What?

One of my least favorite jobs, next to dusting frames at Lazarus, was answering the phone at the florist. I was thankful not to be at Pizza Hut wearing polyester, but I hate phones. Or at least I hate the fact that people mumble.

It was very stressful and I felt like an idiot. "I'd like to order blah, blah, blah and my name is Gohdmsenstein and my phone number is 7483920848932903." This is what I heard so I would have to say, "I'm sorry could you repeat the first part and the middle part and the last part."

My favorite was the guy who yelled at me, "Don't you know me, I'm the weenie man, I drive the hot dog car around." I had to explain to him I still could not understand what the heck he was saying and I was in a different state where we didn't have weenie men.

So, I get that sometimes it is hard to hear what is happening and I notice my hearing is changing. But, I sometimes raise my voice when my son says, "what?" the third time I have told him something. "CAN YOU HEAR ME NOW?"

Actually, I'm around youth a lot and many have an annoying habit of asking "what" when it would register if they just let it sink in for a moment. Okay, maybe it's not just youth. Maybe I catch myself asking "what" when the thing I need is to be still for a moment and hear.

That's weird. Why do we do that? Why is it easier to ask someone to repeat something, than to give our brains the space and time to process what is said and hear it? How can I listen better so I'm not filling in the gaps or asking people to repeat?

I make my living listening. Here is what I notice:

1. Don't mumble. If you want to be heard, then say what needs to be said clearly.

2. If I give space when folks are finished, it may feel awkward but I hear better what is said.

3. I like to repeat what I hear and let the person correct me.

4. In acting class we were taught to fight to speak, but as a pastor, I have to learn to fight to listen. What I have to say is not as important as what I need to hear.

5. Avoid the phone. I still find it hard to listen on the phone. I need to see people and engage completely in listening.

6. Don't explain directions or electronics to me. I'm not listening.

Maybe that's why people love texting so much. It feels like it should be more exact and efficient communication, but I almost find it worse. Texting does not lend itself well to sarcasm without making people angry. I'm not sure I can have extended conversation without sarcasm. I also find it weird to figure out when a conversation is finished. How many times do I need to say "okay"?

I might be up for going back to CBs. I loved our CB and we had the coolest handle "Stagecoach" in our awesome brown and orange velour interior Coachman van. I could always hear on the CB; all that swearing was loud and clear.

But, we are here and now. And listening is not easy with the distractions, earbuds, and mumbling, but it is vital. Vital in getting flower orders right and relationships.

Dolls

There aren't many things that scare me, but porcelain dolls are definitely one of them.

No offense to whomever donated the lovely dolls; it is not your fault I have issues.

I have a healthy risk awareness of the many forces that can kill me so my heart does race a bit when I venture out into dangerous territory, but that seems different than fear. There might even be times that I choose not to do something because it is risky. Doesn't happen often, but it does happen.

My aversion to dolls seems irrational until I think about it.

Why I hate dolls:

1. One girl told a story at summer camp about waking up in the night and her doll was floating over her face. I'm sure this is a true story and they hold this secret power to show up in random places. I'm also pretty sure if you dispose of them, they will appear in your closet in the darkest corner staring up at you with those creepy eyes.

So, my overactive imagination might have something to do with my great fear.

Fear of dolls is different than rational apprehension. I've seen the power of death up close. It doesn't take a lot of imagination to see how death and destruction can wreak havoc at a moment's notice. I'm not going to say I embrace this death and destruction, but I know it is a regular part of life so I kind of expect it.

But no one expects a floating doll over your face. Except for me.

Dostoevsky had a brilliant quote in The Idiot where a character says, "I don't believe in ghosts, but I know if I ever saw one I would drop dead." I know dolls don't come to life at night and stand staring at me by my bed, but if I ever woke up and a painted, scuffed face was peering over the edge, I would be gone.

2. I have worked hard to overcome my speech impediment, but double l's are still difficult for me. I hate dolls for the same reason I hate squirrels. I have to say it three times before people can figure out what I'm saying.

3. Porcelain dolls embody tragic love to me. They are beautiful and fragile, but not to be played with. They are for display, not life and joy. I know toys don't have feelings. Toy Story also kind of creeped me out, but there is something melancholy about a perfect toy. Especially a perfect toy that ends up in a bin at a garage sale.

I'm only slightly worried they will take their disappoint out on me with a ten inch butcher knife. I never saw Chucky but the previews were enough to scar me for life.

4. I'm not afraid of Barbies. I did play with those until my mom caught me putting them in bed together and I wasn't allowed to watch General Hospital with my grandma anymore. I don't want you to think I'm a blanket doll hater.

5. Oh, I know why I hate them. I did have a set of dolls called the Sunshine Family and they weren't necessarily porcelain but they were fancier than plastic. My brother popped all their eyes out and I still remember finding them with all their hollow holes staring at me. That was scary.

Why I don't hate dolls:

Dolls help me laugh at myself and my fears. I'm not paralyzed by my fear, but they do make my heart skip a little and I can laugh at that. I can laugh that something so irrational can give rise to a quickening pulse and I have to give myself a pep talk to focus.

I do have a Biblical pep talk for when I am terrified. Be strong and courageous.  Nothing can separate me from the love of God. Jesus defeated death, I can deal with dolls.

I also have non-Biblical pep talks that might sound like something you hear at boot camp, but I won't share those.

Choices

I remember when my Systematic Theology professor told me that I probably wouldn't be able to be a mom, a pastor, and get my doctorate to become a professor. He was grooming me for doctoral work, but hit me with the hard reality that I can't do it all. Choices had to be made.

I was mad.

These were the days before I realized that raising children was an all consuming kind of affair let alone tending a congregation. I lived with the myth that I could do it all and keep my sanity.

I'm going to blame it on Gonzo. I loved him and he managed to get blown out of cannons and talk to chickens. That's my model for doing it all and staying sane.

Somewhere along the line I bought into the idea that if I just thought creatively enough and worked hard enough, then I could keep all my options open and do everything I ever wanted to do.

As Hannah heads into high school, she has to start making choices. Some of them are stark choices. You can't swim and play volleyball. You can't be in orchestra and jazz band. Some of them are questions of priorities. Friends, family, rest, reading, studying, church, practicing, working all have to be lined up in some order.

It's easiest to just take the path of least resistance. If it's hard or takes too much time, then bail. If your mom wants you to do it, then bail. (If you note stewing frustration in that last statement, then you have a teenager).

The hard thing is these choices can haunt you for the rest of your life. We are getting into the big ones that decide your future and it is a bit daunting. I've told Hannah several times that one of the great regrets I hear from older people is giving up piano. It doesn't seem like that big of a deal, but it really is one of those things folks talk about.

How do you make choices without regrets? I don't regret any of my big choices, but I do remember grieving them. I remember when I became a pastor, I cried because it meant I wouldn't be anything else. When I got married, I cried because it meant I couldn't be with anyone else. They are fabulous choices and my life is lovely, but there is grief involved in making decisions.

We can try to ignore that grief, but I try to name it and claim it so it doesn't come back to bite me as regret. This is the choice I make forsaking all others. Those are hard and freeing words. They let me live completely into this reality without pining for another.

Life and our choices might not turn out like we imagined. In my case that's a good thing or else I would be a garbage man dressed like Paul Bunyan and married to Pete Rose. Well, one of those things is part of my current reality. I always loved Paul Bunyan and I would make Julie Schmitt pretend she was Babe the Blue Ox.

I'm not sure the best way to make choices, except to make them as faithfully and clearly as we can without holding to the illusion that we can do and be it all. I still love Gonzo though and he does manage to have the best of all the worlds.

Forget Me Nots

One of the fun things about living in a rain forest is watching everyone frantically try to mow their foot high grass after three weeks of rain. It was fun watching others, but I was slightly disgruntled trying to push my way through the mess and then rake. I hate to rake. An alpaca is looking better every day.

When I got tired, I wandered around my yard fantasizing about my new alpaca and where I could let her sleep at night when I discovered Forget-me-nots scattered in a forgotten flower bed. I know nothing about flowers. I describe them much like cars, red ones, yellow ones, blue ones.

But, Forget-me-nots are different. They have my heart. I love them for the same reason I want an alpaca. They are wee and feisty.

Forget-me-nots appear so delicate and stunningly beautiful, but they are resilient little burgers that will grow in some wild places. They will not only grow, but happily take over and surprise you with a burst of blue where you least expect it.

I suppose as we prepare to hand our kids back over to the schools and peers, my hope is for them to be beautiful and resilient, gentle and sturdy. (I love the definition of beauty "delighting the senses and mind").

I want them to have tender hearts and thick skins. Elijah wanted and got a beret and typewriter for his birthday. When we did our birthday blessings at dinner tonight, Hannah commented on his gentle spirit. That's true. He can be a turd, but he is incredibly sensitive to the world around him and that is scary. It feels like a set-up for mockery.

Having a tender heart means you are vulnerable and you will be hurt. Having thick skin means you've figured out ways to thrive and keep going even in the hurt. Much like the Forget-me-nots.

It's not easy. There are times I'd love to have a few more callouses and hard spots on my heart. Then I see the Forget-me-not and it is a great reminder it is possible to be delicate and beautiful while at the same time tough and wild.

I'm not sure if the same is true of alpacas, but I think I'll stick with the flowers until I find someone else to do yard pick-up duty.