Anybody need a mint?

Several weeks ago our church hired a new senior minister. The getting-to-know-you phase is almost over, for which I’m sure everyone is grateful. One of his first sermons dealt with making the most of evangelistic opportunities, and he encouraged us to invite someone we knew to church. To remind us, we were handed Lifesaver mints with instructions not to eat the mint until we had invited one person.

I thought this was a hokey idea, and my first inclination is always to balk at orders, but I saved the mint, and it looked at me in silent reproach each time I opened my change purse. You see, between working here at the college and volunteering at the church, I know almost no one who isn’t already a Christian and active in a home church. Even my next-door neighbors on one side attend our church, and the ones on the other side have made it pretty clear that they don’t like to be repeatedly invited. So, I kept the mint for a month and finally tossed it out; it was pretty hairy-looking, even through its plastic wrapping.

But the idea wouldn’t die. Last night I went to get my hair cut and the grays covered. The stylist was very busy, and we started late. I thought my hair was almost done when she sighed, exasperated, and said, “This is just unacceptable—we’ll have to do it over.” My stubborn gray roots had not processed correctly, so I knew I was in for another hour at least, dashing my hopes of stopping by Kohl’s to see what was on sale. I made an offhand comment about my husband being at Journey to Bethlehem practice so he wouldn’t mind if I were late. At that point the conversation turned. My stylist said she and her family had come to Journey every year since she was 12, and she was looking forward this year to bringing her boyfriend and their little boy. I waited for my hair to process, and she went on to her next clients, a little girl and her mother. I sat in the next chair while she turned the girl into a princess, and began to get excited as she invited the girl and her family to attend Journey.

After they left, she went back to finishing my stubborn hair. By this time, the salon was empty, and she became more serious. She had not had any religious training as a child, and she said the first time she heard the Christmas story was at Journey. Now that her son is 2, she is looking for a church where she can find out more about Jesus, a church where her son will be welcomed so that he won’t have to wait for a pageant to learn about Christ. I explained the many opportunities for Bible study at our church, and made sure she had the service times. As I left, I wished her a Merry Christmas and told her I would see her in January. She said, “No, I think you’ll see me Sunday.”

Sure wish I had a mint.

My Thankful List

When I ask my students to name things for which they are grateful, they are fond of giving Sunday School answers. They are thankful for Jesus, for safe travel, for the college’s free tuition, and so on, but I wonder if they—and I—forget the small, ordinary blessings we have, those things which escape our attention until we don’t have them. Now, before I have them make their lists, I will make my own.

These are the small things I am thankful for:

1. An inviting house to come home to every night. It’s even better when my husband gets there before me and has the fire going and candles lit. Getting Pug Therapy while relaxing in my Happy Chair makes the trials of the day fade.

2. My Kindle. I hate to be bored, but I just can’t take enough books around with me to be sure that I will have a book with me that I want to read. My Kindle holds an entire library and fits in my (grandmother-sized) purse.

3. Sunsets over Creve Coeur Lake. The sun sets at just about the time I go home, and the colors of the sky over the lake and the Missouri River remind me that God still has all of the crayons in the celestial crayon box.

4. Watching students spontaneously stop to pray with one another. They are building friendships with each other and growing closer to God.

5. My iPod, with its semi-custom fitted earphones. Christmas music in your ears does wonders on a gloomy November day.

6. The ability to make things. I love to give gifts, particularly gifts that are spontaneous. My stash of stuff helps me turn out cards and projects quickly.

7. Starbucks instant coffee. Ready when I need it—usually about 2 in the afternoon.

8. My car, the Reverend Mother. It’s not small, but it gets me where I need to go, comfortably. I don’t want a new car as long as this one runs.

9. The DVR. We can watch shows without having to endure the temptation of commercials, and the shows consume less time. We can go to bed at an earlier hour without feeling we are missing something.

10. Podcasts. The ones I listen to are free, and range from the best parts of Prairie Home Companion to Bible study to knitting. I put in my earbuds, press a button, and get education and entertainment while I accomplish something else, like knitting.

My list could continue, but ten items are enough for now. Enjoy the small things in your life, and remember that God doesn’t just give us the huge blessings; he cares enough to let us find joy in small things, too.

Eight Years Ago Today

Eight years ago today dawned bright, clear, and beautiful—the perfect September day. My family busied itself getting ready for the day, just like any other normal Tuesday. I remember curling my hair, listening to the radio reports of a plane flying into the World Trade Center. I had visions of a tragically off-course Cessna, and hoped no great damage had been done to the buildings. During breakfast, my son and I watched TV coverage, and realized that the hole in the building was much too large for a private plane. About that time, we saw the second plane hit the other tower. (I did not realize at that time I was watching the sister of one of my internet friends die; she was a passenger.) My son and I looked at one another as the reality of what we had seen dawned on us: this was a planned event, and the United States was under attack.

Unable to discern the best course of action would be, I headed off to work, listening to my car radio. A reporter inside the Pentagon described a loud noise, then said he had to get off the air. He was being evacuated. A short time later, the radio announcer reported that all airspace was being closed and no civilian takeoffs would be allowed. My college was under the flight path for planes using Lambert Field, so you could always see contrails overhead. That morning, one by one, those contrails dissolved into the clear blue sky and were not replaced. At that point, I realized how accustomed I’d become to sounds of planes. Suddenly, it was quiet.

Lacking any directives otherwise, I went to my class, but no teaching was accomplished. Instead, I answered what questions I could. My students, all 18-20 years old, wanted to know about the draft and whether I thought it would be necessary. They knew, immediately, that we were at war. Students who were members of the National Guard and the reserves received orders to make ready to report for active duty.

After class, we watched replays of the towers crashing. We would watch the same scenes, over and over, for days, still trying to process the idea that this was real, not cinematic special effects.

The rest of the day was a blur. No one knew who had attacked us, or why, or even how many planes were involved. We knew there had been 4 crashes; we didn’t know if there were more. Reporters, lacking confirmed information, repeated any rumor they heard. What we did know was that we were terribly proud to be Americans, and we grieved the loss of all as though they were our own family.

I was the faculty advisor for Campus Crusade for Christ. The members of the club sensed what was needed on campus, and went about arranging a prayer service. That day, the whole campus—students and faculty—came together to pray for the families of the dead, the leaders of the country, and ourselves. That day, the small gathering of Christians on a secular campus was the church—unified and loving. That day, we all remembered to say “I love you” lest we not have another chance.

No one hopes for another tragedy. Too bad tragedy was what it took to realign our values. Let’s not forget again—be the people we were 8 years ago today.

Today's Gratitude List

1. Picture of a smiling granddaughter as my computer wallpaper. She’s happy and healthy, and we are blessed.
2. Better than expected papers from my English class. We won’t have to spend as long on the beginning steps, so there will be more time to learn to write well.
3. Good attitudes from students, which make it easier to maintain a positive outlook myself.
4. My dinner menu is planned, and I have everything on hand to make it. Now we can eat and still have time left to enjoy the evening after dinner’s over.
5. Not even one person has asked me a computer question today, so I have had time to do my own work uninterrupted.
6. The shuffle feature on the iPod works well. I’m not even skipping the Christmas songs today.
7. My dogs still love me--especially when I have bones in my hand. I think my husband loves me, too, though I don't tempt him with bones.

Perspective

I lost a friend yesterday morning. She died, too soon, of a malignancy that all of the skill of the doctors couldn’t stop, in spite of all the fervent prayers offered on her behalf. She had accomplished all that God had for her to do, and he took her. She now has no need of faith, for she is in the presence of the Lord. Since there is no time in Heaven, it seems to her as though she has always been there, and this thought comforts us.

We were young women together. For the first couple of years we knew each other, one of us was always pregnant. We started a church together. I helped start a Christian school; she and her husband established a Christian daycare. Another friend and I gave her a baby shower for her second son; she threw me a party when I had my own surprise baby a year later. She sang in the choir; I played the piano. We sang in a trio together, and watched our children grow. Our church grew, too, and she worked in children’s ministry and continued in the choir. We attended Bible study together. Her husband helped mine lay my kitchen floor; in May, my husband returned the favor and helped lay the hardwood in her hall. We commiserated through remodeling projects and bought hot tubs. We drank pots of Nicaraguan coffee over after-church desserts. Once our children were all grown, we would meet in Branson for vacation. We shared an amazing night last Christmas watching the Silver Dollar City tree lighting show, and then closed down a restaurant in town (in Branson, that happens at 8 p.m. in December).

Last Easter, we went to church, where her husband, dressed as a high priest, served as a visual aid for the sermon. Afterward, we all went out to dinner at our favorite Chinese restaurant where we laughed over the live goat that was part of the service, and then the conversation turned to our middle-aged aches and pains. She complained of a backache, which we all thought was because of a fall at Jazzercise. We swapped names of chiropractors. Ordinary meal, ordinary conversation—we just didn’t realize it would be the last time on this earth we could sip hot tea and linger over a meal. By the next weekend, she was deathly ill.

If we were younger, her death would be looked upon as a tragedy. She did die too soon—but not unusually young. For those of us in late middle age, losing a friend is a circumstance we will face with increasing frequency, until we keep our own appointment with eternity. If we live long enough, our circle of old friends will grow smaller and smaller, and there will be fewer and fewer people who remember us before our faces wrinkled and our hair turned gray. Our task now is to remember how short our time together on earth might be, and to appreciate each moment we spend. We have great and precious promises, and eternity will indeed be grand. I look forward to it with all my heart. But for now, I miss her.

Defriended

Dear (former Facebook) friend:

It has come to my attention that you “defriended” me on Facebook. This is surprising, since we have been friends close to 45 years, and a friendship of that long standing should be able to take just about anything. I am confident that I did nothing to offend you; rather, one of my family members responded critically to one of your posts. You probably think I agree with him. I do agree with his sentiment, but he was harsh. To be fair, you were commenting about recent events at my church, which used to be your church, too.

Understand, friend, that I love my church. My family has sacrificed 28 years of our lives to establish and build the body of Christ in our area. We have spent time, money, and treasure, and prayed and wept over it as much as over any member of our family. We don’t always agree with the decisions of the elders, but since my husband has served as an elder, we understand how difficult some decisions can be and how much soul-searching goes into the process. We also understand that the elders are our God-given leaders, and as members of this particular body, we must submit to them as a spiritual discipline. Unless the elders do something in conflict with scripture, submit we will. If we feel they have handled a situation poorly, we are to handle this as any other conflict—privately.

You have chosen to publicly criticize our body, and you’ve obviously reacted rashly when you were called out for this. I urge you to temper your comments with good will, since you still have friends (including me) at this church. Wish us well, as we wish your church to prosper. We may no longer worship at the same place, but we still worship the same God, and I expect to spend eternity with you. I’m just sorry, that for the time being, we won’t be practicing fellowship now.

So Long, Michael

Michael Jackson will be buried tomorrow, and the world is fascinated. Fans and the merely curious have submitted their requests to attend the funeral, and the lucky (?) have been chosen, most to honor someone they had neither met nor seen. The hoopla over the “services” strikes me as odd at best, pathetic at worst. Yes, he was a public figure. Sure, he influenced pop music for years. Of course, we are saddened—50 is too young to die, especially when you look backward, not forward, to 50.

But I am not mourning his death. MJ was a decent musician. He could carry a tune without a lot of electronic processing, but much of his music was hardly uplifting. He was a talented dancer, but his costumes and movements could be found under the dictionary entry for “lewd,” especially in his later years. His personal conduct was hardly admirable, with multiple accusations of pedophilia, a couple of sham marriages, and less than stellar parenting methods. He should have been rich beyond counting, but he did not manage his fortune and was deeply in debt. If news reports are to be believed, he also had a problem with prescription drugs, and seemed to be obsessed with transforming his appearance from black male to white female. He was most definitely not a role model for our children.

Our reaction to Michael Jackson should more properly be pity, not admiration. We cannot judge what his ultimate eternal destination will be, but we cannot reasonably say that most of his adult life brought glory to God or caused his fans to think of anything that was true, noble, right, pure, lovely, or admirable. He had great potential and squandered it along with his fortune. The willful waste of his life is the real tragedy.

In Praise of Followers

I heard a commercial yesterday for a large private university near here, advertising their mission of producing exceptional leaders.  My own college's mission statement is similar, proclaiming that we will produce servant-leaders, a mission I wholeheartedly support, since we are in the business of training ministers and leaders of ministries.  But the commercial did set me to wondering whether or not we really want everyone to be a leader, not to mention that making everyone a leader is contrary to the word’s definition. I think the time has come to get a dose of reality and train people to be educated, discerning followers.

All of us have to be followers.  All people have some authority over them--yes, even President Obama.  All of us have to learn to submit and obey.  Most of us will exercise leadership only within very narrow limits, perhaps only in our own homes, so we will spend considerably more time following instead of leading. Hence, understanding the characteristics of a good follower is important.

So what makes a good follower?  First, understanding that a follower is not the leader.  The follower must submit to the authority of the leader.  This does not mean that the follower is the slave; rather, he is the supporter and helper of the leader. The leader will go nowhere on his own, and opposition will slow or halt progress for all.

The follower, though, has an obligation to make sure the leader is heading in the right direction.  Blind following may lead to an undesirable place.  Therefore, the follower has to use discernment in choosing which leader to follow, and must be ready to speak his mind and advise the leader of obstacles.  Good leaders rely on their helpers and will listen; poor leaders will find themselves leading no one.

So we must learn to choose leaders wisely and to hold them accountable for their leadership.  We must pray for our leaders and do all we can to make the pathway smooth for all of us.  But if our leader is leading us in the wrong direction, we have an obligation to stop following.  We need to remember the saying we heard from our mothers: “If ____ told you to jump off the cliff, would you?”

The Aftermath

Our daughter got married last weekend. She married a fellow we really like, and they are very well suited to each other in terms of intellect and interests. Weddings are always stressful affairs for the families involved, but I think we managed to make it through without too much difficulty. There were glitches, but the end result was achieved: a new family was formed, with much rejoicing.

This is our 3rd child to be married, so we are familiar with the range of emotions that we can expect. This time, though, the son-in-law has lived with us for almost a year, so we didn’t just lose one person from the household; we lost two. So we scramble to find a new, temporary normal—the “baby” leaves for college at the end of the summer. Then, after almost 33 years, the husband and I will be alone again.

Do we dread this? No, not much. We enjoy our adult kids, and we also enjoy our freedom. If we want to eat dinner at 4:30—or at 8:30—we can. I can run around in my pj’s after supper and not care if my sags and bags are apparent. We can eat food our kids still find disgusting. We can rediscover what we saw in each other B.C. (Before Children). We can take hot showers (hooray for a huge water heater and only the two of us).

So here’s to the natural order of life. My spouse and I intend to enjoy our “golden years” while we can, preferably with lots of grandchildren (hear that, kids: multiply!).

My New Career

Apparently the Department of Homeland Security has decided that my next career is that of right-wing extremist.  Since I believe abortion is evil, all immigrants should be legal, the Second Amendment is still valid, big government is dangerous, and Tax Day Tea Parties are just an exercise in the right of free assembly, I definitely fit DHS's definition of extremist.  Oh--I also belong to a conservative religious group.   Oh, well.  I've changed careers before, and I guess one more time before I retire won't kill me.

Hey, Janet Napolitano--you are invited to my office for a tea party.  Have a seat on my couch and I'll brew you a cup of tea and maybe feed you a scone if I have any left.  Enjoy the lilac candles and the classical music playing on my iPod.  We'll talk.  Maybe the tranquil atmosphere will calm you down.  If not, I have a Hallmark panic button for you to press.  Get to know me, and you'll see just how extreme I really am.  I'm about the least likely person to pose a physical threat to you, but I might just threaten your own left-wing extremist view of me as a danger to the New Society.  Maybe if you left your insulated Washington hideout and met real middle Americans you wouldn't have such a phobia about us.

So Janet--see you on my couch.  

My New Hero(ine)

I watched Sarah Palin's speech last night at the RNC. I usually abhor political speeches; they're generally badly delivered, cliche-ridden propaganda pieces, and I flatly don't trust any politician to tell the truth. Maybe Palin didn't tell the truth either, and her speech had its share of old jokes and awkward pauses, but I like her. She has strength of character.

Since she was named as the VP nominee, Palin and her family have undergone nothing short of persecution. The media made sure we knew about every possible flaw: pregnant daughter, violent ex-relatives, her husband's 22-year-old DUI, special needs son. Oh--she also goes to church and urges graduates to pray for the country's leaders! The audacity! When the media begins to comment on the candidate's dress, hairstyle, and "twangy" voice, you can be sure of one thing: they are afraid of her. Since they can't find any substantive failings, media pundits resort to personal attacks.

Through all of the attacks disguised as reporting, Palin stood tall. She treated the media barbs with all the respect they deserved: she ignored them. She upheld her family, including the pregnant daughter and her gutsy soon-to-be son-in-law, and then got down to the business of making her potential boss look good. She fulfilled the traditional attack dog role of VP with well-placed barbs, all the funnier because she pointed out the truth.

The sexist attacks on Sarah Palin anger me. I, too, came of age in an era where women's roles were changing. Growing up, I thought my life would be a stay-at-home mom, not because I wanted it, but because that's what women did. I am grateful that we can now have whatever career suits us, provided we are willing to make the sacrifices. I resent deeply the intimation that Palin cannot raise her children properly without being at home. No one asks whether or not Obama or Biden should seek office because it might take time away from the kids. Palen's husband seems to be supportive and ready for a role reversal. His opinion of her running is the only one that matters.

In the words of a famous book, "Go, Sarah, go. Run, Sarah, run. Win, win, Sarah."

Emails, IV's, and a Logic Exercise

We got the coolest email yesterday from our son and his wife.  He had recorded their latest doctor's visit on his iPhone, and sent us a recording of our grandchild's heartbeat.  In the background you can hear the doctor explaining which heartbeat belonged to Mom and which to the baby.  My daughter-in-law is only about 11 weeks pregnant, but the doctor says very plainly, "And the faster one is the baby's."

Our admissions director at the college is also about 11 weeks pregnant.  She's having a bad time, and came to work over the weekend dragging an IV to keep her hydrated and fed.  Even though she feels ill most of the time, she smiles when she speaks of "the baby," and says, dreamily, "It will all be worth it."

Notice:  both babies (embryos, fetuses, buns in the oven, etc.) are babies.  Not just to their mothers, but to everyone around them--including the doctors.  Both young mothers have endured unpleasantness.  Pregnancy is neither easy nor romantic.

That got me thinking.  Last week the Obama/McCain town hall debate asked when a child was entitled to full rights.  McCain answered definitively, "at conception."  Obama waffled and said something about that being above his pay grade.  For someone who wishes to be the most powerful person in the world, he should know that there will be no one above his pay grade, so it is his duty to make up his mind.  I fear what he was trying to avoid saying was that human rights are to be reserved for the convenient, the wanted, and the perfect.  To acknowledge that view would be to acknowledge that he doesn't really believe in human rights at all, if the one needing the rights would cost time or money.  To Obama, "All men are created equal," but apparently there is debate either about what constitutes a human, or when, exactly, creation of said human has reached enough maturity to be deemed complete.  Such uncertainty about definitions ultimately leads to no definition at all.  The age at which one becomes eligible for rights could be redefined at will, so any given characteristic could mean that one was not really human.  Such was the logic that allowed the Holocaust.

Obama needs to go hear a few ultrasounds.

Here's to welcoming new babies--born and unborn!

Renewable Energy

The lights went out at church today, midway through the 3rd service.  We had just finished one set of songs, and we were about to begin another, more worshipful set, when there was the "pop" of electrical gadgetry suddenly silenced.  We were left with only the dim lighting of emergency lights--several hundred people with no sound system and no video screens.  In a church the size of ours, you come to depend on technology for sound, lighting, and climate control, but there would be no modern conveniences today.  The worship leader shifted gears in midstream, and I was glad my parents taught me to memorize hymns (both words and music).  Instead of our carefully practiced worship set with band accompaniment, we had just one singer, one piano, and a congregation relying on long-remembered hymns like "Amazing Grace."

While staffers and interns scrambled behind the scenes to find enough candles to shed light on the minister's Bible, the minister relied on his memory of the Word.  There was quiet in our building as all concentrated on hearing one voice in a place built for a thousand people.  Once in a while you could hear a baby's cry, but mostly what you heard was the silence of people straining to hear a godly man proclaim his next-to-last sermon after 60 years of preaching.

In the dim silence, God began to work.  People sang old familiar words with their hearts.  Though no one asked the congregation to stand, many stood, raised their hands, and worshiped.  At the end of the service, many came to ask for prayer.  Communion time was the most meaningful in recent memory.  At the conclusion of the service, people were reluctant to leave and stayed in their seats, praying.  The lights came on as we were dismissed, but the church was slow to empty.

All in all, this power outage made heavenly power visible.

Here's to darkness that reveals the light--the true source of renewable energy.

Incurable Optimism

Tuesday I parked my car in the supermarket parking lot and noticed the car in the next space. It had clearly seen better days. It was dinged, dented, rusted, and old; one of its fenders didn't match the rest of the car. This car was in such bad shape that the owner didn't even feel the need to roll up its windows and lock it. Nevertheless, optimism reigned in the heart of its driver. Swinging proudly from the rearview mirror was an air freshener--New Car scent!

Spiritual Gifts, Spiritual Disciplines

Yesterday our beloved minister announced that he had taken a bit of grief over his statement last week that he feels some Christians give too much weight to the issue of spiritual gifts and not enough to the fruits of the Spirit. As a participant (victim?) of a couple of spiritual gifts inventories and the professor of students who take these same checklists, I see our preacher's point. Some students are dismayed to think that they might not be spiritually gifted. Others quickly become puffed up and attempt to use their gift (forcibly, if necessary). They are much like a toddler in one of those battery-powered cars--he thinks he's driving, but he's not.

I've had people tell me that I should pay attention to them on certain matters because these topics fall under the purview of their spiritual gift. Sometimes I pay attention, but often, I don't. Why? Because spiritual gifts are only as good as the spiritual maturity of the person with the gift. Spiritual gifts, like any other gift, can indeed be misused. If the "gifted" Christian is relying on his perception of his "gift" and not studying what God says, more often than not, the gift will be misused. Without knowledge of what God thinks about good and evil, the "Discerner" might substitute his own judgment, informed by popular culture rather than scripture. Yes, one might have the gift of evangelism, but without a good grounding in the word, the "Evangelist" is just about as reliable as the used car salesman down the block.

So how do we know whose spiritual gift to trust? Look at the person's fruits! Is he joyful, good, loving, kind, peaceful, gentle, patient, faithful, and above all, self-controlled? If not, do not trust his gifts. The person who is truly controlled by God cannot help but show his maturity by his actions.

Back to the (almost) normal

The dear husband and I have returned from our short foray to the Land of the Thousand Putt-Putts. We managed to spend an entire 3-day vacation in Branson avoiding musical shows. We thought of going to see Noah, but the TV clip I saw dissuaded me; I just don't think Noah would do a hoe-down while taking a break from ark-building. And if he did, he probably wouldn't have thought it would be worth nearly $50 a person to see it! Somehow, Noah: the Musical just doesn't seem to treat the destruction of the world with the sorrow it deserves, even if people seem to rave about the show.

We fulfilled one of the items on my bucket list--we rode the Ducks. The ride was every bit as hokey as you'd expect, but I picked up some interesting tidbits of local history I hadn't learned in my many, many visits to southwestern Missouri, and I don't think I'd ever been on Table Rock Lake. We made good use of our camera. Shopping on Branson Landing was fun, too, and a deceptive way to get exercise and sunshine.

But mostly, we relaxed. Hubby read, and I knitted--all without being interrupted a single time by the telephone. I can remember wishing that my parents would do something--anything!--on vacation besides sit and read their stash of magazines, but now there is nothing quite as appealing as quiet reading time. We sat on the deck of our bed and breakfast, looked out at Lake Taneycomo below us, and listened to the birds and the distant bells at the College of the Ozarks. We brewed coffee in our room and snacked on whatever we wanted (Honey Nut Cheerios mix and pretzels). We took our time coming home, taking nearly all day to make a 4 1/2-hour trip.

So now, we begin the slippery slope to Christmas. School starts in 4 weeks, and there won't be a moment's peace until finals. I love the (organized) chaos of school, but I really needed this past week.

So here's to quiet--just not too much of it.

Where's the ACME Catalog?

I miss Bugs Bunny. My brother and I spent many a childhood Saturday morning watching such classic shows as The Three Stooges (nyuk, nyuk, nyuk), Yogi Bear (where looking for an unattended picnic was a way of life), Mighty Mouse (Here he comes to save the day!), and my personal favorite, Bugs Bunny. I now realize we were learning some dangerous lessons:

• Idiocy should be rewarded with a bop on the head.
• Picnic food is good, and meant to be enjoyed occasionally--even if it is fried or loaded with mayonnaise.
• Villains should be quickly dispatched, preferably with an uppercut.
• Anvils and explosives are useful for temporarily dispatching one's enemies.

When our sons were small, Looney Tunes remained a part of our Saturday mornings. I let the kids think watching cartoons was their idea. Now I know I was teaching them the wrong values.

This past Saturday morning, I was working in my Stamp Dungeon and turned on my 5-inch TV for some background noise and maybe a couple of nostalgic laughs. I quickly realized that children's TV has changed a lot in the 10 years or so since I last tuned in. After skipping the infomercial on CBS (no sales resistance), I found what passes for preteen entertainment on another channel.

The first program featured live actors in a variation of Judy Garland/Mickey Rooney's "Let's have a show!" movies. The stars were producing a weekly cable show featuring crafts kids could make. The obvious theme of the show was saving money--but not for the traditional reasons: college fund, new bicycle, iPod, etc. Kids are now supposed to save money to send to the Cause of the Week, in this case victims of a tornado. Saving money for oneself was laughingly ridiculed.

The next program was animated, and I eagerly waited to see the villain's nefarious plans backfire. I must be hopelessly out-of-date. There was no clear villain, just a disagreement between characters which was solved with a negotiation session. Boring, boring, boring. This program taught that conflict is bad, compromise is good, and Negotiation Makes Everyone a Winner. At the end of my hour of kiddy TV, I felt like I'd been to church and heard only the sermon on the sin of Greed. Preachy, preachy, preachy.

After reflection, I came to a conclusion about these politically correct propaganda pieces: they are misleading, and therefore, wrong. First, it is not wrong to save money for your own purposes. It's not wrong to give your savings away, either, but you should not be compelled to "share." To be fair, the little girl in the show was following her heart in giving away her money, but the message of the show was clearly in favor of always giving away your surplus.

Secondly, there are some situations where compromise is just not possible because the issues are too important and involve moral principles. Negotiation is dandy for times when you don't agree on how to spend Friday night or which restaurant to patronize. But on issues like abortion vs. carrying the child, only one result can be chosen. And if some miscreant tries to do me harm, I'm not negotiating. Instead, I'm reaching for the nearest anvil (probably my purse) and bopping him on the head (or softer tissue more within the reach of my height-challenged arms), rather than trying to convince him of a win/win position: instead of killing me, he could get what he wants by doing me grievous bodily harm.

We do our children no favors by constantly indoctrinating them with this drivel. Baby Boomers grew up with cartoon violence, and most of us don't order explosives from ACME catalogs. We learned to share when we are faced with a compelling need, and we do, on occasion, negotiate and compromise. All the same, I think I'll stock up on Looney Tunes DVDs for my grandkids.

Random Observations

• I saw a dead armadillo on the road near my house this morning. I didn’t think they were supposed to come this far north because our winters are too cold for them to survive. Two possibilities: global warming is to blame (but this year is colder than last) or armadillos don’t read maps very well.

• If you want to raise your blood pressure, watch The Baby Borrowers. This show attempts to convince teenagers wanting “real life” to start sooner rather than later that waiting might not be a good idea. The show gives pairs of teens real babies and real jobs for a couple of days. After a few days, the babies are given back to their parents and are replaced by toddlers, then teens, then elderly parents.
  
  Weirdly, the girls are the ones who are gung-ho to start families, but the boys do a better job of holding their “families” together. A couple of the girls really needed to be taken aside—before their 5th birthday--and told they were not princesses. But alas, their mommies never disillusioned them, and real life doesn’t allow a great deal of time for pedestal-sitting. These bratty babes really made me want to reach out and touch them—with my pink hairbrush! This show is a Scared Straight for prosti-tots and makes me remember just how difficult it was to take care of small children.

• I’m fighting my inner Momzilla with wedding plans. A trip through Michael’s wedding supply aisle plants all sorts of ideas in the mind of a future MOBs (Mother of Bride). Exactly when did goodie bags for wedding guests become a necessity? Do adults really think that just because others receive presents, everyone needs a gift or we’ll damage precious psyches? And are regular M&Ms OK for the favors, or must we order special ones custom imprinted with the initials of the newly-nupted couple? Please, save me from trying to stencil “Amy & B.J.: in love forever” on the aisle cloth!

Empty Nest

There was a brouhaha over my head this morning as I took my walk. As I left the driveway, I heard a commotion just up the street, cutting into my “happy time” with my iPod. Birdsong is the normal accompaniment to any stroll in our neighborhood, usually enhancing my prerecorded music. But what I heard was not birdsong. The starlings were clearly in an uproar.

I looked up to see a flock of starlings chasing a larger bird from the yard of #12 to the oak tree of #15. The oak leaves shook with the turmoil, and then the chase was on again, this time toward the woods. No doubt the larger bird, which could have been a small hawk, had absconded with a young starling. The flock, alerted too late, could only give chase and voice its outrage. By the time the avian army arrived, the brief battle was probably over. All the birds could do was give chase and hope the predator would relinquish its grip so the victim could have a decent birdie burial.

As I walked past the Oak Tree of Certain Death on my next lap around the circle, I realized that even the mourning chirps had ceased. There was no sign of the battle that had raged just a few minutes before.

I could draw lots of lessons from this tragic scene, but somehow the forlorn chirping of the starlings after the lost battle reminded me that my own empty nest looms on the horizon. However, my nest will not empty tragically. In 14 months, give or take 1 or 2, the last two of our kids will leave home. Daughter #1 will move out on her own (I’m resisting comparing the young man in her life to the hawk), and we’ll help Daughter #2 explore the wonders of college dormitory living. Am I sad? A little, but such is the natural order of things. Soon after the girls leave, their dad and I will find our new normal, and life will go on. Actually, we’re looking forward to it.

Now, on to summer!

My daughter has now finished her college education and is in the process of moving back home for an indefinite stay. Because she's an engineer, she had multiple job offers and chose one close to home. Her graduation ceremony offered some interesting contrasts with ceremonies at other institutions, particularly the one where I teach. Here, graduations are mostly dignified ceremonies, with lots of prayers and a sermon. No one would dream of writing anything on his cap, and no one could see it anyway; we don't have to use bleachers to seat the crowd. Graduates sedately process in, receive their diplomas, shake hands, process out, and go eat cake in the cafeteria. (Cafeteria food will, indeed, harm the waistline.)

At the public university my daughter attended, the circus music the wind ensemble played provided our first clue as to what sort of ceremony she would have. The graduates processed in, more or less in orderly fashion, but students in the ROTC programs wore combat helmets instead of mortarboards, and the new mining engineers wore mining headgear. The nuclear engineers had attached yellow paper with the radiation symbol to the tops of their mortarboards, and a few students had creatively embellished the tops of their caps for the pleasure (or mortification) of the viewing audience. The faculty followed the graduates in, but apparently graduation attendance is not mandatory for faculty, since there were only a few faculty members present.

The chancellor spoke the usual greetings with unusual poise, considering the beach balls that were volleyed about by his soon-to-be former students. The balls were quickly followed by a large inflatable sheep baa-ing her way over the heads of the graduates. My dear daughter, who was raised to respect formal occasions, managed to get her hands on the inflatable toys and deflate them. The sheep suffered a laryngectomy before her deflation (and yes, the sheep was female; it had been purchased at a Store of Ill Repute.) Eventually, speakers spoke, graduates were recognized, diploma covers were handed out, pictures were taken, goodbyes were said.

But for both groups of graduates, the hard part awaits. Book learning may be over, but the education is really just beginning. Former scholars will discover that much of what they need to know is not contained in books and must be learned on the job, where bosses will control the next paycheck. New friends will be necessary, for the friends of the last four or five years have scattered. Real life will begin, without the comfort of knowing that unpleasant tasks are only 16 weeks long. Many will find that adulthood is fraught more with responsibilities than pleasures. This last revelation will be a surprise, but not entirely an unpleasant one.

So one more chapter ends, and another can't wait to get started.