Our Children

I’m a news junkie. I love Keith Olbermann . My local NBC station is pretty reliable. I go to sleep listening to the news and wake up listening to it as well.   Since 9/11,  news has become an integral part of my daily existence.  I almost wish it wasn’t.  Friday, I was writing an extensively pathetic pity party for myself on my myspace blog.  I was looking for some kind of encouragement to continue coping with this ridiculous world that gets worse by the minute.  The suffering that my family endures, bears absolutely no comparison to what I heard on MSNBC news that day.  The family of Jessica Lunsford has endured more pain than most of us could ever imagine.  I won’t even speculate on what Jessica herself endured as the thought of it is emotionally wrenching and physically painful.  My empathy went into overdrive as the judge recounted in horrid detail this beautiful, innocent child’s heinous, cruel, torturous experience, from the moment that she was kidnapped until she was buried alive. It left me nauseous and reduced me uncontrollable tears for most of the weekend.  I have been distraught and distracted by it ever since. 

 For once, I have no doubts as to my feelings on the death penalty.  A death sentence for Couey is just too easy.   Justifiable torture would be so much better.  He should be forced to endure those same things that he forced Jessica to endure. Give him to the general population and let them mete out justice for a little girl that only wanted to go home.  The words of the judge will haunt me for a long time to come.  Another tragedy forever etched into my memory.  Further proof that our children are not even safe from random predatory violence in their own homes anymore. How I wish my children could’ve grown up in the 70′s like I did.  It’s frightening how much things have changed in 30 years. 

Rest In Peace, Jessica.  Justice has been served. 

On that same day two more babies met with a horrible fate.  A 7-month old was found in the heat of the day, dead in the backseat of a car in St. Louis, Missouri.  Another, a 3-year old was found in a sweltering SUV in a middle school parking lot in Cincinnati, OH.  The parents involved include both a staff pediatrician and an assistant principal at a middle school.  How?  How do you forget your child? Twenty-two children dead in vehicles this year alone.  Can someone please tell me what is going on? Last summer in Memphis, Tn this same kind of horrible incident occured no less than 4 times. Possibly more as I can’t remember for sure.  As a parent how do you go on living?  How do you not see, hear and feel your child in the backseat even if they are sound asleep?  Do these people not have peripheral vision????? I just don’t understand. 

EoF Part III – Heathen

Here is part I.

Part II is here.

Might want to read those first if you haven’t already.  Makes more sense that way.

So, I quit going to church of my own volition around the age of 9.  Well, I say *quit going to church*. I quit going to that church.   I still attended other churches with friends now and then. Sunday school, vacation bible school, etc.   Not very often mind you.  It was kind of like taking time off between high school and college to see the world.  Liberating is a good word to describe it.  I remember feeling deliciously decadent on Sunday mornings because I slept late and got in the big, swimming pool in the backyard, early in the morning,  all by myself.  Those are some of the most vivid moments of my life.  Floating around the water on my back looking into a vivid blue inifinite sky.  Sparks of bright sunlight refelcting off ripples in the water. Just me and the sun and the warm summer breeze and Rock 103 on the radio.  That was my time with God.  I didn’t know it yet but it would come to make perfect sense to me later on.   And, boy oh boy, were all my friends jealous.  I felt a little bit like a celebrity. 

It was a revelation to find that all those kids that I thought luhhhhved to go to church every Sunday were bored and miserable and didn’t really want to be there either. I was in shock.  They complained and said things like *you’re so lucky* and *I wish my parents would let me stay home too.*  I never explained to any of them what happened.  I just felt fortunate to be out from under the discomfort and stress.  The irony of it was that I actually wanted to go to church. Being a creature of habit, I liked the routine of it.   I wanted friendship and a common bond with the kids that attended but it was never offered.  As a child, I found comfort in saying the same prayer every night.  I knew God heard me way back then.  That was before any conscious memory of the church telling me that He didn’t.

Up until my teens, I didnt think much of the fact that I quit going to church.  It just didnt seem all that important.  I still prayed before I went to sleep at night.   I still asked God for forgiveness.  I still considered myself Christian because, I didnt think there was another option in northern Mississippi.  The only places to worship in our county were churches and most of those were Protestant.  There was only one cathedral  (there are only 2 to my knowledge now) and of course no mosques or synagogues.  I read about mythology -Greek, Roman, Egyptian, Aztec, Indian, Native American, Incan- at that time but I was too young to make the correlation between mythology and religion.  It started to become obvious to me that one spiritual scenario was every bit as plausible as another.  My young logic was that no one has ever died and lived to tell about it so ultimately no one really knows.  And then my brother died. 

Part IV – Rebel with a Cause

EoF Part II – Fear of Church

 Might want to start here if you haven’t read it already.

As I continued to go to church on my own, my sense of isolation became more pronounced.  Our pastor barely took notice of me.  The elderly couple that I rode withon Sundays were always the kindest souls in the congregation.  I joined the youth choir as I had a love of music and singing.  But even among those my own age, I felt different.  Most of the kids who attended my church didn’t go to school with me.  They attended a private Presbyterian school in Memphis, while I went to local public schools in my county so we knew little of each other.  (Presbyterian and Methodist were synonymous back them or at least it seemed so to me) In youth choir, we traveled the local area singing at nursing homes and the like.  I remember sitting on the bus or riding in vehicles with people that I knew but didn’t know.  It was like being invisible.  No one asked how my family was.  No one asked much of anything at all. 

During the service on Sunday, I usually sat alone.  In the midst of the congregation, I was the fat little girl whose parents were wrong for leaving and taking their checkbook with them.  I was looked upon with suspicion, further proof in my mind that I didnt belong.  And then at the end of the service *the call* would be issued again.  And I never heard it.  All eyes in the congregation turned to me every week, likely wondering why I didn’t move forward. I think I must have been the only one that hadn’t sought the counsel of the pastor. 

I wanted to scream, “Whaddya want me to do??? Lie??? In church??? Not me.  Oh, Hell no.”  So there I was 8 or 9 years old and thinking that God didnt want me.  He must not.  He didn’t speak to me like he did every one else.  He never called me so I was sure I must be the spawn of the Devil.  It became so uncomfortable, that I actually feared going to service.  Choir practice wasnt too bad.  It was about singing not sinning. 

I always wondered, if anybody really heard that *call* or if they just pretended or imagined it.  I was not bad, in fact I was just the opposite.  The epitome of the good child with manners and good grades and respectful nature. Did God not have my number?  Was I not important to Him as well?   Why would God not want me?  Being a child and feeling rejected by the most powerful omnipotent being the universe was a bit disconcerting.  No longer able to tolerate the accusing stares and the lack of compassion,  I went to my mom and dad at the age of nine and said I didn’t want to go back.  My parents said that was fine with them. 

Shortly thereafter, I overheard my parents saying that the people from the church came by to see why I didn’t attend Sunday services anymore.  When my parents told them, they accused my mom and dad of being *heathens* (a label that I wear proudly now  that were setting me up on a road straight to Hell.  At that moment, I washed my hands of that church.  The church that thrives to this day. It’s membership has grown exponentially since the late 70′s when I left.  Many of the members are the same people who attended when I did.  I have often considered returning there just to see if it is still the judgmental, hypocritical, intolerant environment that I remember.  I wonder if they would even remember me.  I just bet some of them would.  Don’t know if they would admit it or not but I just bet. 

EoF Part III/Heathen- Coming soon

Evolution of Faith

This has been a Hella-week.  Thanks to Christian’s kind words, I am feeling more positive and back to my original intent.  The intent of this blog is to foster a new way of thinking.  Inspire a bit of hope.  This world has taken leave of its’ senses and is completely out of balance.  When we find ourselves purchasing stab-proof uniforms and bullet-proof backpacks  for our children to go back to school, it’s time to take a good hard look at what’s going on here.  It is a crying shame that we, as the most intelligent creatures on the planet (debatable)…the top of the food chain, cannot commit to turn away from our own fatal flaws.  We do have that ability.  Everything we do is a choice.  I truly believe that addressing the spiritual health of the world is a good place to start.  We cannot right all the world’s wrongs with a spell or a prayer but what is it that prevents us from trying?  I believe that it is our refusal to see through the eyes of another.  Especially in matters of faith.  The concept of *one true way* has done much damage but none of it is irreversible.   Much like beauty is in the eye of the beholder, truth is in the heart of the believer.  No matter the belief. 

 My own faith has gone through a lifelong evolution.  It seems that with everything I learn and experience, my concept of faith and spirituality expands.  From the churches that I attended as a child to the solitary rituals I practice as an adult, each new discovery leads me to a higher understanding.  

The first part of that evolution of faith was church.  Church was a normal part of my early childhood.  I was christened into the Methodist faith as a baby and went to church weekly up to the age of nine.  It wasn’t forced on me or expected of me, it just was.  We got up, dressed up and showed up every Sunday like the rest of our family and neighbors.  Little or no deep thought was behind it.  It was really a bit ike going to work or to school.  Just another part of the routine.  But even as a young child, I didn’t really get it.  But, I didn’t really have to get it.  I just had to go. 

At church, we were ostracized.  In part because, church wasn’t our whole life. The center of our existence was my brother, who laid at home in a hospital bed, unable to care for himself in any way.    We weren’t there for every single service and we didn’t attend potluck dinners.  My mother wasn’t in the choir and my father wasn’t a deacon.  We couldn’t.  My mother attempted to derive some kind of answer through fellowship and faith but in the end was denied it for the very reason she sought it.  I can only assume that members had no idea what to say to us.  No words of encouragement for a family that shouldered a heavy burden.  Despite that feeling of isolation, we continued to attend as that was what my mother had been raised to do.  I cannot speak for my mother, but as for myself, I always felt unwelcome. 

Church members and even the pastor occasionally visited us at home during the week.  They stopped by to pray with my mother and father for some miracle to save my brother.  They rarely stayed for more than ten or fifteen minutes.  Long enough to claim it in their list of good works.  Then they moved on to put stars in their crowns elsewhere.  Places like the volunteer fire department and the PTA held promises of much brighter stars and much bigger crowns.

When I was about eight, a slow change came about in my little United Methodist congregation.  The concept of faith healing was embraced and caught fire rapidly.  Not long after that, our once thoughtful, quiet services were filled with fire and brimstone sermons.  At the end of every service our pastor would announce that it was time for members who *heard the call* to come down to the front of the church to be saved.  Members lined up immediately in droves, shifting from foot to foot as they waited their turn to get down on their knees and dedicated their lives to God and Jesus. We stayed in the pew. Neither of us willing to pretend that we heard a call that we did not hear. 

My mother stopped attending not long after this new way of thinking was introduced.  The righteous behavior of some of the members contributed to her decision not to go anymore.  Many of the men in the church were convinced they had suddenly developed a gift for healing  They set my brother in their sights determined to produce an almighty miracle.  The only thing they produced was a bout of hiccoughs that wracked my brother’s body for well over two weeks.  He hiccoughed so hard that the feeding tube in his stomach was forced from his body twice and he had to be transported to the hospital by ambulance.  He hemorrhaged and vomited due to the unusual intensity and duration of it.  They vowed never to allow it to happen again. 

When they advised the atttending members of their decision, they were accused of being weak in their faith.  They were told that since they didnt believe strongly enough it didn’t work.  It was the last slap in the face my mother ever took from church.  She chose not to go and hasn’t been back since.  I continued to attend because I was now convinced that I was supposed to go.  All my friends did.  All their parents did.  It was part of my life for so long that it just didn’t seem right to stay home on Sunday.  My parents never said I couldn’t.  They went out of their way to make sure I had the opportunity to go every Sunday even if they didn’t.  It didn’t take long for me to draw my own conclusions based on my own experiences.  And so my fear of church began. 

I’m on a Mission

…a mission from the gods.  Here’s my plan.  

 Once a week.

Break out the phone book.

Open to the section containing places of worship (ANY places of worship; ie, temples, synagogues, churches, covens, etc).

 Pick one at random.

Show up at the appropriate time. 

 Listen with an open mind and an open heart.

Meet people. 

Ask questions and learn.

Speak with clergy, deacons and other church elders to learn more. 

Share what I learn with others.

 Here are my issues.

Don’t want to be converted or become a member.  I already know what I believe.

I am very very excruciatingly shy. 

Not wanting to offend others in any way or be perceived as intrusive. 

Having the option to come back and learn more if I choose to do so.

Sharing what I learn honestly and openly without offense.

Here are my questions:

How do I get past the shy thing?

Should I call or just show up?

Should I push the envelope?  (Look different in some way.  Bring attention to myself.  Ask difficult questions.  Open for suggestions as to how to handle this aspect.)

I don’t know that I ever could but, I’d love to do this.  Am I crazy?

Update on the State of Me

The state of me just started sucking that much more.  Due to the aforementioned condition of my trailer, I am now being threatened with eviction due to a non-existent sewage leak.  I have one week to fix the damage depicted in the pics in the previous post. (At least $3000 oto $5000 dollars worth).    If it is not fixed, we will be *asked to move our mobile home*.  Good luck to them,  getting blood out of a turnip and all.  If we are evicted, we have nowhere to go.  One week before school starts.  What a hell of a Monday. God, I hate the Trailer Park Gestapo.   My pessimism is showing.   They really don’t want me to drop the discrimination bomb. 

The Laws of Poverty

Today has been hot.  So was the day before that and the day before that.  I have been saying for most of the summer that it hasn’t been that bad this year.  Our highest electric bill (to cool 1280 sq feet) was $320.  Compared to the $497 bills from last year, when we had no air whatsoever, I can’t complain.   The predictions say 1oo degrees or better for the rest of the week here in the Kudzu Jungles of northern Mississippi.  In a trailer it’s like living in a toaster oven.  Window units don’t make a dent in this kind of global warning induced heat.    I covered every window in the house with aluminum foil yesterday.  It helped.  A little. Signals from the aliens can’t get thru anymore.  Housework is best saved for the evening hours. 

I found some pics that illustrate the dilapidated condition of my trailer.  Though it is embarassing to post them, I feel that I must.  Most of the damage depicted here is from water leaks that occurred under the floors.  Leaks we were unaware of until the pressed wood and the carpet soaked up the water like a sponge and started to expand, mold and then fall apart.  I’m amazed that no one has fallen through the floors.  I keep waiting to wake up one morning and find our furniture underneath the trailer.   

This is only a small portion of the damage that we are unable to fix.  Maybe when I start my job, we’ll be able to try again.  Knowledge is an issue as well as neither David nor myself are skilled in any kind of carpentry.   Unfortuantely, it always seems that we don’t have one or the other – time or money.  Damned if you do and damned if you don’t.  One of the primary laws of poverty. 

 Bear in mind also that our entire trailer park was built on what used to be a landfill.  In my mind, I’m thinking, this just isn’t good.  No residential establishment of any kind should be built atop what used to be a garbage dump.  Of course, I knew none of this when I moved in here.  I was just looking for a safe (it is safe compared to most places – I don’t have to lock my doors at night) place to raise my kids.  And it really doesn’t matter anyway because there is no where else in the entire county that I could afford to live.  It’s kind of like an aesthetically pleasing slum.

Our lot sits at the bottom of a very long hill.  Natural erosion is causing the blocks to shift out from under the back end of the trailer.  One good strong straight line wind would be all she wrote.  Our home has no structural integrity whatsoever.  you can actually feel it move back and forth in a heavy thunderstorm.  It scares the hell out of me.  I used to love storms.  Now they are just panic attack fodder. 

Calling all Baptists

This post is bound to offend.  It is not intended to offend but I am certain that it will.  Baptists tend to be very easy to offend, at least in this part of the country.  Saturday afternoon,  several members of a local Baptist church came by the trailer park.  It’s a BIG BOX Baptist church and I call it the Christian factory as rude and intolerant as that may sound.  Given some of their methods I can see it as nothing else.  The point of this post is to elaborate on what I perceive as an extreme attempt at increasing their congregation at the cost of dignity and respect for their own faith.  I am very interested in knowing if these are techniques are commonly used at other Baptist churches around the country. 

 This particular church frequents our trailer park.  They walk the blacktop dressed in their Sunday best and witness to all the poor, lost souls that they meet along the way.  On Saturday, they spoke to my son about faith and heaven and being *saved*.  My son,  being allgnostic and open to all religions, was willing to listen.  He listened and even agreed to possibly attend a service in the future.  During the course of the conversation,  the young Baptist asked my son if he would be willing to say a short prayer with him to ensure his entry into heaven.  My son being the polite, non-offensive young man that he is, complied and now is assured a place beyond the pearly gates.  All because he repeated a short prayer recited by this young man.  This is where I start to have a problem understanding.  This is also where I begin to wonder if this young Baptist has any real understanding of his own faith. 

According to what he told my son, just saying the words of this short prayer was evidence of salvation.  He did mention (as a bit of an afterthought) that my son should *mean what he said* in order for it to work.  My understanding of the Christian concept of salvation is that it is supposed to change your life from that moment.  You should in essence be reborn as a better person.  I have experienced my own pagan salvation and it did change my life and my entire way of thinking.  Prayer without good intent is no more than words.  *Repeat after me* is not enough. 

This church is known to use other strange means to cultivate attendance, particularly among younger generations.  They gave away a skateboard one summer.  Each kid filled out a card and a random name was drawn following Sunday morning services.  An expensive Zero pro-board.  My son rode the bus that Sunday and actually won the board.  He was ecstatic but it didn’t make him go back. 

 Yet another tactic the neighborhood kids told me about (all of my kids have attended services at this particular church - with my blessing – as I truly believe that they must make their own decisions without my input.  Our beliefs are as unique as our DNA and fingerprints) is even more extreme.  The youth director that rode the bus on Sundays told the kids that if they got enough people to fill up the bus, he would swallow a live goldfish.  They kids pulled it off and the director did as promised.  We refer to  it as *Jackass for Jesus*.   Yet another rude analogy but with this kind of behavior what else should it be called.  Money and mountains of candy have also been used as rewards for bringing more friends to Sunday services.  Once the money, the candy, the skateboards and the goldfish were no longer an option, many of the kids opted not to attend.

The most disturbing part of all, is that since most of these kids don’t have *Sunday best* (mostly due to financial issues) and since their parents choose not to attend, they are bussed to a church where they are ignored.  All the effort seems to be a numbers game of some kind.  Do churches get money from the state like schools?  Based on the number of people who attend? I’m asking because I don’t know, not to be sarcastic.  If so,  then I can see a possible ulterior motive.  If not, then what’s the point? Why lead a child to Christ only to ignore them when they get there.  I clearly remember the cliques and the social segregation I observed at the Methodist church I attended as a child. It contributed greatly to my decision not to go any more, a decision I made at the age of nine…on my own…with no influence from my mother and father.  The entire congregation washed their hands of us after that.  My mother and father were referred to as heathens for not forcing me to go.  We’ve been proud heathens ever since. 

 Maybe some gracious Baptist out there with more knowledge than I possess can explain exactly how this is supposed to work.  Bear in mind, that I’m not here to argue.  I am here to understand.  Baptists of the world, will you please help me out. 

*Good things* Petal Pusher

We need so much more of things like this.  This man is doing exactly what I’m talking about and doesn’t expect a thing in return.  Check him out.  This man and his grade school sweetheart, married 65 years are doing it right.   

Mecca and Medina: Another Hiroshima and Nagasaki?

Dear God, Allah, Jehovah, Shiva, Diana, Buddha, Mohammed, Gandhi, Mother Theresa and all the rest, does this  actually make any sense to any one?  Threatening to bomb the two holiest cities in the Muslim world in retaliation against a hypothetical terrorist attack???  Talk about putting your worst foot forward and then stuffing it into your mouth. The Republicans are really grasping for straws aren’t they?  Threatening to kill a whole slew of innocent people in regard to the actions of a few is a bit much. 

 Yet another reason to call us *ugly Americans*.   Fortunately,  not all of us are ugly.  War and violence pretty much suck no matter how you look at it.  There are no winners or victories where either is concerned.