loved, wanted, secure and protected.  I am whole now.  It isn't without it's price though.  I had plenty of friends, family even, who told me they loved me for who I am.  I believed them. I believe that they almost think that it's true, but they don't.  They tell me they accept who I am but then go on and make fun of people just like me.  They make jokes, post cartoons making fun of who I am.  They criticize what I stand for and what I love about who I am.  They tell me that I am okay, it is just the others like me that they don't like.  Why am I special?  Snap!  It stings.  Every mention, sneer, jab, joke, sarcastic comment hurts a little at a time.  Snap!  I try to stand up for myself and all I get is that they are sorry to offend but they don't stop. They want people like me to feel bad about who we are. It's not right, it's not fair but if I want to stand true I am going to have to take a few hits.  It's worth it.  Being content with who I am is a great payment for the pain. 

People who claim that I'm a hater are the ones who hurl the worse things at me. No one wants to have parades to make me feel good about my life decision.  You can say whatever you want about me but make sure you get it right when you call me names.  I am not a bible thumper, a holy roller or a religious nut.  I am a Jesus Freak and I'm proud. 

Forget About Happy

If ever there was a word in the English language that I would like to eradicate from the dictionary, publications and speech it is the word 'happy'.  This word is shear misery dipped in chocolate.  It looks wonderfully appealing from the outside. Who doesn't want some happy?  Everyone is trying to get some, why not you?  There is even a right in the U.S. called the 'Pursuit of Happiness'.  Even our government wants you to have some.  So much so that they made it part of ensuring you'd get some, if you went after it. 

I spent a lot of time hunting it down.  I looked for it in relationships.  They always started off well and I felt happy.  I thought that this was happy then and I settled into thinking I'd found some. It always diminished though.  I didn't feel as happy as I did initially.  I started to think that happy went bad after a while.  I concluded that happiness was not found in relationships.  I moved on.

Disappointed that it was not to be found in another person, I turned my attentions to stuff.  Stuff could surely make me happy.  The commercials always had people on them that looked blissfully happy for having their wares.  I supposed that stuff would give me that happy edge that I was looking for.  I started to buy stuff.  Lots of stuff.  Clothes, jewelry, trips, cars, spa trips but nothing made me happy for very long.  In fact, the more I tried to buy happy, the more stressed out I got.  You can't find it in the mall.  Not to mention, the rub of having to get your credit card bill in the mail to pay for the stuff that didn't make you happy.  Talk about total unhappiness. 

Someone tried to convince me that happy was just a thought away.  I could make myself happy just by making up my mind to be.  Sounded easy enough. Just think happy.  Say, "today I am happy".  Focus on happy thoughts and immediately dismiss the thoughts that make you unhappy.  I started out with the best of intentions but when you aren't happy, trying to think yourself happy just makes you frustrated.  I couldn't buy happy and I couldn't think myself happy for free.  I kept trying.

All the times I had a glimpse of happy only to see it go away so easily.  Maybe you need to pursue it because it keeps leaving.  Is that how you keep it, you run after it?  Maybe happy likes to play games.  Maybe that is what makes happy feel happy by making you cranky.  I don't want happy any more if that is how happy wants to treat me.  I give up.

I've got a new thing.  It started a year and a half ago.  It's called joy.  It's way better than happy.  I love joy because it usually brings it's best friend, peace.  This whole time, peace was just waiting for me to give up looking for happy and come find joy.  The good news is that peace does not come from anyone one person.  You can't buy joy because it isn't for sale.  There is no need to run after it because it doesn't leave you unless you want it to go away.  There is only one way to find it.  Stop running, be quiet and ask God the joy that can only be found in Him.