Thief in the Night

Today was my final day of grand jury. After nearly three months, I've learned many things that I cannot share with you because they're secret. 

These are some hypothetical lessons.

If you break into a house when there is fresh snow on the ground and the police can follow your footprints, then it's a good idea not to go through the duffle bag of stolen goods at the end of the trail. 

I will also suggest not posting a picture of yourself with stolen goods on Facebook or with your arm around the person who you swore to the police you didn't know.

Hopefully those lessons will see you through most major life decisions.

There's actually lots of heavy heart stuff involved that wore me out. 

-Everyone is someone's kid. There are times it's obvious when parenting traumatizes a child and impedes their ability to make good choices as they grow up, but lots of parents do the best they can and kids don't turn out the way they imagine. 

-Addictions are equal opportunity devourers. Often those with more resources can hide or shield their loved one a little better, but families across the demographics are devastated by all kinds of enslavements. That might be a more helpful word because it is like the substance enslaves the brain and holds it hostage.

-We live in a pretty amazing country. It was hard to find the extra hours every week, but the judicial system at its best honors the integrity of all involved. I've seen it at its worst in this country also, but I found the process in Juneau to be civilizing.

-Throwing strangers into a room together to find consensus is a fascinating social experiment. We were a mix of the population of Juneau locked in a room together to figure out if there was enough evidence to indict. I wonder how church councils would do if we employed this strategy.

There. 

The chickens did whine about the snow

I wrote about something other than the snow. Nobody has really talked about much else in Juneau this past week so it was hard to find something to write about without whining. 
But I'm not whining. 
About shoveling. 
Two feet of snow. 
And the berm. 

Normal

I feel normal tonight. We just finished pizza and we're about ready to curl up and watch a movie. This feels like what normal families do on a Friday night, or at least more normal than having races on hikes about who can multiply double digits faster. 

Okay. That feels normal if you're a nerd.

I think of myself as normal. Normal looks like a mom and a dad, a daughter and a son, a dog and a cat in a little house with two cars in the suburbs. It wasn't until later I realized that looks like normal because it was my life and when we are young with limited experience we define normal by ourselves.

The norm for the world is a 28 year old Han-Chinese man.

I'm feeling a little less normal. So much for that nano-second. 

I'm also feeling grief for those who never feel normal. Those who always living on the margins. This week the case around safety for those who are transgender is weighing on me.

I won't lie. In my normal world, the first transgender person I met did not feel normal at all. She was 6'2" and really hairy. She looked like a dude in a dress and it seemed weird. I know that's not politically correct in any sense, but that experience did not move me to engage the fight for transgender rights.

It wasn't until recently that I had my heart transformed. I can't give many details, but it was through knowing a beautiful little girl who tried hard to be a boy because she was born with a penis. We knew her when she was a boy and he was withdrawn and morose. Then she got to be a girl and wear sparkly skirts and twirl and dance. 

Suddenly I feel the great need to protect this girl who finally felt at home in her skin. The thought of her walking into a jr. high boy's bathroom in her sparkles brings tear to my eyes.

I know what happens in bathrooms and playgrounds. Kids are ruthless. I'll never forget the third grader in Michigan who had meningitis and nearly died. When he returned to school with diminished hearing and some other issues, the other kids, "good" kids, punched and yelled in his ears. The things done to him by kids who normally were good kids has cemented my sense that the vulnerable need protection. 

There is something wicked that happens to humanity when we encounter those we consider weak and weird. Our condemnation and belittling feel justified, especially when the church is echoing a message of vilification. 

How we got to that point following a savior who gathered and loved those on the margins and chastised the self-righteous, I do not know.

And it's not just transgender folks who feel especially vulnerable right now. I don't care what your politics are, but I'm called to live as a follower of Jesus, and that norm is always compassion. If I truly follow him then it is to the margins I have to go and walk with those who are most susceptible to the fear and condemnation of otherwise good folks.

Leather

There are days when I walk and wait for something profound, but all I get is the refrain from Rawhide or East Bounding Down. It was cold walking today and those are my endurance songs. Sorry Jesus, I know it should be something more spiritual. 

The thing that stands out the most today was my husband commenting I could "rock a leather unitard." You probably don't want to know how we got to that point in our conversation but it's not as interesting as one would imagine.

Then he said, "until you tried to move." When I finished laughing hysterically, I asked him what the hell he meant by that. 

His reply, "You'd look great in a leather unitard until you tried to move." 

I went through my possible scenarios for why he would say this, which I won't share, until he finally told me that he didn't think I could manage walking in stiletto heels. 

Oh baby. I am so getting stiletto heels. 

Except I won't. Because he's right.

Coordination is not my gift. I once gave myself two black eyes doing a back roll. I've been known to fall over just standing. And I should be given a wide berth if I'm carrying something hot or sharp.

Those are the warnings on my label.

Sometimes I think we should have warning labels identifying our challenges. I forget that I'm not gifted at lots of things. I'm not saying that to put myself down so don't feel like you need to immediately tell me how good my singing, dancing, or walking in stilettos is.

I am not good at many things. It doesn't keep me from trying them, just ask my softball team, but it does keep me ever dependent on the people around me. The world is only in trouble if I start believing that I'm awesome at everything and I don't need others. 

The world is in trouble when our egos get in the way and our exaggerated sense of self and ability impede healthy community. That's when order breaks down.

Just as a warning - there are many things I should never be in charge of and leather unitards and stiletto heels are definitely on the list.

Axl Rose

I like to play "name that 80s band and why they are important to modern culture" with my children. I'm sure this prepares them for life and success.

This morning Sweet Child O' Mine came on the radio and I immediately yelled at Hannah to name the band and their important social impact. No dice. She had no clue. 

Guns N' Roses, in case you were under a rock in the 80s.

And then I had to tell her the story about how Axl Rose made her grandpa famous. This might be my favorite story about growing up as the mayor's daughter. My sweet father who clicks his tongue every time I swear was mayor when Guns N' Roses decided to include Grove City, Ohio in their tour. My father did not approve of their music or language so he fussed at them some.

They came to Grove City and the Stage family sat on our front porch listening to the music fill the suburban skies. And then Axl Rose, the Axl Rose, announced for all to hear, "Mayor Stage, you can suck my ___________" (I'll edit that because I can hear my father clicking his tongue 3000 miles away). 

I immediately pointed out the obvious to my father. He was now famous. Axl Rose doesn't make that offer to everybody. Actually he might, but not in front of thousands. 

I realized this morning on our drive to school as I told Hannah the story and then sang the rest of the song, I don't tell my folks nearly enough how thankful I am for them. 

Parenting is hard and they did an amazing job of trying to protect us from negative influences and experiences. But there's only so much protecting parents can do. The great gift they gave me was equipping me with integrity and a sense of knowing I was loved in success and failure.

I hope we can do the same for our kids. I know I can't protect them from hearing and seeing lots of negative stuff, especially since I'm normally watching the movie with them. 

But we are good at loving each other. We laugh tons. It took me ten minutes to blow out my birthday candles because they got me giggling so hard. And we confess when we mess up. 

We joke about the therapy jar. I know I'm not always the best mom ever. I'm trying to take as many pictures of my children as I do of my chicken. 

In reality, like most parents, we do the best we can with what we have. 


I'm thankful for my parents. May I have the wisdom and patience  to live well through these teen years with my girls. Elijah isn't a teen yet, but he's addicted to Dr. Who so that feels similar to the angst of adolescence. 

And if Axl Rose ever comes to Juneau . . . I have no idea how to complete that thought. Kind of like parenting.

Sausage

I have finally scoured the scent of sausage and campfire off me. Things that smell good when you are camping with middle schoolers seem a bit putrid once you get home. 

I love middle schoolers. Actually, I love all ages, but one of the delightful things about the pastor gig is you don't hang out with just one age group all the time. We all get a bit tedious at times. But, middle schoolers make me giggle and remind me about the dangers of sarcasm.

They don't quite have the hang of humor and sarcasm yet, and it makes me question my own use of sarcasm. Since so much of my humor is stuck in middle school, I have to be aware that my sarcasm might also be dangerous and hurtful.

Every Lent, I think of giving up sarcasm just to see if I can do it.

But, this year, Elizabeth Peratrovich saved me. I've always loved her, but remembering her story as we celebrated her day on February 16 reminded me what a powerful tool sarcasm can be.

My favorite quote is in her testimony before the Alaska Territorial Senate that exemplifies the power of sarcasm to unveil the prejudices or perspectives we take for granted.

“I would not have expected that I, who am barely out of savagery, would have to remind gentlemen with five thousand years of recorded civilization behind them of our Bill of Rights.”

Sarcasm can be hurtful, but it can also be a way of subverting the assumptions people make. You can't always confront prejudices head on, sometimes you need to mock them.

For those who don't live in Alaska, an excerpt about Elizabeth Peratrovich from the National Museum of Women's History:

Elizabeth Wanamaker Peratrovich (1911-1958)

Elizabeth Wanamaker Peratrovich, a Tlingit Native Alaskan, worked to end racial discrimination against Alaska Natives.  Born in 1911 and raised in Alaska, Peratovich attended college in Bellingham, Washington, where she met and married her husband Roy in 1931.  They returned to Alaska ten years later to raise their family.  They were shocked by the blatant discrimination against Native Alaskans similar to the discriminatory policies toward African Americans.  For example, many storefronts and businesses displayed signs stating "No Natives Allowed" and "No Dogs, No Natives."  Many Natives faced unemployment and poverty due to segregation and discrimination based on their race.  

In February 1945, the Territorial Senate met as a Committee of the Whole to discuss equal rights and a bill that would prohibit racial discrimination in Alaska.  Many senators spoke against equal rights at the committee, refusing to recognize that there was a problem.  Some of what they said included statements like, “the bill would aggravate the already hard feelings between Natives and whites,” and “the bill was unnecessary,” and “the real answer was in the separation of the races.” 

The legislative custom at the time was to open the floor to anyone present who wished to speak on the bill.  Peratrovich was present as a representative from the Alaska Native Sisterhood.  She was the final speaker of the day.  She opened her eloquent speech about prejudice and injustice by saying, “I would not have expected that I, who am barely out of savagery, would have to remind gentlemen with five thousand years of recorded civilization behind them of our Bill of Rights.”  Peratrovich spoke about what life was like for her and other Native Alaskans as second-class citizens.  At the end of her speech she condemned the men’s “superior race” attitude.  Her speech was met with thunderous applause.  The Senate then passed the Alaska Civil Rights Act by a vote of 11 to 5.  

Words

My beloved suggested I might consider getting sexier underwear for Valentine's Day. 

That's not a bad thing. I forget to buy underwear so it is good to have a reminder, but we learned that we define sexy differently.

In my world, sexy means no rips, not white, and on sale. 

I quickly realized that the super saver pack of multi-colored underwear from Costco did not qualify as sexy. The fact that they were marked down an additional four dollars did not sway him.

My vocabulary is not extensive, but I'm trying to use more precise language and ask people to define what they mean when they use certain words.

There are some words I'm purging from my vocabulary completely (unless I forget).

1. Great. It means big or large. Historically, it measured size so it is difficult to know what we mean when we call something great other than it is big.

2. Good and bad. These don't seem like helpful categories. The roots for "good" are somewhat fascinating in that they mean "fitting, united, gracious." I'm not sure that's how we use "good" anymore. "Bad" is a "mystery word with no apparent relatives in other languages." It shows up in surnames (those Baddes are nothing but trouble), slander for men who are gay and people of color. We talk about "good guys" and "bad guys" but I don't know what that means.

3. Boring.  I hate this word with a burning hate. It means "that which pierces us and causes us ennui or annoyance". Why would anyone say something is boring, when you can say, "this is causing me ennui"?

4. Stupid.  We think it means dumb, but it's root is related to "stupor." It means "to be stunned by grief or surprise, amazed or astounded." 

My favorite words:
1. Phlegmatic (fleg-matic). It sounds like some kind of machine sold on infomercials, but it means "cool, not easily excited to action or display of emotion, apathetic, sluggish." Not only does it describe most adolescents, but it is a hoot to say.

2. Ennui (anwee). Again, fun to say and it means "a feeling of listlessness and dissatisfaction arising from a lack of occupation or excitement." It comes from the Latin that means "it is hateful to me." That opens up a whole new way to express disgust.

3. Fabulous.  I probably love this word more than I should. It can also mean "really large" but I love that it means, "having no basis in reality." It's related to our word "fable" and I feel like fabulous describes a lot of my life.

4. Serendipitous. For some reason, it makes me think of ice cream but means, "occurring or discovered by chance in a happy or beneficial way." All those relationships and experiences that surprise me. I love that there's a word for them.

5. Chit. If you ever think you hear me swear, I am saying chit. Chit can mean either a small note/memo, an immature girl, or causing a potato to sprout. 

Using precise language and defining words can save us from so many misunderstandings (and the $10 I wasted on new underwear).

Unpleasant

My sweet dog has one of two responses when I have to pee in the woods:

1. She stands in front of me licking my face. I hate to be licked by dogs and she never licks me, except when I'm peeing in the woods.

2. She jumps into the nearest body of water and then shakes vigorously behind me. This is especially delightful when it is cold; like my aspirations aren't already chilled with exposure.

She's my beloved companion and we've gone on nearly every trail in Juneau together, but I have been known to swear at her when trying to pee. I like to imagine she does these things as some dog sensitive way of protecting me when I'm vulnerable. But I'm guessing, like most of those I love, she's just being a turd. 

Since I had way too much coffee this morning and lots of time to think while the dog licked my face and the brewed grounds returned to the earth, I realized I love peeing in the woods. 

LOVE IT! 

Even when the dog is making me crazy.

I remember the first time ever was when I was 19 visiting Alaska for the first time. I had never peed without some kind of seat. It might seem obvious to men how to pee in the woods, but it is not quite as apparent for women. 

They let me off the boat because I was positive I did not have the skill to pee over the edge. I wandered the woods trying to figure out how I could manage relieving my bladder without wearing it or getting eaten by a bear. They thought I died because I wandered for a long time, but after that learning experience, peeing in the woods was the delight of staying hydrated.

I recently read a reflection by Thomas Lynch (an undertaker/poet from Michigan) about how the flushable toilet made way for all the other "conveniences" that have distanced us from the unpleasantries of living and dying (and sex). He throws them all together. 

We want packaged meat, disappearing waste, and all the other illusions that life comes and goes without a mess. 

I'm all for sanitary conditions, especially in hospitals and hotel rooms. Dysentery is no fun, but Lynch argues that not long after we stopped having to handle and dispose of our own waste, we also moved death out of the proper context of home and family and into institutions. Death moved from a natural by-product of life into a shameful secret akin to all the other things we flush out of sight. 

Peeing in the woods is my confrontation with the unpleasant reality of death. Or at least I think there is something carnal and freeing about honoring the circle of life. 

Everything has to go somewhere. 

I know that is obvious, but the funeral home, sewage treatment plant and dump is still a shock to the youth let alone adults. Nothing goes away. It might get transformed or sterilized, but there is no magic wand to make it disappear. 

So go ahead and pee in the woods and confront your mortality. 

But, taking a dump in the woods is a totally different thing and you better bury that appropriately because my dog eats it. Did I mention the part about her licking my face?