Vince

Vince - about ten minutes old.

The story of Vince is a wild an untamed one.  My first born son was born at 1:56 in the morning on April 9, 1985. I had been in labor all day and he finally emerged, a ten on the apgar scale – a perfect birth.

Most things of value in your life sneak up on you and fill your world with a new wonder, excitement and worry.  Vince’s birth was no different.  Pregnancy was a surprise and caused me to re-evaluate my life – something I had never done as intensely before.  I cleaned up a lot of "loose ends" and focused on what I knew was important and by the time I was ready to deliver Vince, I thought I had a better handle on things.

That is, until Vince was born.

He was the most beautiful baby I had ever seen – ask any new mother how long it took to put down their baby.  He was bright and peaceful, a son I didn’t deserve.  I held him in my arms and cooed like someone had given me the moon and the stars – and I thanked God for all of the joy in my life. I also worried and obsessed about every little thing.  What if I messed it all up?  What if I wasn't good enough to be a mom?

I vowed to make something of my life and pass anything I had of value on to this child.   Even after the relationship with his father didn’t work out, I was hopeful that everything was for the best.

Vince grew quickly and displayed remarkable curiosity, taking forever examining books, globes, shapes, legos – anything around.  Once, while I was renewing my license at the DMV he pointed out to the clerk that one of the structures in her cubicle was in the shape of a triangle.  She looked at me and smiled.

“How old is he?”

“Twenty months,” I answered proudly.  As far as I was concerned, Vince was the smartest kid in the world. 

It was the easiest thing to see about him: his fine mind.  I loved reading to him for hours on end and eventually he taught himself – he read before he entered kindergarten and his teacher thought I was pushing him to learn everything before he had his first year of school.

Preschool Graduation - 1989

“Remember to let him be a kid,” she said, in true condescension.  “He has all the time in the world to learn at his own pace.”

“I don’t push him,” I answered, truthfully.  “He taught himself.”

She didn’t believe me and went through a lengthy explanation of how phonetic structure was impossible to learn by osmosis...blah, blah, blah. 

Whatever.

Mrs. King didn’t seem to irritate Vince as much as she did me.  He kind of liked her....

“Mom,” he said to me one day after I picked him up from school.  “Mrs. King is a beautiful woman, but she is starting to get wrinkles.  Do you think I should tell her?”

I laughed.  “No, Vince, don’t ever tell a woman she’s getting wrinkles.”

I drove for awhile before it dawned on me that I was aging myself.  “Do I have wrinkles?”  I asked him.

“No mom,” he looked up at me with a sincere face.  “You look like God created you yesterday.”

What a schmooze.

Years past by and my young, handsome, deep thinker became a man.  Like most men, Vince started defining what he believed – much of it very unlike what I had “raised him to believe.”  He told me one night on the phone that he was a socialist – and he meant it.

“How can you be a Socialist?” I asked him. I was confused: Socialist had full beards and denied the existence of God.  They loved Cuba and China and said bad things about America.  How could my son be this?

Vince was silent for awhile and then sighed.  “Mom, I’ve been a Socialist for awhile,” he said.  “You really don’t pay much attention to these things when I talk about them.”

What?

When we got off the phone, I went into deep prayer.  “Please, God... save my son from being a Socialist.”  It went like this for about an hour until I finally remembered that God knew more about Vince than I did. 

“What is bothering you?” I felt God asking me.  “What bothers you about that word?  Vince has always been a Socialist – I made him that way.”

The voice of God was certain – but why would He say this?

Then he showed me:  Even as a young child, Vince wanted everything to be fair and equal.  It was a passion of his; he loved justice.  He hated the abuse of power – he knew there was a way for a fair distribution of wealth.  Fairness; equality; truth.

The noble purposes of socialism were alive in Vince’s heart.  I was so busy thinking he was my baby, my son who was so bright and creative and believed what I told him to – that I forgot he had grown up.  He was now a man who had grown to think for himself.  This epiphany caused me to pray for understanding.

Gaming with Vince  

More and more of my prayers are now that I understand people – especially my own children – like God does.  So I now listen closer, knowing that I am not their only teacher. 

So today, April 9^th, I remember Vince and his big heart – a man who wants the world to be fair and equal.  He loves guns – restoring them and shooting them – after I had outlawed them in our house.  He loves Hondas and can’t believe I bought a Hyundai.  He’s a fabulous cook and can make menudo just like my grandma used to.

Today he turns twenty-eight. 

Really, I don’t care about getting older. No part of it scares me, but I do know that I have wasted a lot of time wishing my kids were a certain way and not thanking God enough that they are who they are.  I am still learning to love what they appreciate.  I’m learning to tell them how much I respect them even when I don’t agree with their choices. 

 I love Vince and he has taught me to enjoy many things – even X-box. 

Even if he weren't my son, I’d still love hanging out with him. 

Vince and Rikki, the day they adopted Eddy

remember

I remember missing each of you;
thinking we would never reconnect.
Like bleeding hooves of time-
so forward flying that I wept.

Yet now I see the hand of He
Who keeps his promises.
The all-sustaining One
Held us all - and still does.

The things I have forsaken-
have never been forsaken.
The things I gained across the sea-
Are mine and still unshaken.

I have known no disaster,
Only blessings.
I have known no tears-
only waterings.
I have been granted all my dreams -
By one who loves me, loves me, loves me.

Today I remember His hands.
Today I remember my dreams...
Today I remember my prayer - dear ones
Beyond what they all seem.

I remember...
I remember dreaming.

fulfilled

Today is Good Friday, the Christian Holy Day that tells of the plan of salvation for all mankind.  Paul Sainsbury, my wonderful South African friend, posted this picture on his status today, along with this challenge:

We found a travel game called "Story Cubes" that seems kinda fun... Anyone wanna play? Make up a story that uses all the pictures on the "dice" and post a comment :-)

Paul Sainsbury's throw of "Story Dice" that this tale is based on.

In every person there lives the unfulfilled longing to be understood and to understand. The eternal questions exist in every language; in every heart: “Who am I?” “How do I fit in?” "Where do I belong?”

Judge Cant was no exception. Despite years of study, degrees and acceptance in his circle of Mensa mammoths, Judge Cant lived a life devoid of pleasure.  He led his family the same way he led his court: out of duty rather than passion. When he finally attained his last goal: becoming a pilot and buying his own plane, it gave him little pleasure.  Even flying did not make him noble.  

Judge Cant sunk into a  life he could not feel - existing but not living; seeking but not finding; sleeping but not dreaming. He knew that in the halls of justice, he was a phony.  He was a man whose scales were different everyday and whose decisions had less to do with the law than what bothered him in the season he decided.

One night, in the glow of a crescent moon, he rocked his baby grandson.  The Judge wondered if he mattered at all in the universe.  Would he ever be able to be an example of excellence to this little person?  What wisdom could he ever offer him? What was it like to be happy?  For the first time in his life he uttered a prayer: "God, if you're up there, come and find me."

The answer to his prayer came quickly and unexpectedly. 

The very next day (an example of the beauty and simplicity of a just God) Judge Cant found himself on the steps of the courthouse in front of a homeless man.  It was a man he had seen everyday, a man he had never ignored or acknowledged, but rather never crossed.  That particular day the courthouse garage was in renovation and the judge had to use a remote parking space reserved for court officials.  He hurried up the stairs, anxious to get a Kona roast before it went bitter.  It was then he nearly tripped over the indigent man.   

"Sorry, pal," Judge Cant gasped, surprised he had almost fallen.  

"Judge Cant," the homeless man said.  It made the judge consider him closely.  Was this a former defendant he had ruled on?  A derelict father he had decreed against?  How did the man know his name?

"Do I know you?" Judge Cant asked.  The man pointed to the large Sycamore in the center of the courtyard.  

"Did you know that Jesus is the tree of life?" the homeless man asked, smiling.  Judge Cant realized that the man was drunk and nodded, smiling.

"Yes," he said, bounding up the rest of the stairs.  He could hear the man shout at his back, now angrily.  

"You say you do," he said.  "But he was hung on that tree for you!"

Judge Cant looked around to see if anyone had seen the exchange.  It appeared that everyone was moving along well, as busy as they always were.  The courthouse steps were always busy...and then he saw the Sycamore again before opening the large wooden door.

                                   ***


The docket was full and Judge Cant couldn't get the homeless man's comment out of his mind: "You say you do - but he was hung on that tree for you!"

Hours ticked by and the clerk noticed his worried brow.  

"Would you like a recess, your honor?"  he whispered as he dropped another file in front of his eyes.  

"No, Marcel," Judge Cant said.  He tried to straighten his back, but it occurred to him that Marcel was a religious man.  

"Marcel," he whispered as the bar bustled with new counsel.  "What does it mean that 'he hung on that tree for you?'"

Marcel smiled carefully, his upper lip covered from his moustache.  "You mean Jesus?" he whispered.

Judge Cant nodded.  It was Jesus, wasn't it?  It was the first thing that man had said.  

Marcel cleared his throat.  "Today is Good Friday," he said.  "It is the day Jesus was crucified for the sins of all people.  He was nailed to a cross; a tree."

"Of course," Judge Cant knew the historical perspective.  Marcel was wasting his time with such detail.  "What does it mean that he hung there for me?"

Marcel had been smiling, but the corners of his mouth turned down.  He looked nervous now, and the Judge wondered why.

"The sins of all people, your honor," he whispered.  It was time to hear the next case.  "The sins of all people means... your sins, too."

The next case took particularly long and the Judge kept looking at Marcel.  How dare he imply that he had sinned, ever!  Judge Cant had kept his nose clean his whole life, no easy feat attending Dartmouth in the seventies.  Maybe there was that one sleepover with the flower-power girl who didn't wear a bra.  Maybe he hadn't ever gone to church.  Maybe there was the .... 

One by one Judge Cant remembered sins.  What a terrible word: sin.  It left you with no defense, no justification.  It wasn't ...just.

"Your honor?" Defense counsel was waiting for his ruling.  The Judge looked perturbed   This particular Defense counsel was a little too vigorous - she defended every guilty man like he should be given a second chance.  It wasn't right... 

"Why such a vigorous defense, Miss Atley?" Judge Cant said, tired and frustrated.  She blinked without answering.

"This man," the judge said, loudly.  "Has admitted to the assault of an elderly woman!  An old lady hit by this man!  He deserves prison!  Why do you defend him in this minutia of loopholes?"

"Your honor..." she began, noticeably flustered.  

"No," Judge Cant said, "Motion denied."

There was a slippery silence and Judge Cant looked up at Marcel, who was regarding him with a pitiful look on his face.  The judge shook his head and banged the gavel.

"I'll hear nothing further today." 

There was a confused mumbling and the clerk announced that the case would be heard the following Tuesday, owing to the holiday that would take place for Easter.  Judge Cant threw him a disgusted look.

As the people filtered out of the courtroom doors, it seemed to Judge Cant that they were cattle, entering the gates of slaughter.  Sheep, in line to be killed; people threading through the gates of hell to face the woeful fire that would never die.  

That damn man! Judge Cant thought, resting his face in his hands.  Telling me of my sin... I had no sin before today.  I had no conflict before today.... I had no life before today.

Eventually, Marcel stepped up to collect the files on the Judges desk.  He approached carefully, and the Judge lifted his head.  He felt his eyes, sore and bloodshot look at Marcel carefully.


"How can I find a different way?" Judge Cant asked him, nearly in tears.  "How can I not go through those doors?" 

Marcel picked up the gavel, the magnifying glass and the files.  He had never seen the Judge like this before. 

It was his day.

change

This week I got a new car – a Hyundai Elantra 2008 (new to me), 

a new phone (something called an Android – I’m used to a nokia that does nothing) that is smarter than I am; 

and we put a bid on a house. 

Two days ago, LeeAnne, our estate agent called to tell us that they accepted it.

If all goes well (in this hyper-competitive real estate market) we will sign papers this coming week.... 

I don’t know if this is too much change for most people, but it is for me.  

To see the slides and specs of our new home click here

birthday

Today I woke up and remembered my friend, Monica -it would have been her birthday today.  She was one of the most complicated people I ever knew and I loved her.  She left so quickly and her death surprised us all.  This is a re-post - I wrote this only two days after she died.  

Today I remember Monica.  And celebrate eternal life....

Jenny kissed me when we met,

Jumping from the chair she sat in.

Time, you thief! who love to get

Sweets into your list, put that in.

Say I'm weary, say I'm sad;

Say that health and wealth have missed me;

Say I'm growing old, but add-

Jenny kissed me!

Leigh Hunt wrote the poem “Jenny Kissed Me”, read to me aloud by my freshman English teacher who had to wipe away a tear when he was finished.  The reading had a profound effect on me and I wasn’t sure why.  Maybe because Jenny was so special that she bestowed on Mr. Hunt the blessing that only she could have: a kiss of acceptance in a cold world.

I woke up this morning and stared at the ceiling fan, a four-paddle affair that was in the shape of a cross.

Jesus.

Two days ago I found out that Monica died.  I have been out of focus since.  I feel disjointed... running from one harried activity to anther just to fill the space in my heart that can’t believe this.  Monica was in her thirties, leaving behind two kids under ten years old.  She was getting better.  What will Dumisani do?  What will their church do?

What will I do?

Monica, after all, was special.

She was a blessing. A delightful, funny, cheeky, brave, complicated friend. 

My friend.

When I came to South Africa, Monica accepted me.  Even though she was at first a little wary of me –new to this continent and full of reckless zeal to build Christ’s church any way I was allowed to.   Soon enough, though, I made her laugh and she relaxed into comfortable acceptance of who I was.

 I loved her.

She wore large bright earrings and had the most beautiful smile.  She talked in a deep voice and walked with a confident swagger that made you know she knew who she was.

One morning, as she walked toward the church in a flawless white dress, I snapped a z and said “Giiiirrrl!! You look smokin hot!”  She smiled, shyly.

I was  quickly corrected by a (very caring) friend who over heard me and took me aside. 

“You don’t know this, since you’re new,” my friend said.  “But ‘girl’ means that she is your permanent live-in servant.  It’s a little derogatory here.”  Things are so complicated because of the Apartheid hangover...

She could tell by my reaction that I was shocked. 

I went back to Monica, explaining the differences in our cultures – after all, “GIIIIIIRL!” was a greeting given to Gail by Oprah.  Given to your bestie when you were being playful.  Monica giggled as I explained nervously. 

“I knew what you meant,” she said, smiling.  “I knew what you meant because you’re different.”

She was married to Dumisani - a tall, statuesque guy that had the command of a room as soon as he walked in.  We were fast friends. 

“Timna means ‘ours,’” Dumi said, holding his baby daughter in his arms the first time we went out to lunch.  “It is a name we chose especially for this one.”  He looked at Monica who smiled back at him.  I was transfixed on them.  Their eyes sparkled at one another, very un-African like!  I loved the way they related to one another, as equals and as friends and romantic partners.

Dumi and Monica became sounding boards for us as far as the culture went.  They were a Xhosa couple, living in Diepsloot.  It surprised me, simply because Dumi seemed highly educated and greatly respected by the community. 

One day, after taking them home, they invited us in for tea.  There was a bed and a an area used to prepare food in a small room that they called their home.  They were the first Diepsloot family that ever invited us into their space. It was a high honor.

“Why do you live here in Diepsloot?” I asked, maybe a little too boldly for the first time I was in their house.

“We have no choice,” Dumi answered honestly.  A teacher, Dumisani was just short of his master’s credential, leaving his employment opportunities less than what he could make a decent living on. 

“Where we are from,” Monica said, answering the deeper question.  “There is the ocean right outside and our families all live nearby, but there is no work.”

The thought saddened me.  Still, as I got to know them better I was encouraged with the way that neither of them seemed bitter about it – and not defined by their address.  Instead, they reached out to their neighbors, bringing the gospel to the desperately poor - people who put our faith to shame. 

One night, our church had a celebration where all the different home groups were asked to host a table of ethnic food, prepare a dance or presentation to perform and dress in ethnic clothing.  While our home group became Mexican for the evening, Dumi and Monica’s became Xhosa.

 Monica was dressed beautifully, but when it came time for her dance, she broke free into a very bold dance and song that made everyone stop what they were doing and watch her.  She sang powerfully and loud. Her motions and movement were much like the Hawaiians when they did the hula, but imagine the hula with more power and determination.  Shortly afterward, the electricity went out, and we all went home.  We made a joke that Monica was so smokin' hot that she short-circuited the power. 

We hung out a lot.  We worked side by side, especially in the Diepsloot community. Everytime she saw me she said, "Hey, Giiiiirrrl!!"

Jo called me right after I made dinner on Thursday, and gave me the news.  Jo (short for Joanna) employs Monica’s sister, Apilele, and heard from her that Monica had succumbed to a short illness that had come at her hard and fast.  She had gone to the Eastern Cape the Tuesday before, yearning to be with her mother and her family there.  She checked into hospital and said she was feeling better the last time I talked with her (on Monday).  Now, I type this, less than a week later and have seen and felt the devastation that losing Monica has brought. 

Dumi (finally in a profession he loves) was interrupted Thursday night as he was teaching to meet Mario, his sister and his brother and me in the school courtyard to be told that his partner and friend had gone to heaven.  His sister delivered the news to him, and he broke into sobs that were loud and heart breaking... I couldn’t look at him.  I buried my face in my poncho and thought of their children, her sisters, her mother....all of her friends. 

This morning I woke up thinking of her.

I was drawn to the image of the cross above me, the rock I have shelter in.  Jesus’death and resurrection makes so many things possible, but most of all, it assures me of the eternal life that we will share. 

I know I’ll see her again. 

Still, the death is damn unfair.  It is a waste of a bright, warm woman who wasn’t afraid of life.  She glowed with excitement about the smallest of things.  She laughed with her whole body and loved with no boundaries.  She was a mother to orphans, to anyone who came in her front door.  The last detail seems so insignificant: she was my friend. 

It hurts to lose her.  It hurts to have death invade a life lived so out loud.

Still, Monica lives....

Monica thrilled me when we met,

Dancing Xhosa and singing along.

Death, you thief! You came and stole her-

Tore her from unfinished song.

Say she’s taken, say she’s gone;

Say her family will weep and gather;

Say our hearts will break, but add-

Monica lives – and you don’t have her!

Monica (in white hat) was the life of any party.

obscured

Stones and sorrow in the third part;

What used to be a heart

Now a den to keep the pieces-

Broken, rejected and spat upon.

These days you teach -

You preach a pyramid scheme of forgiveness-

Where you use the sacred book

To illustrate its need

All the while holding the razor

That sliced me open.

Oh yes, oh yes

Amen....

And one day I will learn

To forgive.

Forgive the friend who sliced

And diced and laughed

And blamed

The blood on me.

And I’ll be free;

Ripped apart and free,

Like a tattered flag,

A standard of failed communication,

Knowing you to be too consumed

To ever hear my voice;

To ever acknowledge your choice.

bio

In the last few days we have landed on our feet in the USA, after six years living in South Africa.  We have to find a car, a place to live...and ourselves soon.

Before we left there are some things I was supposed to get done. One of them was finish editing my manuscript for Treasures in Diepsloot – making it lose weight from 138,000 words to 120,000.  In true Janet fashion, I couldn't meet this "weight loss goal."  The manuscript came out at 123,500 words. 

Almost.

Now, in the midst of all of this change I have to write a bio for my agent.  For those who have never had to write one, it is a description of myself and my experience with writing.  It is supposed to sum up who I am and show off my personality.  It is (for writers) the most annoying and challenging assignment that there is.

I don’t think she wants a synopsis of my full writing history.  It began in St. Bernard’s – the Catholic school that championed writing and demanded lots and lots of it from its students.  It also championed reading and required us to be proficient in both. 

My experience in St. Bernard’s was that I was good, but there was always someone better.  I wrote stories that were fun and funny and made me laugh as I wrote them, but when it came time to reading them aloud no one laughed at all; only me.

Donna’s stories, by comparison, were well thought out and free of the starts and stops that mine had.  The whole class was amused at her writings and so was I.  I had to admit it – she was better than me.

I eventually finished with St. Bernard’s and moved on to Tracy High, a school with many, many, many good writers   I took every English class that they had to offer and I loved each teacher – back in the day when teachers were allowed to teach.

Leo Schools, one of the teachers who influenced me, noticed my giftings. 

“Ryan,” he said (my last name was Ryan).  “You have a real gift, but you write too fast.”

“Yeah, I have that hyperactivity thing,” I answered. 

Leo looked at me seriously and shook his head.  “This is nothing to joke about,” he said.  I respected him a great deal so I slowed down ... and my writing improved.

From there came Stanislaus State, where I continued to kick ass and be surrounded by gifted writers; from there Consumnes River College where the same thing happened again.  So many good writers; how would I stand out?

Now that I have written my first novel, my agent will submit it (with my bio) to publishing companies.  Here are the guidelines:

• Have several versions of your bio ready; the agent will chose one to submit (depending on the publishing house);
• Show a bit of humor;
• Reveal your personality;
• Let your bio brand you (don’t be afraid to sell yourself)

Ansel Adams, one of my favorite photographers said “A good photograph is knowing where to stand.”  Likewise a good bio is about knowing where to stand.  I am introducing myself, an unknown writer with no real writing credits, to an audience who doesn’t know me. How do I do this well?

Here are bios I have written about myself.  Want to vote to tell me which one you like best?

• Janet Rodriguez has told stories as long as she can remember; it was only recently that she realized that was not such a bad thing.  She lives in California with her husband and best friend and two adoring dogs who love to be read to, thank God. 

• Janet Rodriguez grew up in California where she learned no story is to impossible to be true.  She moved to South Africa in 2006 and spent six years there, primarily as a Christian missionary.  She now lives in California with her husband, Mario and family close by.

• Janet Rodriguez was educated in California and later travelled to 19 African countries, living in Johannesburg for six years.  Her blog, Brazen Princess, is one of Google’s most easy to find and portrays the life of a woman who is a little too loud to be compared with Mother Theresa.  She lives in California with her husband, Mario.