race

Far and away
I run to you.
I've never caught up-
But what else can I do?
I've tried to break in
And you've somehow shut off...
To the figure I say
Once was mine.

I see you inside
The tango of peace
versus insanity;
I pray its release
In the dark watches
Of night
Find relief in His Word,
In His blood,
In His Promises.

Tell me how
to catch up;
Catch up to your heart.
I'll break in,
Hold your hand,
and I'll try not to talk.
It's the words
more than anything
that betray me.

Mario

Mario 2008 - On our Sudan Trip

Today is Mario’s Birthday. 

By some incredible grace that God had for me (still unexplained and incredibly undeserved) Mario married me on December 29, 1987.  He was way out of my league.  He stood six foot-two, solid muscle and had a tanned, boyish face that was unusually handsome, like a movie star.  Since he had grown up skinny and funny-looking, he didn't have a big ego attached to his outward appearance and it made him even more attractive.   

For some reason, he adored me.  I would catch him looking at me while I was telling a story and his eyes would be starry and transfixed.  No other guy ever looked at me like that. 

I met him at the Inaugural Ball of the Lieutenant Governor of California in 1982.  My friend, Lisa Beutler and I were working the reception area, welcoming guests to the grand affair held at the California Railroad Museum.  The built in “security detail” were State Park Rangers, an elite group to which Lisa belonged.  I was convinced that she had arranged it all.

Afterwards, we all went out to dinner and I sat out most of the conversation while they all discussed Law Enforcement and Union business.  I was convinced I had no life because I was nineteen and I worked with old people.  My new social network was cops who were old and boring.  Lisa was 30– Mario, 27.

Years later (when I was 23) I applied for a job at a State Park where Mario was the supervising ranger.  I was hired while he was away as a lowly Park-Aid, smiling and welcoming visitors, taking fees and explaining the rules to all who entered.  Mario returned from his trip and informed me that I was hired illegally – I literally pleaded for my job.  Later that day, he secured it, taking pity on me as a single mother.  I found out later that he was recently divorced and was also a single father.  We began to share stories and experiences at work. 

Before long, we were connecting on many levels.  He was fun to work for, gave me clear direction and appreciated my work.   I trusted him as a friend  and a boss; valued his advice, and sought it regularly.  One night after work; after a long discussion about parenting, our deep dreams and the not-too- distant-future, we parted ways.  Mario asked if he could give me a hug goodbye.

I froze.

I was sure that a hug with Mario would not be a simple thing.  I was frightened of igniting something, but before I could say no, he was already walking toward me.  Our embrace was supernaturally beautiful.

As soon as I laid my head against his chest, I was home. His arms went around me and we fit perfectly together.  It was as if heaven opened and doves came down, bringing the songs of angels and blessings from God.  In the dead of night I felt warm and safe and all lit up inside. 

Our hug lasted for about three minutes. 

As soon as we released each other, I knew he was mine.  I knew I was his.  It was perfect. 

That hug was twenty-seven years ago. 

We spoke vows to each other the following December, where I promised to value him and love him all the days of my life.   Mario’s vows were written himself, passionate and bold and spoken with tears that made me look shyly down at the rings we just exchanged.  I read them over and over again later.  How could this man feel this way about me? 

Even greater than the vows that Mario wrote and spoke to me at that altar twenty six years ago are his daily decisions to be who he is.  He has decided everyday to be faithful to me; to love me and be thankful for me.  He has been a sensitive and protective father, a loyal friend and a genuine man of God.  He keeps his word, is kind to strangers and keeps cool under pressure.  Because he is a gentle giant, I call him my tender warrior.

Shortly after we started dating, my mother told him to beware of my laugh.  She warned him not to say anything too funny of he didn’t want to be embarrassed in public. 

“Embarrassed?” Mario asked her, incredulously.  “Janet’s laugh is LIFE!”  I watched him say this and realized he meant it.  He wasn’t trying to rack up points; he genuinely loved my laugh.  He genuinely loved me for me.

Today is his birthday.

I don’t know why God gave him to me.  I really don’t deserve to be this happy in marriage.   He is a stunning specimen of a man, a genuine and honest friend to me with the tenderest  heart toward God. 

I don’t know many people like Mario; the world needs more of them. 

Happy Birthday, honey.  I absolutely do not deserve you.

fathers

1970's stock family photo
No one I know....  

King David, a man who God Himself said was after His heart, was known as a tolerant father of children who rebelled and did not respect him.  His own beautiful son, Absalom, staged a revolt to overthrow him so fiercely that King David cast off his crown and ran for the hills. Later, when the commander of David’s Army killed Absalom, David cried out: “Absalom! Absalom!  If only it were me instead of you!”

Constantine the Great, a powerful Roman Emporer that conquered and ruled Europe in the fourth century, put to death his own beloved son, Crispus, after learning that he had attempted to rape his new wife, Fausta.  Shortly after his son’s execution, it was revealed to the Constantine that Fausta had made up the charges to dethrone Crispus and secure a future for her own sons.  Constantine killed Fausta as well, leaving him alone with an ocean of regret.

Thomas Boleyn,  the father of Anne and Mary, had an apetite for power so insatiable that he pressured his daughter, Anne, to marry King Henry VIII, even though Henry was already married at the time. Henry was also given Boleyn's elder daughter Mary, as company for the young Anne. Three years after the controversial marriage ruined the lives of many, Anne fell out of favor with the king and was beheaded on charges of high treason. Her brother, George, suffered the same fate. all the while Thomas, did nothing to protect any of his children. 

All of these fathers did this for their children: they loved them, provided for their education, gave them whatever money could buy, and engaged in family banquets with them.  Isn’t that what fathers of today are told to do for their own children? 

None of these fathers were considered good.  Why?  They lacked a simple ingredient in all  Fathers that are the heavies in their homes: they lacked wisdom.

Dads that are popular are usually not the best ones.  Weak Dads aren’t always seen as weak: they are sometimes very popular, pandering to their own kids and their friends by bending all of the rules in the house to suit the child.  They usually play right alongside of their kids, teaching them their own bad habits, living through their own kids’ experiences and manipulating obedience with a lot of money thrown around as incentive.

All of the good Fathers that I have met have a mixture of authority and wisdom that seems boring and a little overbearing.  Some of them have senses of humor, some are affectionate.  Some are jerks.  They lay down the law, set curfews and  kick their kids’ butts when they don’t respect them.  They make unpopular decisions that their kids hate and then act like they don’t care, even if they do.

Good fathers are strong; even in the face of opposition.

Me and my Papa.

I remember my own father, Jack, an Irish Catholic no-nonsense man I respected and feared. He made so many mistakes, but he led me.  He led all five of us, which was no easy feat.   I had long periods of rebellion but he stayed the course.  I remember thinking of him as unbending and unyielding and he actually wasn’t.  He was just firm.

I think of Mario, my warm-hearted, Teddy Bear of a husband who could instantly become a Grizzly when it came to reining in our own kids, especially the boys.  Our daughter charmed him a little more than the boys did, but even then…he was strong; the rock we all needed.  Because of Mario's provision, we lived in a house, paid our bills and had enough money to take our kids on vacation somewhere nice every year. 

1993

I didn't always agree with Mario's parenting decisions.  Many times, I thought he was being too tough on the kids.  I thought his decisions seemed so harsh and final, even when it seemed like they weren't working.  In the end, he was the Father.  He was, I have realized, the backbone of our family.

Today is Father’s Day.  It is the day that I remember my own Dad, Jack – and my husband Mario.  Two incredible Fathers, despite their humanity.  These men are golden columns in my life: pillars of wisdom and truth.

They were the ones that made all of the unpopular decisions that ended up being just as they said: for the best.

Thank You.

Portia

I haven’t blogged since the beginning of May.

It’s early evening, I haven’t had dinner and my bones ache from all of the work I have been doing on the house.  I just want to go to bed and sleep  - I am stretched thin and not as young as I once was.  

I came home from South Africa and jumped into my life here.  People have two reactions: “Glad to have you back!” and “Now that you’re back can you…”  Everyone seems glad we are home.  Few have asked for details of the work there.

Some days I wake up, thinking that I am still living in South Africa.  I came home with Mario and we made a  new start.  The trouble is, I have a sinking feeling that the South African part of my life is drifting away.  I have no remedy for my South African soul-hunger – I find no South African ex-pats here!  I honestly need help knowing that this particular portion of my life won’t just fade away. 

Right now in South Africa it’s winter.  The days are cold; the nights are colder.  June 6.

Today is Portia’s birthday - she is 33.

Portia is my amazingly special friend who filled my life with a special sense of wonder in God’s supernatural ability to make all things right.  If you want a specimen of a Spirit-filled South African woman, you can look at Portia.  She prays constantly and walks with freedom and joy.  She radiates peace and beauty and I miss her.

Terribly.

Today she will celebrate her birthday in simplicity.  She has a lot of friends at work and in school and they will most likely bring her a cake and she will blow out the candles.  It will be the first year in seven years that I will not make that cake, sing to her and watch her blow out the candles.

I just spoke to her on the phone…she is already at work (it’s 7 a.m.).  When I asked her what she is going to do today I could hear her smiling.

“I don’t know yet,” she said.  “Something special.” 

Of course.

Portia's 30th

glitter

Glitter in my hands

Lost wilderness

Of glory

How I wish I knew

That yesterdays

Were golden moments

Never to return.

One moment

Lost and spun and swollen

Forgotten

Held in contempt

What a young

And foolish

Bride of circumstance

I was.

moms

Me and My Mama, who is solid gold.

I heard two young mothers talking near me while I was waiting in line.  They spoke with such logic and hope and energy and because the subject went to blogging, my ears listened closely to what they said.

“I read her blog everyday,” one of them said.  She was a cute young mother, pushing a stroller back and forth to keep her infant quiet.  “She’s so encouraging!”

“Yeah,” the other young mom said.  She was very pregnant, keeping an eye on her son, playing with a small truck on the carpet next to her.  “I don’t have much time to read.”

“Well, I read it because it’s short,” the other laughed.  I smiled.  They’d get impatient if they read my blog. 

“And I hate getting parenting advice, really,” the pregnant one said.  “I get enough advice from my mom.  She never stops.”

I listened and my heart sank.  I thought of my mother, who didn’t give me much advice unless I asked for it.

I thought of myself, giving parenting advice unsolicited to my daughter...and hearing the same thing.

If I could, I would have broken in on their conversation to tell them one thing:  they are golden.  They are solid gold.  Moms are solid gold... and they don’t hear it enough.

They hear how they are nags.  Their kids tell them they are the ones who stop the joy, lay down the law and set limits that aren’t appreciated.  My own mom did this – and I did it for my kids.

I also prayed constantly for them – still pray constantly for them.  Because inside of a mother’s heart is a non-stop prayer that pleads for God’s mercy on their children.  Mercy and love and breakthrough.  I laughed with them and for them.  My kids were all lit up inside and funny. 

Mothers are constantly tethered to their kids, even if they can’t be there physically.  The two girls in line didn’t yet know what that felt like.  

They’ll feel it when their kids start going out with friends.  They’ll feel it when their kids are at sleepovers.  They will feel it if they ever leave town and leave them behind.

It is an ache, a joy and non-stop prayer to be a mother.

Mothers are golden.  Tell one today that they are solid gold – I guarantee you they don’t hear it enough. 

That’s why we have Mother’s Day.  

insanity

May is Short Story Month 

This is one of mine.  It's written for an adult audience.   

Please don't read if you have a sensitive constitution 

"Listen carefully," he said, "this won't be easy for you to hear"....

I waited.

“This is the only broom we use in this space.”

I looked at it.  It was impossible. 

“And the place needs to be swept every day, or else she’ll fire you.”

Lunatic? 

“Can I bring another broom in?” I asked.

“No,” he said, incredulously, looking at me like I was out of my mind. “You have to take off your shoes, put on socks and leave your bag in your car and you want to bring another broom in?”

The ad said references required, which I brought.  I ended up having to take them back down to my car once he had read them, since no “foreign matter” was allowed inside.  He interviewed me and found me acceptable but told me right away that only she was to say if the job I had been hired to do had been done well. 

“I was just asking...”

“This is the only broom.”

“Got it.”

  “I told you it wouldn’t be easy to hear.”

He left me there in the pristine entryway with glass tables and a white velvet ottoman, handing me the small dust broom and dustpan combination.  They had silver trim in the handles, much like an old Derringer, which I wish I had.

“Begin at the doorway, and work your way into the study,” he said. “Those are the only spaces that need to be swept.”

“Alright,” I said, trying to smile.  His eyes were deep blue and serious, bags all over his face betrayed a lifetime of sleeplessness and worry. 

“The broom is replaced once a week,” he said, softly, looking down.  He looked at me suspiciously before walking away, his footsteps echoing.  The ceilings were at least twenty feet.

 A cameraman on a crane would have shot me from there, and slowly panned around the converted warehouse to show the insanity of the job before me.  The white walls and the white furniture had brief, awkward interruptions of color in wall hangings, lamps and throw pillows.  I would be sweeping at least 3000 square feet of living space.  It was already so polished; I could see my face shining in every surface.

I took the broom and began to sweep at nothing.  No dust, no dirt, and no nothing in the whole warehouse space, other than the textured white floor that was scored and varnished so heavily it looked like water.

Who had been there yesterday?  He said the place had to be swept every day, and it looked like this?  The pay was incentive to stay, but the insanity choked me.

 As I worked, on my hands and knees, I heard the clack-clack-clack of his typewriter in the distance.  When I loked up I saw him, off in a corner, his black socks crumpled around his ankles.  He sat at a small writing desk, a Chippendale (was it a knock-off?), probably the only thing he had brought into the home from his former life. 

A dog barked in the distance. 

Sweep, sweep, sweep. 

I was doing this to pay the bills. 

Living in the city is more expensive than people realize and dreams are luxuries that none of us are entitled to.  There was grad school, then the loans came due.  I worked for awhile at a hotel desk, but the pay was bad and the hours were worse.  I tried to get a job at the magazine where my brother found work, but there was a glut of writers and most of them were snobs or frustrated authors.

Sweep, sweep, sweep.

He never waited for the bell.  I heard the carriage return lever click, swoop and advance the paper up a line.  Why didn’t he have a computer? What was it, an Underwood?  What was he writing?  He never waited or stopped to think. Was he setting copy?  Re-typing?  Was there no outlet there?  I looked up. There was one at his feet, a lamp was plugged in there. 

Sweep, sweep, sweep.

The bristles were white, the ends were even whiter.  Where would dust go?  I looked in my pan, but only anemic see-through bits were collecting.  Was it worth it?  How long had I been sweeping?  Ten minutes?

Sweep, sweep, sweep...

I really did love Larry.  He was a fabulous husband and provider but I should have known he was gay.  How could I not see that?  He was so apologetic leaving me and I hugged him for so long, assuring him that it was okay – that he was okay.  He told me that if it weren’t for his lover he would stay married to me because he loved me so much and I wanted to believe him. I wanted him to stay, even if he was gay.   Instead, he left and there was alimony for a few months and then nothing.  Not even a phone call.

Sweep, sweep, sweep.

I had it all written.  It was a feat of note, getting my novel done while I held down two jobs and was coping with my divorce.  Most of my friends had drinks after work in Italian restaurants with a friendly bar.  Instead of fun and a social life, I went home to a studio with a broken radiator and wrote the whole enchilada on my laptop before it broke.  Thank God I saved my work on a separate drive. 

Every agent that read my submission (did they really read it?) said it wasn’t for them but encouraged me to keep looking for representation.  I read each rejection letter the first year and then realized that they all looked alike.  They were all trying to encourage me with rejection.  They were the hug and assurance before saying goodbye.

I stopped reading rejection letters.  I stopped querying.  I stopped writing.  I stopped….

Sweep. 

Sweep. 

Sweep. 

Sweep.

“Listen carefully….” I smirked, thinking of the writer’s words when I came in.  What was I, twelve years old?

Listen carefully. 

Really?

“This won’t be easy for you to hear?”

No shit. 

A lot of things are not easy to hear. 

Clack, Clack, Clack, Clack…..

Sweep, sweep, sweep.

Guess what’s not easy for you to hear?

You... you odd little kept man typing away on an Underwood. 

You are wasting your life. 

You are mentally ill if you are living with a woman who has see-through furniture and fluffy pink pillows. 

When is the last time you slept through the night? 

Are you so afraid of being alone that you accept this insanity as normal?   

You are a moron to be doing this for some woman who most likely doesn’t appreciate you.

She can’t even enjoy sex, judging from this place. 

I wonder what she looks like?

Sweep, sweep, sweep...

You are wasting your life. 

You are wasting your life. 

You are wasting your life.