Daisy Pages

Interview with Tammy Williams 12.31.11

2012-01-01T15:08:00.000-08:00

On the last day of 2011, my girlfriend Tammy sat at my kitchen table and ate nachos with me while she went through about five pages of notes. She’d just previewed my book and said she had a ton of questions. I asked her if we could actually do an interview for my blog, and she agreed to it. What follows is not her entire list of questions, and I’m sure I was not as eloquent in my verbal answers as I seem to be on this written page. But this is the gist of a very lovely afternoon with a wonderfully insightful good friend. I hope this speaks to you.

Tammy: How often does a person get to read a book and actually interview the author?

Daisy: Well, the author hopes it happens a LOT! (Laughs)

Tammy: True, you want the exposure.

Daisy: Absolutely! You spend a lot of time and effort pouring your heart out all over the pages, and you just hope it touches somebody.

Tammy: Now, if I ask something that’s too personal, or…

Daisy: (Laughing as she interrupts) Oh, Mylanta! You couldn’t! There’s no way…

Tammy: (Slightly wide-eyed) I could ask you anything?

Daisy: Pretty much! Honestly, my life is an open book. There’s probably not a question I wouldn’t answer. I think I revealed just about all there is to know in the book—it’s all there.

Tammy: Yeah, you were extremely open in the book.

Daisy: Yes. We’re as sick as the secrets that we keep, right?

Tammy: Right. I’ve read this book a few times through, and I have to say… (pauses and shakes her head) … it’s amazing, Daisy. I really felt the hope that you talk about in the final chapters.

Daisy: Thank you. I’m glad. Then it’s done what it’s supposed to do.

Tammy: You’ve been through so much.

Daisy: Yep.

Tammy: I have a million questions.

Daisy: Fire away. (Waves a hand through the air in invitation)

Tammy: OK, you know the first time I read this, I thought you were a white girl living with an African American family?

Daisy: (Busts out laughing and smacks the kitchen table with her hand) WHAT? (Both hands come up to her forehead) Oh, my gosh! I have to fix something then… Why did you think that?

Tammy: You said your family all had dark features and your features were light!

Daisy: That’s hilarious! No, they were all Caucasian—they just had dark hair and dark eyes and skin that got a lot darker than mine in the summer. I was blonde and light and had blue eyes. I was different in every way, it seemed.

Tammy: I figured that out my second time through.

Daisy: Well, I’m glad you got that clarified! I’ll have to go back and look at that again. If you thought that, then other people probably will too!

Tammy: You talk about the juxtaposition of your Grandma Jean’s house and the house you were raised in. Your Grandma’s house always had lots of food and a pool and big parties where show business people would show up, but at your parents’ home there wasn’t a whole lot to eat and bad things happened there.

Daisy: Yes.

Tammy: And your parents were ultra-religious?

Daisy: Yes.

Tammy: You say in the book that they didn’t agree with the way she lived her life—she had an affair with Buck Ram, who wrote The Platters’ music and such…

Daisy: She did. And they weren’t too hip on all that “sinning.”

Tammy: Why did they spend so much time there and allow you kids to be there if they were that “principled,” so to speak?

Daisy: Because she bankrolled everything. We knew we could always get a meal there. We kids could eat. She was the one who bought all our school clothes. All the holidays were at her house. And my mom loves her mom—they were very close when I was a kid. But my mom’s husband was never too principled to stand there with his hand out.

Tammy: You write that the setting for every nightmare you’ve ever had was your grandmother’s house.

Daisy: Absolutely! That house has always had some weird voodoo on it. I’m not saying it’s haunted, per se—I’ve never seen a ghost or anything like that. It’s just weird. The history of the house is pretty trippy—of course, my grandma thinks I’m crazy, but that house is whacked. It always has been. So, yeah, whenever I’m having a nightmare, that house is where I always am in my dream.

Tammy: But toward the end of the book, you talk about a dream where your “stepmonster,” as you call him, tries to sneak into your bed to mess with you, and you were in your house in the dream?

Daisy: Hmm? (Considers this) You’re right. That seems contradictory, doesn’t it? Now I’m rethinking that whole thing.

Tammy: So, which is it?

Daisy: (Laughing) I’m in a spot here!

(Tammy smiles)

Daisy: You know, I remember that dream so vividly—I’m sure because I wrote about it right away—and I was having that dream almost every night. He’d sneak in, but I knew he was coming. In my dream, I’d be dreaming that I was sleeping. And I’d lie there “asleep” waiting for him to come. I looked forward to him trying to get in bed with me because I knew I wouldn’t just lie there and take it—I knew I would fight him. And the last time I ever had that dream, which is what I wrote about in the book, I beat the shit out of him. I wailed on him until he lay there in a pile while my mother sat silently in a chair. My mother has never spoken or made a sound in any of my dreams. That was a good dream. It was. It was a battle—a battle I won! After I’d told him to get out of my house, and my mother too, I never had that dream again. They, literally, were gone—not just from my life but from my mind. And I think that dream had to take place in my own home. So, I don’t know if I consider that a nightmare. It was more of a subconscious battleground.

On the other hand, if I have a dream where I’m at my grandmother’s house? I start looking over my shoulder! If I’m there and I’m dreaming? Something’s going down! (Laughs again) And I try to wake myself up before it does!

Tammy: Did you ever know “Stepmonster’s” parents?

Daisy: Oh, yeah. They were sweet, sweet people. Very loving. In fact, it was “Stepmonster’s” step-dad who gathered the family—my parents weren’t there at that point—around my sister’s casket when she died and prayed that God would receive her back to Him. Very wonderful, Godly people.

Tammy: And did the fact that you were abused come out while they were still alive?

Daisy: It did. But they didn’t know. I didn’t tell them. I wouldn’t tell them. What’s the point? It would cause them so much pain. They were elderly. There was no point in them knowing.

Tammy: You say there are people in your family who don’t believe you were abused.

Daisy: That’s right.

Tammy: Who are those people?

Daisy: (Shrugs and shakes her head slightly, deliberately not answering) Just people.

(Tammy nods, understanding)

Daisy: It’s a rough day when someone you love is accused of being a pedophile. And, frankly, he is a masterful liar. He got to them and pled his case. It’s a helluva lot easier to believe that I’m crazy or I’m lying or I’ve (puts finger quotes into the air) “backslidden into the hands of Satan” or that I’m grieving over the loss of my sister and I’ve, consequently, lost my mind than it is to believe that someone they trust and love is a predator—someone who has had close proximity to their children. It’s unthinkable. So they don’t think it.

Tammy: And where does that all land with you?

Daisy: It sucks. (Shrugs again) I’m past it. It is what it is.

Tammy: Do you see your real father? Does he know?

Daisy: My dad has passed.

Tammy: Oh, I’m sorry…

Daisy: Thank you. He didn’t… well… (pauses to reconsider) I can’t say that he didn’t know. My step-mom—I’ve talked to her about this because she knows now what happened. I never told my dad. I mean, his biggest regret in life is that he never fought for custody of me in court and didn’t have a hand in raising me. It’s like telling “Stepmonster’s” parents—why? The harm it would have caused would never outweigh any good that could come from him knowing. And my dad probably would have taken matters into his own hands—he was not afraid of being in jail, believe me! He’d have done something bad. Really bad.

Tammy: Your Grandma Jean believes you, doesn’t she?

Daisy: Oh, yeah! Absolutely! She loves my mother, but she’s no fan of her husband, for sure.

Tammy: OK! Because I would have to write her a letter or something!

Daisy: No, no! She’s in my corner! Always has been.

Tammy: Has she read the book?

Daisy: Not yet. I hope she does soon.

Tammy: Have you found peace, yet, concerning your sister’s death?

Daisy: Ummm… ? (Thinking) Yes and no. I know she’s good where she is. She is perfect in every way. She knows as she is fully known. But things weren’t good between us when she died. I still carry a lot of regret about that. I always will. “Tough love” didn’t work for me. I should have just loved her—period.

Tammy: That’s changed you.

Daisy: Well, I think that’s why I’m not so much concerned anymore about being “principled” or “standing up for what I think is right.” I catch a lot of heat about that from Christians, you know. I won’t come out and say this is a sin or that is a sin or a person needs to do this or that. I’ve been there, done that—and it really bugs people in the church that I don’t (quote fingers again in the air) “take a stand” on things they think I should. But I’d rather just love people, you know? (Shakes her head and looks out the kitchen window, almost teary-eyed)

(After another moment) I’ve carried a lot of pain and guilt because I thought I was standing on the side of what was right. And, as it turns out, I was so wrong because I didn’t just love.

I’m not gonna do that anymore. (Looks back at Tammy)

Tammy: Do you believe that Christ, to use your words, has, “… bridged the gap between what you are and what you could have been?” Do you believe you are or will be everything you were meant to be?

Daisy: I don’t know! Sometimes I think I could’ve been Madonna, you know? (Suddenly laughs—not so serious now) Or Oprah! Who knows? I know that abuse and pain changes who a person IS and, consequently, who they will become. I see broken little people every day, and I wonder if they’d been allowed to grow up in a “normal” home, how far they could go in life. But who knows?

I do believe that Christ is the Ultimate Equalizer, though—that He brings you back to the place you were supposed to be. As for me? The jury’s still out. Am I everything He ever meant for me to be? I guess it depends on how much I relinquish and how much I let Him work His magic… I hope I become everything I was meant to be. I hope I’m walking down that road.

Tammy: You talk about the universe being “random.” Do you really believe that?

Daisy: (Laughing again, slapping the table) This one always gets me in trouble with the Christian-folk!

Tammy: Do you? I mean, do you really believe, as a Christian, that God has no divine plan? Or that there is nothing to be learned from your trials?

Daisy: (Blows a quick breath from her mouth) Where do I start?

Tammy: (Smiling) Wherever you want.

Daisy: Ummm… Wow. Well? I grew up in an environment where there was some pat-answer for everything, you know? There always had to be a reason for whatever happened in life. It was very important that any question could be answered with absolute certainty—a good Christian couldn’t be stumped without an answer! And, even now when somebody’s going through a tough time, and I hear somebody respond so casually, “There’s a reason for everything!” to bring understanding to somebody’s own private hell, it always makes me cringe a little bit. No, it makes me cringe a lot! It’s like mankind needs some semblance of purpose for its pain. And I get that. I do. People want comfort—even if it comes in soundbites. But those soundbites don’t do it for me. Not after everything I’ve been through. Life will bring you to your knees—and I just need a little something more than, “There’s a reason for this!” And usually the reason people offer is that God is trying to teach us something. So, He’ll let us get molested every night? Because there’s something we don’t know and God needs to fix that? There’s something He wants us to learn? I’m not buying it. I don’t think there is a reason for everything—at least not in the way that people think. I think that the reason that we experience horror in this life is a lot more sinister—I think it’s because people put their own perversions over what is right. There’s your “reason.” And the collateral damage is devastating. So, yeah. The universe is random in that people do what the hell they want and if you’re unfortunate enough to be standing around somebody like that, you might want to duck because the evil usually splatters more than just one person.

Having said that, let me say that it’s my belief that God wastes nothing! The universe might be random, but there is nothing that God cannot redeem. And that’s how I’ve come to grips with what’s happened to me. God did not ordain or sign off on any kind of abuse. He knew it would happen, and He knew I would ultimately be His, but He didn’t say, “I’m gonna set Daisy up to go through hell so she can learn all these lessons and write a book and help other people or whatever…” That would make Him the Almighty Asshole, as far as I’m concerned. And He’s not that. He’s kind. He’s generous. And I’m not who I am because of my abuse. I am who I am in SPITE of my abuse. He brings healing—not harm. It happened. And I learned some stuff. And I happen to have written a book. But my perpetrator doesn’t get to be off the hook because he did some horrible thing that God wanted him to do to begin with so that I could learn something. I don’t buy it. God is not complicit in what he did.

Is the universe random? As far as I’m concerned, yes. Otherwise, God is not a very nice Guy. People disagree with me on that, I know. But I’m OK with it. I’m better off believing that God orchestrates our redemption.

Tammy: Let me read a quote from your book—“Our [Christian] groupspeak takes deep and meaningful truths and trivializes them. The problem is exacerbated when we can’t seem to authentically live out those truths.” So, do we not try because others fail? How do you practice your faith in this?

Daisy: First of all, I try to be mindful and not rely on those “pat-answers.” I think, ultimately, they’re harmful. Insensitive. Shallow. I don’t ever want to make a person feel like I know some deep, spiritual truth when I really don’t. I was a poser for almost twenty years—I am not compelled in any way to say something that doesn’t even ring true for myself. And I question everything. It’s probably really annoying for those whose worlds are black and white. Life is so simple for some people. That’s great for them. Life’s big questions are not that simple for me. So, I surely don’t walk around like I know anything. I pretty much don’t, and I like to let people know that sooner than later. But do we shrink back from TRYING to pursue truth and living a life that Christ would be proud of? Even when Christians are knuckleheads? Or the church gets oppressive or whatnot? No. We can’t. I can’t. Anne Rice turned her “Christian Membership Card” back in because of all the crap. And I get it! I do! I so understand the choice she’s made. Believe me, I wrote a whole book about it. But, for me, it’s not about other people or what the church currently thinks or other so-called Christian organizations. It’s about what Christ has accomplished in my life. I can’t turn my back on what He’s done—simple as that—even when people project their preconceived ideas about what a Christian is onto me. That’s probably one of the reasons I wrote this book is to make the distinction between what I am and what other people think Christians are—the good, the bad, and the ugly. How do I practice my faith in all this? I probably don’t do a stellar job—I don’t know. There are certainly other people who think I’m sucking wind at it. (Laughs)

Tammy: Can’t worry about that.

Daisy: Yeah, I’m done worrying about that.

Tammy: As long as you know Christ accepts you.

Daisy: I think He does. I know He loves me—He’s certainly spent enough energy on me.

Tammy: Do you believe you have to travel into God’s love?

Daisy: No. He loves us wherever we are. In fact, I think he has to come and snatch us up from whatever path we’re on or else we’d never reach Him.

Tammy: In your chapter—Satan, My Sibling… Wow! What the heck was THAT?

Daisy: Did you like it? Or not so much? (Laughing)

Tammy: No, I loved it! It just blew my mind where you put it—and I didn’t know if it was a dream or what it was. I had to go back and read the chapter before it and then skip the Satan, My Sibling chapter and read the chapter that came after for some continuity.

Daisy: Yes, an editing conundrum. Somebody smarter than I am will have to fix that…

Tammy: It really was fascinating the way you wrote it—don’t get me wrong. It just seemed to get allegorical all of a sudden.

Daisy: That’s exactly what it was. I took the characters of Satan and that wimpy little Jesus I was raised with and made them actual, tangible members of the family. It was almost like you could see them sitting at the dinner table or something. And they battled over us and Jesus lost every time. That Jesus did anyway.

Tammy: As opposed to the Jesus you met in college.

Daisy: Exactly.

Tammy: But you had problems with that Jesus too, though.

Daisy: Sure! I flat out asked Him, “So, where were YOU when all this crap was going down?” I totally accuse Him of neglect in that chapter. But, as you read, He doesn’t get His shorts in a twist. He’s not offended. He’s not shocked. He doesn’t bail.

Tammy: One of the things you ask Him is whether or not you’re safe with Him.

Daisy: Yep.

Tammy: Do you still wonder whether you’re safe with Him?

Daisy: Yep. (Nods)

Tammy: And then He asks you if you trust him. Do you?

Daisy: Sometimes.

(Tammy grins, almost reluctant to be the next one to speak)

Daisy: What? You want I should lie?

(Tammy cracks up, still not saying anything)

Daisy: It’s a journey. (Smiling) It’s a journey.

Tammy: I have one more question. You don’t talk about this in the book, but your name wasn’t always Daisy Rain.

Daisy: Right.

Tammy: Will you tell me what your name was?

Daisy: I don’t speak it. (Laughing as she recalls…) HA! I said there was nothing I wouldn’t tell you if you asked me!

Tammy: You don’t have to!

Daisy: I just don’t say it. I’m not that girl anymore. To be called by my former name is like nails on a chalkboard to me. It’s not a good feeling. When someone calls me that, it makes me feel… I don’t know… like I’m “back there” in that old life. Or that someone refuses to acknowledge that I’ve come as far as I have. I think it’s a respect thing. I changed my name to Daisy Rain Martin because that’s what I want to be called. It’s funny—I didn’t want my old name to be written on my tombstone. I’m not her. That’s not who I ended up to be.

Tammy: I totally understand. I get it. Just one more thing… I want to hear you sing.

Daisy: Oh, Lord.

Tammy: PLEASE!!!

Daisy: There’s actually a video of me singing on my website. Just click on “Videos.” It’s the last one.

Tammy: I’ve been on your website! I didn’t see it.

Daisy: It’s there.

Tammy: Any idea when this book will be out?

Daisy: Ahhh, isn’t that the million-dollar question? I have a good friend who is a publisher and an amazing writer. He asked for the entire manuscript, and he’s looking over it right now. Just waiting for him to get back to me.

Tammy: When will you know?

Daisy: I have no idea. I try not to obsess about it.

Tammy: I’m sure he’ll take it.

Daisy: I’m keeping my fingers crossed. Believe me, when this book gets picked up, I’ll be shouting from the mountaintops!

Interview with Krissi Cox 11.12.11

2011-11-17T16:39:00.000-08:00

The first time I ever laid eyes on Miss Krissi Cox was at my brother Devin’s church, Vantage Point, while I was visiting the family in Missouri. She was warming up with the worship team before the service while her children played in the first row of seats. We didn’t get a chance to really get to know each other until later when we were all sitting on the Martin deck (different Martins) eating barbeque and watching all our kids swim in the pool. Little did I realize then what an inspiring story Krissi has and the kind of chutzpah she shows up with every day to her life. She is a powerful woman. A mother. A victor. A friend. An advocate. A pillar. And when we look into her life, we realize that we all have the capacity to overcome tremendous obstacles and come out of that adversity more empowered than before and better prepared for all that lies ahead.

Our conversation began with talk of perceptions. We all have them. And we all perpetuate them.

Did people on the outside looking in assume all was well with you and your children’s father?

Yes. Yeah, they did because I would never have told them anything different. And I was so far away from everybody that nobody would think there was anything amiss. No one could see.

Why didn’t you let anybody know?

Because I wanted everyone to think that my life was perfect. We got pregnant right when we met. We weren’t married, and then we had a second child, and I remember my dad saying to me one time, “It isn’t so easy playing house anymore, is it?” That made me feel kind of like that old saying, “You’ve made your bed—now sleep in it.”

Did you love him?

Yes.

How long did it take for the initial disappointment set in?

When I was about 6 months pregnant with my first. He wanted to go out drinking at some ridiculous hour with some friends. We got into an argument and he said to me, “You’re not my boss, you’re not my mother.” And he began to yell. He punched a huge, gaping hole through the wall in the kitchen that ran about 6 feet up down to his mid-section. He said that I was basically responsible for what he did. I pushed him to the brink and wasn’t I lucky that that wall wasn’t me.

Suffice to say, it got worse from there.

He never had to physically punch me. He could shove me, spit in my mouth, and threaten me. I was ‘good’. I ‘behaved’ enough to where he wouldn’t have to ‘go there’. I was always able to appease him before I got really hurt.

Was there anyone you could trust that you could confide what was going on behind closed doors?

I felt that I could trust his mother.

Hmm? Interesting.

[Chuckles in acknowledgment] She would attempt to have these fake interventions with him at times, but near the end her final answer was, “You’ve got to stay with him. How are you going to buy shampoo? You don’t have a job.”

She was the only person you told?

At first. I’d say, “Has he always been like this?” She would say yes, that she even had to kick him out at one point. At first I felt like she understood. As it turns out, she only understood because HER ex-husband was abusive. She told me, “He’s never been this bad, but he loves you. You need to stay with him.” Now I know it’s because she didn’t want to take care of him.

When did you finally confide in someone who was actually capable of giving you an objective opinion? Was there anybody?

My very best friend in the world I’ve known since kindergarten, Jill, about a month before I left, and in the middle of it being really, really horribly bad… unbearable. She came into Ft. Lauderdale for a conference for her work and somehow he allowed me to drive down there [from Orlando—about 4 hours away]. I told her kind of what was going on, but I didn’t really tell her everything. I remember it clear as day—she looked at me and said, “We are not going to come and find you anymore—‘we’ meaning her and our friend Olivia—You HAVE to tell us what’s going on. You do not have to live like this.”

Did you spill it all then?

Oh, yeah. I spilled it. She said again, “You do not have to live like this.” I remember those words being so clear. It was like she “tapped the glass” It was like I was in this glass bubble and she cracked it with a hammer—she cracked it gently enough, though, that it didn’t feel like my whole life washed away. That was the beginning.

Was that the moment you knew you had to get out?

Uhhhh…. NO! You’re gonna think this is weird and funny—and it is. My friend Natalie, who is UBER-spiritual, had four kids then… Natalie was visiting Disneyworld with her family. I was an atheist at this time, which is funny to me now, and I think this is kind of where if God was going to create a climax in a movie? This is it. Right here. I went to go visit Natalie and I knew that I needed to talk to her. Again I spilled my guts. I mean, I even told her I DID believe in God—that I didn’t even know why I was standing around acting like I didn’t. We were in the pool and I said, “Why would God care about me? Why?” I said it laughingly… not like in a pitiful, woe-is-me kind of a way. I had just finished telling Him that I hated Him [laughing out loud at the irony] and told a million people that I didn’t believe in Him. So, just being flippant, I said, “Why would God care about me?” And she told me this story of the woman at the well. And when she told me how Jesus told that woman at the well that He knew her… He knew her! He didn’t strike her down or punch her… He still offered Himself to her. He just offered. At this point, I’m sure God was going, “YES! YES!” but it felt like she took a sledgehammer to my glass bowl and went BOOM!

And then I went home where K was still being K. Being mean, doing drugs in the house, passing out from his pills and his drinking, and the kids and I would have to get him into bed. I don’t know why I allowed my children to experience that. Looking back, I guess I was trying to pretend that it was a normal thing to do.

I finally told my mom what my life had become. My mom wanted to “go slow.” She wanted me to have enough money to leave. We concocted this plan to slowly funnel money into a savings, but I decided to pick up what I call the “red phone” which is my dad, and you only do that in emergencies. Dad wanted to send three plane tickets. One way. He didn’t want us to ever go back, and he didn’t trust me to leave K permanently—and he ended up being right about that.

Because they were so supportive, did you question as to why you didn’t trust your family sooner?

I wanted them to think that I was normal—that I had this.

How did you get out of the house?

I had a crap car and I loaded enough of our belongings for a week. I was going home “temporarily” just to get some distance between us and get my head straight and be with my family. But we did call the sheriff to watch me, because I knew that if K came home for lunch or came home early for some reason, there would be a problem.

So, K didn’t know that you were leaving?

No! Not until I got to St. Louis. I want to say here that I regret doing it that way because that ignited a whole custody battle, and I don’t want women thinking that’s a great way to do it—it’s really not as it turns out. Then he proceeded to do what all abusers do when they’re suddenly not in control: verbally abuse me over the phone, cut off my funds, threaten me. That’s when I got a restraining order. I got two, actually: one was in Illinois where my dad lives and one that I transferred to Missouri.

Did you end up going back?

Yeah, I had to. He came for the first hearing.

And how did that go?

I fainted.

[Shocked] In court you fainted?

Not in court. I was outside the courtroom. My dad happens to be friends with the captain of the sheriff’s department. And thank you Jesus that he was because after court, K was told to stay 500 feet away from me, but he still followed me. He tried to serve me with papers from Florida and I didn’t know any better—I had an awful attorney. My attorney said, “You’re going to have to go back to Florida. There’s no other way you can do this.” He said, “I’ve found a safe house for you.” My mother and I drove for two days with the kids down to Florida. You can’t just drop somebody off at a safe house. You have to get into a police car. My mom, and this is sad, had to drop me off at a gas station with a police officer. She had to leave me there and drive two more days back home. She didn’t have any idea where I was going with my children—and neither did I. She had to leave all three of us standing there and drive away. We went to this safe house and two days later, the safe house got a fax. It’s what’s called an emergency order of pickup. The safe house said, “We do not house fugitives, so you either have to give your children to K like the judge says—and we’ll help you—or you have to leave.”

What did you do?

Well, my advocate said, “Do you believe in God?” I said, “Yeah, I guess.” She said, “It’s time to get on your knees.” I didn’t pray right then because I had to get into a police car with the kids, and the children had to be dropped off at another gas station, and the police officer looked back at me, and she said, “Honey, if I could turn this car around and take you someplace else, I would.” I stood there stoically as my children were screaming, and the director of the safe house, who had watched two women have to do this exact same thing in the past three months, got angry.

And I got a new lawyer.

How long did he have your children?

A month and a half.

Did you happen to hit your knees in that month and a half?

I got saved in that month and a half, so yes. I did.

What kind of things did you pray?

I wish I were a better Baptist here so I could find the verse—I’ll have to find it again—but it’s in Isaiah. [Isaiah 49:18] It’s the one where your children will come back to you. And the David and Goliath story for obvious reasons. I prayed that I would get to see my children, and then I got brave and prayed that I would get them BACK!

And did you?

Yeah. OH, yeah! Forever.

I love this story...

And that’s the reaction I want people to have when they hear this story. I don’t want people to feel sorry for me. What I went through was what I had to go through to come out on the other side. We have a saying in our family: “Whatever got me here…”

How did you make the leap from living in the safe house to becoming self-reliant and self-sustaining?

It started in the safe house. They ask you for a couple of things when you’re there: Wake up at nine in the morning, do your chores, attend group, and get a job. The one thing that my family is really, really great at is GETTING A JOB! We can get jobs! The first job I applied for was some call center. I was numb in those days, so I just plopped the paperwork on the desk of the lady at the safe house, and I said, “I got a job.” She was surprised and said, “Nobody ever does what I ask.”

She was shocked?

She was. Then I just worked my way up from there. I would babysit other people’s kids, which isn’t as painful as it sounds. I thought it would be painful. After that I always had a job. Somehow the lawyers talked and I got my car back. My new lawyer’s name was Sly. [Laughs]

Sly was better?

Oh, yes!

How did you get your kids back?

On the day that I was baptized, it was part of my first overnight visit because I was now the “non-custodial” parent. During the baptism, the lady took me by my shoulders…

A chick baptized you?

Yes.

Oh, now I really love this story!

She took me by the shoulders and said, “Now you get off the treadmill of life!”

Was that it?

That was it! And then she slammed me into the water. It was a mega-church, and I didn’t know her and she didn’t know me. There were five of us getting baptized sort of like a conveyor belt—I mean, it was still SPECIAL! [Laughs and slaps her leg] As it turns out, her “other” big ministry besides baptizing people was working with victims of domestic abuse. I didn’t know that until later.

So, the Sunday I got baptized was part of my first overnight weekend visit with my kids. After that, I phoned my sister and said, “I don’t think I can give these children back. I just don’t think I can do it.” She tried to encourage me, “You can do it! You’ve gotten this far. You’ve had a great weekend. You can do it!” To give the kids back, I had to go to a place called Family Focus—a place that facilitates the safe exchange of children. The parents are not allowed to see each other, the children can play, and then they go with the other parent. I get there, and I get a phone call. It’s K and he says, “I’ve just been in an accident.”

It’s so hard not to be really sarcastic right now.

I know, right? I said, “Yeah, what does that have to do with me? Are you going to be late again?” He said, “No, I’m in traction right now.”

Oh, this just gets better and better.

[Grins and nods] He says, “I need you to tell the case worker I’m not going to be there.” So I tell the case worker, and she says, “You’re not allowed to tell me that.” I mean, if you think about it, that would be a good way to kidnap a kid, right? One parent shows up and says, Hey, my ex says he/she can’t make it… I guess I’ll be taking the kids! The lady told me, “He’s going to need to call me directly.” So, I relayed this over the phone to him and honestly, I’ve never been so giddy in my life. Never. And then five minutes later, the lady shakes her head at me—the caseworker—and she says, “You’re free to go.” I said, “With the children?” And she said, “Yeah! We’re not taking them.”

Once his car wrapped itself around a pole, all in one swift motion, he inevitably changed the lives of four people. Forever. In Florida, because we weren’t married and had no custody agreement, at that moment, I had custody. Family Focus would not have another available weekend for two weeks. Within that two weeks, I had a hearing. I never entered that safe house more joyous than I did when I walked through those doors with my children in my arms. All the women were screaming and clapping and hugging and cheering… Safe House at Seminole has never had a party like that. Not a lot of hope walks through there. You’re not hopeful in a place like that.

How much longer were you in the safe house?

That was August 10th, 2008. I was there until April 28th, 2009.

How did you get out?

K called me up two weeks before that—homeless, penniless. He said, “I think I’m gonna let you guys go back. I’ll sign whatever I need to sign to let you guys go back to Missouri.” He’d lost. He’d been in and out of, at that time, eight different mental/rehab facilities. We were about to just crush him legally, and he had no money. Plus, the month before, my attorney said that our trial was going to be in June. You only have a year in the safe house, and it was cutting it really close. So, I hit my knees again and said, “God, I trust You. But I am going to promise You that if You will get me back home, I will tell ANYONE and EVERYONE who will listen what You did for me.” And that was it. That was in March. A month later, K just gave up.

Where did you go?

First of all, I called my mom while I was still in my attorney’s office. She dropped the phone. She couldn’t believe it. Like everybody else, she wouldn’t believe that K would just let us go. I told Jill and Olivia—it turned out I was going to be able to live in a house when I got back home. Olivia bought my plane tickets. We were on the phone together as she was booking our flight. I remember she said, “I’m clicking SEND!” She clicked the button and broke down sobbing. When we touched down in St. Louis, it was wonderful. And, really, that’s such a condensed version of the story. Those are all just bookends. There are so many people in the middle of all this. So many people who showed me the love of God—women who spoon-fed me when I didn’t have my children. One girl sat with me and made me eat all three meals no matter how long it took. Some guy at work who was a Jehovah’s Witness who couldn’t hug me because he wasn’t supposed to touch me, hugged me in different ways. He sat across from me at his desk and knew I was going through something really big, but he didn’t know what. He knew it had something to do with my kids. He would share his lunch with me like we were in kindergarten or something. He was very sweet.

And then you were home.

Then I was home. And just so people don’t get mad at me for not mentioning them here, I have to say that there were MANY, MANY, MANY people who saved my life every day. My family formed “Team Krissi” and tapped out when they were overwhelmed with all that it took to keep me… functional… and then somebody else would have to take over.

How did the job as a legal aid open up for you?

I was laid off from my job as a provider-relations rep for Blue Cross/Blue Shield, but I had interviewed months before that for the legal assistant job I have now. I hadn’t been their first pick. The girl they did pick quit, and I was their second choice. I had always wanted to help people—just anybody—but mainly people who were victims. In fact, I’ve always wanted to be an attorney. When the law firm called me, I actually had two jobs to pick from. Because, as I said, I always have a job. One made a lot more money and was easy. The other was the legal assistant job. And it had no benefits, no nothing. So, of course, I took it. [Laughs out loud] I’ve never been more rewarded. Daily. Yet, I’ve never worked so hard. Never. Never have I worked so hard. Ever, ever, ever, ever. I’m the first face people see. I’m the one helping them with their paperwork. I’m the lady who calls and gives bad news or good news. But my main focus is making it easier for people who are going through hard times. That’s what I do for every client.

I should write a book.

Ha! I should write a book too!

I think you already have, Miss Daisy!

What are some of the ways you help women who are now where you’ve been?

There are not very many of them who will come in and flat out say what’s happening to them. I’m a stranger. But sometimes I’m lucky and my attorney will point me in the right direction. And sometimes I just know. Sometimes it’s obvious, like when I know someone is wondering whether or not they'll end up in the hospital before they're able to get free. I definitely bring those stories home with me. There’s nothing I can do for those people but work harder.

This is very personal for you.

Right. I mean, I’ve been known to go stomping into my attorney’s office, demanding to know why he’s not doing something right now that I think he should be doing.

[Laughing] How does that usually go?

He lets me rant. He sits with his hand under his chin and listens until I’ve worn myself out. Then he explains to me why we follow the protocol we do and quotes statutes like they’re scripture.

What I ask some of the clients is if they have a safety plan. I tell them to get a bag, put in it a pay-as-you-go phone, copies of legal documents, identification, a change of clothes for everybody, extra keys, money… and then put it in a spot where it’s accessible but not obvious, out in the open. And then you have to tell your kids what you’re doing: “This is the bag. When I tell you, ‘Go get the bag,’ this is what you grab.” And with that, you have to know where you’re going. You can’t just leave—you have to know where you’re going. You have to have a place. You have to engage other people in this. You have to know all the exits in your house. It’s almost like a fire-escape plan…

And this is when you’ve already left? If you’re in danger?

It’s both. It’s before you leave and after.

Even when you’re in a safe place?

I’m never gonna be safe.

Never.

I’m the only mom that I know of at my kids’ school who has to say to my kids, “If Daddy ever comes to school, you have to scream and run…” just like you would a stranger.

Wow.

Right.

Where are you going from here?

[Suddenly silent…] That’s sort of a loaded question because I have always gone from one place to the next and had a plan about how my life would be better if I was doing this or that… but honestly, I don’t know what God has for me or what he wants me to do. I’m going to school and I have a few ideas, but we’ll see. I’m content. I guess He’ll let me know when He’s ready. He always does.

So many women believe they are trapped—that they’ve “made their bed”—or they’re staying for the sake of their children. What are your thoughts on that?

Hmm. I left because my son was starting to emulate his father. My son at four years old, and I do not fault him for this, would call me names and be horrible to me. But he was four. I knew it wasn’t his fault. One night when K was smashing walls, punching walls and door jams with his fists, my children sat in the same room and quietly ate their food and watched TV like nothing unusual was going on in the background. Women may FEEL trapped, but they are NOT trapped. Physically. There is always a time to pick yourself up by your bootstraps and just go. There is a quote by Ani DiFranco from a poem called Platforms:

"Life knocked me off my platforms
so I pulled out my first pair of boots
bought on the street at Astor Place
before New York was run by suits
and I suited up for the long walk
back to myself
closer to the ground now
with sorrow
and stealth"

I feel like that’s what my journey was. I just got up and I walked—back to myself. I’m just a little different now. Women may see themselves as broken. But the other people in your life who work with you, sit with you, go to school with you, or pass you at the bank, don’t see you as broken. I want to tell women, God does not see you as broken either. He’s the glue. He’s it. You’re not broken. God rescues.

God heals.

* * * * *

Krissi wrote to me after the interview was over:

This was great! I left most of it the way it was because I believe in purity. I believe that I was saying those things because God wanted me to say them. Every time I share my story, I find out something about myself. This used to define me, but it does not anymore, and I also think that’s a good message. I am still the girl who rocks out to Backstreet Boys and thinks it’s funny to put clipboards on my germaphobe boss’s desk, but I’m also the girl who knows that she is stronger than evil, and better than all that “stuff” that happened. God opened up doors, gave people to me, and made these children for me so that I would know His Glory and share it. ☺

Elmer "Ben" Bennett

2011-01-08T18:46:00.000-08:00

When my grandfather was born, there were places on this earth called Siam, Saxony, and the Ottoman Empire. Women could not vote. Movies did not have sound. He was older than television—older than hair spray—older than sliced bread. He was twenty years old before there was ever such a thing as a ballpoint pen. In his 92 years, he saw the world reinvent itself a thousand times over. Wars. Trans-Atlantic flights. Prohibition. (I think he was happy THAT whole thing got straightened out.) Social Security. Rockets. Spaceships. Hippies. He saw the Berlin Wall go up, and he saw it come down. Civil Rights. The Beatles. Star Wars. The Internet. In 2004, he was alive to see the Red Sox win the World Series. He was also alive the time they won before that…

And he had an opinion about every single thing that I just named.

How does a man, whose birth precedes plastic, remain so germane, so connected, so relevant—his whole life? He certainly figured out how to hold his respective place in a moving world. I was continually mesmerized at how forward thinking he was in regard to politics, culture, current events, philosophy, social dynamics, and the human spirit. He had much to say. He was ingenious and is one of those rare individuals who is truly timeless.

He was not the sort of man who needed anyone to agree with him on any issue. No validation necessary. He could stand on his side of the fence all by himself, thank you very much. If you heard the words, “Clam up!” the conversation was pretty well over.

Ben had a work ethic that was staggering. His hands were never idle. His wit and his willingness to venture into so many endeavors filled his life with experiences that were so rich. Few of us ever even imagine finding ourselves in the places and situations he’s been. He earned a Soldiers’ Medal for that same ‘wit and willingness’ that prompted him to put out a fire that had ignited on an airplane in WWII. Not long ago, we talked about that day. I asked him, “What exactly did you get that medal for, Grandpa?”

He told me, “That medal was for not having all the necessary information. There was a row of planes all lined up on the tarmac, and one of them had caught fire. Everybody ran the other way, but I grabbed a fire extinguisher and ran straight for it. I put the fire out.”

“So, what information were you missing?” I asked him.

He said, “Nobody told me that every single one of those planes, sitting side by side, on that tarmac had been fueled up. If I’d known that, I would’ve run the opposite direction like everybody else.”

I told him, “It sounds pretty brave to me.”

“Brave?” he said. “When they told me that all those planes were filled with gasoline, I almost passed out. There’s bravery for ya. I got that medal for not having adequate information—and that’s it!”

When an officer suggested to him that he could have a long and successful career in the military and that he should go over to the next building and re-enlist, he said to the man, “Now, which way do I go to talk to those people?”

The officer smiled and replied, “You go THAT way!”

My grandfather looked at the building he was pointing to and said, “Then I’m going THIS way!”

He came home from the war a man who was content with simplicity. The happiest years of his life were spent in a space that was 12 x 28 feet, with the woman he cherished. He kept the same tee-time every Saturday of his life for over 40 years. All he needed was the air in his lungs, the woman at his side, and the little Smokey Joe charcoal grill on his front porch. This is the man who taught me how to be happy—because the best years of my childhood were spent in that little olive-green, singlewide trailer, eating barbequed chicken legs, watching MASH, and listening to him play the guitar. Or at my Grandma Jean’s house during the summers when we swam in the pool that he kept sparkling clean for us. Or spending the holidays there, waiting for Grandpa and Grandma Polly to take the turkey out of the oven. Or the parties that my Grandma Jean threw, when my grandfather would stand at the big BBQ grill with a Pabst Blue Ribbon in one hand and a big metal spatula in the other.

My favorite memories of my grandfather: His little sayings and rhymes—none of which can be repeated here. I loved all his stories. The best is probably the one where he was a little boy of about 6 or 7, sitting in church and a rather large woman—we’ll call her ‘a woman of substance’—was sitting in front of him. When the congregation stood up to sing the hymn, he noticed from his view that her dress was stuck in the… uh… well, the middle of her rear end. He thought he’d be helpful, so he yanked it on out. She turned around and clocked him right in the head. Those were the days you could not only smack your OWN children in public—you could smack other people’s children! She turned back around and started singing again. He was feeling badly that he had taken her dress out and made her so upset so he went ahead and just put it right back. That’s the best story ever. And I don’t care what anybody says—I believe it with all my heart!

Most of all, I loved how he loved our Polly. I loved the way he laughed and wiggled his eyebrows whenever she told HIM to clam up! I loved how he protected her whenever I took them out to the store or to doctor’s appointments—they looked like two little birds in the storm—he always cradled her right under his arm. He never left her side in her final days.

When his precious Polly passed away, we all worried that he would not be far behind her. But he rallied. It was because he believed with all his heart that, no matter what, life is precious and life is a gift from God, and not one minute of it should ever be squandered. I knew he was so grieved when Grandma Polly died, but the day I stopped being worried about him was the day he said to me, “Maybe I should buy a laptop computer?”

He was 84.

He said, “Well, I don’t really know how to work one, but you know, a person should never, ever stop learning.”

He never stopped learning, and he took every chance he was given to live. The evolution of Elmer Bennett never lost momentum—not for one second of his life. He kept learning until the very day he died. He learned to forgive. He learned the power of surrender. And he learned to say, “I love you.” I was blessed to hear that often.

I believe this is why he has remained ever so germane and connected and relevant for the entirety of his life: Forgiveness, surrender, and love. He never lost his wit. Even when the nurses in the hospital during his final days were asking him questions to see if any senility had crept into his mind, he set them straight.

When one asked him, “Ben, do you know what day this is?”

He said, “Why? Do I have some place to be?”

And you know what? He did have some place to be. He needed to go be with his dear Polly—in the place where she has been waiting for him. The emptiness that we feel now is filled up with the knowledge that this is so.

Erma Bombeck said, “When I stand before God at the end of my life, I would hope that I would not have a bit of talent left, and could say, ‘I used everything You gave me.’”

Surely, this man we honor today, has already looked God straight in the eye and said those very words: “I used everything You gave me.” And I can only imagine that our Heavenly Father threw His head back and laughed, rested His hand upon his servant’s shoulder, and agreed, “You certainly did, Ben. Well done. Well done.”

There are the words we all long to hear at the end of our journey: “Well done.” Those two little words hold so much. They are the validation for how we’ve used the sacred, precious life God gave us. Grandpa Ben loved life so much that he could not waste it—nor should we. I think that’s the message he would want us to have today: Don’t squander one precious moment of the life that you have—live it to the fullest. Don’t miss the humor in life—find it! Or better yet, create it. And most of all, love well. Cherish those around you. Learn to BBQ. And be grateful for every moment you are given.

Hope Springs Eternal

2010-06-13T09:07:00.000-07:00

There are certain jobs that I think everybody ought to do once in their lives. I think everyone should give at least a week of their lives waiting tables. I think people should give any janitorial endeavor a try. And I think everyone, at some point, should stand in front of a classroom ready with an activity or lesson for whatever skill they’d like to teach and manage about 35 middle schoolers. Get them to buy in to what you’re selling. Have them master some state standard and understand why it’s so critical for them to do so. Laugh off the smart aleck remarks and retort with something witty that will instantly win over the most reluctant learners. Differentiate your instruction (doesn’t THAT sound fancy?) to reach every child, no matter what level they’re at and have a smile on your face and a song in your heart the entire time.

After all, it’s what we do—unless you happen to catch us in a human moment, threatening to take some little monster by the ankles and throw him into a fan.

It happens. I’m not gonna lie.

So, I’ve decided to teach summer school this year. I’ve never done it before. Not sure I’ll do it again. It’s not that I don’t love my kids. Most of them are wonderful—very delayed and very low performing—but largely delightful. Patience is never a problem. They struggle. That’s why most of them are there. Most of them.

Then there are the ones who just need a spanking.

Or, maybe their lives are so broken—so fragmented—that all they know is successful failure. They’ve learned to sabotage their own lives. It’s heart wrenching on several levels. It seems that no amount of sugar, coercing, or reiterating the precarious reality of their situation will convince them to put forth any amount of effort or to prevent them from being flat out incorrigible since all they know of power is simply to demolish.

I have a select group of gentlemen, and I say that word VERY loosely, who seem to be of the persuasion that being the biggest dicks they can be is what makes them men. I say, whatever assholes are teaching them to BE men are doing a pretty shitty job. I operate from a place of compassion and hope; yet, those qualities are cruel jokes to these guys who repel love like it is the plague. Maybe it is for them. Maybe, most likely—OK, I’d be willing to bet the BANK on the fact that the people who were in charge of loving them have irreparably hurt them. So, for me to stand up in front of the class and declare my love and concern for them is summarily and understandably rejected. In fact, I can shove all that warm-fuzzy crap straight up my ass as far as they're concerned. They've made that much crystal clear. And don’t even talk to them about hope. That’s the cruelest joke of all. They have no hope.

I think: OK. Fine. Let’s just get through this. It’s not like we have to cuddle. Just do what you’re supposed to do so you can go on to high school. Surely, you’re not so smitten with these uniforms we make you wear every day that you want to hang out and wear them for another shot at eighth grade while the rest of your friends go to high school, right?

Uhhhhh… No. That won’t be happening.

Their apparent response: Your plan is not my plan. I’m not doing anything except for screwing up my life as fast as I possibly can. All I’ve ever known is pain, and it’s what is now comfortable for me. It’s what is familiar. It’s what I know. It’s what I do. So, if I can make the biggest parking lot out of this situation, then that’s what I’m after. You can’t stop me. I’ll show you just how in control of this whole thing I really am. Watch this…

But I do have hope. And I do have compassion for them and the pain they carry on their shoulders. I look to their parents and wonder, “What in the hell are you DOING? What are you NOT doing?” Because I shudder to think what these precious souls have seen—what they’ve been forced to endure at home. The horror stories that we hear on the news are just a “day in the life” of children everywhere.

And then they come to us. And we’re supposed to do what?

Well? I’m not going to relinquish my love, my compassion, and my hope for all children. I don’t just love the “good ones.” I am who I am. These 25 days won’t even put a dent in that. I’m someone who has seen plenty of miracles, and it’s nothing for me to look for them under every rock. I expect them most days because my whole life is just one great big miracle after another. But believe me when I say that this is exhausting to look into the lives of despair and self-hatred that invariably spills out onto everyone else. Every day.

I look at burned out teachers, and I get it. And I pray that never happens to me because it’s an alarmingly thin line between love and exasperation. You can’t even BECOME exasperated unless you have FIRST loved and been VESTED in a worthy effort that means the world to you. It's impossible. I am not so arrogant that I believe for one minute that I could never end up bitter and perfectly able to write off a child like he’s nothing to me. I know teachers who have reached that wretched place, and I think, “There, but for the grace of God, go any one of us…” And I am sobered by that knowledge.

People respond with, “Then those people should get out of teaching.” I don’t necessarily disagree, but it’s easier said than done. You try walking away from your whole life. You try walking away from something you’ve wanted to do forever—before your college loans are even paid off. Don’t be so quick to throw stones or render a solution so monumental as that. I have worked with ineffective teachers and, believe me, no one is more frustrated with them than those of us who consider ourselves effective teachers and who still love children. I hope I would have the courage to walk away from education if/when I am no longer good at what I do and have learned somewhere, somehow to loath getting up in the morning. But there are a lot of components in this scenario. A lot. Everyone has a story.

At the end of all this, I hope I teach some important lessons to all of my kids in this summer session. I also hope to learn what I’m supposed to in these 25 days as well. And perhaps that is how to preserve who I am and what I have to offer anyone who is in a place to receive it.

And, yes, hope DOES spring eternal…

My Sister, Tabitha, Said Hello to Me Today...

2010-05-24T20:39:00.000-07:00

My sister said hello to me today. I haven’t heard from her in a while. She died Memorial Day weekend in 1996. She left behind a husband and two baby girls. Those baby girls are almost grown now—her oldest graduates from high school this year and her youngest is right behind her big sister. They’re both beautiful and smart and loving, and we can see my sister in their smiles. In their eyes. She’s there.

It was so great to hear from her.

The phone rang. It wasn’t my sister. It was my friend, Michelle, who works at Bonanza High School in Las Vegas. She got an email from the band director who sent a school-wide query in regard to a ring he’d found. It was a class ring from Western High School, where my sister and I attended, from the year 1987. The inscription on the inside read, “Tabitha J. Arrowood.” Michelle asked me if Tab had ever been in the Bonanza High School band room. (Honestly, it was anybody’s guess.) Of course, my friend emailed the band director immediately and said, “I know that family! I’ll come get that ring.” She’s sending it to me in tomorrow’s mail.

I put my head in my hands and cried when I hung up the phone with her. I was literally shaking. The way I figured it, this ring had been missing for years and, by some miracle, had suddenly reappeared just in time for her oldest daughter’s graduation. What a treasure! My sister seemed to be saying to her girls, “I’m here. I’m watching. I’m proud of you. Here’s a little piece of me.” I would hold her ring to my heart, wear it on my hand for a day, and then send this precious gift to my nieces.

I called their parents right away—yes, their parents. God sent a wonderful mother to my nieces and wife for my brother-in-law when the girls were still small, and we are so grateful. They’ve blessed us with two more children who are just as beautiful and smart and loving as the older two. However, they were not AS bowled over as I was. You see, I was under the impression that my nieces went to Valley High. As it turns out, the oldest does go to Valley since she is in their magnet program. Their youngest goes to Bonanza. And she’s in the color guard, which means she is in the band room at Bonanza all the time.

The pieces of this puzzle were quickly coming together.

I had assumed that my sister was looking down from Heaven and orchestrating this beautiful miracle of a long, lost ring—a gift that her girls would cherish. But that was not the case. She was, in fact, taking care of her youngest (albeit long-distance) who had taken the ring to school with her and accidentally dropped it, by not allowing her ring to be lost. She prevented such inevitable guilt and devastation that the loss of that ring would bring—falling on the shoulders of her sweet girl, who only wanted to hold a piece of her mother and keep this token close to her heart. Imagine the dread that could have ensued! She’s a good mother.

And yet, Tabitha is taking care of me too. Because her ring will be on it’s way to me tomorrow. I will place that gold circle around my finger and wear it this Memorial Day weekend—the very weekend she left us. When the holiday is over, and I have cried and remembered and centered my heart once more, I will put it in a box and send it back to my nieces for safe keeping with a note expressing my deepest gratitude that I have gotten to share this ring with them.

But mostly, I think Tabitha is letting us know how happy she is that we are all together, loving each other, and being grateful for the little miracles that seem to come out of nowhere.

And it really was great to hear from her. I’ll be checking the mailbox every day.

Leadership Interview

2010-03-02T20:36:00.000-08:00

My dear friend Rialin wanted to interview me about LEADERSHIP! Here is the interview:

#1 How would you define leadership?

This is a huge question. Shelves of books have been written on leadership. I've read a lot of John Maxwell's thoughts about leadership. He believes that there are certain "Irrefutable Laws" of leadership, and I tend to agree. The Law of the Lid states that an organization will never rise above the level of its leader. The Law of Solid Ground emphasizes how a leader MUST possess competence, connection (to those in the organization) and character. Other laws are self-explanatory: The Laws of Navigation, Respect, Intuition, Empowerment, Buy-In, Priorities, and Sacrifice. I believe an effective leader demonstrates all of these characteristics, and I strive to do the same.

My "leadership love-language," though, is competence with a strong dose of compassion thrown in. I can't follow idiots. I WON'T follow idiots. And if someone doesn't truly care about their people or their organization, I will check out quicker than green grass through a goose. I'm DONE!

Let me also say that the power of position is the weakest form of power there is. Many leaders are so weak that they must solely rely on their position as "the boss" to compel people to do what they are told. I have been in organizations where I had more power in my little finger than "the boss" had with his/her title. So, "position" does not equal "leadership" no matter how much ineffective leaders wish it were true.

#2 How do you influence people?

In light of the fact that I mostly spend my time influencing 14-year-olds, I might not be the best person to ask...

I love the saying, "I'm a human BEing, NOT a human DOing." I think the most powerful way we can influence others is to BE. We can spin in circles and appear very busy doing for our people, our organization, and our world. But that could mean one is anything from a leader to a doormat. Leaders do serve (i.e. teachers), and servants CAN lead (i.e. teachers and Mother Teresa.) But what you DO does not define you as much as who you ARE, and I believe people know pretty quickly whether or not there is any depth in their leaders. My students, sadly, may not remember that one can never find a subject in a prepositional phrase, but they'll sure remember the time I put my arms around them, squeezed them tightly, and told them if they didn't study for a test I was going rip their arms out of their sockets and beat them with the bloody stubs. THIS, they absorb: They know they're loved, and they know they better bust a hump. That's leadership.

#3 Why are people a pivotal part of leadership?

What else are we going to follow if not people? I think what's interesting, though, is to analyze an organization from top to bottom and see who is REALLY in charge. Power is not linear from the top down. Your leaders will rise to the top, and they could potentially come from anywhere--it's what they do. Every time. It makes us realize that a collective group of people--an organization--is a living, breathing entity. It's born, it grows, it thrives, it declines, and it can certainly die. When different people emerge as leaders, they play those "pivotal" roles in the success or the demise of their group.

#4 Is there a difference between leadership and management?

There is. Management is the DOing. Leadership is the BEing.

#5 Are there times when you're a follower?

No. I insist on leading. It's all I ever do. I have to be in charge, or I can't be part of the organization.

Sense the sarcasm? Of COURSE, I follow. I follow all the time. All good leaders do. In fact, the "following" thing had to precipitate the "leading" thing. I didn't pop out of the womb and scream, "Hey, follow ME, everybody!" In fact, I'm such a fan of strong and effective leadership, I will gladly follow someone who is in 8th grade IF they inspire confidence in me by being competent and compassionate. I will gladly follow someone who proves effective leadership, and when it's my turn to lead, I'll step right up and know there are people giving me the same respect.

#6 What's the transition?

I think the transition occurs all the time. If the organization is living and breathing and moving and being, then it's almost like a well-orchestrated dance between various leaders who emerge and then step aside for someone else for the good of the organization--to fulfill a purpose bigger than any one person.

#7 Why is empathy important to leadership.

Very simple: People don't care how much you know until they know how much you care. An old cliche, but true. Personally, I'd like to believe that I would have bolted or revolted in Germany with Hitler at the helm. I cannot follow anyone who is lacking in the heart-department. I know that I am a valuable component in any organization, and I will NOT invest my time and talent and energy in one whose leader is missing some kind of "sensitivity-chip." (Ode to Jennifer Aniston there.) I do not wish to make these people more successful by my contributions, not to mention the fact that I cannot respect anyone who does not love deeply and deeply love. Likewise, I will not lead without compassion. Life is too short, and God is too great.

#8 Why is communication important to leadership?

Here is my answer:

Enough said?

#9 Why is assertiveness important to leadership?

I'm not sure it necessarily is. If assertiveness inspires confidence, then when a leader steps out, his/her organization will follow. Otherwise, he/she is just taking a walk.

Assertiveness can be effective--don't get me wrong. But I think subtlety can be effective too. And offering some incentives can do the trick sometimes. Sometimes a firm hand is what is needed, and sometimes a leader has to pour a little sugar on a situation. It just depends. I think the string that runs through all these scenarios is confidence. Perhaps the better question here is "Why is CONFIDENCE important to leadership?" And I'm not talking about the kind of confidence that "Bikini Girl" showed up with to the American Idol auditions. And I quote, "I'm going to be the next American Idol because... because... because... I AM!" to which I responded in a loud voice to my television, "Honey, somebody in that room is going to be the next American Idol because THEY CAN SING!" Eventually the poor girl had to put some clothes on and sing a song--when she did, she went immediately home. She was not confident. She was a dipshit. (Can I say that here? Feel free to edit...) Anyway, people know the difference. She was VERY, VERY, VERY assertive! She gave Ryan Seacrest a kiss on the lips that could've made a gay man straight, but compelling she was NOT!

I think assertiveness is really overrated. And I think people try to show up to situations with confidence they don't really have. Confidence cannot be conjured. It must be developed. It takes time, and it takes WAY more than a bikini and stiletto pumps.

#10 Are leaders born or made?

Ah, the million dollar question! I have no freaking clue. I think there is some natural ability involved. Leaders, for the most part, have just a little bit of "rock star" in them. Maybe not Mother Teresa, but... maybe she did? I'm usually a big believer in environmental formation--I'm a teacher, after all. I see it all the time where individuals are products and sometimes victims of their surroundings. But maybe it is the leaders who emerge and rise above their surroundings and that IS the definition of a leader? I don't know. It's just a thought. I do not know the answer to this question.

#11 What are your top 3 traits that make you a good leader?

Three, huh? I usually try to show up to my life with two: excellence and compassion. Those two are part of my life's mission statement, and I try to keep them forefront in my mind in all that I do. Other than those? Organization? Ambition? Humor? Comfortable shoes? I know where every comma goes? What? I don't know.

I think I'm still in development. Maybe there IS a third trait, and I'm still working on it. Maybe that's it: I'm open to personal growth. I'll have to get back with you on this one.

#12 What is your leadership style?

This question is akin to the previous one. I'm sure I HAVE a style... I don't like to get locked in to any one definition. Do I HAVE to answer this one?

#13 How do you resolve conflict?

Funny you should ask. Being married, I have a plethora of examples. My husband not-so-great at resolving conflict. I, however, am STELLAR at it. (Insert laughter here...) I will tell you this with conviction: Everything that I do and everything that comes out of my mouth in the midst of a conflict is intended to bring the situation toward resolution--not dissolution.

I don't think conflict is an innately bad thing. From it comes growth and new perspectives and change. But I don't like disrespect. I don't like when situations get nasty. I don't LIKE to fight, but I won't necessarily back down from one either. I'm not a fighter who has learned to make peace. I'm a peacemaker who has learned how and when to strategically step up and lay a situation out if I have to. It's not my favorite, but I'll do it when I believe that my efforts will improve the life of an organization.

#14 How do you stay organized?

Cleanliness is next to Godliness and clutter is from the devil and his minions. Period. Keep it CLEAN! Lists are good. Prioritizing is important. A good filing system is handy. And none of it means anything if your desk looks like somebody dropped a grenade on it and shut the door.

#15 How do you empower others?

My job description is empowering others, and there are as many ways to go about it as there are people to empower. I, specifically, deal with individuals who do not feel particular empowered in any academic arena and who are already behind the eight ball, so to speak. I teach mostly at-risk kids whose heads are not normally in the right "place" for success. This goes back to the question about assertiveness. Sometimes I have to be assertive. Sometimes I have to be subtle. Or the balance between that firm hand with a little bit of sugar. The flexibility and a quick mind is key.

I think the hardest part of empowering people is "turning the lights on" for them. If I can't get them to see themselves how I see them, they're not going to be fully empowered. And you know what I think rocks that boat more than anything else?

Sweat.

People can't be empowered until they improve their self-perceptions and one way I can help people improve their self-perceptions is helping them produce something of value. Maybe it's figuring out where all the commas go, or maybe it's helping the kids at the elementary school learn to read. Whatever a person's strengths are, I know that we need them on this planet which is why God gives those strengths to different people, and it's a sin to waste them. I help people not waste their lives.

#16 How do you stay refreshed as a leader when the enthusiasm fades?

I don't run on enthusiasm--my own or anyone else's. It's nice, I'm not disputing that. But I'm pretty principled by nature, and I do what I do because that's what I believe is right. I refrain if I believe that it's wrong. Of course, this is the gospel according to ME, and there are times that I lack perspective and make decisions based on what I BELIEVE to be right when some time and patience proves that I wasn't right at all. When that happens, a leader must walk through her own shortcomings. THAT can really bum a girl out! And sometimes leaders do get tired. Just sheer exhaustion can break a leader in half. I know I get to a "saturation" point where I start dropping the ball in significant areas of my life, and suddenly I don't seem to be able to walk and chew gum at the same time. When that happens, it's important to set some boundaries, delegate responsibility to the key people that you have empowered, and take a powder. Go on a retreat to renew your mind and your body and your spirit. Give up the whole "Messiah Complex" BS. There was only one of those--you're not it. And speaking of which, believing in redemption outside yourself gives you someplace to go for renewal. I hear people say a lot, "Your strength is within you! Find your peace inside yourself!" Hmm. That's an interesting perspective, but I know when I'm tapped. I know when I've got nothing. My faith tells me that there is Someone a little bit bigger than I am, and I try to tap into that. Ultimately, I try to STAY tapped into that. But leaders have to remember that sometimes that's the very Voice telling you to get the rest you need.

#17 How important is work-life balance and how do you maintain it?

I don't let work spill into my life, and I don't let life spill into my work. Balance is extraordinarily important, and I think this question piggy-backs off the last one. When one's life is out of balance, every part suffers. This balance must be protected. A good leader knows how to set boundaries and how to "refresh" as aforementioned. Being effective, in and of itself, is enough to fuel a good leader for the most part and lends natural energy to his/her efforts. I believe a good leader can anticipate when life starts to throw curve balls, but a good leader can also navigate through those inevitable times and put his/her life back in balance when necessary. That's part of what makes a person a leader.

#18 What do you hope your legacy to be?

Tradition tells us that John, the "disciple Jesus loved" as he's described in the Bible, was not martyred as the other disciples were. Instead, he was supposed to have lived well into his golden years--long enough to bend his body and allow his mind to become clouded. He walked with a shuffle and muttered one thing continually: "Love one another. Love one another." It is all he would say. "Love one another." During a rare and lucid moment, his caretakers asked him, "John, why do you repeat 'Love one another' and nothing else?" He replied, "Because if it is all we do, it is enough."

I think I would be happy if the legacy I leave is to teach people to 'Love one another.' Indeed, if it is all I can accomplish in this life, it is enough.

#19 What will your gravestone say when you pass?

Daisy Rain Martin
1966--2070
Beloved Wife, Mother, Friend
She loved well.

What Good At All?

2010-01-25T13:48:00.000-08:00

I am heartsick this morning.

With Twitter technology and online communities such as Facebook, we all have a platform now on which to declare our thoughts, opinions, and a daily snapshot of our lives. All of us are published. We also have a “bird’s eye” view into each others’ lives when those on our friends’ list post a daily status. From the heart the mouth speaks, and the whole world knows about it in real time.

Most of the time, I enjoy these updates. It’s always fun to connect with those who are too far away to be with all the time. I love it. But sometimes these declarations make my heart stop. I recently had one of my former students post a message that basically asked why we should give a shit about Haiti, a country that has been hit with a devastating 7.0 earthquake, especially since that country doesn’t contribute anything to the United States? Really?

Wow.

Not only was I left reeling at his apparent lack of human empathy, I was shocked by his classmates, also my babies, who “liked” his post, who left comments supporting what I believe to be self-absorbed and ignorant disregard. How many of them would be so quick to jump on this bandwagon if they were suddenly dropped into the middle of this horrific disaster and actually had to look into the eyes of the destitute and dying?

Surely they could not be so callous then. Could they?

I wanted to post, I wanted to SCREAM, “How about compassion?” but I’m pretty sure that would only result in a barrage of hateful responses from their friends and relatives criticizing me for being one of those “bleeding hearts” because that’s usually the mode of operation for anybody who dares to disagree online. Attack. Lash out. Don’t pause. Don’t ponder. Never contemplate criticism. That would show weakness. But my heart does bleed. It seems like there are people who think I should be ashamed for my bleeding heart, but I am not. If no one else is going to apologize for being caustic, then I’m certainly not going to apologize for crying out for mercy.

Perhaps I should have posted something sarcastic like, “THEN LET THEM EAT CAKE!” but somehow, I just don’t think they’d get it. So I posted nothing.

I am sad today. I’m sad. How can my babies, who have spent an entire year of their lives in my loving arms, walk away from the real-life lessons of love and compassion that I’ve tried to teach them? It makes me wonder what good I was to them.

What good at all?

My Savannah...

2009-10-04T07:13:00.000-07:00

I have a beautiful fledgling writer who I love dearly. She was never a student of mine, but in the end, she became mine anyway. I have decided to publish her here on my Big Girl Blog. You will love her instantly. And, if you have any advice for this girl, struggling to find her way through those teenage years, please post. I will forward them on to her since she's actually not allowed to BE on my Big Girl Blog until she's 18. (Right, Savannah?) My words of wisdom are posted beneath.

SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 27, 2009

Fourteen going on Forty.

Typical is not a word to use for me. I'm definately not your typical fourteen year old girl. Yes, I may look my age, but looks mean nothing.

I hate my age. I hate it. I hate it. Being fourteen is horrible! I'm still living in my parents' house. Living for, and to, their standards. Following their rules. Doing what they want me to do... Does it end? Can't I be in college? Or even beyond that, starting a career and trying to make myself sucessful? Can't I be my own person? Do the things I feel are right? No. No, of course not.

You can't speed up time.
You can't slow it down.
You have to go along with it until you die.

And who, may I ask, set that stupid rule up? No one other than God, of course. Now, don't get me wrong, I believe in Him, I praise in Him... But, I'd assume like most, I just don't understand Him. He put me here and gave me everything I have. Shouldn't that be enough? Not at all. Deep down it is, but I'm always left wanting more.

No matter what I do. I want to be forty years old! Not really, but at least in my twenties. Where I can make up my own rules. Where I can start my own life. Where I can be me, not what everyone else wants me to be. Yes, that sounds typical, but I mean that more serious than ever before. Most all of the other kids will tell you that they are ready to be adults, and that they wish they were older so they could do 'whatever they want...' But that's not what I am asking for at all.

I know I won't be able to 'whatever' I happen to feel like. I know I can't just go out and be somebody. I know, God do I know, I have to earn it. I don't expect things to be given to me. They have never really been. Yes, I'll admit, I am spoiled by my parents. They buy me things. They give me things. They give me love and food and shelter. But when it comes to 'things', I have to earn it.
"Mom, can I have $10 to do ________?"
"What are you going to do to get it?"
"..."
"That's what I thought."

I mean. I don't get handed everything! My parents are poor. We live in poverty. It seems everyone makes more money then my mom and stepdad combined! I don't wear Hollister or Abercombie. No way in hell, do I wear Ralph Lauren or Marc Jacobs. I wear Wal*Mart clothes. Hand-me-downs. Most all of my nice things come from my aunts, uncles, and grandparents. Like I said before though, looks mean nothing. But I'm just trying to make a point.

I want to go out in the world and work my way to the top. Show that a small town--- yes I live in Nampa, which is big for Idaho, but I'm talking the whole world here-- girl can make it big. How? I want to be nothing more than an English teacher, which, we all know don't make big money... But I can still make it big. I can effect the lives of the youth, our future. Hopefully, when I'm a teacher, students can walk out of my classroom different than what they came in. They can have a new perspective on life and be ready for what ever life brings in store from them.

Now, can one see my as different? Or do I still fit under that horrific stereo type as the typical teenager?

I could say more... But do I need to?

Oh I don't know. Maybe I am typical.

Words of Wisdom for My Girl...

2009-10-04T07:04:00.000-07:00

Wow. Wow. Wow. OK. Goodness gracious, let me get the mechanics of your writing out of the way before we start talking about life. In the two pieces I've read now, I'm loving the way your writing circles. What I mean by that is, you end in a way that is very similar to how you start. You "circle back around" so to speak. This is very clean and effective. Your voice is spectacular. Having first-hand experience with 14 year olds, you're atypical in that you don't use the word, "LIKE" fourteen million times in your writing, and hopefully not in your speaking. I'll give you one or two every once in a while, but no more. "LIKE" makes you... like, not seem... like... you know... like SMART or anything. And uh... yeah. (That's my favorite: "uh... yeah." It makes me want to hurt somebody.) This piece flows. You make yourself completely understood quite easily and strike upon another universal theme--especially among teens--which is wanting to speed up the process of growing up and conquer that beast we call TIME! Shakespeare had a love/hate relationship with time and wrote about it a lot. Several sonnets he devoted to that very subject. Anyway, this begs the question, who is your audience, Miss Savannah? Teens? Adults? Anyone? Try to answer this question before you begin. Be clear in your own mind about who you are talking to without saying, "This piece is for teenagers..." or "This piece is for the adults who torture me..."

Now for the content. Lovie! Let me lay this out for you so we're both on the same sheet of music here--you being 14--me being 43 this month. Your teens can be rough, and everyone thinks their journey is the roughest. However, all it takes to correct THAT delusion is to LOOK AROUND! And be continually GRATEFUL for all that you have that other teens don't. If we all put our problems in the middle of the table, you'd probably grab your own right back out again, right? After that, let me be the first to tell you--your 20s suck. You don't have a WHOLE lot of respect from the world because... well, let's face it. You're 20. What do you know? Not much. Life actually starts looking pretty good about 30. Especially for women, the decade of their 30s is MUCH better than their 20s. Why? Well, in a woman's 20s, she's usually all about OTHER people. Lots of girls get married and have small children in their 20s and life never really seems to be about HER--but about doing what she needs to do for other people. Her husband, her children, her job, her church... the list of needing machines is LONG in a girl's 20s. This isn't necessarily a bad thing--it just IS. She's the GLUE! It's not a bad thing being the GLUE! It definitely has its perks. But by the time she's 30, she wakes up, sits up in bed and looks at her husband drooling on her pillow, smacks him in the arm and says--with authority, mind you--"I'm TIRED! Go make me a SANDWICH!" And he DOES! For the next DECADE he does! It's FANTASTIC! Her children are older and more self-sufficient. She can concentrate on herself a little more. A massage. A pedicure. A night out with the girls. It's divine. Her 40s are even better because she has more money. I have nothing to say about the 50s because I'm not there yet, but Madonna, Cher, Tina Turner, and Oprah don't seem any worse for it. I think my 50s will bring grandchildren into my life. I can squeeze them, buy them things, cuddle with them, and still sleep ALLLLLLLLL NIGHT! Who wouldn't love THAT, right? So, my darling, you're certainly aiming for the right decade. Your fabulous 40s.

But here's what I'm coming to realize more and more about the "getting there." I can't leap tall buildings in a single bound. I'm not faster than a speeding bullet or a train. Life cannot be barreled through with no regard to "The Power of Now." In fact, we are not promised tomorrow. No one, Savannah, NO ONE knows whether or not she'll even be here. Not one of us. This is a sobering thought. Yes, I've arrived at a very wonderful place in my life. It took many steps to get here. If I were able to simply LEAP to this place, then guess what? I'd be living my life in my 40s, but I'd still be 14 in my own head and even MORE frustrated in a world I could never navigate through because I just don't have the life experience. It sounds trite to say that I needed every experience before this one so that I could be successful in THIS experience right now, but it is true none-the-less.

Be grateful. You're lucky. Some people remain tethered to their pasts and do not develop as they should. Some people really ARE 14 year olds living in 40 year old lives. Due to some traumatic or debilitating event from their past, they have not matured how they should, and now they have bills they don't know how to pay, children they don't know how to raise, and relationships that remain broken because they have no clue how to fix them. They are fragmented people. YOU, my darling, are about as authentic and sincere a young lady as I've ever seen. And I'm not going to add that ever-patronizing phrase, "...for a girl your age."

Let me caution you, my love. Your very ANGST at being this age will be the very thing that will strap you to it. Read that line again. Read it ten times. Your ANGST at "now" will inhibit your development, as surely as I type this. Here's the lesson: If you cannot be content at 14, then how will you know how to be content at 15? How will you figure out how to be happy with "now" at 16? 17? 20? 30? 40? 100? Happiness and gratitude are never, never, never, NEVER for the future. These are gifts God has given us TODAY! Not this afternoon, not this evening... but right now. Take a little inventory, sista. You have a HUGE list of things right in this moment to be so grateful for, and think on THESE things. Your beautiful property. Your parents are poor how? Money in the bank? That just equals free money for college for you. No big deal. Look at that beautiful place you live on. All those animals. That beautiful landscape. That river that flows through your property. Sean-Martin wants to live on land with a river that runs right through it. Basically, we want what you already have. What I would have given for a mom and dad like yours. Uber cool--most days--you have to admit.

At the end of this year, I will have a journal with every page filled out with what I've done. An entry for each and every day in 2009. I've never done that before. I will be able to hand it in its entirety to whomever I please as one book. One life. But you know what it took to create that? I had to show up and put a pen to it every day. Every single, solitary day. That's like your life, Savannah. At the end of it, you will have made a beautiful life--one that you can hand back to God and say, "I did it. I did everything I was supposed to do on this earth." But in order for that to happen, you have to show up to it every day understanding how each day is critical to your whole life. Today. Right now. This moment. You cannot have the next moments without the one you're in. And what will you take with you from THIS moment into the next? There's always something...

Find it.

Right now.

And one more thing: "Don't let anyone [including you] look down on you because you are young, but set an example for the believers in speech, in life, in love, in faith and in purity." 1 Timothy 4:12  I found that in the Bible. Uhhh.... yeah.

I write. I vent. I post.

2009-09-20T15:10:00.000-07:00

This much is true: I love my country. I’m a registered democrat. I have opinions. I voted for Obama. I pray to Jesus. I want the best possible future for us all. I check my facts. I pause. I think. I even pause TO think! I’ve participated in political discussions when I believed that my words might count for something. I’ve opted out of political discussions when it became evident that no one was really interested in listening to anyone else. I’ve also dismissed myself from conversations whose subjects I clearly know nothing about, readily admitting as much; and I have rolled my eyes at those in the same boat of ignorance I’m in, but who just keep talking anyway. I’ve actually deleted one person from my friends’ list when he crossed over the boundaries of mutual respect and a general sense of decency and continued to splatter his dogmatic sentiments on my facebook page. These are not secrets to anyone.

Here are some things that I’ve been accused of that are not true: I’m “sold out” to Obama (although sometimes I do refer to him as “my boyfriend, Barack.”) I “fall for” everything he says. I usually vote with Hollywood. I’m a bleeding heart. I’m a liberal. I’m persuaded in my politics by the left-loving media. I’m intolerant of anyone who does not agree with me (that was Splatter-guy. I didn’t, incidentally, agree with him.) I’m not a “true” Christian, or at least not a good one. I have given my own political opinions precedence over the Scriptures to the point that I am now “blind” to God’s truth. AND—drum roll, please—I am a bitter malcontent.

Love that one.

I have also been accused of “persecuting” someone for his faith, when, truly and honestly, I was only persecuting him for being a dumbass. He had it coming.

So, let’s clarify: I’m “sold out” to the One who brought me to this place in my life and, I assure you, it’s not Barack Obama. I don’t “fall for” what my President says. I listen to him—God knows we can hear him every day if we want to anytime of day. He’s always on. I believe he is a good man who wants to make the most of his Presidency and do right by this country. I don’t give a shit what Hollywood does or doesn’t do. My heart does bleed. I’m only a liberal when I stand next to someone who calls himself “ultra-conservative.” Next to liberals? I’m Doris Day. My feelings of and for the media vacillate between acknowledging the fact that they are crucially instrumental in protecting us from bad government as well as bad ANYTHING and wanting to drown them all in the deepest ocean. Am I a Christian? Sure, if it makes you feel better. Or not, if THAT makes you feel better. Suffice to say, Christ knows me. If I could just touch the hem of His garment and, perhaps, lie with Him, swinging in a hammock between two palm trees on the beach and talk and talk and talk and talk—just the two of us. Am I a good Christian? That’s a WHOLE other blog post, my friends. Like Yancey says, I’m just a pilgrim, a foreigner in this land, trying to get home.

Let’s see… What else? Have I elevated my own opinions over the Scriptures, thereby, poking my spiritual eyes out with my “pride-stick” ‘cuz I’m just SMARTER than the average bear? I wish you could hear me pray. But, no.

No.

No.

No.

And I know what bitter looks like. It’s a block I’ve been around, and I promise you, bitter I am not. Angry I am not. I can get my panties in a wad when provoked just like everyone else, but I have a joy that this world did not give me and, therefore, cannot take from me. If one doesn’t recognize that in me, even when I’m responding to political or social ideas or events, then I’m at a loss as to how to even respond, so I won’t. I cannot loiter around the random and senseless incriminations of others. It’s a trap designed for debilitatation, and I’m free of it.

I’ve lobbed my religious and political views together here to make the point, really, that they are not mutually exclusive. I don’t vote a certain way because I’m a Christian (if that’s a label people are willing to pin on me), and if I’m voting contrary to the “moral majority” (whatever THAT is!) that doesn’t mean I’ve disassociated myself with the church. Believe me, I’ve done plenty of disassociating myself with the church before we ever get into the political arena. I mean, let’s prioritize, right? In fact, I always throw up in my mouth a little bit whenever people start intermingling their religious views with their political views at best, and I go screaming from the room in utter terror at worst. This can get really frightening, especially when it occurs on a macro-scale.

And I see it plainly: People who have planted their flags against any and all things discordant from the groupthink to which they adhere and will not BUDGE from the hills they’re so ready to die on. Too often, it’s a hill THEY call Calvary. Is that too bold? Did I just type that out loud? The mentality being, if one should “compromise” even an inch in his political stance, then he is diminished somehow in his faith—that, somehow, he has let down God or let down the church. Or might I suggest that the underlying current is simply fear? Fear of rejection from the church for having an opinion of your OWN is NOT small potatoes for most people. I know—I deal with it often enough. I’m not making these claims as an outsider trying to understand and look inside the stereotypical “christian” (lower-case “c” there!) mentality—I am VERY much on the inside of this subculture, and although I will be BLASTED by Christians for this, I’m telling you—I’m nailing it, folks. I am! No one can tell me this does not occur, because I’ve seen that it does. Repeatedly. And because I have such an aversion to this way of thinking, I can’t help but see that this is one contributing factor to the polarization that is, at this very moment, preventing us from moving forward in our endeavors to care for the citizens of this country.

WHICH, in my mind, is the irony of ironies.

I don’t know what it’s going to take for people to meet in the middle. Certainly, posts such as this will only validate those who already agree with me and piss off those dying on their hills, flags in hand—OR make them martyrs, loving the chance to pull that “persecution” card.

So. What to do? What to do?

I don’t know.

I think I will change the political status on my facebook page from simply “Democrat” to “AMERICAN who often votes democrat, but who recognizes that BOTH parties have valid points to make—neither party should be excluded or ridiculed or harassed or lied about—and encourages both parties to take turns actively listening to each other, paraphrasing what the other party is saying, validating that stance by seeking first to understand the other—THEN to be understood—PRESIDENT INCLUDED, and MOVING THIS COUNTRY FORWARD!”

Do you think all that will fit?

I doubt that will bring people on opposite ends any closer to the middle, but for what it’s worth…

For my conservative friends who love Jesus who are not dying on any hills or planting any flags, please know that when I speak of “christians” (lower-case “c” there!) as I have in this general sense, I am not singling out anyone in particular—at least not anyone who is still in my life. I’m not thinking of those in my inner circle of friends or family. Please don’t send me a message asking if you’ve done something to provoke this diatribe because the answer is no, my loved ones. You haven’t. I love you. If you can be reasoned with and have the capacity to see and understand the other side, I love you.

As for those precious souls that I have TOTALLY pissed off and whose knees are calloused because of the many hours of prayers that you have offered up on my behalf because I am in the evil clutches of Satan and the democrats, I have already deleted you.

I write. I vent. I post. Nothing more—nothing less.

Why I Don't Want a Dog

2009-09-19T16:13:00.000-07:00

In deciding what to include and what to leave out of the book I'm writing, I found this piece that is outdated and won't make it in the final draft that I will submit to a publisher. I thought I'd share it here. I wrote this back in Vegas about Jenna, the dog we had there. If you recall, she wasn't my very, very favorite. It's funny to compare this with our Sofia, with whom I'm absolutely smitten. Anyway, just a little "toss-away" piece for ya'll.

Much affection,
Daisy Rain

“If you’d like to continue to call yourself a Christian woman, you should be nicer to that dog.”

This from my 89-year-old grandfather who hasn’t been to church in about 80 years.

I’m not mean to that damn dog. I mean, that dog. It’s not my fault she thinks her name is Getthehellawayfromme. It’s not like I’m serious when I tell her to go play in traffic. Most days. I don’t know why everybody gets their panties in a wad over my relationship with her, such that it is.

Everybody tells me she’s such a great dog. Oh yeah? Then why does she poop? Great entities don’t leave poop where I walk. And they don’t deliberately put saliva on my body. And, certainly, they don’t leave HALF of their body hair all over my house, regenerate all that they’ve lost overnight and leave the same amount on my carpet and my furniture the very next day. And the day after that. And the day after that. And the day after that.

“Look at those eyes!” her advocates implore me.

“She’s in love with my husband, and he’s in love with her. That’s what those eyes tell me,” I retort. Last New Year’s Eve, we were watching the celebratory countdown on television. “10! 9! 8! 7! 6! 5! 4! 3! 2! 1! HAPPY NEW YEAR!” When Old Lang Syne started to play, my husband got up from his Archie Bunker chair and kissed HER! I unpuckered my lips, shook my head in disbelief, and went to bed. Our first fight of the year.

You want a good pet? A turtle is a great pet! We got one to put in our pond out back, a wonderful habitat for a turtle. No barking, no shedding, no licking. And if that thing pooped, I certainly didn’t know about it. And would you like to know what happened in the first twenty-four hours we had dear, sweet Leonardo?

The dog ate him.

My husband flew to her defense. Of course he did. They’re in love. Why wouldn’t he? Damn dog.

She knows just how to make me look like an idiot. Whenever I am home alone with her, she doesn’t do a thing I say. I used to think she was just stupid. I told my husband, “I don’t think she’s very bright.”

“Are you kidding me? She’s one of the smartest dogs I’ve ever had!”

I remained silent as to the obvious plethora of possible replies and simply said, “Do you really think so?”

Just to prove a point, I called her over. “Getthehellawayfromme, come here.” She never came to me when I called. I wasn’t worried. Until she came straight to me and sat obediently in front of me, wagging her tail, that is. My husband folded his arms and raised a “this-is-going-to-be-interesting” eyebrow at me. Coincedence. The dog NEVER listened to me and NEVER did anything I told her to do.

“Sit.” I commanded.

The bitch sat.

“Lay down.”

The bitch laid down.

“Up!”

The bitch sprang up.

“Shake!”

The bitch put her paw right in my hand and, I swear to God, she smiled.

“Mommy does not love you,” I told her flatly and went to pour myself a glass of Reisling. Of course, her boyfriend--my husband--reached down to scratch her behind the ears and tell her affectionately, “Goooooood daaaaaaaaaaaaawg!”

Just to make sure I wasn’t crazy, I waited till the next time I was home alone with that damn dog. “Getthehellawayfromme, come here!”

The bitch sat right where she was.

OK, I thought. She can NOT do what I say from across the room where she is.

“Sit!”

Those eyes that most believe are sweet and innocent looked up at me to let me know that she was completely unaffected.

“Lay down!”

She didn’t budge.

I walked over to her and put my hand out. “Shake!”

She turned around, farted in my face, and walked away.

Then there was the time she locked me out of the house. I’m not lying. This is not hyperbole. We were home alone; I was sitting out back by the pond (post-turtle) writing something brilliant on this very laptop. I looked behind me. She was standing inside looking out our sliding glass door. She wanted to be outside just to annoy me in her usual form.

“I don’t THINK so, sista!” No way was she getting out there with me. I no more turned around smugly in my lounge chair than I heard the CLICK! We have a button on the bottom of our sliding glass door which is an extra security measure. When it’s pushed in, the door will not open. Period. Of course, she took her nose and pushed it in. I about broke my neck swinging around in that chair.

“You did NOT just do that!” I yelled.

She smiled back at me through the glass.

I jumped up out of my chair and tried the door. Locked out. I knew the front door was locked. I always locked up when I was home by myself. God knows if anybody broke in, Getthehellawayfromme would lead them straight for the good stuff. Well, my stuff anyway. My husband--her boyfriend’s stuff would be safe. She’d never let anybody get HIS stuff! I had to fold up my laptop and haul it over to the neighbors across the street to get one of our spare keys.

Damn dog.

Someone suggested we get another dog to keep her company. She needed a friend. There was NO WAY ON GOD’S GOOD GREEN EARTH I was getting anything else that pooped as much, shed as much, or licked as much. Just one more being in the house to torment me. Forget about it! But the suggestion of a distraction was not lost on me. I brought home a kitten. A boy kitty. I wanted to name him Madonna, but ended up naming him Lofton--my family name. It suited him.

Getthehellawayfromme didn’t know what to think about this new addition to our family. I know she thought I’d brought her lunch. When she figured out she probably didn’t want to eat him, she made him her own. And it did alleviate her always being underneath my feet. It did my heart good to see Lofton stalking her, perched like a hunter on the stairs, waiting for Getthehellawayfromme to walk by. I loved how he pounced on her head and clung by all four sets of claws while she hobbled like a drunk trying to shake him off.

Gooooooooooooood kitty.

She knows I’m writing about her. She’s lying down by the couch looking at me with those big, brown eyes. Right now. Those big, brown eyes. Big. Brown. I’m not going to look at her. She’ll just come over here and try to put her saliva on my body.

Now she’s sighing. Crap, I looked. Here she comes. She’s nudging the laptop off my lap so she can put her head on my lap. With those eyes. Big. Brown. Eyes.

Oh, hell. Jenna does like her ears scratched.

Guess I’m done writing this...

Regina Spektor- Laughing With (Official Music Video)

2009-08-10T19:45:00.001-07:00

Thank you, Warren.

Survey Question

2009-08-08T08:05:00.000-07:00

How do you feel about the way people go about debating political issues in this country?

Please click just one response in the space to the right, and you most certainly can post your opinions in the comments. Thanks for your vote and your thoughts!
Love,
Daisy Rain

Tribute Video for My Dad, Donald Eugene Lofton

2009-07-17T19:18:00.001-07:00

Ever since my dad passed away in December, I've wanted to make him a video. Really, it's for myself and for everyone who loved him. Today, this is what I did. I hope he likes it. I miss him.

Keith Olbermann Speaks Out On Prop 8

2009-06-26T17:19:00.001-07:00

Thank you, Cody.

Godspeed.

My Darling Karen,

2009-06-22T08:57:00.000-07:00

My darling Karen,

I so appreciate your words, and I'm sorry I kept you up with mine! :) You ARE and always HAVE BEEN a woman who loves all and loves well, and you are my good friend. You have proven that time and again. And there's no BUT in there. You walk out your faith with integrity and authenticity and compassion, and I am thankful that you have always had my back whenever I've chosen to make my opinion known--whether you agreed with it fully, partially, or not at all.

The effort to "protect" marriage on the part of heterosexuals would not be so laughable if the divorce rate were a little lower, perhaps. No one, including myself here, has done a stellar job of protecting the sanctity of marriage. Not that giving gay people a legal crack at it would improve the divorce rates any--I'm just pointing out the blaring inconsistency of people who want to "protect" it while they are concurrently trashing it. We truly ALL fall short...

So, your question, in our quest to right this wrong, do we compromise? Here is how I've resolved this whole thing in my mind, having been raised and taught the very same things you are bringing to light in this dialogue: What is the most compassionate thing I can do in this situation? I think there are two things, actually. #1 I can speak out against the haters (which I've done and will continue to do) and #2 I can acknowledge the inequality of this situation. I really do see this as a civil rights issue. These are tax-paying Americans, yet they are not allowed the same privileges as straight people. We can try to throw that moral wrench into that by saying that homosexuality is not right. But there is another moral wrench here in that not everyone is being treated fairly and, like you said as well, many are even being harassed, bullied, and threatened. The people who do not wish to see gay people marry haven't really acknowledged the inequality. I mean, at LEAST say, "OK, then gay people should get a HUGE tax credit since they don't enjoy all the rights and privileges that straight people do..." which is ridiculous--namely because tomorrow, there would be so many gay people in this country, we couldn't count them all! I would consider switching teams myself! Why lie? Anyway, if the peeps who want to keep marriage between a man and a woman would at least ACKNOWLEDGE this and bend just a teensy-weensy bit, then maybe folks wouldn't be SO polarized. But, since there is NO ROOM for compromise, then I can't stand with those folks. Hatred is a moral issue--one that I believe poses a much bigger threat to our country than homosexuality. I mean, if I were raising young kids today, I would shelter them from the haters before I would ever shelter them from gay people, for crying out loud! I would NEVER let my child near someone so enraged that they would make a hate sign and go protest downtown, screaming "TURN OR BURN!" to folks just trying to be happy like everybody else. THOSE people are nuts! They scare me!

I also believe that marriage would alter the gay culture--whether that's in a big way or a small way, I don't know--but it would still promote monogamy. Monogamy brings many benefits in terms of health and stability. Having been exposed to the gay lifestyle by the friends you mentioned, I think this is a good thing--just speaking pragmatically.

So, let's talk spiritually because that is really at the crux of this conversation. One might ask, how can we vote to legalize gay marriage and dismiss what the Bible says about homosexuality?

I'm not dismissing anything the Bible says. I struggle with that book. It's amazing, and I love it, and I cherish its words in my heart. I ponder it. I grapple with it. It gives me hope. I pisses me off in spots. I don't get it. I SO get it! It truly is the only book I've ever read that is ALIVE WITH ME, if that makes sense. But there are so many other questions...

What does the Bible say about the law? It says the law doesn't save us. The law CAN'T save us. Regardless of WHAT the law is, the only One that has the power to truly save us from ourselves is Christ.

What does the Bible say about sin? It says it separated me from God, but that Christ came and bridged that gap. This is nothing any of us could ever legislate.

What does the Bible say about love? It says if I say I love God and hate my brother, that I am a liar and God is not in me.

My brother wants to marry his boyfriend. Should I let him? Or should I prevent him? But if I try to prevent him, I build a wall of hurt and distrust and regret between us, and every brick in that wall belongs to me. Said wall prevents me from being able to put my arms around him and LOVE HIM, which is my command and my responsibility. Why would I erect such a thing that blocks my love and stands between me and my brother when the law is neither HERE NOR THERE in regard to his own redemption or his relationship with God?

Can't do it. I can't build that wall. And Jesus gets me. He gets it. If I'm wrong, it is just one more thing He will work out in me. I do keep Him quite busy...

I know you get me too, my friend. :)

Love you,
Daisy Rain

Dear Mike,

2009-06-21T08:46:00.001-07:00

Dear Mike,

I thought your Facebook post was spot on yesterday, and you know I was biting my tongue in regard to some of the responses that people were posting. I bit my tongue out of a simple respect for you. It’s one thing to light your OWN Facebook page on fire; it’s quite another to light someone else’s on fire. I have no desire to do that. That’s what blogs are for. Incidentally, I’ve lit my own Facebook page on fire—it took me about three weeks to put it out.

However, since it wouldn’t be inappropriate in the least to express my opinions here on my own personal blog—the “Libs” haven’t taken THAT right away, have they? If they have I didn’t get the memo and I AM one so you’d think I would have heard—let me say a few things.

To catch everybody up, here was Mike’s post:

I'm not looking to the Republicans and Democrats for leadership. Live as citizens of the Kingdom of God. Jesus never fails.

I thanked Mike for his wisdom. Justin wrote:

Justin Webb at 9:45pm June 20
You may have to pick especially if the Libs say you can't have any sermons condeming homosexuality in your churh service. It may be considered a hate crime!

I simply responded with: Ugh.
Here’s what I didn’t post:

Dear Justin,
I’m sure you’re a very nice guy. I’d like to ask you respectfully to consider this possibility: There are no “Libs” who have ever entertained such a notion. The “Libs” are not out to squelch anyone’s freedom of expression, speech, or religious beliefs. This notion was most likely born straight out of an ultra-conservative camp, which puts out these hypothetical scenarios in order to stir up fear in the people they are trying to manipulate. I’m astounded that it works, but alas, it works. It WORKS! BUT, let’s just say that it IS true. It’s not, but I’m entertaining the suggestion here. Let’s say that preachers can no longer even broach the “hot button” subjects. The gospel will still be preached. Can I get an amen?

And, on a side note? I’m personally appalled at how gay and lesbian and transgendered citizens are treated by Christians in general. I don’t want anyone’s right to free speech to be taken away, but these sermons “condem(n)ing homosexuality” really don’t do a thing for me, I gotta be honest. I don’t think they do anything for anybody. I don’t think gay people come screaming down the aisle to the altar to get saved after hearing those sermons. I don’t think STRAIGHT people come screaming down the aisle to the altar to get saved. I don’t think ANYBODY comes screaming down the aisle after a sermon like that. I think people get up out of their seats after hearing a sermon like that and feel more justified in their contempt and disdain for gay people. Period. I choose simply to love people—all people, gay or straight—and let the Holy Spirit do His job in bringing ALL people—gay or straight—to a place where they can live a life that is holy and pleasing to God. In fact, I’m so sickened by the treatment of gay and lesbian and transgendered people that I’m a bona-fide Jesus girl who votes to legalize gay marriage every chance I get because I see it as an issue of equality, and I think that the REAL moral issue here is the hatred that these Americans continue to endure. I think WE need to repent!

There. I said it.

And I know a bunch of OTHER Christians who are also personally appalled as I am and SECRETLY vote to legalize gay marriage too—even a PASTOR who would NEVER admit it to his congregation, but he admitted it to me because we are very close friends. I’m not even remotely kidding.

So, whether or not Mike and I vote the same way or are members of the same political party is less relevant than the fact that we are making our way as best we can, ultimately, to the same location after we die. He seems to suggest that we walk hand in hand toward a kingdom that, unlike the United States of America, will never pass away. I mean, let’s face it folks. Everything on this earth is born, it lives, it declines, it dies. People, careers, cultures, nations. Anyone who thinks America is going to last forever is living in La La Land. This is earth. Don’t get too attached.

And, Mike, I think that’s all you were really trying to say. You weren’t suggesting that we don’t vote or “check out” of politics. You didn’t tell anybody HOW to vote. You’re just encouraging us to keep it all in perspective: We are merely pilgrims here, just trying to get home. And what should we do in the meantime?

How about love one another? As John the Beloved Apostle said, if it is ALL we do, it is enough.

And now… let the firestorm begin! For all those of you who believe I’m going straight to hell with all the gays, lesbians and transgendered… post away!

Mike, buddy, I’ll see you in Heaven, if not before! HA! ☺ Kiss my Heather for me!

The Best Laid Plans

2009-05-24T18:33:00.000-07:00

The plan was to consolidate the patio into a nifty little re-fi. The numbers were great. Ah, you should’ve seen the payments—hardly more than what we’re paying now. Sheesh! And that interest rate? Four and a quarter percent! I just about had an orgasm when that USAA agent quoted me that. Nobody in THIS house was worried about not qualifying for the loan. What ‘nobody in this house’ didn’t bank on was that our property value has bottomed out due to the predator loans and all the foreclosures and the economy and blah, blah, blah, blah, blah…

So, as it stands now, Sean-Martin’s shoulder isn’t paid off (nor is Sofie’s, for that matter), we owed a CHUNK in taxes this year, we’re looking to send the 18 year old to college and bring the 91 year old here to live.

And forget about the re-fi.

We were just like a lot of people: working hard, strategizing our financial plans, and banking on a banking system that we—like everybody else—thought was A-OK. Predator loans? What were those? We didn’t know. Thank God we didn’t take the BS loan we were offered. Looking back, we sure know what they are now and the damage they can do to a whole financial system. And you know now too. And so does every six year old in America.

People are downwardly mobile these days. They’re dropping down entire social classes. It’s true. Oprah had a whole show on it. Of course, she featured the whole gamut of people: those who were crying because they now had to shop at the dollar store and could no longer afford to get their hair and nails done. Those who’d lost people they’d considered good friends as soon as the money ran out. Those whose identities were completely wrapped up in their ‘upper-middle-class’ status, who were embarrassed and humiliated now that the economy has knocked them down to ‘lower-middle-class’. Those who seem a little lost these days and are simply asking, ‘Why me?’

I have said before, and I will say again that whatever circumstances Sean-Martin and I find ourselves in, neither one of us—and I would venture to say very few of you—have ever really known poverty. I can’t help but look at our current economic crisis from a global perspective. I can’t consider myself even broaching poverty unless I send Geoffrey down to the contaminated river for our daily water and hope that no one in our family dies of dysentery. The fact that I can take the entire weekend off of work is unthinkable to people in countries far, far away, who must work every day of every week of every month of every year for their whole lives—or not eat, and therefore, not live. Poverty, to me, is a place where it’s illegal for girls to go to school—a place where meat is a luxury and certainly not FDA approved.

I’m not sure what to think, then, of people who break down in tears on nation wide television because they can no longer afford their high lights.

I’m not minimizing the current financial mess this country is enduring. People certainly are facing tough times and tough decisions. People are working harder than ever for less. They are coping with major financial disappointments. But I’m not maximizing these tough times either. I think people are much more fortunate than they think. Losing friends over a lower social status? Well. Losing every bit of equity you put into your dream, 3-bedroom home? I know. Even losing a job—it’s horrifying. It’s terrifying.

It’s temporary.

Here’s a quote from one of the guys featured on Oprah the other day, Ernie Bjorkman, a former news anchor in Denver, Colorado. He made a quarter of a million dollars a year for the 36 years that he worked for that network. He is now a veterinarian technician for a mere $30,000 a year—an 80% pay cut for him. Incidentally, he loves it and is very, very happy. I loved what he told Oprah. He said:

“My favorite saying is, ‘You make plans in life and God laughs.’ He’s having a good laugh right now—hopefully with us and not at us. And I think that laughter will be our strength in the future and our wisdom to maybe not be as extended as we were, that it could end tomorrow, and to live a much simpler and a much more frugal life, and I think we’ll be just as happy.”

Yes, we’ve all made our plans in this life, and sometimes those plans go south. Even now Sean-Martin and I are thinking about Plan B. Or Plan C. Or D, E, F, or G. Maybe God laughs because He’s just good-natured that way. Or maybe He laughs because He remembers what we all too often forget: that HE has a plan or two of His own. For us. Every one of us. I think if we figure that out, then we will, indeed, be just as happy.

Bumper Stickers and Bikini Girls

2009-05-12T13:04:00.000-07:00

We’ve all heard someone say, “Now THAT’S what’s wrong with this world today,” right? Here’s one for ya—a bumper sticker Sean-Martin and I saw last Sunday that said:

I saw it.
I wanted it.
I threw a fit.
I got it.

Why anyone would be bragging about acting like a two year old is a blot on our culture in and of itself. Why would this be attractive in anyone’s mind? So, I gotta say it:
Now, THAT’S what’s wrong with the world today!

How about a bumper sticker that says:

I saw it.
I wanted it.
I worked my ass off.
I earned it.

That used to be the American Dream, didn’t it? Generations before us weren’t afraid to put forth whatever amount of effort was required to attain the material possessions they needed and wanted to provide for their families.

How about a bumper sticker that says:

I saw it.
I wanted it.
I threw a fit.
My mother beat my ASS and I shut my damn MOUTH!

Or a bumper sticker that says:

I saw it.
I wanted it.
I saw someone else who had even less than I did.
I was suddenly grateful for all that I have in my life right now.

Or:

I saw it.
I wanted it.
I realized that the only reason I wanted it is because I live in a culture so all-consuming that I am only PROGRAMMED by marketing agencies to want it, and in another three months this thing I want now will be completely meaningless because I’ll be manipulated yet again to want something else.
I did an inventory of all the truly important things I have in my life, and decided that I am the one who determines the value of all that I have.

Or another possibility:

I saw it.
I wanted it.
I tried to get it, but it didn’t work out.
I realized then that people don’t ALWAYS get what they want.

I’m not trying to poo poo on anybody’s dreams, but this epidemic sense of entitlement is grating on my nerves of late. This belief that things can be attained without effort or skill or talent or ability and can be had for the asking—merely by wanting it is ludicrous! I get sick of people telling our kids, “You can be anything you want…” and ending that sentence right there, very irresponsibly, without telling them they’d better learn to bust a HUMP!

This kind of smoke-up-your-shorts advice produces people like “Bikini Girl” (does anyone even remember her NAME? NO!) who showed up to audition for American Idol in a swatch of material held up by strings and stiletto heels. When they passed her on to Hollywood she announced confidently, “I’m going to be the next American Idol because… because… because I AM!” I looked at the TV and shouted, “Honey, SOMEBODY in that room is going to be the next American Idol BECAUSE THEY CAN SING!” The outcome for her was really rather sad. At some point she had to put some clothes on and sing a song. Yeah. That’s when her situation started to disintegrate.

How many boys have I taught who truly believe they are going to play professional football? I’ll tell you: too many to count. No Plan B. These gentlemen do not study, do not get good grades, and have no intention of going to college. I’m not sure how they think they are going to be recruited by the NFL, but somehow in their minds, like Bikini Girl, it’s all going to work out. Why? Because that’s what they want!

You know what’s great about all this hoo ha? I AM A TEACHER! I have kids who walk through my life, year after year, just waiting to learn a thing or two. They may come IN deluded, but by God, they’re not going to LEAVE deluded! This summer, I’m making sure there is a “reality” component in every single lesson I teach! Like my good friend and fantastic educator, n!c, says, “It may not be in the standards—but I’m not afraid to teach it!”

New Moon

2009-04-24T18:43:00.000-07:00

Has anyone seen my boyfriend, Edward? Please don't tell me he's in Italy right now trying to piss off the Volturi! I'm coming for you, Edward! November can't get here soon enough!!!

Cardboard Testimonies

2009-04-02T18:55:00.001-07:00

I am so touched to be asked to give a "cardboard testimony" on Easter Sunday. I think my sign will say, "Accused God of being weak or cruel..." And on the back side: "Now I'm a TOTAL 'Daddy's Girl'!"

Please post a response on this blog with YOUR cardboard testimony. I don't get asked to give my testimony that often, really, but I do want people to know what God has done in my life. I want us ALL to have an opportunity to share how you have been transformed on your journey. Let us know what He's done in YOUR life and how your life is different because of God's grace and mercy.

Love you ALL!
Daisy Rain

Dating Debacles!

2009-03-25T08:59:00.000-07:00

You know, I was just thinking about this yesterday. I feel sorry for you "kids" with your whole "progressive" dating scene. I know you're not kids, but... Anyway, it seems like the dating culture now is full of people whose mantra is, "Oh, I'm not looking for a commitment?" WTF is up with all these commitment-phobes? I need to call some bullshit on that! Now, I can see males saying that and MEANING it! I can. And now they've got all the females saying it too! I'm here to let you know, if a girl EVER says that she is not looking for a relationship, SHE IS FULL OF SHIT! Colossally! Take that to the bank. Let me tell you something, my friend! Girls are not MADE that way! They are innately relational. Women need intimacy. We need meaningful connections, and don't believe any girl that tells you otherwise. You know why she's saying that? Because she is SADLY trying to change who she is to appear more appealing to a man who is not looking for a commitment, but just wants to wiggle his wiener in as many hoo hoos as he can. Girls are LINING UP to let boys wiggle their wieners in their hoo hoos, with the FALSE HOPE that SHE will be THE ONE who convinces him that intimacy WITH HER and a meaningful connection WITH HER will REALLY be what he wants! He just didn't KNOW IT until he met HER! I've never witnessed this amount of El Toro CaCa in my LIFE, and I can't figure out who I want to slap FIRST? The boys or the girls? It's a tough one!

If I were single right now, sitting across from some guy who has taken me out to dinner, I honestly can't imagine that I would sit there blowing smoke up his arse, postulating like I'm "not looking for a commitment..." I just think that people who are EVOLVED to any degree of maturity have come to the realization that the sun does not rise and set on THEM ALONE. The hedonistic pursuit of self-gratification and self-indulgence, nor the accumulation of things, stuff, possessions, etc. are really the way to leave one's mark on this earth. Being significant on this earth, strangely, is never accomplished alone, but REALLY through the collaborative efforts of people who LOVE EACH OTHER! And the most intimate bonds are those between lovers and those between a parent and child. Hmmm? Sounds like a family to ME! So why are people claiming NOT to want that? Why do people say, "Oh, I'm not the marrying type?" Bullshit. Everybody's the marrying type if they find the right person. And if said guy across the table from me claims that he's not looking for a relationship, GREAT! I couldn't be happier! I'll assume he's not "evolved" to any degree of maturity that I REQUIRE, and REGARDLESS of how "cute" he is (that one always aggravates me) or how much money he makes or what car he drives, his wiener is coming nowhere NEAR my hoo hoo, he is off my radar before he ever got ON, thanks for the steak. Why can't women do that? I'll tell you why. They're insecure. They don't know their value or their beauty or their significance on this earth. They don't know who they are. They believe they need a man to tell them who they are because, due to the absolute onslaught of lascivious grime the media feeds girls in this country, girls believe they must be defined by men. And people are going straight to hell over it, believe me! These girls need to wake up, put one hand on their hip, snap in "Z" formation, and LEARN HOW TO SAY THE F-WORD!

In a somewhat related arena, Sean-Martin and I have discussed in the past, which gender is most responsible for the world being what it is today, and we come at it from two different perspectives. He, being a man, claims that men are to blame for the ills of this world, and if men would just do "such and such", the world would be a much better place to live. I, being a woman, claim that women are to blame for the ills of this world, and if WOMEN would just do "such and such"... you get it.

Here's the "such and such". We both agree that the bottom line problem in this world are insecure people who, as I stated previously, don't know that they have such VALUE and BEAUTY and SIGNIFICANCE on this planet. Sean-Martin says that if every man simply cherished his FAMILY, protected them and provided for them, then collectively, men could rid the world of so many of its ills. Think about it. The best thing a man could do for his children is to love their mother, command respect for her by his example, provide an intact and stable home, teach his sons how to be men and do the same with their own families, cherish his daughters and teach them how to command respect for themselves, and let nature then takes its due course. Sean-Martin argues that men could change this world within one generation.

I don't disagree. I concur with Sean-Martin 100%. I just think women could fix the world, not in one generation, but in one WEEK if every woman would only live by this ONE RULE: "In light of the fact that I am VALUABLE, BEAUTIFUL, AND SIGNIFICANT, I will not ever allow ANY man to wiggle his wiener around in my hoo hoo unless he is ABSOLUTELY WORTHY!" Period! No exceptions. No excuses. Not negotiable. I am here to tell you, my friend, men would straighten up within DAYS, and the world would be fixed by TUESDAY!

What do you think?

Lucy vs. Ricky

2009-03-14T10:24:00.001-07:00

http://www.cnn.com/2009/LIVING/personal/03/13/p.techniques.use.husband/index.html

Here’s a cute article about a woman who tried parenting tricks on her husband, with some margin of success, in order to bring him into a closer alignment with what she thought would make for a happier home. Her strategies included rewarding good behavior, keeping “honey-do’s” short and to the point, using “Time Out”, giving quality time to him to get quality time to herself, and finally, implementing creative discipline!

I’m not sure I’ve ever read anything so emasculating in my life. Where does this woman keep this guy’s testicles? In her purse? Her make-up drawer? Where?

I admit, I chuckled a few times reading this article, and I’m sure she didn’t mean any harm, much in the same way that Lucy never meant any harm for her beloved Ricky. An article like this, though, does bring up certain “Battle of the Sexes” questions, doesn’t it?

I would imagine that there are many reasons that a woman might resort to using these techniques to get her man to do what she wants him to do. Perhaps she feels the need to “mother” her husband? Perhaps she is frustrated? Perhaps she has “lost her voice” in the relationship? That last one is the saddest-case scenario, I think.

In my own relationship with Sean-Martin, I can tell you that I haven’t (by a long shot!) lost my voice, although it’s not always easy to confront an issue. I’ve learned a few things. Timing is everything. (Probably the best time to voice a concern is NOT during a sporting event.) A little sugar goes a LONG WAY--and if that doesn't work, try LEMON BARS! (And a little nookie in the morning is a big WIN-WIN for everybody!) Respect his cave. Use your words—not your tears. (Save THOSE for the really BIG STUFF!) And, at the end of the day—even if your crap is not resolved and you’re at a loss as to what to do next—just remember that you guys have about 60 years to figure it out.

So, women! What are the best tricks of your trade and your reasons for using them? And, men! What are YOUR tricks? And why are they necessary for your survival?

Waiting for What? By my friend, Cody!

2009-03-06T07:47:00.000-08:00

May I introduce my friend, Cody Stauffer? I'm completely addicted to his blog--I post often--and I have just GOT to share him with my inner circle. He's occasionally brilliant, and I like those kind of people, so ya'll need to check out his stuff. Click on his blog--you'll see it on the right there in the blogs I follow.

I've got two posts this morning: Cody's first and then my response below. I know some of you have something to say about this. Post away! Love you guys!

Here's Cody:

Waiting for what?

Often times, when people come to a new church, there is a waiting period before they are allowed to get involved with serving or doing some form of ministry. First of all, I have issue with the whole "membership" system, but that's another topic we can talk about at some other time. What really bothers me is that we basically tell people you have to jump through all of these hoops (membership class, intro. to our church class, basics of Christianity class, what SHAPE you are class, etc., etc.).

But here is the funny thing- we are already equipped to help others and to join God in the work of restoration. It's what we were made for. In fact, in the Book of Matthew, Jesus sends out his disciples after a very short period to go and minister (Mat. 10).

So why do we think that we have to line everyone up and make sure they talk and act like we do before they can go and help others? When Jesus sends his followers out, he tells them not to worry about what they will say and do, because the spirit will work through them.

Of course people are going to make mistakes- but they are probably going to make the same mistakes people who have been going to church and who have sat through all of those trainings and programs will make. But see, we always use an entirely different system than Jesus used for his followers. Jesus used the discipleship model. We tend to use the "come-and-sit-in-a-chair-while-I-talk-to-you-as-you-fall-asleep-oh-and-lets-only-interact-once-or-twice-a-week-at-a-specific-place-and-specific-time" approach. (I believe that is its official name).

Now, there is nothing wrong with having conversations and talking about issues that might come up. But what tends to happen in our normal way of doing things is that someone comes to a class and goes through the process designated by the church to make "disciples"- but really all that is being made are people who are great at sitting and taking notes. Congratulations, if what you are looking for are stenographers.

But a disciple went with Jesus, walked where he walked. These guys were teenagers, folks, and Jesus says to them, "Alright, two of you go together and go take care of business. Yeah, I know you feel like you're not ready yet. That's why I'm sending you. Here are a few instructions. See you when you get back- we'll discuss what happened."

How would things be different if we took this approach? Assumed that God knows what God is doing when God calls people to be ministers (which is everyone)? Believed that God has equipped people to serve one another?

What are your thoughts?

My Response

2009-03-06T07:43:00.000-08:00

Hey Cody,

Sean-Martin and I remember going to a church which seemed the quintessential example of this. (We lasted a while but ultimately had to bail.) When I look back, the thing that is most disconcerting to me is the way that pastor who, for all intents and purposes WAS the church, was actually the only one allowed to DEFINE what ministry even was, how it should be implemented, who should implement it, yada, yada, yada...

The man was in love with his programs, and he was the one who decided whether or not they were working. I've never been to a place that browbeat a congregation like that into working so many programs. This guy just wore people OUT, starting with his wife. His wife was and still IS a big supporter, because that's what Godly women do, I guess. Anyone who questioned him was deemed UNgodly--aka ME. He told me that I hadn't been "discipled" as far as he could see and that I needed to attend one of his discipleship classes.

You remember Bible college, Cody? Remember Old Testament Survey? Did you NOT get choked up when you stood at that burning bush and realized that "I AM" STILL IS? I don't know about you, but I'm pretty sure if my professor had given an altar call, I'd have gone forward! FOR SURE! Bible college rocked. It was truly the place of my birth.

There are a million little pieces of lives weaved together, equipped and commissioned to be Christ on this earth and to further God's kingdom right here--right now. What a slap in the face of the Holy Spirit who has--with the power of a mighty, rushing wind--led, comforted, taught, admonished, healed, prepared, AND DISCIPLED all of us who are willing to be about our Father's business. I would like to say, "So what if some pastor isn't secure enough within himself to 'Let go and let God...'" But people get sucked into this. People get burned out (and subsequently BLAMED) from implementing all these programs and meetings and Sunday school and bringing the donuts and setting up the chairs and folding the bulletins. Does anybody really get saved over a Boston creme and a cup of Maxwell House? Really?

C'mon, people! Put your arms around somebody! Make someone a lasagna! Babysit for free! Pop somebody five bucks! Feed, clothe, visit. Ministry is JUST not that complicated! It doesn't necessarily have to occur underneath that steeple. Our silly, little efforts to make it harder than it really is is only a ploy to elevate ourselves in this crazy hierarchy of importance in a social network of knuckleheads! Put the donuts down, folks! Step away from the bulletins! Just remember what Christ has done for you, and go do it for other people. It doesn't have to be during the ten o'clock hour on Sunday morning. In fact, just to be different, make sure it's on a Thursday at, like, five! Get crazy! Be creative! Act like one of those teenagers Jesus chose!

Cody, I'm posting your blog post on my blog and my response. I'd like to get MY social network of knuckleheads in on this discussion too! :)

Love you, brother. Congratulations on getting all those funds raised for your trip! Can't WAIT for all the great writing that is going to come out of THAT!

Take care of yourself--and somebody else!
Daisy Rain

All's Well

2009-03-01T08:28:00.000-08:00

A colossal come-apart could occur in my very near future.

Should occur,

Might still occur.

Freaks and fiends whose leashes broke long before they ever met me

Knocking on my door, demanding my defense.

I’d cry the day away if I were smart.

Throw a fit,

Froth at the mouth,

Though dutiful expectations unfortunately prevent.

“No chink in MY armor!” I lie!

Susie Sunshine has NOT left the building!

The good ship Lollypop is still afloat, folks!

All aboard!

Don’t concern yourselves!

All’s well!

After all, if it seems that IF my seams

Stretch threateningly

And my life starts spilling out,

I simply look down the hall at another woman

Stooped low,

Picking up the pieces of a life already seeped out.

Can she gather again all the pieces of her personage,

Precious to her,

Laid waste on the pavement?

Ah, perspective.

And so, I’m thankful.

But still pissed, let’s be honest.

And still smiling.

Or is that seething?

Lost Generation

2009-01-31T06:25:00.001-08:00

This video is for all those I partner with every day to make sure that the next generation is blessed and happy and fulfilled: McKenzie, Chelsi, n!c, Casey, Cherise, Jeremy, Abby, Chris, my Sean-Martin and everyone else who pours out their lives at Sage Valley Middle School. It is a pleasure to share my life and my efforts with you.

I love Jesus, but I drink a little...

2009-01-20T17:06:00.000-08:00

Thank you to Miss Donna Wallace who brought this to the attention of... everyone on our Facebook friends list. I love her. And I love Ellen. And I love Gladys.

Ellen DeGeneres ~ I Love Jesus But I Drink A Little (HQ)

2009-01-20T16:56:00.001-08:00

Donna says that I will be Gladys when I'm 88...

I'm Bored!

2009-01-18T11:12:00.000-08:00

I’m bored.

My husband is fishing. My son is with his girlfriend. I’m still in my pajamas. I just won a game of solitaire without cheating, which is pretty hard to do, and I’m staring at the dog who is staring back at me. I think she wants some of my top ramen noodles.

There are a million and one things I could be doing, but most of them fall in the category of “have to”. I don’t want to do the laundry. I don’t want to clean out the cupboards in the office. I don’t want to get on the treadmill. I don’t want to plan all the meals for the week and go to the grocery store.

I don’t even want to do the things that usually fall under the category of “leisure” for me. I don’t want to read. I don’t want to write. I don’t want to watch TV. I don’t want a pedicure.

I want to build a swimming pool in the back yard.

And people in Hell want ice water.

Maybe it’s not that I’m bored. Maybe it’s because I don’t know how to take one day and relax and do NOTHING! How does one go ABOUT doing nothing?

I need a hobby.

Scrapbooking? That’s Dee Dee’s gig. Chasing down emergency vehicles? Devin’s got that one.

Ho hum.

I want to be the editor in chief of a major magazine that is totally original, totally raking in the big bucks, and totally mine.

Today.

I want to go to the inauguration on Tuesday and sit with Oprah and Stedman and Gayle.

I want to be on tour with the Dixie Chicks—if they would ever go on tour again. I wonder if Natalie Maines is playing solitaire right now and eating top ramen noodles?

Staring at her dog?

Sigh.

Perspective

2009-01-09T16:01:00.001-08:00

Perspective
Many of you have been concerned about my brother, Jimmy, who was in a serious car accident earlier this week and have been emailing me to see how he’s doing. Thank you SO MUCH for your thoughts and prayers. He is doing GREAT!
His story is amazing. He’s a walking miracle.
Jimmy works for the city of Carterville, Missouri. He was driving some water samples over to Carthage, probably thirty minutes away. He called his wife, Keri, because he was suddenly feeling sick. After a few minutes, he began to feel lightheaded and dizzy. The last words he heard were “Jimmy, pull over!” He passed out cold while he was driving down the highway, veered to the right (probably in an attempt to pull over) and drove off a thirty-foot embankment. His truck wrapped itself around a tree. His engine pushed into the cab from one end, and the tool truck that had been bolted to the back pushed its way in from behind him. He’d had poles in the back that impaled the back window, but missed his head. He woke up pressed against the driver’s side door. He couldn’t get out that way, so on pure adrenaline, he kicked out the passenger side door, climbed out, and tore through the branches. He then climbed UP the thirty feet he’d fallen to get back to the road. Another driver stopped and was there to help him when he reached the top and told him to sit down. Instead, as my brother stood there teetering, he realized, “Wait a minute! My WIFE is still on the phone!” So what did he do? He climbed thirty feet back down the incline and tore his way back into the truck. He found the cell phone on the dashboard.
“Honey?”
She was still there! He told her he was fine, even though he wasn’t really sure about that claim. He climbed BACK UP the thirty-foot incline for the second time and waited for the emergency crews. When they arrived, Jimmy pretty well collapsed in sheer relief that someone else could be in charge for the next little while. The paramedics took over, picked him up, strapped him to a backboard, and whisked him to a hospital in Carthage for x-rays.
The diagnosis? The boy scratched his nose.
That’s it. In all fairness, he was pretty sore, he did find a bruise on his thigh later, and he had to wear a heart monitor for a couple days since they are still a little curious as to how he passed out while driving and wanted to rule some things out. Otherwise, the only thing broken was the skin across his nose as you can see in the picture.
We are so inexplicably thankful. We’ve all taken a moment to stop and step back and just breathe deeply with the most profound gratitude. Most of you know that we lost our sister, Tabitha, several years ago, and I cannot imagine my world without my brother in it.
Sean-Martin and I look back over the last few months and are amazed at some of the events that it seems we’ve been hit with: his shoulder injury which invariably required that dreaded rotator-cuff surgery, the DOG’S THWARTED attempt at getting her OWN shoulder surgery (you know, if Daddy gets x-rays, drugs and a procedure done, she thinks she is entitled to the same treatment), Geoffrey’s car accident, another THWARTED car accident on our way to the cabin over Christmas, my dad’s passing, and now my brother’s accident. (I do love the word, THWARTED!) We’re scratching our heads wondering what the heck is going on? But with every incident, we cannot resist being so phenomenally grateful! Sean-Martin’s shoulder is healing very well, and we are so thankful for our very capable doctor and physical therapist. Our insurance has covered most of the expenses. The dog? Well, truthfully that mostly just sucks, but we ARE thankful that she did not have a cartilage flap in her shoulder that would have been very expensive to fix. And, gosh darn it, we already love her. Sean-Martin would have paid the money to have her patched up—no question. But we didn’t have to! Whew! Geoffrey forewent even a scratch on his nose when he had his accident. The other driver was at fault and was INSURED! Our good friend, Dale, fixed the truck through his shop, and we know that his work is excellent and reliable. Thankful! My dad’s passing was very, very sad and unexpected, but I’m so thankful for the years I was able to have him in my life. I can’t imagine not being able to talk to him and get to know him so that I could get to know myself. Again, so thankful. And now we are counting our blessings once more that my brother is alive and well. Seeing the pictures of that truck makes ME want to pass out, but Jimmy is still here with us, and he is safe and well, healthy and whole. THANK GOD!
Friends have commented that it seems we’re getting more than our share of trials lately, but Sean-Martin and I only feel blessed. It’s all a matter of perspective, I suppose. We think, If you don’t have to send your children down to the contaminated river for your daily supply of water in the morning, you’re probably doing pretty well. If no one is dropping bombs on your neighborhood, life is A-OK. If your existence doesn’t depend on the kindness of others, then you have enough to bless somebody else. Perspective.

"Twilight"

2009-01-04T12:26:00.000-08:00

I admit it. I’m a “Twerd”, a “Twilight” nerd. Edward Cullen is my boyfriend, and I don’t care who knows it. I’m taking him to school with me when we return from Christmas break tomorrow. Seriously. I am. Geoff bought me a life-sized, cardboard cut out of Edward, and I’m putting him right behind my desk. I’ve seen the movie three times, I’m more than half-way through the third novel for the second time, and I’m anxiously awaiting the release of “New Moon”.

Call me crazy. I’ve been called worse. I’ve been called a fang-banger. I have a T-shirt that I wear every time I go see the movie that says, “TEAM EDWARD! Because Jacob Doesn’t SPARKLE!” Yes, it’s hot pink. Yes, it sparkles. Of course, it does! Sean-Martin wants a T-shirt that says, “Suck THIS, Edward!” but I won’t let him have one. Geoff wants the T-shirt that says, “Meanwhile, in a town called ‘Spoons’”.

I never understood the Potter/Wizard frenzy or the Rings/Hobbit frenzy or even the Force/Vader frenzy, although Lando WAS hot! But, boy, I’m telling you what! I sure get the Vampire/Cullen frenzy! Can’t get enough of it!

Can anybody relate?

Twilight Trailer (final) from Summit Entertainment!

2009-01-04T12:14:00.001-08:00

Donald Eugene Lofton

2008-12-14T08:09:00.001-08:00

Sean-Martin and I stopped home briefly yesterday afternoon between busy Saturday afternoon errands to drop off some things before heading out again. I was listening to a couple of messages on the answering machine when I noticed that my cell phone had been buzzing in my purse. By the time I got to it, it had gone to voice mail. The area code was 417, so I knew it was my dad. I was glad. We hadn’t had one of our marathon-phone conversations for a while. It had been at least a month and a half since we’d spoken, in fact. Too long. Behind me, somewhere in Sean-Martin’s brief case, his cell phone started ringing. I didn’t know what zipped pocket he’d stuffed it in, and by the time I wrenched it out of the bag it, too, had gone to voice mail. 417 area code. My dad was calling through the list of numbers he had, and I was missing him every time. I laughed and looked at the house phone. This time I would be ready! Sure enough, it rang and I pounced on it.
“Hello!” I answered, expecting to hear my father’s voice greet me with his usual, “Hello, darlin’.”
It wasn’t his voice.
The voice I heard was kind and calm and told me that my dad had passed away that morning.

My dad never scolded me. He never put me on restriction. He never made me eat my vegetables. This is because by the time I met my dad, I was married to my first husband and pregnant with my son. I heard his voice for the first time that I remember on my 24th birthday. Geoffrey’s father and I were living in Cape Girardeau then. We were just walking out the door to go to dinner and then to our first Lamaze birthing class. The phone rang, and I picked it up.
“Hello?” I answered.
“Hello, darlin’,” he replied. “My name is Don Lofton.”
“Dad?” I couldn’t believe it. It was the most amazing birthday present I’ve ever received. I told him, “It’s my birthday! You called on my birthday!”
He said, “I know, honey. I haven’t forgotten.”
The following spring, we took our new baby, drove west across the state of Missouri and met him in person. My grandparents, Jon and Billie, were with us then. I met my Uncle Ronnie and my sister, Georgi. I loved them all instantly.
My dad told me that he had been stationed in Thailand when I was born, and he’d received a telegram from the Red Cross, which read, “Baby girl arrived. Mom and baby doing fine.” He told me he’d gone into town to celebrate. That may have been the first time, in fact, that I’d ever heard the phrase, ‘three sheets to the wind’, which was how he’d described his condition. He bought me a tiny, little Thai outfit and gave it to a pilot, I believe, who was coming home. He asked that soldier to send it to me when he got stateside, but it never arrived that I’m aware of. I hope that when I am reunited with my father again in Heaven that he greets me with a hug and that little outfit. I want it. I wish I had it now. It was my first present from my father.
Since then, my father has given me many presents. The best of which are answers. I look like him. I have a string of feistiness that runs through me that, admittedly, pales in comparison to his. After all, I’ve never stood up on a bar top in a rowdy, rival Kansas bar and started a brawl by screaming at the top of my lungs, “KANSAS AIN’T NOTHIN’ BUT A BUNCH SUNFLOWERS AND SONSA BITCHES!”
He grew up late, and I grew up young. I would tell him stories of my students in school and how I handled them when they were naughty and how I got them to behave. He would laugh and tell me, “You don’t even know why you act the way you do. But I do. You’re just like me.” He, in turn, told me stories of how he dealt with his kids on the bus he supervised. Each story seemed like one of my own fingerprints. I started to understand my own relationship with my students. Every time I talked to my dad, he would give me another little piece of the puzzle of my life. It was comforting to finally have some explanations as to why I was the way I was. Growing up, I didn’t look like my family. I didn’t want the same things. I always felt different. Meeting my dad reassured me that I wasn’t different—I was like him. It was a series of little gifts that he gave me every time we connected.
He told me stories of the war. Of having to make a trip into Vietnam once a month to salvage parts for the airplanes he worked on. I thought he’d stayed in Thailand—I hadn’t known he had to actually go into Vietnam. He explained, “Well, honey, when they shoot those planes down, it’s not like they bring ‘em back!” He loved the History Channel and even expressed a desire to return to Vietnam and Thailand to experience it in a more positive light. He talked about the times when the rain would suddenly burst out of the clouds and every soldier would stop what he was doing, go get a bar of soap and strip down buck-naked right where he stood to shower. It didn’t matter if they were eating, relaxing, or working. He laughed at the poor schmucks who were still lathered in soap when the rain stopped as suddenly as it had come.
He asked every pilot how he felt about his mission before he allowed the plane in the air. “Are you feeling good about this one, sir?” he’d say. The soldiers would almost always say, “Absolutely! I’m coming back.” Only once did he have a man say, “You know, I don’t have a good feeling about this. I don’t think I’m gonna make it.” My dad grounded that plane. He “found” something wrong with it. That soldier didn’t fly that day. It’s how my dad coped. He spoke reverently about the bravery of the men he’d met. He said when his tour of duty was over and he flew home, there was no fanfare. No flags. No banners. Wrong war. His parents were waiting for him at the airport along with my mother and me. He talked to me about my mother and how he had loved her. I’d not been told that. Another gift for me.
When Sean-Martin and I got married, we were thrilled that Dad and Barbara, whom I call ‘Mom’, were able to come to our wedding. I treasure the fact that he walked me down the aisle and gave me away. He stole the show at the reception when he caught the garter and proceeded to cut the rug in celebration. He was quite the dancer!
Even thought our relationship was one of continual discovery, I know there were things we didn’t tell each other. We both kept things from each other, and I think we both knew it. I think he knew there was much I didn’t tell him. I wonder if he knew that I was aware that there was more he wasn’t telling me. Neither of us would have ever given the other any information that would have been burdensome, so we held that to our chests. The past was the past. We spared each other the details because we loved each other. He’d suffered enough, and so had I. He carried with him certain regrets concerning me. I think I will carry them with me now.
Today, I am grateful. I’m grateful that I was able to know him for the eighteen years that I did. I’m grateful that I knew my grandparents. I’m thankful that I have an uncle and a sister to love. I’m thankful that he gave me Barbara. She gave him the greatest joy of his life. She was his gift, and he was proud to share her with me. To have missed out on knowing him and the rest of my family would have been the tragedy of my life. But that didn’t happen. I got that phone call on my 24th birthday, and I heard that now-familiar greeting, “Hello, darlin’.” It changed my life forever.
I thought I would hear that greeting yesterday when I saw that 417 area code, but I will look forward to the day when I hear that greeting again. It will be in that glorious place where no one will ever cry. No one will ever leave someone they love. He’ll be waiting for me.
He’ll smile and say, “Hello, darlin’.”

What I learned from my little experiment…

2008-11-24T08:30:00.001-08:00

A few weeks ago, I posted a status comment on my Facebook page that ignited a certain amount of controversy: “Daisy is confused. If faith is the opposite of fear, then why do those who claim to be people of ‘faith’ peddle the most fear? Daisy is not afraid. She believes in God.” This post was the result of having been poked and poked and poked by those of my own faith who disagreed with my political views and called my faith into question given my “wayward political opinions.” I often opt not to respond to these insinuations, these carefully worded innuendoes, because I do believe what Tyler Perry says, “It’s not what people call you in this world that makes you who you are—it’s what you answer to.” In light of that wisdom, I have often ignored the subtle, personal attacks and judgments in regard to my relationship with God by those who claim to know Him just a little bit better than I do and who, let’s face it, are apparently just a little bit smarter. Those who have not been “deceived” by a liberal media (like I have—always the underlying meaning) have felt compelled to inform me of the “correct” opinions that are closer to the heart of God and, therefore, the ones to which I should adhere if I truly claim to be in tune with His Holy Spirit. The fact that I cuss, drink, and flash my boobs on occasion CERTAINLY does not help my case—this is the very folly that hammers every frivolous nail into my hell-bent coffin. I fully concede that fact. The fact that I have no intention of modifying a gosh-darn thing in that regard (because I believe the whole lot of it to be the most petty of issues) gives everyone who sits in the pews with me on Sunday mornings all the justification they need to disregard every single syllable I utter. I get it. To them I probably sound like the adults on every Charlie Brown cartoon special we’ve ever seen: “Wa waaaa, wa-wa waaaaaaa-wong-waaaa wa-wa waaaaaaaaaaa.”
I posted that statement to turn the tables. I chose to publicly post a statement that would bring into question the very faith of those whose political opinions were the opposite of my own. Honestly, it was about 10% retaliatory because I was tired of getting poked. But about 90% of the question was meant to turn the situation around out of sheer curiosity to see how others would react if I called their faith into question because of their politics—the way my own had been. In so doing, I pissed off pretty much everybody. The response I got was… OK, I’m just going to say it… boringly predictable. People who act with any measure of predictability are boring to me. Can’t help it. They do not compel me in any way. They are uninteresting. I think that’s why I pursue knowing Christ like I do. He’s unpredictable to me. I can’t figure that Guy out. He just seems so… beyond me. He intrigues me like no one else. For those who have figured Him out so completely, I stand in complete and total awe of you. How wonderful that must be to know exactly what He thinks about everything. I guess you truly are smarter than I am—more “in tune”. Hey, good for you. That’s great that you’ve got Him all figured out. Maybe someday I’ll be on the same spiritual level you are and stop flashing my boobs. The responses to my status comment ranged from patronizing to hostile. Some posted on my wall—others grilled me privately. Regardless of the intensity of people’s responses, one theme was universal: “Don’t you DARE question MY faith in God!”
Hmmm? That’s kind of how I felt when people were doing it to me. Of course, I’ve invalidated myself due to my unapologetically, irreverent, and frolicsome antics so people who know better have every right to judge me accordingly and go tearing into their prayer closets on my behalf, in fact, breaking the sound barrier on their way to intercede for my deluded, rebellious, backslidden soul who votes with the devil and his angels.
It’s enough to make me want to walk down the street buck-ass naked. Believe me, it’s only the shark-bait white skin, the muffin-top tummy, and the stretch marks that prevent me!
So what am I taking away from this little social experiment? Well? How about… Don’t ever stand up and exercise any kind of ability to think for yourself in the midst of a bunch of Christians—it’s JUST not the arena for such shenanigans. LIKE THIS IS BIG NEWS! No, there’s got to be something a little more earth-shattering than that! Let’s see… What have I learned? Keep my damn mouth shut? Hmmm. I think everybody knows THAT’S not going to happen. Truly? There’s probably nothing new under this rock. I’m no Galileo, but I’m pretty sure that my world is not flat. I’m pretty sure that God is bigger than my hard questions. I’m relatively convinced that He’s bigger than my opinions. And I’m absolutely POSITIVE that the predominant subculture of American Christians is no sanctuary for someone like me. I think. Therefore, I am, right? I’m not sure what people are who subject themselves to a subculture that does not encourage thinking, but rather, tells people what to think. Oh, surely, God gave us a free will and, in this country, we have the right to speak freely. But many of us have had to pay for what we say, so it’s only free for SOME people, I suppose. The rest of us? Not so much. Where do I send my penance check?
I’m not going to throw any more provocative questions into the conservative arena. That whole thing amounted to nothing more than throwing popcorn into a lake to a bunch of hungry carp. Most don’t take the time to truly look into my life. I can’t be worried about it. My Father looks into my life, and that’s all I need. He breathes into my life. He’s not afraid of how I vote. He’s not afraid of the questions I ask. He’s not worried about the momentum of the moral majority, and frankly, I think He could care less about the f-word, a good chardonnay, or who has seen my boobs. He sees my heart, and I am grateful.
I have a couple of options here, I think. I could ignore those who judge me and piss me off and call my faith into question. I could just continue like I have been, going about my Father’s business without the validation of my peers—feeding hungry children who need something to eat, giving something to drink for those who are thirsty, inviting strangers into my life, tending to those who are sick, and visiting those in prison. I could just leave it at that, right? As long as I keep cussing, drinking, and flashing my boobs, I don’t have to ever fear being lumped in with that “holier than thou” ensemble whose job it is to judge everything that swims upstream against the groupthink, which is just A-OK WITH ME! After all, I wouldn’t want there to be ANY CONFUSION!
Or, I could do something unpredictable. Something very un-boring. I could learn to show compassion to those who stand in judgment of me. Of course, I would have to stop comparing Christians to carp. I could start there. I could “…BE the change I want to see in the world.” Oh, wait, Ghandi said that. He wasn’t a Christian, so nobody has to listen to him… UGH! There’s that sarcasm again! I’ll have to work on that, which sucks because I’m REALLY stellar at it.
But, ultimately, I want to be stellar at being compassionate rather than being sarcastic and zinging people back who pop off to me. To tell you truth, I am slightly particular about who I show compassion to. I mostly show compassion to my kids and my inner circle and those I believe DESERVE my compassion.
How predictably boring.
I’ve been told I don’t have the guts to take a stand for Jesus. Literally. I’ve been told exactly that. I haven’t minded much, though, because my retort has always been that my accuser doesn’t have the guts to stand up in his own subculture and think for himself, whereas I’ve already proven that I do. And besides, with so much to do, who needs to be “standing” around? Whatever. Bygones. Who cares? My confession is this. As it stands right now, I do NOT have the guts to embrace those who judge me. My confession is, I am boring. I am predictable—as much as those whom I have judged for judging me. I was poked, and I poked back. Once again, I told God, “Hold my purse!” while I fought my own battle. Every time I do it, I come up empty. It’s always a wretched thing to do, and it never works out the way I fantasize that it’s going to in my mind. The 10,000 never, ever fall at my right hand. I’ve got to daily remind myself of Switchfoot’s advice:
Let it go
Daisy, Let it go
Open up your fist
This fallen world
Doesn't hold your interest
It doesn't hold your soul
Daisy, let it go

The Ministry of Spam-A-Lot

2008-11-05T20:02:00.001-08:00

Since when is spamming a bona-fide ministry?
People believe the Internet to be the latest and greatest vehicle to spread their own personal convictions to the masses—the gospel according to… THEM! How easy it is! They never have to face anyone. They can throw the rudest and most accusing thoughts out into the universe without ever having to hear a retort or see the look of incredulity on the face of someone who might know something different. There are no social repercussions. They don’t have to cite their sources or have any proof for the claims they make or worry about that annoyingly trivial little thing called accountability. Logic can go completely awry and no one has to pay the piper. One simply has to click the send key and walk away feeling like he has helped make the world a better place in some small way. World War II reminds us that people don’t believe the little lies as easily as they believe the big ones. I’ve recently read some whoppers. Most of those whoppers use the tried and true tools of manipulation: intimidation, ridicule, and fear. Fear is the POLAR opposite of faith. Yet, what I’ve witnessed in the last few months are many who claim to be people of faith peddling the most fear.
I have a place on the Internet where I post my opinions. It’s called a blog, and I think it’s the greatest thing since peanut butter fudge with chocolate drizzles. I invite people to click on the link to my blog, but I do not copy and paste its contents and send it to everyone in my address book. On it, I state my opinions. And I’m not even gonna lie—it feels pretty good to vent. It’s an amazing feeling to put something out there and proclaim, “THIS IS WHAT I THINK, AND I DON’T CARE WHAT ANYBODY ELSE THINKS!” But I keep my rantings all in one solitary place. My reckless abandon is contained! I do NOT circulate my opinions and convictions around the Internet because I’m just not that arrogant to believe that anybody gives a shit as to what I think about anything. People can tune in or opt out. The only source I can cite for this wisdom is my own brain, so I could never presume to claim any legitimate credibility. People can agree or disagree. There is a place for comments where my readers have done just that—agreed and disagreed. How insulated and safe it all is, even when someone does disagree. If I’m afraid that someone might, in fact, have a differing opinion, I have a nifty little filter that allows me to preview any message before I post it. If I don’t like how people respond, I can simply delete their posts and go make myself a sandwich. (Incidentally, I have never even thought about filtering or deleting any response to my blog. Ever.)
What if we were forced to go back to a time when, if we felt compelled to throw our opinions into the ring, we had to actually face people? What if we had to actually look into the eyes of another person and say what was on our minds? Would we take such a strong, adversarial stance then? Would we do a little more research and make sure we knew what we were talking about before we stuck our necks out? Because now it seems that we don’t have to stick our necks out at all. Would we be as condescending? Would we still have the hutspa to be as rude and as glibly self-important as the Internet currently allows? I think we should have to look people in the eyes when we speak, acknowledge what we do to them with our words, and take responsibility if we insult them with the gratuitous “sharing” that we convince ourselves is simply the truth. I think we should have to consider the distinct possibility that if people are not receptive to what we say, then PERHAPS we could contemplate a little self-reflection? If that reflection leads us right back to our convictions, then PERHAPS we could rethink the delivery?
If compassion were an actual requirement, would we be kinder? Would we force ourselves to THINK, not only about WHAT we would say but HOW we would say it before we allow the words to come out of our mouths? Would we be more thoughtful to others if we were forced to physically absorb their reactions to our opinions? Would we be slightly more wary about how we spoke to people if we knew they could beat us up? Would we give someone else a chance to talk if we saw their face contort into confusion in response to our proclamations? Would we listen to them or just wait “politely” to stop talking so that we could have their strict attention again before we resume our tirade?
No, I suppose that’s too hard. It’s much easier to click furiously away at the keyboard and delude ourselves into thinking we’ve contributed to the world in some significant way.
I want to say a couple things here ON MY BLOG:
#1 Check your facts. Emails that have been spammed out across the globe are not the voice of God above. If it sounds ridiculous, it probably is. Stop forwarding the “whoppers” that history has taught us so many are susceptible to.
#2 Look people in the eye with whom you have differences and embrace them. It’s hard to hold anger in your heart when you’re holding someone in your arms. After all, people don’t care what you really think about anything. THAT’S the truth, my friends. That is, until you’ve shown them that you really do care about them. Invite someone to dinner who voted differently than you did or prays to another God. Don’t try to convert them. Just feed them. That single act will do more to heal our land than convincing even one person that you are right and he is wrong. After all, how many people do you need to piss off before you find that one needle in the haystack? And remember, people listen a lot better on a full stomach.
#3 Do your best to develop that ability to perceive how others perceive you. This will prove most helpful in your quest to win friends and influence people. Start by realizing this: If you are one of those folks who clicks furiously away at that keyboard and e-shares with the masses the opinions that have been so enlightening to YOU or forwards every piece of Internet fodder that comes into your inbox, you should probably stop and consider one thing. At least a good portion of the population thinks you’re an idiot. They’re not listening. You can’t put something in someone’s hands if they are clenched into fists. People who want to punch you make fists. Stop making people want to punch you. Love them, be kind to them, and they will open their hands. It’s very simple. If you’re reading this and you don’t care that people think you’re an idiot, and you’re resolved that you’re going to continue to bombard the rest of us with your never-ending two cents’ worth (in the name of God or your own conventional wisdom) you ARE an idiot! Come visit me as soon as you can so I can put my arms around you, look you in the eye, and tell you to your face.
If you come a long way, I’ll feed you dinner.

Empty Nesting...

2008-10-23T20:23:00.001-07:00

Empty Nesting…
I have made absolutely no bones about the fact that I am in the market for a good therapist for next August when my baby leaves for college; not to mention the fact that a good anti-depressant is CERTAINLY not beneath me.
Having said that, let me say that our trip up to Moscow to preview the University of Idaho was wonderfully encouraging. First of all, you may or may not be aware that Sean-Martin is a Vandal alum. (That would be the University of Idaho Vandals.) He had such a great time showing Geoff snapshots of his past. Geoff had a great time contemplating the possibilities of his future.
Mommy was just trying not to leak spontaneously out of her eyeballs.
The day began with a tour of the campus. Beautiful. The Vandal Preview was strategically planned for an extraordinary fall day, before the onset of ice and snow. The financial aid meeting was most reassuring. FAFSA is our new best friend. If your children are still tiny, you may not have been formally introduced to the huge stack of paperwork awaiting you and your tax return, which determines how much free money you are entitled to. We will be finding out in a few short months what the price tag will be, so we’re doing our best now to confess ALL our sins. Neither one of us has said the f-word since we got home and are in church every single time the doors open up. It can’t hurt, right?
Since Geoff is such an amazing artist, he gave serious consideration to the College of Art and Architecture. We tracked down a very generous Dr. Brian Clevely, who spent at least thirty minutes talking to the three of us about the department he heads up: Virtual Technology and Design. Geoff wants to be a virtual architect. The program was amazingly impressive and reminded us of Randy Pausch and the phenomenal work he was able to do with his virtual reality students. (YOU MUST YOUTUBE HIM! RANDY PAUSCH—THE LAST LECTURE!) Geoff didn’t stop smiling from that moment on. It was so reassuring to see our son in this element. His element.
He is so ready for this.
The university must have hidden all the students who may have been struggling or unhappy in any way because every single, solitary student we came across, whether he or she were on campus or enjoying a beverage and snack on one of the sidewalk cafes in downtown Moscow, was thrilled and delighted to be attending the U of I. We came across a delightful little group of students, rolling their own cigarettes, who recognized our potential Vandal right away. The cutie-patootie named Robin, whose dreadlocks were just starting to take off, struck up a conversation.
“So, are you thinking about coming to U of I?”
“I am,” Geoff answered.
“Are you cool?”
“I’m pretty cool.”
They laughed approvingly and lifted their glasses in welcome. It was another reassuring snapshot.
A year from this moment, Geoff will likely be venturing out on his own path. Sean-Martin will be mowing the lawn and picking up Sofie’s poop without his #1 guy, and I will be in counseling.
Perhaps. Perhaps not.
A colossal part of my heart is absolutely thrilled for Geoff to have this chance—this chance that he has earned—to be in a place where he can learn and grow and become everything he was meant to be. We are so proud of him. What a gloriously delightful, intelligent, comical, artistic, talented, and kind gentleman he has already become. He deserves this. I am more than willing to push him from this nest—even though it might seem empty when he’s gone.
And, let’s face it. It’s not like it sucks to be me. I don’t know what women do who, #1 Do not like their husbands anymore and #2 Who do not know who they are apart from their mothering. I’m not saying it isn’t heart wrenching to have poured my heart out into the life of my son, only to leave him standing in his dorm room with his mini-refrigerator and X-Box 360 (he has more games than jeans, for God’s sake), knowing that he isn’t ever going to live with us again while concurrently and equally mortified if he were to ever try. I’m grateful, though, in the midst of my conflictedness, for my husband’s humor and his ever-present calming effect. My life is very full—apart from my mothering. I’m grateful, too, that Geoff is ready to fly.
After all, this is just one step closer to grandbabies, right?

My Bucket List

2008-10-12T14:09:00.000-07:00

Things I want to do, in no particular order, before I kick the bucket…

1. Front a band that does cover songs for inebriated people outdoors on warm, summer evenings
2. Find two other people to sing hymns in three-part harmony for no one but ourselves
3. Finish writing my romance novels
4. Get published
5. Become a real, bona fide motivational speaker
6. Teach college
7. Sit in a tavern with people I've never met, drinking cervezas and laughing hysterically, talking long into the night--in Spanish
8. Have dinner with Sean-Martin in several different countries
9. Go to Africa in some Bono-like capacity
10. Snuggle with my grandbabies

What's on your Bucket List?

A Daisy by Any Other Name...

2008-09-09T19:22:00.001-07:00

Do we or do we not wrack our brains for nine months to decide the perfect names for our children?
Sometimes we want something unique—different from anyone else. The movie stars really have this dialed in right now with names like Apple, and Honor, and Sunday. However, from the moment the celebs christen their little ones with such distinctive names, hundreds of thousands of little kids will be monikered thus, rendering these inimitable names common. Kind of takes the fun out of it, doesn’t it?
Sometimes we want to give our children family names. Geoffrey’s middle name is Scott after his father. Sean Eugene Martin is a fifth-generation “Eugene”. Five generations is nothing to sneeze at! That name goes back hundreds of years. If we’d had another son, his name would have been Something Eugene. Incidentally, Eugene is my father’s middle name, Donald Eugene Lofton.
We want our children’s names to mean something significant that will hover over them like a protective banner throughout their lives. Geoffrey means “Heavenly Peace”. Not only has he been a source of “Heavenly Peace” to me and those he touches, it has always been my wish that his name would do its job: hover over him and provide “Heavenly Peace” whenever he needs it as he goes throughout his life.
My Grandma Polly’s name hovered over her, but not as a banner of protection. Polly means “Great Sorrow”. Her middle name, Ann, means “Gracious and Merciful”. Her name defined her perfectly. She was the most gracious and merciful woman I have ever known, whose life was afflicted by great sorrow.
So, be careful when you name someone.
In writing fiction, I never name any of my characters until I’ve consulted with www.babynames.com. That website has every name you could think of, the origins and the meanings. Look up your own name and see if your life has lived up to your label.
On September 4th, a little after 9:00 AM, my name was legally changed to Daisy. Many have asked how I got the nickname, Daisy, in the first place. It was a Scrabble game, to tell you the truth. I worked at Applebee’s for several years and… OK, so I dated the general manager for about two years, which is not kosher in the restaurant business, so no one really knew about it. Another blog. Anyway, I was playing a game of Scrabble with him and his mom, Betty, whom Geoffrey and I loved dearly—may she rest in peace. Now, I’m pretty decent at Scrabble, and I was already winning by no small amount. I attached the word “daisy” to another word and put it on a triple word score, shooting ahead almost another hundred points. Then on my next turn, I put “amaze” with another word on ANOTHER triple word score and just about blew the two of them out of the water. The next day at work, I had someone make me a nametag with the name “Daisy” on it, and I wore it around just to rub it in. When my boyfriend/boss saw it, he simply replied, “Amazing.” As I wore the nametag, people began to call me Daisy. I decided I liked the sound of it and continued to wear the nametag. People started calling me Daisy even when I wasn’t wearing it. I liked the sound of that too. A manager from another store asked me to come tend bar for her on Friday nights, and I went over to her store as “Daisy”. When she liked me enough to ask me to open up another restaurant for her and be her daytime bartender, I was Daisy from the very first day, and I’ve been Daisy for the last fifteen years.
People have asked me throughout the years if I would ever consider changing my name legally. It’s strange, but I always said no. I don’t know why I said no, other than the fact that when people don’t think something is really an option, they tell themselves they don’t really want it. But recently, when my dear friend, Diedre, told me how easy it would be and that she would make it happen for me if I really wanted her to, I discovered that I wanted it so much it hurt. I literally began to cry at the possibility that I could change my name.
Why would I cry?
When people call me by my old name, it’s as if they are calling my old self. That girl has cried buckets of tears. She had a reason to. The good news is that when I speak of my old self, it seems to me that I am literally speaking about someone else. Like a phoenix, I have risen out of those ashes to fly to heights beyond anything I could have ever thought or imagined. I shed my former self like snakeskin and emerged a new person. I left behind everything but my name, and now it’s time to leave that behind as well. I’m crying for joy. There is no longer be anything that tethers me to my past.
Daisy simply means flower. However, when I looked a little harder, I found a very old meaning: “Day’s Eye”. Someone, eons ago, probably looked out over a meadow filled with daisies and thought they looked like eyes peering up toward the heavens, seeking all that the day would bring.
For a middle name, and I’ve discovered that it is somewhat bizarre to name yourself, I have chosen Rain. In this moment, every one of you thought to yourself, “Daisy Rain”. At least half of you thought I should have grown up in the sixties. But let me explain this so you’ll really get it. First of all, I wanted a one-syllable name. All “Daisies” have one-syllable names that come after: Daisy May, Daisy Sue, Daisy Jane, Daisy Lou… Daisy Chain! It just SOUNDS good. I also wanted my middle name to be a noun. Daisy is a noun—Rain is a noun. And the fact that Rain is a nature-noun works for me as well. But the kicker in my mind was this: According to the babynames website, Rain means, “Abundant Blessings from Above”.
I am Daisy Rain Martin, the girl with her eyes toward Heaven every day, seeking all that each day will bring, and knowing that every blessing in my life has come from above.
Thank you, Jesus, for making me a new person. Thank you, Diedre, for making it legal. I love you both more than…

Pouring Out My Thoughts to Warren

2008-08-30T09:26:00.000-07:00

Well! I just got done pouring out my thoughts to my good friend, Warren. I thought I'd post this e-mail in its entirety. Just processing here...

Hey buddy! So sorry I bailed last night. I didn't even get HOME until 5:30! The whole day was just one big fuster-cluck. I'm working on what to do with my brain when parents are complete idiots and they have so neglected to parent their children that their children are now totally out of control, traveling down the wrong road as fast as they can possibly get absolutely nowhere. They come to school and suddenly get hit with expectations to be respectful and cooperative enough to get something out of this free education they are offered by people who sacrifice a great deal to provide it for them and what happens? They get bent that someone has stood up to that little sense of entitlement of theirs and go home with accusations that we have mishandled the situation somehow. Instead of giving us one SHRED of confidence, instead of taking pause to ponder whether or not their children are representing us even REMOTELY as we truly are, they come down to the school and demand explanations of us as to why we handled their child the way we did. Most of the time, the child has left out gaping amounts of pertinent information, skewing the whole scenario favorably for themselves. But sometimes, as was the case last night, the child has completely fabricated some ridiculous notion right out of his ass. I can't tell you how often this happens! You can almost BET on the progression: kid won't do what he's asked, parents are called, cooperation seems forthcoming, kid gets home, kid tells lies or partial truths, parents come down to call YOU to the carpet. I want off this merry-go-round. Don't get me wrong. I want to teach. God has lead me back to this profession. I don't doubt that. But I want to pull myself out of that particular cycle and don't know how. Maybe I should just chalk it up to the job and learn to expect it. I try to thicken my skin, but my mind just obsesses over each and every incident like this for at least 24 hours. I keep replaying it over and over in my mind because I'm just so devastated by the injustice of it all. Why do parents rush right in, locked and loaded? When does someone give me the slightest benefit of the doubt? When is someone going to have the foresight to think, "Hmmm? Has my child ever lied to me to get out of trouble before? Could he be lying now? MAYHAPS I should reserve judgement and get the whole story before I act rashly?" But it seems like parents who process in that way have kids who rarely get in trouble! Go figure.

Many of my kids live in wonderful homes with parents who have parented well, who have made good choices for their lives and take responsibility for the little lives they've brought into this world. Many of my kids live in absolute squalor, but their parents still love them and do not neglect their children's needs. It's not about whether you grow up in a 2500 square foot house or a broken down single-wide. It's not about how much your parents have, but how much your parents give from themselves. Sure, I sacrifice plenty to do what I do. I pour my life into these children. And many parents do the same and make great personal sacrifices to see that their children have a great childhood, even if it is without all the amenities. But it just seems like there is a certain section of parents who have taught their children to blame everyone else but themselves for their circumstances and situations in life. They've taught their children by the example of their every day lives. These are the parents who come in and make it OUR fault that their children act the way they do. You know what combats that mentality? Ironically, it's education. Perhaps I am the enemy? In attempting to provide an education for their children, I innately challenge their ability to remain victims?

Well, that's all well and good. Glad we figured that out. Now how do I remain unaffected? How do I protect my own psyche and my own spirit? Because I'll tell you something, Warren, it crushes my spirit every single fucking time I have to go through this shit. And I have to take responsibility for that. I can't afford to keep an "Emotional Emergency Pack" on hand at all times. I would definitely have a bottle of Reisling, a coupon for an hour-long, full-body massage AND a pedicure (for which I'd have to make an appointment anyway! I'm not like the parents who come in demanding to see me right this very second--I have the capacity to understand that the world doesn't revolve around me, and I MIGHT just need to wait for an opening!) I would have some Jim Carrey or Chris Rock DVD in there to make me laugh. I think it occurred to me for the first time last night why people smoke pot.

I left teaching because I was in a very dark place. I don't want to go back to that place. And I don't want to become one of those teachers who commiserates with any other Negative Nelly who is stuck in a job she hates and doesn't even like children anymore, counting the days and hours and minutes until she is able to break free from the oppression and retire. I have seen those teachers and judged them. Today I wonder if, at one time, they were as passionate for children as I am. I wonder if, at one time, they willing sacrificed and gave of themselves without question the way I do now. I wonder if they just ran out of themselves to give anymore.

I wonder if, someday, that will be me.

I believe that one of the keys of happiness and success is gratitude. We've talked about this before. To be grateful is powerful. I believe it defends a person from many of the great ills of the human condition. And I am grateful. I'm grateful to be teaching again. I'm grateful for every eager face that is ready to learn. One strategy that teachers, many teachers, have used is to simply give to those students willing to receive what is offered and not going out of their way to reach the more reluctant children. Today, that is as tempting to me as sucking down an illegal substance for a few moments of frustration free happy time. I'm not sure I'm willing to do either one. But I know that I have to change the way I internalize this phenomena of education because these situations are not going to go away. Period. I can't break that fact. And I can't continue to break myself against that fact.

When I worked in Vegas with hard-to-reach kids, I experienced great success. Obviously, I didn't reach every child, but I affected many, many lives and gave them hope. I have story after story after story of how some of my toughest kids were able to turn their lives in a more positive direction. And you know what I had there that I don't here? Free reign. I had free reign to say what I needed to SAY to kids without mincing words because I had parents who trusted that I was the teacher and knew what I was doing and wouldn't dream of harming their children in a million years. There was trust. There was freedom. Sure, occasional misunderstandings would pop up and have to be dealt with, but there certainly was no pattern of accusations against teachers. I do not have that here. I miss that.

But, this is my situation. The past is the past. I can't go back, so why ponder?

John Steinbeck's theme of "THOU MAYEST" in his book, "East of Eden" offers my best strategy, I think. I just need to go into work every day and be excellent and compassionate. I will offer my efforts freely every day to every child regardless of anything that happened yesterday. Will every child receive it? They MAY, or they MAY NOT. I have to relinquish some of these control issues. I can't control any other human being save myself, and I can't crack every nut. That has to be OK with me at some point, out of sheer self-preservation. If I don't work to preserve my own spirit, my own heart and mind, my own emotional well-being, then my students CAN NOT receive what they need. I don't offer my children an education. I offer them the opportunity for an education. Most want it, and they understand they need it, so they are willing to work for it. Will it be enough for me that I've done my due diligence? Or will the ones who don't want the opportunity or who are so immersed in their own unhealth or the unhealth that has been handed down to them continue to haunt me for the rest of my life? Because that will suck the life out of me, Warren. I have to be present and engaged when I come home to my own family. Why should my loved ones have to pick up the tab for the seeming hopelessness that smacks me in the face every day? How do social workers cope? How do police officers cope? How do teachers cope? We are too often faced with the depravity and ignorance of humankind.

But teachers also get to share in joys that would bring the greatest cynic to tears. I've been cynical for too long. Warren, I just feel like I have to pour into those willing children more. I don't want to prioritize with CHILDREN, for God's sake, but I don't know how else to change my perspective! Maybe I should just admit that without the strategies available to me that were effective in Vegas, I don't know what to do with the kids who will not listen, will not comply, and will prevent others from learning so they can be in the Cool Kids Club. I need to protect my eager learners from those who would rob them of being able to live up to their potential. Am I giving up on the ones who need my help the most? Maybe I am. And maybe I'm doing it because I'm just spent. I'm over it. I don't know what to do. And this doesn't even begin to answer the question of what to do with their angry parents when I send these kids out of my class. How do I stop the tape-recorder in my head? I'm not sure that, "Fuck you and the horse you rode in on," is the most healthy of ways to distance myself from the situation. Maybe you have some suggestions?

Lord, how long is this post? I've poured out my heart, and there's still so much to say. Anyway, all that to say, I'm sorry I couldn't meet up with you guys last night.

I do love you.
So much.

Love,
Daisy

This NEVER Happened in Vegas!

2008-08-16T11:47:00.001-07:00

So. Last night I was sitting out on our little front porch that Sean-Martin built all by himself. It's a serene place to be in the evenings with a nice glass of pino grigio and a cheese platter. Two wicker chairs, huddled up to a round glass table, stand on a sandstone patio behind a Japanese maple that can’t decide whether or not life is worth living. The sun sets behind our house around 9:15 at night, so the front porch is shaded and cool, and the temperature is perfect. It’s lovely. Or, rather, it WAS lovely.
I was on the phone catching up on the latest goings-on with Devin when I glanced over across the street and down the way a bit. There, standing just inside his garage watching me, was our neighbor BUCK-ASS NAKED with his dick in hand, GOING TO TOWN WITH IT! We’re talking full-frontal, broad daylight, standing just twelve inches inside his garage with the door wide open, and not even TRYING to hide behind a car.
Now, you know when your eyes are in a knock-down-drag-out with your brain? Yes, I know that I am seeing this! No, you’re NOT seeing this! Yes I am! No you’re not! Yes I am! No you’re not!
“Oh my God!” I shrieked.
“What’s wrong?” Devin knew from my tone that something was happening, and that protective bone kicked in from 2000 miles away. My silence certainly did nothing to reassure my brother. “Daisy! What’s going on?”
Not answering, I ran inside the house and called upstairs to my husband who was watching Michael Phelps blow away the competition in China’s Water Cube. “Sean-Martin, can you please come down here for a second?” I knew he was up there rolling his eyes and thinking how that one sentence was never, ever good.
“Daisy!” Devin continued his rant in my ear. “What the hell is going on?”
Poor guy. I just let him hang. He heard me tell Sean-Martin, “Look out this window.” I pointed to the open garage across the way.
“What is it?” they both asked.
Finally, Devin was going to get his answers: “Is that our neighbor standing in his garage, totally naked, tugging on his dick?”
“WHAT?!” both men exclaimed in simultaneous stereo.
“You’ve got to be shittin’ me.” Sean-Martin pulled the horizontal blinds apart and peered through. Sure enough, there was our neighbor yanking away in front of anybody who cared to look.
Now, for the record, none of the three of us are morally opposed to people showing themselves a little affection. In fact, I have what they call a “Silver Bullet”, except mine is purple. And let me tell you, that thing’ll gitterdun! “Mommy’s Little Helper” is what Daddy calls it. But we CERTAINLY don’t use it in the FRONT YARD! It’s hiding in my underwear drawer, and we only break it out behind a CLOSED AND LOCKED DOOR!
I saw the conflict ensue between my husband’s brain and his eyes as he jerked his hand back from the blinds and let them snap shut, not believing what he had just seen. He leaned his head to one side as the confusion took over his face. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that Sean-Martin was internally arguing with himself: You didn’t just see that. Yes I did. No you didn’t. Yes I did. No you didn’t.
He looked again. Yep! The neighbor was still plucking away! Devin wasn’t getting any answers out of me so he told me to give the phone to Sean-Martin.
“Yeah,” he reported. “He’s jacking off right here in front of my wife. Standing right there, watching her.”
Devin must have offered some creative suggestion because Sean-Martin replied, “Should I take my shotgun?”
Dear God.
“Well, I’m going over there. Here’s Daisy. She’ll give you the play by play.”
Out the front door he went. Of course, I wanted to hear every word so I followed him out and took my usual place on the veranda. With any luck there would be yelling and Devin could enjoy the exchange as well. When the neighbor saw my husband coming, he ran into the house. Sean-Martin was not dissuaded in the least. He walked right into the garage and called him outside.
Can you believe the guy came back out?
“What the fuck?” Sean-Martin began.
Now, I never heard one word from the neighbor. Devin and I only heard one side:
“What were you doing?”
“I saw you! My wife saw you!”
“BULLSHIT! We saw you!”
“Who else is here then? What other guy is here?”
“Then it was YOU! What the fuck?”
“That’s my WIFE! That is my WIFE!”
“It wasn’t you? Then who was it?”
“You don’t speak English now? How about I call the police? Will you speak English then?”
“Oh, so it WAS you?”
“Bullshit! Too many beers, my ass!”
“No excuse! No excuse!”
“You and me? No mas! No mas! We’re done! We are NOT friends! No amigos!”
Finally I heard very faintly, “Don’t tell my wife. No police! No police!”
“You stay away from my wife! You stay away from my house!”
With that, my hero came walking back, red in the face and shaking his head.
“Well done,” Devin offered before we hung up.
Fifteen minutes later, this guy’s wife pulled up to their house with their grandson and went inside. We hadn’t moved from the front porch and kept our eyes sharp.
“He’s pooping a twinkie right now,” I speculated.
Not two minutes later, both came back outside upset as we continued to stare them down. The guy, fully dressed now, started walking up to our house.
“No!” Sean-Martin lifted a finger to point him back in the direction he’d come. “No, no, no! Get away from this house!” He kept coming up the sidewalk, and I retreated into the house. I’ve had my fill of perverts for this lifetime.
He stopped finally and asked Sean-Martin, “You have my pants?”
He’d apparently misplaced his pants and thought Sean-Martin might have taken them.
“I don’t have your pants. Get away from this house.”
He turned around and started back to his own house. His wife had gotten back in the car and pulled up to our house as her husband walked away.
“Sean,” she called. “What is the problem?”
“Talk to your husband.”
She motioned for him to come up to the truck and talk to her. Sean-Martin didn’t budge from the chair.
“Talk to your husband. Your husband can tell you what he did.”
Finally, without her answers, she pulled away. She turned around and stopped in front of her own house. He got into the passenger’s seat, and they drove off. That’s the last we’ve seen of them.
I can't imagine that he will tell his wife what happened. After all, how does a guy form the words, "Well, honey. I got caught waxing my carrot in front of the neighbors." If his wife, whom I love, really wants to know what happened then she will probably come and ask me. And don’t think for a minute that I won’t tell her every last detail. I will. I’m not sure I should break my neck to run right over and let her know either, even though it’s kind of ironic that I have no problem putting it out on the Internet. I might also mention here that calling the police is still not totally out of the question either.
So, what are your opinions? Should we spill the beans to the wife or not? And what’s your opinions about involving the police?
A post-script here: We really do live in a very nice neighborhood.

My Friend Brian

2008-07-14T09:18:00.000-07:00

I have had the good fortune to be reunited with a good friend from college, Brian Conklin. I saw his profile on a mutual friend's Facebook page, and I decided to drop him a line. I'd heard he's been in Iraq, galavanting around the countryside, but I didn't know in what capacity. He added me to his Facebook page, and I e-mailed him with four questions:

#1 What are you up to?
#2 What in tarnation are you doing in Iraq?
#3 Who are you voting for in the Presidential election and why?
#4 What is going on there in Iraq that we don't know about?

Here are his unedited responses. SERIOUSLY copy and paste these links to your browsers and see the amazing work that this guy is doing! I don't know why we're not privy to this information here in the states. I don't even want to THINK about why that might be. I'm just doing my part to spread the word of the astounding endeavors of our troops and USAID workers across the sea. And, if you think about it, could you say a prayer for this guy? He's the guy standing in the brown, bullet-proof garb with helmet, second from the left. (Brian, it's just occurred to me: You're the first person in my "Heroes" series that isn't a chick!)

Here's Brian:

Hey Christian ! (can I do that once? :)

Okay - Daisy from here out. It's just been so long that I want to reach out, give you a hug and say "hey there." Wow.... what a blast from the past. I'm still just sitting here stunned. I don't even know where to start with my questions. And wow..... I've got more than a few of them.

Where are you? Who are you? :) (just kidding). What in the world has been going on in your life? I just caught a glimpse of your blog, so I'm getting a small sense of things. Are you still singing? You have to catch me up on the last..... god, how many years has it been?

Okay - for me, I'm all over the place. My name has stayed the same, and I'm still doing music, but that's about it. Long story short is that I joined the diplomatic corp as a foreign service officer about a decade ago. I've been overseas for the last 12 or so years - Bangladesh, Bolivia, Ukraine, Russia, South Africa, Zimbabwe, and now Iraq (ugh!). Most of my work has been with the US Agency for International Development (USAID) - doing humanitarian / economic development work.

I was recruited for this job in Iraq. It's a bit off the normal diplomatic track. I'm attached to a Brigade Combat Team (2/25 Infantry Division) northeast of Baghdad in a place called Taji. I've been here for 10 months and have two more to go - just trying to get out of here in one piece.

I'm part of the Brigade and running what they call an embedded Provincial Reconstruction Team - basically overseeing all the reconstruction, economic development, essential services and humanitarian issues in our 1,400 square mile area. It's been a tough year. I'm out every day with the soldiers that are assigned to my unit, working face to face with my Iraqi colleagues and doing my best to get everything back on track. Here's a couple of articles that popped up recently. The first one is from Vanguard and has some cool pictures. Here are the links:

http://www.vanguard.edu/uploadedFiles/Alumni/Magazine/Spring%202008%20-%20Rebuilding%20Iraq.pdf

http://www.usaid.gov/press/frontlines/May08_FrontLines.pdf - scroll down to page 12

http://iraq.usembassy.gov/prt_news_05162008.html

Anyway - I'll let you read up on the "what." I volunteered for the assignment, and believe strongly in what we're (the US) is doing here. I'm outspoken critic of the Bush Administration and felt from the get-go that the war here was a bad idea. As a president, I think his foreign policy (don't even get me started on his domestic policy) is an abject failure. The thing is, we dismantled this place and I really believe we need to stick around long enough to help it right itself. I get really frustrated with folks in the States that commit us to a course of action that radically impacts the lives of others, and then wants to bail on it when confronted with the complexity and responsibility of dealing with the problems caused by our actions.

Getting back to your question, there is so much that isn't being covered by the press. When I first got here, I was thrown into the thick of things. I came in with the military's surge and a few months of training with the military. That said it was really tough. We were being hit (either by mortars, IEDs, or sniper fire) on the average of about 360 times a week. It was a battle just to get out the front of the base. Being rocketed at night while living a small tin trailer wasn't my idea of a good time - I lost some friends and and members of my team from IEDs while out on the road. About a month into things it changed drastically. The Sahwa (reconciliation movement) began to happen. A number of our Sunni Sheiks came to the table, quit fighting us and we sprang into action - setting up local government councils, getting the water, sewers and electricity going, working to get the irrigation canals flowing, rebuilding schools and medical clinics, and working on a plan for economic revitalization. All of it in partnership with the local sheiks and the Iraqi government. You wouldn't recognize the place today - it is truly an amazing transformation - and for all the time I've spent with reporters from the Chicago Tribune, Washington Post and New York Times, it's not a story anyone seems interested in. It's a hard blow to come back to the US and no one has any idea what's going on out here. Damn, I've risked my life on a daily basis, and poured untold hours and hours, sweat and tears in this place - really my whole heart into it and no one has any idea. I don't get it.

I watched the Democratic Primaries in amazement. I love Barrack Obama - but the guy doesn't have a clue about things here. It took us 40 years to rebuild Germany and Japan. In two short years we've made dramatic progress (thanks to General Petraeus and his strategy) - we continue to build capacity, expand our influence and draw down our troops. It will take another couple of years but we're so close to doing the unimaginable and all I hear about are these idiotic ideas that we're going to pull everyone out of here and go home. I really don't get it.

On the personal front it's been tough. I've been apart from my wife and kids for a year and a half. I left in in Jan '07 to work in Zimbabwe and then from Zim to Iraq last summer. While things are going well here, and the success is evident, things still happen. It was a real blow when a team member and friend was killed a couple of weeks ago. I believe so much in what we're doing, but I want to come back safely to my two little girls and my son. My friend's death has just taken every ounce of heart I had for this place. To add to things, I found out tonight that we just doubled our area of operation and I'm taking over a dangerous section just north of Baghdad. Somehow I need to reign it all in, and get it done. Two months.....

I haven't decided who I'm voting for. I'm surprised to see myself saying it, but McCain "gets it." At least he gets what we're doing here. I've lost some of my idealism this year and I want someone who is grounded and not afraid to say or do the right thing - even if the press and the American public haven't caught up with it yet.

Wow.... It's 1:00 am and I've only flown into Baghdad a little earlier today. I'm sorry for going on like this. Writing you has really stirred up some of my feelings about being back. I still have a couple of days to get to Taji - jumping on blackhawks at night and working my way back out to our base.

So - that said. I've got a wife (her name is Dawn) and three kids. Kyle (15), Kaylee (10) and Elysse (8). They've lived most of their lives overseas - most recently South Africa. We're headed to Uganda next. Dawn and the kids are moving there ahead of me to get started with school. I'll join them in October when I finish here and do a mandatory month in the US.

What about you, my friend?

Last I heard you were in Vegas. I saw the Platters on TV a couple of weeks ago and thought of you. How's that for coincidence? You seem happily married (from your blog) and that life is going well. Tell me what's been going on.

Drop me a note.

Take care,

Brian

Catching Up!

2008-07-07T08:30:00.000-07:00

I should really catch up with ya’ll. Honestly, my blogging has suffered with all that I’m doing for my book project with Donna. Today, however, I have a few moments, so I thought I’d spend them writing a post, since many of you have let me know I haven’t posted the entire month of June. Thank you for bringing this to my attention! And thank you for being interested in reading my stuff.
Stuff.
I don’t let my kids use the word “stuff” in their writing. Or “thing”. Or too many “likes” which drives me absolutely nuts. If you haven’t heard through the grapevine already, I am going to have the opportunity once again to teach kids NOT to use those words in their writing, as I have accepted a position back at Sage Valley, the same school I left two years ago. I’ll be teaching Reading and Language Arts to 6th, 7th, and 8th graders.
Ah, the irony of life.
I am thrilled for a couple reasons. First, I am thrilled to be back in the classroom again. I have missed all that is good about that, and that is no small amount. Second, it really, really seems to have been Divinely directed, (read previous posts) and anytime that happens, we should probably be pretty excited. After all, when the Creator of the universe takes time out of His busy schedule to let you know that you ARE His busy schedule, it tends to inspire, don’t you think? And third, it’s nice to be settled. I haven’t been settled for a while. Don’t get me wrong! I loved being spontaneous and FREEEEEEEEEEEE for the last two years! I’ve loved the restaurant, most days, I’ve loved my schedule, and I’ve loved the flexibility of my life. And now I’m loving the fact that I’ve probably found my niche, am reuniting with the kids I love, and will be contributing regularly to my retirement fund.
Yesterday I was blessed with about five boxes of books for middle school students. Novels, novels, novels! Classics, old and new. I had given much of my collection away two years ago. Yesterday, out of the blue, my sweet friend Kellie Hannum set me up with a new set of books to fill my empty shelves. I’d been thinking about those empty shelves and regretting that I’d cleaned out my stash. It seems that God said, “Oh, did you need some books? Here you go.” Only, it came out of Kellie’s mouth, God love her. Little, daily miracles. I think they’re everywhere if you just look.
I will keep you posted on the goings-on of my coming year. I am hungry, though, to hear about the goings-on of YOUR lives and want to hear all about your little, daily miracles. We’ve been happy to receive some company this summer and are looking forward to more. Sean-Martin wants to have one of our big parties very soon. We’d love to have you all spend $1000 on gasoline or airline tickets and come up for it! We’ll let you know when!
Until then, we love you and miss you more than we can say. Post a reply and let us know what you’re up to!
Much love,
Daisy

Heroes: Lori Zanoni

2008-05-10T20:52:00.001-07:00

I didn’t get along with this chick from the first day I clocked in over a year ago at the Red Robin in Meridian, Idaho till about the third month I was there. Two alpha females squaring off daily—the winner never quite rising to the top. She is a worthy opponent, I must say.
But I’ve found she’s a much better friend.
I love her. It took me a minute, but I love her. Madly, truly, deeply. Lori Zanoni. She’s the heartbeat of our Red Robin and a beacon of light in my life. She is one of the best mothers that I know, and it is with great admiration and respect that I write this tribute to one of my most beloved heroes.
I’ve always said that the greatest accomplishment of my own life was being a mother. There are wonderful women who have garnered my utmost adoration in the endeavor of motherhood: my Hollie Rae Carroll, who cherishes her children with such breathtaking sacredness; my Donna Wallace, who delights in her children as God delights in His; my Katie Wiese, who treasures the children she now holds tightly with such astonishing gratitude; my Sherry Ganley, who heals her children with such amazing grace and wisdom; my cousin, Cindy Salazar, who has poured her life into her own four children and astonishingly enough, has found time to pour her life into her students as well; my sister-in-law, Mia Ricci, who manages hearth and home and career, yet holds her children soundly above all else and counts them as her greatest success in life; my Paula Paul whose trust and reliance upon God to father her children has made her family whole and her children extraordinary; my Stephanie Sportsman who has blended her family with remarkable honor and compassion and completeness; my Veronica Marshall whose love reaches beyond the world that we know, and my own JoAnne Farless, who has taken in many children, even grown children, who have been abandoned and needed loving arms to make us feel like we are a part of something bigger than ourselves.
God gave three precious gifts to Mama “Z”: Stephan, Brock, and Blake.
Stephan , Lori’s eldest son, is nothing short of a grown man with momentary lapses of adolescence. He is an extraordinary young man, a brilliant athlete endowed with an exceptional ability beyond his years to hurl a baseball into his teammate’s mitt across home plate, sending baffled batters back to the dugout disappointed. His priorities are family, school, and sports. He does well in each of these arenas. Sometimes life forces us to step up and take on responsibilities before the proper time. Life has called Stephan to do just that, and he has done superbly, even for a young man of thirteen. And let’s not forget that behind every good man is a good woman.
Brock came a few years later for just seventeen minutes to say hello to his mother and then goodbye. Lori holds him just as dearly, just as closely as the two who were destined to remain with her. We know Brock because Lori has shared him with us. We love that little boy just like we love his mother and his brothers.
And then we have our Blakie. He is precious—the very light his mother is. Because he couldn’t wait to take his place in this world, he came so early that he has shouldered the physical effects for all of his eleven years. Thankfully, he belongs to Miss Lori. Blake’s physical comfort and happiness are reverently preserved in her most capable hands. Lori packs Blakie up and they all go out to the ball field to watch Bubba embarrass the opposing team.
To say that Lori has done right by her children is colossally understated. When Blake gave us a scare a few months ago, I sat with her in the hospital along with several others from Red Robin, whose employees are bonded together like family. We watched in helpless wonder as Lori paced the spectrum between fearing the worst and resting in the peace that passes all understanding. The doctor treating Blake did not want to perform the surgery he needed to live and tried to persuade Lori to allow “nature to take its course”. A mother’s love knew better. The surgery was successful, and Blake continues to light our lives with his sweetness and joy.
Every mom wants to give her children the best hope of having a purpose-filled life. My Lori has given of herself in every possible way so that her boys can capture the very best that life has for them. She would tell you that the love they give in return provides her with all the strength she needs to do what she does every single day without fail--without hesitation.
Lori, my friend, you have discovered the joy that does not come from this world, and you know that this world can never take it away from you. I love you. Thank you for lighting my path and the paths of others with your laughter and strength. You remind us not to sweat the small stuff, but instead to be grateful for every day we are given. Each day is a precious gift. I shudder to think that we almost didn’t connect, for you have been a tremendous blessing to me. I am most grateful to have you in my life.
Happy Mother’s Day to you!

Heroes: Donna K. Wallace

2008-04-05T10:56:00.000-07:00

Anais Nin said, “Each friend represents a world in us, a world possibly not born until they arrive, and it is only by this meeting that a new world is born."
Meet Donna Wallace. She represents a whole world in you, a world you never knew before you knew her, a world that you never would have known without her. Many a troubled and weary traveler have I introduced to my friend Donna, and many a traveler walked away refreshed and healed, continuing on with a new and hopeful perspective about their journey and themselves.
I usually just drop them off with her and then go find Jaime to talk about new music he’s found, or find Cierra and Spencer and hang out with them for a while. I am confident that my friend in need is with a friend indeed. I bring them in black and white, and they leave in high-definition techni-color.
How many people have I brought to her throughout the years? I’m not sure. It’s not in the hundreds or anything. But they come away distinctly different after they meet her. Envision a conveyor belt with flower pots going along with dark, droopy flowers with their hanging heads down low. Imagine them entering the Donna Machine and coming out on the other side so colorful, vibrant, and full of life with their petals reaching up to the sunny sky.
That’s what Donna does to a person.
I don’t know how she does it, but she does it. I remember her upstairs in my loft with a good friend of mine. Donna was working her magic—I was doing the dishes. My friend flew downstairs with tears streaming down her face. She said, “You remember this day, Daisy Martin! You remember this day!”
“Why is that, darling?”
“Because this is the day that I had a Comin’ to Jesus moment with Miss Donna Wallace! This is the day that I became a different person!”
“That’s kinda what she does…” I replied knowlingly.
I have another good friend who lamented with me about hurdles too high for her to overcome. I said, “I know a gal…” We made a road trip to Bozeman for a much needed dose of Donna. My friend came back with those hurdles dropped down to a most manageable height.
I thank God every day for my proximity to Donna. The world that was expanded in me when I met her was intimacy and health—her specialties. She commands a certain transparency with people. She knows when you’re lying, and she just laughs. You’re not lying to her, after all. Only to yourself. She’ll gently remind you of that and your whole demeanor will change because now you can admit that you had really known it all along. The transparency that she brings out in you quickly lends itself to healing and peace. With one compassionate touch and an economy of words, she opens up a whole new world for you and sends you on your way.
Donna is my hero because she has honed the craft of compassion to perfection. Safety is certainly my love language, and I know my friends are as safe with her as I am—impenetrably. She reflects a mere image of God, but He is as clear in her as I’ve ever seen and to look at her is to look at Him. Jesus said that we would do greater things than even He did. Knowing Donna has given me hope that such a crazy notion is even possible.
Donna, my friend, from your heart flows an eternal spring of hope for the broken hearted. You are a sanctuary for me and for all those I care about. I love you. Thank you for pouring your life into those of us who needed to have our worlds opened up.

"Daisy" by Switchfoot

2008-03-04T20:54:00.000-08:00

"Daisy"

Daisy, give yourself away
Look up at the rain
The beautiful display
Of power and surrender
Giving us today
And she gives herself away

Rain, another rainy day
Comes up from the ocean
Give herself away
She comes down easy
On rich and dead the same
And she gives herself away

Let it go
Daisy, Let it go
Open up your fist
This fallen world
Doesn't hold your interest
It doesn't hold your soul
Daisy, let it go

Pain, give yourself a name
Call yourself contrition
Avarice or blame
Giving isn't easy
Neither is the rain
When she gives herself away

Daisy, why another day?
Why another sunrise
Who will take the blame
For all redemptive motion
And every rainy day
When she gives herself away

Let it go
Daisy, let it go
Open up your fist
This fallen world
It doesn't hold your interest
It doesn't hold your soul
Daisy, let it go

Let it go
Let it go
Let it go
And you let it go, go
Let it go
Let it go
Let it go, go
Let it go
Let it go

"Daisy" - Switchfoot

2008-03-04T20:49:00.001-08:00

A Stellar Week!

2008-02-02T20:26:00.001-08:00

The week in pictures: Jeff Wilhelm, The Wiese Babies, and Barak Obama. What a stellar week it’s been!
Let’s start with Dr. Jeff. Where DO I start with Dr. Jeff? He’s right here at Boise State, but I actually knew who he was when I worked in Vegas for the Research Queen herself: Sylvia Tegano. When Sylvia found out we were moving up here to Boise, she said, “YOU MUST SOMEHOW FIND A WAY TO WORK WITH DR. JEFF WILHELM! I’VE READ EVERYTHING HE’S EVER WRITTEN ABOUT INQUIRY-BASED LEARNING AND DIFFERENTIATED INSTRUCTION! I WOULD MARRY HIM!” Because of Sylvia, really, I became huge fan of inquiry-based education, and Dr. Jeff is THE inquiry DUDE! He is a literacy guy. And I’m a literacy gal. What’s more, he’s a Writing Project guy. And I am most definitely a Writing Project gal. PLUS, he’s written about motivating boys to read, and my own thesis was “Motivational Issues Among 7th Grade Hispanic Males!” I would imagine, however, that more people have probably read Dr. Jeff’s research than mine.
Dr. Jeff is the Michael Jordan of literacy and inquiry-based learning in education today. When I found out that my good friend, Debbie Moore, who works with me at Thomas Jefferson Charter School works directly WITH Dr. Jeff, I about peed my pants. Kind of makes you believe in Divine Appointments, doesn’t it?
This Thursday, I met Dr. Jeff and took this picture with him. He asked if I’d been through the Boise Writing Project yet. I told him no. He asked, “Are we going to change that?” Well, you know we ARE!
I told him his picture would be on my blog site very shortly and asked him, “Have you been on my blog?”
He told me no.
I asked, “Are we going to change that?”
Maybe he’ll visit soon. ☺
More great news this week: The Wiese Twinners have arrived! Miss Emma and Master Caleb came two days ago, and we are wound up sideways about it! They were about five weeks early (all fourteen pounds of them) and, according to mom, not a moment too soon! Big brother Ryan called to tell me the good news! Thank you, Ryan. You’re a good boy. Aunt Daisy’s going to buy you something. ☺
And, finally, to top off my stellar week, Geoff and I got up at the butt crack of dawn this morning to attend the Barak Obama rally!
Sean-Martin went fishing.
We found a parking space, and when I say that Geoff and I walked a mile in the snow, this is not hyperbole. We walked a MILE in the SNOW just to get to the end of the line to get inside! The Taco Bell Arena holds 12,000 people, and I’m quite sure we passed about 11,997 just trying to find out where we should stand for the next hour and a half in the freezing cold. I was unaware that there were that many democrats IN the fine state of Idaho! Apparently and refreshingly, there ARE! The picture shows our view from the stratosphere where we sat. We were happy just to get inside where it was warm. I think you can see Mr. Obama’s feet. You kinda have to look close.
Geoff is really annoyed with me that I didn’t give birth to him earlier in November. He missed being able to vote in this election by only 20 days. I just wasn’t thinking ahead, I suppose. He’s trying to figure out a way to go with me to caucus on Super Duper Tuesday. Not gonna happen, unfortunately. I reassured him that he’ll be old enough to vote for Obama in four years when he runs for his SECOND term in office. Geoff said he’d be happy with that. ☺

Heroes: Marsha Jo Akins-Jordan

2008-01-15T18:52:00.000-08:00

When I say the word, “Conservative” or “Evangelical”, what comes to your mind? (Keep reading, my liberal friends.) I can only imagine the plethora of images that flashed in peoples’ minds when seeing those two words. If you’re like me, you probably saw Jerry Falwell, boycotting all Disneyland properties. You probably had flashbacks of sermons about backward masking Eagles’ songs. You might have even conjured up the faces of Swaggart and Baker, tears streaming down fallen faces.
Or it could be that the thoughts which sprang up in your mind were a little more positive. Perhaps your sweet grandma, who has been a member of the Harvest Apostolic Full Gospel International Baptized Holiness Church of God in Christ of the Pentecostal Free House of Prayer & Charismatic Revival Outreach of the Potter’s New Testament Bible Church with Signs Following just down the road a piece for the last 87 years, is about the closest thing to Heaven you’ve ever met. She baked you chocolate chip cookies without the nuts for you and only you, took you to Sunday School, and taught you to say your prayers when you went to bed. The world could use some more grandmas like that. In fact, the world could use more PEOPLE like that--just in general.
I’d like you to meet my friend and the first hero of my “Heroes” series, Marsha Jo Akins-Jordan.
Marsha, Marsha, Marsha.
She was pointed out to me across a crowded room of teachers the week before school started. We’d both been hired to teach 6th grade at a private, Christian school in downtown Vegas. My first words to her were, “Hello! It looks like we’re going to be partners in crime!”
She’s never committed a crime in her life.
She smiled and embraced me, and we were inseparable from that point on. She could lift my spirits like no other on that campus. She saw straight into my soul at any given time and spoke into my life on many occasions with her wisdom. Her compassion filled every child to overflowing. We were all better for having had her in our lives for that season.
And she didn’t own a pair of pants.
The woman wore dresses and skirts, never touched a drop of alcohol or nicotine, and didn’t wear make-up. Conversely, I cussed like a sailor, still listened to the Eagles, and was pretty darn proud of my boob job with the hoochie tops to prove it.
Marsha was completely unaffected.
I tried to tell her once that I had a tattoo on my butt. She said, “Girrrrrl, you shut yo’ mouth and stop yo’ lyin’.” She just couldn’t be convinced that I wasn’t absolutely and completely, earnestly and passionately, unswervingly, wholeheartedly, decidedly, and resolutely smitten and devoted to the Ultimate Hero, Jesus Christ.
That’s a pretty accurate description of me, by the way, despite rumors to the contrary.
People have hypothesized as to why, then, if the aforementioned statement is true, DO I cuss like a sailor, still listen to the Eagles, and show my $4000 cleavage? Some interesting theories have been brought boldly to my attention: I’ve not recovered from my abusive childhood, I hold bitterness and anger in my heart and act out from my angst, I haven’t been discipled, I have no spiritual backbone, I have no spiritual discipline, my conscience has been seared by my painful past, and my personal favorite: I’M JUST NOT SAVED! Mind you, I have heard every single one of these with my own ears. I’m not making this up!
I usually don’t address the murmurings. Just to add to the intrigue, I keep my reasons sealed tightly behind my ever-so-slight, irreverent, little smirk. So, listen up because this is the closest I’m ever gonna get to admitting why I am this way.
I believe that I am the way I am because I am acutely aware that we have precious little time on this earth, and I’ve wasted just about enough of it playing the “Jesus Plus” game. You know that one. All you need is Jesus. PLUS, you can’t drink or smoke or chew or go with those who do. (Ode to Jim Halbert with the “Jesus Plus” reference, pastor of Crossroads Community Church here in Nampa. Jim, I told you I’d cite you if I quoted you, so there you are.) See, I just think the “rules and regs” of the church are really quite arbitrary. People just picked ‘em, I think. I don’t know if there was a vote or what, but I just decided to pick different things. For example, I decided to choose unbridled compassion, kindness, and excellence in everything I do as opposed to keeping up with the Holy-Joneses. Who’s to say they’re not the JIM Joneses anyway? I have to admit, I’m not really a “refraining” kinda girl. I’m more into freedom. Maybe it’s because I had to live in oppression for so many years. Maybe it’s because I don’t need to be in the “Cool Kids’ Club” I like being in the “Just Jesus and Jesus Alone Club”, and so I file everything else under “idolatry”. I think I could even back that up with Scripture. What a concept. Those I do my utmost to love might retort accusingly, “From the heart, the mouth speaks!” Like what? do you mean? Like gossip, hot off the prayer chain? Like stirring up dissension among the brethren? Like sleeping with a gay prostitute and telling your gargantuan congregation you didn’t? Hells Bells! I just let the f-word loose once in a while! Much more benign, I assure you.
You know, maybe I just want to avoid all the hoo ha and get straight to the Marsha Jordans in my life. Yeah, I think that’s probably it.
Jesus truly lives inside Miss Marsha Jo, and she recognized Him immediately in me without even having to look very hard. I found her wonderfully invigorating. She is virtually unpolluted by the “Jesus PLUS” crowd. You see, she is conservative WITHOUT the judgment and the condescension, without the pride and the prejudice. She personally and, might I say, privately chooses to abstain from certain habits and attire and appearances as she works out HER salvation with fear and trembling. She refreshingly never tried to work out mine. She didn’t assume that my path would look even remotely like hers. And best of all, she had faith that God, Who began a good work in me, Daisy Martin, would also be faithful and, not to mention, quite capable to complete it.
THAT, my friends, is a woman of faith. We’re shown that men and women of FAITH is somehow connected to whether or not one drinks, smokes, or chews, or goes with those who do’s. Marsha and I have figured out that faith reflects simply what one believes about her Savior and what He can do in any human life. Compassion. Kindness. Excellence. Jesus-based and Jesus-inspired.
Marsha is my hero because she loves first and asks questions later. She is my hero because she is a living example that “conservative” people are not always judgmental or condescending. Sometimes “conservative” people are the way they are, not to make others feel less spiritual, but because they are sincerely demonstrating their love and commitment to God in a way that requires a certain measure of spiritual discipline which they have found to be right and correct and beneficial to them. There are conservative people in this world who understand that a personal relationship with Christ is just that: personal. Not all of us need to look alike. Our paths in Christ are different--our goal is the same. Marsha Jo walks her path with wisdom and compassion. All she has in this world has come from God: mercy and grace. Therefore, it would stand to reason, that all she has to give to anyone else is mercy and grace. It is all she holds in her hands.
Marsha, incidentally, was published BEFORE yours truly, God love her heart. :) Her first book is entitled “The Belmont Addition” and chronicles her life as a young teen who knew condescension and judgment quite well and overcame it all. Let me know if you’d like one. I’ve got connections.
Of course, my copy is autographed.
Marsha, my friend, you are a treasure and a divine appointment in my life. I love you. Thank you for studying to know me. Girrrrrrl, you represent.

Hereos: An Introduction

2008-01-13T12:28:00.000-08:00

As I sat in church this morning, I was inspired to start a series on my blog entitled, “HEROES”, not to be confused with the “Heroes” series on NBC Monday nights. This is in spite of the fact that we, here in the Martin home, are all “Heroes” FREAKS! None of us can wait until the writers’ strike is over and the genuises who brought “Heroes” to us two seasons ago are back at work filling our minds with superhuman, psychopathic fodder.
I do actually know people who can walk through walls, regenerate after horrifying injuries, paint the future, create fire from the energy within them, know precisely what another mind contains, demonstrate superhuman strength in times of crisis, go back and make everything right, and I even know a few people who can fly. In the days to come, I’d like to introduce you to them.
These are my heroes.

Put some "New Shoes" on in 2008!

2007-12-26T16:37:00.001-08:00

Anybody Poopy?

2007-12-26T16:25:00.000-08:00

The days leading up to Christmas and the days after can be a funky time for some people. Some anticipate the holidays like children: giddy. You’ve seen these people. They look strangely like me.
But other people dread the holidays. Some resent the drain of their bank accounts for those obligatory purchases for people they may or may not even like or get along with. I can’t relate. I just don’t think that’s what Christmas is about, and that’s not even remotely close to what my focus is. And if I don’t like you, I’m probably not getting you anything. Please know that if you didn’t get a present from me this year, that certainly doesn’t MEAN that I don’t like you. I like most everybody, and I wish I could get presents for everyone I know. And like.
Sometimes people have a hard time coping when a loved one passes on. My Grandma Polly died three days before Christmas--about five or six years ago. It’s tough to celebrate when you’re grieving. For those of you who knew her, you’re blessed. For those of you who didn’t know her, I wish you could have. She was a pure and precious soul, who exuded absolute and unadulterated kindness. I will always miss my grandma, but I take comfort in this: there was nothing left unsaid between us. Nothing on the table whatsoever. She knew I loved her completely, and I knew she loved me completely. I don’t say to myself, “I wish I had told her...” or “I hope she knew...” I told her everything that needed to be said--long before it was time. She knew. I knew. Our relationship was healthy as one could be. No bitterness. No angst. Just love in its purest form. And joy. This has been a great source of comfort for me. It’s taught me to keep relationships healthy and free--insomuch as it is within my power. Insomuch as those relationships allow me to remain authentic to my core. A very important distinction there. Those with whom I’ve severed ties or established strict boundaries do not understand that distinction and might consider me unhealthy. Unforgiving. Heartless. “Playing into Satan’s hands” even. Hmmm. Material for another blog post. I digress.
Sometimes people experience a dread AFTER the holidays. So much hustle and bustle keeps their minds on being jolly, but after Santa comes and goes, it’s time to pay off that VISA! People return to jobs they either love, tolerate, or hate, and it’s still a long way till spring and warm weather. Even I have to admit: after the holidays, really, what IS the purpose of cold weather? I wanna dress hoochie, after all. December 26th, or maybe we can even stretch it out until January 2nd, brings a great, big, fat LET-DOWN!
Even for those who believe that the little baby Jesus came for us on Christmas day (except I heard once that He was really born in like--APRIL!) there can be a big emotional nose-dive after the 25th. I have to be honest, folks. This I just don’t get. Maybe it’s because that holy little kid shows up for ME every freakin’ day of my life. Who knows? Maybe I’m just happy and easy to please.
I woke up this morning ripped, roarin’, and ready to go! I wanted to get TO my 2008! I’m just excited about what the next year will bring! This could be the year I get published! This could be the year that I see huge financial success in my business endeavors! Maybe this will be the year that I FINALLY get knocked up! OK, probably not. (My husband just passed out cold. He’s laid out on the floor.)
It IS the year of my 10th wedding anniversary to the most wonderful man on the planet. It IS the year that my Geoffrey begins his senior year of high school. You KNOW we’re going to make this the best year EVER for him! It IS the first year in about four years that I WILL spend the summer with my Sean-Martin. Maybe we’ll stay home this summer. Maybe we’ll spend the summer at a resort or a dude ranch somewhere.
2008 is the year of freedom. And if you don’t know by now that FREEDOM is a BIG THEME with me, you’ve been under a rock somewhere.
Somehow, I want to give my readers this sense of hope and anticipation for the new year. I don’t want anyone I love to be let down from this or any holiday. So, in true “teacher” form, I’m giving all of you an assignment. Sean-Martin and I did this for the first time last year, and it has made all the difference in our focus for last year. It was such an amazing experience that we will be doing this again THIS year and EVERY year from here on out. I guarantee, it will squash the after-the-holiday-blues and give you and your family a sense of purpose for each and every new year. We have a “retreat” of sorts with each new year. We review our finances, our accomplishments thus far, our goals (long-term and short-term), our really-truly-uninhibited-whacked-out dreams, things we need to get done this year, along with A LIST OF WHAT WE ARE WILLING TO DO TO MAKE ALL THESE THINGS HAPPEN (VERY IMPORTANT!), and we also include a family prayer and our family mission statement. We spend a whole day or two just being together, ordering out food, with our noses to the grindstone, reviewing what we think really rocks about our family and what we believe needs attention. Last year we came up with this mission statement: “Because there is no lack in the universe, our home is abundant! It is a vessel through which blessings are generously poured in and generously poured out. We are all entitled to sanctuary, and we know that WE are the ones who provide it for each other. May all who come into our home feel a powerful presence of love and acceptance. We will live within our means, plan for our future, spend quality time together, remain supportive of each other, enforce a “no-losers” policy, exercise flexibility and be willing to adapt to situations as they occur, live simply and simply live, and if someone isn’t happy--THEN GET HAPPY!” This mission statement is posted on our refrigerator for the world to see, but more importantly, for US to see.
I think the chicks will think this is way cool, but the dudes--maybe not so much. Ladies, just don’t feed ‘em till they cooperate. They’ll sign on and be darn glad they did! And if one person just CAN’T get the other one to participate, JUST DO IT YOURSELF! Remember, you can’t change people--you can only change THINGS! And you CAN change the things in your own life. Write every bit of your plans down. Get a folder and keep a record of your plans. We keep our “2007 Strategy Session for Family and Business Plans” right on our coffee table so we can refer to it any day of the year. If our company wants to read through it, we LET THEM! No secrets in THIS house! We are about to replace it with our “2008 Strategy Session for Family and Business Plans”.
I challenge you, ESPECIALLY IF YOU ARE DOWN IN THE DUMPS, to sit down with your family or even yourself and plan out your 2008! Give yourself something to look forward to! Decide what you want. Decide what you are willing to do to make it happen. Then get to it! If you don’t hit your marks, be good and gracious to yourselves! Last year we committed to drinking less, and by God, we drink MORE! We’ll just address that again this year. Life is a journey, after all, isn’t it? The prize doesn’t necessarily come at the end, folks. The prize is the journey itself. So, don’t make it suck.
Hope is the best of things. It sustains us. However, I have found those who are repulsed by hope. It is foreign in their hands. If that’s you, acknowledge that and figure out what you want to do about it. Figure out what you’re willing to do about it. I hope that hope plants itself deeply in your hearts and brings new energy to your lives.
And, by the way, we DID name our new puppy. Her name is Sofia Noel Siler Martin. She’s adorable, even though she pooped underneath our Christmas tree. Check out the picture. (Of the dog--not the poop.)
With all my love and hope,
Daisy

Taking Suggestions...

2007-12-16T10:48:00.000-08:00

Hello all!

Santa is bringing us a new puppy for the holidays! She is a yellow lab, and we are at wit's end as to what to name her. We've solicited help from Internet name websites, looking up meanings and origins. When Sean-Martin was eight, he went to Denmark and had a little girlfriend named (this is the phonetic spelling here) VEE-buh-kuh. They were about eight, I believe. Anyway, he thinks that would be a great name for our new puppy. Geoff and I are not so inclined.

So, help us name our puppy! Here's everything we know about her: She's adorable, she seems pretty docile, and she turns exactly six weeks old on Christmas Eve which is when we are picking her up and bringing her home. Now you know everything that we know about her. You don't have to have a google account to post. Just click the "anonymous" button and send all your suggestions.

We'll definitely put up new pictures on Christmas Eve and tell you what we decided!

Thanks everybody!

Love,
Daisy

Richard Paul Evans--The Gift

2007-12-04T22:01:00.001-08:00

Anyone who writes, who is successfully published and paid, or better yet, is regularly paid, is astoundingly fascinating to me. My first exposure to Richard Paul Evans was when my good friend, Mike Harrison, handed me a copy of The Christmas Box and said, “Daisy, you gotta read this guy...”
Michael, I have yet to return that book. It’s been years. I’m so sorry.
I just read his latest work, The Gift, a beautiful story of healing and compassion which reminds us that, “...in the end, love wins.” Please pick it up if you haven’t already.
Tonight, I went with my friends, Cindy and Debbie, to the Barnes and Noble in Boise to see Mr. Evans, where he gave me a couple of gifts. He is amazingly warm and kind and genuine and generous.
One of his gifts to me was a dollar. You read it right. A dollar. You see, Mr. Evans has Tourette’s Syndrome. I was unaware of this fact until I read The Gift. One of his “ticks” is that he likes sharp objects. He can fold a dollar bill into an incredibly sharp point. He keeps them in his pocket where he keeps his hands much of the time. He showed tonight’s crowd of about a hundred how he could fold a dollar up into a tight little pointy triangle with one hand. And then he handed it to me.
Afterwards, Mr. Evans always takes time to talk with his readers and to autograph books. Last year when we went, I asked him, “How do you submit your work, knowing that an editor is going to hack into it?” Of course, he doesn’t really have too much of a problem with that these days. I was happy to report to him that this year, I was exponentially less concerned (can something be exponentially less?) about having an editor hack into my work and am nearing completion on a proposal that will soon be pitched to an agent. The second gift he gave me was an enthusiastic and genuine smile that spread across his face, full of hope and all his best wishes for my endeavors. It was quite magical. He also threw in a hug and a few encouraging words.
I guess he was swept up in the moment because he then gave me one more gift: another book he wrote called, The 5 Lessons a Millionaire Taught Me about Life and Wealth. He autographed it. Of course he did. He’s a professional. He said he hoped to hear a good report next year about my book. If my book gets published, I’ll bring a copy back next year and give it to him. And I’ll autograph it too.
Mr. Evans is involved with a charity called Christmas Box International. This organization helps foster kids who turn 18 and are released from the foster care system. Did you know that 50% of girls who age out of foster care are pregnant within 12 months, and 90% live in poverty? One of the ways Christmas Box International helps these kids is by giving them a box filled with household items they need when they move out on their own: dishes, linens, etc. Google them. Their website will let you know how you can help.
The company I am involved in, ACN Telecommunications, had our annual convention in Salt Lake City last weekend, Mr. Evans’ hometown. Quite the little coincidence that Christmas Box International was our charity of choice this time, and ACN raised over $70,000 for this wonderful charity. Mr. Evans knew all about it. I showed him my ACN wristband that I’m still wearing from convention, and I got another hug.
The best givers are the most grateful, I think.

Sane People Need Not Apply...

2007-10-14T17:11:00.000-07:00

Got a story inside you? Is it smoldering to escape? Ever dream of seeing your name in print? Do you have this gnawing sensation in your gut to sit down at your computer and create a file... a writing file? Or maybe you have even bigger aspirations? You’re hankering to write the next great American novel, aren’t you?
OK. A lot of people just ran for the Pepto. If you’re reaching for the pink stuff, stop reading. If you’d rather be dragged behind a truck naked, nipples down, than to put your crazy notions in a file on your desktop, there is no need for you to continue reading any further. Click straight out of this blog, and we’ll see you next week.
Now that we’ve separated the normal people from the nutjobs, we can proceed. For all both of you who are left, I want to let you know about a guy who is just as insane as we are--only he’s been published. His name is Chris Baty, and he wrote this whacked-out book called, “No Plot? No Problem!” He challenges new and experienced writers alike to enter a contest for National Novel Writing Month, which is the month of November. He calls the contest: NaNoWriMo. (It takes a little practice to say it.) All a body has to do is write 50,000 words in 30 days, and said body wins the contest.
Put the Pepto back in the medicine cabinet. It can be done. In fact, I did it the first year I entered, 2005. I made the mistake of telling a hundred and twenty 12-year-olds that I was doing it. I happened to be their WRITING teacher, and I was scared spitless to fail. They’d ask me every day, “How many words did you write last night?” If it turned out I’d only written around 400-500 words, they would retort snottily, “So, basically, you didn’t really write last night.” Then they figured out how to get on my contest page to monitor my progress. (I’m “daisychick”, by the way. Be a buddy.) My kids were a rough crowd! That’s why there was no way I was going to write less than 50,000 words in that teensy-weensy, tiny, itty-bitty, miniscule span of time. It’s a breath. Literally. And you’ll have Thanksgiving to contend with. Nothing like those caffeine-induced late nights, trying to get your 2000 words in for the day!
Last year I entered and didn’t post one word. Of course, I didn’t tell a hundred little drill sergeants either. I wonder if I’ll tell any short people this year?
So, there you have it. Who’s in? Go to www.nanowrimo.org and register for yourself. JUST DO IT! You know you want to. You didn’t read this far without being at least a little intrigued.

Where Do I Fit?

2007-10-04T10:07:00.000-07:00

If I had about five bucks for every person who told me, “Daisy, you’re a good writer. You should be published,” I’d have enough money to start my own publishing house. As it looks this morning, that may be the route I’ll have to take just to get myself out there in print. So, if everybody who has ever encouraged my writing could just send me five dollars...
I’m in a dilemma. It seems my nonfiction work is too “Christian” for the secular publishing houses and too “secular” for the Christian publishing houses. Well, we’ve just ascertained the very crisis of my existence, haven’t we?
A few years ago I wrote a piece for a writing class called, “Don’t Bother Telling Jesus I Say the F-Word--He Already Knows”. It’s basically an attempt to answer one of my lifelong burning questions, Why do I remain faithful and vested in the church when it has been so unimaginably weighed down by human frailty and failure? Why do I stay this course and continue to pursue this journey? It’s decently written and has a kick-ass ending. Everyone who has ever read it has LOVED it--except for really “churchy”, religified people. My fab friend Donna, an author who has been published a-half-a-gazillion times or so, ran it by an editor friend from one of these Christian publishing houses (which shall remain nameless) who actually loved the piece personally but said it definitely needed to be toned WAY down if I ever wanted to sell it. He went on to say that the piece in its present form would paint me as a “bitter malcontent” and that the message would not be received by the very people who needed to hear it. To that, I said, “Bullshit.”
Not to be bitter or anything.
(Wait a second. Now that I’ve blogged this, I really hope that guy wasn’t C-Mac. Oh shit, it might have been!)
It was suggested that I write a “how-to” book. Those kind of books are the current trend and very marketable at the moment. Something along the lines of “Spirituality in Ten Easy Steps.” I guess it wouldn’t hurt to mention here that THIS IS PRECISELY THE KIND OF SHIT I MAKE FUN OF! And then get called “bitter”. Some people, however, just aren’t too Chipper on pontification. Yes, I capitalized Chipper.
In a nutshell, secular houses don’t want Jesus in the book (let alone in the title on the front cover!) and Christian houses won’t be associated with the F-word. Given my druthers, I ‘druther be published by the non-Christians. They’re safer. Here’s the scary thing about being published by Christians. If they pick up a book and the writer goes out and does something scandalous, thereby forcing the sales of that book to plummet, that author gets to buy back every book that was printed by the house. So, you know, people who have written these Christian “best sellers”, who have these megachurches of people to whom they can market these books, who THEN get caught doing the hanky panky with the church secretary or gay prostitutes (gasp!) get to foot the bill for all these books sitting in a warehouse somewhere because now they’ll NEVER be sold and the publishers aren’t going to be the ones left holding the bag! YOU ARE! It’s right there in your contract.
And what does that mean for me? Well, obviously, if I get published by Christians then I would have to stop dancing in gay bars. I might have to start Mormon-bashing. For sure, I would have to stop flashing my boobs. This clearly sucks. ‘Cuz, let’s face it, I have really nice boobs. I would also have to stop saying the F-word, which I think is really fucking ridiculous, because it’s a great word. If my principal would let me use it in my English classes I could teach five of the eight parts of speech in about twenty minutes, and the kids would not soon forget them, I assure you. Case in point:
1. Obviously first, Interjection: FUCK!
2. Verb: This writing dilemma is really fucking with my head.
3. Adverb: I wish people weren’t so fucking afraid to publish my work.
4. Adjective: After all, I produce great, fucking writing.
5. Noun: So, if I never, ever find a place where I fit in the publishing world, I’m really tempted not to give a fuck.
But I do. I do! I do! I do! I do! I want to be published. I want to pull a book out of the stacks at Borders and see my name across the cover. I want people to read it and love it and keep my words in their hearts. I want them to be just a little bit different because I’ve impacted their thinking in some small way. Perhaps churchy, religified people would be kinder. More compassionate. More Christlike, even. Not to mention the fact that I’d love it if people could just “get” me. If I could just communicate to them without being interrupted by their expectations of me, in the form of words on a page, then maybe--just maybe--someone would understand how a Jesus girl could say the F-word and still go to Heaven. Maybe someone would be inspired to go about his life just a little more authentically. Maybe I could help someone to worry less about what people think--even church people--and more about what God thinks. I want to know God’s thoughts. The rest are details. Ode to Albert Einstein right there. I want to write about God’s thoughts without having to lose any part of myself to other people and let other people know that it’s probably OK to do just that. Possibly even preferable. Ode to Daisy Martin right there. So audacious to “ode” yourself, isn’t it? And I really used “I” a lot in that paragraph. Donna’s been getting on to me about that lately. IIIIIIIIIIIIII gotta quit that.
Anyway...
Anne Lamott told me to write what I wish were available to read and carve out a place for myself in the literary world. And you know HOW she told me to do that? She WROTE IT DOWN! AND I READ IT! So I am doing it, but only God knows who will step up and print it! She’s a Jesus girl, and she says the F-word. Probably not as much as I do, but she says it. And SHE gets published!
Philip Yancey doesn’t say the F-word, or maybe he does, but I’ve never seen it in print. He BAGS on the church! And HE gets published! (Read “Soul Survivor--How My Faith Survived the Church”.) Somebody PLEASE tell me he’s been called “bitter”. PLEASE tell me that someone has questioned his salvation status! Pretty please? I would feel SO much better!
Now, I wouldn’t even begin to suggest that I’ve honed my craft as well as these two powerhouse writers. Philip is Superman, and Anne is Wonder Woman. I’m a Power Puff Girl compared to them. Right now, though, I’m the Invisible Woman. Impressive tricks up my sleeves, but who sees them? And if I can’t get “marketable”, then who will ever see my work?
Honestly and truly, I’m not dissin’ the publishers here. I’ve been writing for free for way too long. On that, we all agree. I WANT to be marketable! That wasn’t always the case. One short year ago I was lamenting that some editor would hack up my work, my craft, my art, my CHILD! How could I put my “baby” into someone else’s hands who would cut off digits and limbs without a thought? Shave its little head? Pinch off its little toes? Someone who would remove an arm and put it where the nose once was? Or remove the buttocks to replace its beautiful face, making my glorious creation a deformity of its former self to the point that no one, including myself, would even recognize it was mine? Would I even want to claim the baby as my own after that? Well, that whole mess is so last year. I may have had some narcissistic trust issues. No more. Now I submit my work with complimentary scalpels, sutures, and shears right there in the proposals. Cut. Chop. Move it around. Accept. Reject. Give it up for adoption. I’m completely unaffected here back at my drawing board.
There are plenty more creations to create.
Here’s where I’m at right now: The Martins are building a $15,000 sunroom, and our kid is going to college in a year and a half. MOMMY WANTS A PAYCHECK! But am I ready to ‘ho myself out? I might be. ‘Ho-ing IS legal in the state of Nevada...
If I need to write about spirituality in ten easy steps, I might just give it a whack. I’m thinking step one would obviously be to throw any book in the trash that claims it can lead you to a closer walk with God in ten easy steps. After all, it just takes one. Readers could just disregard the other nine, making it a pretty easy read. Not sure how I’d write that one. I’m just damn sure I could.
Again, I poke fun. I pontificate. I digress.
Still not published.
Frustrated does not equal bitter, by the way.

Which Would You Rather?

2007-09-30T12:50:00.000-07:00

You’ve done it. I’ve done it. We’ve all done it. Every last one of us in this country has imagined what it would be like to be rich or to be beautiful. We’ve all wanted wisdom beyond our years, perhaps even to leave some sort of reminder as to our existence. And who could blame us?
Who wouldn’t love to live in a 10,000 square foot home on the coast? A house cleaned by other people? Who wouldn’t want to walk out to their six car garage and decide which sports car they’d be taking down Pacific Coast Highway? What would it be like to walk into any store and pick out anything we wanted without even looking at the price tag? What if we could choose any place in the world to travel for a month-long holiday? What if we actually had the money to finance any endeavor we chose?
I know a few people who might sign on for that. I’m not gonna lie--I’d volunteer gladly.
Or maybe an even sweeter deal would be to have a face that could launch a thousand ships? Eternal youth and beauty and health. Men and women spend millions every year to achieve it. The ubiquitous and alluring magazine covers remind us just how very much we value physical beauty. As one who has had a few cosmetic procedures and has no problem with a nip or a tuck here or there as I age, I would have to admit that I could sign on for this one too.
Ah, but let’s consider wisdom. I heard Dr. Phil recently calling for an “outbreak of common sense” in this country. Let’s face it, common sense just doesn’t seem that common, does it? Anybody hear about the guy who attempted the armed robbery in a martial arts studio during a class? The students beat the shit out of him. The Sensei had to pull them off. Failure to plan is planning to fail, right? You know, I might actually vote for this one.
But then again, who could resist eternal notoriety? Pretty compelling if you ask me. Tammy Faye Messner said she’d probably be remembered for her eyelashes, although I think she’ll be more remembered for her sweet spirit than anything else. Janet Jackson will probably be remembered for whipping her boob out on live television at the Superbowl. Mother Theresa is remembered for her compassion and commitment to the world. I think it’s a worthy exercise to contemplate what we might be remembered for after we’re gone. It’s more worthy to actually work toward exercising those contemplations and making them a reality.
In the right hand column of this blog just below my picture, you will find a survey. Please click on one of the choices. (Material for a future blog post? Hmmm...) After you vote, check to see what other people think. It’ll be fun! You can share your thoughts as to WHY you chose what you chose by posting a comment.

When Good People Do Nothing

2007-09-23T14:38:00.000-07:00

I heard from my good friend Lulu the other day. Well, of course her name isn’t Lulu. I have to change the names of this story to protect the innocent. As for the guilty, I have to change their names too, mostly so I don’t get hatemail. Let me give you a little background info, and then I’ll get back to Lulu.
Several years ago, my husband and I left the small church we were attending because we felt the environment to be toxic and cult-like. We had been asked to invest extraordinary amounts of time and energy into the pastor’s efforts, and when we wanted to step back from so much responsibility because we needed a break, we were told that our fatigue was an indication that we were “out of right relationship” with God. Our efforts to “minister” to others outside of that building were not validated whatsoever. I was told by the pastor that I had not ever truly been “discipled” as far as he could tell and that I was struggling with unresolved bitterness and unforgiveness in my heart. He explained that his wife, who had the gift of “discernment”, confirmed that these sins were hidden in my heart. As long as we were marching to the beat of his drum, the fruits of the Holy Spirit were evident in our lives. Any interruption in our efforts was interpreted by the pastor to be a slipping away from the will of God.
That’s one perspective. Another might be this, and this is pretty blatant:
This pastor seemed pretty cool at first. We started going and got sucked into the Bermuda Triangle of church work. We found our way in, but couldn’t find our way out. But that wasn’t the only issue. It was the fact that most Sundays we walked out the doors after the service shaking our heads and wondering what in the heck the sermon had been about. It was having to watch this guy lord over his wife. It was having to watch his wife disappear into no one--no voice, no opinion, and no identity apart from her husband’s voice. It was having to endure his attempts to control activities that he had no gifting in and not being able to say anything. It was having to deal with the frustrations of his futile attempts to answer the hard questions with formulated, pat answers and not being able to tell him that his answers just weren’t good enough. It was losing one potential leader after another because in that environment, there was only room enough for ONE leader, and that was the pastor. Eventually, people left. And so did we.
I know that when we left, I had such clarity! It’s amazing what getting outside of a situation can do for a person’s perspective. I look back and see how very controlling and cult-like that environment was. And how toxic. You gotta wonder how people even get involved in those crazy places. But you know, it’s not like this guy announced from the pulpit straight away that he had serious control issues, was misguided and manipulative, that he used people and that he blamed them thanklessly when they “abandoned” him. He never once indicated out loud that he would end up hurting people. It hasn’t occurred to him to this day, I would venture to say. He has no idea. So, how could we have known when we first started going and getting involved that it would end the way it did? We couldn’t smell the poison until it got right up on us. And in all honesty, I HAVE seen this pastor operate within the power of his compassion. When this occurs, he is unstoppable. Most effective, in fact. Unfortunately, most of what I observed was that too much of the time, he operated within the power of his position of authority, and frankly, it’s just not his best work.
When we left, he made sure to warn other people about us and, really, about me in particular. “Just be very cautious when it comes to Daisy. She’s a very strong woman.” Strong women, apparently, are a danger to the church. Or maybe just his church.
Lulu is a strong woman. She and her husband Bud left the church too. I do not assume to know why they left or the details of their departure, and I probably wouldn’t write about it if I did. Suffice to say, they started going to church somewhere else. However, one of Lulu’s relatives, LaLa, still goes to this church and is VERY involved! VERY! Did I mention, VERY? LaLa is a wonderful Christian lady. She started a women’s Bible study and invited Lulu to attend, even though Lulu no longer goes to church there. When Control Freak Pastor got wind of this, he told LaLa to inform Lulu that she could not return to the Bible study because she was not in a place to receive anything from that church. There was nothing the church could offer her. Furthermore, there were new members attending the Bible study, and it would not be good to have Lulu there with them. Instead of telling the pastor to get bent, LaLa sent her BLOOD RELATIVE up the river. With all her best wishes and prayers, of course.
I hope this guy doesn’t decide to move to Guyana and pass out poison Kool-aid. OK, I’ll concede that this guy is not really that kooky. But what side of the fence is all this on? Every single solitary person I’ve told this to has let out a mortified gasp. I’ve even told a couple pastors who just want to take the guy out back and pop him one. This situation of unhealth is crystal clear to EVERYBODY who is not in it. Lala doesn’t see it. Many others remain who don’t see it either. And what can we do about that?
Should we say something? Should we make some phone calls? Should we go on an anti-this-particular-pastor campaign? We’ve watched other people do it who are just as misguided as the enemy they believe they want to conquer. I, for one, want NO PART of that! You know what ends up happening? Most people just leave. And I go back and forth on this. I was one of those people who just left. I was one who didn’t say anything--I just disappeared. Even when given an opportunity to say something, I declined, believing that my words would go unheeded. Wasted. This pastor had never heard me before when I tried to explain to him how I felt. Why should I continue trying to make him realize what he never would? I was already detached at that point, and whatever would eventually happen to that church didn’t matter to me anymore. But my silence kept the door open for more people to get hurt the way that I was hurt.
Edmund Burke said, “All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing.” And Dr. King said that, “We will have to repent in this generation not merely for the hateful words and actions of the bad people but for the appalling silence of the good people.” Had I been appallingly silent? Do we inadvertently participate in harming others by simply walking away? It is, after all, the path of least resistance.
Even now, I am in the middle of a different organization that is divided with bullies and victims and bullies who think they’re victims. Loss has occurred and will continue to occur, and good people have and are leaving. No one is saying why. Hurt continues. Should we all just watch? Believe me, nothing repulses me more than the thought of jumping into the middle of it. And, truthfully, I probably never will. Is that wrong of me? Lulu’s situation has me thinking about it.
It hurts my heart to know that nothing much has changed in all the years it’s been since we, ourselves, moved on from that church. So, when Lulu asked me to post something on my blog about, “...crappy pastors who think they can rule the world,” I thought I’d give it a shot.
The pastor of that church would be hurt if he read this. So would LaLa. So would friends who remain. No one likes to hear that others think they’re in a bad situation. Certain people would not like to hear that I’ve actually prayed that God would “deliver” them out of that toxicity and bring them to a place of clarity and health.
I don’t want to hurt anyone. But in this case, hurting this pastor or hurting LaLa simply involves exposing what occurred. The fact that others outside of that place will KNOW what happened will be, in itself, hurtful to them. It means that they will be looked upon by others with disdain and disappointment, others who CAN see the forest for the trees. In their isolation, it all seems normal. But when somebody slaps it up on the Internet for the world to see, it suddenly seems twisted and wrong. That’s because it is. Now what do the rest of us do about it?

I'm Toooooo Busy!

2007-09-16T17:19:00.000-07:00

I’m too busy for my car, too busy for my car, too busy by far. I’m too busy for my shirt, too busy for my shirt, so busy it hurts. I’m too busy for my hat, too busy for my hat, what do you think about that? I’m too busy for my cat, too busy for my cat, poor pussy cat. I’m too busy for this blog, too busy for this blog...
I believe that Right Said Fred (who inspired these botched lyrics) may be Theodore Geisel’s big brother on hallucinogenic chemicals.
I’m teaching music part time, waiting tables part time, wife-ing, mother-ing, friend-ing, writing, writing, writing, and working my ACN business. In fact, I was just promoted, I’m happy to report.
But I don’t have any underwear.
I need to have sex. I need to do laundry. I need to get back to that Nora Roberts book that’s probably overdue at the library. I can only hope the Universe knows that I’m NOT going to miss Survivor China which premiers on the 20th OR Heroes which premiers on the 24th! And American Idol in January is like religion. A girl has to have her priorities.
So today, because I need to live my life with razor-sharp precision in order to accomplish all that I’m unwilling to give up, I created a monthly spreadsheet with 31 days across the top and several “to do’s” down the side. I put dots in the boxes for the days that I have to accomplish specific tasks. When I complete each item, I put an “X” in the box. Now I can see my “month at a glance” and know exactly what I’m getting done and what I’m not. In addition to this, I’ve created 7 templates, one for each day of the week, listing each item I need to get done. I check those off daily as well. These tasks include everything from repeating my vision statement to phone calls that I need to make to personal growth to taking my vitamins. I’m pretty confident that I could stand toe to toe with the most anal retentive people in the world. (Should “anal retentive” have a hyphen?)
Anyway, do not fear! I have not forgotten the words of the great philosopher, Winnie the Pooh! (“Saint Winnie, as my pastor refers to him.) His wisdom is this: “Never underestimate the value of doing nothing, of just going along, listening to all the things you can’t hear, and not bothering.”
So I’m scheduling that in.

Only Hope

2007-09-01T10:45:00.000-07:00

A storm blew through here last night, violent and raging for all of about ten minutes. It brought strong gusts of wind that pelted the house with dirt and refuse--anything that wasn’t tied down--but then blew the dirt and refuse away. It was quick, but it had our strict attention. This morning the air is still and calm and clean, a crisp 61 degrees. Not a cloud to be seen.
I can relate.
Thank you. Thank you for all the advice and the encouragement, the wisdom and the friendship. What a week. I’ve had much to ponder with all the blog posts and e-mails that were sent--the good, the bad, and the ugly. This morning I feel as still and as calm and as clean as I ever have.
Here are some things that I know. I know there is a song inside of me. I know that song is part of a beautiful symphony, orchestrated by a Musician so amazing and so talented, with such genius. He is forever writing my part, new and fresh every morning. He composes. I sing. Without Him, I am without purpose. Without me, He is silent. He breathes life into me, and I am His expression. To deny this would be an abandonment, a betrayal, of all that I know. I know this because I remember the dirge I used to sing. It was the only song I knew. Now I sing His music, and my life is in tune.
I also know that recent events, and all my events, have been orchestrated by my Conductor. The opportunity to teach which came in the eleventh hour is a beautiful, syncopated melody, uniquely mine, surprising with its new rhythm. My free and clear and permanent teaching license is the counterpoint melody. And the joy that I am experiencing is the harmony that my song has been lacking for a year.
I can’t deny it. I can’t shut my ears from it, or my heart. I won’t be dissuaded from singing my part. I won’t lead a life of quiet desperation, and I won’t take my song with me to the grave. And I won’t apologize to those who don’t like the lyrics or the tune. It’s my song. My Muse, my Teacher, my Father has given it to me to be sung, not just to be notes on a page in His Music Book.
I am a hope-giver. It’s not just what I do. It’s who I am. And all I have to really do is simply be who I am. Every day. I’ve been discouraged by having to sing a song so eternal with such a fragmented, broken sound system. I likened teaching to rearranging the deck chairs on the Titanic, a doomed and sinking ship. So I jumped off that boat. Into what? A swirling sea of fragmented, broken systems. The whole earth is the Titanic, and everything in it. And in my frustration, I forgot something very, very, very important: I’m not from here. I’m just trying to get home and spread some hope along the way.
I remember teaching in the ghetto in Las Vegas. It seemed everyone knew my eighth graders were hoodlums except for me. (And I say that with all affection.) To me they were just my kids. Mi ninos. Mi corazon. Mi vida. I used to make them hold out their hands in a little cup whenever they would say something negative about their futures. I would come by and drop some “hope” into their hands. I’d say, “Here, you need some hope,” and I would literally cup my hands over theirs and drop the hope in. To an outsider, it might have looked like there was really nothing in our hands and we were just pretending. But I’m here to tell you, I was IN that classroom with those kids, and there was nothing pretend about it. After I gave them their little measure of hope, I would hold their cupped hands in mine and I’d say, “Now be careful with it. It’s very valuable. Don’t drop it.”
“I won’t,” they’d say.
“And don’t lose it.”
“I won’t.”
And of course, they did. They’d drop it. They’d lose it. They’d throw it back in my face. It felt weird to them. You’d think it would feel good, but it didn’t at first. Too foreign. Too different. Not comfortable at all. Sometimes the brave ones would hold on to it. At least for a little while. But no worries. My mercies were new every morning, and I had bountiful, plentiful, and abundant hope for them from a Source Who springs eternal. I just gave them what I had in my hands to give because that is what was given to me. Hope. It is the best of things.
Two years later, my last year at that school, one of those eighth graders came to visit me. As hard as it was to admit, I actually had to concede that this particular girl was, in fact, a hoodlum. (Again, I say that with all affection.) This girl could sass me like nobody’s business in two different languages. And don’t think for a minute I didn’t keep right up with her. Rough girl. She was five foot even, and believe me, you wouldn’t want to meet her in a dark alley. No one messed with her. Well, except for me, of course. I gave that girl hope more times than anyone else in all my classes combined. When I say she threw it back in my face, she did! It was ugly. She WAS the storm, violent and raging, blowing the dirt and all the refuse--anything that wasn’t nailed down--against my house. Thank God I was nailed down. Crucified, even. And now here she was--standing right in front of me. Calm and still and clean. She said she hadn’t been in trouble for over a year. Her grades were all above “C” level and she really wanted to graduate, so she broke up with her boyfriend because he had dropped out and was bringing her down. And when she left, she looked back and told me one more thing. As she stood by the door to leave, she put her hands out in a little cup and said, “Miss, I still have my hope.” She smiled. And she was gone.
I don’t always get to know where my kids end up. I can certainly relate to the guys in the Old Testament who had hope for a promise they’d never see in this fragmented, broken system. But they seemed to remember that they weren’t from here either.
I think I’ll look back on this past year and call it one of the most valuable I’ve ever had. I have so many more songs now in my repertoire.

Here’s one for my Maestro:

There’s a song that’s inside of my soul
It’s the one that I’ve tried to write over and over again
I’m awake in the infinite cold
But You sing to me over and over and over again
So I lay my head back down
And I lift my hands and pray to be only Yours
I pray to be only Yours
I know now You’re my Only Hope

Sing to me the song of the stars
Of Your galaxies dancing and laughing and laughing again
When it feels like my dreams are so far
Sing to me of the plans that You have for me over again
So I lay my head back down
And I lift my hands and pray to be only Yours
I pray to be only Yours
I know now You’re my Only Hope

I give You my destiny
I’m giving You all of me
I want Your symphony singing in all that I am
At the top of my lungs
I’m giving it all
So I lay my head back down
And I lift my hands and pray to be only Yours
I pray to be only Yours
I pray to be only Yours
I know now You’re my Only Hope

Mandy Moore - Only Hope

2007-09-01T08:14:00.001-07:00

Confessions...

2007-08-24T19:06:00.001-07:00

I haven’t posted on my blog for a while, and my tiny (yet vocal) fan base has made it frighteningly clear that if I do not post soon, they will no longer send me birthday cards, give me free therapy sessions, or keep any of my really embarrassing secrets. That said, I’ve decided to let everyone with Internet access in on my neurotically spiraling, convoluted and conflicting thoughts on this crazy journey I’m on (being the apparent exhibitionist that I am) and I just gotta wonder if anybody ever gets tired of this.
It’s not like I’m one of those people who tries to put her best foot forward. I don’t. Lots of people, NORMAL people, keep their struggles to themselves until they are way past the situation. After they’ve processed the event, learned from it, grown from it, they feel better about sharing their experiences with those close to them. Of course, they can then leave out all the really crappy, humiliating parts. Sometimes I think I should be more like that. But doesn’t iron sharpen iron? What if those people isolate themselves to the point that they can’t solicit anyone else’s help or perspectives or opinions—to be received or rejected—and subsequently can’t find a resolution for all that haunts them? What if, in their own self-absorbed pride-filled aloneness, they get stuck in the hell of their own insecurity and become one of the “mass of men who lead lives of quiet desperation?” Thoreau said those people go to the GRAVE with the song still in them. Well, not this girl. I’ll take my desperation loud and obvious and public, thank you very much. I don’t want my song stuck inside me.
So here’s what’s going on. Most of you know that I walked away from education. Most of you know that I took the last year off. Most of you know that I eventually had to return to work, but broke out in hives every time I thought about getting back into a labor camp. I mean, a school. With hostile parents. And bullshit policies. And really, really, really bad money. I’m way too spoiled to have to go through my career feeling like a second-class citizen. So when my first offer came to put my application in for an 8th grade English position, I turned it down flat.
“But, Daisy, you’re so good for kids.”
Yeah. Ain’t that the kicker?
And when my second offer came soon after to put my application in for a 4th grade position, I turned that one down flat too. Right after I stopped laughing.
“But, Daisy, we really need somebody with experience.”
Sucks, don’t it? Told ya. Na, na, na, na NAAAAA, na!
I know. That’s immature. One of those “crappy” and “humiliating” parts that I’m not privileged enough to leave out because I keep everyone duly informed in real time due to my exhibitionist tendencies and because I don’t want to have a freakin’ SONG stuck in me till I go to the grave!
And then one day very recently, as I was in the produce section of Wal-mart picking out bananas, my friend Cindy, who I’d been talking to on my cell phone, pops out with, “So, do you wanna teach music part time at the charter school?”
“No…” Two second of silence and then, “…how much?”
I shit you not, I put the phone down and looked over my shoulder. WHO IN THE HELL SAID THAT?
When I put the phone to my ear again she said, “Really?”
“No… OK… Ummm… No.”
And like a good friend, Cindy—one of the irons who sharpens me—promised to find out the details.
Long story short, she found out that they wanted to pay me a surprising amount of money to work three hours a day to teach music. This appealed to me because you know I have a song inside me. I was offered a part-time contract with benefits. It is only a one-year commitment because their “real” music teacher is standing in as the interim principal. After that, I’m free to go. Works for me!
SO! Of course, the school wanted proof that I could really teach, of all things, so I went to my files, pulled out my 3-year temporary Idaho license with the provisions that I’d left on it because I had my panties in a wad over the ridiculousness of THAT, blew the dust off of it, and realized that Idaho had NOT given me three years. They’d given me two. My license was going to expire this September 1st. I about had a stroke, because by this time, I was kind of really intrigued about this particular teaching position. I called the Ed Shed (my affectionate term for the State Department of Education) who informed me that if I had caught the error two years ago, then they’d have been able to rectify the situation. Now, I was just SOL. Typical. Predictable. Reminiscent of all that irritates me about the whole FUBAR mess in the first place. HOWEVER, Ed Shed Dude said, the provisions that were on my license were no longer required by the state of Idaho due to a decision by the state made just THREE WEEKS PREVIOUSLY! Three weeks, folks. I was advised to fill out an application for a free and clear license, send in my $75 and a letter explaining my situation, and they’d let me know.
And, oh yeah. School was starting in like, twelve days.
I told Jesus, “Jesus, if I don’t get this license, I swear to… well, YOU, that I’m gonna bag all this and just go to beauty school!” My 5-year, free and clear, Idaho teaching license was in my hot little hand by week’s end. (God apparently does not want me giving anybody a permanent.)
Nothing, I tell you NOTHING, is that easy EVER in education. Ever.
I’ve spent the last two weeks teaching music, fully licensed and legal, at Thomas Jefferson Charter School in Caldwell, Idaho with about 280 happy little kids, kindergarten through 8th grade. They love me, and I love them, and so far everybody’s having a lot of fun.
Hmmmmm. Now. What to do? What to do? More importantly, what am I SUPPOSED to do?
Did God just sit back, fold His arms, and watch me throw a year-long tantrum? And in the eleventh hour, did He plop this opportunity in my lap, knowing my propensity to jump? And did He miraculously make the requirements to renew my license just disappear into mid air? He knew two years ago that this September my teaching license would pretty much be good for nothing but toilet paper. Did He orchestrate that, too, so that I would be forced then to pursue a permanent license? And for what? So that I could… teach? Or am I just crazy?
Dear God, please let me be crazy. Please let me be crazy!
(Furthermore, the requirements that I had on my license were the same ones Sean-Martin had on his, so he’ll probably get a 5-year, free and clear teaching license as well. He’s an amazing teacher, by the way.)
The Bible verse that my Donna gave me was SUPPOSED to mean that teaching was behind me! You know, “Do not call to mind the former things or ponder things of the past. [Like teaching.] Behold I will do something new. [Like not teaching.] Now it will spring forth. Will you not be aware of it? I will make a roadway in the wilderness, rivers in the desert.” I was ready for a brand new career in whatever roadway, whatever river God had. I’m not that picky. Anything is fine. I just don’t want white people coming in screaming at me, if that’s OK. And some money would be nice. Maybe some respect. I was kind of excited about it, to tell you the truth. And the part of that verse that was most baffling to me, frankly, was the “Will you not be aware of it?” part. Surely I would be aware of it. The opportunity door that opened up would be the one I would walk through. What’s the big deal? Not rocket science, right?
Right?
So then, THIS opportunity door opened up, and…
OK, Dear GOD! I am begging You! PLEASE LET ME BE CRAZY! I can’t go back to a place where people are not arrested for coming in screaming and threatening my life. I can’t work in a place where the principal comes in and tells me to lock my door because there’s some raving lunatic crackhead downstairs who wants to hurt me! And I surely can’t work in a place where that same principal says a half-hour later, “It’s OK now. He’s fine.” He’s fine? HE’S FINE? DO I GIVE A SHIT IF HE’S FINE? I hope he breaks out with a hellacious rash on his dick that’s so excruciating he finally just chops the whole damn thing OFF! With a sledge-hammer and a chisel! That’s how fine I hope he is! AM I FINE? Did anybody ask me if I was fine? I guess I just wasn’t that important.
I’m so used to being cherished and adored that I really can’t tolerate anything less. It’s just not my nature. Teaching CAN’T be for me.
I’m not opposed to teaching, my friends. Aside from motherhood, teaching is the single-most important thing I’ve ever done with my life. Teachers are awesome. They’re smart. They’re cool. They’re funny—they have to be. They’re survivors. They’ve got stamina. They’ve got mojo. Almost everything that is good and strong about America is good and strong because of teachers in various forms. It’s the bullshit that comes WITH teaching that I can do without! Unfortunately, I don’t have a very optimistic perspective on the future of our country because education is dying. We, as a country, don’t cherish our children, let alone those who sacrifice so much to pour their lives out for them. I believe that education SHOULD die in its present form and be reconstructed by EDUCATORS—not politicians. In that regard, I fully support NCLB because it is killing education faster than anything I’ve ever witnessed. Simply stated, education is pretty fucked up. The nightmare stories I could tell you…
I’ve said before that being a teacher is like rearranging the deck chairs on the Titanic. Remember in the movie with Leonardo DiCaprio and Kate Winslet? Jack put Rose on that lifeboat. She was being lowered into the water to safety. Her life was spared. She was home free. And what did she do? She jumped back onto that sinking ship because everything she loved was on that boat. I have this really vivid picture of her sitting on that boat with those big, frightened eyes looking up at Jack who remained on that doomed hunk of iron. And you knew she was going to do it. You just knew she was gonna jump back onto that boat. And God knows my propensity to jump…
What the hell am I doing? Everything I love is on that sinking, fucked-up ship.
Sharpen me, my friends. Post a response and tell me what you think I should do. I fixed my blog so that everyone should be able to post, whether they have a google account or not. Just click on anonymous and sign your name in the text. And don’t just tell me to return to teaching because I’m good at it. It doesn’t matter how good I ever was if I’m lying dead on the bottom of the frigid ocean floor, does it? So think about this. I’m sitting on a lifeboat looking up with those big, frightened eyes. What would you do if you were in my lifeboat?

Letter for my Husband

2007-07-30T00:03:00.000-07:00

Dear Sean-Martin,

You know what I love about you? I love the way your voice changes on the phone when you realize it’s me on the other end. Your whole demeanor changes from a very manly, businesslike, “Hello?” to a much softer, sexier and ever-so-slightly-more-attentive “Hey, babe. What’s up?” I’ve always loved the way you talk to me on the phone, like you’ve been waiting all day just to hear my voice. And for twelve years, it hasn’t changed. You’re always just as anxious to talk to me as you were the first time we ever spoke on the phone.
You know what else? I love the way you let me run our whole lives within the confines of our home most happily, but when we step out into the world, you assume I’m hopelessly helpless. When we walk down the street, you always have me walk next to the buildings, and you walk close to the traffic. Your arm goes around me the second we step into the crosswalk as if I’d never crossed a street by myself and should never be trusted to do so. Some women don’t like that sort of thing, but those women don’t know what they’re missing. Every time you put a protective arm around me, you’re letting me know that no harm will ever come to me as long as you are with me. Every time you open a door for me or pull my chair out, you’re telling me that I’m the most important part of your life. You’re such a gentleman. I love that about you.
I love how you take care of me when we go camping, and I’ve loved every single vacation you’ve taken us on. I would never have seen so many beautiful places without you. And you make me feel that no matter where we are, every sun rises and sets on me. You’ve given me so many wonderful memories to treasure. Remember the Redwoods in that little tent you had? You made it seem like a mansion until we upgraded to the pop-up and then again to the travel trailer. And remember before we got a camper with a bathroom in it how I would ALWAYS have to pee in the middle of the night? You were so sweet whenever I’d be scared to walk out to the bathroom by myself, and you would always take me. You’d never get impatient with me--EVER--no matter how tired you were. I’d wake you up, and you’d just say, “OK, let’s go.” You’d get the flashlight and get my coat and walk me down the trail. So sweet--except for that one time you hid and scared the crap out of me. And how do you come up with such AMAZING meals a gazillion miles from nowhere? Surf and turf and steamed asparagus has never been a problem for you whether we’re cooking at home on the stove or in the woods over an open fire. I’ve never gone hungry, that’s for sure. Well, maybe there was one time through Washington state in the middle of the night. I was hungry AND tired, a dismal combination for you, but you just handled it like a champ in your usual form.
You know what else I love about you? I love how you sneak out of bed on Saturday mornings and go upstairs to watch your fishing shows. You bring me a steaming cup of chai tea and whisper in my ear, “Don’t get up,” because you want your uninterrupted, quality alone time. (Like I WANT to hop out of bed at six o’clock on a Saturday morning.) And when you’re ready for a little... well, I don’t have to put every little detail up on the Internet... Suffice to say, when you’re ready, you come down and wake me up.
I love when, all of a sudden, as if it’s just occurred to you, you say, “I sure love you, baby...” Out of the blue. I’ll just be standing there stirring something on the stove, and you’ll say it. Or I’ll be checking my e-mail or putting on my make-up, and you’ll just come out with it. It’s nice. I like it. I like that I don’t even have to look pretty for you to say it. You’ll just say it whenever the mood strikes. You’ll say it first thing in the morning when I have morning breath and morning hair and left-over-from-last-night morning make-up. While I’m on this subject, I might as well mention you don’t seem to mind the fact that my butt is jiggly or that I have stretch marks from here to Nigeria or that my tummy is far from flat. Your body remains hard and muscular and tan, and what do you have to say about mine? You say you really like that little “scoopy-scoop” that my tummy and hips and butt have created in the small of my back, and I know that you’re telling the truth because you have your hands on it all the time. Way to focus on the positive! God, I love you!
I love the fact that you’ll get out of bed to get me a drink of water in the middle of the night. Mostly. And if I absolutely can’t get you to do it, you’ll cuddle with me and try to convince me that I’m not really thirsty at all, and you’ll rub my face till I fall asleep. That’s nice too.
I love how you try to be grumpy, but you can’t. And when I giggle, you snap out of whatever got your shorts in a twist to begin with. I swear your worst days are better than most people’s best days. You’re just an even-keeled kinda guy. And when I’m grumpy, you’ll say, “Oh, baby, come on...” in your sweet, albeit somewhat patronizing voice. I can’t believe it works every stinkin’ time, but it does! How can that be? I know you’re going to say it, I tell myself not to let you appease me, and then you do it anyway. You’re magic. And I can’t resist you.
I love how you’ll stand in the kitchen and talk to me when it’s my night to cook. You always offer to pour me a glass of wine. Sometimes you’ll turn the music up and dance with me. And I LOVE the fact that you and Geoff get up and clear the table and do the dishes. My goodness, I’m spoiled rotten! I don’t know if I want anyone to read this!
I love when you laugh at my jokes. You seem to do it often. I love that. I love the fact that you make me laugh every day. You’re a very funny guy. Did you know that? You have to know that. Wayne Newton. Hair that doesn’t belong. Bitter beer face. Bridges and birds. You are some entertainment, my man! Never a dull moment with you!
You know what else I love? I love the fact that everyone who meets you likes you instantly. When we leave a party, people do not say, “Yeah, she’s a nice girl, but he’s a real JERK! I wish she’d get a clue!” A good man will be attentive to his wife and obviously so. He will cherish her and love her and protect her, thereby earning respect from respectable people. The last person a woman should need protection from is her husband, for crying out loud! But we’ve both known women who are not cherished or protected from the men who should be doing exactly that. Those husbands are an embarrassment to such women. So, thank you for being a good man. You have earned the respect from all who know you, and I am always proud to be with you.
Our toughest year was ‘04, and you navigated through it with such precision and foresight. We walked through our infertility issues pretty darn bravely, I think. I know there were times when you were haunted by the possibility of making a wrong decision. But looking back, honey, you kept your head about you and we both agreed on what was best for the three of us. I have no regrets, and I would hate it if you didn’t know that. So know that. I love what we have accomplished together, and I’m excited about our future. Raising Geoffrey with you has been the greatest joy of my life. Even HE thinks we did a good job. And even though ‘04 was tough, I feel good about the fact that it was tough due to circumstances beyond our control. What was hard about that year was not because of stupidity or selfishness or neglect on either one of our parts. We’ve only made life better for each other--never harder. And when hard times came around to us, we were ready for it. So, with that being said, I love that you’ve shown such wisdom on our journey. I love that you have a calming and comforting effect on me. I love that you fill our home with laughter. I love that you spoil me. I love that you’re irresistable. I love that you provide and protect. I love that you’re a happy and contented man. I love that you breathe me in. I love that you love me. You completely soothe my soul. I love you. I trust you. I respect you. I enjoy you. I appreciate you. Even though we’ve been together almost twelve years, I feel like I just married you a week ago. And I feel like we’ve always been together.

I am yours forever,
Daisy

People You Meet

2007-07-06T00:42:00.000-07:00

When you wait tables you meet pretty much everybody. If you do it long enough, in a HALF-way decent place, you’ll eventually even wait on somebody famous. I’ve waited on Kenny Rogers (great tipper), Mike Tyson (stiffed me), and the dude from Def Leppard with the one arm.
Most days I love it. Even the days that bring the crazies provide those snippets of entertainment that I’m so hopelessly addicted to. It doesn’t even phase me when some half-crocked, socially inept, completely hormonal bee-otch with a lunatic bent the size of Milwaukee proper plops herself down in my station and starts raving. You know I go in the back and start talking about her in the kitchen, right?
“Can you redo this sandwich for the gal on table 24 who hasn’t had an orgasm in fifteen years? And send it out with one of those little, buzzing toy-thingies. We’ve got SOMETHING she can use, right? How ‘bout that spatula? Does it vibrate? Can we send it out with some instructions? She’s not too skippy. Who’s got a pen?”
Laughter ensues, and I am lauded by my coworkers. My boss shakes his head and tries to shush me in spite of the fact that he’s trying REALLY hard not to crack a smile, and then nobody balks at having to make a perfectly good sandwich twice in the middle of lunch rush.
I get the guy who brings his wife and kids in and sits at their usual table on Saturdays, and then brings his girlfriend in on the weekdays for a cozy, cuddly lunch. Oh, you don’t think I’m leaving THAT one alone, do you? I make sure to ask how his wife and kids are. Oh, shucks, I’m supposed to wait until hottie-girl goes to the bathroom before I ask about the family, aren’t I? My bad. No tip for me! Worth it, though.
I have the adorably enchanting elderly couple who come in three times a week like clockwork and sit in my station every time because they don’t want to explain to someone new that they need a third cup decaf, a third cup regular, the rest hot water, two creamers and an ice cube. They split the fish and chips, update me on the grandkids, and leave a buck-thirty-five every time. Then one day he comes in alone and sits by himself... just... anywhere... It doesn’t really matter where that much anymore. The whole place becomes a vacuum that steals everyone’s breath away, and he is lost and lifeless without her. He realizes he can’t eat a whole fish and chips by himself, and he doesn’t come back again.
And so it goes. People you meet. Those who breeze in and out of your life like wind through the leaves on a tree, brushing past you and through you. You’d barely notice if you didn’t pay attention. But they do ripple through you, and you through them, in a continual hum that you kinda have to listen for.
On some days, like today, cool people will come in. I like when they come in toward the end of my shift. Then I can sit down at the table with them. Kick back. Shoot that breeze. On the clock. I don’t know how many times my boss has had to come looking for me to get my cashout for the day. He rolls his eyes in exasperation and lifts his hands toward Heaven when he finally finds me sitting down at a table with my guests, blending right in.
“Can I get you anything, Daisy? A soda? A milkshake? A burger maybe?”
Everybody’s a comedian in the restaurant business.
Today, Jeff and Skylar breezed in and breezed out after a nice lunch and about ten limeades. OK. Maybe not ten, but they were thirsty boys. After their world travels, you can bet they were thirsty. And good for them. Their Spanish was amazing for a coupla’ North Pacific white boys. I’m sure all that flyfishing they did on the Patagonia in Argentina and Chile did wonders.
Skylar seemed eager to finish up his college degrees at U of I (yes, degrees with an “S”--that’s plural, folks) so he could hop back down to South America, and Jeff seemed to be contemplating jumping clean out of his lucrative, successful life to join him. Wait a minute... didn’t somebody else do that? Oh yeah, I did that! Except it was a little less lucrative, and my travels are still ahead. These boys half my age have done twice as much. They absolutely inspired me to stay my present course of burgers and beer, for now anyway, believing that the best is yet to come.
I’m happy. And you know what else? I have the gift of time and flexibility. My family is loving it, and so am I. I’m unstuck. I have freedom. You know what I told Jeff and Skylar today? That there are people in this world whose job it is to take other people snorkeling every day. You know where they live? Hawaii! Let’s go be those guys. Or let’s live up here in the mountains during the summer and Mexico or Argentina or Chile on the beach during the winter and take people flyfishing.
Think I’m crazy?
Did you ever hear about the guy that walked across a tightrope stretched out over Niagara Falls with a wheelbarrow in front of him? He asked if anyone believed he could cross over from one side to the other. Everyone cheered and screamed that they knew he could do it. He invited anyone who believed in him to get in the wheelbarrow and be pushed across the falls. No one got in.
Perhaps I should mention here that I’ve had two job offers to return to teaching. If I wanted to, I could go back this fall to that secure paycheck--such that it was. Insurance. Stability. Security.
Stuck.
I say bugger that. I’ll get in that freakin’ wheelbarrow because life is precious, and life is short. And I’m not going to waste any more time being stuck. I’m not wasting any more time thinking about the money I’ve lost or the money I didn’t earn or all that money I spent on all those pieces of paper with the names of colleges on them that I attended. I’m not going to waste one more minute of my life second-guessing the choices I’ve made or the path I’ve carved out for my life. If I’ve screwed up, that was so five minutes ago. Who can be bothered with yesterday? But if I’ve lived my life courageously and freely, then that is forever. I hear a lot of people cheering, and plenty of people say they believe in me. But I don’t see too many people jumping into wheelbarrows. And maybe that’s because it’s completely insane. But you know what? I like the fact that I’ll always be the chick who jumped in.
And it was nice to talk to a couple of guys who get it.
Thank you, gentlemen.

A Love Story

2007-07-01T21:12:00.000-07:00

Just think about this for a second. Our entire existences are based in part on the decisions made by others. Some of us would not even BE here but for the decision on the part of one of our parents to perhaps do something as simple (or as terrifying) as respond to another’s flirtatious glance across a crowded, smoke-filled room. In another country. Far from home. Where no one speaks a word of English.

Let me back up.

Once upon a time, in a land far, far away (Copenhagen, Denmark to be exact) there lived a beautiful princess. She didn’t live in a castle. Her parents didn’t lock her in a tower. Her family was not one of privilege. But she was a princess, no less. Her father was a bricklayer; her mother a hat maker. And, as all children should be, she was lavished upon with magical love. Her name was Greta Birgit Lind.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the earth (Rapid City, South Dakota to be exact) there lived a prince of a man, a self-made man of the strongest American stock from the greatest generation of men. Sadly, his own childhood was not as enchanted. His sweet mother died of a sudden illness when he was only six. His father died just ten years later, leaving him to make his own way in this world. That way included college at South Dakota State University and two years service in the army where he was stationed in Germany. Of course, as destiny would have it, Todd traveled on furlough with a buddy to Denmark and visited a local pub. Thus, said flirtatious glance across a crowded, smoke-filled room occurred and destiny was sealed. His name was Eugene Todd Martin.

No one can tell me what they talked about on that first date. She did not speak one word of English, and he certainly did not speak Danish. But somehow, this 17 and 23 year old were able to communicate one thing: they were crazy about each other. The remainder of Todd’s commitment to the army was spent writing letters and speaking occasionally to Birgit over the phone. Luckily, Birgit’s mother spoke a little English, and she was able to translate, for the most part, the affections of her daughter’s suitor. Think about that one. He saw her two more times before his commission ended, but his service for the army came to its inevitable end. He packed everything but his heart, which he left in Copenhagen, and flew home to the states. He took a job as a pharmacist in his hometown of Rapid.

It took no time at all for him to make that long distance phone call. A staticy connection from America with a very anxious, very nervous young man on the other end brought the proposal for marriage to Birgit through her mother who translated. Birgit told her mom to tell her boyfriend that she said yes. He flew back to Denmark and on June 29th, 1957, Todd Martin married Birgit Lind in a ceremony he didn’t understand a word of. God only knows what they made him promise her. He’d only seen her three times before he put a beautiful diamond ring on her finger--the same diamond that his own father had given his mother years before. It was the same diamond that his son placed on my hand years later. It is the same diamond our son will give his bride when destiny brings them together.

Fifty years, two children, three grandchildren, a son-in-law, a daughter-in-law, several pets, houses and vacations later, they still epitomize the love and devotion we all dream of. They had each other. They built a life. They’ve made the most of the first fifty years and eagerly anticiplate the next fifty. I can’t explain how they did it. Or how Sean-Martin and I are doing it. Or how my sister-and-brother-in-law are doing it. Or how we’re showing our children to do it. All I know is that with each morning that comes, love remains.

Click on their video. You might want to grab a kleenex.

World Premier: Retailing Jesus

2007-06-19T08:18:00.000-07:00

So, we’ve moved from WWJD (What Would Jesus Do?) to WDJLL: What Did Jesus Look Like? Apparently, some good folks from Holland have figured it out. Here’s the article that was e-mailed to me this week:

World premiere of 3-D holographic “images of Christ” at International Christian Retail Show.

At the International Christian Retail Show (July 8-12, 2007, in Atlanta) Grizzly Adams Productions (booth MS3) will present at Bridge-Logos booth 3039 “the world’s first scientific 3-D holographic images of Jesus Christ,” according to a company announcement. These five fragile glass holographic images were prepared by laser scientists in Amsterdam, Holland, and were extrapolated from the reputed burial cloth of Jesus Christ known as the Shroud of Turin. The five images include the face of Christ and the front and back images of His crucified body.

“Christian booksellers coming to the Bridge-Logos booth will be given three-dimensional viewing glasses to see these sacred images and informational handouts explaining the new scientific findings discovered in the holographic images,” says David Balsiger, senior producer of the new Grizzly Adams Productions documentary DVD and co-author of the book The Case for Christ’s Resurrection (Bridge-Logos). “Also, a world-renowned expert on the holographic images and the Shroud of Turin will be on hand to explain the images and to answer questions.

Now, I’m not trying to poo-poo on anybody’s holographic parade. Really, I’m not. It’s just that none of this impresses me. However, when I can see what Jesus looks like from the life of someone living about 2000 years later, who has not ever really seen the man, Jesus, and yet believes, now THAT impresses me.

I feel the same way about the whoopty-doo over having the Ten Commandments displayed in public places. Why don’t we just display them in our lives? Wouldn’t that be exponentially more effective? If people are just trying to one-up all the other religions in this country, then duking it out in the court system is probably the best way to go. But if bringing our community to a place of moral unity that exemplifies compassion and respect for one another is the goal, perhaps displaying those commandments in our daily lives is the better option. And let’s remember, all of the law, all that the prophets came to tell us, and all of the commandments really hinge on two commands: Love God with all your heart, and love your neighbor as yourself.

If we all did that, would anybody even wonder what He looked like way back when? Or would we be content with the fact that we could see Him every single day? I think I’d be content.

I get e-mails and text messages that say, "If you claim to love Jesus, then forward this to 14,000 people. If you’re ashamed of Him, then delete this message." Yeah, I pretty much delete those. Sorry. I’m not a very good Internet Christian. I just don’t know what the cyber-Jesus looks like. Not sure I want to promote him.

I don’t have any catchy little Jesus bumper stickers on my car. When the e-mails say, “97% of people will delete this e-mail,” I’m in that 97%. I don’t have any desire to see the Ten Commandments down at the courthouse. And I’m not going to Holland to see Jesus.

I don’t follow after signs and wonders, but I can sure tell you signs and wonders follow after God’s people. And I’m not talking about the “Ten Commandments” signs. It is truly a wonder that God can take a broken life and create a wonderful, rich, abundant life where once there was no hope of ever really becoming anything. It is a sign of His mercy. All other “signs” pale pathetically in comparison. I should know. I was such a life.

The holographic images of Christ are not “The Case for Christ’s Resurrection.”

But I am.

A Poem: Where I'm From

2007-06-10T07:57:00.000-07:00

I've never accused myself of being a poet, and come to think of it, neither has anyone else. Here, though, is an attempt. This poem was written from a "template" of sorts. I was given a basic format, a formula to follow. Here is the result. I kinda like it. See what you think. If you're inspired, follow the format and tell me where YOU are from...

Where I’m From
6/5/04

I am from a cruelty that seems distant now.
From flying fists and fits of rage,
I am from indifference and isolation.
Loneliness, my salvation.
I am from the endless chores:
Cleaning dishes without water because it’s been shut off,
Caring for children who aren’t mine,
A mother who is herself a child,
And a man who is not my husband.

I am from a world that sits squarely on my shoulders,
But I don’t belong.
I’m from, “You think you’re better, don’t you?”
Gratefully, yes.

I’m from so long, farewell, to Hell with you, goodbye.
I’m from anything that’s better than this.
I’m from outside this place,
A higher place.

I’m from a husband who knows tenderness
And a child who has never known threat.
I am from large doses of daily, uninhibited laughter
that heals me.
I am from steak and king crab legs for no apparent reason
if that’s what I want,
And lights that come on when I flip the switch.
I am from a purpose that is defined
And a destiny that is uniquely mine.
I am from clarity.

I am from these moments--
A flower that has miraculously bloomed in a barren desert.

The Beauty of Alaska

2007-06-03T06:04:00.000-07:00

Well, folks, a happier blog this week, perhaps? Something lighter? Something pretty? OK. I wrote this piece during a writing class at UNLV. We were assigned a descriptive essay, and this is what I came up with, a snapshot moment of a quiet morning in Alaska. Sean-Martin took us on a three-day ferry excursion from Billingham, Washington up to where his friends from college still live in Sitka. What a phenomenal experience it was! I went whale watching every day. Geoff, then eleven, stood on the beach and pulled a huge salmon out of the ocean with a five-weight flyrod, making his Fa most proud. Sean-Martin got cornered on a rock by a grizzly bear who just thought Sean-Martin was nice enough to catch his lunch that day. The food was incredible. There's just something about pulling a fish out of the water and putting it in your mouth twenty minutes later. If you've never been to Alaska, you should definitely put it on your list of things to do. To the right is a portion of a video we took, so click away and get a tiny taste of what Alaska offers to sooth the soul. Here's the post for this week...

I couldn’t sleep. I’m not sure why. Southeast Alaska was the most peaceful place I’d ever been in my life. My husband wasn’t having any trouble sleeping. His face was turned toward me, his breathing deep and even in oblivious, uninhibited slumber. Look at his sweet face. He looks good even when he sleeps. How is that possible? I gently lifted his heavy hand from my waist and sneaked out of our bed to take a dip in the natural hot springs.
The air is chilly on Baranof Island, especially in the early morning before the sun has had a chance to take the edge off. I slipped into the bathhouse and out of my robe. The slightest smell of sulfur crinkled my nose as I put my cold toes in the hot water. Not too hot. I put my arms on the edge of the tub and lowered myself in. Goose bumps jumped out on every inch of my skin as I sat down in the warmth of the silky hot spring water. The bathhouse was a simple, wooden structure with huge, open windows on three sides, giving me a perfect, panoramic view of the woods and the bay just beyond.
The beauty of the place, and then the stillness struck me. Southeast Alaska is a rain forest, and the most vibrantly thick, jungle-like greenery I’ve ever seen surrounded me. The ocean lay just a hundred yards ahead, but with no sandy beach to greet it. Instead the water was met with lush trees and long grass, unintimidated by the tides. Like me, they preferred to be as close to the water as possible.
The mountains enjoyed their proximity to the waves as well and towered over the entire area with authority. They boasted the tallest trees that brushed the sky with their tips. A bald eagle, clenching tightly a salmon breakfast for her babies, floated overhead and quietly disappeared beyond their branches. Her family would be eating in private this morning.
The thundering sound of the waterfall called for my attention. Stunningly beautiful, powerful and impressive it was. The mountains relinquished its water to the ocean in a fit, making space for more water that the rain would inevitably bring that day and every day. That rain faithfully began to fall with the precision of music, creating a symphony more beautiful than any earthly composer could create.
A sea otter peeked out of the brush and contemplated the journey down the waterfall to the ocean where his unsuspecting breakfast would surely be. He seemed unsure and waited at his station for a long time. Finally, hunger took over and he cautiously ventured out to slide down the falls. In a second, he was swept away and disappeared underneath the wall of white water. It took a few seconds before he appeared at the bottom, stunned and hurt. He made it to the bank, but his hind leg was broken. He dragged it behind him as he, too, disappeared into the green forest, leaving me to contemplate my own fragility in a world no less civil.
I propped myself up on my knees with my arms over the edge of the tub, leaning as far as I could over the edge. The rain came down harder and I put my hand out of the bathhouse window to catch it. I caught my husband’s eye as he walked up the deck toward the bathhouse, towel in hand. He smiled at me.
“Has anyone seen my wife?” his voice interrupted a moment later. He spoke softly, in perfect meter with the rain.
“I think she’s taking a bath,” I smiled and kept my eyes fixed on the horizon as he set his towel aside and settled down into the tub. His arms came tightly around my waist, and he held me close as he gently kissed my shoulder and then my neck just below my ear.
“Good morning,” he whispered.
It was.

My Secret Secrets...

2007-05-27T08:27:00.000-07:00

After a recent, and long overdue, meltdown the other day, I laid in my bed this morning and thought about The Secret and our "readiness" to receive the things that we strive for in this life. My good friend, Jeremiah, sent me The Secret on DVD, and I’ve watched it no fewer than four times now. Certainly, I have seen how unenlightened people have twisted the philosophies of The Secret around to ridiculousness, but I lean way in to its main themes. Why is that? I look around me. I see The Secret in practice every day. It's especially easy to see the principles of The Secret played out in the restaurant business. In fact, I've never seen the principles of The Secret displayed so prevalently in any other setting. The servers who come in with bad attitudes and negativity are seriously wasting their time. They complain about the tips, the customers, the people, the management, the kitchen staff. Everything. They walk out with less than $30 a shift. Conversely, I and a few others walk out with between $50-$60 on our very slowest, most worthless shifts. On our best days? Three digits, consistently. Whenever I get a bad tip, I just say, "Thank you, God, for your provision. I am grateful for everything You give me." Seriously. My coworkers think I'm nuts when I tell them that. Endearing, but nuts. But after figuring out, though, that I consistently make good money, I've got a few of them doing it. You know, just to try it out. Gratitude is key, remember. I think another key is Readiness.

Readiness is a popular concept in education. I remember the industry of education distinctly. It was my former life. People want their preschoolers to be "reading ready" so they read to their children every night without fail. People want their children to be "math ready" so they ask them questions like, "If I buy these five apples, and you eat two of them, how many apples do I have left?" We do this from the time our children are very small to instill in them a love for learning. We want them to be READY to receive and READY to take hold of the important things in life, so we coach them. We are EXACTLY like that, spiritually. And that's why God coaches us, asking us questions like, "If you see someone who is tired and hungry, what do you do?" or “Can you think of someone today who needs you to bring a lasagna over?” or “If a tourist is lost, walking down the streets of New York City, do you offer directions?” (For you, Scott.) I think somehow this concept of “readiness” ties into the Secret for me. I know that I know that I know that the Truth is the Truth, regardless of whether or not someone believes it and regardless of circumstances and regardless of a person’s readiness to receive the rewards for his strivings. The Secret agrees with that. But, right now, I'm actually pretty sick of always having to be in the "right frame of mind". And if I'm not in the right frame of mind, whose fault is it? Mine. I own it. Well, BLECH! Sometimes I just don't FEEL like being in the right frame of mind! I feel like THROWING SOMETHING! I'm tired of always being in check! It's exhausting. UGH! But I suspect that a person who masters his thinking also masters his life. So, I plug on. To be READY! I think I’m ready to receive simply because I’m sick of not having. That makes me ready in my opinion. I think God has a different set of criteria as to what makes a person ready to receive something from Him. And as I was peeing this morning, it hit me. (Lots of things hit me when I'm peeing. I think it has something to do with standing up and walking and getting the blood flowing.) Anyway, here's what hit me, midstream: Realms of believability. It is well within the realm of my personal believability to put between $50 and $150 in my pocket every shift at Red Robin. It doesn't matter if Grandma lays down a one or a five. It doesn't matter if I wait on assholes, saints, or anybody inbetween. It's done. In fact, it's already done before I ever walk in. That's the truth. The Secret says that is true. The Secret also says that I can imagine winning the lottery, simulate those feelings of euphoria at having done so, be grateful for my reward, and the Universe will step in and make it so. Trouble is, that's not REALLY within the realm of believability for me. So, really, if I "believe" and "confess" and am "grateful" for winning the lottery, I'm wasting my time. I can't convince the Universe of something I don't really believe myself. I think there are things that SHOULD be outside the realm of a person's believability. Swimming with sharks and thinking they won't eat you. Not ever dying. Running around naked without getting arrested. And, yes, maybe even winning the lottery. The Law of Attraction is a law, yes. But there are other laws as well. Gravity. The Gylcemic Index. Inevitable death and taxes. Some people try to use the Secret in contradiction with the other laws of the Universe, and it will never happen. These are the same people who want to live in Hawaii at the bottom of an active volcano and then wonder why they have lava in the living room--ode to George Carlin right there.

So, whatever. What does this have to do with me and where I am in life right now? I look at the realm of believability as circles that surround a person's life. As a person’s faith increases, so do those circles that surround him. I think my problem is, among other things, I'm not sure how big my circle is. Now, maybe that's a good thing? I don't know. I wouldn't want to limit myself. But our circles or realms of believability DO limit us. Isn't that why we're constantly trying to expand our circles? Isn't that why God works with us to expand our areas of influence? Not just so that we will be a blessing to an increasing number of people, but also that our own faith will increase? When He tells us He wants to give us life and that more abundant, doesn't He want to increase our realm or circle of believability?

As many people know, I have made a deliberate choice to venture out into unknown territory, abandoning what everyone else sees as “security”. OK, so I jumped out of my life. Although, I don’t believe that, in and of itself, it was a bad decision on my part (and close friends have commended me for living life courageously) I haven’t always made good decisions within that decision. Another law of the Universe says I will sleep in the bed I make. My realm of believability in myself has diminished as a result of some of my decisions, and I've not yet recovered. I think this is where I need to start asking God to restore me. I used to believe that I could do anything. I don't believe that anymore, or at least not at the moment. These are my confessions. I know I'm not in a place of readiness to receive. I can walk around "confessing" the Secret all damn day. My realm of believability has been compromised. And I'm talking about the core circle. I'm talking about the center of who I am. I thought the Secret could fix that. Another confession. Only God can fix me. So I give myself to Him again in complete surrender. Absolute surrender. I'm going to have to do this continually until I get my head back on straight. I just have to lay my whole life in front of Him again, because truly, I've backed myself into a corner: mentally, financially, emotionally. I'm not going to try to talk my way out of this one. There aren't enough positive thinking skills, workshops, Super Saturday trainings, and secrets to pull myself out of this place. I'm to the point that I really don't care what happens next. Ironically, that's typically been a pretty good place for me to be because it REALLY lends itself to complete abandon. If I'm ready for anything, it's that I'm finally ready to abandon my striving.

But here's what I know for sure: God has orchestrated every day of my life, a life that I have also co-created. I would bank on that before I'd bank on the sun coming up tomorrow. I have no such claims that there won’t be another meltdown in my life, and possibly soon. I don't know what I'm ready to receive or when I’ll be ready to receive it. I just know God needs to patch up this circle.

I’m ready to hear the opinions from every camp: those who believe that the power is all within myself--that I don’t need to seek anything outside of little ‘ol me (or should I say, “great, big me” for those individuals?) and those who believe that we can do absolutely nothing in and of ourselves.

I don’t believe either one. And... I believe both.

A final thought: I look back from the hell I’ve come, and I see where I’m at right now. I’ve already been given so much. So much I could blog forever. Surely, I am blessed and highly favored. I am truly my Beloved’s. And He is mine. Knowing that, I feel that I am absolutely, positively without excuse to do something remarkable, beyond anything I could ever think or imagine, with my life. I’m intrigued by the words from The Man Himself: “You will do even greater things than I have done.” Those are some of the most provocative words I’ve ever read, yet no one really wants to talk about it. I want to talk about it. I want to prove Him right, but everybody else seems to think that’s blasphemous somehow, even though HE’S the One Who threw it out there to begin with! So, here I sit on a Sunday morning, e-pouring out my confessions of insecurity to the whole planet, wanting more than anything for my destiny and my purpose to finally converge in spite of it all. I don’t JUST want to hear my Father say, “Well done, thou good and faithful servant.” I want Him to come tearing after me as soon as He sees me coming, grab me by the shoulders, look right in my face and say, “Wow. You blew Me away.”

Oh, Donna, Oh Dah-ah-na...

2007-05-22T20:33:00.000-07:00

So, Miss Donna has advised me that I needed a blog to post my writings (in case they might be brilliant or some such thing) so that people could respond to them. Because I pretty much do whatever my wonderful friend tells me to do, I've done it with lightning-fast promptness. Ah, now... Where to start? Where to start?

Daisy