Someone is on your side

It’s time for musical theater with Hammaryn.

Today I missed my Uncle Ken. The vacuum broke, I’m supposed to be quitting smoking, and I woke up with a giant chip on my shoulder from yesterday. I got on the computer frustrated, sad, pissed off, and in general occupying a nice little corner of my own screwed up headspace. I opened up Chrome, and went to facebook. Lo and behold, an awesome friend of mine was having a hard time with something too. Reading that, I remembered what I should have thought about this morning.

Suffering sucks, and yet we all go through it. I can look back on any time I learned a great lesson, and see now that it was borne out of something terrible. Something that hurt, something that I didn’t want to go through, and that I wished would just go away. My life hasn’t been too easy the past five months, but I’m getting to learn a (hard) lesson now that I wished I would have known years ago.

I don’t believe that people choose to suffer. I used to; but given the alternative, what person would? Sometimes we just don’t yet see a way out of our own crap. There have been times in my life where I wanted to bury my head in the sand, and say poor me. I felt like what I was going through was too hard, and I wanted to be alone.

But I never was. No one ever is. Personally, I believe that God is always right there beside me, even during those times when I think He’s being a giant asshole. I also have amazing friends, and a family that loves me very much. When I hurt now, what makes me feel better than anything is knowing that I’m not alone. And somewhere out there, someone else is hurting, and I can be there for them too. So that they don’t have to go it alone.

Things will come out right now, we can make it so. Someone is on your side.

And I am never alone.

Take up his cross daily and follow me

These are my thoughts on contemporary Christianity. I was originally going to apologize for offending anyone, but in retrospect decided not to. If you’re offended by this, it may be for the same reason I would have been offended by this many years ago. Now I find these things offensive, but for an entirely different reason. By the same token, this is not meant to be a condemnation. It’s food for thought, and something I’ve been chewing on for awhile.

Luke 9:23 “If anyone would come after me, he must deny himself and take up his cross daily and follow me. For whoever wants to save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for me will save it. What good is it for a man to gain the whole world, and yet lose or forfeit his very self?”

Christianity has become a transaction.

Christians give belief. In exchange, they receive salvation. In churches all over America this is the message that is given: if you believe all the right things, you will be saved. Simply sit back, accept these ideas and writings as facts, and you are getting into heaven.

The gospels contain countless directions on how Christians are meant to behave as followers of Jesus. Love your neighbor. Make amends with an adversary. Love your enemies. Give to the needy. Be humble in prayer. Don’t worry. Don’t judge others. Heal the sick.

Who doesn’t know someone that believes Christians are hypocrites? I know lots of people that feel that way. And they’re right. We all mess up. It’s part of being human. I make mistakes, lots of them.

Then there’s the “prosperity gospel”. There are McChurches; places where you will see no cross, you will hear no teachings on the nature of sin, and you’ll most certainly never hear a verse from Ezekiel. They are monuments to wealth. Fancy buildings, funded sometimes by millions of dollars given by the congregation. No poor are housed there. No hungry are fed there.

Joel Osteen is the head of the Lakewood Church, held in the former Compaq center. The congregation paid over $90 million for this facility.

Guess what? Following Jesus is not about you. It’s not about feeling really good about yourself, and discovering your talents, and sitting back in a cushy seat on Sunday, doling out dollars and being Saved. To followers of the prosperity gospel, I would give the following advice: read the Bible. Worshiping money by using God is not what it’s about.

John: 21:25 Jesus did many other things as well. If every one of them were written down, I suppose that even the whole world would not have room for the books that would be written.

Jesus came to do things. He did not just come down to the Earth, hang out for about thirty years, and then die. If he did, then the Bible would certainly be a lot shorter. He taught, he healed people, he drove money changers out of the temple. He touched those that were considered unclean.

The question I keep asking myself is what do I have to be proud of? Nothing. I am no longer content to sit back and worship. My hope is that one day I can get up in the morning, let go of myself, take up the world’s burdens, and follow Jesus.

Do it right this time

I used to wonder how I would feel if someone I loved died suddenly.

I thought I knew how I would feel, and I thought I knew how I would react. I didn’t really know; no one ever knows.

You remember all the things you wanted to do with that person. You break down, you cry, your heart is broken. You wait every day for them to walk through the door. You feel like you would give anything to just see them one more time. There are things you wish you could say, things you wish you could apologize for, and things you wish you would have known.

In the beginning, everyone asks you how you’re doing. Then things fade, people fade, it’s forgotten and no one asks. People say things, you see things, and the pain is suddenly fresh and new.

It’s true that we as people are built to endure tragedy. Life goes on, even if it’s colored by loss forever.

I know I wasn’t smart enough to have done any different. But if I could have him back again, I’d do it right this time.

I am a rock

Random fact about Claire: this was one of my favorite songs as a little girl. I don’t know what that says about me. I still really like it.

A winter’s day
In a deep and dark December;
I am alone,
Gazing from my window to the streets below
On a freshly fallen silent shroud of snow.
I am a rock,
I am an island.

I’ve built walls,
A fortress deep and mighty,
That none may penetrate.
I have no need of friendship; friendship causes pain.
It’s laughter and it’s loving I disdain.
I am a rock,
I am an island.

Don’t talk of love,
But I’ve heard the words before;
It’s sleeping in my memory.
I won’t disturb the slumber of feelings that have died.
If I never loved I never would have cried.
I am a rock,
I am an island.

I have my books
And my poetry to protect me;
I am shielded in my armor,
Hiding in my room, safe within my womb.
I touch no one and no one touches me.
I am a rock,
I am an island.

And a rock feels no pain;
And an island never cries.

I fail at being a girl

I think there is such a thing as girl skills. Some women just seem to exude these skills the moment you meet them; cute clothes, perfect hair and makeup. Their nails are manicured, and they have nice purses. They have girl skills.

I don’t have girl skills.

I’ve never been a very good shopper. I get tired of looking after about an hour, I won’t wear certain colors, and my wardrobe is rather basic. It’s a normal trip to a clothing store for me when a friend leaves with several bags of clothing, and I carry my one bag containing a plain black t-shirt. It’s not that I don’t try to look, but it doesn’t interest me. And that floral printed hoodie? You can forget it. I’d rather take that plain baseball tee, thank you very much.
And I’ve never had my nails done. For one, I play bass, so having claws is out of the question for me. Aside from that, it seems like a big waste of time and money to me. I finally had my first pedicure four months ago, at the tender age of 26. One of my best friends was very pregnant at the time, and all she wanted for her baby shower was a pedicure with the girls, and dinner afterward. I was lured by promises of beer at the restaurant.
Sure, for work I’ll straighten my unruly hair and put on a little make up. I’ve learned a few tricks to looking like I possess girl skills in public. I use the sacred trio of looking awake: mascara, blush on the cheeks, and lip gloss. I feel intimidating when I wear it. It’s like I’m denying my true inner nerd, presenting a fake shell of girlyness. Please don’t believe what you see, mumbling boy that wants to buy Mario Kart – I really am like you.

I don’t think my mom ever really accepted my lack of girl skills. She herself was a bonafide hippy; she never shaved her legs, she didn’t wear make up, and for awhile she spelled the word woman as “womyn”. But I was always encouraged to play with dolls instead of read comics. She bought me a hair curler when I was fourteen. I never used it. She would throw away my Tesla shirts, and black jeans held together with duct tape. Maybe it’s something that a mom wants for her daughter, to have girl skills, ready to be used when called upon. I never figured out how to even mimic them until after I moved out of her house.

Before I got married, all my guy friends used to talk about how lucky my future spouse would be. What more could you ask for then a girl who loves relaxing on the couch with a beer in one hand and a video game controller in the other? And it’s true while my husband isn’t nearly as into video games, comics, and other assorted nerd activities as I am, he likes me for who I am. It’s ok with him that I don’t need a set of summer and winter makeup, that I can fit all my stuff into a small duffel bag when we go on a trip, and that I’d rather rent a funny movie and stay home then go out dancing. It doesn’t take me long to get ready to go anywhere, and if he wants to just go hang out with his friends for the night, it’s fine by me.

I don’t have girl skills. I fail at being a girl. But at this point, I think I’m ok with just being me.

The mother of all tomato plants

Let me start off by saying that I love to garden, really I do. I get a lot of joy out of watching my flowers bloom, or picking fresh produce from the backyard. This last spring and summer were no exception. In February I started raising heirloom tomatoes from seed, mainly brandywine and rose, old amish varieties. They started their lives out innocently enough, as little seedlings on a windowsill. I know people say you can’t raise good tomato plants that way, but it seems to work out fine for me every year.

And yes, I like to eat ice cream. After a few months of spending their lives indoors at night, and outdoors in the sun during the day, it was time for these plants to dig their roots into some real soil. I picked out a couple nice ones, and gave the rest of the plants away to friends and relatives.

After a couple months in our backyard, we had no tomatoes. The people I’d given plants to were reporting huge, gorgeous tomatoes coming from their plants. Mine had lots of yellow flowers, and no tomatoes. I chalked it up to a bad spot in the yard, and decided not to move them. I’d deal with it later, and likely compost the plants at the end of the summer.

October came, and Justin asked me, “Claire, have you looked at the tomato plants recently?” I told him I’d kind of been ignoring that area of the yard (mainly because I didn’t want to deal with it). He replied that I really needed to go do some work back there. More specifically, he said the tomato plants had to go. I picked a Friday off of work to dig them out of the dirt, put on some old clothes, and grabbed my shovel. I wish I’d thought to take a picture in the beginning, but this is roughly one third of the way through.

The tomato plant was about the size of a small cubicle. No tomatoes all summer long, but this thing was huge. It was the mother of all tomato plants. I ripped into with with vigor, tugging on the plant, or literally hacking at it with a pair of gardening shears. I’m fairly certain I pulled something in my back doing it. On top of that I was so allergic to something that day, that at one point I had to come to terms with the fact that snot was just going to come out of my nose, and there was nothing I could do about it. And deep within the bowels of the plant, I found the greatest insult to injury ever known to man.

Curse you tomato plant, curse you.

A blind eye

I like to think of myself as the kind of person who will always help out someone in need. That bum outside the grocery store who needs a few bucks, or a sandwich? Sure, I’ll help. The local food bank is doing a canned food drive? I can come up with a bag of soups.

Today at the grocery store an elderly man struck up a conversation with me. He started by asking if I had a sister that lived in town. I replied that no, I didn’t, and told him that in fact I don’t have any siblings. This led into a fairly long discussion of the pros and cons of having siblings or of being an only child. After awhile, his cell phone rang and he excused himself to answer it, and I smiled and said goodbye. I got the rest of my vegetables, I checked out, put my groceries in the car, and walked back up to the store to put my cart away. His car was parked right in front of the store, and he was just sitting in it. Perhaps he was waiting for someone, I thought. After a few seconds, he turned the key in the ignition. The car sputtered a bit, but didn’t start. I stood there for what seemed like ages, trying to decide what to do. Should I ask if he needed help? Would that be seen as being nosy? Did this happen to him all the time? What if he was too embarrassed to ask for help? I walked back to my car, still watching his, to see if it would finally start moving and leave the parking lot. A million thoughts raced through my mind. I need to get the groceries home; but what if he never gets help; surely he can call someone on his cell phone? I left. I went home.

And I still feel like a terrible person. Would it really have taken me that much to just walk up to his window and say, Sir, do you need help? I feel like I turned a blind eye to his suffering. Is it less painful to simply turn away from someone else’s trouble or pain, rather than be a witness? In the back of my mind, I’m still wondering if he’s sitting in that parking lot.