My mom has taken to saying, "We live in a fallen world, Elena, things are bound to go wrong." She says this when errands take longer than they should, when things fall or break, when people aren't as nice as we'd like them to be. "I'm too old to be cranky," she says. "I've decided to enjoy the rest of my life and I'm not going to let silly expectations get in the way."
I was thinking about this new attitude my mom has adopted during my recent physical therapy appointments. About two years ago, I woke up one day to a severe pain in my left shoulder. My doctor gave me an anti-inflammatory and pain medication and the pain subsided to a slight, but persistent soreness. Because my shoulder never really healed and because we happen to have it in our budget right now, I started going to physical therapy.
I have always loved physical therapy. When I was in 8th grade, my hips began a tug-of-war with my knees that damaged my knee caps. That was my first physical therapy experience. I liked learning those funny little exercises that would teach my thigh muscles be kinder to my knee caps. When I was in college, I sprained my right ankle during taekwondo practice and found myself back at physical therapy. My favorite part this time was the ultrasound therapy, "So that you don't have scar tissue inside your joint" or something like that, the tech explained. I loved physical therapy because, to me, it meant that if you work intentionally and persistently according to an intelligently designed plan, you can restore something broken to its original (unbroken) condition.
So I was excited to go back to physical therapy, especially after two years of discomfort and pain. With all my recent health issues, I've been working on eating better, resting more, taking vitamins and medicines on time. I've felt like my lifestyle, at least as it relates to health, has been spiraling out of control in the last five years or so, and I'm working on reigning it back in. This is great, I thought to myself as I arrived for my first appointment. This is what I need to get my life back in order.
I've met a lot of wonderful people during my physical therapy. This particular facility maintains a very open environment--moreso than any of the others I've been to. Three or four therapists work simultaneously in an open room with three or four patients each. So there are several of us there, stretching, contorting, grunting, struggling together through our respective injuries. I am often the youngest one there, barring the occasional high school athlete. Most of the other patients are older men and women, with knee and hip replacements, folks with car accident or work place injuries, lonely elderly women who fell in their kitchens.
My mom is right. "We live in a fallen world, Elena, things are bound to go wrong." No one means for these injuries to happen. No one goes to work thinking, Today I am going to do something that will incapacitate me. But there we are, all of us, reporting our pain levels on a scale of 1 to 10, describing what we used to be able to do and what we can't do now.
I was deeply startled after my first visit about the extent of my injury. It comes from a combination of things: naturally loose joints, a sedentary lifestyle, stress, bad posture. I have been complaining about being out of shape for a long time, but I figured it would amount to high blood pressure and diabetes in my 50s, not a shoulder injury at 25. "Two years is a long time to be injured," the therapist told me. "It's going to take a while to heal." If I am in this poor a condition now, what will 50 look like?
On Monday, I'll be going in for my twelfth visit. I've been going twice a week for six weeks, and overall, I have to say it's been helpful. Those funny little exercises are making my back stronger and correcting my posture. My pain on most days is at a 3 or 4 instead of a 6 or 7. But I am realizing that I am going to have to adjust my expectations. There is no going back to 19-year-old Elena, no going back to 25-year-old Elena, that I can't click an "optimize" button or a "auto-restore" button. Surely, the steps I've taken to reel-in my health habits are important and valuable and will help decrease my chances of further illness or injury. But I can't fix me and lock my settings and expect to live illness and injury free for the rest of forever, no matter how persistent, intentional, or intelligently designed my plan is. And even if I could click that "optimize" button, I can't keep from car accidents or work place injuries or falling in my kitchen.
"We live in a fallen world, Elena, things are bound to go wrong," my mother says. "And I've decided I'm going to enjoy the rest
of my life and I'm not going to let silly expectations get in the way."
I am learning to let go of silly expectations. I am learning to set realistic goals instead.
I am learning to be pleased with progress and to relish Grace and Mercy.
I am learning to hope and long for Heaven, where there is no pain and no decay, only Glory and Peace.
And I am learning to enjoy my life. I think I'm too old to be cranky, too.
Saturday, December 1, 2012
Tuesday, November 27, 2012
Pacing
Thanksgiving Day, I made cranberry sauce, stuffing, and pumpkin cheesecake bars. I also hand-squeezed 29 limes to make Honduran-style limeade. Not the best idea I ever had, but I was proud of myself nonetheless. Michael worked a full day.
The Friday after Thanksgiving, while Michael was away at work again, I studied for the GRE, I picked up around the house, I updated two of the remaining bank accounts that still had my maiden name, and I caught up on the flex spending account reimbursement applications.
Saturday, I went with Michael and our friend D to Atlantic City to volunteer with a non-profit called Hope 4 AC. We met up with some other volunteers to clear out a couple of houses that had been flooded during Hurricane Sandy. We mostly tore up the existing floors, took out some kitchen cabinets, pulled down some drywall, carried out a lot of moldy-wet wood, and swept up the dust and debris.
Each night ended with a get-together: Thursday with the Viera extension, Friday with the primos, and Saturday with an old friend.
Sunday, we were exhausted. There was plenty more to do: laundry, dishes, schoolwork... We came home from church and found Signs on TV. We decided to sit down and watch that for a little while. Michael fell asleep. I found a game to play on the iPad. And I was thankful for a Sabbath, a day of rest.
The Friday after Thanksgiving, while Michael was away at work again, I studied for the GRE, I picked up around the house, I updated two of the remaining bank accounts that still had my maiden name, and I caught up on the flex spending account reimbursement applications.
Saturday, I went with Michael and our friend D to Atlantic City to volunteer with a non-profit called Hope 4 AC. We met up with some other volunteers to clear out a couple of houses that had been flooded during Hurricane Sandy. We mostly tore up the existing floors, took out some kitchen cabinets, pulled down some drywall, carried out a lot of moldy-wet wood, and swept up the dust and debris.
Each night ended with a get-together: Thursday with the Viera extension, Friday with the primos, and Saturday with an old friend.
Sunday, we were exhausted. There was plenty more to do: laundry, dishes, schoolwork... We came home from church and found Signs on TV. We decided to sit down and watch that for a little while. Michael fell asleep. I found a game to play on the iPad. And I was thankful for a Sabbath, a day of rest.
Wednesday, September 19, 2012
Sobrinos
Post-wedding, I got to spend three glorious days enjoying the company of my nephews and niece. The boys, S and L, are 11 and 9 respectively. A, the littlest, is 4. ("I'm four," she declares, "What number are you?") Three glorious days with my sobrinos.
At the beach, I taught them how to jump waves and let them carry you. S, who is strong, punched the waves when they tried to push him over. L, who is adventurous, sprung forth into them and over them. All of us played in the tide, digging holes for the water to fill and wash away. A laughed and laughed, tumbling in the sand, until her fingers and lips turned blue from the late summer ocean winds.
At the park, we played pirates on the unearthed tree roots from July's storm. We were fierce pirates, masters of strange seas, as we took turns making the others walk the plank. When we were done being pirates, we climbed backwards on the slide and took a spin on the merry-go-round. I was 4, and 9, and 11 with them, reliving my visits to the same park with my aunts and uncles and grandparents.
At the house, we drew elaborate hopscotch-obstacle courses on the driveway. We played "Hug-zilla," a tag-you're-it kind of game with hugs instead of slaps or pushes. Later, S read to me as I fell asleep. My heart was full as I listened to his mouth form the words on the page. I remembered when he was small, when we would cuddle over his board-book copy of Go, Dogs, Go.
What delight, three whole days with S, L, and A.
At the beach, I taught them how to jump waves and let them carry you. S, who is strong, punched the waves when they tried to push him over. L, who is adventurous, sprung forth into them and over them. All of us played in the tide, digging holes for the water to fill and wash away. A laughed and laughed, tumbling in the sand, until her fingers and lips turned blue from the late summer ocean winds.
At the park, we played pirates on the unearthed tree roots from July's storm. We were fierce pirates, masters of strange seas, as we took turns making the others walk the plank. When we were done being pirates, we climbed backwards on the slide and took a spin on the merry-go-round. I was 4, and 9, and 11 with them, reliving my visits to the same park with my aunts and uncles and grandparents.
At the house, we drew elaborate hopscotch-obstacle courses on the driveway. We played "Hug-zilla," a tag-you're-it kind of game with hugs instead of slaps or pushes. Later, S read to me as I fell asleep. My heart was full as I listened to his mouth form the words on the page. I remembered when he was small, when we would cuddle over his board-book copy of Go, Dogs, Go.
What delight, three whole days with S, L, and A.
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
Three days after my 27th birthday
On February 8, 2006, I wrote the following poem:
I was twenty years old, a junior in college at the time. Being the modern woman that I had convinced myself I was, I was in a not-relationship--you know, the kind where you are in a relationship, but you don't call it a relationship because the word "relationship" is too cliche and oppressive and...whatever? Anyway, I was in a not-relationship with J at the time. We did eventually agree to a relationship, sometime in March, only to break up on Palm Sunday a few weeks later.
So, needless to say, the future predicted in this poem did not come to pass. This Thursday--not Saturday--marks the third day after my 27th birthday. (Clearly, I did not consult a calendar when making my predictions.) I will not wake up after a night of dancing--especially because I have to go to work on Thursday--and J will not be standing at my kitchen sink eating and reading the newspaper.
This poem, even then, was written in a minor key; it set my expiration date at 27. The best moment of your life, my 20-year-old-self told my my future-now-present-self, will be you waking up hungover after a night of partying to a man who for the first time in seven years will exceed your expectations, and the two of you will have a superficial conversation over the kitchen sink about the world that exist beyond you.
Of all the alternate glories I could have imagined for myself: living in a mansion in the south of France, being co-founder of the most successful publishing house in the world, being press secretary of the President of the United States, sitting at the dinner table with a husband and children and a well-balanced meal...of all the alternate glories I could have imagined for myself, hungover and eating over the kitchen sink is the one I penned.
I'm not sure what all of that says about my 20-year-old-self, though in J's defense, I do think this poem has more to say about me-then and him-ever. Thankfully, both for J and for me, we will both be waking up to a different reality on Thursday.
It would be nice, though, to have a bathroom with two doors.
The life I was carving out for
myself read a lot like a poem
Sounded like a Lisa Loeb song.
It would play itself out in Carrie Bradshaw’s apartment,
iBook et al.
My bathroom would have two doors,
I would sit around in my underwear writing stories and poems
and novels.
On Friday nights I’d go dancing, and Saturday mornings I’d
wake up to your light snoring.
The life I was carving out for myself would peak 3 days
after my 27th birthday.
It would be a Saturday morning, almost noon,
And I would roll over to find that for the first time in the
past 7 years, you woke up first.
I’d find you in the kitchen, eating standing up over the
sink, reading the paper.
“Bitte, ein kuss.”
You would smile at me, kiss me, point at the paper and say,
“It’s a jungle out there.”
I was twenty years old, a junior in college at the time. Being the modern woman that I had convinced myself I was, I was in a not-relationship--you know, the kind where you are in a relationship, but you don't call it a relationship because the word "relationship" is too cliche and oppressive and...whatever? Anyway, I was in a not-relationship with J at the time. We did eventually agree to a relationship, sometime in March, only to break up on Palm Sunday a few weeks later.
So, needless to say, the future predicted in this poem did not come to pass. This Thursday--not Saturday--marks the third day after my 27th birthday. (Clearly, I did not consult a calendar when making my predictions.) I will not wake up after a night of dancing--especially because I have to go to work on Thursday--and J will not be standing at my kitchen sink eating and reading the newspaper.
This poem, even then, was written in a minor key; it set my expiration date at 27. The best moment of your life, my 20-year-old-self told my my future-now-present-self, will be you waking up hungover after a night of partying to a man who for the first time in seven years will exceed your expectations, and the two of you will have a superficial conversation over the kitchen sink about the world that exist beyond you.
Of all the alternate glories I could have imagined for myself: living in a mansion in the south of France, being co-founder of the most successful publishing house in the world, being press secretary of the President of the United States, sitting at the dinner table with a husband and children and a well-balanced meal...of all the alternate glories I could have imagined for myself, hungover and eating over the kitchen sink is the one I penned.
I'm not sure what all of that says about my 20-year-old-self, though in J's defense, I do think this poem has more to say about me-then and him-ever. Thankfully, both for J and for me, we will both be waking up to a different reality on Thursday.
It would be nice, though, to have a bathroom with two doors.
Saturday, September 8, 2012
Cousins
My cousin, G, is getting married in less than a week, so for her
bachelorette, we headed up north to T's house for a mini weekend
getaway. We ate food, we drank wine, we giggled, we talked, we played
games...we even went for a morning hike, and a indulged a midday cooking
class.
When we were little, in our recent-immigrant skin, with parents that worked too many hours because life in this country is hard, G, A, and I spent a lot of time together. In the years between 1992 and 1997, we ran a lot of races, climbed a number of backyard obstacle courses, took a lot of trips to the public library, watched a lot of PBS, buried at least one time capsule, and put on at least one fashion show.
And then in 1997 a lot of things began to change. Eventually, I moved away. I arrived back to New Jersey two weeks before A's wedding. I'd been gone for seven years, traversed three continents in that time, crossed international borders 15 times, slept in too many airports. Sun-burned and jet-lagged, I returned just in time for A to walk down the aisle to the man she'd fallen in love with. A lot happens in seven years.
I had planned to stay in New Jersey only a few weeks. Wanderlust is powerful, and we had planned a journey through the Midwest and the Southwest, eventually reaching the Pacific coast. But the love of family is powerful, too. As we sank into the comfort of familiar faces, Michael and I realized we were travel-weary, too many years of too many planes, and the wanderlust faded. We decided to stop, to rest, to learn to be family with these people who do it so well.
In these three years, there have been weddings, births, and deaths. Some have graduated, some have started new degrees. Some are launching careers, some are mastering managing homes. All of us are settling into our adult lives. This pace is different than the pace we used to keep when we were kids. Things keep changing and we don't get enough long, lazy afternoons eating ice cream cups and watching cartoons. So, our mini weekend getaway, as the youngest of the Viera-Flores girls prepares to march down the aisle, played out--inadvertently I think--like a "throw back" to the mid-1990s. We changed the locale and added some new faces, with T and L and the little ones, Ab, E, and R, but we still overate, we still laughed too hard, we still shared secrets, and managed to include one obstacle course in the form of a morning hike through Tillman's Ravine.
How wonderful, after fifteen years of too many changes, to arrive back to the glory of childhood: adventures with cousin.
When we were little, in our recent-immigrant skin, with parents that worked too many hours because life in this country is hard, G, A, and I spent a lot of time together. In the years between 1992 and 1997, we ran a lot of races, climbed a number of backyard obstacle courses, took a lot of trips to the public library, watched a lot of PBS, buried at least one time capsule, and put on at least one fashion show.
And then in 1997 a lot of things began to change. Eventually, I moved away. I arrived back to New Jersey two weeks before A's wedding. I'd been gone for seven years, traversed three continents in that time, crossed international borders 15 times, slept in too many airports. Sun-burned and jet-lagged, I returned just in time for A to walk down the aisle to the man she'd fallen in love with. A lot happens in seven years.
I had planned to stay in New Jersey only a few weeks. Wanderlust is powerful, and we had planned a journey through the Midwest and the Southwest, eventually reaching the Pacific coast. But the love of family is powerful, too. As we sank into the comfort of familiar faces, Michael and I realized we were travel-weary, too many years of too many planes, and the wanderlust faded. We decided to stop, to rest, to learn to be family with these people who do it so well.
In these three years, there have been weddings, births, and deaths. Some have graduated, some have started new degrees. Some are launching careers, some are mastering managing homes. All of us are settling into our adult lives. This pace is different than the pace we used to keep when we were kids. Things keep changing and we don't get enough long, lazy afternoons eating ice cream cups and watching cartoons. So, our mini weekend getaway, as the youngest of the Viera-Flores girls prepares to march down the aisle, played out--inadvertently I think--like a "throw back" to the mid-1990s. We changed the locale and added some new faces, with T and L and the little ones, Ab, E, and R, but we still overate, we still laughed too hard, we still shared secrets, and managed to include one obstacle course in the form of a morning hike through Tillman's Ravine.
How wonderful, after fifteen years of too many changes, to arrive back to the glory of childhood: adventures with cousin.
Thursday, July 19, 2012
The Dream of the 90s is Alive on this Post
I loved (and still do love) the 90s and being the lover of music that I am, the thing about the 90s that I love the most is the music that the decade produced. So, here's a list of (and an ode to) my favorite albums from the 90s.
Disclaimer: I did not discover several of these until the 2000s or even later but because they came out in the 90s they go on this list.
Disclaimer 2: I recommended 2 songs from each album for you to get a taste of what the album sounds like but try think of them as just parts to the whole of the greater albums that they belong to.
1990: An off year in music? I was listening to Please Hammer, Don't Hurt 'Em by MC Hammer and To the Extreme by Vanilla Ice so it was at least an off year for me.
1991: Achtung Baby, U2
Listen to: So Cruel and Love is Blindness
1992: Automatic for the People, R.E.M.
Listen to: Sweetness Follows and The Sidewinder Sleeps Tonight
1993: Pablo Honey, Radiohead
Listen to: Thinking About You and Prove Yourself
1994: Weezer, Weezer
Listen to: In the Garage and Only in Dreams
1995: Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness, The Smashing Pumpkins
Listen to: Here is No Why and Bodies
The Bends, Radiohead
Listen to: Planet Telex and Just
1996: Odelay, Beck
Listen to: Hotwax and Sissyneck
1997: OK Computer, Radiohead
Listen to: Let Down and Exit Music (For a Film)
1998: It's Hard to Find a Friend, Pedro the Lion
Listen to: Bad Diary Days and Secret of the Easy Yoke
In the Aeroplane Over the Sea, Neutral Milk Hotel
Listen to: Ghost and Two-Headed Boy
1999: The Soft Bulletin, The Flaming Lips
Listen to: The Spiderbite Song and The Gash
Other Great 90s Albums:
Sixteen Stone, Bush
Fashion Nugget, Cake
Prolonging the Magic, Cake
Collective Soul, Collective Soul
A Boy Named Goo, The Goo Goo Dolls
Dookie, Greenday
Insomniac, Greenday
Throwing Copper, Live
Clarity, Jimmy Eat World
Nevermind, Nirvana
(What's the Story) Morning Glory?, Oasis
Ten, Pearl Jam
Vs, Pearl Jam
Vitalogy, Pearl Jam
No Code, Pearl Jam
Out of Time, R.E.M.
Monster, R.E.M.
Blood Sugar Sex Magik, The Red Hot Chilli Peppers
Californication, The Red Hot Chilli Peppers
Siamese Dream, The Smashing Pumpkins
Superunknown, Soundgarden
Rubberneck, The Toadies
Pop, U2
Zooropa, U2
Pinkerton, Weezer
A.M., Wilco
Being There, Wilco
Electr-O-Pura, Yo La Tengo
Disclaimer: I did not discover several of these until the 2000s or even later but because they came out in the 90s they go on this list.
Disclaimer 2: I recommended 2 songs from each album for you to get a taste of what the album sounds like but try think of them as just parts to the whole of the greater albums that they belong to.
1990: An off year in music? I was listening to Please Hammer, Don't Hurt 'Em by MC Hammer and To the Extreme by Vanilla Ice so it was at least an off year for me.
1991: Achtung Baby, U2
Listen to: So Cruel and Love is Blindness
1992: Automatic for the People, R.E.M.
Listen to: Sweetness Follows and The Sidewinder Sleeps Tonight
1993: Pablo Honey, Radiohead
Listen to: Thinking About You and Prove Yourself
1994: Weezer, Weezer
Listen to: In the Garage and Only in Dreams
1995: Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness, The Smashing Pumpkins
Listen to: Here is No Why and Bodies
The Bends, Radiohead
Listen to: Planet Telex and Just
1996: Odelay, Beck
Listen to: Hotwax and Sissyneck
1997: OK Computer, Radiohead
Listen to: Let Down and Exit Music (For a Film)
1998: It's Hard to Find a Friend, Pedro the Lion
Listen to: Bad Diary Days and Secret of the Easy Yoke
In the Aeroplane Over the Sea, Neutral Milk Hotel
Listen to: Ghost and Two-Headed Boy
1999: The Soft Bulletin, The Flaming Lips
Listen to: The Spiderbite Song and The Gash
Other Great 90s Albums:
Sixteen Stone, Bush
Fashion Nugget, Cake
Prolonging the Magic, Cake
Collective Soul, Collective Soul
A Boy Named Goo, The Goo Goo Dolls
Dookie, Greenday
Insomniac, Greenday
Throwing Copper, Live
Clarity, Jimmy Eat World
Nevermind, Nirvana
(What's the Story) Morning Glory?, Oasis
Ten, Pearl Jam
Vs, Pearl Jam
Vitalogy, Pearl Jam
No Code, Pearl Jam
Out of Time, R.E.M.
Monster, R.E.M.
Blood Sugar Sex Magik, The Red Hot Chilli Peppers
Californication, The Red Hot Chilli Peppers
Siamese Dream, The Smashing Pumpkins
Superunknown, Soundgarden
Rubberneck, The Toadies
Pop, U2
Zooropa, U2
Pinkerton, Weezer
A.M., Wilco
Being There, Wilco
Electr-O-Pura, Yo La Tengo
Sunday, May 27, 2012
Authenticity
Some people are better than others at being authentic. They're people comfortable in their own skin, so self-aware that nothing is off the table for discussion, not their fears, not their failures, not their insecurities. They navigate taboo topics effortlessly--almost defiantly, but never forcefully. They, unlike the rest of us, do not rush ahead to the end of the conversation weaving through guilt and shame, just hoping, hoping to come out unscathed. No, these people arrive gracefully, short-comings in hand.
My friend, T, is one of those people, unabashed in a way that is so comforting, so refreshing, so safe.
Her authenticity is like a salve on a tender burn, seeping deeply into a wound that has no other way to heal.
I had the pleasure of spending some time with T yesterday, doing the most authentic thing possible: getting coffee at a gas station--how much more real does life get than an empty gas tank and a caffeine headache? And as we shared our troubles in turn, wrestling together through our most recent manifestations of imperfection, I began to find myself again. This woman with her permanent judgement-free zone, with her open-air baggage was making space for me to realize me.
I don't think we much value authenticity; we don't strive for it. We make do, feigning humility when our faults embarrass us; boasting when they give us an edge, give us footing. People like T are rare, people with natural gifting that allows them to rise above our ordinary obsessions with saving-face. For them, authenticity is not a skill, learned by training and refined by practice, it's just something they carry with them like a charm on a bracelet. Good for them, we shrug, unaffected by their grace.
But I am beginning to think that authenticity might be worth learning, for those us of who aren't so good at it. T, who is willing to unfold the dark corners of herself, helps me to understand that our respective brokenness is worth knowing--that it is not worth hiding--because it creates a space for us to be known and to begin to heal. T's authenticity blesses me and teaches me that I could bless others, if only I could be so open as her. That if I stopped being so concerned with who I want people to think I am, and became more concerned about who we all really are, we could start getting somewhere.
And I wonder if this isn't what the bloodied Savior was telling us all along, this God-man come to earth to listen to demon-men and prostitutes and swindlers and thieves unravel their stories, come to earth to eat with them in their homes and walk along with them on their roads. And, because the only way to heal brokenness is to be broken, He who is Perfection allowed himself to be broken in the utmost, took on all our faults, to create a space for us to be known through eternity.
My friend, T, is one of those people, unabashed in a way that is so comforting, so refreshing, so safe.
Her authenticity is like a salve on a tender burn, seeping deeply into a wound that has no other way to heal.
I had the pleasure of spending some time with T yesterday, doing the most authentic thing possible: getting coffee at a gas station--how much more real does life get than an empty gas tank and a caffeine headache? And as we shared our troubles in turn, wrestling together through our most recent manifestations of imperfection, I began to find myself again. This woman with her permanent judgement-free zone, with her open-air baggage was making space for me to realize me.
I don't think we much value authenticity; we don't strive for it. We make do, feigning humility when our faults embarrass us; boasting when they give us an edge, give us footing. People like T are rare, people with natural gifting that allows them to rise above our ordinary obsessions with saving-face. For them, authenticity is not a skill, learned by training and refined by practice, it's just something they carry with them like a charm on a bracelet. Good for them, we shrug, unaffected by their grace.
But I am beginning to think that authenticity might be worth learning, for those us of who aren't so good at it. T, who is willing to unfold the dark corners of herself, helps me to understand that our respective brokenness is worth knowing--that it is not worth hiding--because it creates a space for us to be known and to begin to heal. T's authenticity blesses me and teaches me that I could bless others, if only I could be so open as her. That if I stopped being so concerned with who I want people to think I am, and became more concerned about who we all really are, we could start getting somewhere.
And I wonder if this isn't what the bloodied Savior was telling us all along, this God-man come to earth to listen to demon-men and prostitutes and swindlers and thieves unravel their stories, come to earth to eat with them in their homes and walk along with them on their roads. And, because the only way to heal brokenness is to be broken, He who is Perfection allowed himself to be broken in the utmost, took on all our faults, to create a space for us to be known through eternity.
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
The China Cabinet
On Sunday, I brought my grandparents' china cabinet into my home. Memory, an unreliable record, tells me that the china cabinet has stood in the same spot in my grandparents' dining room for at least the last 20 years. But now, as of Sunday, it stands stately upright in my own dining room.
In my grandmother's time, the china cabinet held precious trinkets, gifts from loved ones praising her as a woman, a wife, a mother, a friend. As a child, I would stop in front of the cabinet and look inside it's glass at each item, snacking on an ice cream cup or some Ritz crackers, admiring her collection, assembled tributes to love. But when she died in 1998, my mother packed those things away. My uncles repainted the house, the only brief moment the cabinet was moved away from the wall.
In 1999, when my grandfather remarried, his new wife filled the china cabinet with new trinkets, wedding favors and figurines. In 2008, my mother, my grandfather, and my grandfather's wife traveled to China to visit me. We celebrated her birthday with a Chinese cake from a bakery around the corner, sheng ri kuai le in Chinese characters cheerfully written on a little decorative piece of cardstock displayed prominently atop the cake. My grandfather's wife added that little birthday greeting to the trinkets in the china cabinet. When I returned to the States the following year, I was pleasantly surprised to find it there. I smiled every time I saw it.
But now, as of Sunday, it stands stately upright in my own dining room. I find myself wandering into the dining room, pulled toward it. I touch the wood panels. I open it's glass door and smell its familiar smell. I play with the handles on its drawers. I look in my kitchen for things to fill it with, but I tell myself, "Later, maybe tomorrow, I'll start moving things into it." And so, it sits empty, stately upright, old and worn, but dignified. I wander in, touch its wood panels.
The china cabinet is in my house because my grandfather and his wife are dead. The daughters, sisters, and nieces have come and packed away the trinkets that lived inside the china cabinet, and the little birthday greeting has disappeared. The rest of the house, too, must be packed away. When my mother asked me what I wanted, I asked for the china cabinet. My uncles agreed that I should have it. So on Sunday, I brought it into my home and stood it up in my dining room. But I can't fill it.
The china cabinet is like a ghost in my house, a shadow of the past. Though it smells like my grandparent's house, it has found itself a new home. Stately and dignified, it confirms to me with every glance that my grandparents are dead.
"Later, maybe tomorrow, I'll start moving things into it."
In my grandmother's time, the china cabinet held precious trinkets, gifts from loved ones praising her as a woman, a wife, a mother, a friend. As a child, I would stop in front of the cabinet and look inside it's glass at each item, snacking on an ice cream cup or some Ritz crackers, admiring her collection, assembled tributes to love. But when she died in 1998, my mother packed those things away. My uncles repainted the house, the only brief moment the cabinet was moved away from the wall.
In 1999, when my grandfather remarried, his new wife filled the china cabinet with new trinkets, wedding favors and figurines. In 2008, my mother, my grandfather, and my grandfather's wife traveled to China to visit me. We celebrated her birthday with a Chinese cake from a bakery around the corner, sheng ri kuai le in Chinese characters cheerfully written on a little decorative piece of cardstock displayed prominently atop the cake. My grandfather's wife added that little birthday greeting to the trinkets in the china cabinet. When I returned to the States the following year, I was pleasantly surprised to find it there. I smiled every time I saw it.
But now, as of Sunday, it stands stately upright in my own dining room. I find myself wandering into the dining room, pulled toward it. I touch the wood panels. I open it's glass door and smell its familiar smell. I play with the handles on its drawers. I look in my kitchen for things to fill it with, but I tell myself, "Later, maybe tomorrow, I'll start moving things into it." And so, it sits empty, stately upright, old and worn, but dignified. I wander in, touch its wood panels.
The china cabinet is in my house because my grandfather and his wife are dead. The daughters, sisters, and nieces have come and packed away the trinkets that lived inside the china cabinet, and the little birthday greeting has disappeared. The rest of the house, too, must be packed away. When my mother asked me what I wanted, I asked for the china cabinet. My uncles agreed that I should have it. So on Sunday, I brought it into my home and stood it up in my dining room. But I can't fill it.
The china cabinet is like a ghost in my house, a shadow of the past. Though it smells like my grandparent's house, it has found itself a new home. Stately and dignified, it confirms to me with every glance that my grandparents are dead.
"Later, maybe tomorrow, I'll start moving things into it."
Tuesday, March 20, 2012
My Uncle
I have a lot of uncles. And I call them all tío, I call them all uncle. "My uncle," I start stories, assuming you will know which uncle I mean.
My Tío Emiro is married to my Tía Darda and they went to Atlantic City for their honeymoon fifty years ago, before anyone else in my family even knew honeymooning in Atlantic City was thing. My Tío Doro, whose name is really Tío Teodoro, became Tío Doro when my young, undiscerning ears failed to distinguish between the the sometimes tonal í and the always tonal e. My Tío Ismael, who is sometimes Mr. O, likes to make chilli and is always pendiente about my car. My Tío Pablo tricked me one time, challenging me to make interesting sculptures by taking giant bites out of my sandwich.
My uncle is brave. My uncle is kind. My uncle is patient and long-suffering. My uncle is steady, faithful, and honest. My uncle is wise. My uncle is dignified. My uncle is graceful and noble. "My uncle," I will begin. It'll be a good story, I promise.
My Tío Emiro is married to my Tía Darda and they went to Atlantic City for their honeymoon fifty years ago, before anyone else in my family even knew honeymooning in Atlantic City was thing. My Tío Doro, whose name is really Tío Teodoro, became Tío Doro when my young, undiscerning ears failed to distinguish between the the sometimes tonal í and the always tonal e. My Tío Ismael, who is sometimes Mr. O, likes to make chilli and is always pendiente about my car. My Tío Pablo tricked me one time, challenging me to make interesting sculptures by taking giant bites out of my sandwich.
My uncle is brave. My uncle is kind. My uncle is patient and long-suffering. My uncle is steady, faithful, and honest. My uncle is wise. My uncle is dignified. My uncle is graceful and noble. "My uncle," I will begin. It'll be a good story, I promise.
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