Madam Secretary's Photo Shoot

Mom was approaching 80. Sereina and I were thinking of ways to celebrate. She texted me one day and said let's do a photo shoot in DC. Hair, makeup, new outfits, the works. I loved the idea but knew we'd need to convince her. Even though our mother is drop dead gorgeous and loves a reason to dress up, her profession and the lives she has changed have always been most important to her. So, with a little persuasion and the promise it would be an adventure, she agreed to be a supermodel for a day.

It started with a shopping trip. I wanted her to try on a pair of leather pants I'd seen. I remembered a suede pair she had in the seventies and knew she'd look smashing. Thrilled she was going along with my plan, I hustled around the store looking for tops before she changed her mind.  I encountered resistance with each piece. The silky white blouse would "wash her out". I said it's beautiful, just wear lipstick. How bout black? Too harsh. Beige? No thank you. Blue? Not the right shade. Cream? Oh that would look good on you, you try it instead. Sigh. She had reservations about neckline, sleeve length, fabric and fit, always tied to what other people might think. I got that. I was pushing her and felt bad. This was supposed to be fun. Finally we settled on a lovely caramel colored top that checked all the boxes. She came out of the dressing room looking fabulous. I jumped out of my chair and clapped. The gazelle of a young lady working there clapped too. Mom beamed. We snapped a few pictures, texted them to my sister and nieces and off we went for coffees. With the white blouse, carefully wrapped, also in the bag because there is always lipstick. 

The day of the shoot came. We held a hair and makeup session in Mom's bedroom. Sereina sat on her bed entertaining the cat, checking traffic apps and chatting with us. I kneeled at Mom's chair concentrating on just the right amount to apply so it would show up in photos. We were all a little nervous. Mom put on a classic black dress and black patent pumps. The leather pants were in a bag for the change that would come later. All set, she looked downright regal. Like a Senator or a Secretary of State. We stood at the dresser choosing jewelry and noticed her lanyards hanging on the mirror. She's devoted much of her time as a mental health professional with TAPS, Give an Hour, Red Cross and the Cape Coral power squadron. We laughed that we should each wear one so we'd look official - like her handlers. So as Mom fastened her gold necklace around her neck, we threw lanyards around ours and grabbed one for my niece Alex who was meeting us there. 

We drove down the GW Parkway, across the Potomac and up to the Lincoln and of course, nowhere to park. What's a trip into the city without a little stress? No matter, it's forgotten later and always worth it. And it would be. I circled back around, got as close as I could and stopped at a red light. I threw on my hazards and unlocked the doors. Mom and Sereina grabbed the bag of clothes and hopped out. The light changed green. But a lone lanyard lay in the seat next to me, having fallen out of the bag. I reached over, unrolled the window and tossed it out, shouting "come get this for Alex!" The car behind me honked impatiently. I hit the gas, glancing in the rearview to make sure they got it and began the search for parking.

I couldn't help but feel I was missing the big performance. Like the curtain was going up and I wasn't in place. I jogged the half mile as fast as I could and saw them at the highest step waving down at me. The Memorial is something to behold no matter how many times you've seen it. It grounds you. I stood at the bottom in reverence of what has transpired on those famous steps, in awe of Mr. Lincoln and his legacy, in awe my amazing Mom turning 80. Sometimes so much majesty makes you teary. I hustled up the steps to join them wishing I had brought tissues. 

Sereina and Alex were assessing where to shoot. The day had been grey but the clouds were beginning to clear. Tourists milled about Abe's massive feet, reading the Gettysburg Address engraved on the walls, taking selfies, standing in reverence. Mom was quietly drawing attention in her black dress and heels. I piped up, "Madam Secretary did you read the file I gave you earlier?" Not missing a beat, she replied "Yes, hank you I'll get to that right before my flight tonight." Sereina joined in, a born actress, and pretty soon we were all full on pretending. People began whispering to each other. Mom played the part and we snapped away.

Giggling at ourselves, we hustled to the corner of the landing, the sun hitting perfectly there. Mom looked radiant, the marble column glowed. But we were losing daylight and it was time for a costume change. The bathroom seemed miles away down below. Mom said let's just call it a day girls no big deal. I thought of the fabulous leather pants and me and the gazelle clapping and knew we couldn't quit yet. I reached into the bag and pulled out the blanket. Mom didn't hesitate. We scooched off to the side of the building away from the tourists. Sereina and I held up the makeshift changing room. Mom popped off her shoes and stepped into the pants. The black dress sailed over the top of the blanket. We handed her the brown top and a hairbrush. Just as this was transpiring, a US Park Police officer rounded the corner, striding right toward us. I thought well here we go, this will surely make the evening news. "80 year old woman arrested at the Lincoln Memorial for indecent exposure, details at 11:00." Instead, the officer took a look at us, quietly turned on his heel and strode back in the direction he'd come from. I fanned myself with my Red Cross lanyard as Mom popped out from behind the blanket ready for her next scene. 

The photos that followed would be our favorites. The nerves were gone. We were laughing at the narrow escape from the law and at ourselves for pulling this off. We knew we'd captured some great shots. Mom was having fun. Our mission was complete. As we huddled over my niece's phone looking at the pictures and began to put things back into the bag, I saw the officer marching towards us again. He had circled the building and was back. He was not smiling. My stomach flopped. His hand rested on something at his side that I couldn't make out. A radio for reinforcements? An arrest warrant? A gun? As he approached us, he nodded the tiniest of nods at Mom and walked right past us, not breaking his stride. We about collapsed. 

Later, over an order of nachos and Corona Lights we rehashed our adventure. We missed my niece Lila who lives in California and would have loved every minute of this. We talked about first jobs, first apartments, first loves and the dreams we had when we first started out. We talked about our worries and the things that make us hopeful. I looked at my beautiful niece sitting across from me, working hard at her first big corporate job, no way of knowing what the future holds. So much ahead of her. I looked at my beautiful Mom sitting next to her, eighty years of a life well lived and, please Lord, many more to go. My beautiful sister sat next to me. Both of us in the middle of our lives. Full, real lives. Sometimes difficult, sometimes joyful, but always somehow intertwined. We sat there together under the string lights at a picnic table and I remembered how we promised each other years ago we'd raise our kids together here in this area.  And we did, and now find ourselves in the heartbreaking season of gently letting them go. We hold on to each other and to our Mom, knowing that sometimes letting go is the hardest, most necessary  part of loving someone.  

 

What A Wonderful World

When you live in the DC area, cherry blossoms are like a gigantic floral starting gun - an explosion of pink all over the city kick-starting us into outdoor activity. For me sometimes, the wake up from hibernation can be hard. I'm foggy, grumpy, out of shape and quite frankly a little melancholy. 

So I yesterday put my bike on the back of my car and went downtown to see them. They did not disappoint. In fact, they did exactly what they do every year. Make me cry. And that's a good thing. What a relief that my heart hasn't become so stiff and frozen over the winter that it can't be melted again by such beauty. I biked along the gravel paths between the Capitol building and the Lincoln memorial and down around the tidal basin and took in the sea of blossoms with tears coming down my cheeks like a gosh dang springtime fool. It was awesome. 

Thousands of glorious pink blooms everywhere I looked. Reminders that the cold and dark doesn't last forever. Joy comes in the morning, right? And oh what a wonderful morning it was. Dads flying kites with their kids. Young men and women playing frisbee football. Joggers everywhere. Families on spring break. Happy dogs galore. So of course, the cherry blossoms weren't the only thing that made me cry. 

Not far from the gigantic feet of Abraham Lincoln stood a quartet of men singing hymns a capella. One of them held a tall wooden cross with the words "Amazing Grace" painted on it. I stopped my bike and took out my earbuds. With a lump in my throat, I managed to croak out "you all sound beautiful!" and got back on my bike. One of them heard me and said "God bless you!" How sweet the sound that saved a wretch like me, indeed. I'm glad I had a tissue in my pocket.

As I biked back up toward the Washington Monument weaving through other bikers, joggers and strollers, a girl in a billowing formal gown caught my eye. She carried her skirts with purpose up to a spot a where a photographer was waiting. Her parents and siblings towing behind. Her quinceanera celebration maybe?  As I passed her I said "you look so beautiful!!" She turned, a little surprised, and broke out into the most delighted smile. I pedaled away, things looking a bit blurry until I found that tissue again.

Back up towards the Capitol building, more to take in. An older couple reading a guidebook on a bench, a brother sticking his foot out to trip his big sister, a family on a blanket setting up a picnic, and more happy dogs of all shapes and sizes. I stopped a couple of times to take pictures with my phone, knowing they wouldn't do any of it justice. I pedaled along towards a row of food trucks.

I found myself stopping near a group of ladies in white bonnets and long dresses, Mennonites, I think. They were investigating the menu on a Halal food truck. I thought to myself what a wonderful city this is. What a wonderful country this is. How wonderful to see so much color and culture and humanity in one place. As I watched the ladies pay for their gyros and turn towards me, I wanted to tell them how beautiful I thought they were and hey isn't this a wonderful city, but I was afraid they'd think I was a weirdo. Of course, they'd be right. Plus, my tissue had reached its capacity. So I smiled at them and biked on towards my car.

I drove back across the Potomac, sparkling in the noon sun, having gotten what I came for. I thanked God and mother nature for the cherry blossoms in the city I love so much. For springtime. For hope.

January 5, 2021

It was my first job out of college and the closest to power and influence I’d ever get. It was 1990 and I was a staffer for Senator John W. Warner (R-VA). I welcomed visitors, manned the phones and wrote correspondence. I also gave private tours of the Capitol building. I was young, dumb and broke and when I wasn’t miserable, having the time of my life. My boss, a former Marine and Secretary of the Navy was quite frankly, a badass. A World War II veteran and UVA law school graduate, he was incredibly articulate, funny and principled. His colleagues respected him and his staff was incredibly proud to say we worked for him. 

I learned the history of my new workplace from the most generous of teachers - my fellow staffer the quick-witted and knowledgeable Marion McDonald and the official red-coated Capitol tour guides. Out from behind my desk and the ringing phones, I fell in love with the place. I was awed by every bit of it - the maze of marble hallways and heavy mahogany doors, massive oil paintings of American struggle and triumph, the imposing statues of our forefathers and national heroes, the clever symbolism hidden in almost every architectural detail. 

My tour group could be anything from personal friends of the Senator to a family from rural VA to an entire classroom of students from over the river in nearby Arlington or Fairfax. We would begin on the steps of our office facing the Capitol. Once a Senate Photographer had snapped their photograph, I’d begin. I’d draw their attention up to the figure on top of the dome. At about 26 stories high, in flowing robes, gazing toward the east, stands “Freedom” a 19 foot tall bronze statue of a young woman. Under her feet, the pedestal reads “E Pluribus Unum” - out of many, one. I’d tell them she faces east to ensure “that the sun would never set on freedom” and at her back is the west, our country’s hopeful future she guards with helmet and sword. Paying her respect seemed a good place to start. 

We’d make our way across Constitution Avenue to the Capitol’s small east side entrance, me flashing my Senate badge and fighting back stage fright, my group chatty and excited. Once inside the soaring Rotunda, bickering siblings fell silent, boisterous schoolchildren became focused and frazzled adults grew calm. Again, we all gazed upward, this time underneath the dome. I began to tell the stories of how our young nation impossibly came to be. I explained how those sworn to represent them made laws under this roof, with all this history around us a reminder of where we’d come from and what we were capable of. I believed in the greatness of the place and I wanted them to also. I’d take them up to the balcony above the Senate floor and we’d sit quietly and listen. We witnessed both monotonous droning and inspirational appeals, friendly banter and heated arguments. Through the maze of chilly basement corridors, especially if the group included children, I’d point out the small paw prints embedded in the concrete floor and tell them the tale of the “demon cat” who took joy in terrorizing night watchmen. When it came time to say goodbye, I’d remind them to never take for granted what a remarkable thing it is to live in a democracy like ours. I’d return to the papers and phones on my desk both exhausted and exhilarated. 

So it was with a sick stomach that thirty years later on my local news channel, I’d watch a mob smash their way into the Capitol and parade through the Rotunda. They broke windows, rummaged through desks and knocked over lecturns. Many seemed to wander around without a plan as if surprised they’d actually gotten in. It was oddly hilarious at moments. Grown men in ridiculous outfits and body paint prancing and posing for selfies and putting hats on statues. Then night began to fall. A noose was erected, rioters shouted “where is Nancy” and “hang Mike Pence,” trapped staffers texted loved ones, hammers and metal pipes were brandished, shots were fired and smoke filled hallways. Bones were broken and blood was shed. Five people died. 

On my couch in Virginia, I couldn’t help but think of my own experience on the Hill and how far away it seemed. Genuine friendships existed among members of the two parties, news was news and not entertainment, and presidents behaved like adults. I’ve heard more than once,“this isn’t who we are.” I believe it is indeed who some people in our country very much are. I couldn’t help but think of a scene in Dickens’ Christmas Carol I’d recently watched. The one where the imposing, jovial Ghost of Christmas Present pulls back his heavy robes to reveal the wretched creatures “Ignorance” and “Want” huddled beneath. Scrooge, repulsed and terrified, asks whose children they are and the ghost growls “they are Mans.” He warns the selfish Scrooge the gravity of neglecting them. On Tuesday at the Capitol, the creatures beneath our pretty robes were exposed. Among them were corruption, greed, racism and willful ignorance. The question facing all of us remains - what are we willing to do about it?

Quarantine Log: Day 8

8:00 a.m. Awake from nightmare in which you're stuck at home with your family for days...oh...wait..

8:15 a.m. Make pot of coffee. Read texts from various group chats. Copy and paste any funny memes, careful not to paste a meme into the same group chat you just got it from. Sip coffee and wait eagerly for the "haha's" to roll in.

9:00 a.m. YouTube workout. Lay on yoga mat deep breathing. Get distracted by dust bunnies under bed, get vacuum out and vacuum under bed. Pour through photo albums under bed to soothing sounds of yoga instructor in the background.

10:00 a.m. Sneeze into elbow for second time. Wonder whether to take a Zyrtec or call the CDC.

11:00 a.m. Contemplate lunch. What will it be today - leftovers from Monday night's dinner, canned chicken noodle soup from 2017 or a bowl of cereal? The options are dizzying.

12:00 noon Stand at kitchen sink with empty bowl of cereal and contemplate meaning of life.

12:15 p.m. Watch news in which the President says Easter is a bigly holiday in which the Corinthians envoked the military production act to strong arm the Philistines into making stuff for Pharoah. Turn off the TV and stare at the screen and contemplate the meaning of life.

1:00 p.m. Finally attack junk drawer in kitchen. Throw away the ball of twine that has a roll of Scotch tape and three paper clips dangling from it into trash. Feel sense of accomplishment, shut drawer.

2:30 p.m. Take the dog on eighth walk of the day.

3:00 p.m. Nap time. Become one with bed.

4:00 p.m. Awake from nap starved and disoriented. Downstairs for post-nap snack of leftover chicken wings, a handful of Goldfish, three grapes and ice cream right out of the container.

5:00 p.m. Family asks what's for dinner. Weird. They're hungry and you're not, again. Decide to help economy and order takeout. Spend 15 minutes debating where to go.

7:30 p.m. Sip wine and scroll through Netflix. Choose King Tiger since everyone's talking about it. Watch 35 minutes and decide all 7 episodes could be accomplished in one Dateline. Flip over to Home Town and fantasize about downsizing to a small rambler in Laurel, Mississippi with reclaimed shiplap and nice people.

9:00 p.m. Stand in pantry eating Twizzlers and wondering if there's enough brown sugar to make chocolate chip cookies tomorrow.

10:00 p.m. Brush teeth and skip flossing out of sheer laziness. Ignore dark brown roots on top of head and bathroom scale in corner.

10:15 p.m. Lights out. Pray for all those struggling, for the medical community, for educators, for small businesses, for grocery workers, for scientists, especially Dr. Fauchi my new hero, and for my family who has to put up with me again tomorrow. God Bless us all.

Guns In America

A friend of mine lives in the quiet Virginia countryside among her horses and rescue dogs. This weekend her home was broken into by someone high on meth. I thank God she and her boyfriend have a gun and know how to use it. They were able to keep the person at bay until police could arrive. 

I’M VERY GLAD MY FRIEND OWNS A HANDGUN TO PROTECT HERSELF. And I believe in your right to own a gun to protect yourself or to go hunting with if that’s your thing. 

However, I don’t think high capacity firearms capable of mowing down entire crowds of people in mere seconds have a place in civilized society. Do you? I KNOW getting rid of them isn’t the only solution, because people bent on violence will use whatever they can get their hands on, but it’s SOMETHING. It's better than nothing. It will save lives. Like classrooms full of little children. Like food festival goers and people shopping for school supplies in WalMart. 

And before you go popping off with “guns don’t kill people, people kill people” Well NO SHIT Sherlock of course it isn’t just guns all by themselves. Most of us know the problem is way more complicated than that. It’s lack of resources for the mentally ill, it’s the continued legacy of domestic abuse and violence, it’s the spread of ignorant and hateful rhetoric to people that feel marginalized, it’s the glorification of brutality in our culture, it’s lack of accountability and of feeling connected to community for so many. It’s a BUNCH of ugly things we need to pay attention to and begin to untangle and address. It’s complicated and it’s hard work and we need to have the balls and the brains to look at it together. And we need leaders capable of doing something constructive. Soon.

Are we so polarized that this can’t be done? Is it all so black and white now, all so left and right that nothing in between matters? The whack jobs on the extreme left and the assholes on the extreme right seem to have control of the microphones right now and the millions of us somewhere in the wide spectrum of the middle have to sit here while they go at it day after day accomplishing zero but fueling hostility and division among the fringes. Oh and we have a president that sits on his gold plated crapper and tweets incendiary comments and then quietly grins when crowds at his rallies shout "shoot them" and "send them back." THIS SUCKS YALL and I’m tired of it. This shouldn't even be about politics. It’s about our collective health and safety and the kind of society we want to live in. Because tomorrow it could be your kid's school, your shopping center, your movie theatre, your church. Something has to change. Can we at least start with agreeing these types of military-style weapons have to go?

We can’t afford to remain complacent and uninformed. I don’t know what the solution is right now but we’re doomed if we throw up our hands and say nothing can be done. This is America! Land that I love. If there’s a will there’s a way. If we can put a man on the moon, build the Hoover dam, invent the internet and find Osama Bin Laden we can figure this thing out. We deserve better than what is now the norm in our country. Don’t we? 

Stages Of Parenting Boys On Ski Trips

Stage One: Sweet Misery

Activities include: 

-At least 30 minutes of wriggly prep including wrestling on onesies, thermals, socks, snowsuits, hats, gloves, boots and helmets and then removal of half that due to a stinky.

-packing up of diapers, binkies, Goldfish, sippy cups and woobies, followed by hauling uphill of the all the aforementioned plus one’s own skis, boots, etc. up to the slopes.

-approximately 20-30 minutes of straight up adorableness on the bunny slope 

-hot chocolate and cookie break while watching in awe as the big kids come down the mountain

-snowman building and snow angel making

-sweaty haul back to the room where either a hat or a mitten or a beloved woobie is discovered lost forever out in the snow. 

-Tears, baths, nuggets for dinner, fall into bed.

Gamut of parental emotions: Excitement, frustration, exhaustion, frustration, serious doubt at one’s fitness to raise children, delight at how cute they are in snowsuits, discovery of unconditional love, excitement, exhaustion and more exhaustion.

Stress Level: 11 out of 10

Stage Two: Snowboarding Younguns

Activities include: 

-boarding le$$ons 

-trying to keep up once they’re coached up and officially faster than their parents

-breaks for blue Gatorade, candy bars and sugar diabetus

-hot tub shenanigans followed by jumping half naked into a pile of snow 

-missing your sweet babies in snowsuits who have somehow been replaced by two cocky, hilarious neon and cammo-clad mini Shaun Whites.

Gamut of parental emotions: Shock and awe, resignation that you are no longer cool, exhaustion.

Stress Level: 6 out of 10

Stage Three: Teens a.k.a. Meet You For Lunch 

Activities include: 

-shelling out cash 

-watching them lose it reading ski run names like Organ Grinder and Beaver Run

-texting where to meet up for lunch

-shelling out more cash

-yelling that you are not a maid would you please throw away all those water bottles and pick your wet ski clothes up off the floor and give me back my phone charger

-amusement at their comical recounting of the day’s gnarly wipeouts and shweet victories

Parental emotion: Relief that you don’t have to keep up anymore.

Stress Level: 5 out of 10, but only at night when they go into town.

Stage Four: The Payoff Years

Activities Include: 

-downloading their playlist “Shred Gnar Pow 2019” on your Spotify 

-gratefully sitting back and letting them read trail maps and lead the way down the mountain

-collectively losing it over ski run names like Devil’s Crotch and Clamhopper   

-enjoying apres ski beverages together

-playing card games they’ve learned in college

-laughing at all the old stories from the ski trips you’ve taken together over the years.

Gamut of parental emotions: Amazement that they actually want to hang out with you, sheer bliss flying down the mountain together, warm fuzzies watching them genuinely enjoy each others company, gratitude for their sweetness and patience, pride that you haven’t messed them up too badly over the years, desperate hope that you can all do it again next winter.

Stress Level: Zero

Please Do Not Feed the Fears

I dream a lot. And like many people, I've had a recurring dream since I was young. Okay, it's not normal. Quite a humdinger of a nightmare really. I'm alone, afraid and trapped in a house of multiple rooms, confusing stairways and hallways. Something sinister is lurking out of sight, enjoying my powerlessness, mocking my struggle. The last time I had this dream was a few years ago. Once again, I had been stuck in the house for a long time and was frustrated and exhausted. Stairways led to solid walls and small doors led to smaller doors. I knew that something horrible was hidden deep in the house. Something that had to do with me. I didn't want to find the horrible thing, I just wanted out. Usually about this time I woke up. But not this time, not yet. Words are going to fail miserably here, but here you go... I rounded a corner and found myself face to face with what felt like pure evil. A malevolent being, about eight feet tall, with wings (not kidding) bore down on me. I froze in terror. For about one second. Because something in me finally snapped. I exploded in rage, lashing out at the top of my lungs, "LEEAAAVE MEEEE AAALONEE!!"

It felt incredible, purifying. What happened next was unexpected.

Bizarrely, the thing's head bowed as it turned quietly away, disappearing like smoke. I swear I detected a hint of hurt feelings. It was as if my outburst, my sudden change from fear to righteous anger, drained it's power.  I wanted to laugh with relief and wonder. My fear gave it life. Without that, it was nothing. I woke up in a twist of sweaty pajamas and the sound of my own yelling still ringing in my ears. That was the last time I had the dream.

The subconscious is a powerful thing. It's very subtle, but since then I have felt less frozen, less guilty. Definitely bolder. Once again, I can't find the right words. I don't know how to describe it. It's as though something in the chambers of my heart that was rusty and stuck was given oil, like the tim man, and finally settled into place.

To anoint with oil is a sacred form of blessing. I now look at that nightmare as a blessing. A gift from God. I will carry it with me always.

Statue of Liberty - You're Fired

At a rally in February 2015, Donald Trump was asked by an audience member if he could "look at Syrian children aged five, eight, ten, in the face and tell them they can't go to school here." Without hesitation, he said "I can look in their faces and say 'You can't come. I'll look them in the face." Friday, he made good on that promise.

Pause for a moment and look at this boy's face. There but for the grace of God go my boys. Or yours. I am all for keeping out those who seek to do us harm, but keeping out those WHO ARE FLEEING ACTUAL TERRORISM?? This man, our president, has no qualms casually turning his back on the most vulnerable and desperate of the world who have been through our already quite extensive vetting system? I'm floored. Note that Syria has produced exactly zero immigrants/refugees that have done us harm. Saudi Arabia - where Trump has business interests and where we rely on oil - has. But they were not part of his ban. Syrian refugees are afraid of exactly the same thing we are - Islamist terrorism! They are doing exactly what you or I would do were we in their shoes. Our president just slammed the door in their face.

This is not what America is about. This is not what we stand for. We are SO MUCH BETTER THAN THIS. Aren't we? Please tell me we still are.

I GET that our schools are over crowded. I GET that we have our own homeless, our elderly, our veterans, our own poor and sick to take care of. But what kind of people have we become if we let fear rule our actions? If we turn our backs on those who have suffered horrible atrocities, those who were simply unfortunate enough to be born into different circumstances than us? We have a legal obligation as a country - the 1951 Refugee Convention - to accept refugees. I believe we have a moral obligation as well.

One of the most repulsive things I have heard since the election is that my husband and I will be better off financially with Trump in office. ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? I refuse to sell my soul to the devil in such a way. I would gladly pay more taxes and give whatever I could potentially gain with this creature in office to those who need it so much more. This life here on Earth is but a blip in time for me. For all of us. My life here will end, I'll shed this body and the trappings of the life I had, but I know for certain my soul will endure. I've tried to stay positive about this president and wait and see what happens. But this has shaken me. I can't imagine the thought of coming face to face with God and having to explain how I stood by and said or did nothing while my country, no longer a beacon of hope to the world, turned away the suffering. I will not bury my head and sit quietly. We have a president who is perpetuating fear and division. So I'll resist. Annoying and uncomfortable as it may be to some, I will speak up and go on record as saying No, this is wrong.

YALL, when Dick Cheney, Lindsay Graham, Michael Moore and the Pope all agree that banning immigrants is wrong, well, strange times we are living in. If we stand by and allow this ban to happen, may God forgive us for being so horribly selfish and cowardly.

Pope Francis washing the feet of Muslim and Hindu migrants to Rome.

Dear Winter, Go to Hell. xoxo, Me.

It's 23 degrees and windy as eff outside. I'm standing at my kitchen window clutching my third cup of tea for warmth. There's a package of chicken breasts on the counter put out to thaw this morning. Eight hours ago. They're still frozen. I just heard a bumpety-thump and skid in the driveway. An arctic blast has blown the trashcan over and about twenty feet away.  I look to see if it's blocking anyones ability to drive up. It is not. Who am I kidding, I wasn't going out to move it for nothing. Peering out the window and contemplating my fourth cup of tea, I hear a tiny shrill whistle right next to my ear. I look down and realize wind is hissing through the little slits of an electric outlet. Winter hates me. Good. I hate it too.

I wouldn't make a very good pioneer woman. I've read Little House on the Prairie and Cold Mountain. I saw The Revenant. I turn into a champion, Grade A, all-conference complainer in the winter. Not proud of it, but I just can't deal. Not when my hands are blue, my shoulders perma-hunched and my nose runs like a mountain stream. Things like getting out of a warm bed are monumental feats of inner strength. From the minute Christmas is over, I go into an irritated funk of pouting. I'm a preschooler, basically -loudly sighing, throwing a tantrum or two, pretty much seeking sympathy. Expressing my utter misery isn't optional. My sanity depends on it. I'm incapable of suffering quietly. So yeah, I wouldn't last long on the prairie. The townsfolk would shoot me dead and have a party around the bonfire celebrating the blessed silence. Ding dong the witch is dead. Fine by me, at least it's warm in hell.

Nope. Not gonna.

Satan's mouthpiece

Faith the Size of A Mustard Seed

I will admit I have been mad at God this week. Maybe one day I will have the kind of rock solid faith that doesn't budge in the face of evil and injustice, to have my first thought be to pray, resting in peaceful assurance that everything is in God's hands. But I don't. Instead I get upset, toddler style. Internally, I rant, rave, jump up and down, cry, kick and scream at the unfairness of it all. I am not proud of this. I truly hope to grow out of this and become a wise and steadfast old woman one day. For now, I appreciate his patience. Here's the thing, when I have exhausted all that emotion and finally collapse at his feet, He wraps his arms around me and I know He understands exactly how I feel. My brothers and sisters are hurting. He feels it seven billion more times than I do. They are His children.

I'd love to say that after my outburst, God and I have a great talk and He explains all about giving us free will and why there is evil in the world and I'm okay with it and go skipping on my merry way. Tra la la la la. If only. Jesus didn't sugar coat it. He told us "You will have suffering in this world." (note: you will not you might) It's not paradise, this life. Now we see through the glass darkly but then we will see face to face. Right now our perspective is limited, but it won't always be. I have so many questions that I hope will be answered one day. For now, I will be grateful to be alive on this crazy and beautiful planet.

So when I fall at God's feet and surrender my anguish, what happens is this - a bit of a paradox - I feel both small AND powerful. I feel small because, well, He's God. I am reminded of my place in the vast universe. There is comfort in that. I also feel powerful. Why? God has given me, and you, a job in our time here on Earth. Love others. There is immense power in that. Maybe right now I can't comfort a Parisian man who has lost his wife or a Syrian child who has lost her home, but I can love everyone I come in contact with, friend or stranger, right where I am. Every day. And I can chose not to get sucked into the fear. Because as hokey as it sounds, our energy and our attitude is contagious. So I will keep my eyes open and my mind alert in our dangerous and complicated world. But I will not be paranoid. I will not live in fear. I will not become skeptical and bitter and negative. I will choose faith, love and yes, joy in the face of terror and sadness. It feels good, this small rebellion in my heart, to deny the terrorists what they want. Why? Because I can.

Love Prevails In Charleston

They welcomed him into their Wednesday night Bible study. He sat with them for an hour as they studied, worshipped and prayed. Then he stood, took out his gun and said "(black people) are taking over our country, you have to go" and ripped another ugly, irreparable hole into the magnificent tapestry that is the American people.

I hope he is halfway right and that one day it does happen, that people of such exceptional character as those nine beautiful souls do take over this country. We should be so lucky to have people just like them in charge. One was a beloved pastor, a "peacemaker" and a "moral compass", whose wise counsel was sought by many. One was a 45 year old mother of three and an inspirational high school track coach. One was a quietly giving librarian dedicated to helping others acquire knowledge. Another was a war veteran, retired pastor, scholar, and grandfather. The eldest was an 87 year old grandmother who, according to her grandson, "had no animosity toward anyone." All fine people. All contributors to the world. All cherished by friends and family. All dedicated to their faith. All shot simply because they were black.

The deranged shooter and racists like him, hiding in the dark behind their imbecilic ideology, are the ones that have to go. There is no place for them in society anymore. I pray they are rooted out and exposed for who they are: a fearful, ignorant minority. As technology connects us and the world gets smaller, we have better insight into our fellow human beings around the world, I see us moving forward with curiosity, acceptance and a desire to understand each other and to be understood. We are beginning to see that our similarities and our common humanity far outweigh our outward physical and cultural differences. Racists have a choice. They can cling fearfully to their false sense of superiority and get left behind. Or they can open their eyes and face the truth that no one race is better than another, just different. That our souls are what we truly are, what matters, our bodies just a shell. I pray they can change. For those that refuse, justice can't come swift enough. 

What happened after the shooting is nothing short of miraculous. The shooter said his intent was to spark a race war and bring back segregation. The exact opposite quietly unfolded in Charleston last week. Two days after the massacre, the families of the dead faced the killer at his bond hearing. Broken hearted, hurting and angry, they rejected hate. Through tears, they forgave him. They told him they were praying for his soul. That Sunday, over 15,000 people - black, white, brown - peacefully gathered together on the bridge that spans the Cooper River. Families, neighbors and strangers held hands, embraced, sang songs and marched. They held up signs that said "Love thy Neighbor", "Only Love Conquers Hate", and "My Race - Human." Dozens of boats from Charleston harbor formed a line and dropped anchor under the bridge, honking horns in support. As the sun slipped below the horizon, the activity paused for nine minutes of silence. The Holy City has shown the rest of the world what love, grace and courage in the face of evil looks like. May they be an example to us all.

Je Ne Suis Pas Charlie

I am not Charlie. What I am a is wholehearted supporter of their right to free speech. I admire their bravery and persistence, but on a personal level I just can’t relate to the desire to provoke rather than engage. I don’t see the productivity in mocking the religion of an entire population of my fellow human beings, knowing most will find it in poor taste and the batshit crazy minority will find it grounds to commit murder. I get that it’s satire, and I sincerely hope there is always a place for that kind of humor to be expressed freely, but to me it simply wasn’t funny.  It came off as juvenile and irresponsible. I’m grateful I have the freedom to buy or not to buy and to agree or not to agree with political satire and I hope Charlie Hebdo will always remain in print. I didn't even know they existed until last week, but now the whole world does thanks to the terrorists. And I imagine their audience has multiplied tremendously. To that, I say comme il faut, vous aves ce que vous meritez, des terroristes.

Personally, rather than igniting the rage of a murderous few, I’d like to see journalists create work that sparks an honest dialogue with the millions of sane Muslims on our planet and those of us that seek to understand them better. I believe if we could do that, we would find we have a lot more in common with each other than we have differences.

Broken Crayons Still Color

I was depressed. Not sad, not blue, not going through a rough patch. I was clinically diagnosed with severe depression. Diagnostic code 296.23, to be exact. It's been so long ago that it almost seems it happened to a different person. But it was me and it makes up a significant part of who I am now.

Mental illness is complicated and talking about it makes people uncomfortable. We tend to hide the uglier side of ourselves out of fear others will think less of us or worse, abandon us. So we don't talk about it. Only a handful of people in my life know about my depression and the things that led up to it. I used to be ashamed of it. Not so much anymore. Maybe it's my age, but the truth is we are all flawed and damaged to some degree. The older I get the more I see that. I wish I knew it then.

I was about halfway through college. In an odd way, I was happier than I'd ever been. My nomadic childhood behind me, for the first time I felt I truly belonged somewhere. On the surface, things were good. What I kept hidden was that I was drowning in waves of heavy sadness, lapping at my feet at first, then eventually my head was going under. Away from home, I was starting to process some of my troubled early years. Utterly exhausted and tired of holding it together for so long, I began to slowly fall apart. I was powerless to stop it. It's surprising how easy it is to fall apart. The hard part is putting yourself back together.

My thinking began to take a dark turn. All my imperfections, real and perceived, seemed insurmountable. I saw myself as a jumble of deficiencies, weaknesses and unfixable flaws. It was overwhelming. Physically, I was barely functioning. I had trouble concentrating and staying awake in class. Secretly, in remote private cubbies where no one would see me, I wrote - memories and thoughts, attempts at making sense of how I felt. I also read a lot, searching for answers in material from my English classes, the Bible, classic novels, self help books. Anything I could find on being human and surviving it. I pored over books on psychology and mental illness. I was looking for an explanation of what was wrong with me. It took months, but finally in all that searching, I discovered I was depressed. I wasn't crazy. Although I certainly felt like it. What is crazy is how good I was at faking I was fine.

It's hard to describe to someone who has never felt it. You hurt on a subterranean level. It's an odd thing to feel pain with no outward signs of injury. It's your soul that's hurting. And your body wants to quit. It's lonely and it's scary as hell. All your energy is required to do the most basic functions. You can't cheer yourself, talk yourself, reason, drink, eat, sleep, exercise, pray, yourself out of it. I know because I tried all these things. It has to go away on it's own.

I believe depression is a combination of things. It's a perfect storm of genetics, environment, personality, experiences, and how you process all that, or can't. Some events in my childhood caused ripple effects that I feel to this day. But I can't say those things were specifically why I became depressed. It's just part of the puzzle. There are people with way worse histories than me that don't get depressed. I don't like to blame anyone or any thing for my depression. It just was.

Tired of hiding it, I admitted I needed help one summer over break. Over the course of a few years in and out of therapy, I laid down my burdens and secrets and was eventually able to step away from them with some perspective. I tried a couple of different antidepressants and finally settled on one that had the least side effects. It was work. The hardest I've ever done. I had to force myself to go. I thought of quitting every time I drove to the psychiatrist, because often it felt like it wasn't helping, it just hurt, like picking at wounds that would never really heal.

Going to therapy was a regularly terrifying job of pulling back the curtains of my past and facing my demons head on. Eventually, I was able to close some doors and walk away no longer feeling haunted by what was behind them. I began to view the world in a more realistic light. What was revealed when that finally happened was beautiful. Life was there, waiting for me. It was hard and it didn't happen overnight. I had to learn to fight dysfunctional reactions in certain situations and to think positively because negative thoughts were ingrained, second nature. I still struggle with that almost daily, but fighting it is more of a habit now.

It's different for everyone, but for me a few things were key in surviving depression. I said earlier that you can't pray it away. What I meant is that you can't pray and suddenly depression is gone. But you can cling to your faith to endure it. Which I did. I talked to God a lot - even when I felt nothing but anger. Psalm 40:2 had meaning to me and always will. Then there is simply the passage of time. Depression has to lift when it is good and ready. It doesn't happen overnight, it's more of a slow emergence. When I was crawling out of the darkness, I met someone who changed my life forever.  For the first time, someone didn't buy my "I'm fine" act. He saw me for exactly who I was, flaws and all, and not only seemed to be okay with it, but embraced it. He saw who I wanted to be but was okay with who I was at that moment. Unconditional love is a powerful thing. I am not the person I would be had he not come into my life and insisted on staying.

None of us are perfect. We all have dark places in our hearts and minds. For some of us, the only path to real happiness involves going through that darkness and coming out on the other side. I'm no longer embarrassed or ashamed of my experience. I'm too old for that. If someone thinks less of me after reading this, that's their problem, not mine. It's a small miracle I graduated from college considering my state of mind for a good part of it. I still struggle emotionally at times and probably always will, but I've come to accept that as my normal. I'm okay with it because what I have gained is compassion, tolerance, perspective and patience - with myself and others. And a dark sense of humor that I rather like having.

I'd like to think that my experience was of value if I can put it out there and help someone going through the same hell I did. If you're depressed, you're not alone. I understand. Believe me when I say it gets better. You will get better. I promise. Fear thrives in darkness, shed some light on it and watch it wither. I know this. I've done it. Don't believe the voice that tells you you're crazy or unworthy or unfixable. It's a liar. There WILL come a day when you can see again that life is beautiful. It may be a long and rocky road but don't you quit. Don't ever give up.

I Hate Spring

Everyone seems to adore this time of year. Birds are chirping, flowers blooming, and change is in the air. It's a time of rebirth, new beginnings, organization. People are skipping about in flip flops and tank tops giddy that spring has sprung. I'm over here with my heat still on and a box of tissues. It's 60 degrees and windy as hell, people. Calm down.

Spring makes me grumpy. I feel like a hibernating bear that's been yanked out of it's cozy den and splashed with a bucket of ice water. All of a sudden, I'm aware that I must schedule pest control, carpet cleaning and lawn maintenance. The cars, the windows, the deck, the entire house needs washing. The garage is an unorganized embarrassment of sports equipment and shoes and leaves from last fall. It all gets blown about every time the garage door goes up.

Just yesterday I felt okay about myself, but today I need a new wardrobe, a pedicure, a spray tan and to lose a few pounds. I've got itchy eyes, a runny nose, a dirty house and my shorts from last summer are too tight. I just want to crawl back in bed. 

Spring makes me feel exposed, raw, unready. I hate it. Pass the Claritin, please, and close that garage door.

You Know You Live In Fairfax County When

You've said or heard the following....

Regarding Traffic:
- It took me 45 minutes to get home from Tysons.
- Ever heard of a turn signal, buddy?
- It took 10 minutes just to get from 123 to Nutley.
- My signal was on for like 5 minutes and that *bleep* still wouldn't let me get over.
- Oh. My. Lord. We aren't moving. I hate 66.

Regarding Dining Out:
- You guys want to go to Coastal Flats?
- Let's have drinks at Ozzie's first.
- Want to meet for lunch at Cheesecake Factory?
- I saw like 10 people I know at Bonefish Friday night.

Regarding Hosting Out of Town Guests:
- Are you flying into Dulles or Reagan?
- My cousin and her kids are in town. We're going to the Air and Space Museum.
- Lucky! How did you get White House tickets?
- Ugh. I have to take them all the way out to Mt. Vernon.

Regarding Kids Sports:
- He made the A team!
- He made the B team but that's good because he will get more playing time.
- He made the C team. He wants to quit.
- I put her in golf lessons, I hear there's a lot of scholarship money for women's golf.
- He plays travel, AAU and takes privates twice a week. He signed up for four AP classes next year and is organizing a charity coat drive. He wants to major in engineering, maybe go to MIT, Tech would be his fall back. What's your eighth grader up to?

Regarding School:
- When are they going to get rid of half day Mondays?
- Who's your math tutor? Can I have their number?
- We spent four weekends filling out college applications.
- Did you sign up for SAT classes? I heard they're full.
- She has a 4.3 and didn't get into UVa.

Regarding Knowing People Who Work for the CIA:
- She works for the (air quotes) State Department.
- He works at (emphasis) Langley.
- I heard he works for the (whispers) government.
- I don't know, she's a government contractor or something.

Regarding Fast Food:
- I totally need a Five Guys. Wanna go?
- Whatever happened to Roy Rogers? I heard there's one left in Springfield or something.
- Why do I always want Chik fil A on Sunday?
- Let's just drive through McDonald's.

Regarding Local Celebrities:
- Have you SEEN Yorktown High School? I heard they have a Starbucks now. Apparently, Sandra Bullock donates millions.
- Is your kid following Ryan McElveen on Twitter? I don't get it.
- Had dinner at Jackson's the other night and saw a bunch of Redskins hanging out.
- Sorry I'm late. Things came to a standstill to let he presidential motorcade pass.

What They Don't Tell You

Nobody tells you how hard being a parent is going to be. I suspect it's to keep the human race from expiring. I know I might have reconsidered had I known some of what was coming. Whatever the reason, they don't tell you.

They don't tell you that your newborn, contrary to those peacefully snoozing you've seen only in formula commercials, could have colic. What is colic, you ask? Ask a pediatrician and they'll tell you they don't know. We can cure erectile dysfunction and hunt down and kill Osama Bin Laden but THEY DON'T KNOW what colic is. I'll tell you what it is. It's when your baby screams bloody murder for hours at a stretch and you're powerless to help. Mercifully, it's temporary. You can't do much to help your wailing little boo except love him. But you can take survival measures. I recommend expensive noise canceling earphones, long walks while someone else takes over, and Hostess cakes. Any variety. As many as it takes. 

They don't tell you that your cuddly two year old could one day morph into a terrifying dictator that would make Kim Jung Il look like Gerald Ford. No amount of patience, positive attitude or bribery with Dora the Explorer fruit snacks will make them budge once they've made up their mind to do, or not do, something. Ever try to cram a huffy toddler hell-bent on walking into a stroller? With other parents in the mall agape in quiet judgement? You chase after your kid, who's clearly intent on conquering the mall with or without your tiresome ass. Once captured, he goes wet noodle on you, slipping through your hold and flopping onto the floor. Mustering all the cheery authority you can, you scoop him up again. He then transforms from lifeless heap to ninja octopus. Outraged by this subordinate attempt to thwart his freedom, he kicks the stroller and it goes skittering, spilling fruit snacks and sippy cup, towards two elderly mall walkers. They just smile at each other and look back at you with pity.

They also don't tell you that sometimes during the elementary school years, you'll lose patience and yell and say things you wish you hadn't. Like when your child starts a project at 8:00 p.m. That's due the next day. And involves clay and dowel rods you don't currently possess. They don't tell you that when they're in middle school your heart will break as your formerly snuggly kid no longer wants to be hugged. That during their high school years you will lose sleep worrying about whether they'll get into college or end up in your basement playing XBox for all eternity, surrounded by empty gatorade bottles and Frito bags.

My niece is pregnant with her first child. Do I tell her these things? I don't know. I do know that with time, fussy infants grow into delightful babies. Stubborn toddlers grow into independent and determined young men. And boys that didn't want to be hugged in middle school will come back around as the time approaches for them to leave for college. If she asks for my advice over the next few years, I will tell her that colic is temporary, to let the toddler walk and to give the teenager some space.

She will learn on her own, as we all do, that her love for them will be strong enough to survive colic, mall tantrums and college applications. Nobody can quite accurately tell you about that certain magical, yet very ordinary, kind of love. Which is as it should be. It's best discovered along the way.

Dixieland Calling

Every year, about this time, I get homesick for the south. More than any other time of year, fall makes me miss the place where my roots began and my heart belongs. Nothing really cures it and that's fine by me.  Like most southerners, I take a certain pleasure in nursing these things and looking back with longing.

Maybe it's football. Those that know me know I don't really love the game itself. But I do love the sound and feel of it and the memories it brings. I've attended dozens of games, great ones, but never really been captured by the sport. But the event of it, well, that's quite different.  It began with my grandfather's radio perched on the rail of his back porch. We'd listen to Auburn play, just two hours away down a stretch of west Georgia blacktop, through sleepy towns and past cotton fields and sugar cane. Listening to the game, we'd shuck corn for my grandmother or I'd play with his dogs, Tiger and Beau, while he tinkered with a pocket knife, cigar clamped in his mouth and a faraway look in his eye. 

Later, as an Auburn student, game day was the highlight of my week. We'd be packed shoulder to shoulder, girls in sundresses and boys in their khakis and colorful ties, secretly pouring bourbon into our stadium cups, grinning and singing the fight song at the tops of our lungs, squinting into the blue and copper autumn sky as our eagle soared high in a circle and the jets from Montgomery thundered above us, leaving a vibration in our chests and a lump in our throats.

Those games were an event like no other. It began when the alums arrived on campus in an endless caravan of motor homes on Thursday afternoon. We'd exchange "heys" and "War Eagles" as we walked past their elaborate campouts on our way home from classes. We knew we were always welcome at somebody's Aunt Lucy or great Uncle Jimmy 's makeshift table for homemade fried chicken and tales of our school from generations past. We weren't just fellow fans of a great football team to them, we were somebody's children and they treated us like family. Friday came at last with a huge pep rally, maybe a parade or bonfire, theme parties to dress up for and ended with bus rides to the Supper Club on the edge of town and dancing until the wee hours. Saturday began waking up to the sound of the marching band's drum section echoing over campus and hair dryers and telephones ringing in the sorority house, to the boom and sway of the massive crowd in the stands, cheers and fight songs sung by thousands in unison, all the way to the final band standing in a fraternity's back yard belting out their last song. It came drifting through our open windows, muted and mingled with distant laughter, sending us off to sleep. Sweet Home Alabama. To us it was and always will be.

Now, my boys text back and forth with their grandmother during Auburn games, typing things like "did you see that??" and "War Eagle!!" with little football emoticons. I can hear them shouting at the t.v. and analyzing plays. I don't need to watch every game. Hearing the sounds of it is enough for me.

So when the days grow shorter, the nights cooler and the sky turns copper, my mind goes back to that place. Past tall pines, huge live oaks, slow moving rivers and towns long forgotten, down a lonely stretch of interstate and into the welcoming arms of the loveliest village on the plains.

Apron String Theory

I read an article on motherhood recently. The author wrote "to be a mother is to wish with all your might that it be you instead who breaks the arm, who bleeds, whose heart is crushed." She also wrote "Don't let any harm come, in any form, on my watch. The vigilance is without end."

Uh. Okay, but no thanks. I'll pass on the fear mongering and constant "vigilance." There's enough fear running around loose in the world, mine doesn't need to join it. The last thing I want is for my boys to be bubble-wrapped, Purell'd and unprepared to navigate our crazy, beautiful world. I'm of the belief that painful experiences, physical and emotional, are a huge part of learning to be a decent human being. So I refuse to hover. Besides, I'm a bit lazy and trying to control every little thing is just too much trouble.

My own Mom  encouraged exploration and adventure. I was a tomboy and a bit of a hyper handful so she probably just wanted me out of her hair. I spent a lot of time playing outside unsupervised. I have a scar or two and some great stories to prove it. Once I begged my older sister to let me ride on the handlebars of her new banana seat bike. We hit a curb and crashed spectacularly and I ended up in the hospital with a concussion. I don't remember being scared at all, it was quite a blast really until I hit pavement. What I do remember is feeling a little too wild and free and knowing something more powerful than me was at work. In this case: gravity. I discovered that elusive boundary between wild abandon and the need for common sense. I was learning first hand a little bit of how the world operated and gaining healthy respect for things beyond my control. My mom wasn't lecturing me about it or making me read it from a book. I'll always want my boys to go out there and explore, get a little dirty and banged up, and to come home and tell me about it. And if I'm lucky and they do, I can tend to the wound, offer some comfort, help put things in perspective and hopefully we can find something about it worth laughing at.

I remember what it was like to get my heart broken by a boy I loved. I also remember what it was like to be the new kid sitting alone in the lunchroom. Would I go back and spare myself the pain of a break up? Had my mom sit with me in the lunch room the first week of school? NO. Because I learned from those experiences what rejection and loneliness feel like and now I can spot it in others. The most compassionate people are those that have been through some pain. The quickest to pick up the fallen are those that remember what it felt like to fall.

So when I read parenting treacle like that article, aimed at me and designed to make me feel part of an elite and smug sisterhood of protective mommies, I can't help but barf a little.  Don't you, too? Motherhood doesn't give us the right to be martyrs of constant worry. It means, by some sheer miracle, I've been given the incredible honor of helping two young souls navigate their way through the world for a brief time on this earth. It will not serve them well to have me clutching the helm out of fear, even though there is plenty to fear besides  broken bones and broken hearts. Of course I want to protect and nurture my boys, my love for them is bigger than I ever could have imagined before I had them, but my ultimate responsibility is to prepare them to belong to something bigger and much more important than themselves. To do that I have to allow them to live, knowing living is sometimes messy, scary and painful.

I know a lot of really great mothers. One of the greatest blessings in my life is their friendships. The ones I admire the most keep the apron strings loose as best they can, despite their fear and worries. They lead their kids by example and live a full life, laughing and learning from mistakes they make along the way. They focusing on the joy of the ride, not all the things that could go wrong. They bravely put their faith in the greatest Protector there is, knowing full well their sons and daughters have always truly belonged to Him anyway.

Sexual Casualties

Samantha on Sex and the City started it. I don't think she meant to and she totally made it look like a ton of fun, but she opened up a whole Pandora's box of unrealistic expectations for young women. She made it look like a good idea to, and I quote,"f*** like a man." Without emotion, is how she put it. She did whatever felt good to her at the moment without considering the repercussions. Sounds liberating and glamorous, but I think in the long run it just sucks. Living like that has consequences that I don't think are worth it. The disasters that are the lives of the characters on Girls should be proof enough.

I see a trend on TV and in real life among young women. They're disappointed with the guys in their lives yet unable to quite figure out why.  They lament that guys are not interested in relationships, only casual sex. Newsflash, there will always be guys like that. So aim higher. Perhaps these girls need to take a look at themselves for a clue to why they are attracting such low-quality boys. Yes, I meant to say girls and boys (not women and men) because talking boldly about sex and and having a bunch of it isn't the same as being a grown up.  As for Samantha, I think it's pretty simplistic and insulting to say men are unemotional about sex. Maybe just the ones she found herself surrounded by?

Whether you're a man or a woman, as a general rule, you can't be sexually irresponsible and selfish and expect true intimacy and a relationship above your navel when it becomes convenient for you. If you're a woman, you can't consistently dress, talk and behave like a 'ho and expect to be treated like a lady. I realize this is wildly unfair, because men can be total sluts and the consequences are never as bad for them. Infuriating, unjust, but true. For now, at least. All I am saying is in my 44 years of living I have observed that when a woman has a healthy respect for herself, she tends to attract men that are worthy of her. Isn't that really the kind of man most women want to be with versus the shallow man slut? You'll get a concussion diving in his pool.

I realize I'm old-fashioned, but I am genuinely sad for this generation that seems to have lost the concept of romance. Recently a few young women told me it's rare to get asked out on a date. Guys just aren't taking them out and making an effort to get to know them. They meet in bars and hook up.  I'm all for bars, God knows, but wow is it lazy if a guy is interested but can't get off his ass and create a little fun. It's as if they've traded in the mystery and excitement of courtship that, yes, takes effort on both sides, in favor of the ease and feebleness of trash like friends with benefits and sexting. I just can't fathom sleeping with a friend, or a stranger (!?!?) then looking him in the face the next morning and feeling like what happened was no more special than splitting a pizza. It would be dumbing down and diminishing a pretty amazing and powerful thing.  To be clear, my love life was NOT all rainbows and butterflies in my youth, actually it was a highly comical mess, but I don't have any awful regrets and I always felt there was respect and genuine affection between me and the guys I dated. Maybe all they really wanted was to make out, I don't know, but at least they were nice about it and showed me a good time first.

In the sixties a very good thing happened that has been slightly distorted and definitely taken for granted of late. The "women's lib" revolution gave us females a shot at living life as previously enjoyed only by men. Slowly and painfully, thanks to those brave enough to pave the way, opportunities for women opened up in careers once dominated by males. We became more equal to men in the eyes of society. Our thoughts and ideas began to be considered just as legitimate and valued.  The rights and freedoms women enjoy now were once only a dream. I wonder if today's young women know just how much of a struggle it was for women like my mom, who grew up in the deep south and whose options were really limited, to build herself a career and earn the respect of men in her field. She didn't do it so you could f*** like a man, ladies. She did it for self-respect and in hopes that her daughters, girls like you, could be taken seriously and have a few choices in life.

I've heard the business phrase "spilling your candy" and think it applies here.  It means giving away too much, too soon. Ladies, don't spill your candy. If a guy isn't worthy of what you have to offer, hold it a little closer to your chest and move on. I speak from experience here. My advice would be to find things about yourself physically and mentally that you love and make it a point to nurture them. Surround yourself with the girlfriends that you can totally be yourself with and who won't let you take yourself too seriously. Find a place where you are needed, where you help those less fortunate than you. This makes you less of a selfish jerk and harder to feel sorry for your self. Realize that when a guy does ask you out, it probably took a lot of courage. Show a little appreciation for that. And know that a bike ride in a park or a visit to a museum is sometimes a lot more conducive to real conversation than a stuffy upscale restaurant with $16 cocktails he may not be able to afford at the moment. Focus on these things and I bet there will be less space in your life for the boys that only want to hook up in bars and more for the men you really want.

Now I Get It

I'm forty-four years old and I finally get it. Of course I've known all along but my stubborn desire for an impossible ideal caused some confusion.  But this year, with a clear head, I get what Christmas is all about and my heart is bursting.

For years, I have tried to "create" Christmas tailored to ridiculous standards impossible to obtain. Even though I knew the Christmas story and honored it, my real focus was on decorating beautifully, pulling off a menu that pleased everyone and choosing perfect gifts.  There is nothing wrong with any of those things and wanting to achieve them. What was very wrong was my belief, hidden deep down, that if I did all these things right I would be rewarded somehow and be happy. I was focused on what I wanted instead of what I could give.

Perhaps it's the jolt of the horrific tragedy in Newtown that has caused my thinking to distill and gravitate towards what is true.  Maybe it's the time I've invested in the Bible over the past three months. (I did a class called The Bible in 90 Days. I won't lie, for me it was hell. I would love to say I sailed right through, but I fell asleep during major chunks of the Old Testament. I yelled at God during Leviticus and Deuteronomy and fell to my knees with humility upon reaching the gospels. But that experience is something to write about another day) Maybe it's just that I am finally growing up. Whatever the reason, I'm grateful, relieved and brimming with joy about the upcoming week.

Call it grace. This year, I get it that Jesus was Love in human form. He was literally Light born at a time when the world was a very dark and ugly place. Other than a few stern warnings, He pretty much ignored those in power who were perpetuating the darkness and ugliness. Instead, he chose to hang out with the dregs of society. He showed compassion and unconditional love to children, prostitutes, the mentally ill, the poor, the sick, the contagious, the dying, the homeless, the broken, the hopeless. He loved them. He gave them hope. In his brief time on earth, He spread the radically revolutionary ideas of forgiveness, mercy and grace. He changed everything. And He gave us the message that, if we chose to, through Him we could change everything too.

I wonder what He thinks of all the the time and energy I've wasted pursuing my silly ideal of His birthday, when all I had to do was sit still. Sit still and listen to the sounds of the Salvation Army bell, the carols of children, the crackling fireplace. Sit still and really see the beauty of lights lining my street, the tree hung with years of memories, the tiny manger scene on the mantel. Sit still and feel the warmth of a thick coat, the chill of a winter night, the love of those around me.

When my family gathers at my house on Christmas Eve, it won't really matter how my house looks, what the food tastes like or whether the gifts I gave were a good choice. What will truly matter is that I show love. For that is, and always will be, the greatest gift of all.