Etc.

It's Sunday evening. Sitting on the couch with my wife. She is laying down and falling in and out of sleep. The Ravens and Steelers are playing. The Steelers are wearing these horrible looking bumble-bee uniforms. I guess they are throw backs, but I think they are throw ups.

We got back from "down home" around two hours. Heather and I visited my Aunt Rose before we left home. Aunt Rose is my last living sibling and his only sister. She is in the hospital now due to a bout of pneumonia. She did not look well. Over a year ago Rosie (what we really call her) went into the nursing home and has never left except to go to the hospital, occasional doctor appointments and my wedding. She had started falling at home. It got to the point where she would fall down and just stay on the floor and sleep. Dad would often find her still on the floor the next day. We thought it was a side effect of some medication. It turns out it was part of a bigger issue. She was having some major memory issues, I guess. And apparently she had just developed a lack of interest in many things.

Since she was falling so much, we thought we should put her in the nursing home. To keep her safe. To provide better monitoring. We were really concerned she was going to have a disastrous fall.  We had no plan for this to be a permanent thing.

And now here we are, over a year later and she's still in the nursing home. Her decline seemed to happen so rapidly. She was talkative, lucid and seemed somewhat responsive to physical therapy at first, but after a week, she couldn't walk and she was unable to maintain a good conversation with anyone. I want to say more about Rosie, but it's later and I'm getting tired. And to be honest, this is not an easy thing to blog about.

After this entry, I have only two more days of daily blog entries. I can't believe I've really kept this up. Forty days. Wow.

Thanks for reading.

Rest

Nice sleep last night. Had hot coffee, cereal and a nice visit with family this morning. Heather and I went to visit my Aunt Rose in the hospital. She has pneumonia. A nice short visit. I hope I can talk more about her later. Now we are getting ready for an early Thanksgiving meal with family and later a birthday celebration for me. Maybe more later but doubtful.

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Permanent Place of Residence

So I'm home home. This is what I now call my parent's. It's strange for me to not just call it home, though. Sometimes I call it "down home," as in I'm going down home to visit the family. It's a strange thing when your parent's home is no longer really your home. My home is now really wherever my wife and I live. And right now we live in the suburb just barely north of Chicago called Skokie.

I love the name, Skokie. I love that we have an El line called the Skokie Swift. It click clacks and whistles through Skokie, and when I hear it from my home I think it sounds like the trolley in Mister Roger's Neighborhood. I love that we have nice backyards in which we can lean over the fence and talk to our neighbors.

I'm home home this weekend after not being here for a few months. I miss it down here. Even though my parents no longer live in the house I grew up in, this still feels like it was my home. I guess that's what homey means. It must be the feeling all Bed and Breakfast's hope to achieve.

My parent's newer home feels like a home for a part of my life, though. That weird stage of life that's more common today called being an adult child. Sure, we're always our parents children, but if you are single up into your late 20s or mid-30s or beyond you enter a different stage. You have a home, but sometimes it is hard to have call it your permanent place of residence. it was hard for me to ever make my current residence my main address on forms. What if i move into a new apartment? What if I finally buy a home? And usually my emergency contact was my mom or dad.

And now I really have a home with my wife. I fill out forms now with that address as my main address. My wife is my emergency contact.

And look forward to going there the way I used to look forward to going home to my parent's. Don't get me wrong, I still love visiting my parent's home, but it feels more like visiting now. Visiting a place where we are always welcome.

And now that Heather and I have a place, I look forward to creating that space in our home for friends and family. It's hard sometimes because we covet our time together. We love hanging out just the two of us. But we also know we were blessed with a home that can and should be a blessing to others.

Well the coyotes are out tonight yelping and crying. Gonna go listen. Down home.

 

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I Told You So

Marcia Gay Harden as Mrs. Carmody in "The Mist," directed by Frank Darabont. 2007

Just finished reading Stephen King's novella, The Mist. It's a part of a larger collection of short stories called The Skeleton Crew. He definitely owns the horror genre, but I think a lot of that is because fills his stories and novels with real people. Beautiful, sweet, innocent, mean, boring and ugly. All kinds. And in The Mist there is an ugly character. Not necessarily physically ugly, but spiritually, emotionally and intellectually. Just ugly. Here name is Mrs. Carmody (see image above). Or Mother Carmody. She lives in this small town in Maine where The Mist takes place, and is known as the local religious, superstitious, nutty woman who runs a store of festooned with cobwebs, taxidermy and antiques. She always has voodo-esque cures for things. And she also sees demons and angels in doorknobs and broomsticks.

She's also quite charismatic. And despite her lunacy, her charisma is magnetic and pulls people to her, and some even follow her. When the mysterious and dangerous Mist rolls into town, it strands several people in the local grocery store. The main character, David, and his son, Billy, are two of those trapped people. And when things get really bad, Mrs. Carmody, also trapped in the store, feeds off the fear. She starts to chant, scream and accuse the others of bringing this abomination in on themselves. She says there is nothing but death lurking out the doors of the grocery store. And well, she is not really too far from the truth, but her solution? At its most annoying, it is to wail, scream, cry and at its worst, it involves offers an unwilling blood sacrifice to the malevolent Mist.

She reminds me a of one of Flannery O'Connor's grotesque characters. She is so insistent upon her rightness. And she is so insistent that you almost get this feeling she wants her doubters and detractors to die. She wants to gloat. She wants to say, "I told you so."

After this recent election, I have seen a lot of vitriol on Facebook, heard it in real life and have seen it reported in the news. CEOs are threatening to lay off people due to Obamacare. States are petitioning to secede from the Union. I can't believe I just typed that last sentence. A lot of people are screaming and cursing about the end of the world (again). They say, Obama will bring our country to its proverbial knees. Destroy our economy. Dismantle our military. And by the time we reach 2016, our barely two hundred year old country will be on the brink of utter ruin. The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire on speed, I guess.

And when these prophets and prophetesses of doom and gloom hear about CEOs laying people off or states wanting to secede from the Union there seems to be this collective impish squeal of delight. A self-righteous smugness about the decision they made. They cup their hands over their mouths in anticipation of that moment, even if it takes four years, to say, "I told you so."

But I wonder, have they thought about how this same disaster will effect people? The people possibly laid off from their jobs and lose their source of income and health care. The people who may lose their homes. The lives lost if, as they say, Obama dismantles our military and we are attacked again. The loss of life. The wrecked lives. And after all that, when we finally reach 2016, will these same people be waiting to say to someone out there who wants to hear, "I told you so"?

It's like the man on the street corner wearing two-sided sign and ringing bell yelling "The End is Near." Yet around him people go to work, take care of their families, and possibly even try to fix this broken world. But he can't hear anything over the ringing bell.

I don't think any of these people would ever admit they want to say "I told you so." No. In fact, overall I'm pretty sure they are good people. Except when they open their mouths. Or share their feelings on Facebook. Or write a two page jeremiad against the recently elected leader and the fresh hell that awaits all of us.

And frankly, I don't have a problem with people thinking that things are significantly worse in our country. And that we need to do better. Things are not great at all. But do I think a newly elected leader will make changes within the first week much less four years that will heal our nation and world? Do I sincerely believe this so much that I think if the other person is elected that I am willing to fight about it?  Would I be willing to preach the coming gloom and doom over the next term to my friends and families? Am I willing to lose friends and families over this matter? Am I willing to die for this belief in a political system and its rightness?

For me, the answer is a resounding: No.

I mean, really, what the hell are we talking about here: faith or politics? Lately, I think I have seen and heard more Christians evangelize about their politics than they ever did about their faith. And I was taught it was taboo to discuss religion, politics and sex among strangers.

Our nation is incredibly polarized right now. I don't think that's unfair to say. It is true we are mainly divided along our political views.  And in a strange way, that's fine. That's the beauty of this country. But I consider myself a part of a body as well. A body of Christ. It's made up of a lot of imperfect people. Beautiful, sweet, innocent, mean, boring and ugly. Lately it seems I've seen a lot of ugly, and I've seen it in myself. I've responded to harshly to people at times because of their "extreme" views. I spend time arguing over things that really don't matter. I've endangered friendships over what I perceive as extremism in others. In fact this blog post is in some ways a tirade against some extremism I've witnessed. Maybe I need to repent for this whole post.

I do believe in righteous indignation, though. Christ chastised the pharisees over their hypocrisy. He was bothered by how the poor, sick and widows were treated by the current religious community. He was deeply upset by the lack of faith by those who called themselves pious and devout.

Honestly, we don't need to sacrifice our unity on any alter in order to serve God and others. Christ's sacrifice has united us as one body. If the next four years are as you have predicted, please don't spend your time waiting with pursed lips to say, "I told you so."

And please feel free to keep your political opinions. No matter how extreme or moderate you think you are or aren't, you will always have a political opinion.

I'm pretty sure G.K. Chesterton understood how divisive political opinions can be. I think it's probably what inspired this quote:

The Bible tells us to love our neighbors, and also to love our enemies; probably because they are generally the same people.

Joy Comes with Mourning: Hope Floats Cont'd

I have been mulling over my post from last night. Actually, I started thinking more and more about it while I was in the shower this morning. I realized that since that day (yesterday) is done, I don't want to go back add anything to the post. I don't mind correcting mistakes or removing some small bits of information, but I think what I wanted to do required a new post. In fact, my last sentence, "Joy comes with the morning" is really what triggered my desire to follow up. 

Joy does not always seem like it comes with the morning. Or at least in my experience. And it's not the joy I saw illustrated on Sunday School felt boards. Back then joy always looked like some ancient middle-east man or woman dancing with a tambourine in a long gown. If that's joy, I'm pretty sure I didn't act that way all the time. Fortunately, I don't really think that's joy. Maybe  we should work harder at redefining what joy looks like. 

Then there is sadness. 

There was a time when I was going through serious depression, and I hated morning even more than I normally do. It reminded me that I had a whole day to endure. As some of you who have had depression know, getting out of bed is a herculean feat much less doing anything else. 

And when you are grieving the loss of someone, the morning seems to serve up Polaroid instant images in your face of this loss. There are a few seconds of amnesia, and you forget the loss, and then all of a sudden it floods back in. And it feels like it will suffocate you.

While I think the Psalms might have been speaking figuratively of joy arriving in the morning, it implies that joy does eventually arrive. And I do believe that. However, I should clarify that statement.

Happy and sad events in our lives do not equal each other out. You don't get a bout of sad events followed by a super jolt of happy events. This may have happened to some people, and I'm sure it's happened to me, but it never really feels like that. It's not an accurate way of looking at these natural reactions.

No, I think sometimes sad events happen one after another until a flotation device still won't keep you from being eaten alive by sharks. 

But I think this illustrates a distinction between sad and joyful events and a deeper sense of joy and sadness that follows us daily. There can be a life event that triggers a joyful response. And this response usually looks like happiness. I don't really consider happiness and joy on the same level, though. Happiness is fleeting. Joy lasts forever. 

Unless of course you have no joy. And then you are acquainted with despair. And that makes me sad. 

I prefer to call this type of sadness melancholy. It's a sadness for the darkness and despair within our world. It's a sadness for poverty, injustice, sickness and death. I feel intense sadness when I think of the many homicides here in Chicago. I also experienced quite a bit of sadness when reading about the event in Rwanda back in the 1990s. 

I don't think of sadness as really the antithesis of joy. Actually, I think that's more appropriately called despair. Despair is a monster. It's an abyss. Depression forces you to look into despair, and if you don't get help, I believe you can plunge into despair. 

I think most of the Psalms illustrate this balance between joy and sadness. In the beginning of a Psalm, David will usually begin praising God, then he may move into wailing about his enemies, but usually at the end he comes back around to praising God again. Some have said he might have been bi-polar. I don't know about that, but I do believe that Psalms show us that joy and sadness are not completely separate experiences. 

I have joy. I also have sadness. They both reside in my heart. That sounds a bit like a Sunday School song, doesn't it? Anyway.

The joy I experience seems to be more like the older term, mirth. I love that word, mirth. I also love the word melancholy. I believe God has blessed me with a sufficient amount of mirth and melancholy in all events in my life. This doesn't mean I don't get sad or even depressed, but during those dark times I still sense mirth. It's like a warm ember deep within my body and soul. It's like when you hold your breath and feel your heart beating. You can't always feel your heart beating, but if you get quiet and still yourself, you can feel it, sometimes even hear it.

My joy comes from God. Despite my failings, hypocrisy and utter selfishness, my relationship to Christ is my only reliable source of mirth through all things. Yes, I have the love and happiness from my marriage to my wife and family. My friends. My church group. But honestly, all of these people could disappear one day. I hope that day never comes, but it will be a true test of my joy in Christ. 

Yet in some ways, we have all started to lose those sources of happiness. We lose loved ones. We lose our health. We lose our jobs. We lose our sense of innocence. These are sad and tragic events. And at those times, that ember of hope may seem snuffed out. It may hard to feel its warmth. I know it's there. It's a knowing that is hard to explain. To some it sounds like cyclical logic. I will say, it's never really made much sense to me, but it's always seemed right. 

I really wanted to have a follow up to my original post because I felt like something was missing. I felt like my sincerity may have been lacking in parts. I am nothing if I'm not authentic about who I am and my struggles. I fear I may come off as knowing it all in this post. I don't. I really don't. This is me working things out. 

And I want to be clear that if it seems as if I am proselytizing, it's because I am just sharing who I am. My faith is intrinsically bound to my being. I don't really see my spiritual life as separate from my emotional and physical life. 

All I know is that despite the many times I've experienced such sadness and depression, somewhere inside me there was a deep sense of joy. There was mirth. And with confidence, I can say my joy comes with the mourning.