An Elusive Dream

We all know that as Americans we are blessed with tremendous advantages that most of the world cannot enjoy. Among those are freedom to be who we want to be, multiple ways to be happy, and economic opportunities galore. I often wonder what life would be like had I not be born an American. Many in our nation today are experiencing that reality. They are the children of illegal immigrants who arrived in America without citizenship. They have lived here for many years, and often they cannot speak their native language any more. They are primarily Hispanic. They are pursuing an elusive dream for full citizenship in the U.S.

Before the vote in Congress on the DREAM act, many discussions took place on television and radio on the topic. I listened to one such talk show on NPR, "Talk of the Nation," on the afternoon of Dec. 16. Host Neal Conan was totally convinced that the act would be defeated and, in my opinion, rudely said so to one of his guests named David. The listener would hear the disappointment in David's voice; it was almost to the stage of depression. Conan turned out to be correct; the vote was lost by five.

As is my personality temperament, I can see and sympathize with both sides of the argument. Opponents of the act say it is simply amnesty and bypasses those who have been waiting for years for citizenship or permanent residency. My son's friend just received her green card after twelve years in the country. On the other hand, I believe I could also argue for the opposing viewpoint. Conservatives tend to say that their argument for pro life centers on the idea that the child is not responsible for the decision of the parents. Yet they cannot seem to extend the same argument to children of illegal immigrants. I cannot imagine not being a full resident of the country I have grown up in and love. Why not extend grace to those who would serve our country in the military or who would have a chance to earn college degrees? While the vote was relatively close this time, I believe the elusive dream will become a reality in the near future.

Parenting 1 - 2 -3 -4

My husband and I have just returned from a three-day visit with my father-in-law who resides in an assisted-living facility in Wichita. P-Pa (as our children called him through the years) is now ninety-three and a half. We were a bit surprised as we told him goodbye that he had no idea who we were. The memory and knowledge though in our minds of who he is remains just as strong as ever.

As I think about the types of parents (and grandparents) in the world, I would probably classify my own father as a type one. He is the parent, due to his alcoholism and an early divorce from my mother, who supplied the biological sperm for my conception but little else. I barely remember him, and the times he came into our lives were usually always negative. He was there to ask for money to get to the next location. On one occasion, however, I remember somehow that he came to my cousin Betty Jean's house for either Thanksgiving or Chrismas dinner. I was about thirteen I think. It seemed to be uncomfortable for all of us.

The type of parent my father-in-law is reflects type two. He is the parent who provided what the family needed from a physical standpoint. He worked at Boeing Aircraft for most of his adult life as a draftsman. While he provided food for the family as well as shelter, he did not provide any emotional sustenance. He fit the stereotype of fathers from the past who simply "brought home the bacon." He did not understand the need of his twelve-year-old son for a ten-speed bike with racing tires for Christmas. Instead he gave him a one-speed Green Hornet with rubber tires for his newspaper route. In most ways, my husband and I both had absentee fathers.

My husband and I have most likely been type three parents. By this, I mean we provided as much support spiritually, emotionally, and physically for our children as possible, but we had expectations and goals set before them in order to receive our love. We loved conditionally. Since our parents were not ideal, we wanted our children to receive everything we did not have as children. When our daughter told us she was a lesbian, I wanted to withdraw love until she decided to be otherwise. Obviously, that was not a successful parenting strategy.

In my opinion, the truly ideal type of parent is type four. This parent loves and loves and loves. This parents sets no conditions when chldren reveal that they are not living up to expectations, goals, and dreams of their parents. I believe that is the type of love called "agape" in the Greek language and exhibits the love that many of us would like to exhibit. It's God's love for us. It's the highest and purest form of love.

As we left Wichita and thought about the reality of not being known anymore by the person who has known us the longest, we determined to be more intentional about becoming type four parents still (and grandparents).

My Christmas Wish: Quantitative Easing

I had never heard of the term "quantitative easing" until about a month ago. I was walking in my neighborhood in Northwest Arkansas thinking about all the houses on the two streets around us that have been foreclosed, are for rent, or are for sale. Usually the total is around sixteen. On this day, however, NPR was speaking of quantitative easing as a way of quietly stimulating the economy. Instead of the messy business of a new stimulus plan that must be approved by congress, why not just flood the economy with $600 billion dollars of new printed money? I thought it was a fabulous idea and longed to be put on the Christmas list for just such a gift to our family.

Many of us could greatly benefit from receiving a free gift of printed money just in time for the holiday. After all we could go to the mall and shop freely for our families without pulling out the credit card even once. We could fill our pockets with money and pay in cash. Heck, we could even afford to be generous to others in need and share some of the cash with them.

Unfortunately, the new printed money will only serve to weaken our already weakened dollar and to put us as a country in further risk that the Chinese will simply call in our debt. It might help our exports, but then we become the country we have been criticizing: namely China who has been manipulating its currency in order to increase its exports also.

The future months will reveal the impact of quantitative easing upon the U. S. economy. In the meantime, it would be very nice for Santa to fill our stockings with cash to at least pay the After-Christmas bills.

The Tragedy of Zahra Baker

Our book club has just completed its discussion of Danielle Trussoni's Angelology. The question we spent the most time discussing is this: "Apart from religion, is there such a thing as pure evil?" One need not look much further than the latest child murder, that of Zahra Baker in North Carolina, to know pure evil must exist. As we have heard and seen from videos of her on television, she was a child who had experienced much trauma in her ten years. Yet, amazingly enough, every picture showed a happy, smiling child.

Evidently she was being raised by her grandmother in Australia before she came to the United States to live with her father Adam and stepmother Elisa. She lost a leg and her hearing because of treatment for bone cancer. The way she lost her life is still being determined by the authorities although the evidence strongly points to the father and stepmother. Elisa evidently gave directions as to where to locate Zahra's body. We must ask ourselves as a nation once more, "What kind of person would kill such a beautiful, innocent child?"

Neighbors of the family have now come forward to report their concern for Zahra, sharing stories of a stepmother's berating of her stepdaughter because she would not use her prosthesis as much as her stepmother thought necessary. What is the lesson we can learn from Zahra's murder? Obviously, it is to report to the authorities any suspicion of child abuse. We cannot be silent on this issue. Pure evil does exist, and it robbed Zahra of the life she might have had.

Lives of Sacrifice and Service

My friend JoAnn and I blindly chose a movie to watch together on Thursday. I say blindly, but in actuality we had both read a review and came away from it thinking we would be watching a love story. It was anything but. It was Never Let Me Go based on the novel by Ishiguro. The storyline centered around clones that were intentionally created in order to supply vital organs for their "originals" as needed. It was rather horrifying to say the least.

Of course, since the original, cloned sheep Dolly was created in 1996, many issues have arisen regarding the ethics and morality of the process. Many have gone on to speculate about how clones might be used to extend life almost indefinitely. The movie version raises not only those issues but also focuses on whether clones have souls, can be original and creative themselves, or can fall in love and experience the same emotions as all people.

The movie also centers perhaps on a larger theological issue. At one point near the end of the movie, the Garden of Eden is alluded to as one character is reading to another. Could the author of the novel have been also pondering the destiny of God's creations? We are taught as Christians, for example, that our purpose in life is to live lives of sacrifice and service just as Jesus did. At what point can, and do we, decide if sacrifice for others is too demanding and will eventually exhaust us? Are we like clones who blindly accept this purpose here on earth?

The movie is intriguing--not necessarily one I would have chosen with more information on its content. It is, nevertheless, one I cannot easily forget.

The Puzzle of Political Correctness

All of us have been inundated the past few weeks with the controverseries relating to political correctness. Has it really gone amuck as some conservatives among us would have us believe? What can we say, and how can we remember all the rules of proper discourse? Some examples are in order.

Among those in trouble in the news are Mel Gibson, with his rants against Jews and threats against his former girlfriend; Dr. Laura, with her use of the "N" word repeatedly on her radio program; Rick Sanchez, with his statements also about Jews in the media industry; and now Juan Williams, who acknowledged feeling fear when he boarded a plane with Muslims. All have paid the price for saying probably what they really think by the loss of their respective positions.

On the one hand, I agree (and have since the early '90's when I first became aware of the concept through my daughter, a graduate students in English at USC) that one should not knowingly use terms that cause hurt to others. As educated people, why should we? On the other hand, as we now see in the latest controversies, at what point are we simply being hypersensitive?

The recent and most talked-about example occurred last week on the television program "The View" as commentator Bill O'Reilly said that the Muslims attacked us on 9/11. This comment led to a lot of shouting with Whoopi Goldberg and Joy Behar walking off the show in a storm of anger. Yet that very week, Joy had two people on her show that both separately used the phrase, "like the pot calling the kettle black." I have been taught that African-Americans find that phrase offensive, yet Joy said nothing to the two guests about it. Later, she bemoaned the loss of civil discourse in our society with guest Richard Dreyfess, yet she had just left the premises her own show while on the air. Is there a double standard here?

Of course, we all know what one of the key problems is. We have so many analysis shows on cable that the air time needs to be filled with controversial political and social issues. All serve to increase ratings for either a conservative position or a liberal one. I for one would love to return to the good old days--having three major networks only giving their news at the dinner hour each night. But then I certainly show my age here.

A Narrative Poem for October

The Cross in the Clouds

After a summer of record temperatures,
the fifty-three degree fall chill surrounds me
as I step out the door, clad in my green jacket.

Once again I worry about our financial future
as I adjust the volume on the local NPR radio station
and prepare for my three mile morning stroll by the riverside.

They are interviewing people who have been struggling to pay their
bills during the Great Recession that has plagued us for the past two years.

The recession has been a brute for us as well with its constant devouring
of our savings and annuity payments—a set of tires here,
a new icemaker there, or a number of replacement balusters
for the repair of the deck—all serve to dampen my spirits.

I see before me the Halloween decorations in practically every yard I pass—
the numerous hay bales holding a variety of colorful mums in pots,
dancing skeletons, bright orange pumpkins, and spooky houses with
bats flying around them as if to frighten and menace us all.

I turn the corner and see the low-hanging fog over the mountains to the South;
It appears that the usual trees and radio towers have completely
disappeared magically, but then--I see it in the distance above the clouds:
It appears to be a white cross suspended in the sky with absolutely no support
underneath it. Could it be a sign of God’s faithfulness for the future?
His invisible Hand holding all of us so calmly and gracefully.

Revisiting Capital Punishment

Once more I find myself sitting on the fence regarding the issue of capital punishment due to two high profile cases in the news. Generally my political stance has been to believe no one should be put to death in spite of the legality of the law saying it is o.k. to do so. Now, however, I find myself ambivalent.

Last week a woman, Teresa Lewis, was put to death in Virginia for ordering the murders of her husband and stepson--all for money. To me this case was particularly unfair for several factors. She did not actually carry out the murders herself, she was a woman (yes, I know that I typically argue for equal rights for women), and she had an IQ of 72. I believe life in prison, as her colleague in crime received, was justifiably the better decision.

On the other hand, the news media have been engrossed with the crime and its horrid details of the Petit family in Connecticut in 2007. Here a mother and her two daughters were raped and set on fire while still alive. Her husband escaped narrowly after a severe beating, but he was unable to save his family. As is typical, both of the defendants are blaming the other for the most heinous of the events. To me this case is one that requires me to rethink my position on capital punishment. If there was ever anyone who needed to be put to death, it is these two.

I believe I would speak for the majority of Americans. It is a complex topic as we all know.

In the Stars?

Although I have been fascinated for years by the moon and the stars, I have never been a believer in the idea of astrology. I do read my horoscope, however, at times. Last week I was told that a person I had not seen in years would come back into my life, someone that I had never had a complete break with. I said to myself, "That will never happen."

About three p.m. though, the phone rang. It was a young friend that I had seen grow up, but whom I had not seen for several years. She was writing a story she hoped to market and wanted my advice. Her mother and I had had an argument a number of years back, therefore, the silence for years.

Our book study group this fall is now reading a book together entitled Goddesses in Every Woman by Bolen. It has been interesting to discover the feminine archetypes and to realize that I am most closely related to Artemis, the goddess of the moon. I take it all with a grain of salt.

I guess it is our human nature that compels us to explore our self-identity throughout our lives. The more we know about who we are the more we can understand ourselves and those around us.

Snakes in the Garden

It seems that I have always been aware of snakes from the beginning of my memory. When I was three, my parents went out to a swimming hole in Mississippi for a picnic with their friends. They took my sister and me to wade in the shallow water. I remember two events from that day--my father and some of his male buddies picked up my mother in her halter top and shorts and threw her into the water. She was screaming--good-naturedly though--that she didn't intend to go for a swim. The second memory revolves around seeing a rather large snake beside the water; I learned later it was a water moccasin so common in Mississippi lakes. My parents grabbed me up and begin asking me frantically if "the big bug" as I called it had bitten me. Of course, I liked the attention I seemed to be getting from everyone and kept pointing to numerous places on my body where the snake had bitten me.

As I grew a bit older and began to attend Sunday School at the Second Baptist Church of Greenville, Mississippi, I learned about another snake, this time in the Garden of Eden. It seems that this one was beautiful and even talked to the first woman, Eve, convincing her to sin against God by tasting the forbidden fruit. As a five-year-old, I had more trouble believing that a snake could be beautiful than believing one could actually speak.

As a teenager, I often went on fall walks with my friend Linda and her family around Lake Enid or Lake Sardis in the delta. On one occasion, the two of us noticed a snake hanging from a branch above our heads. We backed slowly away and told her dad who was back at his truck. He immediately took his shotgun--which all good Mississippians still carry--and shot the snake, bringing it out on a stick for us to see.

When I became a mother, my husband and I often took our fold-out Apache camper to our favorite state park in Arkansas, Devil's Den. We, along with our young children, enjoyed watching the naturalists present various programs during the day and occasionally at night. One of the most memorable for us all occurred around a large campfire. The naturalist was speaking on some topic when at least three small copperheads came crawling up into the audience's sight. The naturalist simply took the long stick already in his hand, picked each one up without missing a syllable in his presentation, and tossed it back into the dark night.

My position these days regarding snakes in that they are typically just trying to survive in an ever-more-difficult environment where humans continue to encroach upon their land. My grandson and granddaughter are city children and don't care to be out in nature as much as my children did. Charlie, our seven-year-old, however, recently was brave enough to attend a week's "snake camp" in which he learned about the habits of snakes, made models of snakes with clay, drew snakes, and even held one. It gave me hope that we could all get along.

Standing By Me

It's easy for me to work myself up into a frenzy of worry about money. I guess it must come from my single mother's constant concern over paying the bills when I was a young child. After all, it could not have been an easy task to work a split shift as a waitress at a restaurant and also support all the needs of her family alone. This week's news focused on the usual predictions of more gloom and doom for both the foreclosure market and the economy worldwide. Since we still own two houses in retirement, I started thinking once more about alternatives: Should we sell one or both at a great loss, or should we try to hang on making those payments every month in hopes that the market will eventually improve? As I was contemplating this question, I read a passage from I Samuel 7:12 which read, "Thus far the Lord has helped us."

The context of the biblical passage reminded us that stones were often used in ancient times for a variety of reasons: to cast at the enemy or to build a monument either to God or to someone who had died. I immediately remembered the popularity of small stones now sold in stores like Coldwater Creek that contain a single word like "believe," "faith," "hope," etc. While I am not a strong supporter of icons, it seems reasonable that one could place a small stone on a desk or in a prominent place to remind ourselves of God's faithfulness. I might wish the stone would say "sell" or "hold" in order to give me a sign about our dilemma. In the meantime, however, I will keep reminding myself that a stone is a great reminder of God's promise to stand by us.

The Anawim - With Us Forever?

The word "anawim" is a Hebrew word that means, "the poor seeking God's deliverance." It is mentioned in Psalms 37:11 and other places in the Bible. Even Christ spoke of always having the poor with us. Statistics last week here in America have reported that the number of poor has grown to record highs with some one out of seven in poverty, under $22,000 yearly for a family of four. The debate rages between Democrats and Republicans in this election year regarding the future of entitlements. Should we continue to extend unemployment benefits to the least of us, or do we cut off benefits to help reduce the deficit?

My political persuasion is an odd mix, but I suspect it's not too different from most people. I believe in fiscal responsibility; my husband and I have struggled to pay two house payments in retirement because we cannot sell one. Thus far, we have been able to make those payments. On the other hand, there are many children in our American families in dire poverty and that simply must be fed and clothed and educated. Last night's news revealed that the so-called Octomom (yes, the one with the fourteen children conceived at a fertility clinic) is on the verge of bankruptcy. She indicated that she does not want welfare for herself and children, but she has just another week of money in her account.

My position is that the unemployment compensation must continue, as well as welfare for those who need it the most. Hopefully, we will not have the situation continuing forever as we now hover around ten per cent of those without work. Let us in the meantime take care of the children. They are the true anawim.

Remembering Charlie

For the past several years, my husband and I have been a part of a Sunday Brunch group. This group, typically around twelve of us, meet every week at a restaurant and not only enjoy a great meal but also discuss the events of the week. In a political city like Little Rock, there are always many interesting comments not only about upcoming elections but also about literature, science, religion, and other subjects. One of our group, Charlie, was outspoken on many of these issues. He often spoke very loudly because as an octogenarian he had lost a lot of his hearing and wore a hearing aid. We could often hear him before saw him. He typically was late for our gatherings. He and his friend Nonnie, or Naomi as we call her, would arrive either separately or together. Likely because of their respective canes or walkers, they took a while to sit down at the table.

I quickly observed that Charlie seemed to be mad at the world. He often griped about the poor service at the restaurant whenever a server failed to bring him immediately a small request such as a knife to cut his sandwich. I often wondered if this impatience was a result of simply aging accompanied by the frustration of increasing physical limitations. I later discovered that Charlie had had a hard life.

It seems that his first wife, suffering from a mental problem, picked up their twelve-year-old son from church one day, took him out to a road by the river, and killed him and then herself. Some twenty years later he lost all his investments in the savings and loan debacle. How does one recover from such a tragedy? Is it even possible?

One of the positive aspects of Charlie's personality was his passion for baking bread, and supposedly he perfected a perfect French baguette. He loved to canoe on the Buffalo River here in Arkansas and was known for a famous bumper sticker he had on his car, saying in Latin "not random." He worked diligently to preserve the Buffalo as a natural habitat for generations to come.

Charlie died suddenly last week doing what he loved best--eating and discussing his favorite topics with his friend Bill. Today we can only hope that he has joined a new brunch group and can bring his uniqueness to a different group--wherever he is.

Daughters of an American Revolution

Last week I received an invitation to visit a D.A.R. meeting here in Little Rock. Since I was a young woman, I remember my Aunt Pauline from Jackson, Mississippi, being very interested in the organization. She had the genealogical research for my father's side of the family that showed our ancestry back to the 1700's. As I was watching the news from the primary elections this week, I became struck by how many Republican women are now prominent in these races, most notably Christine O'Donnell from Delaware, Nikki Haley in South Carolina, Meg Whitman and Carly Fiorina in California. Of course, Sarah Palin was the first national Republican woman to receive national attention as a Vice-Presidential candidate. I am still amazed that Republican women, who have traditionally remained behind the scenes in support of their candidate husbands, have now become Daughters of an American Revolution themselves.

Indeed, it appears that, at long last, the year for American women has come. The media have reported this week that more women are now in the majority for receiving Ph.D. degrees--at 50.4%. The visibility of women in professional roles other than teaching, nursing, and secretarial work has increased remarkably.

I doubt if I'll live long enough to see on a genealogical chart listing women's names as heroes of the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq, but it is interesting to contemplate such a change for future generations.

Dying to Live

I just finished reading Debra Dean's novel The Madonnas of Leningrad which centers on the second World War and the siege of Leningrad by the Germans in the winter of 1941. Dean relates the story of a young woman who, along with her extended family, spent the long, cold winter in the basement of the famous Hermitage Museum. Food was only available, and in small amounts only, through the black market. As a result, many of the people died of starvation during this time.

While I was walking around my neighborhood in NW Arkansas recently, I contemplated whether or not I could have had the stamina to have survived without any substantial food for such a long period. Co-incidentally while I was meditating upon that question, NPR ran a story similar to the novel I had just completed. The subject was also on the World War II siege of Leningrad, but this time the setting was a seed-protection facility which carefully guarded seed potatoes for the sake of future generations. Many of the scientists refused to eat these potatoes even though they also starved to death.

I am afraid I have always had food issues that have ranged from being practically anorexic as a teenager to being some thirty to sixty pounds overweight as an adult. I remember that my grandmother's favorite statement as she aged was, "I have two luxuries in my life: eating and watching t.v." As a teen and coming from an environment that had been out of my control from birth to age twelve, I know that my refusal to eat food came from a deep psychological need to have control in my life again. As a more relaxed young married woman, I found myself overeating. In other words, as the old cliche goes, I found myself moving from an "eating to live" to an "living to eat" philosophy.

Today I hope that I have discovered that small portions of food and exercise are the key to maintaining a healthy body weight. I can't imagine the pain that the Russians experienced during this horrendous time of their history. I am afraid I would have eaten the seed potatoes then if given a chance. The immediate need would have triumphed over the future good.

The Grandma on the Hill

When I was eleven or so, my grandmother used to take my sister Judy and me often to a lake about thirty miles from where we lived. It was always fun to go not only with them but also with my Aunt Elise and her son David. Mam, as we called our grandmother, would set up her lawn chair on the top of a hill overlooking the swimming area. The children would swim as the two sisters on the hill talked about television programs, fresh vegetables like sweet corn, and--of course--us. The two sisters in the water talked about boys and school and tried to get away from our pesky cousin in the water. It was always a comfort, however, to look up at any time during the swimming process and know that the adults' eyes were still upon us. We rather doubted that if we had gotten into trouble swimming that they could have physically saved us, but we hoped they could attract the help of someone who could.

During the Labor Day holiday this year, my son, husband, and two grandchildren--ages 7 and 11, plus a girlfriend--went to Devil's Den State Park near Winslow, Arkansas, for the afternoon. We set up our lawn chairs at the top of a hill under a shade tree. The air had a touch of fall in it; the sky was clear of even the hint of clouds. My husband started the fire in the grill for the hot dogs and hamburgers, my son tossed a soft football back and forth with our grandson, and I watched as the two girls could not resist the lure of the creek. It first became a simple game of wading in the creek in their flip flops but eventually turned into a shedding of shorts and tops in favor of their two piece swimming suits underneath. Soon the scent of the meat on the grill engulfed the area and made us all hungry for the upcoming meal of chips, soft drinks, fruit, and burgers. It was then that I realized I had become "the grandma on the hill" watching over my own grandchildren. As the girls got waist deep in the water, they would often glance us at us to make sure we were still there.

In spite of the fact that tweens often yearn for more independence as they move into the teen years officially, I believe they still enjoy that sense of comfort that I experienced myself just knowing the adults' eyes were upon me and keeping me from harm.

The Boy With the Green Skimming Board

The medical world has just released results of a study on the development of adolescence--that it is happening much earlier than in previous years. The contributing factors are unknown at this point, of course, but they include social, physical, and environmental factors. I didn't have to be told this new information, however, since I have been observing the changes in my eleven-year-old granddaughter for several months. Most apparent is that she is now showing a great interest in the opposite sex. Instead of being mere nuisances, as in the past, they are now her primary concern in life it appears. An example occurs from our recent beach trip to Galveston.

We arrived on a Sunday evening, and the children wanted to put on their swimming suits and go immediately to the beach. Upon our arrival, our granddaughter strolled into the water clad in her two-piece flowered suit with full make-up on. I have noticed this summer for the first time that her body has developed the curves of a young woman. A boy with a green skimming board looked to be about her age. The romance was on at that point with subtle glances from one to the other, a gradual moving of locations so that soon they were swimming in close proximity to one another, and a casual exchanging of names. By the next night, they were walking together on the beach looking for shells, talking constantly about their lives in Baton Rouge and Little Rock, and planning future times to be together.

I try, at age sixty-five, to remember my own adolescence. I remember being quite into actively still playing with dolls at age ten. By age eleven, I too was feeling that I was approaching adulthood and did not need any close supervision by any adults. At age twelve on the Mississippi coast at Long Beach with my mother, sister, and grandmother, I was actively flirtatious. The years might have gone by too quickly for me, but I don't think adolescence and its beginning have changed that much through time.

"I'd be lost . . . ."

My friend JoAnn and I went to see Winter's Bone yesterday at our art theater in Little Rock. I was interested in seeing the visual presentation of the film since my son and I had read the novel by Daniel Woodrell several years before. I have always loved the line from the book when Ree Dolly states to her younger brother and sister, "I'd be lost without you two on my back." Once more I find myself thinking about the dilemma that some children confront when they are responsible for younger siblings themselves.

The film is set in Southwest Missouri in the rural backwoods. It could almost be anywhere else as well, especially in Faulknerian Mississippi. Ree is a teenager forced to drop out of school and surrender her plans to join the army when her addicted-to-meth father disappears. Her mother is incapacitated, unable to speak anymore, and her twelve-year-old brother Sonny and six-year-old sister Ashley depend upon her for their daily sustenance. The conflict arrives when we learn Ree's father will likely miss his hearing with the judge, and the family will lose its little shack and the land connected with it. Ree faces the choice of farming out her younger siblings to other despicable relatives or giving up her dream of escaping her situation.

Again I remember my own childhood with an addicted, absentee father, a practically incapacitated mother, an inner city environment, and my own responsible sister cooking and cleaning and teaching moral lessons to me. Again I ask the question, "What gives children the tenacity to 'step up to the plate' rather than surrender to the enormity of it all?" In the film, Ree consistently is able to say "no" to multiple offerings of drugs herself. Perhaps she had just seen enough to know she did not want that life for herself. My sister and I both did as well.

The Cushion

The summer haze and humidity bore down on me like an anchor pulling me down into the earthy-smelling ground. I walked the usual path in Northwest Arkansas after a five inch rain the night before punctuated by numerous lightning strikes close to our house and continual torrents of rain. I glanced over on Old Depot St. to my left and saw a house built most likely in the early 1960's. The yard was cluttered with old cars and children's toys. One of the old vehicles had a crutch propped against its side. In the backyard I could see a rusting aluminum lawn chair that was popular in the 1950's sitting under a large oak tree and in front of a small swing set, also rusting, for children. I wondered if several generations of families were living there. In my mind, I could see a grandmother like me watching the youngsters play while their working class mother was likely in the kitchen making a meal for everyone.

It appears in some ways we have come full circle in our society, and due to the Great Recession of the past few years, many families are now living together again as an extended family. Personally, I know of several who are the "cushion" for their aging parents and young children. A friend in my book club on Wednesday provides care for her mother who lives downstairs, providing food and chauffeur services to doctors' appointments, while also caring for two active elementary-age sons. My best friend in Northwest Arkansas works full-time and cares for her aging mother, still living independently, but needing lots of assistance. The mother has never learned to drive and must be taken out for her groceries, errands, hair appointments, etc. At the same time, my friend provides after-school care and week-end care for her middle school grandson each day of the week. In our family, my brother-in-law provides caregiving for his and my husband's ninety-three year old father. Though he lives in an assisted-living facility in Wichita, he still needs to be driven to all his doctors' appointments and given care through his numerous health-care crises.

The "cushioners" need a lot of support as they care for aging parents. We are simply living longer and longer compared to generations past. I heard on NPR just last week that if one reaches age sixty-five in relatively good health, he or she is likely to live until 82. The surviving spouse in the relationship thereafter is likely to live until 90 or older. We simply ask that God bless us all, but God help us all in these hard times.

Traveling With a Twilighter

Last week the whole family, including our son and our grandchildren Caitlyn (11) and Charlie (7) took a trip to Seattle and Victoria, B.C. The purpose was primarily to visit our daughter and her son Cole (5). Another very important goal, however, for our granddaughter was to go to the locations that the films in the Twilight series were shot. The day trip was to stop in Port Angeles where Bella and Edward had their first date by eating at the Bella Italia. Later we would visit Forks, Washington, where Bella and Edward met in high school, see the baseball field where the vampires fight the werewolves, see Bella's house and red truck, and walk on the beautiful Pacific Coast beach of La Push. The next night Caitlyn was to see the midnight premiere of the third film, Eclipse. The rest of the family simply went along for the ride.

I am trying to remember my life as an eleven year old when I hear Caitlyn read from her famous quotes book from The Clique series of books and movies, statements like "Ugly girls should stay inside." Her own original quote on this vacation, hopefully just as satiric as the previous one, is "Life is full of disappointments; I didn't get a sausage biscuit today." As I compare my life with Caitlyn's, I realize what a privileged life she lives. The only birthday party I ever had was celebrated my 11th year with a cookout at the Indian mounds in Greenville, Mississippi. One of my mother's current boyfriends, Joe, helped to pay for it; and we celebrated jointly with a friend who was born one day after I was.

I long to know how Caitlyn's life will go. Will she always been as self-absorbed as she is now? Every act is dramatic it seems, yet there are moments of incredible generosity hidden among many selfish acts. She gives us money when we are struggling to pay a small bill with cash; she takes cheese from her tacos and puts it on her brother's taco when he gets none on his; she, in essence, shows us occasional glimpses of her humanity. I remember Paul McCartney's interview a number of years ago when asked by an interviewer what he hoped for his children. He responded by saying simply, "It was always Linda's and my hope that our children would have good hearts." I concur.

Searching for Harriet, Blondie, and Lucy

I started thinking about the demise of women's clubs a few days ago. It was at the PEO meeting this past Thursday when I had a brief conversation with one of the fellow sisters. She had just presented a program on Julia Child and remarked that women's roles had changed so much sociologically in the past sixty years that women no longer felt the need to gather together any more. After all, their roles have changed from the view presented in the early television programs such as "Ozzie and Harriet" and "I Love Lucy," or the cartoons like "Dagwood." The change has been from seeing beautifully clad women in pearls pushing a vacuum cleaner to that of professional women going to the office very day. They simply have no time for women's clubs any more. Should there be a resurgence in 2010? Perhaps so--and here's why.

The day before my PEO meeting I had visited the Rockefeller Center located on Petit Jean Mountain with my book club. We were given a tour of the farmland and met Nicholas, the donkey, who scared away raccoons; Otis, the sheepdog, who lived in the same pen with the sheep; and numerous orphan lambs whose mothers had rejected them or died. The crops were coming up nicely with the rain we have had recently--sweet potatoes, purple hull peas, tomatoes, grapes, and so on. Our guide for the tour casually mentioned that she and a group of her friends had just had a "women's night out." They had gathered together for food and games while the men stayed with the children. I tend to believe that women's groups such as these still perform a valuable psychological function. Not only do they give women a few hours away from their roles as wives and mothers, but they also provide opportunities to discuss the nature of families in 2010, the trials (or joys) of multi-tasking, the challenges of rearing children, etc.

Even for someone in my age group (retirement), the fellowship often provides an outlet for an otherwise routine dull day at home alone. Yes, the programs can be a bit outdated, i. e. last month's PEO program was on Estee Lauder, but they challenge us to think about our roles in the past and in the present. We might not be able to resurrect Harriet, Blondie, and Lucy in their original forms, but we can create new models who still value the mentoring role of older women to younger mothers.

A Poem

Delta Images: Memorial Weekend 2010

Breakfast at McDonald’s with multi-colored, silk flowers on every table,
The scent of coffee and bacon encircling the convivial crowd.

An endlessly rowed plantation of cotton plants,
Two black men sharpening their hoes, with cigarettes dangling,
Their PT Cruiser with its eyes facing us.

The ancient bridge as we cross the Mississippi River in brightening sun,
The modern steel-cabled bridge parallel to it--empty, and yet to be
Crossed.

The showboat welcoming center with its paddle wheel and tiny museum.
Displays of Mississippi--high and low, present and past:
Jim Henson and Kermit, the flood of 1927, a bale of snowy cotton, and a figure of a blues musician, clad in orange and aqua, with an
Ever-present guitar beside him.

The scent of BBQ and magnolias in Greenville as dark, delta images
Of childhood memories flood over me instead of the levee.
The picture of an ancient me now on top of the grass and concrete,
A casino in the background, a brown muddy river flowing behind,
The sight of a ten-year-old in my mind, swimming
In the river from a sandbar with sister and friends.
Did we have any idea of the undertow in our lives to come?

A search soon for the burial ground of loved ones gone in Greenwood.
The noontime growl of my stomach as we pass a diner on the right,
Filled to capacity at tables and at the lunch counter,
All blacks in the glass-windowed place.

The Crystal Grill for us with its newly-added talipia to its menu,
Not the traditional catfish only. Lemon and tartar
Sauce added for delicacy,
the patronage--as always-- in this window-less restaurant fully white,
Have fifty years of absence not seen more changes?

The solitude of Odd Fellows cemetery as I place pale pink mums
Upon my grandmother’s grave, she who said she would
Haunt me if I did not take care of her final resting place.
Though not haunted verbally any more by my drunken father,
I forgive him for wrongs past and thank my step-grandfather
For loving me.

The bustling city-town of Oxford on a humid, summer-like day,
The ever-standing Confederate soldier ever guarding the square,
Square Books with its several children—discount books and
Children’s books now in separate stores, signed copies of
Great Mississippi authors—Barry Hannah, Larry Brown,
Willie Brown in abundance along with newer greats—
Richard Ford, Lewis Nordan, and others.
The mustiness of the old building paired with the scent of lattes,
Cappuccinos, and cookies upstairs.
I touch the books with a reverence.

The final stop: a multi-acre farm in Crowder owned by my
Best friend from high school’s family,
The search through the yearbook of 1962 and the recitation
By her of the fate of each of the fifty members of our class:
The deaths, the marriages, the children, and the unrecognized surprise—
Most still live in North Mississippi after all these
Millennia’s.

The cumulus cloud shaped like a sculptor of the thinker,
Backlighting provided by an exhausted sun.
The full moon with its man staring at us as we go west
Into the darkening night.

Dealing With Dadaism

When I retired four years ago after thirty-five years of teaching English, I thought I would never have to deal with dadaism again. After all, I was not a fan of the movement and taught it in my Masterpieces of Literature class as a small segment of twentieth-century literature. I was wrong to think my dada days were over.

Andrei Codreseu has recently written The Posthuman Dada Guide in order to explore his own feelings regarding the philosophy and history of dadaism. The book is an alphabetical listing of terms and people associated with dadaism. My book club has chosen this book for its next discussion. While it is quite informative, and even interesting in some places, I still am not convinced that the movement should have ever been legitimate. Putting words in a paper bag and shaking them out to form a poem still seems like an inexplicable exercise to me.

The movement began in the World War I period in our history of the world in a small cafe in Zurich. By definition, dadaism challenges anyone to find meaning in it; it seems to me that it was just an escape from the reality of war. After all, the artists were sequestered in a neutral country while their fellow countrymen were shooting or gassing the enemy while living in trenches for months. Dadaism opposes communication of any kind.

As an occasional writer of poems both for pleasure, and occasional publication, I have always believed in the value of communicating with the reader. Marianne Moore communicated this idea best in her famous poem, "Poetry." She says about poetic lines, "When they become so derivative as to become unintelligible, / the same thing may be said for all of us, that we/ do not admire what / we cannot understand."

Hopefully, the dada movement, and its many offshoots like absurdism, relativism, existentialism, and so on have seen their best day in literature.

The Gone Days of Our Lives

I know that I need to clean out my jewelry boxes from the past. Numerous large and tiny boxes abound in my bedroom filled, but sorted by type--necklaces, pins, rings, bracelets. Every time I get inspired to throw out the old pieces, I pause and remember. I remember that little blue-filled pin and bracelet that my aunt Pauline sent Mother when I was around eight. It had belonged to her daughter Martha who had eventually outgrown it. When our son got married, I gave the pin to my new daughter-in-law since it was heart-shaped with an arrow through it. She returned it two years ago when she and my son divorced. People say that songs bring us back to the age when we had a childhood memory; I believe that jewelry does as well.

Among my other collected pieces, I find a pearl ring that my boyfriend in high school sacrificed to buy for my Christmas present. His family farmed in the Mississippi Delta and could hardly afford a ten-carat ring from a jewelry store, yet once I set my eyes upon it in the window in Clarksdale, Mississippi, I knew I wanted it. I believe he gave up his Christmas that year so that I could have it. I wish I could return it now so that he might give it to a daughter or daughter-in-law.

Other pieces of jewelry from my life that's fleeing too quickly from me represent achievements: my Phi Kappa Phi pin when I was invited to join the academic honor society as a senior at the University of Mississippi, my Sigma Tau Delta pin representing the years I sponsored our English majors society at John Brown University, and my ten and twenty-year pins representing the years I taught at the college.

Will I ever be able to part with any of these mementos from the gone days of my life? Somehow I doubt it. My children will have to decide what to do with all these old, useless pieces.

Say It Ain't So!

On Saturday my husband pointed out to me that there was an interesting article in the Arkansas Democrat Gazette entitled "Nonbelievers in pulpit--a tip of the iceberg?" The author is Terry Mattingly who is the director of the Washington Journalism Center at the Council for Christian Colleges and Universities. Many of us who have been reared practically in conservative churches have been concerned in recent years about the growing liberalism in America's churches. Of course, we have always known that churches typically have either a conservative slant or a liberal slant, and this idea is not the new revelation. What's new about it is that traditionally conservative churches are now reporting that many of its pastors and church leaders no longer believe in God, the divinity of Christ, or the authenticity of the Bible.

When I taught at John Brown University, I remember that one of our Biblical Studies professors would frequently ask his students this question, "Should we be intolerant of tolerance?" As an English professor at that time, I don't think I understood what his point was. Now I do. On the one hand, none of us has the complete truth in front of us; we believe what we have either studied and determined to be true or perhaps what we have been taught as truth by others through the years. In an age of multiple beliefs and diversity, traditionalists worry about being viewed by others as being rigid and intolerant. But . . . I ask this question, "Should not some elements of our faith be held on to tightly?"

In Mattingly's article, he reports an interview with a Presbyterian who states, "I reject the virgin birth, I reject substitutionary atonement. I reject the divinity of Jesus. I reject heaven and hell in the traditional sense, and I am not alone." A United Methodist states, "I've thought of God as a kind of poetry that's written by human beings." A Southern Baptist states that the "grand scheme of Christianity, for me is a bunch of bunk." While I am a believer in free speech and belief, I still am old-fashioned enough to believe that one should not be in the ministry unless he or she supports the church's stated theology, whatever it might be.

I believe that believers in 2010 long for hope in their lives since the everyday culture is consumed with talk of wars, great recessions, oil spills, and house foreclosures. They long for morality and truth that they can apply in situations which might tempt them to make bad choices. They want assurance that there is an afterlife and that the present world is not all there is. Religion should offer these hopes. If it can't, what good is it to anyone?

Broken Baby Dreams

Today is Mother's Day, so I guess I should not be too surprised that I had another "broken baby dream" again last night. The dream concerned our whole family taking care of a baby. The problem was that no one had fed the girl in over twenty-four hours, or changed her diapers. I remember in the dream going into the kitchen and frantically searching for a clean, sanitized bottle to put her formula or milk into. I could find only tons of dirty bottles with dried, caked milk inside them. Would I wait until I could sanitize them to feed the baby girl, or take a chance that she would not get sick drinking from an unsanitized one? I woke up before I could make a decision. This dream represents only one of many dreams I have had through the years about babies not being taken care of properly or who had accidents because I was inattentive. It has take me a while, but I now believe a couple of friends have given me the answer to these repetitive dreams.

I used to think I had these dreams because I was harboring some guilt over a miscarriage I had in 1977. I had gone to an oral surgeon to have two wisdom teeth removed when the assistant asked me if I could possibly be pregnant. I said truthfully that I did not know. My husband and I had wanted a third child, but I had no idea at the time that I was. Even though the usual radiation shield was placed over my stomach, I still was given several antibiotics and pain medications to take after the procedure. I soon discovered I had been pregnant during the surgery. The obstetrician was not worried about the x-ray but seemed concerned about the medications I had taken. I had a miscarriage when I was eleven weeks pregnant. After that I dreamed about a red-haired baby boy that never got a chance to live in our family.

Last year though in my Wednesday Bible study group, I posed the question of dream interpretation to my friends Joanna and Jo who work with women to explain their dreams. I was told by both of them that the "broken babies" represented my creativity that was not being explored to the fullest extent and represented my frustration with that fact. I have always wanted to write more than I have been able to through the years, but--like many working mothers--had to deal with mothering, being a wife, maintaining a career, serving in a ministry, being a club member, and so on. Writing was always "something I could do later."

I am thankful now that I have been retired for four years that I can write anytime I choose. I can stay up late or get up early or even write throughout the day. I am hoping to put my "broken baby" dreams to sleep forever.

The Last Waltz

I always wanted to be a good dancer. It started as a first grader at Ella Darling Elementary School in Greenville, Mississippi. I had seen my friend, Marilyn Arnold, dance in her tap shoes at a class talent show, and I knew that's what I wanted for myself. I even lied to other friends about taking dancing lessons, ballet and tap, but I knew my own single mother was too poor to spend money on such a luxury.

When I was around ten though, my mother hooked up with a new boyfriend. Evidently, she shared with him my goal of taking dancing lessons. He agreed to pay for them. I remember the excitement of putting on my soft pink ballet slippers for the first time. I knew that I had a wonderful career in front of me. Unfortunately, what I didn't count on was having two left feet by that time; I had reached that pre-adolescent stage with a stiff body that was anything but "light on her feet." Fortunately, my mother broke up soon with her boyfriend, and my potential dance career ended.

I danced somewhat awkwardly as a teenager when rock and roll was the rage in the late '50 and early '60's to the tunes of Elvis, Chubby Checker, The Big Bopper, and others. I slow danced to those of Johnny Mathis, The Platters, and Marvin Gay. As a young married woman, however, I did not dance. My husband had been raised in a Southern Baptist Church (as I had), but his church did not believe in such amusements as card playing, movies, drinking, smoking, and certainly not dancing. I never lost, however, my desire to glide beautifully across a dance floor with my partner.

I thought about my childhood dreams on Tuesday afternoon of this week when I went to see the small independent film That Evening Sun. The Hal Holbrook character deals with such issues as aging, the longevity of relationships, stubbornness, class, land, and so on. My husband and I wanted to see the film because of those themes but also because it was Holbrook's wife, Dixie Carter's, last movie. There is a poignant scene at the end which shows the two characters dancing a slow dance and loving their relationship. It reminded me of the brevity of life and the transience of it. I used to think as a graduate student at Ole Miss that the Romantics' interest in this issue was obsessive. Now I see their point. While "a thing of beauty is a joy forever," people aren't. They grow old.

This summer I will have been married forty-five years (and my mother said the marriage would never last). While I know I will never be able to glide in this life seamlessly across the dance floor (now because of creaking old bones more likely), I envision a time in eternity when I will enjoy "the last waltz" with my husband. It will be beautiful, and it will last forever.

The Epidemic of Victimology

It seems the big topic of both churches and culture, in general, these days is that of victimology. Everyone's a victim. In church for the past few months, we have been hearing both liberal and even more traditionally conservative theologians speak of Christ's being a victim of the Roman Empire. This idea, of course, runs counter to what churches have taught for thousands of years, namely that God sent His son into the world to be the propitiation for the sins of humanity. Even Judas, the disciple, has been seen recently as a victim of God's big plan for Christ's life and death. Some say Judas should be viewed as a rather sympathetic person in the New Testament since he was just a tool in the plan.

In culture, we have been hearing for some years now about the victimization of children in the Catholic Church. They have been subjected to sexual abuse by priests. I can certainly agree with this view; children are victims when the people they trust most in the world, other than their parents, take advantage of their naivete.

What bothers me, however, most about the epidemic of victimology in our culture is the adult who claims to be a victim and perhaps is not. I am thinking most recently of the media discussion of Sandra Bullock and Elin Wood. I fall into the category of people who believe these wives are smart and must have had a clue as to their husbands' infidelities and fetishes. Also, I am amazed by the mistresses of Tiger who believe they are victims because they had the mistaken belief that they were the ONLY mistresses in Tiger's life.

The shifting of personal responsibility to others, unfortunately, has been a characteristic of humanity since the Garden of Eden. Will we ever learn to simply say, "I am sorry; I am responsible; I knew but turned my cheek the other way."

The Astonishing Vanishing Jesus

Our spiritual formation class last Sunday ended its session with a question from our teacher, "What does the sudden disappearance of Christ on the road to Emmaus mean for each of us?" I had never thought about the idea before this time. As I went back and reread the passages in the gospels of Mark and Luke, I agreed with Larry, our teacher, that basically He wanted to say to his disciples, "I am going away, and now I am leaving my ministry with you." Larry also pointed out that the disciples did not recognize Him until He blessed bread, broke it, and gave it to them. The Scripture in Mark says, "Then their eyes were opened, and they knew Him" (24:31). I also think there was another quite important reason to consider for this final appearance of Christ. I believe He wanted to convince them of the importance of using the Holy Scriptures as a guide for their lives and others.

Verse 32 says, " Did not our heart burn within us while He talked with us on the road, and while He opened the Scriptures to us?" Today in many liberal churches, the Holy Scripture has lost its authority within the church due to the questions raised about its symbolic and metaphorical interpretations versus its literal, conservative interpretations of the past. If we are to emulate Christ, however, we realize that He turned to the Scripture many times during His three-year ministry before His Crucifixion. It even began with His teaching of the Rabbis in the temple as a twelve-year old. If He valued the Scripture to such an extent, should we not also do so?

Jesus disappeared quickly after His Resurrection in order that the disciples could begin the work on earth to establish the kingdom both here and later in heaven. It is up to us as His followers to continue to study the Word, minister to the people through our hospitality, and teach His principles to others.

Shall We Gather at the River?

When I was a child, I thought as a child. One of the Bible verses that gave me the most trouble in my mind was one that spoke of the Resurrection. I remember that my mother was the teacher of the Sunday School class I attended and seemed somewhat astonished when I, at age six, asked the question, “How can the dead rise first from the graves when Jesus comes? What about those people who drowned in the sea or those who were burned to death? Their bodies are not in the graves to rise up.” My exhausted parent, who was a single mother working as a waitress and only moonlighting on Sunday morning as a real Sunday School teacher at Second Baptist Church in Greenville, Mississippi, simply said, “Lisa, we’ll talk about this later, but that’s a good question.”
Another annoying habit I developed as a child was actually to think about the meaning of the song lyrics my grandmother beside me in church was singing, along of course with the other members of the congregation. After my mother became too tired and depressed to raise my sister and me, at age 16 and 12 respectively, we lived with our grandmother in a small town of 1,000 people in the heart of the Mississippi Delta. We attended her Baptist church with her every Sunday. I continued to think about the idea of our being possibly resurrected since Jesus had promised it both for Himself and for us, His followers. After all, my life had been rather traumatic to this point with an alcoholic father, a clinically depressed mother, temporary homes with relatives, sexual abuse as a three-year old, poverty, and so on. I certainly wanted to believe in the idea that this life was not all there was.
One of the songs our church congregation frequently sang was “Shall We Gather at the River,” which again raises the idea of resurrection. My grandmother’s sixty plus year old voice broke as she sang the hymn, “Yes, we’ll gather at the river, / the beautiful, the beautiful river; / gather with the saints at the river / that flows by the throne of God.” The verses spoke of a “crystal tide,” a “silver spray,” a “golden day,” happy hearts,” and “peace.” The song described a beautiful picture of life after death, and I was comforted by its promises.
As I grew older, I found myself skipping more services of the church as a typical teenager is prone to do. I no longer raised any hard theological questions with myself. Instead, I concentrated on becoming as popular as I could and set my sights on becoming recognized in such roles as homecoming maid, class favorite, and the ultimate one: Miss West Tallahatchie High School. I still believed in eternal life and the resurrection of Christians after death, but I gave up the hard questions of my childhood. In short, “I put childish ways behind me” (I Corinthians 13:11).
I have to confess that, since my teen years, I still am rather erratic as a seeker of life’s big questions. As a result of my prior spiritual quests, however, I at least now know how to describe my spiritual beliefs to others: I am biblically conservative and socially liberal. It’s an odd combination that still makes me somewhat of an outsider in both wings of our Christian faith. I am now sixty-five years old and still looking for plausible answers--but not so much as before.
Since Easter is approaching in another week, the focus of our spiritual formation class over the past few weeks has been on the last few hours of Christ’s life before His Crucifixion. Our teacher Larry has encouraged each of us to reflect upon this question: What does the Resurrection mean to you?
In response to this question, I am challenged to once again seek an answer to the age-old question. In short, the Resurrection of Christ means to me that He was truly the Son of God, His promises are true, and He is preparing a place for us in Heaven. Otherwise, He would have told us as He says in the Word in John 14:2 (NIV): “In my Father's house are many rooms; if it were not so, I would have told you. I am going there to prepare a place for you.” I also long to be reunited with all the women of my family who have gone on before me: my mother, my grandmother, my aunt, and so on.
Since I am now attending an Episcopal Church, which tends to interpret the Scripture liberally, I am challenged to believe that perhaps the Resurrection of Christ was only symbolic and metaphorical. For me, it is not a stretch to believe that, if God created the world, He can also supernaturally put back together our bodies to meet Christ in the air for a second coming. It is also possible that the universe is filled with places we cannot see—a perfect place for a literal heaven. I believe that a metaphorical view removes all hope of the heaven described by Jesus. Even at this moment I am listening to an NPR presentation by author Lisa Miller where the statistic was just given that 80% of all believers, whether Jewish, Christian, or Muslim, believe in a literal heaven and that it is God’s home. I am happy to include myself in the majority opinion. Shall we gather together in eternity? I believe we will, and it will be with the other “saints at the river.”

To Barry . . . With Love

The first time I heard writer Barry Hannah read from his works I was very impressed by his topic. It was several years ago at a writers conference at the University of Arkansas in Fayetteville. I had gone to the event because I was curious. My sister Judy had been a fellow student with him at Mississippi College in the early 1960's, and our son, who was studying for his MA degree in English, at Ole Miss had spoken highly of him as well. I had not read his work at that time, but he spoke of being quite ill one night and in the hospital for treatment of his lymphoma. His memory of the event is that Jesus Himself entered his room and stood by his bed silently. Barry was, according to him under no influence of drugs at the time. Barry simply said to Christ something like, "I haven't done very much with you lately, have I?"

As I later went to Barry's novels to see what he had written about throughout his career up to that point, I saw immediately that my sister Judy had described him well, "He was a good old boy." His topics in his highly acclaimed novel Geronimo Rex ranged from adolescent coming-of-age in the America of the 1950s and '60s to seeing his autobiographical character living through sex, love, lies, and lunacies as he got older. Other novels through the years included Airships, High Lonesome, Bats Out of Hell, The Tennis Handsome, Hey Jack! and Ray.

Barry's final novel before his death a few weeks ago was Yonder Stands Your Orphan. According to a review in Publishers Weekly, it is "a Southern Gothic novel full of every kind of excess: violence, sex, religiosity, creepiness and humor." The university where I taught for twenty-two years invited Hannah to be the keynote speaker for another writers conference in 2005. By this time, Barry was again gravely ill with a recurrence of his lymphoma. He was able to impress the students, however, in his presentation at this very conservative Christian university by the story of his encounter with Jesus and his complete honesty about his struggle with his faith.

Today I remember Barry's generosity in writing a blurb for my first book, Four Women, One Century and later in writing me a letter saying that he had seen my book in the famous bookstore in Oxford, Mississippi--Square Books. The book was located, he said, in the honored first-floor section of the store. He said he was honored to have recommended it.

Today I remember Barry with fondness and respect. I hope he found what he was searching for.

The Popularity of Views that Deconstruct Jesus

One of the things I like most about my spiritual formation class on Sunday mornings is the fact that we get to pose all kinds of questions about traditional faith. One of the things I like least about the class is the fact that we get to pose all kinds of questions about traditional faith. It seems that, because of fifty or so years of training in a Southern Baptist church, I fall into an unusual category of believers: I am biblically conservative but socially liberal. The Bible has always been the source of authority for my faith, and I have been taught that it was written by a number of authors who were inspired by God. In my current class, there is an overt effort to deconstruct not only the Bible of us traditional believers but also even Jesus Himself.

For example, for the past few weeks we have continued a series of videotapes by two liberal theologians, Dominic Crossan and Marcus Borg. It's called "Living the Questions." Last week's lesson centered on the week before Jesus' death and indicated that Jesus' Palm Sunday ride into the city on a donkey was not a triumphal entry at all but simply a mocking demonstration of the power of the Roman Empire. Also, the cleansing of the temple by Jesus as he overthrew the money changers' tables obviously made little difference to the powerful Jews of the day. It too was but was a simple demonstration much like those in our day who protest war: impressive but not faith-changing.

While I am familiar in literature and other disciplines with the theory of deconstruction as an academic tool for analysis, I myself prefer traditional scholarship. I would like to see, for example, a number of moderate and traditional scholars presented who believe that Jesus was the Son of God and that the Bible is Truth and Inerrant. That way we can have opposing viewpoints and make our own decisions regarding our faith.

At the Back of Beyond

My book club has been reading several novels recently that focus on the theme of violence against women. Several months ago, we read Roberto Bolano' 2666, followed by Pat Conroy's South of Broad, and now culminating with Stieg Larsson's The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo. All have been highly successful bestselling pieces. I believe that, for me personally, I have now overdosed on the theme. In Larsson's novel, one of the key characters moves to a small town in Sweden which is referred to several times as being at the "back of beyond." I believe all of these writers have moved to this position symbolically with their pushing the bounds of common decency.

As a victim myself of childhood sexual abuse, I realize that these crimes against children and women are certainly a reflection of real life. As we have to do is turn on the nightly news to see the latest examples of young girls being kidnapped and subsequently murdered, women leaving clubs alone only to have their bodies found a few hours later dumped into trash bins, and wives being brutally beaten and killed by their own husbands. Jane Velez Mitchell of CNN's news and views show often speaks of "a war against women." I believe this war is taking place in both reality and in fiction.

Why, I ask myself, have the subjects of sadomasochism, torture, incest, bestiality, and other forms of sexual deviation become such mainstream topics of interest for the average person to love these books and revel in reading the details? The war against children and women should be taken seriously, not frivolously, for entertainment only. How much longer can we continue to go beyond the back of beyond?

Cozying Up With the Enemy

Since the Easter season has arrived, my church and others have been studying the events leading up to the Crucifixion of Christ. On a recent trip to Wichita, I attended a United Methodist Church service with my sister-in-law, niece, and grand-niece. The title of the pastor's sermon was "Condemned by the Righteous," and the biblical text was from Mark 14. The pastor spoke primarily about the high priest's condemnation of Jesus the week of His death. As for me, I focused in on a couple of verses I had not paid previous attention to. Verse 53 indicates, "Peter followed him at a distance, right into the courtyard of the high priest. There he sat with the guards and warmed himself at the fire." Obviously, Peter had come into the courtyard to be a silent observer of the events taking place: Jesus' questioning and subsequent beating after He admitted He was indeed the Son of God. In the meantime, Peter is still "warming himself" when the servant girl of the high priest calls attention to Peter, asks if he is with Jesus, and is told, "I don't know or understand what you're talking about" (v. 68).

Symbolically, I think this scene represents so many of us as Christians. We profess to be followers of Christ, yet we cozy up with the enemy way too often. We essentially want to have life both ways: we see our devotion to Christ as being too limiting upon us, perhaps even opening us to ridicule should others know how serious we are about our beliefs. We, therefore, deny Him just as seriously as Peter denied Christ. We profess instead not to know or understand, as Peter did, when others think we are too rigid or dogmatic in the practice of our faith.

Where is the middle line, or should there be one? Is the solution found in Revelation 3, "I know your deeds, that you are neither cold nor hot. I wish you were either one or the other!" Like Peter, we are often called upon to speak up, take up His cross, and follow Him--not deny Him.

Choosing Life, Choosing Death

In the news for the past week are two high-profile families who have lost their sons Andrew and Michael through suicide: the Walter Koenig family and the Marie Osmond family. Both young men were depressed; one died by hanging himself and the other by jumping out a high rise building in Los Angeles. Throughout the coverage of the first one reported, the media repeatedly flashed up on the television screen pictures of both Andrew and actor Kirk Cameron. They starred together in a highly viewed sitcom in the 1980's. Kirk Cameron has starred in several of the Left Behind movies since 2000 and most recently in the Christian movie Fireproof. "What leads one to choose either life or death," I have always wondered.

The Bible in Deuteronomy 30:15 tells us, "I have set before you today life and good, death and evil." If we believe in the idea of free will, versus that of a determined fate, we appreciate this choice that God has given us. I know that clinical depression can be devastating for a person. My own mother suffered for years with it and made at least one suicide attempt that I am aware of. Families of those depressed also suffer greatly, often feeling very powerless in their attempt to help their loved ones. So many times, the depressed person chooses death over life.

Obviously, medical research is still very necessary to determine the causes and the cures for this disease. In the meantime, we must simply watch for the signs that give us concern in ourselves and in those we love.

Mississippi Stories

I was sound asleep last night when I opened my eyes (I think) and saw a looming image of my mother's face just above my head. I am sure it was a dream only, but it made me remember what I had forgotten: the date she died, February 24. I also thought immediately of Woody Allen's 1989 film entitled New York Stories in which the protagonist must deal constantly with an overwhelming mother. In several scenes, the mother appears as a giant in the sky still dispensing advice to her errant son. I wondered what I still needed to learn from my deceased mother, and it came to me. We needed, if possible even after death, to forgive each other for what we were and for what we weren't.

Up until this point I had thought that the whole idea of forgiveness was one-sided only. I needed to forgive my mother for not trying hard enough during her single years in Mississippi. She would always complain about my father's lack of responsibility for the family, yet my sister and I were required to raise ourselves as she lay in the bed for hours with stomach pain, headaches, and clinical depression. When she was up from the bed, she was often very critical and angry. After several years of this, she finally took us to her mother (a sixty-three year old widow) to complete raising while she worked in Memphis.

I now realize that I also needed forgiveness for what I was as well. I, as a result of being away from my mother so much during the formative teen years, was distant and non-communicative. The effort on my part seemed to be too great. I now realize I should have made that effort, at least called or written more often. When she would visit in the fall, I often did not have the time (at least I had convinced myself of that) to sit and talk the way she wanted.

If it is possible to communicate with those who have gone on before us, I believe I can say, "I'm sorry." Freud certainly had it right, though not on all points, that mothers are towering figures in our relationships both in death and life.

An Education

I have been waiting for several weeks to see the art film An Education based on Lynn Barber's memoir and Nick Hornby's screenplay. My husband and I finally saw it last Friday. The film is set in 1961 in England around a young woman who is being pushed by her father to achieve the grades and standardized test scores she needs in order to be admitted to Oxford. Of course, the protagonist, as a complication, immediately meets an older man, falls in love, loses her virginity, and confronts the choice of a lifetime: to marry or to get a higher education. I knew I would love this film because I was confronted with the same choice also as a senior in high school.

During the summer of my junior year, I met a second lieutenant stationed in Keesler Air Force Base in Biloxi, Mississippi. My mother and I had gone down to the coast in order to renew our relationship since I had been living with my grandmother for the past four years. I was sixteen, and he was twenty-two. He drove a baby blue Corvette convertible. I had to admit I was smitten in many ways because it was with him that I discovered many of the activities previously reserved for adults only. I was able to go to the Officers Club on base, for example, and hear a blues singer in a darkened, smoky room singing, "When I Fall in Love" in her sultry voice. I was able to see him "protect" me when he thought one of his friends in the club was coming on to me. When I went back to the Mississippi Delta for my senior year, he came up one weekend to my grandmother's house and proposed. Of course, my mother said "no" with the usual arguments: she's too young, she doesn't know what she wants, she needs to consider college, etc.

Ultimately, the decision came down to what I wanted, and it was an easy decision. Since the ninth grade, I had wanted to go to college and become an English teacher. I did not know how I would accomplish this goal, however, so I told my friends I planned to work and perhaps attend college later. I did precisely that: I worked full-time, took two night classes per semester and in the summer, and eventually finished two years before I married. I admit though that I did briefly consider what it would be like to travel the world with my Air Force husband in uniform. Ultimately though, a small voice within me urging independence won out.

I have never regretted this decision, and I assume that Lynn Barber in her memoir feels the same way. Both of us are published authors and have achieved our career goals without making a decision to marry too early that we might have both been sorry for.

Why Does It Have to be So Sad?

I took my granddaughter last Sunday afternoon to the Arts Center in Little Rock to see a production of Louisa May Alcott's Little Women. Of course, as the play was performed, one could hear many sniffles throughout the audience (primarily from the adults who were familiar with the novel upon which the play is based). These emotions flowed when Beth, one of the younger sisters, gives slippers to Theodore's Grandpa who had lost his granddaughter when she was young. Another scene occurs when the family fears their father, who is in the Civil War and very ill will die, and another when Beth contracts scarlet fever. At the conclusion of the play in the question and answer session, one of the young audience members asked this question, "Why does it have to be so sad?" I think it is a question many readers ask of literature no matter what their age, and it brings up the traditional question we ask about writing, "Should it simply entertain or teach?" I have always fallen into the category of believing writing should be realistic. As such we can learn the lesson once again, "We read to know we are not alone."

Yes, confronting difficult life experiences in literature is hard, but at the same time it teaches us to deal emotionally with our own issues. For example, our granddaughter is now eleven years old, a tween as she often tells us. Her parents divorced a year ago, and she has now dealt with her mother's new boyfriend and his daughters as part of the new family scenario. She and her brother spend six days a month with her dad. She is in that transition stage from childhood to adulthood; one days she plays with her Barbie dolls and the next day she watches the Twilight movies. I believe that reading literature and watching plays of children dealing with difficult situations in their lives is healthy. After all, it is one way that "little women" might become "compassionate good-hearted women."

I Have Crossed Famous Rivers

My book club has chosen to read Nelson Mandela's memoir Long Walk to Freedom for its next discussion. Since I am generally a fan of memoirs as a genre, I am enjoying the walk with Mandela. I have reached the point in his story where he has returned to his hometown as a young man now in law school, having completed his B.A. degree. He makes the statement as he leaves home once again for the city, "I have crossed famous rivers." Essentially, it means that once one has traveled to various places afar, he or she gains wisdom and knowledge.

As I consider my own walk in comparison to Mandela's, I realize that we were both born into segregated societies; his was South Africa, and mine was the Mississippi Delta. As a child in poverty and as I completed high school, I had little hope that I would accomplish anything in my life other than perhaps working as a secretary and in the future buying a Jim Walters pre-fab, two-bedroom house. My dreams were simple. After all, my high school was literally located in the middle of a cotton patch.

Through the years, however, like Mandela I began to enlarge my view of the world and its possibilities. As with Mandela, I learned early that the hope of a better life was through education. I pursued that goal diligently for twenty-four years (kindergarten through a doctoral program). Like Mandela, as the years went on, I have crossed famous rivers. The first was likely the Mississippi River on my way after my high school graduation to live in Wichita. When my mother moved to Seattle, I loved taking the boat across Puget Sound into Victoria, B.C., and later up the Inside Passage toward Alaska. My first international trip included a boat ride on the Prinsengracht in Amsterdam and one in Kiev, Ukraine, on the Dnieper River. Later I cruised to a renowned zoo across Sydney Harbour in Australia. A final trip five years ago included day cruises on the Rhine in Germany and the Seine in Paris. I am sure there must be others I have forgotten.

The point is that, like Mandela, I have learned much about different cultures through my travel experiences and thereby hope I too have become wiser and more knowledgeable about the world in general. Like the bildungsroman in literature, one cannot return home after crossing famous rivers without being, fully changed.

Rich Treasures for 2010

On New Year's Day as I read from my familiar devotional book, Our Daily Bread, I was challenged by the author of the short piece to seek small treasures every day. The treasures, of course, did not have to be material in nature; they would be the small nuggets rather from life's daily walk in 2010. I have always liked "listing" poems since they are simply a series of rather concrete visual images. Therefore, I have chosen to use these for my blog this morning in the form of a free-verse poem.

Quietly Joyful Moments in January

In nature –

Taking a forty minute walk in the newly-fallen three inches of snow,
And seeing the heavily-laden branches of the holly bushes with peeps of
scarlet underneath.

Being struck by the loveliness of the fog-frosted trees atop the Boston
Mountains.

Discovering the North Shore of the Arkansas River, Cook’s Landing Park,
And watching the Canadian geese literally “walk on water.”

Having the North Wind at my back on the second half of a three-mile walk, and appreciating once more that familiar Irish blessing.

Seeing a glimpse of sunlight on the east side of Pinnacle Mountain
on a densely cloudy morning.

Celebrating the return of the birds, especially the robins and cardinals,
that twitter and jump joyously before me on the paved path.

From literature –

Quoting from 2 Timothy 2:6, “The hardworking farmer must partake
first of the crops.”

Hearing the author of Handling Sin, Michael Malone, “My sense of
writing comes from listening.”

Finding a Freudian quote, “We must love or we grow ill.”

From family –

Talking on the telephone New Year’s Day to our Seattle “precious
treasure,” four-year-old grandson Cole.

Watching our eleven-year-old granddaughter, Caitlyn, make a
cherry coffee cake after attending a cooking class.

Watching our six-year-old grandson, Charlie, make his first goal ever
at a basketball game.

Loving the quietly joyful moments of reading together with my
husband of forty-five years on a frigid winter’s day.

The Evolution of "Isolated Incidents"

As the New Year begins, I search the Internet for the best airline prices for a planned summer trip to Seattle. It is, after all, my husband's 70th birthday that we will be celebrating with our children and grandchildren. My older grandson, Charlie, has not flown before, and I long for him to have a positive experience, yet--since the attempted bombing of Northwest Airlines Flight 253 on Christmas Day--I am not sure it will be.

The Administration has gone from describing this incident, as well as several other terrorist incidents before this one, as "isolated" to "war against Al-Qaeda." The other incidents in recent months that were described as "isolated incidents" include the shooting here in our city of Little Rock at a military recruiting station, killing one and wounding one; the shooting at Ft. Hood of a number of military soldiers; the killing of seven CIA agents by a triple agent; and the invasion of a presidential state dinner by three uninvited guests.

The evolution in terminology has most likely been a response to Americans' criticizing an initial lukewarm reaction to these incidents by the administration. After all, Michael Leiter, the Head of the nation's Counter Terrorism program, took his son on a skiing trip the day after the event. Janet Napolitano, Head of Homeland Security, announced on the Sunday programs that the airline "system worked." The next day the President refuted that assessment after an enraged outcry from Americans over her comment.

Yes, it is true that after such incidents Americans are then required to add ever more roadblocks into checking in at airports for their flights. After Richard Reid attempted to bring down an airplane by lighting explosives in his shoes, Americans were required to remove their shoes while checking in. The bringing on of liquids was also forbidden. We are already hearing about what is next: full body scans that leave one no personal privacy at all. Will we also have to remove our underpants and put them in a basket for scanning?