Strawberry Time In Tennessee

I have a gallon of strawberries in my refrigerator at the moment. And while that may not be all that unusual for many of you, it is for me.

These are special strawberries for a variety of reasons. First they are hand picked …by me. I have never picked a strawberry in my life, other than out of the grocery store off the produce aisle. I wasn’t even sure I could identify a strawberry plant if I had to. But I think I can now. The closest I have come to fresh strawberries is a roadside stand in Johnson City that proudly claimed to be from Unicoi County. There was a lot of claim to fame in those parts with regard to “home grown-ness”. Not the least of which are Grainger County tomatoes. But that is another story.

I am involved in a class at the moment called Ecological Theology. In it we are discussing the nature of ecology, what it has to do with God and further what it has to do with us. We know about global warming and its effects on our environment and the planet. The statistics are staggering. And the reason that Minnesota has tornados and it is 95 degrees in June? I don’t think we have to think too much about that one. But also within these discussions is talk about sustainable agriculture and local produce. It is not so much about the produce as it is about the cost of the produce…to grow it, to pick it, to transport it. All of which adds up.

So off I went today to pick strawberries. At an “honor system” farm outside of Gallatin. Lyndsey and I went together and in the 90+ degree heat we picked a wad of strawberries. In preparation, we needed our own Strawberry Receptacle Devices, which looked remarkably like sand buckets purchased from a local Kmart. Lyndsey has picked strawberries before and was amused at my rookie picking lack of ability I am sure. But along the way another thing happened. We talked. Now those of you who know us, know we talk a lot anyway, but today was a little different. We talked about family and her grandfather’s strawberry patch. How it was that as a child she helped pick strawberries (and other garden goods) and hated it sometimes.We talked about how it was that we KNEW where these berries were from much like those she picked as a kid. And how it is that the small Ohio town that raised her is still that small Ohio town that remains home to her. My thoughts went back to Mr. Fleming and the garden he grew on the plot of land next door to me as a kid. Which led me right back to 225 Carta Road on summer nights catching lightening bugs between the corn rows.

I am reminded again of how important time is. How important it is to DO something with our lives that matters. We often talk a good game about sustainability and the “good earth” but how often do we work in those places that are sacred earth? And how often do we share those places and those times with others we love.

So go pick some strawberries while you can. Even when it is 90+ degrees. Even when you are tired from work. Take the day off. You have to be intentional. You have to look for it. But it is worth every last drop of strawberry juice that stains your shirt in the hot summer sun.

And blueberry season is coming along soon.

Progressive Lenses

Progressive lenses. The “new” bi focal.

Call them what you wish, they are bi focals. I have talked for a long time now that I need new glasses. I know this. I can see but when it comes to “detail work”, as my mother used to say, things are fuzzy around the edges.

It first concerned me when I had trouble reading from the pew Bible at church. Normally, my own manuscripts are a little larger font anyway. But I could do with the pew Bible…but a few months ago it got irritating and it has now gotten down right difficult. And then there is the looking at people thing. I can see them but even faces are a little fuzzy around the edges. And when you start messing with my peeps then we got issues. I need and want to see the beautiful faces of my friends. Their smiles and eyes and whatnot.

So, I went to the eye doctor. We did the “one or two” thing a good bit and then he did a double vision test…only the lines of un-seeable letters were horizontally placed upon each other. And then I knew.

Is this the bi focal test? I asked
Not yet. We are getting to that.
Goodie.

We did and I will have a brand new set of bi focals in a week or so. One good thing is I got kid frames. That is helpful and I hope they don’t mush against my face. I don’t think they will but I did pick them out by myself … a dangerous idea.

So the big deal about bi focals? It is a milestone of sorts. I will get over it. My friend Amy told me that bi focals are the new braces. This from someone who has yet to wear glasses and is 45! Heidi has been in them for two years now. No one really cares and swears they will love me anyhow. And I have the text messages to prove it.

I am not a vain person. I have some gray but not enough to color. I am blessed with reasonably good colored hair so the gray doesn't show unless you look for it. I hate my contacts because it takes too long to put them in. And I don’t wear makeup unless I want to impress some one… so bi focals it is. Again, with kid frames.

I can still act 12. And will do so as I have for most of my adult life. I think I have my mom’s family genes….those for long hearty lives. I am healthy. I have a lot of things left to do.

And now I can see to do them. That always helps matters.

If I run into a wall or two just pick me up. The glasses lady told me it may take a bit to used to them.

Searching

Sucker punched and red faced bruises
The last truce from adolescent wars fought with paper tigers
Whose silent roar is heard only by those whose arguments fail in the face of faith
leaving vulnerable paper men.

Glass houses chipped and cracked and broken in places
Protected by walls of words scrawled on paper and not etched in stone.
They speak of matriculated riddance of ill conceived plans of trash can dreams.

We sit ragged and raw
Bound by coffee and conversation, petition and prayer
With wonder at what was
What is
And what will be.
In the twilight of spring.

Sticks and Stones

Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me. Or so we say.

We talk a lot about language in Div School. What it means, how it affects people, can it damage us? What is the PRECISE meaning of that Greek word and how does it change the whole context if it is misused.

I wanted to share a blog that my friend Renee Garcia wrote with regard to sticks and stones. Her daughter is my Groovy Girl. Some of you may know of her as “Groovy Girl”. I frequently speak of Kennedy, though I try not to name her so as to protect her a bit. What I don’t tell you is that Groovy Girl has Down’s syndrome. I don’t mention that because it never occurs to me. It did as I began to get to know Kennedy. I wanted to communicate with her and part of Ds is a slower development of language skills. I talked to Heidi about this as she has a background in Speech and Hearing and has worked with Ds kids before. She suggested sign language and taught me some rudimentary signs so I could start making sense.

So I learned “mom” and “dad” and “girl” and “boy”. I could do “thank you” ok and got myself in trouble with that one with the hard of hearing community. Out of politeness it has been assumed I knew more than I do! But then again I do that a lot in a lot of places.

But I tried to learn a little so Groovy Girl and I could hang together like, well, Groovy Girls do. And it worked. She was WAY excited when we could sign girl and boy and baby and mom and dad. We did all of those over and over til she got bored because, well, I didn’t know any more and she did and I was clueless!! So she would hand me my Groovy Girl and look at me like, “well, you have done all you can now. Let's just play!”

So when Renee posted this week on her blog about some language that I had hoped was long gone with regard to Ds, I wanted to share. Because not only does it perpetuate ignorance, it hurts my friend Kennedy. And her mom and dad and brothers and sister. Not to mention all of us who can be “named” in any number of ways.

Renee’s Blog:

Saturday, March 29, 2008

Why it hurts
Tonight I have been surfing the net and checking up on some of my friends from myspace. If you're one of those friends, please know that I finally took down my Christmas music! I'm worse than those people who leave their lights up until June! haha

Anyway, I was browsing through some pictures on a friend's page who is from our church in California (and is involved in leadership there). I saw a picture that literally knocked the wind out of me. I felt sick. Light-headed. And then I felt angry. And now I'm sad. I thought about posting this picture here so you all could be livid with me, but really, I don't want to give any more credit to the person who created it. (I'm almost positive it was not made by the friend who has this on his page.) Let's just say, it's sick, cruel, disgusting, degrading, and it involves the word "Retard" and a picture of a child with Down syndrome. I can almost hear all of you parents in the Down syndrome community groaning.

A couple years ago, Downsyn, one of the message boards I post on, was hacked into. Pictures of many of the children from the board, including Kennedy's, were stolen. The hackers wrote horrible things on the pictures and reposted them for all to see. Our administrator, Tom, took immediate action to get them removed from the net. Still, our hearts were shattered and our group was shook to the core.

For those of you reading who are NOT part of the Down syndrome community, let's talk about this for a minute, please bear with me. The "R" word is something that some of you might use... you may use it to describe yourself when you do something dumb. "I'm so 'R'." You may use it when you think something that happened was dumb. "Man, that was 'R'." Chances are, if you use it, you've been saying it since childhood and you'll say that you don't mean anything by it. You'll say that you're just joking around. You'll say that it has nothing to do with our kids. "Everyone" says it, right? So here's the thing. Kids with Down syndrome, in most cases, have mild to moderate mental retardation. It's a medical diagnosis that few avoid.

When Kennedy was born, that word made me want to puke. I didn't want to think about it, I didn't want to speak about it and I definitely didn't want anyone else thinking it when they looked at my baby. Even when used in the correct context, I don't think it's ever easy to hear that word in relation to one of your children. Still, it's part of our reality. (Even though we happen to think that Kennedy is one of the 4 most brilliant kids on the planet. ;o)) Darn those IEPs!SO when we (parents of kids with Down syndrome or other cognitive delays) hear the "R" word being thrown around, used flippantly as a joke, even knowing that the offender most likely doesn't MEAN to be cruel, it hurts us. It hurts badly.

And many times we don't say anything because we don't want to risk offending the offender. I have to say, I have gotten a little more gutsy over the years, but in many cases I'm still chicken. There's a nurse at Vanderbilt that I STILL wish I would have said something to... but there's also the pediatrician I fired because of it (and other issues). I've had conversations with several friends about it, and just a couple days ago my husband talked to his Soldiers in Afghanistan about it. It's THAT important. The "R" word will NOT be used in our household as a way of degrading oneself or someone else. We are educating our children now, in hopes that they will educate their friends... so many kids today STILL use this word in the wrong way. Kids who will one day go to school with Kennedy are hearing it right now from their parents. They're passing down prejudice, whether they mean to or not.

This friend in California is showing that it's ok to make fun of people with Down syndrome... whether he realizes it or not. And it's NOT ok. It's just not.I hope that what I've said makes sense... it's after midnight and I'm tired and still a little frazzled. I hope that just maybe one person reading this will be touched by this post and realize that I write, not to accuse or condemn, but to educate. I hope that maybe one person who reads this will talk to their children today about this word... and tell them to talk to their friends. I hope that one day Kennedy will be proud of me for helping her, and all kids like her, to be more accepted in today's world. There are quite a few blogs out in blogland that have addressed this issue in the past week. As hard as it is for us to hear, it's even harder to write about.

But as advocates for our kids, we HAVE to stand up for them. We HAVE to be their voice. If we don't do it... who will?

An Easter People

If you were a card maker and worked for Hallmark, what kind of card would you make for “after Easter people?”

This was the question posed to me as part of our regular Wednesday night service at church.

My first response was, “well I AM an Easter people. “So why should I worry about “after Easter”. If I don’t live in the hope of the resurrection, then why bother with it all? I know what the group leader meant. Our group came up with the card tag line of “It is after Easter…do you know where YOUR disciples are?” This was a direct reference to the “hidden people” of the Upper Room. How big was the upper room anyway?! But truly…our lectionary reading this week is from John 20 and tells of doubting Thomas. I love Thomas and can’t say that I wouldn’t also want to touch hands, feet, side, and anything else of a friend and teacher with whom I was close and loved. But then again I tend to stand up for underdogs.

Jesus lets him touch. Lets Thomas gouge his hands into the holes (I would assume they are still there?). Remember earlier, Jesus didn’t let Mary touch him as he had yet to ascend to heaven. He tells her to go and tell of his presence. At least I think this is the story. So why Thomas? I wonder if it is not that Thomas doubted but that Thomas’ experience of Jesus needed to be different than Mary’s. Thomas was not there when Jesus appeared earlier to the disciples in the upper room. Maybe he went for more wine? After all it had been a frightful few days.

But if we are an Easter people, we live in the hope and that hope looks and feels (literally) different for each of us. I don’t doubt Mary’s experience of the risen Christ. I also don’t doubt Thomas’. After all he made the declaration we recite in creeds and criteria...”my Lord and my God”.

In class today I admitted to being a closet conservative. Well sorta conservative. Much more to the right of some of my classmates at any rate on some issues. I can claim that and live with it. For me, the resurrection is what makes Jesus who he is, what makes Jesus’ life so radically alive. Yes he was subversive and up ended the systems of the day, but the resurrection tells me (literally or figuratively) that he was God’s all the way.

As I said in class, with the words, “who is it that you say I am”, Jesus allows us to declare who he is. And by that, we declare ourselves to be an Easter People.

Tenebrae

Crucifixion Brokenness

I have just gotten home from our Tenebrae Service. The liturgy of Tenebrae is characterized by the gradual extinguishing of candles while a series of readings and psalms are chanted or recited. It is a service of shadows. It is a remembrance of Good Friday. We began the service with 7 candles lit and ended in darkness…or what was meant to be darkness. We had a little more light than care for. I have been to some services that ended in inky darkness and felt my way to the doorway through a game of trust.

But we were fine. We read an “account” from those at the foot of the cross; Mary the Mothr of Jesus, the soldier, Mary Magdalene (that was my part. I think it is the red hair), John, Joseph of Arimathea. It was a fictional account certainly. We really don’t know what it was like that day. I am not sure I want to know.

I left (after having dissected the service every which way) thinking of broken bodies and burials. I recall the broken body of a little boy in the ER a few months ago. I knew then that he would forever remind me of the broken body of Christ. I saw him held in his mother’s arms. Limp and lifeless. Bruised and battered. Pink cheeks still.

Perhaps it is this image we keep with us this day. A day that I had to remind myself that was a Christian holiday and yes things were still open. A day that still says "Friday" on the calendar.

It is an image of a mother left with her child. A mother whose tears washed her son’s body and whose tears were mixed with blood and dirt and shame.

A mother with no answers.

Not on Friday.

Deep End of the Pool

I am depressed. Or at least my counselor and I think I am.

I had tried to “break up” with her but I couldn't. She let me go for a bit. I knew she would. I was “stuffing” she said. She was right but I couldn’t sit in the shit 24/7 and function. But then the shit hit the fan over something relatively minor and all the walls cracked at the same time.

So we are back together again.

She tells me I am “very high functioning”. I think I knew that. I function very well, thank you.

But I know where I am.

I am in the darkness.I have been here before. In the depth of the deep end of a pool. The bottom is elusive though I try nearly every day to get there. I think I find it only to have it slip deeper down. I know this darkness. It has come before and gone. It will go again. I have known it from early on.

I lose people. People I need to have around. They die. They don’t do it on purpose but their loss is profound.

I need a touchstone. The one I have has slipped. And I have no more. Maybe that is it. The realization that I have lost the bedrock; the one or ones who keep me secure. And you can’t go buy one at Lowe’s. Touchstones just are. And you just don’t look for them. They seem to find you.

I am waiting to be found.