"Goodbye, Bigot"

Westboro Baptist Church.

I know God loves everybody, but this hatemongering group of zealots – led by Fred Phelps – is collectively just awful. WBC's website address includes "godhatesfags."

Yes, really.

I read a heartbreaking post on Give a Damn ( www.wegiveadamn.org ) about a young man whose father disowned him – by letter – because the son is gay and father is a fundamentalist Christian. Father signed the letter "Goodbye, Dad."

Nothing funny about that.

But down in the responses I read a gem I just have to share here. One poster suggested the father should have signed the letter "Goodbye, Bigot" and another asked if that was the sequel to the children's book "Goodnight, Moon" (a much-loved favorite at our home). Fred Phelps and his terrible legacy were mentioned.

In response, here's what one poster eventually offered up as an appropriate tribute to Phelps at his future funeral:

Goodbye, Bigot

In the big funeral parlor, there was a bigot in a box.

And a protest sign saying, "God Hates Cocks."

And there were three ugly hags, railing against fags.

There was a big plate of cold cuts, and a ton of religious nuts.

And flowers, and cowards, and a touch of white power.

Goodbye, bigot.

Goodbye hate pouring like water from a spigot.

Goodbye Fred. Glad you're dead.

Goodbye picket lines, and goodbye signs.

Goodbye, nobody.

Goodbye, loon.

Can you see the real me?

This is Squirt, age 16.

As you can see, Squirt has blue-blond hair in the style of his musical hero, Billie Joe Armstrong of Green Day. I know you're taking note of the DayGlo yellow sneakers, the odd symbol around his neck and the stud in his left earlobe.

Made any assumptions? (Sure you have.)

Now look at where he's standing: Beside Johnny Cash's grave. And his tee shirt? Bears the logo of his dad's employer. Notice that happy smile.

Confused yet?

Squirt has heard some form of the following a dozen times in the past few weeks: "What do your parents think of that hair? What do your parents think of that earring? What do your parents think of those shoes? What do your parents think of that (fill in the blank)?"

If I were him, I'd have lost my temper by now. Fortunately, he's shrugged it off like his sweet nature dictates.

That's right. I said "sweet nature."

Are you surprised? (You shouldn't be.)

Squirt is smiling because he's two days into a road trip with his dad, who took a detour so the two of them could visit Johnny Cash's gravesite. Because Billie Joe Armstrong is not Squirt's only musical hero.

He's wearing that tee shirt because he worked hard as Dad's assistant/apprentice during the trip's project hours. Dad earned a comp day. The shirt was Squirt's pay.

I bought Squirt's shoes for him. I also dyed his hair and pierced his ear. He didn't pester or beg, didn't threaten or bully. He approached, we discussed and I agreed and/or obliged, with Dad's blessing.

Squirt's odd necklace is a gift from a friend, an Aborigine symbol for friendship she got last summer during her once-in-a-lifetime trip to Australia and New Zealand. He treasures the necklace, just as he treasures his friend, whom he's known since babyhood.

You're right: Squirt loves loud punk music, loves to play guitar. In fact, his Governor's Honors Program Communicative Arts application essay was about the effect of a generation's music on its ability to express itself. In response to a judge's question, he rattled off five bands he likes – Green Day, the Ramones, the Sex Pistols, Foo Fighters and Blink 182 – and discussed his theory on how modern American punk music originated from British Invasion and American folk influences.

Johnny Cash was a punk, Squirt told them. He never did quite what you expected.

The first homeschooler nominated for GHP in our county, Squirt looked and carried himself well during the GHP interview process in his dress shoes, khakis, button-down shirt and argyle sweater vest. 

His blue hair set off his eyes very nicely.

How are your assumptions holding up? (Wait. There's more.)

Squirt's a rabble-rouser, all right. I mean, just look at him.

He passionately objects to a law in our state that prevents newly licensed drivers from transporting underage passengers from outside their immediate families. Squirt – who scored a 92 percent on his practical driving exam, aced the written portions of his driver's education class tests and earned high praise from both of his instructors – is not legally able to drive a friend to a site where they both wish to do much-needed volunteer work.

"It punishes those of us who are TRYING to do the right thing, just because some other people were stupid," he grouses, resentful of the hoops he has to jump through. (The anarchy-loving little whiner!)

If you knew that my son works for his uncle at a non-profit for pay three days a week but volunteers a fourth day and in off hours at the same non-profit, would you notice Squirt's hair?

If you knew he scraped together a $1,000 down payment on a truck so he can make deliveries and pickups for that non-profit, or that he forgave a customer's delivery charge because "I was just about to fill up, so why should I charge you for something I was gonna do anyway?"or that he makes those truck payments himself out of his monthly pay – would you care what color Squirt's shoes are or what kind of necklace he wears or whether his ear is pierced?

If you knew he once voluntarily left a get-together with his friends to take care of his sister – home alone and running a fever – or that he encourages his little brother to use the bottom bunk in his room when it storms (in case he's frightened), would you care what kind of music Squirt prefers?

Geddy (Dad) and I have met some amazing young people in the past couple of years and consider ourselves blessed to have them in our lives. As their "youth sponsors" or "mentors" or just as their friends (or honorary mom and dad), we know we have benefited from their wisdom and insight perhaps even more than we would have older friends' or relatives' advice.

We are lucky to have learned – before we damaged our relationships with our own children beyond repair – that assuming the worst about people is the one sure way we can make them angry and out of control.

I recently interviewed an amazing middle school principal who talked about investing in her students by showing them respect, by meeting them wherever they are comfortable and successful and working from there.

Couldn't help considering the soul-nurturing benefits our young folks – my wonderful, imperfect, goofy, beautiful punk-ass boy included  – would reap if we just tried her way once in awhile.

Shortcuts

Pure self-indulgence, but insomnia currently is cranked to 11 so I'm up for providing my biographer – or eulogist – some tidbits.

1. Not only do I read the ends of books first, I also read movie spoilers. I am afraid I might lose my sight. Or die.

2. In many ways, ADHD is like a super power. But I'd love to experience life without it for one week. For seven days, I would not talk too much or too loudly. I would be on time for everything without calendar reminders or alarms. I would have good spatial awareness and never trip or run into anything, and I would sleep all night. I would not find everyday chores like cleaning the kitchen or laundry intimidating. And I would leave the daily handsful of pills designed to help my brain function "normally" in seven neat little piles on my nightstand.

3. Squish told me she was going to play "The Fighter" by Gym Class Heroes at my funeral, and we had a lovely, small, tender moment. Squirt, Squish and Squonk decided I would have made a really good cop -- just like my favorite TV character of all time, the misanthropic Mary Shannon from "In Plain Sight." I may be a defective freak, but I also work harder than hell at being an authentic person. Now I know there are at least three people in the world who have seen me at my worst but still can find something about me to admire.

4. I've long been on the quest for a meek and quiet spirit, but I have come to understand God loves the badasses just as much as the gentle folk. He also is quite fond of defective freaks and people who don't play well with others. But his very favorites, I believe, are those of us who feel like we're always a joke or two behind the rest of the world.

5. I dream about my walk-off moment. I still want to be a rock star, to take that shortcut where some long-hidden, unsuspected talent or act of heroism propels me into folk legend. No eventual becoming of a person of substance, no waiting to be Velveteen Rabbit Real. An outstretched arm, the sure point of an index finger, the perfect crack of a ball exactly on the bat's sweet spot ... no need to watch and wonder. Just turn away as the ball clears the fence exactly where you knew it would, and listen to the doubters pucker up.

Breaking news

I never became friends with anyone because s/he is straight. I am not going to end a friendship with anyone because s/he is gay.

iTunes: It doesn't suck, Pete

Pete Townshend got into the Halloween spirit Monday, calling iTunes a "digital vampire."

Not only does Pete think the (legal) digital download giant sucks, but apparently our Rock Legend thinks we fans are thieves as well.

"Why can't music lovers just pay for music rather than steal it?" he asked during a lecture in London.

Geez, Pete. If I send you a $20 bill, would you give me a break from the near-constant playlist of Who songs on car commercials and crime shows?

Seriously, I love The Who. I was privileged enough to see them live a couple of times before John Entwistle died. Watched Pete windmill and listened to Roger Daltrey sing the impossible while I stared at his Adonis-like profile.

Unfortunately, Pete has become a Republican of the rock world: He gots his, but he desperately needs to stay relevant. Without some incendiary sound byte, would anyone pay attention to his delivery of the "first John Peel Lecture?" Doubtful.

Pete has written some amazing songs, true. But he needs to check that monster ego and remember that every chord he ever played, every note he ever matched to a lyric, has been played many times before. He didn't invent music and he wouldn't exist as a Rock Legend if it weren't for his supporters, whom he now accuses of stealing his music.

In time, every song Pete Townshend ever wrote will exist in the public domain. It would be a shame if his incredible musical legacy were tainted by his disdain for iTunes and, evidently, his fans.

I support songwriters, and I believe in copyright laws and protection of intellectual property. What I don't support is the uber-wealthy elite's compulsion to own all that is beautiful.

Music belongs to everyone, Pete. Your attitude is what really sucks.

The stuff of poetry

My husband's story of how the for-no-reason gift came about was nearly as delightful as the gift itself.

"I ducked into the bookstore on the square," he said. "You know, the one with all the vintage books? I scanned the shelf and it just jumped out at me."

"It" is a 1931 copy of Walt Whitman's Leaves of Grass. (He also scored a tiny volume of 20th century American poetry, publication year 1944.)

We're not big gifts people, he and I. Maybe we convinced ourselves of that in leaner times, or maybe it was the impersonal nature of a few of his gifts. Either way, it was easier to say I didn't want anything than to pretend pearls -- even a very beautiful strand -- were the very thing a tee-shirt-wearing, socially retarded, at-home homeschooling mom like me always wanted, all my life.

Like many a couple before us, we are in transition. To draw on the vernacular, it's time to make it or break it.

So, we're making it.

It's clumsy and awkward sometimes and angry and sullen sometimes, and always, always we're in survival mode. But there are flashes of brilliance.

Enter my husband, with Walt Whitman and a story to boot.

I greatly enjoy the earthy writings of Whitman, Robert Frost and Emily Dickinson. I read Leaves of Grass aloud to my unborn firstborn, then joked when he arrived five weeks prematurely that he just couldn't wait to see the world about which Whitman so beautifully wrote.

That $11 worth of dusty books could be a fearsome weapon against the enemies of our family -- apathy, inattention, distraction, fear, anger, ignorance -- is a mind-blowing concept. That Our Hero's spontaneous few minutes of effort on his wife's behalf could banish all uneasiness about Our Heroine's place in the heart of her Forever-Love, a miracle.

Now that's the stuff of poetry!

My husband "took the road less traveled by, and that has made all the difference." (Frost) My husband "knows my face." (Tolkein) He remembers, and sees her in "all that we can be, not what we are." (John Denver)

"That music always round me, unceasing, unbeginning, yet long untaught I did not hear,
But now the chorus I hear and am elated..." (Whitman)

Come up to the lab and see what's on the slab

I enjoy "The Rocky Horror Picture Show."

I've seen it a couple of times in movie houses and a couple of times at home, and I own the DVD. I confess, the only audience-participation line I know is "Eddie, get your ass off the table!" and I'm not exactly sure where to yell it. I don't want to dress as Magenta for Halloween and as much as I like Tim Curry, his performance in lingerie disturbs me, primarily because he's so much prettier than I.

Still, it's a lot of fun.

As a not-at-all avid play-goer, I was looking forward to my town's fall community theater production of RHPS, thinking I may actually be persuaded to get off my behind and do one of those things that sounds fun, for once.

And then a video of the R-rated production's rehearsal made its way into the hands of the city manager, then the mayor. All politics aside, this man claims to know this town well enough to shut down the play, presumably to protect us from ourselves.

At last count, more than 600 people had "liked" a Facebook page supporting the production. Perhaps, mere weeks before its scheduled opening, RHPS can find another local venue. Perhaps not.

I am neither callow nor retarded. I do not need one more person who never has met me but claims to know me -- because I fit a particular demographic, perhaps? -- using his perceived political, religious, financial, educational or moral superiority to make my entertainment choices for me.

"The whole principle [of censorship] is wrong. It's like demanding that grown men live on skim milk because the baby can't have steak." (Robert Heinlein, The Man Who Sold the Moon)

Rock on, Rocky Horror!

Someday....

Someday, you will decide that loving another person completely means giving up any hope of being loved in return. You will understand your worth is in your capacity to love that other person, not in whether or how much s/he loves you. Your choice will be to love without condition or expectation, and that choice will be yours alone.

In that moment, finally, you and God will be at peace with one another.

From that moment until you cease to operate your own mind, you will give up any conscious claim on your soul. You will not be damaged by the people or things of this world, so your world will expand. You will hear God's voice in angry music and in the rustle of autumn leaves. You will see God's beauty in tattoo ink and in a pink and purple sunset.

You will initiate 100 conversations, send 1,000 cards, bake 10,000 birthday cupcakes and dry 1,000,000,000 tears, yet your own struggles may be singular and silent. But you will not choose fear while you are alone and hurting; you will choose power, and love, and a strong mind. You will choose to accept responsibility for your mistakes and, sometimes, for others' mistakes as well. You will choose to sacrifice your pride, and in so doing, you will experience grace as you learn to forgive and to accept forgiveness.

Occasionally, God may allow you the privilege of seeing others through His eyes. In those moments, you will choose not to be confused or frustrated or repulsed or enraged by the way they act or write or look or talk or think. Instead, you will choose to see how completely He loves others -- not just the ones who love Him back, but also the ones who pretend to, and the ones who wish they knew how.

The choice to love someone else completely may mean never experiencing that kind of love yourself. It might rob you of everything you are or want to be, but the Bible says there is no greater love than to lay down your life for someone else.

By choosing that greatest love, you also choose to become who you were born to be.

Someday.

Good night, sweet prince...

Hamlet goes to his well-deserved eternal peace, presumably, with Horatio's parting words in his ear: "Good night, sweet prince, and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest."

They were the first words that came to mind when my brother died, and again when I read of a particular young Marine's death.

Before he became one of the proud, the few, he was a young homeschooled boy whose mother and I frequented the same educational forum. I often read her excellent and useful personal blog for inspiration as well. I poured out my sadness over the bullying of my then-7-year-old on the forum, and was surprised and touched when her teenage son reached out to my Squirt in an open letter.

Squirt treasured that letter, and when the time came for Big Boy to enter college, returned the favor. In Squirt's letter, he reminded Big Boy how much it his words had meant to him and wished him luck. Both Big Boy and his mother responded; it was their turn to be touched and teary-eyed.

Obviously, it has been some time since I visited the blog. Big Boy died last November and I read of his death just today.

War is hell.

Colin Hay redux

My quest to hear what Colin Hay has to say about my life had some cool twists. Awesome venue: No clumsy-pawed security, so no Tampax-dropping flashbacks. And the opening act, Chris Trapper, may be a stranger to me, but he had some things to say about my life as well. Who knew?

Some things Colin Hay had to say about my life I will keep to myself. They are small things, but they are mine own. His show was a turning point. Things changed because of it. I changed because of it. And I don't just mean having the image of a pot-smoking, TV-watching goat permanently burned into my brain.

I also don't mean wondering what perverse force of nature draws several hundred pairs of eyes simultaneously to the crotch of the man who's just said he had prostate cancer. I don't actually think prostate cancer survivors have glow-in-the-dark junk, but we were all definitely checking for something.

Much changed last night, but some things, regrettably, have not changed. Inside my five-foot-zero body lives The Hulk, and nobody likes me when I'm angry. Somehow, I became trapped between my hunky husband and four inches of door frame as the Variety gave birth to many hundred humans at once. It was enough to make Mother Mary give Baby Jesus a little shake, I tell you.

Ribs slowly separated from cartilage as I was squeaking out words like excuse me, I'm down here, don't step on me, make room please, does anyone know if the trampled kids at the Who show were able to have open-casket funerals? No one seemed to hear, so I opened my mouth and loosed my inner Hulk.

"Get the FUCK out of my way!" I bellowed, and started throwing elbows, clearing a path. True, the throwing of elbows may have deprived a few fellers of post-show fun with their old ladies, but I was free to take my place in line to meet Colin Hay and that was the important thing.

I felt no guilt, because Colin Hay had something new to say about my life last night, even before I claimed my place in line. During his show, he looked deep into my eyes as I listened solemnly, taking each and every word to heart:

"Becky," he said to me from the stage, his fuggin halo barely visible in the stage lights.

"Becky, sometimes it's absolutely necessary that you cuss like a drunk Navy midshipman with flaming toilet tissue stuck to his backside. I know what's been shoved down your throat your entire life, but trust me: God will love you anyway. You must be heard, so sometimes you must use shocking words in a loud voice. What you have to say is that important."

That's the way I remember it, anyway. A small thing, but a thing mine own.

Anything Colin Hay has to say about my life

Yeah, that Colin Hay. The singer for Men at Work, a slightly offbeat 80s band famous for songs like "Overkill" and "Land Down Under," which raised this burning question: What the hell is vegemite?

Colin Hay has a solo career, and Geddy and I are going to see him in concert tonight. "My my my, it's a beautiful world," he will sing to me. "Perhaps this is as good as it gets." I will cry when he sings, "I can see you where you're hiding, and there's water over you."

Because I know I will cry, I will have to carry Kleenex in my bag, which I suppose will have to be searched at the door. I am fortunate to no longer have any need for Tampax, which always used to hit the ground when concert security's big, clumsy hands went pawing through my things. Never the lipstick or the Doublemint, always the Tampax. Hopefully the Kleenex will stay put, but if it falls out, at least it won't be awkward.

Colin Hay will sing sentimental songs and I will feel sentimental feelings. I will hold my husband's hand and regret how close we were to giving up on each other. I will sharply, fiercely miss my dead brother. I will ache over the calculated and senseless murder of another brother's marriage, the theft of his children, and I will fight against raw, blinding hatred. I will wish for a time when life wasn't so difficult to navigate and I wasn't so tired. Or sad.

Colin Hay will sing to me,
"When the pieces, they all fit together
Through the dark clouds, the sun will shine
I could wait for a change in the weather
Or let the rain wash it all away."

Anything Colin Hay has to say about my life will be something I know already. I know I am giving myself permission to acknowledge my regret, my pain and my anger, but also that I must put them right away again in a tiny corner of my heart. That's all the space they deserve, and all I can spare and still have room for all the amazing, beautiful, joyful, soul-expanding experiences God has promised to me.

Colin Hay will sing to me, and I will collect the rain on my Kleenex and throw it away. Colin Hay will share anything he has to say about my life, and anything Colin Hay has to say about my life will help me remember what I know already.

A decade of Hat Tricks

Today is my baby's 10th birthday.

Nine years ago, crammed into a stainless steel University of South Alabama hospital crib with my arms wrapped around him, I was crying out to God and willing my baby to live. Viral croup, a common and typically mild childhood illness, had trashed his lungs and acute respiratory distress syndrome had set in.

We had an edgy couple of months, but he grew big and strong and healthy and beautiful. Asthma pesters him, especially when enemy birches and oaks try to steal his health by blooming in the spring. He copes.

It's a daunting task, trying to keep babies alive. Squonk tried to make his appearance starting at about 29 weeks gestation, but he stayed put until 38 weeks and went home with me from the hospital. Little more than a year later, we were fighting for him again, with everything we had.

But that's what parents do. We're not just in it for the first steps and cute curls and baby babbling. We're in it for the 104-degree fevers, the projectile vomiting, the whining, the tantrums, the exploding diapers. Times three, in our (very blessed) case.

Three children ages 4 and under seemed like an impossible charge, but harder days are at hand. Acne. Middle school meltdowns. Questions about God and the meaning of life. Achievements all their own. The butterfly-like wings that are beginning to unfold and beat hard, to pump blood and build strength so they can one day carry my babies away to their own separate lives.

I'm editing a memoir of sorts for a friend, a collection of newspaper columns that chronicle his children's journey through this exact season. I weep as I work, but they are joyful tears. I have loved every age of parenthood, yet don't wish any back. Why would I want to trade the privilege of knowing my children as individual beings for a time when they were simply small enough to sit in my lap?

I knew I wasn't alone in that Alabama crib, and I know I'm not alone now. Of all the lessons I have learned about gratitude in my years as a mother, I am most grateful for the presence of God, then and now. I cannot be afraid for my children because I am not in control. And so I can wish my beautiful boy a happy 10th birthday -- and many more.

Peaceful

Rarely do I have a serendipitous moment in which my spirit and my external life are quiet in tandem. This morning, as the rain thrums and my coffee boils, only one of my three children has awakened. She sits with her nose in a book, tucked into a warm corner, nibbling on cake.

"Would you like a pretzel?" I ask, having unearthed the frozen treats while digging for tonight's dinner. We are not overly fond of breakfast foods. She says yes, so I add cheese to a few and pop them in the oven.

I flip through one of a dozen homeschooling books while we wait, but she has a concern. She shows me the passage in which Jill calls her teacher a bitch -- she is reading Judy Blume's Blubber -- and asks how much more of "that kind of stuff" is in the book. I am pleased at her questioning; last night, she turned down an opportunity to see a PG-13 movie with her friend because she doesn't like violence. I share some thoughts about the book and she moves on.

Soon, my coffee will kick in and the day will move on. My sons will wake and everyone will need assignment lists, meds and breakfast. The painter will call -- or not -- about my living room wall and ceiling. Laundry, housework and meals, pets and crises met or avoided...those are my days.

But for just this morning, just this moment, I am peaceful.

Ruled by fear

The concept of rule by fear is nothing new, even in the literature and history my children currently are studying.

Squirt and I are reading The Epic of Gilgamesh, in which the people of Uruk complain to the gods because "none could withstand his arms." Gilgamesh did whatever he wanted because he knew no one could defeat him.

European explorers and settlers -- well, we all know how they treated Native Americans. Vikings were such war-mongerers that their entire concept of the afterlife hinged on dying in battle. In virtually every one of Andrew Lang's Blue Fairy Book tales, a menacing person or creature keeps someone cowering in fear.

As for the Bible, tyrants abound in the Old Testament and in the New Testament we are often warned to be on our guard against the devil because "he prowls around like a roaring lion, looking for someone to devour." (1 Peter 5:8, NIV)

Yet I find myself, even armed with this knowledge and a deep and abiding faith in God, worrying. Squirt and I will be on our way to the doctor in an hour to have his head checked out. He has a lump that has been there since at least summer, although I only became aware of it yesterday. It looks and feels like a harmless type of calcium deposit. My mom has had them. So has my brother. I say I'm not worried, and then...I do.

What if? I wonder. Cancer is the scourge of Geddy's family. His grandmother, his mom, his dad, his uncle. At around midnight last night, cancer took a fine man just a few years older than we are, a much-loved husband and father. Monday, a good friend will have what we all pray is her last breast cancer-related surgery. Another friend is recovering from reconstructive surgery after a radical double mastectomy. Our 10-year-old neighbor nearly died last fall from the toxic effects of chemotherapy he had as a toddler, when he was diagnosed with a rare form of bladder cancer. What if?

I don't know, but God does. And that's the key: every tyrant has his challenger and every oppressed people its champion. Enkidu was Gilgamesh's; Jesus is ours. I can continue to be ruled by fear as I always have been, or I can choose to follow my champion. I want to be strong enough to let go of my worry and live the life of abundant joy I've been promised, even when the threat is toward my children instead of myself.

"Gone - flitted away,
Taken the stars from the night and the sun
From the day!
Gone, and a cloud in my heart." (Alfred, Lord Tennyson)

It has been three years since my brother Ben's death in a car wreck.

I miss him.

A most beautiful ending: "How the Animals Die"

Something calls the creature away from his daily round; age or natural disease touches him gently in a way that he has not felt before. He steals away...and picks out a spot where they shall not find him till he is well again. The brook sings on its way to the sea; the waters lap and tinkle on the pebbles as the breeze rocks them; the wind is crooning in the pines,—the old, sweet lullaby that he heard when his ears first opened to the harmony of the world. The shadows lengthen; the twilight deepens; his eyes grow drowsy; he falls asleep. And his last conscious thought, since he knows no death, is that he will waken in the morning when the light calls him.

(William J. Long, School of the Woods)

Irrelevant religion

Some days I am amazed that anyone's relationship with Jesus Christ can survive church.

Loving other people is hard. Putting other people first is hard. Setting aside your own needs is hard. We go to church and our leaders remind us that our first ministry is family, which happens to be our own personal conviction as well.

We choose hard over busy. We scale back and prune and weed and say no until all that remains is a child's handful of Very Important Things. Youth group and dance, music and library and AV and praise team and leadership. Homeschooling, especially now that Squirt is a high-schooler. Individual time with Squirt and Squish and Squonk. Couple time with Geddy and me. Doctors, dentists, allergists, groceries and Target. Still a formidable schedule, only with the right priorities.

But wait.

We need to get you plugged in, our spiritual higher-ups protest. You're not plugged into a small group. Your kids are not plugged into ministry. It's our turn to protest; small group would be the fifth night of seven that our family would be apart each week, and if family is our first ministry, that cannot be. Our children minister in small ways every day as they learn to be the same Christ-followers away from church as they are at church.

Our family befriended a child in state care and has visited her regularly for nearly a year, meeting some of her emotional and physical needs and praying for the complete restoration of her family. Is that not ministry?

For years, we have participated in the Toys for Tots program and for the past couple, our children have helped fill orders and package toys for delivery. It has changed the way they see Christmas. We have played Bingo with elderly and disabled residents at the housing authority. We have donated toys, clothes, books, blankets and food; baked for the hospice holiday sale; tutored, mentored and encouraged. Ministry? Yes!

In the past two months, we have spent hours clipping coupons and carefully shopping sales so we will have enough to quietly share with people who need, but don't ask. We have set aside a certain amount of money each month and used it for immediate needs like helping fund friends' mission trip to Africa and a grocery card for grandparents who recently won custody of their son's young children. Our Haitian princess, whom we've supported through Compassion International for more than three years now, would argue that we are involved in ministry, I think. The five Central American children who are being adopted by families here will never know that our asthmatic 9-year-old kicked 1,000 soccer goals during a dangerous flare-up to raise a measly $150 toward their cause, but if they did? Definitely ministry.

Maybe that's our problem. Maybe we should post our list of services on a sandwich board and walk it around at church, to prove we're worthy members. Or abandon some of our "unimportant" service projects -- insist our little friends find their own ride to youth group instead of driving them, watch our neighbor's beloved old dog die on the highway instead of walking him home, giggle at the old lady who can't read the small-print labels at the market instead of offering to help -- and focus our efforts on warehousing other Christians so we can, on solemn Sundays, be very glad we're not those needy people.

Or, we could encourage those who don't look very closely to do so. Instead of assuming ministry is not happening if we don't see it, we could assume that it is because that's what God asks of us, all day, every day. That the people who say they are Christ-followers are acting like it, even off-campus, even on their own, even in an unsanctioned area.

Serving other people, putting their needs first, is hard. So is feeling out of place in church, somehow out of favor with the leaders we depend on to teach us spiritual truths. But even if it means becoming more of a Christ-follower and less of a church member....we choose hard.

Nerdcrow

How do I love thee, Phineas and Ferb? Let me count the ways...

If you haven't seen the spoof of The Wizard of Oz, you must check it out. "I hang in fields, wedgie -style." Funny stuff!

Well, hello there

I've been making friends with adult ADHD. Been kinda busy.

Squirt and I were "officially" diagnosed in tandem last fall. His difficulties in a regular classroom setting were back of our decision to homeschool nine (yes, NINE!) years ago. He's done well, but puberty and increasingly lengthy math computation required a trip to the local behavioral psychologist for 20 trees' worth of questionnaires. A frill-free diagnosis of ADHD-inattentive type and 25 milligrams of daily Vyvanse later, he's doing pretty well.

Me, not so much.

Apparently, you can't just take a pill and expect your brain to function normally. Bummer. Next step: higher dosages, and maybe timed-release delivery. Then, co-existing conditions like "generalized anxiety disorder" and possibly "sensory integration disorder." Finally, more questionnaires and guess what? You just hit nine out of nine markers for adult presentation of hyperactivity!

I AM grateful to have a reason -- not an excuse -- for some of my life-long struggles. I've always had major personal space issues, but I never knew people with ADHD often have poor spatial recognition. At five feet tall, I now understand why I feel assaulted during middle school worship and not during elementary worship. Why? Everyone's taller than me by middle school and they invade my personal space with their elbows, right at my face level.

Hopefully, a day will come when I don't need medication any longer because I will understand more about how I'm wired. The panic and anxiety already are lessened when I know why I react like I do. Undoing 42 years of coping may take some undoing, on the other hand, but then I'm optimistic by nature.

Read: Women With Attention Deficit Disorder by Sari Solden; ADD Ways to Organize Your Life by Judith Kolberg and Kathleen Nadeau; Delivered from Distraction by Edward M Hallowell and John J. Ratey. Watch: Escape Velocity ($1.99 at iTunes); ADD and Loving It?!

Best advice: Be prepared to re-negotiate your relationships (Solden, paraphrase) and allow yourself to watch TV because it does all the work for you (Hallowell, paraphrase).

Your Squonk-ism for today

Said Squonk, when faced with the possibility of a dairy-free diet and its effect on his most beloved food:

"Cheeseless pizza is like a featherless bird -- it serves absolutely no purpose!"