Open Source Friendships

When I picture time with my friends, the visual usually has us sitting somewhere – probably on a front porch, given my love for the front porch (and weather permitting), sipping something, talking and laughing.

This trip has had its share of sitting, talking, sipping and laughing, but yesterday we had one of those ‘aren’t we ridiculous’ moments when we realized that each of us sat at the kitchen table with our noses in our respective lap tops, checking e-mail, FB, prepping to Skype, etc., etc., etc.

Alas, I am now forever banned (by a sense of fair play, if nothing else) from castigating my children and their generation for bringing all their equipment to the table instead of just talking to me.  My children have invaded and I are them.

Sigh.

But not too much.

For I find I’m actually okay with that.

They’re wonderful people, my children and their generation.  They care passionately – about each other, about their world.  They stay in touch – much better than I did or do.

In church yesterday we were challenged to shape our technology and its uses instead of letting it shape us.  I take Joy’s point and it’s an important one.

The junction of human and technology that I seek as I think on Joy’s words is the ‘and’ of things rather than the ‘but’.  I suppose that where I stand is actually at the corner of and & but – a place where my own usage of things technological is limited by the geography of where I live – the land of no cell towers.  So I hook up to my world with the lap top but do not own a cell phone and I can Skype friends across the globe but when the electricity goes out, I can’t fix a meal and . . . but . . . and . . .

Relationships and ways of relating to the world are changed as we source (whether open* or otherwise) and resource the world and our place in it.  As with many things, I suppose that’s both good and bad – depends on what we do with it, eh?

So yes, lots of folks I know are reading the latest idiocy online and calling it truth.  And so are they reading and consuming wisely and coming away far better informed than I could ever hope to be.  But many post nothing  more interesting or important than the latest cat video (what’s up with the passion for cat videos, anyhow?).  And they too find meaning and community and connection.  But it’s so shallow.  And deep.

Turns out we both shape and are shaped by all that we encounter in this world.

And so again today, I will probably sit beside a friend at the kitchen table and e-mail her a link to the latest funny cat video and we will remember it as part of our time together and smile.

________________________
*Open source – I take my definition not from the many online resources available to me, but from son Ben (forgive me, Ben, if I get it wrong – it’s the best your old ma could do): Open sourcing, the sharing of knowledge, skill, talent or information online, is a good thing.  It’s the opposite of the idea of intellectual property.  Think of it this way: Shakespeare’s work – all of it – is derivative – that is to say, Shakespeare took his ideas from other ideas already out there – and made them uniquely his own.  Had there been the intellectual property laws in his time that we have in ours, there would have been no Romeo & Juliet, no Henry IV, no ado about no thing.  Walt Disney, the man and the company, took another man’s work (Steamboat Willy) and created Mickey Mouse and then lobbied for extensions of intellectual property protections to keep the very character they had ‘borrowed’ all to themselves.  It’s not only ironic, it stultifies the very creativity it seeks to protect.

Step-Parents' Day

There is no such thing as step-parents’ day.  Maybe there should be.  So today in honor of the day that isn’t, I give honor to a woman who isn’t . . .  (technically) a step-parent at all.

Sisters Beth & Bev with Seth, Anna & Ben

Bev Habeb is my son Ben’s step-mom.  That’s their story, and they’re sticking to it.

Their relationship gave birth back in the late 1980's, when I married Bev’s ex-husband Bob and became step-mom to two great kids, Seth and Anna.

Ben was thrilled to have a new brother and sister, but in the days before the wedding, he was trying to clarify how this would all work:

So, you’ll be Seth and Anna’s step-mom, right?

Yes.

So that means Bev’ll be my step-mom too, right?

W - e - e - e - l - l - l . . . not exactly, said I.

But that’s not fair!  I want Bev to be my step-mom!

And so I called Bev and ‘proposed’ on Ben’s behalf – would she be Ben’s step-mom?  And she replied, “Of course.”

And ever since, she has been, being there for Ben when I could not or would not do and in ways too myriad to count.

To Bev, my sister in experience as well as faith: thank you for loving and taking care of our boy.

Too Blessed

I have been too stressed to be blessed.

Oops

It’s supposed to be ‘I am too blessed to be stressed.”

Supposed to be.

But I forgot.

Then someone brought me some lettuce from another friend’s garden – sharing her largesse.

And another friend lent a listening ear.

And other friends brought me gifts of red meat – kinds I love from Whole Foods – some days you just need gifts of red meat and this was one of them.

And then another friend, my own personal pastor, reminded me of important truths and loved me.

Others sent e-mails and phone calls and prayers of love.

Son Ben said the words a mother loves to hear: when I asked him what I needed to do, to bring, to a family gathering, he answered, “Nothing but yourself.”

And I went to a revival tonight where personal testimonies were given by lay people who opened themselves and shared their stories of pain and joy, faith fulfilled and prayers answered in ways big and small.

We were all invited to see the connections – to remember the movement of God in our own lives.  While friend Alex was speaking, I opened the song book to I Surrender All.  The worship leader wasn’t taking requests, but I really needed that song.  And the last song he called out as we were leaving was I Surrender All.

I rode over and back with Peggy and Baptist and Presbyterian giggled in the night like old friends.

Then I got home and found a message of encouragement from Mickie, a former congregant now living in Louisiana.

I have received many kindnesses today.

And I am grateful, Lord.

I am seeing the connections tonight, God.

And I thank you for them.

I am revived.

And I bless you for that.

The Day I Became My Mother

I remember the day I became my mother.

It was in 1981.  I was 26 years old.

MTV had just come into being and I was watching this new phenomena of music videos alone in my living room.

Devo came on with the song Whip It.

I watched the entire video with increasing dismay.

When I could stand it no longer, I stood up and in high dudgeon, announced only to myself, “I cannot listen to someone singing while wearing clay flower pots on their heads!”

Immediately, I gasped and covered my mouth with my hand.

And then, still to myself, I proclaimed, “Dear God, I am my mother!”

Now I’m sure a music afficionado such as my son Ben would haste to reassure that Whip It is not about sado-masochism, as the whipping of the clothes off of a woman in the video suggests, but is actually about something else entirely: something perhaps political, as band members have suggested.

But here’s the thing: I really am my mother.  And I don’t like it.  And I don’t much care what its parodying or satirizing.  Nor do I care whether anyone else takes my opinion on the matter seriously.

I’m 56 now; and knowing that I am my mother is comforting rather than shocking.

A lot can change in 30 years. . . including a girl’s valuation of her mother.

I am my mother.

And that’s a good thing.

Oh, and I still think the clay (plastic, really) flower pots were silly.

And fyi, my mother is the one who turned me on to Cyndi Lauper, right about the time Devo was creeping me out.

Thanks, Mom.

What I saw today . . .

Mr. Rabbit scurrying out from his hiding place 

within the wisteria cave – Rowen long ago 

claimed the cave within as his own, 

but like any soon-to-be 5 year-old,

surely he would welcome this intruder

Sister Squirrel full-bore runs

straight up the maple tree

she calls home – the one shading the picnic 

table with the firepit sitting abandoned 

by the pretend soldiers in civil war garb

who sat round her for warmth just weeks ago,

now cold under the table

A lone deer jogs casually across

the gravel road before me

with no look back

A raccoon runs – ambles, really – 

all roly-poly

first alongside the car

then moving in front –

not so much darting 

as deciding – deciding

that he could make it –

deciding that I would not

kill him with my behemoth 

of steel – not today

Best of all, 

a school bus of finches*

arises as one

from the evening sun-washed

yellow of the wheat field

_____________________
*A schoolbus of finches borrows from an observation by son Ben Cumberledge, that the color of goldfinches would have them better named as school-bus-yellow finches.  An Idyllic Life  Describing them as a ‘schoolbus of finches’ is in keeping with the whimsical tradition of naming clusters or groups of animals and birds based on some presupposed anthropomorphic attribute, such as a murder of crows.  Fun with Words

Raising My Arms in Praise

Praise has many postures.  My favorite is arms upraised.  It makes me feel like I’m a little girl again, lifting my arms that I might be lifted, imagining that it is God, bending over to pick me up and cradle me in the embrace of love.

Ben in his Grandpa's arms

My arms upraised remind me of safety and of being small – just the right size in relation to God.

Hands in the air call to mind Uncle Bob, the tallest man I knew in our family of short fellows, hauling me up on his shoulders where I could see everything.  Upraised arms remind me of being tall – just the right size with God.

Arms upraised remind me of lifting my own son up, up, up, ever higher, his laughter a visible expression of joy – just the right emotion when meeting God.

Arms held up through his tears as he cries his sickness and yearns for comfort, my grandson sleeping the fitful rest of the sick child with breaths measured by the rhythm of his father’s chest – just the right spot when needing God.

Hard Good-Byes

I’m big on good-byes.  I really don’t know why, because they’re so hard; but I have always felt that good-byes, literal, in-person partings, matter.  I'm the Mom who stands waving until you're out of sight, even to the point of running from the back door to the front to see you up the highway with a smile on my face and tears in my eyes -- Shakespeare knew what he was talking about -- it really is sweet sorrow.

I’ve experienced comical partings, as when I said good-bye to a summer co-worker and friend, Molly, at the train station.  Molly is young enough to be my daughter.  Even though we had only known each other for a short time, as the train pulled out, I broke down sobbing.  A sympathetic man asked, “Your daughter?”  Still sobbing, all I could manage was a choked “No!”  I’ve always worried about that poor man who must have thought all sorts of horrible thoughts, having no idea that I’m just a big cry baby when it comes to good-byes.

And like all of us, I’ve experienced the heart-breaking good-byes: saying farewell to friends and family as they were dying.  Being there, being able to have the recognition observed between us that this really is a good-bye mattered; hard as it was, I always knew I was where I should be.

But perhaps the hardest good-bye of all wasn’t my own, but one I witnessed.

I didn’t know it would be, but it was the last time I saw my Grandma Mary.  I had taken my son Ben to see her at the nursing home where she was an unwilling resident.

We said our good-byes at the front door where Grandma had walked with us.  I had taken a few steps towards the front door, where the sun was streaming through the glass.  Then I turned back.

Grandma was holding onto Ben, her arms around his waist, clinging to him as if she were clinging to life itself.  Under the protection of his embrace, she was so small.

Ben’s face was full of sadness; Grandma’s, determination: if she just held on to him tight enough, he would carry her out of there and away from her broken body.  All her strength of will, always considerable, was locked in that hug.

And just for a moment, the two of them were melded together – one.

I have often thought that walking away from her was one of the hardest things Ben ever did.

All good-byes are hard, some more so than others.   And some catch us unawares.

But somehow, they all matter.

Sitting Pretty

The turkey vulture or as it’s known where I live, the turkey buzzard is anything but beautiful . . . it’s red-skinned featherless head and hunched appearance, its ungainliness when not flying, not to mention what it’s actually eating off the asphalt, tend to make me recoil on sight from these critters.

My son Ben and grandson Rowen, however, have developed quite an affinity for the turkey buzzard and Ben even managed to find a children’s book celebrating the bird’s contribution to creation (yes, all creation needs its garbage collectors, I grant you, but that doesn’t make them beautiful).

Yesterday, I saw these birds in a different light.

There’s a large water tower adjacent to the house of my friends where I’ve been staying.  Yesterday was the day of Stu’s funeral and before we were to leave, I was standing outside basking in the warmth of the sunlight on an otherwise cold winter’s day.  Looking towards the water tower, I noticed at first one and then another and then another of the buzzards alight on the rail surrounding the tower, with their wings outspread.

It was an oddly-compelling sight and for the life of me, I could not figure out what they were doing in this seeming defiance of gravity and balance.  They actually held position as long as I watched and presumably beyond.  I found myself going into the house only to come back out and see if they were still at it: they were.

After asking the folks gathered with no success, I, of course, went to the internet.  While there may be alternative explanations, the consensus seems to be that this is the flight enhancing interactive design plan of an I. M. Pei:

In the morning, Turkey Vultures are often seen standing on tree limbs with their wings outstretched to the sun.  They are a very lightweight bird with long hollow bones filled with air.  As the sunshine warms them, the air in their wing bones expands, warming them up and making it easier to fly.  Cathartes aura, the Latin name for Turkey Vultures, translates as Golden Purifier or Cleansing Breeze.  American Indians called these birds the “Peace Eagles” and regarded them as a symbol of strength in accepting difficulty. Turkey Vulture

And now, as I contemplate the uplifted wings of the turkey buzzard, I am reminded of the meaning of its Latin name: cleansing breeze . . . eating carrion may be the work of the garbage collector of the bird world, but the cleansing breeze of their work is indeed an occasion for wing-lifting, bold posture thanksgiving.

Fly well, Peace Eagles, fly well.

Looking Back

My Top 10 international stories of 2011  (not necessarily in any order of importance)

1. Osama bin Laden - dead.  US college students party in the streets like it’s 1999 and I am embarrassed by and for us as a nation.
2. Arab Spring
3. Purported end to US occupation of Iraq.  Irony: those in the US who supported its war against the people of Iraq (claiming it was to depose tyrant Saddam Hussein), opposed the Arab Spring, out of so-called concern about what would fill the vacuum created by the loss of dictatorial leadership in places like Egypt - apparently, that was not a concern when it came to Iraq.
4. Occupy Wall Street
5. Tsunami in Japan with the attendant nuclear power disaster, the long-term effects of which remain unknown.  Related story: failure of governments of the world to reach agreement on further climate-change strategies.
6. US proving that any boy  really can grow up to be president, as many in the very party she personifies will not support Michele Bachmann because she is a woman – irony may not be news, but it sure is interesting.
7. The US wages yet another undeclared war in the Middle East in the deposing of Gaddafi of Libya and calling it a NATO action (as if NATO is something different than the US).
8. World-wide economic tail spin
9. Death of Kim Jong Il, the effects of which for North Korea, its neighbors and the world, remain unknown

10. Oh, and apparently, the most interesting thing for the world to check out online was making a 13-year-old girl’s attempt at fame (Rebecca Black sings Friday) an international joke.

My Top 10 Personal Stories of 2011
1. My son got a job and moved away from home . . . again . . . and I must admit how much I miss him.
2. The lights were on at Obaugh’s way too often this year. . . Obaugh’s is the local funeral home in the community where I live and when someone dies, owner G. W. turns on the front porch light.  In this tiny place, we said far too many good-byes, including from our own church and the families in our church . . . Bobby McCray, Sonny Smith, Ruth Wade, Eugene Hodge, Levi Armstrong and Joey Roberts.  Levi and Joey were young, killed within weeks of each other in car accidents.
3. Chris & Heather Scott and their girls Ruth and Esther moved away, leaving me with one less ministerial playmate . . . I still feel their absence.
4. I stayed close to home most of this year but did manage to visit friends in Chicago and have friends visit me from Scotland and Pennsylvania.  Oh, and I went on my first and maybe my last cruise (I didn’t get seasick, but that was just way too much ocean for me)
5. I got a new car, well, new to me, anyway . . . and a new computer.
6. Inspired by RevGalBlogPals and my good friend Liz Crumlish I started to blog.  And technology came to our church by way of Podcasts (temporarily suspended while we get a new web site up and running) . . . we’re on FB now, and I’m a guest blogger on the Thoughtful Christian’s blog Gathering Voices (shout out to David Maxwell for thinking I’ve got something to say)
7. At age 56, I began cello lessons and am even learning to read music for the first time!
8. There was an earthquake in Virginia and Ben and I felt the shocks
9. I saw an abundance of butterflies, squirrels and deer, insects and bunny rabbits.
10. I went to my first film festival

History may be writ large, but it is lived small . . . in the everyday-ness of our existence, we find our meaning, purpose and place in the world.

This year mine has been less about the larger world and its events and more about home and family and friends.

In the small as well as the large, so many have suffered so much and my heart aches for them all.

But as for me, it has been, by and large, a very good year.  For that, I am thankful.

And I am wondering . . . what have been your Top 10's for 2011?

They Don’t Know You Like I Do, Ma

I will never be cool enough to go viral . . . shoot, I’ll never be cool enough to be cool in my kids’ eyes . . . well, maybe in my step-kids’ eyes, but they never had the ‘luxury’ of actually living with me, so I’m not sure that counts.

Some years ago, while attending seminary as a second-career student, some fellow seminarians actually younger than my own kids, opined that I just might be the coolest old person they knew.  I was very flattered and rushed to call son Ben and tell him.  Without missing a beat, his reply came over the line at the light-speed of the sharp-witted: They don’t know you like I do, Ma.  

We both still laugh about that one. . . so funny because it is so very true.

I love Jesus and I love my family and friends and I love my church and I love my life and am generally a very content woman . . . but every now and again, like when watching the Blackberry Night Bikes commercial (this is not an endorsement, but I love, love, love those bikes), I wish I were that cool . . . or at least cooler than I am . . . cool enough to have my 15 seconds (used to be minutes, but things move a lot faster now than they used to) of fame for something totally silly . . . totally unimportant to world peace . . . and totally me . . .

Alas, it is not to be . . . I am a great audience for other people’s creativity . . . but there are no Guinness Book of World Records records for the cool of appreciation . . .

Underpants? For Me????

I am so excited to share this particular Christmas with my grandson Rowen.  He is now 4, the perfect age to grasp the wonder and awe and majesty, to rejoice in the anticipation as much as the event, to relish each surprise as it comes his way.  To see Christmas again through such eyes is a delight and I can hardly wait.

In my family, and I suspect in yours, when it comes to Christmas gifts, some are absolutely inspired and will be remembered for a life time, but most are pretty pedestrian, the giver more appreciated than the gift.

And as soon as November rolls around in my family, we stop buying things for ourselves or others unless they’re to be saved for Christmas.  Need a new pair of socks?  Wait for Christmas and maybe Grandma will get you some.  Getting low on dental floss?  There’ll probably be some in your stocking.  And if you’re lucky, there’ll be a can of your favorite black olives all wrapped up under the tree for you.

We wrap everything and call it a gift – I love that about us, even if it does make for some pretty funny gifts (use your own imagination, but think on the advantages of Polident once you’ve reached a certain age).

But my absolute favorite gift moment has to be my son Ben, exclaiming as he opened one such family gift from me, “Underpants?  For me????”

Like Rowen, Ben was still a small boy and there was no irony in his voice.  He was genuinely thrilled to be receiving a gift of white jockey underpants.  Every single gift he opened was a new and wonderful surprise and he received them all, even the underpants, with equal joy.

I love that about him.  I loved it then and I love it still.  This son of mine always finds joy in receiving.  He doesn’t measure and find wanting.  When it comes to gifts, he sees the glass not as half full, but as overflowing.

And isn’t that so very true?

The gifts we receive are gift and giver, all rolled into one . . . what rapture, what joy, that you would think on me . . . that you would give me this . . . from you . . . oh, how lucky, how blessed am I!

Gifting is holy ground and all who stand upon it are blessed.

I don’t know whether Rowen will have his father’s unabashed excitement and gratitude at receiving gifts or not.  I hope so.  I hope I hear from him this Christmas, “Underpants?  For me????” because he is surely going to receive some.

Merry Christmas, Ben.  Be watching for those underpants.

Love, Mom

The Simplicity of Truth

My family loves to play games – cards, board games, drawing games, you name it, we’ve played it.

For a time, a favorite was Balderdash, where you lie (bluff) word meanings, trying to convince competitors that your hoax definition is really the genuine article.

My son Ben was a teenager when we spent hours and hours working our way through the Balderdash card box, continually amazed at how many words there are that we’d never heard of.

And much to Ben’s chagrin, I could almost always tell when a definition was one of his creations: he’d take a word like verdigris (actual definition: the green stuff on copper) and come up with something like the true and genuine meaning of fictitious grist for the mill, usually seen in the pulp novellas of the 19th century in England and generally read by poor women of the day. . .

The less Ben knew, the longer and more convoluted his definitions became.  Even when I told him, less is better, he just couldn’t help himself. . . his manufactured truth just had to be a thing of complexity.

And so it is in life: truth is a fairly simple thing; deception, by its very nature and in its effort to obscure and disguise the truth, is a thing of nonsensical complexity.

Some years ago an independent candidate for president had a running mate who, during the debates, was asked the usual questions, but he gave simple, direct answers.  I still remember the shock and surprise of the moderator: this man was not acting according to the script.  Don’t you want to say more?  he was asked.  No, was his simple, truthful answer.

It’s a pretty good template for judging truth: the more words, the less truth.

Too many deaths

        My son Ben received his Masters in Library Science on Sunday.  I am, needless to say, a proud Mom.

        Amidst all the buzz, there's a moment . . . he's standing in the doorway, posing for a picture.  Grandmother is outside, taking the shot.  I stand behind him, off to the side, watching this young man I know so well and not at all.  And I realize what I've always known . . . there will be a time when he will live and I will not . . . when I will not be in the snapshot.  And that is as it should be.  And that moment began today.

        Later, Ben is walking ahead, Mom is behind and I'm in the middle, bridging the generations, wanting to hurry ahead with the younger but waiting instead for the older, knowing that Benjamin slows down for me as I slow down for Mom,.  Never quite matching each other's steps, we walk single file along the sidewalk, one before the other - how is it that the one who came after walks before?

        A mother's son died today.  Joy's boy, a man, reallly, 61 years old is definitely a man, but still her boy -- a heart attack, it seems.  There has been much too much dying in our little town lately.  But as long as there is living, there is dying, old life making way for new.  And somewhere, a baby was born as a man took his last breath.  I don't know if there's hope in that, but somehow, there is comfort.