Gifts: When and When Not to Give Them

I’m not really a “gift” kind of person. Maybe I’ve got some creativity sometimes, but I fall into the category of people who don’t necessarily put it into action. But today was a different sort of day…

While trying to paint a picture for my sister-in-law’s coming baby girl, I realized I just needed to see people. Sometimes when we try to “get something accomplished” being social is much more beneficial and healthy, I think. So, after a quaint market dinner with some girls, I go with one of them to do some Christmas shopping. Little did I know, I would be participating in some secretive, last minute shopping myself.

It all happened with the words some of us dread hearing: “So I have a little something I need to get for you that’s in my car.”
Crap, I think to myself, wondering if the pang of surprise is obvious all over my face. And I hate the fact that this girl is one of my closest friends that just so happens to be leaving before I have a chance to actually go purchase my intended gift for her…of course. So I do the next best thing to waiting to give it to her when she gets back—I run to Belk to “go to the bathroom." I really did have to,but then those creative juices that weren’t there for me during my painting lesson start flowing.

My plan unfolds gracefully as I happen to run into the jewelry department on my hustle to the ladies room. I make about two cirlce around the department until I'm dizzy and, still, unrelieved. The next thing I know, I’ve snagged a pair of funky gold earrings and find myself saying to the clerk, “Can I go next? I’m kind of hiding from someone.” I feel slightly like a criminal, and I'm not proud of it. She takes me to a register in the corner as I peer through the glass door for my friend’s dark hair. None in sight, so I ask for a box and head back to the parking lot wondering how I’m going to make my presentation.

After receiving my gift, the ever-so-lovely wrapped copy of a Cooking Light hard bound, I mutter, “So I’m not much of a wrapper.” Surely she won’t see the Belk writing on top of the box that I hand to her in the darkness of the car. I wonder briefly if I will every be a good mother or wife.

But her respone interupts my thoughts...there it goes, “I see what happened!” she says, shocked but somewhat laughing. “I wondered why going to the bathroom took so long.” I’m playing things off at this point as I eventually am honest with this dear friend and remind her I was going to give her present to her…just didn’t know she was leaving so early.

After making a few piercingly honest comments about my behavior,I am relieved as she opens it, releasing me from my shame by saying, “You are the funniest person I know…no on else would do anything like this, and that’s why I just love you.” She said it like I couldn’t have for myself. At that moment I realized, after assuring her I was, in fact, aware that we are “those friends that give Christmas gifts to,” that I will do many stupid things, but friends that can laugh and not curse at those things are the greatest. I guess I risked looking like a fool, but actually even though I proved to be one, it made a pretty hilarious memory.

I now see Christmas gifts in a whole new light: as I have received mercy, I now feel indebted to give it to others during this special season of giving… even though I can’t even tell if I am being sarcastic in saying this.

Blessings to all as you strive to be thoughtful, generous, and honest all at the same time this season.

Football is Over, Christmas is Here

So it seems households around the South will have fewer mood swings now that SEC football is over. I think it had to end before the Christmas season entered so that no fatherly Scrooges could be present on Saturday game days if "their" team lost. After all, "they" played so hard and have been through so much, so "they" deserve to win, right? Maybe I'm wrong, but I haven't seen any of "them" in pads...
The irony is I have watched more football this year than I have ever before, but I chose to be emotionally uninvolved and actually still enjoyed it.

Christmas is soon approaching and so are the songs on the radio, so I also choose to put one favorite Christmas song and one Christmas picture on my blog for the sheer enjoyment of having a little bit of a good thing before 96.5 drowns out everything else. I just see it that sometimes good things, like football and Christmas, are blown into images they weren't meant to fit, so this is one small effort to savor the simple.

On the left are two Christmas keepsakes I consider pure and simple: Celine Dion singing her heart out, and three 7th graders performing a mini-play (old Scrooge,his Christmas ghost, and young Scrooge). I chose Celine for the pure beauty of the song, and the picture for the ability of kids to bring to life an oftentimes boring play that made my day. It's amazing how a Beatles wig, a hockey mask, and a plastic baseball helmet, not to mention the midget pose, can produce a masterpiece performance.

Not posted here but dear to my heart is Amy Grant's "O Come All Ye Faithful," another pure joy in the midst over done things.

Awkward at It's Finest

One of many reasons life is wonderful is for the moments that keep it interesting: meeting new people in new places and having a conversation over pizza and a beverage is such an instance. These are times that happen unexpectedly with a little effort and a lot of fun. But there are also those moments that are interesting but not quite as comfortable: those moments you would like to see the expression on your face to remember how baffled you were. Tonight was one of those.

I believe that people who buy things at Barnes and Noble are normal; the most outrageous are those who sit and read there. I have proof.

So it's the night before Thanksgiving. I'm minding my own business reading Newsweek at 10 pm to get educated on Iraq and memory loss when I see a dark, disheveled figure approach me. He gives it the old,
"It's too loud over there. Do you mind?" Before I have a chance to say "heck yes," the 20 something character plops his books down and throws out the always trusty line,"You look like...a scientist." Yeah... "You know, like the girl on Jurassic Park?"

I haven't really blinked at this point, nor have I removed my hand from my clenched cheek. I have never been so good at being rude, or so I thought. I soon learn within seven gruelling minutes that this fellow is a security guard, working on a graphic novel, feels very "screwed up," although wants to be a psychology teacher, and has once healed a man via hypnosis. To the last comment (since I've remembered after committing to listen for the pure sake of entertainment)I reply,

"Well, that's nice. Maybe you should start charging people for that." I'm pretty sure that's the longest sentence I manage.

To say the least, I'm a bit uncomfortable, throwing equally uncomfortable glares back at him, which he never takes as the intended, "I hate this. Leave me alone." I basically act like I have no life in response to the "personal life" question and tell him of my plan to leave early in the morning for Thanksgiving. I soon learn there is such a thing as a Jewish Thanksgiving. And, since I enjoy learning,I mangage to say, "Well, I didn't know that." I ask under my breath, "I wonder who they give thanks to?" to open up the converstation to Christianity, but soon decide after a few invasive glances from him against it. Instead, I wish him luck on his novel as he stands guard by the hospital.

Instead of leaving, he asks the "so what are your passions" question, to which I reply, "I teach kids because we get to talk about life in the classroom." He doesn't seem to connect school to that and just has a puzzled look on his face. The one-way conversation lasts a few more minutes and I let him ramble, recording the said comments over and over in my mind for later reference.

I soon melt with relief when he gets the call for his toasted bagel. Lastly, since I'm apparently nice despite what I think, I leave the table while I can, catching his eye as I wave him off with my copy of The New Yorker. Afterwards are the moments when you tell the cashier you don't need a bag because it takes too long and you want out of that store. But, you also know you've just experienced a pretty hilarious situation and can't wait to tell someone about it.

The irony of it all is that I just read an article on memory loss and how we purposely memorize things we'll need later. I found myself doing that same things while I conversed with this very strange stranger. I do find it/him/the situation humorous, but also disheartening in ways I won't go into that involve how messed up some people get. But those people do end up becoming brilliant writers-the crazy ones always do. I would be lying if I didn't say I'm the slightest bit jealous. I would be lying if I did not say I'm glad to be at home on my couch, too.

The Where You Are's

Are the past six meals you've eaten out,
Are the cheap Mexican dinners that left you feeling good,
Are watching the far from classy realtiy shows with your roomate,
Are the cups of coffee waiting for conversation,
Are the trips where you spend more money than you should
but waste more time than you'll have in the future.
Are the best times when you realize they exist within
the in betweens.
Are the moments when you stop writing misunderstood poetry
and letting yourself be made fun of as you do.

The In-Betweens

It's 24 when everyone else is 25.
It's seeing an unused raquet meant for spring but it's winter.
It's reading about a girl with leukemia wondering if you'll experience it.
It's listening to that song and wanting to dance,but sitting on a day bed in pajamas.
It's seeing Christmas lights before Thanksgiving.
It's the photos with unshared stories and no place in an album.
It's a wool sweater when it's 65.
It's the dreamed up conversation when you get a look instead.
It's paying rent and always thinking it's temporary.
It's a sponge when the floor needs a Swiffer.
It's reorganizing when the computer waits for words.
It's writing this poem when you fight confessional journaling.
It's what we do when we're too busy, too careful, too unsure.
It's in-between: the young ones cry over it, the wise ones laugh
or just live.
It's not going to breakfast with a couple of 13-yr-olds and planning to just listen.
That's just being where you are and sometimes
That's enough.

Writing on the Spot

I'm supposed to be writing something funny. My friend who got me into blogging said so. But isn't it understood that girls usually aren't known as funny when they try? So, I ask all of you who read this blog (especially those that do but never comment-curses!) what do you find to be the absolute funniest things in your day. I don't mean when someone tells you a joke, but what do you find funny by the way you look at it? Sometimes it's just plain natural to laugh at everything in a day, but other times I literatlly have to think, "Ok, my goal is to make myself laugh every class period...if I can do that, I just might have a good day." How sad is that?

What do I find funny? (I offer this instead of trying to be so)
Random conincidence: I told my friend I wanted to learn about what's going on in the world.As always, I get what I ask for. Last night at Piggly Wiggly I made the all-time, cheesy, it's-near-closing time response to a stranger, "Is it me, or does all the produce just look bad today?" She responds, "Yes, it's because America has things shipped to us out of season...really forcing fruit out of season-a way different than God planned...you shouldn't have bananas and tomatoes in the fall-it should be in the summer. Oranges...now you have oranges in the winter." She slipped in there that she was from the Middle East but has been an American citizen for forty years. She had me there. She threw all kinds of figures about the war at me and noted how Iraqis and Americans both sterotype each other's countries.

I listen intently because I'm concerned about my fruit intake as well as political knowledge I may gain without reading a paper or watching the news. I knew why I was listening to her, but I kept asking myself, "Why does she want to tell me these things?" It boiled down to Americans not being aware of what's going on. My conscience burning, I found myself admitting to her that fall into that category. But I listened to her preach, so I think I'm forgiven (not to mention I found out today that imports from China have the most recalls-including re-used chopsticks). How's that for being aware?

So, I guess I am amused the most when I make an odd goal one day and see it happen in a strange way (such as with the lady at the Pig). It never fails. I can say I hope I learn more about education in inner city and I'll find a co-worker at lunch saying we've got a new project there or it will be the next thing on the list for service at community group. I may even be reading and those words be on the page of a book and then I hear them on TV; coincidence? I never know, and that's what's funny to me sometimes.

One more and I'm through. My roommate from college says I'm ridiculous sometimes but I'm pretty sure she means I'm funny (more of the random Chuck Norris jokes funny that are just odd). I once tried to explain to a Brazilian what trail mix was. Odd thing was, I mainly used hand motions and went into the origin of the idea behind trail mix (girl scout style) before getting down to the nuts and fruit of it. (I'm sure I'm doing the same with asking fellow bloggers what makes them laugh and explaining a mini life history of my own humor). She tried to affirm me after making fun of me by saying I obviously just want to communicate anything I can to people. To me it was normal: to her, unnecessary. But doesn't that make life more interesting? Probably not-I do realize it just makes it more awkward for some. But if we can't laugh at awkward, what can we laugh at?

I made a survey in attempts to be less serious. Fellow bloggers, your responses will suffice. Natalie, this post was for you. I'm sorry it wasn't shorter. I need help with that.

When the Pen Runs Dry

When writing is not there for me, God is. This thought is obviously backwards, but it came to me that way. Yesterday at an Alabama English teacher’s conference, my colleague volunteered my poem to be real aloud-not to a close-knit group but to around one hundred English teachers, including one very famous teacher and writer from California. The poem was the product of an exercise the speaker had us teachers do within five minutes: writing an imitation poem based on Coifer’s “Women Who Love Angels.” I reluctantly cleared my dry and timid throat and read in the lowest tone possible my poem, “Boys Who Love Work.”

That day I didn’t feel like a writer, although I was forced to be one. That day I actually was bothered by the fact that I couldn’t write what and when I wanted. So I put the pen down.

Nonetheless, I realized something the next morning in church, something quite a jump from the previous day’s events: I can “write” to God my broken phrases and His Spirit translates. Writing is a craft and a gift to many, but prayer is a miracle and a supernatural connection to the ultimate Connector, Weaver, and Author of life, the Lover of dark, complicated, never out of reach souls.

John 16: 23-24
“In that day you will not question Me about anything. Truly, truly I say to you, if you ask the Father for anything in My name, He will give it to you. Until now you have asked for nothing in My name; ask and you will receive, so that your joy may be made full.”

I have the most joy when I am able to help others be who God created them to be, as they realize their talents and regain confidence that their life matters. I gain the most blessing when others help enable me to realize and make steps toward who God created me to be. And, I am learning that part of God’s joy (who can tell how many levels of emotion or greatness this includes) is when I prove to be one of His. We feel so connected and close to others when they are “thinking about” us, praying for us; how much more loved are we by the human Son of God who prayed for us before his death? He wanted us to be “one” with each other. It seems from His words that when we pray to God, we are “abiding” with God as He does with His Father: being “one” with Him. Christ wants that for us on earth as well. He wants us to love each other better as we become bound up in seeking His Father in prayer. I only pray to understand what makes God pleased with me, as I act on this truth, as I do things that reveal who I live for. But, I rest in the fact that He is pleased with me through His Son’s work, which enables me to take hold of the life He called me to by the faith He provides.

Sure my faith is weak, my obedience lacking, and my love of my neighbor even absent at times. But He has knit my heart so that it is bound up in His, and slowly He draws me to see that I am captive to its will despite my wandering.

As a very “human” being, presently I am simply surprised that my heart is beginning to desire things that He commands: to love my neighbor and to strengthen the hands that are weak. But also present is the sense of inadequacy of my hands to do those very things. As a teacher, I am by title an enabler- it’s supposed to be within me to do it. I give that-that desire, tainted with doubt and questions, to my Father and ask Him to strengthen my hands first, sharpen my mind, and purify my heart. And in doing so, I am at rest below His throne and see how beautiful communion with Him is and will be…and hope that the weaker ones (some very confused but also gifted twelve-year-olds that I teach) can be helped.

My “pen” didn’t write these things into being; the God of the universe did, onto my heart. And, ironically, He does that sort of thing the day after some pretty humorous moments.

Self-Aware: To Be or Not To Be

"I have to say the words, describe what I'm seeing. . . but if I want to notice the lesser cataclysms of valley life, I have to maintain in my head a running description of the present. It's not that I'm observant; it's just that I talk too much. Otherwise, especially in a strange place, I'll never know what's happening. Like a blind man at the ball game, I need a radio."
-Annie Dillard, from Pilgrim at Tinker Creek

One of the ways I know I have to think, write, and reflect in order to survive is when I come across a quote like this and almost feel like the author stole a page from my own journal. Survival? Such a strong word to follow such an ordinary and what's often considered overly introspective pastime: journaling. But to some of us,(and I would like to know where the others are) it's like breathing.

This intuitive process can be selfish indeed, especially when the thinker/writer gets too comfortable in words and not so fond of the real and imperfect human race to which they belong.

Space cadet? Focused? Aware of one's actions? All ways of defining self-aware.
But what is the awareness really good for unless the owner is capable of experiencing reality (this means, at it's greatest point, being what one was created to be and loving others the way they should be loved) instead of nestling behind the crisp pages of a leather-bound notebook?

For me, it's like getting my bag ready for trip, and every day is like a new one with never enough planning to do. The fact is, I don't enjoy planning, but the process will always help me remember the trip better; I saw the map, I took the pictures, and had the long conversation that made all the monuments and long lines worth it all. I interacted with my world before it had a chance to pass me by and forget me...and I forget it.

Ironically, the happiest times in life are those days when we find ourselves lost in the day, the minutes flying by with the fun, and we are usually laughing. I only hope to have twenty minutes before be to record it all, so maybe, just maybe,I could repeat it all over again if I just remembered how it happened.

But I guess that is what heaven's for.

"Ah, but a man's reach should never exceed his grasp."
-Robert Browning

in response to others

I owe this my first blog experience to Natalie Smith, a fellow blogger and teacher who is more practical than I am. I teach English and love to think, ask questions, and ponder. Unfortunately, life happens fast these days so I'm learning to process quicker. Some people process life to live; others make the purchase, pay the bill, leave the conversation with ease. I linger over life in more ways than I'm proud of, so I seek to harness that and see it as a tool. I'm glad people are different, and I hope others rub off on me, and I them. So, to all you decision making, math understanding people, I give my thoughts for yours (this all inspired by Natalie Smith, a third grade teacher, and Eric Bartz, a math teacher.


Natalie, this is where I need your help. Here are my phrases that explain my hatred for making them:

Decisions

Too definite
Strategic starves flexibility
and
stifles creativity.
Processing for me equals
Feeling equals experience equals
Something real for me to remember.
or
Losing something
due to deciding
just not having anything
left to think
about.