girlfriday

Where I attempt poetry after a long absence

noreply@blogger.com (girlfriday) — Sun, 04 Oct 2015 22:30:00 +0000

The tattered hammock stubbornly resists the gentle back and forth movement

of a small, tethered boat.

My left leg hangs over the side,

pushing back from the weeds to produce the motion I know should be mine.

Not quite relaxed, my gaze turns to the sky

When my children clamber up beside me and we tip dangerously to one side.

Not content to let me own this eight feet of openness and peace they have cornered me

Irritation bubbles up.

Resigned I ask, Shall we hunt for shapes in the clouds?

This suggestion is novel, and I am flummoxed.

Have we never lay on our backs and looked at the sky?

Enchanted, they begin calling out shapes of dragons and fish and other things lost to that Moment.

My foolish leg, so determined to manufacture rest, can no longer reach the ground.

My daughter is wedged beside me shouting out Sky-Shapes.

His imagination at full tilt my son identifies the wonderful

And I see it.

The Moment has come in the end

On her own terms

It's Worse Because You Know

noreply@blogger.com (girlfriday) — Tue, 16 Sep 2014 20:27:00 +0000

Though I don't remember much about music or movies in the 80's, I remember the great political debates. Ronald Reagan, Walter Mondale, Ollie North, Robert Bork all loom large in my memory.

And abortion. All things considered Roe was still recent history. I made signs on poster board and marched in the annual pro-life rally every January. I watched the videos. I listened to the radio interviews.

What is paramount in my memory was being told that women were being lied to about what was really growing inside them. "'They're' not telling them it's a baby. 'They're' telling women it's a blob of tissue. They don't know they're killing their unborn child." Women were more victim than perpetrator.

I don't have any reason to believe this isn't true, though reports may have been exaggerated for effect. That's unpleasant enough, but it's worse that in 2014 most women know exactly what they're doing and they're still doing it. This is why waving around graphic photos of aborted babies doesn't work.

If you don't believe me, take a deep breath and read My Year as An Abortion Doula on Slate.

The fetus comes out easily; they put it in the bucket and shove it near me. It is fully intact, curled on its left side, fists closed, knees bent up. He sleeps just like you, I think. Then, a second thought, an act of distancing: He looks more like an alien than a person.

I have, by this point, seen lots of women and lots of fetuses, and the sight of the second doesn't change my feelings about the first.

This clever manipulation of our language by which we reject the simple and obvious word baby for the less emotionally-charged fetus (it's cliche, but I can't help but think of George Orwell's prophetic linguistic invention, doublespeak) has made abortion appear straightforward and sterile in a way that Margaret Sanger never dreamed.

This woman, certified as a doula to support women during the painful process of child birth (read my own experience here), is using her skills to help women end the life she's been trained to help ease out naturally. This is a difficult juxtaposition for me to accept, but I'll let that go.

Instead I focus on her indifference to what she is witnessing. Oh yes, she admits it's difficult, especially at the beginning, and the enlightened commentators following her column praise her straightforward, honest depiction of a "complicated" issue. But her unswerving belief that what she's doing is for the Greater Good even as she witnesses the transfer of a dead, doll-size human into a bucket is disturbing.

Let's re-imagine the last sentence quoted above. "I have, by this point, seen lots of women and lots of their babies dead by their own hands and the sight of their lifeless bodies doesn't change my feelings about a woman's desire to live the way she wants."

I'm being brutal. I can't help it. This is an article on a popular online magazine in the most developed country the world has ever seen. And we're casually writing and reading about a the experiences of one woman helping another woman kill her unborn child and watching it get shoved into a bucket, fully intact.

The more you read it, the harder it is to believe it.

Independence Day

noreply@blogger.com (girlfriday) — Sat, 05 Jul 2014 03:45:00 +0000

It was past bedtime when I corralled our oldest kid into bed. We're reading a favorite children's series to him right now, but there was no way I was going to read an entire chapter (the last chapter) this late. So I decided it would be a story from his Jesus Storybook Bible.

We're at roughly the Annunciation and though we've read every story in this particular children's Bible before, when reading them aloud to my kids, the profundity of the stories that many of us learned as children (Adam, Esther, Moses, David, Daniel, Jesus)--we're even tempted to call them "children's Bible stories"--is staggering.

The Good News. That's what "gospel means."

I try to impress this deeper meaning on my children, but sometimes it doesn't feel like good news, especially in light of its necessity to start with the bad news that you're tangled up in the Fall; you're culpable; you're a sinner.

But the bad part MUST be part of the good news. It just must. Because with the news that there is actually something wrong with me comes the flip side of the coin that that crookedness has a healer and He is present. So it's bad--and man do I fight it--but really it turns out to be all good. If I don't accept the uncomfortable truth about myself, I never get the soul-washing gladness that comes on the other side.

All the crookedness you're clinging to precisely because it's quite literally your nature will bring you a whole life of pointless grasping but He can fix it.

I trust that God will drive home, over time, the power of the gospel hidden in the seemingly simplistic stories we read to our kids.

Half a Person, Abroad

noreply@blogger.com (girlfriday) — Mon, 19 May 2014 16:32:00 +0000

I'm about to leave for my first international vacation since my honeymoon. I've traveled a lot, a handful of times abroad. I've always left the United States whole.

Not this time. I have a husband now and I always feel like half a person when we're apart. The two young children that moved in and eat our food and explode our idea of free time--they have really pulled me apart.

It's a treat to go to the grocery store alone, but ten minutes into shopping and something feels off. Where are the wee voices that should be prattling nonstop? No one is asking me to get out or back in the shopping cart. I pass the cereal aisle unmolested. There is no negotiating, no coaxing, no laughter, no revelations.

Can I really be so attached to a person that going to the grocery store alone is at once liberating and boring?

Yes.

And so I travel half a person, a shadow. I'll drink it in and savor the liberty all the time absorbing every funny moment, every unusual situation, every reminder of things at home and store them all up to tell my children.

Courtesy of my mother, who is always timely

noreply@blogger.com (girlfriday) — Thu, 27 Mar 2014 20:43:00 +0000

Terror accomplishes no real obedience. Suspense brings forth no fruit unto holiness. No gloomy uncertainty as to God’s favor can subdue one lust, or correct our crookedness of will. But the free pardon of the cross uproots sin, and withers all its branches. Only the certainty of love, forgiving love, can do this. — Horatius Bonar, God’s Way of Holiness

No Going Back

noreply@blogger.com (girlfriday) — Thu, 13 Mar 2014 18:48:00 +0000

Some things can never be undone, sometimes never even unfelt.

Alas! how easily things go wrong!
A sigh too deep, or a kiss too long,
And then comes a mist and a weeping rain,
And life is never the same again.

Every ugly thing remains ugly and there is no wishing it away or recovering the white, quiet place before it happened. There is no going back, however hard one wishes it.

But there is forward.

There is Further Up and Further In. There is Sadness Coming Untrue. There is the full bloom, when the seed dies and the plant becomes itself in fullness, when every sigh that was too deep, every kiss too long, every choice too sad is swallowed up in Forgiveness and Forgetfulness.

girlfriday: get thee a new angle

noreply@blogger.com (girlfriday) — Mon, 24 Feb 2014 03:00:00 +0000

This is a shameless repost (with edits) of one of my favorites, originally submitted June 2006.

I rue the day the dairy industry launched its "Got Milk?" campaign. It spawned a generation of unoriginal ad campaigns that nauseate and bore millions of marketing-conscious Americans.

Got Jesus?
Got Plaque?
Got Radiator Problems?
Got gastro-intestinal trouble?
Got an original thought?

Think how effective and refreshing a sign that read, "Do you need a new transmission? We offer transmissions at a fair price" would be. Or, "You're welcome at our church." Or, " First-Time Patients: Free Teeth Cleaning. Call 555-5555."

Cleverness only works if you're clever. If you're a dentist odds are you're not. Remember that your competitors are also trying to produce a marketing scheme that will attract consumers, and most of them don't know how to do it either. They are resorting to the trite "Got ?" campaigns. Join them and you will be fatally commonplace.

If you don't have the budget or edge to compete with McDonald's' million dollar advertising campaigns, don't. Offer a good product, sell it professionally and with class. When in doubt remember that less is more.
This goes for email correspondence, letters, websites, news reports, journal entries, and notes jotted on paper while driving.

We all try too hard (I certainly do); we all make marketing mistakes. But failure is no excuse to keep failing. Attempt to write simple, declarative sentences. It hurts, but it's worth it.

If you need help eliminating unnecessary text, there used to be a Windows add-on called Bullfighter. An inconspicuous tool that, with the push of a button, would review your text for "bull" Bullfighter was delicious. Today, you'll probably have to rely on the most ruthless editor you know to scan your text for jargon.

Another helpful document that I've frequently referenced is, "Why Bad Ads Happen to Good Causes" which was originally published by the Robert Wood Johnson Foundation. While it was aimed at helping nonprofits build meaningful public service campaigns, it's hard to overstate the usefulness of Bad Ads for anyone writing marketing copy. Click here to download it (free).

And if you need that ruthless editor I'm happy to be yours. Please note the ruthless in the previous sentence and make your decision carefully.

Dear Ones,

noreply@blogger.com (girlfriday) — Tue, 28 Jan 2014 16:05:00 +0000

According to an article my dad emailed me, In 1944, Tolkien’s son, Christopher, was having a rough time in camp with the army. His father wrote the following encouragement, “Well, there you are: a hobbit amongst the Urukhai. Keep up your hobbitry in heart, and think that all stories feel like that when you are in them. You are inside a very great story!”

noreply@blogger.com (girlfriday) — Tue, 07 Jan 2014 20:54:00 +0000

Today my whole little family crammed into layers of bad, can't-wick-away-the-moisture snow clothes and went outside. Jon ran the snowblower and my kids made snow angels and drew me into the snow with their shining eyes and red cheeks: Wave my arms and kick my legs and feel the snow crawl up my back. I felt like a child again.

It was very, very cold and I felt like a real High Plainsman. Bliss.

Joy Unspeakable

noreply@blogger.com (girlfriday) — Mon, 15 Oct 2012 04:34:00 +0000

Responding to an invitation I spent Saturday afternoon driving two three year olds and an infant (we followed a young friend of mine, herself towing two 12 year olds and her infant son--and in a matching Toyota Sienna no less. Living it up in suburbia!) out to the beautiful Sand Lake Wildlife Refuge for "Blue Goose Weekend."

The event is traditionally called Eagle Day and occurs in the spring, but after the region experienced flooding for three years in a row, Fish and Wildlife moved the event to the fall. In a sad reversal, a very dry summer followed an uncharacteristically mild winter and huge swaths of Sand Lake are giant dust bowls.

Not sure what to expect, I was relieved to see a wading pool with turtles and fresh water mollusks for the kids to touch. For them not to touch was a snapping turtle in the adjacent pool. He was aggressively trying to get out of his makeshift cage. "What does he eat?" I asked. "Anything that gets in his mouth, pretty much" was the chilling answer.

After a few minutes of looking at native fish on display and touching turtles, we heard an announcement that there would be a release of Golden Eagles into the wild.

The crowd moved as one nearer to the Lake's edge. From the back of a yellow SUV, a bearded man and this lovely, serious-looking woman removed the first Eagle. I am still amazed at how without any kind of protective clothing or gloves she was able to safely maneuver the bird out of the box and keep it in her arms. Take a look.

As she moved slowly along the length of the semi-circle she extended one of the wings. The children, without too much noise, stepped forward and stroked in reverential awe. Finally she asked everyone to move away, and we waited.

I was unprepared for the emotional response that the release of that noble bird elicited from me. Without warning there was a lump in my throat. In a moment I knew viscerally the meaning of a word that had so far been only a word: transfixed. Even as I type this, I can't say I remember holding my daughter or knowing that my son was sitting near me on the ground.

For the better part of a day and a half I've been asking myself where all that joy came from. I may have an unusual love of birds and I've seen many raptors, but what made that moment so special? Truthfully I think I'd rather remember and enjoy than understand, but perhaps that's because understanding is so difficult.

In addition to the obvious, namely that I was within five feet of a bird we never get to see up close if at all, I think it had something to do with sharing with others a rare glimpse at Perfection. The emotion was palatable as the Eagle, once injured and interned and now free, reverted to its inspired instinct, knowing instantly that it was at liberty to do what it was created to do. Scattered applause from others told me that they were feeling the same. A man's voice somewhere near said, "Be free." I suspect we wanted to fly away too.

And the human person had done it. We were at our best as we rescued, healed and released. There was no violence, no grandstanding. Everything was as it should be. Maybe we knew it and rejoiced.

The Now and the Not Yet

noreply@blogger.com (girlfriday) — Wed, 19 Sep 2012 03:07:00 +0000

With every passing day the conviction grows that I will never reach the place of "getting it together." When the house is clean and the children are happy I neglect some crucial discipline like prayer. When it feels like the roof is falling in I pray and the dishes pile up. A new week begins and with it a new resolve. By Friday my to-do list is half done and I'm looking forward to a new week to start over again and get it right. This time I'll get it right. Surely.

I'm never going to get it right. Slowly I'm starting to embrace this and it helps. It helps to know that the puzzle pieces will never fit. As long as the world is topsy turvy so am I.

Crib Training

noreply@blogger.com (girlfriday) — Thu, 09 Aug 2012 03:42:00 +0000

Cry your heart out little one. I will be strong. It means you are alive, you're mine and everything's working.

Empty Nest

noreply@blogger.com (girlfriday) — Sat, 07 Jul 2012 03:45:00 +0000

Are you keeping up? I first blogged here about the Northern Cardinals nesting just outside our living room window.

First glimpse at the hatchlings

Taking these photos was terrifying.
I had to take them without being able to see what I was doing and the thought that I'd drop the camera on their tiny heads was a very real fear. Couldn't get the auto focus to work for me either.

Can you tell that they're bigger? I love those eager little mouths.

They eventually settled down when they realized that rustling of the leaves was not their mother.

It's rare we get to see both the male and female Cardinals on the feeder at the same time. My young son likes to scare them away by tapping on the screen door. My annoyance turned into my joy when I saw what I'd captured.

My mom snapped this one. One day they were in their nest, the next day they were out. They scattered around the shrubs and amber maples in the front of our house. I trembled for them since they couldn't fly, especially the little guy that perched for a day or two on the bottom branch, just inches from the ground.

My son holds the empty nest, which we did not disturb until they were long gone. We heard them "migrate" around the perimeter of our house, listening closely to the high-pitched chirp that indicates a chick. I never seemed to hear more than two but I haven't seen any feathers to indicate that one of them didn't make it. Still, I suspect one did not. The whole family stopped by last week and I counted four in total. There was a bit of plastic, a rotting corn husk from the compost (maybe?), even a moth wing. A bird's nest is a thing of beauty.

Fare Thee Well, Era

noreply@blogger.com (girlfriday) — Mon, 04 Jun 2012 19:47:00 +0000

This weekend my youngest sister is getting married in a civil ceremony in Texas. About a month and a half later we're throwing a big reception in her hometown. This is the last sister, the last sibling in fact, to get married.

It's really hitting me. I didn't think we'd be done with weddings for a long time. I don't know what I thought: that there was a long train of yet unknown brothers and sisters still to get married? Or that our spouses would (God forbid) die or even worse that there isn't some kind of permanence to our marriages, and we would do it over again.

I just didn't think about all of us, grown up, blowing a kiss to our childhood as we watch her march down the aisle.

We don't fight anymore (much). There is no more competing for dominance or bathrooms. My brother hasn't thrown a hairbrush at my head since at least 1989. Even, and most grievously, a lifelong nickname seems to be in its twilight.

Shouldn't someone always be "there" (single? under 30? wildly inappropriate and immature? I'm not sure what I mean by "there.") to remind us that we were kids together and had been a cohesive unit? That the four of us were the original family that branched off and started little seedling families? I thought there would be.

I don't feel like I have enough hugs to give that last vestige of our youth before she puts on that white dress.

It takes a village to raise a mother

noreply@blogger.com (girlfriday) — Sat, 12 May 2012 22:00:00 +0000

It wasn't until after my sister in law convinced me that it really does take a village to raise a child that I realized it takes a village to do a lot of things.

Growing up I had one model for motherhood. Now I have many, not the least of which are my peers. These are the women who hold my children while I cook, knit blankets and socks for them, speak constructively into their lives, offer a rebuke when necessary.

This mother's day, I extend my heart in loving gratitude to every woman who has nudged me through word and example into being a better mother.

Hope is the thing with feathers

noreply@blogger.com (girlfriday) — Wed, 02 May 2012 02:36:00 +0000

When you live on the Northern Plains it's almost inevitable that you become an amateur ornithologist. I've always liked seeing wild animals (growing up it was limited mostly to roadkill), but now it's become something of a passion.

"Bird watching," when you read it as a hobby in the obituaries of old women (bless them) sounds like the very definition of living a small life. I know better. Bird watching is knowing that when the Robin appears, spring is really here. It's recognizing the difference between the call of the Chickadee, the Northern Cardinal, the Robin, and the Blue Jay and wishing you knew the subtle differences for all the song birds.

It's standing outside a friend's door at 10 PM, necks craning, watching thousands of Snow Geese pass overhead, migrating to Canada for the summer. It's running for the camera when a huge raptor is lounging on your patio. It's flipping through the bird book to identify the squat little bird with a distinctive beak, black feathers and a red breast (Red Breasted Grosbeak) that is nibbling on the safflower.

Now, joy of joys, our Cardinal family have built a nest not more than a yard outside our front window. Though it's just inches from our front door, it's totally invisible from every angle except from my living room.

Naturally I'm torn between being a nature terrorist and a peaceable observer.

Just now I can spy the orange beak and arched tail feathers of little mama bird, but so far I've resisted the urge to photograph her. When she was away (in my backyard feeding on safflower?) I snapped a couple quick photos of the nest and three tiny, speckled eggs.

Oh brave little bird! You're as safe as you will ever be. No beast or bird of prey will come this close to our home and as much as it's in my power, I'll protect you.

Do This in Remembrance

noreply@blogger.com (girlfriday) — Mon, 30 Apr 2012 02:17:00 +0000

I just finished reading an excellent post about homeschooling and community. It was lovely; I hope our local homeschooling co-op can live up to it. There are signs that it does and can.

The ensuing comments are exactly what you expect and mostly good, but they trouble me. In the same way that I trouble myself.

I really like to hear myself talk.

You can listen to me talk about good food, gardening at home, breastfeeding, spanking, reading, sex, martinis, smoking. And homeschooling. And community. And if I can show off my kids, even better.

Tonight in church though, I remembered that it's Christ first, everything else a distant second. You can eat McDonald's every day, reject fresh veggies, give your kid a bottle, sit your naughty boy in a chair for "time out," abstain from sex, martinis and cigars. You can even send your kid to the ugliest, most institutional elementary school in a ghetto. And Christ can still find you, save you, heal you. He can create community among failed parents, troubled teenagers, weirdos, the very rich.

So if I focus on any of those things before I let you listen to me talk about Christ, I fail. Or if I get to talk to you about them and you don't hear Christ at all, I fail. Or worse (and most likely), I talk about Christ but hold you in contempt because you don't share my extra-biblical values. Fail.

Don't do life in remembrance of shared values, opinions or options. Do life in memory of Christ. Share Christ. And if you get the rest thrown in, thanks be to God.

Cake-Making Envy

noreply@blogger.com (girlfriday) — Fri, 27 Apr 2012 04:19:00 +0000

The list of things I am not-willing-to-learn-or-generate-the-desire-for-and-instead-say-I-cannot-do is long and includes running a marathon, being on time, and baking a cake that will be the envy of your neighborhood.

Three people I love can do at least one of these things.

Guess which of them Christy can do.

{Not} Talking Behind My Back or Even to My Face

noreply@blogger.com (girlfriday) — Fri, 27 Apr 2012 04:03:00 +0000

Our own "elphaba," sometime in the last decade, has started her own blog. She neglected to tell me and maybe you too.

Our loss.

She is really, really funny. If you are alive, a woman and live in a house, it's not possible that you won't laugh at her latest post. Go there now. It will do wonders for your otherwise crappy day.

Talking Behind My Own Back

Banana Chocolate Chip Bread that I didn't screw up

noreply@blogger.com (girlfriday) — Fri, 20 Apr 2012 14:57:00 +0000

When my daughter was born, the amazing woman who took my son in a pinch (contractions were about a minute apart when I left the house) made some banana chocolate chip bread that I devoured after delivery.

The memory of that bread has haunted me.

I finally got around to attempting it myself. I couldn't get a hold of her to compare recipes, so I went with Rachael Ray's version and modified it. On other sites, users mentioned adding milk, lemon juice and vanilla. And I added a little baking powder for good measure. And I cut down on the sugar and chocolate chips.

So I modified it a lot.

No baker, I'm always surprised when something I have to put in the oven actually turns out. It's excellent.

Here's the recipe and here's the link.

INGREDIENTS

1/4 cup vegetable oil
1 1/2 cups flour
1 cup sugar
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
2 eggs, lightly beaten
3 bananas, mashed (1 cup mashed banana)
1 cup chocolate chips

PREPARATION

Pre-heat the oven to 350°F .

Grease and flour a 8 1/2-inch x 4 1/2-inch loaf pan (or use baking spray, such as Baker's Joy brand).

In a large bowl, whisk together the flour, salt, sugar, baking soda and salt. Mix in the oil, bananas and eggs. Stir in the chocolate chips (do not overmix!) and pour into the prepared pan. Bake until a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean, about 70-80 minutes.

Cool the loaf in the pan for 10 minutes, then turn out and cool completely, right side up.

Sense and Sensibility

noreply@blogger.com (girlfriday) — Thu, 12 Apr 2012 17:05:00 +0000

If any of you have any clue how to manage (balance, juggle, restrain) these two quarreling beasts, I am listening.

Why not?

noreply@blogger.com (girlfriday) — Wed, 04 Apr 2012 15:48:00 +0000

Consumed by the Hunger Games

noreply@blogger.com (girlfriday) — Mon, 02 Apr 2012 15:38:00 +0000

It happened.

I read it.

I'm captivated.

The best part? Both of my sisters and my husband have blazed through the first book within a couple weeks of each other. Yes, my sisters and my husband are reading the same books at the same time.

This has never happened, and I think I can say with confidence that it will never happen again.

Confusion, Dismay and Hypocrisy

noreply@blogger.com (girlfriday) — Wed, 28 Mar 2012 13:48:00 +0000

This is what Planned Parenthood prefaces its message with to those supporters whose senators voted in favor of the Blunt Amendment.

After weeks of debate and an enormous outcry from Planned Parenthood supporters nationwide, the Senate rejected the Blunt amendment, a measure that would have allowed any employer to deny women who work for them insurance coverage for birth control and other essential health benefits if the employer had a moral or religious objection. The message is clear: birth control is basic health care, and your medical decisions should be between you and your doctor.

No, Planned Parenthood, you DON'T believe medical decisions should be between you and your doctor. You want to include all of us right down to our wallets.

It's not enough that your organization provides birth control virtually free and clear to women who present in your clinic. You're not satisfied that women have almost unlimited access to abortion at any stage of pregnancy if the doctor can argue that the health (including mental health) of the mother is in danger. You want your boss, even if she opposes it to her core, to pay for your birth control.

This is a kind of religious fanaticism, conversion at sword's point.

Preserving What?

noreply@blogger.com (girlfriday) — Mon, 26 Mar 2012 16:41:00 +0000

One of the joys of my adult life is that I married a man who, in addition to great calves, has great understanding. I am always learning from him. In politics especially he is very temperate, very thoughtful, whereas I tend toward extremes.

A recent challenge came from his column in the Abereen American News.

This paragraph was particularly striking to this stick-in-the-mud conservative that I often am:

"We often look at the arts and humanities as luxuries. This is especially odd coming from so-called conservatives who sometimes deride these subjects because of their lack of economic utility. But what precisely are we conserving if not our culture and civilization? And if the arts are important to the cultivation of our souls, thus the cultivation of virtue, should not those who worry about cultural decline advocate hardest for the promotion of the best in the arts?"

But what precisely are we conserving if not our culture and civilization?

That struck me to the core. How do we raise our children to be somewhere between robotic-like fascists and lovers of those squishy, voyeuristic excuses for art that are so popular today?