Stephanie Says..

Okay, true confession time. I love hot fudge cake. Love hot fudge cake. Eat “real food” during dinner so I can GET hot fudge cake.

As a result of this, I often seize any excuse to go to Shoney’s.  Shoney’s is interesting.  All kinds of people come to Shoney’s.  I personally like the hot fudge cakes and the French toast sticks, but the seafood seems to be popular as well.

Sometime last winter, Kenny and I were wrapping up a long week at work by partaking of the buffet when I began to notice the families seated around us.  At the table beyond were a mom, a dad and a young baby in a high chair.  At the table beyond THEM were a mom, a dad and a young baby in a different high chair.

I watched the babies and smiled when they noticed each other.  I smiled even bigger when they began to communicate.

They were either pre verbal or choosing not to talk, but they flirted and smiled and waved and cooed.

“Ah” said baby number one to baby number two.

“Ouah” replied baby number two.

They talked through the entire meal.  After a while, their parents quit trying to feed them and just let them interact.

And interact they did.  They cooed and gurgled and booed and aahed and kicked and laughed.

They were having a grand old time.

And I was having a ball just watching them.

Baby number one  had to leave and baby number two actually cried, looking around for his friend.

It was darling.

And instructive.

Do we take to strangers that easily?  Do we smile and wave across a table?  Are we willing to make friends with people we’ve never met?

Somehow, I think we’d be a little better off if we could all be like those babies: smiling, cooing and (for me) spooning up the last of our hot fudge cakes.

This time, it started with Elphaba.  You know Elphaba, don’t you?  Elphaba Thropp?  Green of skin, black of clothing and just a little bit “Wicked”?

See, “Wicked” is my favorite musical.  Ever.  Of all time.  Future generations are going to have to work hard to come up with something to surpass it. (And yes, I have the book and know that my musical isn’t REALLY how Gregory Maguire imagined Oz, but just LISTEN to “I’m Not That Girl” or “As Long As You’re Mine” and then tell me how far fetched it all is.)

“Wicked” is so good, in fact, that I’ve seen it three times.  This is a record for me.  Besides the ever popular, always around performances of “The Sound of Music”, I’ve never seen any musical more than once.

So, when I saw that it was coming to Nashville this fall, I was excited.  Galinda.  Fiyero. Nessarose.  ELPHABA.  Just a few hours away.  Wouldn’t it be exciting?  I could listen to my soundtrack.  I could bone up on my songs.  I could pretend to Defy Gravity.  “Wicked” IS, after all, the best musical EVER.

I forgot I can’t drive.  I forgot that I’m married to a wonderfully sweet, generous man who HATES MUSICALS.

HE doesn’t think “Wicked” is the best show ever.  HE doesn’t care about seeing Elphaba again.  HE is not going to shell out money for the tickets.

The answer was no.

The answer remains no.
And so it began.

This time.

See, I’ve known that I’m depressed for years.

I can’t tell you when it began.

There are stories of overwhelmed grandmothers and great aunts in hospitals.  There are incidents of the women in my family being unable to leave their beds.  There are drawn curtains and homes left unrung with the sound of the laughter of friends.

But for me.  For me, it probably began with adolescence.

I know, I know, I’m a walking cliche.

Blame the hormones.

Blame the move to another continent.

Blame the introduction of junior high school popularity contests.

Whatever it was, I got it.  My diary entries (which are probably filled with oh so ordinary teenage problems now that I look back on them) speak of headaches.  Many many headaches.

Eventually the headaches gave way to naps.

Naps gave way to withdrawal.

And withdrawal…? Well we’re still gestating on that.

While we’re gestating, the clouds are circling.  Anything can cause them.

A friend suddenly begins backing out of a relationship?  There comes a little puff of wind.

Someone breaks plans only to dine with another couple? The first little patter begins to fall.

My name is called in the exact same inflection as it had been during childhood sessions of “What did you screw up NOW?” The sky begins to darken and the thunder announces its presence.

I try to help a customer or take over a new task only to be told that someone else will be performing said service because I would only mess it up anyway?  KA-BOOM.

The little group I sometimes hang out with used to call me a “social butterfly” because I was always making plans to go somewhere.

It’s true, I suppose.  I don’t like being in the house if I can help it.  Kenny keeps it dark.  Kenny doesn’t mess with the temperature.  But mostly, THERE ARE NO PEOPLE THERE.

My phone doesn’t ring.  My bell doesn’t chime.  I’m not what you would call “popular”.

It’s my fault, I suppose.

I can be curt.  I can be weird.  How many other people do you know who have to leave stores at the mall because the music makes them cry?

I don’t like talking on the phone.  It makes me twitchy.  I can’t read facial expressions and I’m too poorly able to read nuance to really be able to tell what the other party is saying.

I tend to talk about myself. ALOT.  If I’m not talking about myself, I’m talking about Kenny.  I try to be a kind, empathetic person, but sometimes I come across as cold and uncaring. At best, I appear disinterested.  At worst, I’m perceived as egotistical.

And don’t even get me started on my compulsions.  I drive my husband crazy with my inability to “take a break”.  I either have to see a task through or not start it at all.

I’m constantly washing my hands.

I can’t leave a doll in a face down position and all toys have to be neatly put away before I’ll leave the preschool area.

I’m strange.  I’m weird.

I’m more alone than I’m not.

It hurts of course, but I don’t know how to change it.

I don’t know how to MAKE the phone ring with party invitations.

I don’t know how to go back in time and teach my husband how to stand the summer months so that somewhere between my “Touch me, hold me, love me, PLEASE” and his “People born to Depression Era babies don’t show physical affection and besides, can’t you feel how hot and sticky it is today?” we can find SOME kind of happy medium.

I don’t know how to talk myself into staying in a crowded area without the panic that the massive amounts of people will somehow…okay, who am I kidding?  It’s not the people, it’s the strangers.

I’m friendly.  I really am.  I like people.  For the most part, I LOVE my church friends and shop customers.  I like hearing people’s stories and living vicariously through their adventures.

But I’ve been told over and over again that people don’t like me.   Er…okay, no one has ever said those exact words, but the implications are there.  “Don’t ask so many questions.”  “You get too personal too fast.”  “Can’t you just let people BE?”

So, I’m scared of strangers.  The people closest to me seem to make…allowances?  adjustments?

I’m often treated as if I’m a child or some sort of pet.

Jobs are done before I can get to them.

Remarks are explained away as being just my “way”.

I have translators and explainers and it’s just easier to play with the preschoolers rather than having to try and make my way through yet another conversation. It’s easier to play with paints and colors and posterboard, with puppets and music and dances than to face ANOTHER social situation that ends in my inevitable mockery.
And my heart grows dimmer and dimmer as I hide it away.

And the clouds circle.

And I join the long line of women in my family who can’t get out of bed.

Even for my babies.

*******************************************

It’s not always like this, of course.  I have a good life.

The first ten nightmare years of our marriage are behind us and we’re doing so much better.

I have three classes at church that I love and I get to learn new songs, new slang and new missionary techniques.

I have wonderful customers at the shop, some of whom even greet me with a hug.

Nothing’s wrong.  Not really.

Nothing’s wrong enough to take to my bed for.

The migraines are fading.  The hormones are lessoning.

I have the occasional lunch with the girls and movie date with the husband.

But the clouds still circle.

My phone doesn’t ring.

My last three therapists have moved out of state, one after the other.

I’m terrified to make a move on anything out of my “comfort zone” for fear of harming some customer’s important documents.

Nothing’s wrong.  Not really.

Kenny says I’m fine.  He says we’re busy anyway.  We work afternoons and evenings.  Church is enough, we don’t need other people.

But it hurts.

It hurts to be a joke.

It hurts to be a failure.

It hurts…right now it hurts…to be me.

*****************************************
In my dreams, of course, I’m Supergirl.

I clean up messes.

I set things right.

I’m fun.

I’m charming.

I’m beautiful.

I’m not real.

Because really, right now what I am is hurt.

And broken.

And withdrawn.

And always, ever

Alone.

As some of you may know, aside from -Pop Up Video-, my favorite non fiction show is the interview program known as -Inside the Actor’s Studio-.  (Yes, we can debate the “facts” on -Pop Up Video- as being true or not, but that is for another post.)  -Inside the Actor’s Studio- is actually the culmination of a series of classes taken by aspiring artists working on graduate degrees in everything from script writing to stage acting.  An established actor (or ensemble, as in the case of “The Cast of -The Simpsons-”) spends four hours or so being questioned by the Dean of The Actors Studio.  Topics range from “What elementary school did you attend?” to “Why did you agree to be in that music video?” The four hour session is edited down to one (or two in the case of Robin Williams) and aired on the Bravo channel.

I have always wanted to be interviewed like that.  I used to want to be on -This is Your Life- but a)It’s not on anymore (how many of you reading this even know what program I’m talking about?) and b) I don’t like surprises all that much.  I mean, would I REALLY want my first grade teacher appearing in public to talk about what a brat I was?  I don’t think so.

I do, however, love to talk about myself.  I’m not a complete egocentric, but I am my favorite subject (Poor Toby Keith would have written “I Wanna Talk About ME” much earlier if I had been in his life).  The chances of me being on national television (not a star, not famous, not the crime committing type-too scared of the police) are slim to none.  But I do have this blog.  And it is my birthday.

So (not that you asked) here are the answers to some of the questions asked on one of my favorite shows.  Imagine me fidgiting around on a chair and someone at a table with a pile of blue cards in front of them.

WHERE WERE YOU BORN?

The short answer is that I was born in Alabama.  The longer answer is that I was born in Decatur, Alabama.  My parents were living in Moulton at the time and that is where I lived for my first two years.

WHAT WAS/IS YOUR FATHER’S NAME AND WHAT DID/DOES HE DO?

My father is Stephen Frederic Hall.  The “Stephen” is where my “Stephanie” comes from.  My dad has been a minister of all kinds of things (education, singles, youth, senior adults) but his main title is “Minister of Music”.  Some churches call this position  a “Choir Director” and some label it a “Worship Leader”.  Daddy plans the hymns, arranges the solos, leads some of the small groups, teaches some of the Bible Study Classes, takes the Senior Adults on “Mystery Trips”, picks out the cantatas for Christmas and Easter and sometimes introduces special guests from other churches.  He’s written his own songs and has dabbled in writing stories as well.

WHAT WAS/IS YOUR MOTHER’S NAME AND WHAT DOES/DID SHE DO?

My mother is Claudia Rose Estes Hall, from Dickson, Tennessee. (The “Rose” in “Stephanie Rose Hall Sims” is in honor of her.  I love my name.)   Her degree is in kindergarten through eighth grade education, but she has mostly worked in preschool, kindergarten and first grade.  She has supervised field trips, taught low functioning kids how to read and write (she is especially interested in early childhood reading), fallen in love with Disney characters while searching for “clean” movies and heroes to introduce her children to, shocked her classroom by appearing in places such as Wal*Mart and Pizza Hut (teachers don’t REALLY live behind their desks, you know), explored pumpkin patches and petting zoos, watched caterpillars become butterflies and sung “I’m gonna be a part of it/First Grade/FIRST GRADE!”.

WHAT ELEMENTARY SCHOOL (S) DID YOU ATTEND?

First I went to Caldwell.  It was sort of down the street from us when we lived in Alabama.  Across the street was a playground that, when I was little, I thought of as “mine”.  I was apparently upset when fall rolled around, classes resumed and “my” playground was invaded by the big kids.

I don’t remember much about my academic life in Alabama.  I know I met a dark haired, dark eyed beauty named Beth whom I now call “Beth From Alabama” who taught me “When I Survey The Wondrous Cross” in sign language.  I learned to write in cursive and wanted to write “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious” on everything. I also did a report on the state of Idaho, but I wouldn’t be able to tell you anything about it now.
After Alabama, we moved to Tennessee.  We lived in Sweetwater and I attended Brown.  At Brown, I learned such poems as “Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening” and passages from the Psalms.  My friends and I acted out scenes from “The Three Investigators” on the playground.  I believe I was someone named Bob since he had glasses.  In a couple of classes, I was allowed to read some of my little stories out loud.  My favorite was about Joan of Arc.  I loved  writing about Joan of Arc.
At one of the schools (I can’t remember which), I had a teacher who read us a chapter of the Bible and a chapter of a novel before class began.  It was an introduction to Trixie Beldon and her friends which I couldn’t get enough of.  Years later, when e-bay came around, I had Kenny get the Trixie Beldon books for me.  I still have them on a shelf.

DO YOU HAVE ANY SIBLINGS?

I have a brother, Clayton Frederic Hall.  I was three and a half when he was born (also in Decatur).  I recommend that all ministers who might be moving from one church, one missionfield, to another have more than one child.  Clay was the only kid I knew during my times of being “the new girl”.  We bonded over songs we learned (”You Get A Line And I’ll Get A Pole, Honey” comes to mind), pop stars (Madonna was in her early stages at that time and there was that band who sang the word “Highway” over and over) and games (though he had much more patience with Monopoly than I ever will have).  Clay was the outgoing one and I was content to let him do the talking.  He was my buddy, my “Bubby”, my partner in crime and I was lucky enough to be along for the ride.

WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE WORD?

I don’t know if I have one, really.  The ones I use the most are “Anyway…” and “Hey Babe?”  The former is used when I want to return to a previous topic.  The latter is when we’re at work and I want my husband/boss to do something for me or explain something to me.

WHAT IS  YOUR LEAST FAVORITE WORD?

I have two: The word is “later”.  The phrase is “Let’s take a break”.  To me, both mean “Whatever it is you want to do (or whatever it is that we are doing) we are about to stop/halt/never get back to/never start/leave unfinished.” Both of these raise my hackles instantly.

WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE SMELL? (Note: This is not something that James Lipton asks, but he should.)
Apple Cinnamon, Mint Chocolate, Lemon Zest…but not all at once.

WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE SOUND?

My cat purring.  She’s usually up and investigating something (or jumping on counters that she shouldn’t be jumping on) so I love it when she sits in my lap and watches TV with me.  I also like when my husband’s phone says “Droid” at random times.  It always makes me laugh.

WHAT IS YOUR LEAST FAVORITE SOUND?

Animals yelping in pain.  Even if an animal is “the enemy” in a TV show or movie, when it yelps, I cry.  This doesn’t, however, explain why I won’t read animal BOOKS.  There are no sounds in those.

WHAT PROFESSION (OTHER THAN YOUR OWN) WOULD YOU LIKE TO TRY?

I have decided that my dream profession is to be the research assistant to a traveling professor.  That way, I can see the world.  I can learn interesting facts.  I can be nosy.  But I DON”T have to be responsible for compiling any of the facts.

I’d also like to be a professional doll.  Not a doll like a toy.  But someone who lets other people mess with her clothes, hair and make up.  I like to be played with.  I just don’t like to put anything together myself.  Though I do like the color blue.
WHAT PROFESSION WOULD YOU NOT LIKE TO TRY?

I wouldn’t want to have anything to do with math.  But what I would really not like was a job in which I was responsible for any important outcomes  of people’s lives.  I couldn’t be a doctor, for example.  I couldn’t be a teacher.  I couldn’t work in insurance.  I couldn’t be a clown and be the reason little kids have nightmares.  I couldn’t…well, you get the idea.

WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE CURSE  WORD?

Well, besides that brief “Bad Bad Leroy Brown” period, I’ve mostly made up my own language of anger and frustration.  When my husband half irks and half amuses me, I say “silly rabbit” (yes, I totally ripped that off of Twix).  When I haven’t been at work in a while and someone has misfiled an invoice I say “Work with me, people” or “Come ON, you guys!”

When I was younger, I would say “Frudabaga!”  And as children my brother and I would call each other “You Noun” because we had learned that it meant “Person, Place or Thing”.

But mostly I just hiss “Shoot Fire”, prompting whomever is nearest me to declare me “country”.  Well, I’m part Alabama, part Tennessee, part Kentucky.  I don’t reckon I have a choice.

IF HEAVEN EXISTS WHAT DO YOU WANT GOD TO SAY WHEN YOU REACH THE PEARLY GATES?

First of all, people, heaven is real.  As is hell.  God is love, but there IS a division as to where we will spend eternity.

As to what I hope God will say?  Well, there is a song called “This One’s With Me” that expresses my thoughts on the subject perfectly.

Look it up.  You’ll be glad you did.

So some of “my” kids are now high school graduates. In honor of this (these?) life transitions, I have decided to compile some of my not so hard earned wisdom.

Take it, leave it, read it, ignore it. Some of this is from my experience, some from my parents, some from my husband and some from Oprah, America’s advice guru.

So, here goes:

Ahem. Attention, Attention. Today you become a man.

No, that isn’t quite right.

Let’s try again.

Well, now you are an adult.  At least in the eyes of the world.  You may feel like the same kid, look like the same kid, even smell like the same kid that you were just last week, but you are now an adult.  A grown up.

Congratulations!  You made it.

But what does being “an adult” mean?

Besides picking up after your own puppy, planning your own meals and paying your own bills, what nuggets of wisdom should you take with you into your new life?

Well, it’s like this:

It’s a little bit of trial and error, a little bit of common sense and a whole lot of discovering for yourself just where you fit in.

You are going, for example, to discover that not everyone likes you.  Some people will seem to dislike you for no reason.  You may not have ever talked to said disliker and they bear a grudge anyway.  There is nothing that you can do about these people.  They have already made up their minds.  Forget about them and go hang out with your friends.  Your friends are generally more fun.  And if they aren’t, you need new friends.
One thing that may surprise you about being a grown up is that you are sometimes going to be lonely.  You may have a mom, a dad, a boyfriend or girlfriend, a best friend for life, twelve dogs and two cats AND the most adoring fan club ever and you are still sometimes going to be lonely.  This doesn’t have to be a bad thing.  Lonely times can be creative times.  Take a walk.  Paint a picture.  Run a mile.  Soak in a bubble bath.  Loneliness can be a time of figuring things out.  Don’t be afraid of it.  It will be okay.

Figuring things out will also be a huge component of  your life.  If you are lucky, you will never stop learning.  Don’t be afraid to try new things.  Go out to dinner alone.  Read a book you never would have considered before.  Learn to count to ten in another language.

Don’t put labels on yourself.  You don’t have to be “the smart one” or “the pretty one” or “the funny one”.  Life is big.  Don’t be afraid to be big with it.

Learn the value of waiting.  Be sure and wait for a response when talking with other people.  Give people time to think. You don’t like to be interrupted.  Neither does anyone else.
Don’t just talk to your friends.  There was a news program a few years ago that featured a reporter throwing a dart at a map of the US.  The reporter then traveled to whatever town the dart landed on and featured everyday people and their stories.  Everyone has a story to tell.  Be one of the people who takes the time to listen.

It really is nice to be nice.  It makes you feel good and it helps the people around you.  Really, what does it cost to share your candy bar or to help someone pick up their dropped packages or to hold open a door?  Are you really in too big of a hurry to say “please” or “thank you”?  Remember, you might just be the person who makes someone’s day.

Don’t be afraid to say yes.  Teach a class of small children.  Bake your grandmother a birthday cake.  Sew your best friend a dress. Kick a soccer ball.  Take your neighbor to the doctor.  Do something you’ve never thought of yourself as doing before.  So what if it isn’t “your thing”?  You might discover a passion or hobby or talent that you otherwise might not have known about.

Once you say yes, however, take responsibility for your choices.  So you don’t like your class of small children? You never want to see another soccer ball?  Don’t quit.  Wait until your semester/term/year ends, then do something else.  Honor your commitments.  No one likes unreliable people.

For God’s sake, learn to shut up.  If you can, try and see the world in a different way.  Is your job REALLY hell on earth?  Is there NOTHING good about your school?  Is your Pastor REALLY aiming all his sermons at you?

We all have “ThecatissickIburnedthedinnerandohnothecarwon’tstart” days.  That’s okay.  That’s life.  But if all you can talk about is your nasty co workers and horrible family and crummy boyfriends, you may have a problem.  Do people walk the other way when they see you coming?  Then the problem may be you.

You are not like everyone else.  You never will be.  It’s fun to occasionally wear the same shirt as your Best Friend and be (in the words of my nieces) “matchers”, but don’t dress for other people’s approval.  If you don’t like dresses, don’t wear a dress.  If you can’t stand your hair in your face, cut it, no matter how cute your girlfriend thinks it is long.

Do a good job at your job.  Very few of you are going to marry your boss, so be the best employee you can be.  If you are in a customer based industry, for example, it is rude to take a personal phone call while someone is standing at the counter.  If the garbage can is overflowing, don’t wait to be asked.  Take it out.  Take the initiative.  Look around.  There is usually something you can do.  And erase the phrase “That’s not my job” from your vocabulary.  We’re all in this together.  Let’s start acting like it.

Double check.  Proofread.  You aren’t going to catch every mistake, but being careful never hurt.

Your love doesn’t always look like everyone else’s love.  So your sister is having her third set of twins and your best friend just got engaged?  That is them.  That is not you.  Don’t be in a big rush to find “the one”.  Your romance is yours.  How sad it would be to settle for second best just because you were copying the people around you.

Say “Thank You”.  You aren’t all going to believe in God.  That is your right.  But  you should believe in something other than yourself.  And when you catch yourself transported by the beauty of a flower or the notes of a song or the cry of a baby, say “Thank You”.

And if you do believe in God, if you do consider yourself a Christian, try memorizing an old hymn or two.  You’d be surprised how much it helps to sing them when you are feeling all alone.

And finally, always ALWAYS double check your flushing in public restrooms.  Go back and look after you have washed your hands if you have to.  No one, no matter how polite, wants to see someone else’s “business”.  Be the kind of person who doesn’t leave yours.

I’ve been thinking about death lately.

Not horror death. Not like “oh, a new -Scream- is coming out and isn’t that why you hate garages because Rose McGowan got killed by one in one of the earlier movies?” More of a “Really? You’ve got to be kidding me!” kind of way.

See, one of my jobs is to proofread documents and fliers. Part of that is proofreading obituaries. Not the announcements that go in the paper. I don’t have THAT much power. Just the cards and bookmarks that find their way to the funeral home and are given to family and friends after someone dies.

I have decided that we have funerals for different reasons, one of which is to whitewash the deceased. For example, almost every single obituary I read has the line “and loved spending time with family and friends”. Or how about “had a smile for everyone (they) met”?

Yeah, right, okay.

It could be true, I suppose. It is easy to fake manners in public. But these things are (mostly) written by those who knew the honoree best.  Those who saw them at home, at church, in the garden.  And there is No Way someone can be that good all the time.

Well, okay, let me stop here.  We have had to do cards when infants die.  One was only a month old.  That I get.  The sappy poems and “our little angels” totally apply in that case.  I’m not saying that I believe babies to be angels, I’m saying I get it.  What are you supposed to say when your baby dies?  Bring on the flowery language.  Bring on the cute cherubs.  Bring on the references to heaven.  Totally. Understand.

But someone my age?  Someone older?  As much as I’d like to believe it is true, there is NO WAY every person who dies in Campbell County was always good.  Or kind.  Or church going.  Or saved, for that matter.

I want to rewrite the obituaries sometimes.  Or at least tell the writer to Get Real.

But I don’t.  You don’t do that to grieving people who are either

a) realizing that their wounds and biases won’t ever heal and their unkind words will never be taken back

or

b) missing their loved one so much that all the CAN see is the beauty

or

c) both

What I HAVE decided to do is help.

Now Kenny and Jennifer know not to let the song “Amazing Grace” anywhere NEAR my dead body and they know that bagpipes (and now kazoos) are forbidden, but we haven’t talked obituary yet.

(And for those of you literalists out there, no I am not ill.  I plan on living until my eighties.  This is just for fun.  And also a little bit of a reaction to sweet little poems that can be just plain stupid depending on how you are using them.)

So, Kenny, Jennifer and anyone else who might care, I present to you:

My Flaws

(don’t worry, we’ll end on virtues.  This is just to give you some material for a non or at least less sentimental funeral card)

okay, in no particular order, here we go:

1. I get defensive.  Just ACT like you are going to criticize me and I will attack faster than you can say “psychological mechanism”.  I also have a temper.  Over stupid things.  Seriously.  I am frequently mad at my hangers or the washing machine.  THE WASHING MACHINE.

2. Once I have formed an opinion or belief, it’s hard for me to let go.  For example, I don’t CARE if someone debunked the myth of Jesus and Judas in Da Vinci’s “Last Supper” being the same man.  I like the story and I will believe it always.  I also hold on to first impressions.  I once encountered someone in Wal Mart.  I could not remember who she was, but I knew that I somehow knew her.  I also knew I didn’t like her.  But for the life of me, I couldn’t remember why.  True story.

3. I’m a hypocrite. I can find reasons to justify almost anything I do (like missing church or being late to work) but I HATE to be stood up or kept waiting.

4. I’m not a great listener.  I like to talk and most of what I like to talk about concerns ME. (Cue Toby Keith here)  I can be very un empathetic too.  I try and see other people’s point of view, but I’m not very good at it.  Usually I’ll have formed an opinion of what someone should do before they even tell me their problem.  Usually I stick to that opinion AFTER they have told me their problem.

5. I’m depressed. A lot.  A lot a lot. I swear, I think I run a low grade depression just like some people run a low grade fever.  Clouds circle and I give in.  Most of the time, I don’t even TRY to fight.

Got it?  No “Amazing Grace”.  No sappy poems.  And don’t call me a saint or an angel.

If you MUST praise me, here are some virtues to focus on:

1. I love people.  If the clouds aren’t circling, I enjoy talking with people.  I like starting conversations and see where they lead.  I like discovering new connections and learning new things.

2. I can be stubborn.  If I set out to look for a lost hat, for example, then by Jingo, that hat better be good and lost if I can’t eventually find it.  Once I’ve decided to solve some mystery (little ones like crossword puzzles and missing earrings, not big crime cases-I’m not THAT brave), it’s hard for me to quit.  And I usually (eventually) find what I’m looking for.  Or at least a reasonable facsimile of it.

3. I like to help people.  Sometimes this involves more of Kenny’s money than he wants to spend but I generally like giving to charity or watching someone’s face when they get a present.  I also love the mission project parts of the classes I teach.  I love introducing my children to various needs and talking about ways I can meet them.

4. For the most part, people are people to me.  It doesn’t cost anything to wish someone a nice day or to share a smile.  I don’t generally think “Does this customer DESERVE me interrupting my counting out paper to get up and go see what they need?”  They are a customer.  I can help them or at least try.  Now, if a customer is stinky (that is not a figure of speech.  We really do have customers who actually do stink) and I can’t help them, I try to find a cheerful way to get what they need even as I am passing them off to a co worker.  People are people.  Why be mean?

I guess I want to be remembered as real.  Crazy?  Yes.  Asking stupid questions?  Sometimes.  Enjoyed spending time with family and friends?  Yeah, yeah I do.

But I’m also cranky and prone to depression.  I cry for no reason.  I get impatient.  I’m always late (especially for work.)  I take shameless advantage of my husband’s intelligence and ability to fix almost anything and hide behind being “Daddy’s Girl” especially when it comes to pancakes.

I’m judgmental.  I hold grudges. I think things about people that I would never say to their face because I’m a coward and don’t like confrontation.

But I can be kind.  And loving.  And helpful.  I like to sing and cuddle my cats and rock babies.  I read and read and sometimes write.  I like pretty colors and oversized sweaters and People Magazine.  I eat more chocolate than is good for me and I look forward to navel oranges at Christmas.

I adore my nieces and their brothers.  I adore MY brother.  I think my husband is the best thing that every happened to me and I would have no idea what to do if I actually did run into Johnny Depp.
I’m not all that special.  I’m really rather ordinary.

Please don’t canonize me.  You don’t even have to remember me at all, if you don’t want to.

But I swear, if you do and I hear any kind of bagpipe start to play, someone’s  in deep trouble!

When I was a freshman in college and just starting to understand how people could “on purpose” be cruel to others, my Resident Assistant told me “I’m sorry Stephanie but hurting people hurt people.”

I suppose this is true. I have read it, of course, being from a family that stocks up on tomes such as “What To Do When You Are An Apple Married to An Orange”, “How to Be Nice When You’re Feeling So Mean” and “Now That You Are Twelve, You Are Going To Be An Emotional, Hormonal Mess For the Next Few Years But That Is Okay, We’ll Get Through It Together”. I’ve been in therapy off and on since I was sixteen. I’ve read the books, listened to the programs and sat through the lectures.

Violence begets violence. Cruelty begets cruelty. A child that is not shown love does not know how to show love to others.

On some level, I even believe it. I’ve seen my two year old nephew try and walk like his father. I’ve been at the family reunions where we sang hymns just as our fore bearers did. I know that were I not my mother’s daughter, I would not clear the table while people are still eating and were I not Daddy’s Girl I would not be a terrible dining companion, obsessed as I am with identifying every song that comes over the sound system.

So yes, I believe that children learn what they are taught.  But I’m also starting to believe that people have choices.  To speak or not to speak.  To share or not to share.  To model or not to model.  People should stop.  People should think.  People can choose.

But we don’t, do we?  We go ahead and miss the meetings.  We blurt out the insults.  We utter in the privacy of our homes things that we would never want strangers to hear us say, much less those whom we love the most.

I was reminded of this truth recently while watching “The Commish”.  I’ve been using  Netflix and Hulu lately as a way of reliving parts of my past TV landscape and have already gone through  “Full House”, “Jem” and “21 Jump Street”.  I was wary about starting “The Commish” because I couldn’t remember how much gunplay there was (after all, the same actor was in “The Shield” and we all know how THAT turned out).  I needn’t have worried.  The police work is there, yes, but the loving relationship between Police Commissioner Tony Scali and his wife Rachel is there as well.

In an episode I watched (re watched?) recently, Rachel’s father has come back into town, promising to take her to the circus.  He was on the road as Rachel was growing up and had never taken the time to have that special Daddy/Daughter experience.  As the episode draws to a close, Rachel’s father once again is “on the road” missing the promised trip.  “Why do I believe he’d change?” Rachel asks her husband.  “He does this every time.  Why do I always believe he’s changed?”

Tony didn’t have an answer.  Neither do I.  I have a “Rachel’s Father” in my life too.  Perhaps everyone does.  My particular model swooped into my growing up experiences with lessons such as “You’re ugly the way you are.  You must follow these steps to be more pleasing to people.”, “You’ll never amount to anything in life.  You can’t do anything right, so you might as well stop trying.” and “You probably never should have been born.  All you are is trouble.”

These lessons weren’t an every day occurrence, but  they came often enough.  And they are still there. When I try and sing a song I’ve never sung before, there goes “You can’t do anything right, so you might as well not do anything at all.”  When I actually try and put on make up, I hear “No one will ever like you.  You’re so ugly with that hair and those clothes.”

“You shouldn’t have been born.” “No one will ever love you.”  “Why can’t you do anything right?”  “You’re ugly. Ugly. Ugly.”

I see my “Rachel’s Father” every so often and talk to them more than that.  Now that I am grown our relationship has smoothed out some.  I’m married.  I teach classes.  I sing solos.  I obviously HAVE done things and (some) people DO like me.  In that respect, my “Rachel’s Father” has changed.  The venom isn’t there.  Neither are the words.  We are cordial, civil, even loving at times.  I suppose I’m expected to be quiet, to go with the flow.  Looking at us from the outside, few would believe the words were said anyway, so what is the point of dredging up any unpleasantness now?
But the hurt is still there.  Hurting people hurt people, remember?

And they do.  My relationship with “Rachel’s Father” impacts my relationship with my husband.  I become especially sensitive before planned visits, even developing physical…well, not symptoms but I can’t eat or sleep or breathe well at times.  It impacts my relationship with my classes.  There are things I’d like to say, to do, to teach but I can’t…or won’t because the fear of failure is stronger than the fear of trying.  There are songs I won’t sing, lessons I won’t approach, skits I won’t write because I’m afraid. “What’s the point of trying when you are only going to screw it up in the end?”
It impacts my relationship with the world around me.  There are times when I won’t venture out of the house alone, even to do things I wish to do.  The college, for example, has a pool.  I love swimming.  The college is no far from my house.  But will I walk over to dip in the water?  No I will not.  I can barely walk alone to the church up the street.  There is no way I could venture solo down the road.  “You’re worthless.  You’re ugly.  You can’t do anything right.”

The hardest part of all, however, is the impact my relationship with “Rachel’s Father” has on my relationship with God.  See I’m a minister’s kid.  So I’ve heard all kinds of sermons, read all kinds of homilies, attended all kinds of meetings.  Some of what I’ve heard, I’ve agreed with. Some I haven’t.  I don’t for example, believe that anyone is out of the reach of God’s love.  God is love.  God loves us.  Period.

God, however, is holy.  Sin is not.  And this is where my relationship with “Rachel’s Father” and my relationship with God intersect. I’m not quite sure what the sin is.  Is it my inability to forget the hurtful words and forge ahead in peace and harmony?  Is it holding on to a grudge and not being able to let go?  Is it the fact that I keep saying I have forgiven people but every time I am expected to see them begin to whine “I don’t want to! I don’t want to!”?

Whatever the case, I’m sinning.  And part of me is choosing to sin.  Hurting people hurt…themselves?

For it is hurting me.  I believe that God cannot look on sin.  So, if we sin and knowingly have unconfessed sin, is there really any point in praying?  Will God even be able to hear us?  Will any of the “bless Mommy and Daddy and the missionaries” make it past the ceiling?  Or will our words just float away in a cloud of good intentions yet hardened hearts.

I haven’t hardened my heart.  I don’t want to.  I’m not Pharaoh telling Moses to work a miracle in the throne room.  I’m just hurt.  And confused.  And lonely.

I’ve never had the kind of “God is my friend” kind of relationship that other people have.  God and I aren’t “buddy buddy”.  We aren’t “pals”.  Don’t get me wrong.  I don’t picture myself trying to impress some man with a white beard and wrinkled face.  God’s not my Santa Claus.  But He’s not my “homey” either.

Hurting people hurt people.  Hurting people hurt people who can’t pray.

And it hurts.  I’m sad.  I usually go to sleep saying my prayers.  I miss that.  I miss Him.

I know it’s not “Rachel’s Father’s” fault in entirety.   I could pray.  I could confess.  But I’m not sure how.  I don’t know what to say.  How do I say “I won’t feel this way again” when I’m  not sure that that isn’t a lie?  I don’t know that I won’t feel this way again.  I have to see “Rachel’s Father” sometimes.   The anger is lessening.  I’m understanding more about why people say what they say when they say it.  I’m clearer as to the psychology of “teach a child how to speak cruelty and they will indeed be cruel.”

What I’m not clear on is the whole “Our Father” of it all.  Do I ask God to take away the hurt when I’m not sure that I want that?  Couldn’t the hurt be protecting me somehow?  Isn’t the memory of it keeping me from saying those very things to someone else?  What is taking away the hurt takes away my empathy?  What if taking away the anger takes away the distance I’ve put around my heart and I end up even more broken than before?  Who would reconstruct me then?

Hurting people hurt people.

Hurting people hurt others.

Hurting people can’t sleep.

Hurting people can’t pray.

I miss Him though.  That’s the worst of it.  We’ve been together since I was five.  Not talking to Him is killing me.

I will.  Eventually the pain of separation will be too great and I’ll have to say -something-, even if it’s “I don’t wanna lie to you but I don’t know what else to do.”  He’s there.  That I know.

But oh how I wish Hurting People could keep their big fat mouths shut.

At least around me.

I was, let’s say, around six when the sweet little spy show -Hart to Hart- premiered. Being so young, I have no idea if I actually watched the Harts in the early ’80’s or just caught up with them in reruns but somehow, their jet setting attitude, fabulous adventures and beautiful lifestyle caught my attention. And their names.

Oh their names.

Jonathan Hart

Jennifer Hart

Hart to Hart

In my playtime, I was something exotic like Katerina or Mercedes (Mercedes Lane, to be exact), but when I planned out my life (and oh how I planned out my life), the names I always, always chose for my future children were theirs.

It was going to go like this: I was going to meet my future husband at eighteen

I was going to marry him at twenty

I was going to have my first child (a boy) at twenty two

My second child (a girl) would be born during my twenty fourth year

And then somewhere along the way, I would adopt boy/girl twins whom I didn’t bother to name because I figured they would already have some

I didn’t take into account any kind of education (very few people have graduated from any sort of higher learning by their twentieth year) or profession (I was going to be a stay at home mom) or the fact that I could not (and still can’t) cook or sew.

I didn’t take into account that my future husband might have other ideas, and he did. I met him at seventeen. I didn’t begin dating him until twenty. And he wouldn’t marry me until I was a graduate.

I didn’t take much of anything into account, to be honest. I was going to have -Pachabel’s Canon- in my wedding. I was going to have a cute little house with a nice yard out back. And I was going to have my Jonathan. And my Jennifer.

The music I got.  The house came a few years later.  The yard?  Well, out back is a steep bank that WOULD be a nice yard if it were flat, but there is a grassy area on either side should the desire to play ever overcome us.

Jonathan Frederic and Jennifer Rose?

Well, it’s like this: At first, our marriage was a disaster.  I am still very much a princess, but at twenty three I was nothing but a selfish, selfish…well, brat.  I didn’t want to be around my parents because they took away from my “Me and Kenny time”.  I didn’t wanna be around Kenny’s parents because his dad smoked and I would spend the first part of every week sick…and milking it.  Kenny was both taking and teaching classes and I spent a lot of time alone in our trailer, mad and bored.  I could have made cards for a nursing home.  I could have baked cookies for the Homeless Shelter.  I could have done a million things, but I was selfish and stupid.

And God, in his infinite wisdom, saw that me being a mother in my early twenties would have resulted in a screwed up me, a screwed up Kenny and a badly screwed up kid.

And there were no babies.

Then came the deaths.  His mother, my grandmother, great grandparents, aunts and uncles.  Our first five years were part confusion and grief and part wondering when the other shoe was going to drop.

And, mad as I was that I had no children, I can look back now and be grateful that there were no babies.

Today however?

There are still no babies.

Oh, don’t get me wrong.  There are babies.  There are the five most beautiful, adorable, talented kids in the world, but they are my brother’s, not mine.  There are the hugs I claim every Sunday from my “weren’t you little just a couple of weeks ago?/why are you growing up so fast?” two year old class, but they aren’t mine either.  Not really.

There is no Jonathan.

There is no Jennifer.

No little boy who is doomed to wear glasses because there is nearsightedness on both sides of the family.

No little girl with my songs and her father’s dark hair that curls the longer it gets.

I’m thirty six now.  Kenny’s a decade older.  We’re calmer.  We’re somewhat wiser.  We’re not as angry, not as crazy and much more in love.

But there are no babies.

And I want to be Hannah.  I want to be faithful in my belief.  I want to be persistent in my prayers.  I want to love God more than I desire a family.

I’m not Hannah, however.  I never have been.

I’m calmer.  I’m wiser.  I can see patterns emerging that I never thought I would.

But I’m still Rachel.  Remember Rachel?  Beautiful but childless?  Loved but barren?  Crazy jealous?

I’m not beautiful.  I have no idea if I’m barren.  But the crazy part?  The jealousy chapter?  I’m right there with her.

The screaming of “Give me children or I shall die”?  Been there.  Not to my husband, but to my God.

God who has blessed me with a man so much more faithful than I deserve, so much more wonderful than I could have planned for.

God who has given me children in class after class for so long that some of them are out of college now with marriages of their own.

God who has loved me through the crazies and the tears and the heartbreaks.

God

God knows I’m Rachel.

But he also knows my heart and how I long to be like Hannah.  Faithful, gentle, promise keeping Hannah.

He’s seen me through the past thirteen years of this mixed up marriage.  He’ll see me through the thirteen after that.  And the thirteen after that.

And He’ll hold me.  And He’ll love me.  And He’ll meet my needs.

Even if I never have my babies.

But I hope He knows how sad I’ll be if that never happens.

And how much I don’t want to have to give up that part of the dream.

Not now.

Not ever.

I drive Kenny crazy in many ways. I almost never go a day without singing a snippet of something or other. I leave hair everywhere. I insist on picking up the cats and carrying them around as if they were babies. I don’t like sandwiches, so I am classified as “hard to feed”.

The thing that most annoys him, however, is the fact that I cannot sit still while watching Television.  When I’m by myself I’ll flip channels, fold laundry, feed the cats, do dishes, read what is on the guide or other fidgity type activities.  I try to curb these tendencies while with Kenny, but I still do enough wiggling around to prompt him to snap “sit down” several times a night.

Recently, I found myself alone in the house and engaged in pushing buttons on the remote.  Our television has an option in which the viewer can access a guide, letting them know what is coming up in the next week or so.  “Brimstone” I thought to myself, noticing a show on the Thriller channel that I had never heard of.  “Brimstone sounds interesting.”

I discovered that -Brimstone- was interesting.  Centering on Ezekeiel Stone, a detective who began to self destruct after the rape of his wife, -Brimstone- raised several thought provoking issues.  In the first episode, it is established that Detective Stone was let out of hell as Satan’s personal bounty hunter.  He was tasked with recapturing 113 escaped souls in exchange for something which at the moment I can’t remember.

Bounty Hunters from Hell don’t fit into my personal theology, but -Brimstone- as a show raised some interesting questions.  One of Detective Stone’s first “cases”, for example, was a woman killed while seeking revenge for terrible violence that she endured.  She was brutalized and victimized, earning sympathy in -Brimstone’s- mythology, but the moment she became vengeful, she became a lost soul.

It’s been several weeks since Kenny and I watched that episode and I’m still thinking about it.  In the world that I have created for myself, I too am a victim.  I have been betrayed by people I trusted, hurt by people I loved, lied to by people who swore that they would tell only the truth.  True, I have never been brutalized, but my heart has been broken and I have lost much of what was once precious to me.

In the world I live in, however, none of my heartbreaks and disappointments much matter.  We are all victims, it seems.  We have all been betrayed and let down.  We have all been trampled on and lied to.  The hurt is common.  It’s what we do with it that matters.

This is where the title of my post comes in.  See, I hear excuses every day.  “If he hadn’t…” “I told you to…”  “She didn’t hold up her end of the bargain…” Someone else’s fault.  Somebody else’s responsiblity. 

“You made me mad.”

“The Democrats (or the Republicans) are the reason I can’t get a job”

“My alarm didn’t go off and that is why I am late.”

“The picture caught my eye and I just wanted to take a quick look.”

“You…she…it…he…they.”

In the world of -Brimstone-, these things don’t matter.  It doesn’t matter that you were mugged.  It doesn’t matter that your family was decimated by genocide.  It doesn’t matter that you fell prey to the worst kinds of evil that men can dream up.  In that world, just because you wear the title of “victim”, it doesn’t mean that you can become an avenger.

In any world, this lesson is hard to remember.  It is far easier to “get the last word” or “give him back his own” or wall up our hearts and vow to never love again than it is to take a deep breath, pull up our bootstraps and march forward.

Sobriety is a hard concept.  In all worlds, -Brimstone’s- fictional United States, the kingdom that I have constructed in my imagination and in the world in which you and I live, we humans would rather be ruled by our passions.  Taking responsiblilty  (without making excuses) is something that we talk around but find almost impossible to actually live out.  We, like the terrorized young girl calling for vengence on her tormenters, want our pound of flesh and then some.

It’s normal.  It’s common.  It’s HUMAN.  We all do it, but it doesn’t make it right.  This New Year, let’s try to change the pattern, hold the line, stem the tide.  Let’s stand up.  Let’s offer fewer excuses.  Let’s stop our whining.  Let’s not put ourselves first.  Let’s make someone else’s rights a priority for a change.

It’s hard.  It’s unnatural.  It makes us feel uncomfortable in our own skins.

But let’s try.  Let’s put on our Big Girl panties.

And let’s see if we can’t just make all of our worlds better.

I will make an actual entry soon, I promise. But for now, enjoy this snippet I stole from a prayer list I am subscribed to:

The year is 1910
One hundred years ago.
What a difference a century makes!
Here are some statistics for the Year 1910:
************ ********* ************
The average life expectancy for men was 47 years.
Fuel for a car was sold in drug stores only.
Only 14 percent of the homes had a bathtub.
Only 8 percent of the homes had a telephone.
There were only 8,000 cars and only 144 miles of paved roads.
The maximum speed limit in most cities was 10 mph.
The tallest structure in the world was the Eiffel Tower.
The average US wage in 1910 was 22 cents per hour.
The average US worker made between $200 and $400 per year .
A competent accountant could expect to earn $2000 per year,
A dentist $2,500 per year, a veterinarian between $1,500 and $4,000 per year, and a mechanical engineer about $5,000 per year.
More than 95 percent of all births took place at HOME .
Ninety percent of all Doctors had NO COLLEGE EDUCATION!
Instead, they attended so-called medical schools, many of which
Were condemned in the press AND the government as ’substandard.’
Sugar cost four cents a pound.
Eggs were fourteen cents a dozen.
Coffee was fifteen cents a pound.
Most women only washed their hair once a month, and used Borax or egg yolks for shampoo.
Canada passed a law that prohibited poor people from entering into their country for any reason.
The Five leading causes of death were:
1. Pneumonia and influenza
2. Tuberculosis
3. Diarrhea
4. Heart disease
5. Stroke
The American flag had 45 stars …..
The population of Las Vegas , Nevada , was only 30.
Crossword puzzles, canned beer, and iced tea hadn’t been invented yet.
There was no Mother’s Day or Father’s Day.
Two out of every 10 adults couldn’t read or write and
Only 6 percent of all Americans had graduated from high school..
Marijuana, heroin, and morphine were all available over the counter at the local corner drugstores.
Back then pharmacists said, ‘Heroin clears the complexion, gives buoyancy to the mind,
Regulates the stomach and bowels, and is, in fact, a perfect guardian of health’

Eighteen percent of households had at least one full-time servant or domestic help …..
There were about 230 reported murders in the United States.

What do you think it will be like a hundred years from -now-?

 (Thanks to Pastor for introducing me to the following poem.)

“He drew a circle that shut me out

Heretic, rebel, a thing to flout

 But love and I had the wit to win;

We drew a circle that took him in.” -  

 –  Edwin Markham

If you know me at all, you know two basic things about me.  One is that I pretty much carry a book everywhere.  Even if I am in a situation where I’m not going to be reading, I usually have a book with me.  Daddy once had to pull over during a road trip to get a book from the trunk.  I had finished the one I was reading and was not acting very ladylike without something else to read.  Books are pretty much to me what a thumb and blanket are to Linus.  I’m almost never without one.

The other thing about me that is pretty apparant pretty quickly is that I talk.  I don’t just talk, I talk all the time.  Mama says that when I was little, I would babble to myself in my crib.  No one was around but me and the toys, but there I was…talking without real words.

I do that, you know.  Talk.  And because I talk, you may get the impression that I can’t keep secrets.

In that you’d be right.  And in that you’d be wrong.

If I’m told something is a secret, I can keep it.  For example, in February of my junior year of college, Kenny told me that he was going to propose in July but only if I didn’t tell anybody.  It was the longest half year of my life.  That one, I kept.  Generally, though, if I know something, I tell it.  If I’m in a conversation with someone and a third party walks up, I like to recap the conversation so everyone knows what’s going on.  If there is a detail that I have gotten wrong, I’ll often go back and have the conversation again, letting people know what I’ve misquoted or mistaken.

I’ve thought a lot about why I do this.  Other people are fine with keeping the things in their head…in..well their head.  I however, cause my mother to say “If Stephanie doesn’t tell you everything she knows (about a subject), she thinks she is lying.”

Maybe I like attention.  Maybe I like the sound of my own voice.  Maybe I can’t stand for a room to be silent.

I think though, that this…need…to have everyone included, no one left out comes from some of the schools I attended.  I was too…uncoordinated, pale, literature minded, slow at getting inside jokes, something to be a part of much of anything “groupy” or “inside” or “popular”.  So I can’t stand it when I get even a hint of someone being confused or excluded or not knowing what is going on.

This, this “family”, this “circle”, this “group inclusion” is one thing that my Devotion in Motion group does very well.  When Amanda and I started this Creative Ministries class, we weren’t sure how it was going to go.  By the time we got our core group, we found ourselves with kids ages four to seventeen.  *Gulp*  You see, for the most part, four year olds can’t read and between that and the students’various interests in puppets, drama, dance and song, we weren’t sure how we were going to do anything, much less pull together a skit or two.

Well we’ve done a skit or two.  We’ve done a song and a dance and a puppet show.  Er…well, I take that back.  We didn’t do much at all.  Besides a few “don’t turn your back to the audience” and “no you can’t both play the part of the bad guy, one of you is going to have to be the hero” type comments, the kids are doing it themselves.  They are capable of casting themselves, choreographing themselves, directing themselves.  Now Amanda and I aren’t about to turn the class over to them (they aren’t -that- grown up yet), but we’re so proud of the group they are becoming.

They are different ages.  They are different reading levels.  They are different grades.  They go to different schools, wear different clothes, play different sports.  They listen to different music, read different books, come from different backgrounds.  Some of them are even from different generations.

But they love each other.  They support each other.  They are becoming a group.

I hope that they stay together for years to come.