Swimming Against The Tithe

I never gave much thought to tithing in the church. My parents gave just like their parents gave as their parents gave, and so on and so forth, until we're back in the Old Testament when people of the church gave 1/10th or 10% of their oil, fruit, grains, or livestock (not just money) to the church.

Tithing in an itty bitty nut shell:
I know very little about the origin of tithing, but according to this break down here, http://www.thebiblepage.org/biblesays/tithing.shtml, Leviticus 27, the tithe was originally given to support the Levitical priesthood since, apparently, the Levites "have no inheritance" and so the tithe was given "for an inheritance" (Numbers18:21,31). Tithing was also a way of showing thanksgiving, as a way to feed strangers, widows, orphans, and others who were without, and even as a way of learning to fear the Lord, as Deuteronomy 14:23 shows.

This is an overly simplified history of tithing, and I only mention it because just as I started writing this blog, I wondered where and why it started. And there it is. Tithing apparently started to 1)support the Levitical priest 2) feed the hungry and needy 3) to give thanks and show reverence to the Lord.

End.

As I was sitting in Church this past Sunday, the topic of a budget meeting was mentioned. As an over thinker, I started to think about the current condition (or uncondition) of the economy. I caught myself thinking, "man, I remember that church in Auburn budgeting millions of dollars...I wonder how much this one has to budget...I mean all of those lights, and speakers, and screens, and heating, and cooling, and music stuff, and floors, and water bills, and power bills..."

And I began to recall "From Eternity to Here", a non-fiction breakdown of The Church by Frank Viola (I would recommend it over any other "Christian" book I've ever read...). I began to remember that The Church is not a building, it's a body made up of people. I began to remember that as a part of The Church, we are all a part of the Bride of Christ, made pure, and holy, and righteous for the Bridegroom. I mean, face it, the bible opens with the wedding of Adam and Eve and ends with the Wedding of the Bridegroom (Christ) and his Bride (The Church), and at no point does He appear and say, "hold it, hold it, hold it!! You guys have to be in a brick building with a Steeple for this thing to work...."

So here I was, sitting in a fat, comfy chair in a heated room- an enormous heated room- with huge windows, and carpeted floors, and a big screen and projector, and speakers, and walls, all neatly packed in a white building with a white steeple, and I was thinking about what the Church really is, and it hit me....

"Why in the world are we tithing collectively as a nation, billions of dollars to pay power bills, water bills, to have large stain glass windows, and recreation centers, and big screens, and music systems and sound boards when we could be giving billions of dollars collectively to those who have no heating, no food, no homes, no education, who live in third world countries, or warring countries, or just need help?!?!?!"

And in that moment, it seemed so incredibly ridiculous that I've spent 25 years planning on giving money to a building instead of giving it to The Church....to the people who make up the body, to the people who are- through Christ- my brothers and sisters;  more so, to the people who don't belong to The Church. Because knowing Jesus, He would ask me to do that on behalf of Himself, right? I mean, "Whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me" (Mathew 25:40).

I can't help but question how we are tithing and who or what we are tithing to. When you break it down, today's Christians are predominantly tithing to power and water companies, to have food cooked and prepared on Wednesdays nights...for themselves, to the contractors who built their church, carpeted the floors, and remodeled the fellowship hall or youth activity center, and to whatever else I have no idea church budget meetings include.

Can you imagine the earth shaking impact Christians could have on The Church and on non-believers if we actually tithed to The Church? Seriously, billions of dollars per year are given to churches nation wide...BILLIONS OF DOLLARS, and we are pouring it into buildings. Buildings.

Except at least once a year, we intentionally sacrifice giving to the building to give to Lottie Moon and missionaries overseas.

I never once thought of it before, where the money went, I mean. I knew it went to the church, and that's what mattered, but this past Sunday, it just seemed very clear to me that it's worth more to meet with people who know the Lord at some one's house, or in some one's barn, or in the park and to use the money for something more important than the stuff, and gadgets, and things that go within the church building.

I think it would be uncomfortable, and cold, and inconvenient, but He never told us to be comfortable in big buildings, He just wanted us to fellowship together. He wanted us to spend time together, and to eat and drink together, and to talk with one another about life and about Him. And we don't need to spend billions of dollars to do that.

Really, and potentially controversially, do we need church buildings?  Look at Jesus' ministry: The few times He spoke at a temple, He was on the front steps, or knocking tables that belonged to vendors over. Otherwise, He was sitting on a hill, under a tree, by a well, at the bed of those were sick or dying, In a boat, at a table, or in some one's home.

I wonder if we've made supporting church buildings an economy; and if we've made tithing as a means to support that economy. I wonder if the church building is about religion and culture and less about relationship and communion.

This past Sunday, sitting in a chair, I imagined what believers would do if we didn't have buildings to support. How we would talk with one another at each other's homes, and prepare food together, and sit together, and sing with a guitar or piano together. I imagined all of the money we could give to those in our communities. I imaged that without a building for us to all go into, we'd spend more time with those who don't "belong" in our churches. We could spend more time "out there" and less time "in here" behind our church doors.

Honestly, thinking it over, I see the same people at my home church every time I go, and I often wonder to myself, where are the homeless people, and the sick people, and the needy people? And I wonder if the white building and white steeple, instead of bringing them in, is pushing them out? I wonder who the building is really for?

Who is a church building really for?

Is it for them? Is it for God? or is it for us?

I want it to be for them and for Him, but I'm scared it's for us.

And it's not about us, it's about them and Him.

Don't be in a Hurry to Love

Dear friend,

Don't be in a hurry to be in love.

Slow down. Take in the morning, have a cup of coffee, and listen to your favorite song. Rest in the morning light before it gets too hectic for you to notice it in the downtown traffic and glare of tall, glass buildings if you're in a big city. Enjoy the quiet before the chaos of life drowns out all of the good ideas and thoughts you had when you were dreaming or when you first woke up this morning.

Take in the life that you are living, and live it well.

Slow down, and be where you are now. And where you are now is without a hand to hold, a mouth to kiss, or someone to have on Valentine's. "Alone."

Here's the best advice I can give. Be alone. Be alone and take in all the wonderful things that come with it. Go to that country you've wanted to go to ever since you were little. Get as many degrees as your heart desires, go to Graduate school, be a journeyman, work for the peace corp, or intern with the World Food Program in Rome (I know someone doing the last one right now). Go to that concert that's really far away and requires a road trip to get there. Do that thing you want to do because you have all the time in the world to do it. Be by yourself in glorious silence and watch a movie, write a letter or a book, or take a bubble bath. Move to that city you always wanted to move to. Get that dog you always wanted. Spend your late nights and early mornings watching old black and white films at your neighbor's and best friend's house. Bake chocolate chip cookies, and share a bottle of wine with them.  Turn on the record player and dance like fools in the living room and laugh until you cry and want to collapse; sleepy, happy, and full on the floor. Go out with your friends, and dance like idiots in public places, and laugh obnoxiously, because there isn't any reason not to, and there's no one for you to embarrass but yourself, and embarrassing yourself can be one of the most freeing things you can do. In fact, be brave enough to enjoy the freedom you have been gifted, not cursed, with.

Stay up all night and share your heart with your best friend. Go with them on long drives to nowhere and talk for hours as if the car is a confessional and something holy between the two of you, because it is. Lay in the middle of a deserted street late at night when the moon is full and then talk about nothing in particular. Walk through a cow pasture and chase a cow...because it's funny, and you'll remember it forever.

Learn to do something you've always wanted to. Take piano lessons, learn to read sheet music, take a kick boxing class, or start a kitchen garden. Take up running, bird house building, crocheting. Be like some of my friends who make incredible things from nothing and then hang it on your wall. Paint, learn math if you love math, make a film, learn to be a photographer if you love photographs. Find the things you love, and learn to do them: Maybe you'll be terrible at it, but I assure you, you'll be better after trying than you were before. Learn to create something, build something, or do something, because you have all the time in the world to master it.

You're young and intelligent and interesting and funny and beautiful, and God is just waiting for you to discover it, and to find him and yourself, and the wonderful and full things in them both.

I wrote a poem once, and at one point I wrote, "The universe is my candle, I hold it in my hands." And you know what, it's true. The potential, the hope, and many wonderful things and experiences exist and were created by God for you and they are so, so good, and they are waiting for you. So chase hard and fast after them.

Don't be in a hurry to love. Because love is patient and kind and it's easy going and calm like the morning light. It's like a buttery warm bagel or a cup of hot chocolate: sweet, and warm, and cozy. It's not in a rush, it isn't a list of "to do's," it isn't on a time line, and it certainly isn't hiding from you.

I was single for 9 year, all the way to 25, which in the South can be concerning to some in the congregation. They were some of the hardest, most challenging, confusing, and weirdest years of my life, but they resulted in the most familiar, wisest, beautiful, courageous, and victorious years of my life. And you know what, I'm incredibly thankful for them. I have good stories to remember, and better yet good stories to write and tell.

I once prayed I could be like someone I hoped to become, and God and time and long conversations with soul-male friends, and most importantly, being alone, have all made me more and more like her.

The single most important thing I learned is to stop living for the future. Don't be in a hurry to be in love. Don't live for the day you belong to someone else, because for now, you belong to God and yourself, and it's enough. It's more than enough. Years and time and happiness are all wasted living for something that isn't here yet or living in fear that it will never come.

Love is easy, and when it's time, finding it will be easy, and you'll know it when it comes. So, dear friend, know that love doesn't require you scrambling about looking for it, it doesn't need you to stand in a long and stagnant line to get your ticket, and it doesn't need you to panic. It needs you to go find yourself in the time you have, to do the wonderful things you want and need to do, it needs you to live a happy and full life because it's coming for you, and you'll never see it coming. I promise.

your knowing friend,

martha lee anne

Ramblers

I am a rambler. If I get nervous, I ramble. If there is a long, awkward pause, I ramble. If I’m excited, I ramble. Therefore, many times a week, or month, and definitely within a year, I find myself rambling.

The problem with rambling is that you always say the wrong things. Always.

In fact, I’ll just say I’m not witty, or clever, or funny, or charming, ever, when I ramble.

This is a quality that I highly dislike about myself. In my head, I imagine saying the right thing at the right moment, but in reality, I probably just said the opposite of everything I was thinking, and instead of the something decent, I just said something off the wall. It was probably awkward, or random, or who knows.

Man. Can’t there be an invention to save me from the humiliation of my rambling mouth? Something that, right at the moment I begin to talk, will literally make the words disappear as they come flying out?

I think I’d be better off if I were a mute with a pencil and a notepad. Because what’s weird is that I always seem to say what I want when I write: I never blur the lines, I never get too far off track, I try my best to say what I mean.

Does this happen to you? Cute boy approaches. you're giving a presentation, you're trying to explain a feeling, a thought... and you become a rambling idiot? Goodbye English degree and supposedly learned ways of communication…goodbye; I’ll see you in five minutes as I’m walking away, staring blankly ahead, replaying all of the things I “should have said” as I remember the things I did say.

There’s no cure for rambling. None. This is who I am. A rambler. I take it with a grain of sugar (who wants a grain of salt in an open wound…not I). Maybe a cube of sugar…

I’ve gotten better at just letting the pauses go, though. I’ve also gotten better when I’m excited…but the nervous one still gets me. It’s like, my heart beats faster…which pumps more blood…which carries more oxygen…which produces more carbon dioxide…and as the carbon dioxide is being exhaled it gets tangled with all of these words that are stuck in my throat (for good cause, might I add) and in one exhale…there they go. There they go.

“So long words, and pray, do try to get lost in the wind before you find that poor person’s ears. Please, for their sake, and for mine, don’t find them…”

So, here’s to the ramblers. I’m one of you, and I understand the want to cover your mouth with a hand, or tape, or glue. And if you ramble to me, I'll try to remind myself that what you really meant to say was brilliant, and funny, and charming, and exactly the right thing at the right moment, and it just got lost somewhere along the way...

Strangers

Stranger: "A person whom one does not know or with whom one is not familiar"

I just accurately described the majority of the people you see on a daily basis. Strangers.

I'm deeply fascinated by strangers, so much so that some strangers- those who I see regularly in my walks or daily routines-have been given nick names, like "Walt," "dread headed guy," and "my backpack guy."

They're all really vague, superficial descriptions of people I don't know. The nicknames stem from unique characteristics in the person's clothes or beard or habit of always wearing head phones..."head phone girl."

This past Sunday, I did something unlike my normal routine and went to church. I don't disown God, though I might pretend I do sometimes when I'm moody and weird, but I've had an on-again off-again relationship with the church for some time.

I say this honestly, because in disowning some aspects of the church I've learned some really beautiful things about her. "Her" being "The Church" and not "the big white building where warm fuzzy feelings occur twice a week," but the bride of Christ.

"Beautiful things" referring to vulnerability, uncomfortable honesty, having milk stouts and Jesus as the same table, and laughing with "strangers."

The bride of Christ is a lot more rough around the edges than I originally thought her. I had this image of a solid white marble woman or maybe a solid white wooden woman or maybe a square white, wooden woman with either a cross or a bell tower atop her perfect head. I had this idea that the church was in women's casseroles, and in small group meetings, and pamphlets with schedules and events. I thought she kept her lips pursed tight, and her dress was without stain or mark, and her shoes were new and shiny.

I think if we saw her personified, I don't think she'd look anything like the above description, I think she'd look tired, but I think her eyes would be warm. I think they'd laugh out in love. I think her hands would be calloused and her feet worn and I think her back would ache from carrying others, or bending to help others. I think she'd be beautiful in a way that only people with good hearts are beautiful, and I think she'd be gentle and kind, but she'd have a steady hand and a steady heart.

I think she'd know the strangers, or she'd try better to know them, and in knowing them, I think she'd love them selflessly, without reason or reward or pride.

I say this because on Sunday, the pastor talked about our purpose being, "to do good works which God created in advance for us to do," (Ephesians 2:10). He was talking about being "her," being The Church. Loving and giving more because loving and giving more is what we're here for.

"It's what we're here for. It's what we're here for. It's what we're here for." he said over and over, and each time I knew to my core that he was right.

I just left Kroger. When I walked out with my three bags of groceries clutched in my hands, the rain was blowing across the cars, and the lightening was way too close for comfort, and my car was too away for walking. So, I stood there, and when I saw an older woman, I smiled at her and commented on the rain...and in that moment, she went from being a stranger to being Joyce.

Joyce was an older woman, with reddish colored hair and wild looking flowers in her grocery cart. Her car was just in view, and her husband sat in the passenger seat because he was no longer able to drive and he had a hard time hearing anything. Joyce had broken both of her feet just 6 months ago from walking and opted out of surgery because the risk was too much for her. She wanted to know what I studied in school, and she wanted to know my plans, and she wanted to know where everyone went in the summer. I asked Joyce if she liked milk or yogurt and if she had  a history of osteoporosis is her family or if she knew her current bone density because I was genuinely concerned that her feet broke because she was walking on them. And Joyce told me she didn't like milk and never drank it, and I told her about almond milk and soy milk and the chocolate chews with calcium that taste so good and about taking them twice a day to help keep her bones strong. And she laughed and nodded  her head, and we watched a fire truck drive by in the storm, and we talked like a young girl and a grandmother standing outside of a grocery store on a stormy day while hard-of-hearing-grandpa sat in the passenger side of the car in the parking lot.

But when I left, I told her it was nice to meet her and that my name was Martha Lee Anne, and she said, "that's such a pretty name. I'm Joyce." And I laughed again, and told her it was so nice to meet her, and I walked in the rain to my car, put my groceries in the back seat, and got in the front seat and buckled up. And only when I was pulling out of the parking lot did I think, "you should help her. you should help her put her groceries in her car and love her like She (the church) would."

But the front tires of my car had met the road, and I didn't know how "weird" it would be to go back, and so I didn't, but I should have. And this is why I should have.

But when I left, I told her it was nice to meet her and that my name was Martha Lee Anne, and she said, "that's such a pretty name, I'm Joyce." And I laughed again, and told her that it was so nice to meet her, and walked in the rain to my car, put my groceries in the back seat, and got in the front seat and buckled up. And when I was pulling out of the parking lot I thought, "you should help her. you should help her put her groceries in her car and love her like the church would." And so, I drove around the corner and pulled back in to the parking lot, and Joyce was still standing there with those flowers in her shopping cart, and I got my umbrella and went back to her, laughing, and apologized for not helping before, but asked her if she'd like for me to help. And Joyce, being as kind as she was, let me give her my umbrella and carry her groceries to her car. And I said hello to her husband, and said, "you're welcome," when she thanked me, and mentioned the sermon on Sunday about loving people like Christ, and she was so very happy that someone helped her because she had broken both of her feet, just six months ago, and they were so very tired, and the rain was so heavy, and her husband couldn't drive and was hard of hearing. And she hugged me and thanked me, and I tried to love her like the church so she could see the Father. And when she left, I went back to my car, and everything made sense. I made sense, and she made sense, and us bumping into each other made sense, and I knew that God used me to love someone he very much wanted to love. The story was being written, and I was in it.

Strangers are strangers because your story isn't overlapping with theirs. But what if they're supposed to? In fact, I know they're supposed to because that's the whole point. The point is for us to learn and love one another. The point is to let our sentences and chapters overlap to make a beautiful, cohesive story. But if we keep stopping somewhere in the middle, the story doesn't get written. I think I learned something valuable today, and I saw a good deal of the story being written and where it was going, but I can only imagine the story that could have been written, and the chapters that could have come after in both mine and Joyce's life. God is the writer trying to work the pen, but the story can't happen if we remove ourselves from it. What is a story after all without blank sheets of paper? What is a church without people willing to love selflessly? '

How beautiful is the story God wants to write for me? I don't know, but I want to find out.

And there was so much to live for

Rain is so very welcome this afternoon. Because it is raining I just “can’t” get in my car to go buy a binder or print out all 50 something reports I’ve been working on for my paper. I mean, driving in this weather? Are you crazy? That’s dangerous. A twig could hit my car…. I “can’t” go wash my hair because I might get struck by lightning or something.  
 

I guess, with it raining and all, I should listen to my Bon Iver playlist, and write something. That’s what the rain wants me to do, and do it I will. 

In all seriousness (maybe, I’ve been in such a childish mood lately), I’ve been reading “A Grief Observed” by C.S. Lewis. He wrote the piece soon after his wife, H.,  passed away.

“They say an unhappy man wants distractions- something to take him out of himself.” 

Rabbit trail: There are a lot of metaphors here…Best of luck to you. 

I took a class almost three years ago that was something like that Robert Frost poem,  

“Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.” 

I think it started off something like the curiosity of an uncertain and quiet child to take the road less traveled. Being the shy type, it was certainly slow going. I wanted to continue on, but I hesitated often wondering if going back would be better, because the old road was safe and comfortable. Walking down new roads is terrifying: In the movies, they’re misty, and owls do that weird thing with their heads, and dead, brown leaves rustle down abandoned paths.

Choosing a new road, whether I knew it or not, was not simply choosing new things to observe and look at and wonder over, it meant becoming a new person in so many ways.  Maybe, if you take a road that looks nothing like the one you’ve always walked on, you can become a new person altogether. I don’t recommend those roads though; I don’t think becoming a new person all together is ever beneficial.

That’s like reading a book written in parts, and ripping out part I and part II so that the poor reader only has part III to read. What can someone do with only one part of the story, the most recently written part? People, and you, need the whole story, especially if you really want to understand the character change, the plot, the lesson learned, and to gain some understanding of what’s going on. You need many of the old things of who you were to keep you grounded in who you are, or in who you’re becoming.
 

 Leave the embarrassing, mistakes, scary, painful, crazy, and ugly things in the story. They’ll make the beautiful, sweet, kind, redeemed, and wonderful things make more sense, and better. Hold on to the old roads, as you might want to take a long, quiet walk down one of them someday.

Sometimes, I think I set out on a new road because I wanted to be braver, in fact, I know I did. I wanted to be a wild at heart. I wanted to find out if I had wings, and if I did, I wanted to know where they could take me. But being braver means fighting something capable of swallowing you whole or leave you in a heap of ashes. It means finding cold and abandoned stone buildings along the way, and fighting off wolves and dragons, and going without much in between (these descriptors sounds like something from a Disney movie don’t they?). 

It means getting cut and bruised, possibly broken if you fall down some ravine or something that never existed on the older and kinder road. And sometimes, it means getting lost. Really , really lost.

And that brings us back to C.S. Lewis.

He was forced- more than he chose- to go down a new road after the death of H. But, the feelings, the motions, the routines are so much the same. That’s something I’m starting to realize though, that maybe “ lost” is a universally understood word because we do feel it so much the same. I’m also starting to  realize that C.S. Lewis is so much better at articulating how he feels than I am, and he makes feeling something that could be “crazy” completely rational.  

I haven’t finished reading it yet, but as he has already found so much out in what I’ve read, I hope he knows more by the end of his road. I hope he becomes a more complete person with the understanding and wisdom of what it means to be a complete person.  

I have memories that tell good stories; old roads that lead to really wonderful and beautiful places. Sometimes, “memory is hunger” as Hemmingway said, and I so badly want to go back to those places. I’ve held on to those words for a while now because I’ve wanted to go back so many times. 

But, three years ago, I started a new road: A road that, didn’t just already exist, but sometimes, a road that I’ve built with my own hands, and words, and wants, and hope, and heart. A road where I came to those cold, empty buildings but built a fire there, and found warmth there, and despite getting there empty, I left there full.  And I’ve fought dragons and wolves. Several times, I was afraid that I might have been the wolf or the dragon, but stories from old roads reminded me I was not, and I left them where I defeated them to find new ones (I don’t look forward to finding new ones, but it doesn’t take a genius to guess the monster in Scooby Doo, or to know that there are always dragons to fight.)

I got lost a bunch of times. I wandered around out “there” a bunch of times, but that is to be expected. It's not favorable, but it is expected. The heart will always take you home, though. So, I’ve learned it’s important to keep a good home. Maybe that’s Jesus, or a good friend, or the best memory you have, or the best of yourself. For me, home is a lot of those things. Home is where I get to rest, and eat, and be warm, and know things can be better than they are; when you’re tired, and alone, and sleepy, home is going to be your bread and water and pillow. So find a good one.  
 

Sometimes, I don't like the road I'm on, at least, when it gets weird, and I get more in-between the places, and when my feet are really tired. I don't like not sleeping well or being alone or feeling uncomfortbale when those things happen, but I like that I know what it feels like to be brave, and to talk out loud, and to do things i didn't think I could do. I like the feeling of flying and puttind down a dragaon. I like the fact that I’ve gotten so far down it that it feels like I’m building it, or maybe, if God made it for me, I’m constantly re-discovering it. 

Either way, despite all that I know and C.S. Lewis knew about the unhappy man and distractions, and the hard things, and the scary of new roads, I’m realizing, like H. knew when she passed, “And there was so much to live for.”

There’s so much to live for.

But you have to live to know it, and if you want to live, you can't walk the same road over and over again. You'll have to take the road less traveled...because it really does make all the difference, doesn't it?
 

 

And the Sky Never Ends

Allow me to introduce to you about the most wonderful little girl that I have ever met. Her  name is Martha Lee Anne Ryals and I was first introduced to her on February 14, 1988, which was the day she entered this world. She arrived on a Sunday morning around 8:30 a.m. I was the proudest father of a most beautiful little girl. From the very beginning she was a very quiet and shy little girl. 

As she has grown older she has overcome some of her shyness, at least around family members, to the point that she can talk almost constantly about anything. But still, around people she does not know very well she withdraws into that quiet shell that I recognize so well as being my own way. Also, as a small child she was quite content to spend a considerable amount of time alone, maybe shared with a pet. She has, and hopefully will always be, independent in her ability to be content and satisfied with herself not caring what other people are doing or where they are going. Confident that she go her own way not following the crowd and could care less what they think as she heads off in her own direction. This can serve her well in today’s environment of peer pressure to follow the crowd.

Now that she has become a young lady I see more and more of her precious traits. She loves a animals in a special way. I think that she recognizes that unlike human companions, friends from the animal kingdom love unconditionally and will never betray the friendship that is passed along. She is truly a soft and gentle person with never a harsh word to anyone and a willingness to give of herself to any person who desires a friend. There is no pretense, so overblown ego, only the desire to be a true friend. In that she never allows the harshness of the world to influence her in changing this part of her beauty. 

In closing I will allow that I am somewhat biased in my opinions of Martha, but I believe that anyone who allows her in their heart the way I have cannot help but see all the good things that she represents. You cannot be around her and not lover her simply for the way that she is.

 

 

My dad wrote that for me when I was 12 or 13. I found it last night going through some old letters and journals. My eyes watered up reading it, because he knows me, always has, always will. 

Reading it, I hope you don’t think about me, in fact, I hope you can forget me altogether; instead, I want you to see the person who wrote it. Because the person who wrote it knows me, and I think he knows me so very well because we have the same kind of heart. Quiet and still.  

 

 

There are many important people in your life, but even so, so many of those people can’t fully know you, because they can’t understand. To know you requires you to tell them. You have to narrate your life to them so they can attempt to understand it, and even when spoken out loud, some of it gets lost along the way, and it can get tiring. 

But then, there are people who- without words- know your thoughts, nature, heart. You can find rest with them, and just be. My dad is this kind of person to me. I don’t need words to tell him, because he sees me. When I don't notice, when I don't want him to, he sees me. He has always seen me, for who and how I am. And he loves me. 

“I love you bigger than the sky,” daddy would say, “and how big is the sky?”

“This big,” I would say stretching my skinny arms to the point of risking a shoulder dislocation. 

“I love you bigger than the sky,” daddy says. “How big is the sky?” He smiles, his mustache turning up with his lips.

“It never ends,” I say.

 

 

I don’t know when the tradition started. I don’t know how old I was when he first said it, and I first answered. It’s always been there, like the beauty mark on my cheek or like that quiet and shy nature of mine, or his hand in mine on Sunday mornings.  

He loves my quirks, and fears, and joys, and wants, and thoughts. He loves my flaws, mistakes, and short comings. But in the end, what he really loves, what all of that means, is that he loves me.  

He is my dad, and I am his daughter and I don’t think there’s anything I could do or say that would change his love or thoughts of me, even when nicknamed "the litte terrorist."

I could tell you about flying airplanes, waking the railroad track, swerving all over the road in the car, our mutual love of ice cream, the stories, growing tomatoes and roses in the back yard, Wyoming, and how we can both raise an eyebrow, but those are just filler.

 

 

 

 

 What it comes down to is my dad taught me that it’s okay to be human, it’s okay to mess up, it’s okay to be scared and unsure,  it’s okay to not be okay, it's okay to be silly and weird and to keep trying.

It's okay to be martha lee anne.

Some people would call that acceptance, but I’d like to think that my dad taught me about unconditional love, and not a counterfeit version where there are boundaries or lines I can’t cross or things I’m not allowed to say or a person I shouldn’t/can’t be…it’s the pure, unadulterated thing.  

And that’s why our tradition means everything to me. 

So, happy father’s day daddy,

 I love you bigger than the sky, and the sky never ends

She was Beautiful

She was beautiful,

but not in the beautiful ways you might like to think so

she did not have hair that dripped gold

her eyes were not the color of the cold sea

her smile was crooked and bent

her lips were chapped and thin

she did not have a gentle laugh

nor did she speak humble thoughts

but she was beautiful

in the way the shore kisses white feet

in the way the moon hides itself in the curtain of darkness

she was beautiful

in the way wind dances in hair

and in the way shy lovers hold hands

she was beautiful in the way of

morning air

and black coffee

and the love poems

that live in each broken heart

spilling red oil, into blue lungs

suffocating happiness right out of it's shell

and she was beautiful

because she refused to taste sadness

even when that was the only thing she had left to eat

I.K.

Some thoughts on Belle Glade

Sunday

I spent most of Sunday afternoon casting a green, gummy worm into Lake Okeechobee. I’m not an expert fisherman (fisherwoman) or anything. I sat on a pier, the tips of my toes barely brushing the smooth water’s surface, the end of the fishing pole wedged into that little niche place just below the hip and at the highest point of the thigh.  

I think God created that niche with the idea that a fishing pole could rest there, or a child after they’ve fallen and scraped their knee. It could have been made for other things, but at this point in my life, it has only found purpose after Bennett, my niece, has hurt herself and I’ve lifted her to that niche and this past Sunday when I sat on Lake Okeechobee- casting what could be a child’s hope into the water- the only marker of time the click, click, click of the reeling and the ziiiiiip of the casting.

 

I was glad I wasn’t wearing sunglasses, not just because I didn’t have to worry about “raccoon eyes,” but because there was nothing between me and the sun. Sure, I had to squint when throwing out my line, but a little discomfort is worth letting sun entering the windows to the soul and filling the darkest places there. No one should wear sunglasses to keep the sunlight out. If I wasn’t so worried about blinding myself or causing serious damage, I’d look right into the sun, and burn my soul with its light.

Eh, that last part might have been a bit dramatic, but you get the idea. 

I didn’t catch any fish. Jesus could have been sitting with me on that pier, and I still wouldn’t have caught any fish. But I caught other things. I caught the sun in the tan of my skin, and in gold strands in my hair, and in the freckles on my shoulders, and I might have gotten a ray or two into my soul for later keeping. 

So, it was a good day. 

Monday

I might have caught more than a ray or two of sunlight in my soul on Sunday, because most of it was gone on Monday, but it was warm and the clouds weren’t dark like some overcast days can be.

We slept in (that’s important, because sleep is wonderful) and then we went to the Atlantic.

The waves were perfect, as the romantic would say. They were terrifying, as the tiny girl would say. They were much taller than my head. They were big, green, rolling waves…constant, like hungry mouths opening and closing, and I didn’t want them to swallow me whole. So I ran from them again, and again.

And then, being stupid and young, as well as persuaded by a certain Sarah and Jordan, I finally turned, ran towards one of those giants, and dove straight into the mouth of it, felt it close over my head, torso, legs, and feet, and then with one gulp, it swallowed me whole. And I wanted to be swallowed again and again, so I spent the afternoon in the belly of those green, rolling waves, and it was wonderful.

That night, we met Sarah’s mom and aunt at a Cuban place for dinner. I had frijoles negros con arroz, but I think Sarah said something like “black beans and rice together is just ‘congri,” so I had congri. I also had fried, sweet plantain, but I’m not going to attempt to say that in Spanish. I don’t know what it is, but I love Cuban food. I also love Spanish, and I’m sad that I didn’t keep trying to speak it.

Tuesday (Today)

We went to a Mexican grocery this afternoon. It was once a bowling alley, but if you didn’t know that going in, you wouldn’t know it looking at the aisles of food and the crates of produce. I bought plantain chips, coconut water, and some kind of Aloe Vera drink.

I love grocery stores, in case I’ve never mentioned it. And this grocery store was like being in another country. I practiced rolling my “r’s” when I read “frijoles negros,” and I repeated it to myself looking over the different brands, trying to imprint those Spanish words in my memory.

 

“frijoles negros, frijoles negros, frijoles rojas…” Red beans, another one to learn. 

I inspected the ground maize, and the packages of rice and brown azúcar, and the meat behind the glass in the back. And leaving, I tried to think in Spanish, but I thought in English, and I thanked the woman at the cash register in English too…but I said “frijoles negros con arroz” on the way to the car and “banana amarillo” and felt a small victory.  

We had lunch at a small café. Our forks clinked against the china, and the freshly whipped cream on our key lime pound cake was….you’d have to taste it to understand its tangy flavor, and texture, and the coolness of it with the warmth of the coffee (I won’t try, I’ll ruin it). Cake and coffee. Is there a better lunch? I doubt it. 

We lounged until we left to go to the shops and restaurants at City Place. We meandered there too. Barnes and Nobles is always a must, though small book stores are preferred, at least by yours truly.  We went to stores where I couldn’t afford the things they sold: white, pleated sofas, and downy comforters, and pretty tables. Though, I took the entire store with me in the form of a catalogue. It fit right into a small bag and went right out of the door with me. For free. I win.

We sat, resting against a fountain. We threw two pennies over our shoulders and made quiet wishes, because you should never be too old to wish. We laughed at a Dachshund being walked by a woman. It was obviously old and exhausted. But it was fat and happy, like the kind of dog that sleeps in front of the fireplace and drinks milk and fits in the family like a child. He smelled at the red flowers that everyone else walked by, and then waddled quickly after some birds, which made me and Sarah laugh. But I was happy that he was happy and chasing after birds. We watched kids chase the birds too, and I remembered that just Sunday, I was chasing after Grackles, the “pigeon of Florida,” Sarah says. But I like the Grackles like that Dachshund liked those flowers. Someone has to like them, someone has to notice them. I guess I’m one of those “someones.” 

We took a Trolley down Clematis Street, where we ate pizza at an unassuming place. We sat outside, and leaned on our elbows, and ate our pizza off our paper plates. And when we threw away the empty plates, we meandered back to the car and drove home.

Writing Weird Stuff

When I was in junior high school, I started taking a pink notebook to my sixth period history class. I took that pink notebook every single day, and I wrote.

 I was trying to write a book about a girl named Melody and her best friends Raven and Buckley. They were elf-like things that lived in a magical land with a haunted forest and little critters like hopping foofs and whimpalopes. Some old witch queen lived in the woods, and Melody was actually the daughter of a singing wallow...making her extra special. Basically, Melody, like her name, was the one who had to play this magical flute built by the critters in the forest to lock the witch queen away for good so she couldn't work her evil voodoo on the village and turn them all in to slimy, ugly, scary things.

I created a map, plants and animals, and an entire race of people, but I didn't get past chapter 2 because it wasn't that great of a story. But, it did make history class better, and I realized in 8th grade that I had a thing for making up weird stuff. In middle school and elementary school, I wrote about mermaids, and how tadpoles turned into frogs, and about a cloud that "wasn't any ordinary cloud."

In high school, I wrote weird stuff in the cafeteria during lunch. My friends talked about things I don't remember, while I buried myself in-between blue lines of double rule paper that was meant for algebra homework or domain families or stochiometry.

What did I write? Children's poems.

Cold in A minor

Hickory the mouse had himself a spouse, and a mighty fine spouse was she.

She cooked the best pies, never told lies, and kept the house tidy and clean.

Now Hickory was the luckiest fella, for he had found himself quite the girl,

But his dandy life would be in strife, and end in quite a whirl.

 

Every night when the town was drifting through the sweetest of dreams,

Hickory's spouse was filling the house with sneezes that seemed to sing

He took his spouse to the doctor to see what this noise was about

It seemed his spouse had caught a cold, and it was playing Bethoven in her snout.

 

Oh what a terrible, horrible, dreadful, cursing thing this was!

Everyone knew the only cure was soup and a steaming tub of suds.

So she sipped her soup and popped the suds while listening to Minuet.

And lucky she that it would be she'd fight it without a sweat.

 

So every night she's tucked in tight and never sniffles a bit,

Whereas, the town below is troubled with woe and in a frenzied fit.

Now you see that it was she who passed along the curse.

Every bit of that town was troubled with frowns with a cold much worse.

That one was always my favorite.

 

Froggy Shoes

 

Gilbert the frog, sat on a log

 Eating black fly pie.

When a toad came along, humming a song,

Giving a wink as he passed by.

 

Gilbert just stared,though he wasn’t aware,

For the toad was WALKING by.

Not a crawl or a hop or a big belly flop,

And Gilbert wondered why.

 

“Mr. Toad, how strange, I’m positively amazed!

How do you walk so upright?”

“Why little frog I wear shoes, as if it were news,

And I keep them knotted tight.”

 

When Gilbert looked, his eyes were hooked,

On the Toad’s shoes of green

Laced so tight, he stood upright

Something Gilbert had never seen

 

Gilbert then tried, with all of his might

To stand on his two green feet.

But he slumped, then hopped, did a great belly flop,

Then landed on his seat. 

Sitting he was sad on a green lilly pad,

Not able to walk upright.

When Mr. Toad wrapped that lilly, around his feet till he looked silly,

And used a vine to tie them tight.

 

“There you are my lad, now don’t you be sad,

You’ve got yourself some fancy shoes.

Keep them tied tight,you’ll be walking upright

As long as those shoes you never lose.”

I wrote lots of these. I wrote about a brown cow that made chocolate milk, and about the origin of cheese on the moon, about a girl who sneezed away towns, and hills, and forests, and about a boy named Charlie who ran so much his legs couldn't keep up, and about a girl named Tinka La Tonka Tossel who had a flying hat...it flew away one morning, what do you think about that?

I have a knack for writing weird stuff. I think a lof of writers do. I can't imagine any writer starting with a story about a boy who works at a grocery store in a small, country town where he learns some hard lesson. I imagine a writer growing up would write a story about a kid at a grocery store that was magical and where tomatos sang and celery danced...I don't know. It seems natural to me that writers start off in this weird land, where they learn to think out of the box, and then as they grow up, they learn to refine the corners, tone it down some, and write some fictional story that doesn't include singing produce or flying cars...unless your story is Harry Potter or Lord of the Rings...in that case, you stay in your weird land and make magic that people want to read about.

I started writing a story called "The Strange Mr. Tisdel" a few years ago. It was good, but it was hard writing it, and I put it on the shelf until I can figure out how to go about doing it.  I started "Hattie Mae and the Red Balloon" some time last year, and I haven't finished it yet. But as it is a children's book, it need not be too long. Thankfully.

Anyway, it's easier for me to write the kind of fiction that could be about real people and real places, and I just use some weirdness to describe, and reveal, and what not, but I love the things I wrote when I was younger. I like how my brain worked, and  how it connected things without rules. I miss the freedome in writing like that.

I've learned that creating your own world is a lot harder than creating people and situations to live in a world that already exists.

But....who doesn't want to create their own world??

Exactly.

Marriage is about Loving Burnt Cookies

“come to the dark side, we have (burnt) cookies” 

Let me go ahead and say this. I’m not a red eyed, fanged feminatzi or anything...   

I like kids at the grocery store, I make stupid noises and faces at chubby babies, and I wear a vintage apron with flowers and lace on it when I’m baking cookies and biscuits (sometimes homemade). I’m not against painted fingernails, curling eye lashes, perfume, or giggling, but none-the-less, I’ve been persuaded to the “dark side.” 

They don’t have the prettiest cookies, but the upsides of the dark side are pretty good. I’m talking about being a skeptic. 

That’s right.  Skeptic. And what kind of skeptic belongs on the dark side when living in the good ole south? The skeptic of marriage. 

I know that it is- apparently- against my gender, and southern culture, to not daydream about weddings, and white dresses, and blue birds helping me to make up the bed or wash dishes, but I don’t. Though I admittedly have daydreamed about birds helping me clean…that’d be awesome.  

Quite frankly, marriage scares the hell out of me. And it should scare the hell out of you too. But I think that’s why divorce rates are so high. There are more people way too comfortable with the idea of getting married than people uncomfortable, and as terrible as it may sound to admit that marriage is scary, thinking it is a magical land of happy white dresses and breakfastes in bed is a lot scarier to me.  

Because one is real, the other is not. One is attainable, the other is not. 

I’ve thought this for awhile now, but Donald Miller’s admittance to the same thing in “A Million Miles in a Thousand Years” made me feel like I had someone baking cookies with me in the dark. 

“It wasn’t only wickedness and scheming that made people unhappy, it was confusion and misunderstanding; above all, it was the failure to grasp the simple truth that other people are as real as you.”  

That’s some of my favorite combinations of words from the book Atonement.  

You see, misunderstanding that your other is as “real” or as “human” as you should be an incomprehensible mistake. A person who has bad breath in the morning, is selfish or forgetful, and burns their toast regularly should remind you that if they actually had a red cape somewhere in their closet, it’d have holes, tears, black spots, and would look really unremarkable if they put it on.

Marriage is about loving the flawed, dork with geeky glasses, embarrassing stories, and ugly scars, not the buff, shiny dude who tells good jokes and bounces pain and hard things off his glorious chest without discomfort.

Knowing that other people are as human as me can be scary. And realizing that two people willingly attach themselves to one another permanently is just as terrifying.

One person is messy, two people is like handing a toddler paint and then leaving them alone in a room with white carpet. Do you get what I’m saying? Marriage could be a complete and total disaster, because whether it has occurred to you or not, we’re kind of individual disasters.

Because marriage is about doing the seemingly impossible; loving someone else despite their humanness, unconditionally. Marriage is about grace, and mercy, and that kind of “my mind can’t fully grasp it” love that God has for his church. I mean, I’m supposed to love someone the way God loves the church, except I’m not God, I’m 5 feet and 1 inch of Martha Lee Anne, and the “church” is another person. 

But, that’s why I love a wedding (yes, you can be a skeptic and still love weddings). Because knowing that two people can love each other’s flaws, and dorky glasses, and embarrassing stories makes me feel warm and fuzzy. Seeing old couples wearing glasses, or arguing over something as ridiculous as socks, or step on each other’s toes when dancing makes me even warmer and fuzzier.

Watching a person love another person, a selfish, messy, quirky, wimpy, person makes marriage look good, really good. But all that other stuff- the white dresses, and cake, and pictures of seemingly perfect couples on fireplace mantles- worries me.

 Because, let’s face it, I’ll get dirt on my dress, eat all the cake, and I’m not such a photogenic person. But I’m selfish, messy, quirky, and wimpy, and if that is all that is expected of me in marriage, if they know they are just marrying another person, then I’m okay with that, in fact, I’m more than okay with that. 

I’m burning cookies in a flowered apron on the dark side, because eventually, there’s going to be some flawed, anti-hero who’s going to want to burn cookies with me. And if we burn them, we’ll eat them anyway, and laugh about it later, because that’s what marriage is about… 

I guess I could have just said, “marriage is about loving burnt cookies.”