Tickle Me Creepy – A Black Friday Adventure

Neither The Man About the Place nor I go shopping, as a general rule, on Black Friday.  We usually spend the day at home, cracking the whip on the kids to get them to clean up their mess, or we watch TV. Sometimes I work, sometimes I don’t.

This Black Friday, He was busy “stringing up the lights” on our beautiful porch, and I was alternating between laundry, making the living room look as if humans who don’t hoard actually inhabit the place, and organizing our DVD collection into albums (separated by genre, which is quite angst-inducing when you have an action adventure that is also a sci-fi comedy…)

Anyway, at the end of our long day, I suggested we go out to eat to celebrate our clean living room and twinkling porch (because we are Americans, and the best way to celebrate

You say Panera, I say St. Louis Bread

is, naturally, with food.)  We went to Panera Bread, which in St. Louis is known as St. Louis Bread.  We figured that out because the logo is the same.  I really think it should be called St. Louis Bread Co. everywhere, because that’s where it all began, you know? Then we found out some dude company bought out St. Louis Bread Co. in the 1990s, and there you go.  Well, whatever it’s called, it’s still our favorite place to eat and we even get to randomly meet up with college chums like Ben and Cathy Peterson when we go there.

After we ate, I got it into my head that it was a travesty that we do not own A Christmas Story OR Holiday Inn.  Rather than go home and order from Amazon like sensible folks, I suggested to He that we go to Kmart (and avoid Walmart craziness.)  Filled with the creamy goodness of Panera’s (ST. LOUIS!) creamy tomato soup and the scrumptious Sierra Turkey sandwich, He was agreeable.

Pulling up, we found the exterior a little “off putting” for some reason.  Just felt uneasy. Figured it was just part of being in the Scranton area at night and shrugged it off.  Inside, the store was clean, bright…and pretty deserted.  There were very few folks about; something which should have made me, someone constantly in a  quasi-pre-agoraphobic state this time of year, glad…but instead, it creeped me out.

There must have been a killer sale on DVDs, because the section was wiped out and of course, no A Christmas Story to be found, except in Blu-ray.  He was wandering around and we met up and decided together that this store was really creepy, and it had nothing to do with the fact that the only DVD I could find that was mildly interesting was about giant Piranhas taking over Manhattan or something. I said “Let’s go to Walmart,” and the fact that He agreed so readily proved that He was as freaked out as I was.

Our youngest youngling was missing, so I took off looking for her.  As I walked past a display of preschool toys, something laughed at me.  Loudly.  My pores tingled with an unpleasant feeling and I momentarily recalled the Twilight Zone episode “Stopover in a Quiet Town.” The protagonists of this creepy tale find themselves in a deserted town, and occasionally hear the loud giggle of a child as they try to get back home, only to discover that the child is a giant alien and they are her pets, brought by her daddy “all the way from Earth!” and are being held in a sort of Habitrail for Humans.  Instead of a giant roller ball, they have a cute little train to entertain them.

Anyway, I realize it is not some alien being, only Elmo:

Tickle Me Creepy

Thankfully, I catch sight of the youngling and urge her on to come with me. A worker several feet away from me knocked over a few items from a display, and cusses.

And Elmo laughed.

Never was I ever so glad to step inside a Walmart. Not surprisingly, I could not find A Christmas Story. I did come out with Holiday Inn, and I also nabbed The Outlaw Josey Wales for $1.96.

I think I’ll restrict my visits to Kame-apart to the daylight hours from now on, and definitely will stay away from the toy aisle.  That place is CREEPY!

Uncles, Girdles, and Flaming Sweet Potato Casserole

Missing Mom this Thanksgiving

My mom was somewhat of a nervous lady, as I remember her. She was skinny as a rail, probably due to nerves. I think she weighed 85 lbs soaking wet.

She liked things to go “nicely.” If things started to get out of whack, she’d get upset. Unfortunately in later years, this led to her being bedridden, sometimes for days, with painful stomach ailments. But sometimes, her nervousness would give way to a sudden firm strength that surprised people into silence, or laughter, or both.

Mom often called herself a “simple cook.” She was right – she rarely did anything fancy; most of her cooking was just down-home ordinary meat and potatoes, usually seasoned with salt and pepper. Never anything daring like garlic or oregano.

One area where she excelled, and to this day remains unmatched, was her homemade pies. I have yet to find someone who can top my mom’s apple pie, though Sue Misiak’s comes very very close. Mom’s other specialty was lemon merangue pie; though she often complained that her sister Ruth made better merangue. Well, maybe her merangues were higher, but Mom’s tasted best.

On Thanksgiving, Mom would break out of the original routine and go into “Holiday Mode.” Our holiday meals, whether Christmas or Thanksgiving, often consisted of the same special side dishes: baby carrots augraten, and the fabled sweet potato casserole, along with slightly dry mashed potatoes (that’s how dad liked ‘em), her most awesome stuffing (I can not recreate it no matter how hard I try…), and jellied cranberry sauce, carefully placed on a cut glass dish and delicately sliced in half, care being taken to retain the shape of the can.

While many of the holidays were just Mom, Dad, me, and the various dogs, often Dad’s brother and his wife would come for Thanksgiving. This was a trial to my mom and definitely brought more dysfunction into our lives.

Uncle was a rather unfortunate person. He had some fine qualities: he was very smart with practical “hands on” knowledge, and he often meant well, but that was eclipsed by the fact that HE knew he was smart and always wanted all of us in his presence to know of his superior knowledge and experience in all matters. Additionally, Uncle would say bizarre things from time to time.

One time, he asked me, at the dinner table, what color underwear I was wearing. Everyone, except Uncle, was shocked at this display of inappropriate conversation, and I stuttered a moment and said “Uh, I don’t think that’s any of your business, Uncle….” Mom was looking daggers at him and Auntie looked about ready to pass out. Dad gave Uncle a sharp “look” and I, incredulous, wished I could be anywhere else.

Uncle continued: “Your aunt is wearing pink underwear, and I told her she was too old to wear colored underwear, and that she should leave the colored stuff to young girls like you.” After an uncomfortable silence, he then changed the subject and started talking about radio waves, Ultra High Frequency signals, and hand tools he had given my dad years ago that were not taken care of properly.  Another time, he blurted out to Auntie (also at the table) “Are you wearing your girdle today? Cause it doesn’t look like you have it on.” Good times, good times.

Auntie was a much more pleasant character, and I enjoyed her a great deal, but she would often get into very loud arguments with Uncle. It made for some very interesting times.

Mom would always tell them to come just moments before the meal was ready; if he came ahead of time, she would be probably need to be hospitalized.

One year, the dreaded thing happened. They came two hours early for Thanksgiving dinner.

The dogs started barking uproariously; Dad said “What the hell?” Mom cried “OH NO, THEY’RE HERE!” I proceeded to go in my room and turn on my hi-fi (that I got from Sears Big Book). “Oh no you don’t,” Mom said. “You stay out here to help keep me from killing him.”

I actually preferred to talk with Auntie, and so she and I sat in the living room and chit chatted while Mom fluttered around the kitchen, trying to keep her wits about her. Dad felt the need to go check on the deer and left the house. Uncle plopped himself down at the kitchen counter and proceeded to direct Mom’s movements in her kitchen.

“Don’t put that coffee pot back on the burner, it will break, that thing is HOT!”

“Why do you keep opening the oven door all the time? Don’t you know that lets all the heat out?!”

“When my first wife was alive, she did thus and such on Thanksgiving, and it was always so nice…”

“That one in there talking to Karen can’t do anything right, I always have to tell her how she should be cooking things; you’d think after all these years she’d know but she doesn’t….”

(at this point, Auntie interjects some ascerbic response, and a brief arguement loudly erupts; the poodle starts to bark and looks at Mom wonderingly, and Dad is still out in the woods.)

All the while, Mom is doing a great job remaining civil and keeping things on track. Dinner is almost ready, soon we can eat, and then hopefully, they will leave…and Mom will be able to relax.

At last, it’s time to take the carrots augraten out of the oven and put the sweet potato casserole under the broiler to toast the marshmallows. She sets the Corelle casserole dish with the carrots on an unused burner at the back of the stove and turns on the broiler. Uncle asks her why she’s ruining a perfectly good sweet potato dish with “sweet stuff” as she plops the marshmallows on and puts it in the oven.

Dad comes in and says he’s hungry.

She takes to making gravy and Uncle says “I think something’s burning, Doris.” Sure enough, smoke is coming out of the oven and the marshmallows are on fire. The poodle and the lhasa apso begin to bark, and the cocker spaniel heads for cover under the table. Mom says “Oh no! they’re ruined!” and Uncle says “I don’t know what you wanted to do that for anyway….”

Suddenly, there is a BANG and a splat and the dogs run out of the kitchen and I hear Mom wail quietly, and Uncle swears. “What the hell did you put that dish on the stove for Doris? Didn’t you know it would break?”

Evidently, the “unused burner” was left on, unknown to Mom when she set the carrots augraten on it. Still keeping her composure, she starts cleaning up the mess. Then, the final straw comes.

Uncle says “Doris, there’s a piece of glass on the floor by the refrigerator.”

Mom has had enough. “Listen,” she says, “If you’re going to be out here then you can help clean up. Or you can SHUT up or I swear I’ll dump this on your head!” My eyes got big as I saw her point to the lemon pie. Uncle, knowing that the loss of the lemon pie would be a terrible tragedy, wisely shut up, and came into the living room with Auntie and me. The poodle warily enters the kitchen and tiptoes around Mom’s feet.  Dad does his part to help by hollering at the dog to “Get!”

Auntie sighs, looks at Uncle, and says “Can’t you ever just shut up?”

“I was just trying to be helpful. It would be nice to have some appreciation, that’s all.”

We survived, and mom never set the marshmallows on fire ever again.

Why Is This So Frustrating? Where Is the Blessing In Serving God?

Somewhere along the line, and I don’t know where, I think we pick up the faulty idea that if we’re serving the Lord, doing something to bring glory to Him or to bless someone in His name, that the circumstances surrounding this act should fall into place with almost magical ease.

There will be no challenges, no frustrations, no moments of stress or unrest. It should all move together with some sort of supernatural rhythm; no bumps, no stops, no roadblocks. Because, after all, we are doing His work. He will make it all work out, right?

I recently had this running conversation in my head while in the midst of a rather frustrating ordeal.

Lord, I thought You would bless me for serving You. You said in Jeremiah 29 “For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the LORD, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future…”

Then, I believe the Lord whispered back to my whining spirit: “Yes…I have plans for you. And you will never grasp the love I have for you. Answer this: where did I promise it would be easy? Did you forget about the part where I talked about picking up your cross and following Me? You think it’s easy to carry a cross? Do you think that the straight gate and narrow way is a nicely paved sidewalk? I did promise to never leave you, nor forsake you. I was with the boys in the fiery furnace, I was with Daniel in the lion’s den, I was with Paul as he was stoned and left for dead, and I am with you as you…as you have frustrations.”

I persisted in my self-interested and negative train of thought. “I feel as if I am being punished for doing the right thing, or trying to do the right thing. Why can’t it just go smoothly, for once?”

After ruminating a bit more, I believe the Holy Spirit has impressed upon me:  “But it is a blessing, because you are learning how to be more like Me. You are learning how to be more patient, you are learning to wait and seek Me before you rush into something or face the consequences of leaping before you look.

“You are learning that the cares of this world will wear you down if you let them…tell me, Wizzy…tell me…how have you been harmed by what has frustrated you? Have you not been blessed with wisdom on how not to make that same mistake again?  Do you think that I caused the frustrations?

“Could there be mind tricks at play, sent by the evil one, to discourage you and cause you to doubt? Could these frustrations simply be normal run of the mill events that happen because you live in a fallen world?

“Are any of these frustrations the fruit of your own folly? Did you honestly seek Me during this time? Or did you cruise along in your flesh, taking it for granted that all would be well?

“Could it be that you are not seeing the blessing because you are not looking for it?”

Oh.

Proverbs 19:3

A person’s own folly leads to their ruin,
yet their heart rages against the LORD.

The great thing is that He loves me and still teaches me, especially when I screw up.  He doesn’t demand anything from me that I am incapable of giving.  Other people expect something akin to perfection (though they won’t admit it, it’s true!), but praise God, He doesn’t.

Lord, help me abide in You more closely, more intimately.  Keep my steps from foolish decisions.  Thank You for not giving me what I deserve, and instead, always being merciful, compassionate, and understanding.

I Don’t Want THAT Body, I Want MINE!

Most of my friends know, I’ve struggled with my weight in recent years.  I just signed up for and started Nutrisystem.  I really like the food.  I’ve been playing around on http://www.nutrisystem.com a bit.

One of the questions I saw in one of Nutrisystem’s surveys was  ”Which celebrity body would you love to have?“  Before I comment on that, I guess I’ll drag you along on my abbreviated weight journey, because I can. 

I am not new to being overweight.  Much of the last 15 years has been spent being obese. I’d like to blame my kids, but they are only part of the reason; the real reason is: my entire life, I ate what I wanted, when I wanted; mostly junk food, and it didn’t start to catch up with me until I was 25 and pregnant with my first child.

When I was a teen/young adult, people irritated me by suggesting I was anorexic or had an issue for being “skinny.”  I was not “skinny.” I had no bones jutting out, I had curves in all the right places – I was slender, but not skinny.

After an emotional breakup with my boyfriend (Glenn, whom you may know I won over and married; we are experiencing our happily ever after), I survived by consuming massive quantities of Mountain Dew and candy.  My exercise came in the form of sobbing into my pillow at night.  I could hardly eat meals, but at work I used caffeine and sugar to keep me going, a habit I kept for decades.

I gained 60 lbs with baby #1.  I had lost about 30lbs by the time I was pregnant with #2. (I bought into the whole “Breastfeeding helps you get your figure back,” and I’m here to tell you, that unless “getting your figure back” means having gigantic rubbery globs that hang to your navel, it’s a lie.  Before breastfeeding, I was a 34 B.  I don’t think I’ll EVER see anything smaller than a D cup again.)

So when I got pregnant with #2, I was already 30 lbs overweight, but I carried it well (still do, most people can’t believe I am 100 lbs overweight.)  The doctor told me not to gain anymore weight if I could help it. Ha! “Fat chance!”   When my son was born, I weighed 198 lbs, and only lost *his* weight – about 8 lbs plus the yucky stuff…I went home from the hospital weighing 188 lbs and was quite distraught over my weight.  My hubby missed my B.C. Body (Before Children).  I did too, and I cried.

However, that sorrow soon was eclipsed by my insatiable desire to satisfy every stress with sweets.  By the time #3 came along, I was still quite fat.  I breastfed her too, thinking I might win the “Get your figure back if you breastfeed” game this time.   By the time our youngest daughter was 3 or 4 years old, I tipped the scales at 208 lbs.  What sent me to the scale was a trip to Sears, and I could not fit into size 16 jeans.  For the first time, I had to go into the “18/20W” size.  Seriously, what is up with the “W” tacked on after the sizes past 18? It’s as if the tag is saying: “Lady, you are fat, and in case you haven’t figured that out, and the number isn’t enough of an indictment, we will emphasize it with the W for Whale!”

Horrified, I realized I needed help.

When I got married at 24, I barely weighed 125.  To say I was grossed out by myself, is an understatement.  BUT there was hope.  My friend was on Weight Watchers and was losing a ton of weight, so I joined too.  We determined that 124 was not my ideal weight anymore, but somewhere between 140-150 would be healthy for me.  I was almost to that goal – I had lost almost 40 of my 60 lbs.  I was feeling and looking GOOD.

Then I went back to work, and some dude kept bringing Krispy Kreme donuts in, to entice the real estate agents to use his mortgage company.  The agents were smarter than me.  “Here, Karen, take these home to your kids.”  KIDS? Are you kidding? I ended up scarfing half a box down myself before I even got home. And so began my downward spiral that I never got under control.   That was 2006.  Here I am in 2011, 235 lbs.

I tried a few times to do WW.  I really believe in the program, it is awesome, and definitely works for many. But for me, a real estate agent constantly on the go, I find it too time consuming to calculate points, to shop and plan for foods that fit into the program, to prepare…that’s why I didn’t keep up with it.  Too many days on the run, too many fast trips into McDonald’s Drive Thru or Turkey Hill (like a 7-11) for pizza.  Too much stuff to think about.

I started Nutrisystem because of the same friend who was on WW and lost lots of weight – she saw some weight creeping back up a little and tried Nutrisystem and told me how awesomely easy it is.

She is right. I can SO stick with this as long as my budget holds out.  I am setting my new goal at 135 because I really am more comfortable with that, and I’m hoping that at 135, I’ll be able to button blouses again, without gigantic melons threatening to burst through.  Even before when I was almost to goal with only had 20 lbs left to lose, my “girls” could still rival Dolly, and honestly, I’m tired of it. Other big chested ladies will agree, while I hear all you ladies with “little girls” wondering what the problem is.

In conclusion to this ramble, and back to my ORIGINAL point:  One of the questions I saw in one of Nutrisystem’s surveys was “Which celebrity body would you love to have?”

Quite frankly, I found that question offensive.  Being obsessed with someone else’s body – particularly one that has probably been liposuctioned, nipped, tucked, starved, stretched, abused, and Photoshopped beyond recognition, is a main reason many young women have eating disorders and poor body images.

Currently, I have something similar to Kirstie Alley’s body – and I feel bad for her.  Not because she is obese, but because she is a symbol of failure and ridicule for many. I see her as a courageous woman and I admire her in many ways.

But I really don’t want her body, or  for that matter, anyone else’s.  I just want my own back.

Part 2: Twice Adopted, Once Redeemed, No Longer Wand’ring

Part 1 – Click Here

Part 1 of my convoluted story ended with me meeting Glenn, (in Spruce’s Market in 1987, where I worked…and is sadly gone now. )  I was all of 17 years old and this man caught my eye in a way no other guy had.  There was something about him.  He didn’t say much (some things never change) but I was drawn to him, and I’ve never had such a strong feeling toward anyone, ever…before I knew his name, I knew I wanted to be his.

After a few weeks of checkout-flirtations, (including my very graceful demonstration on how to knock over a rack of bananas with a shopping cart) Glenn finally revealed his first name and then we went for our first date – on a Saturday afternoon, to the gazebo in the park.  We chatted a little, I was very nervous.  Somehow the topic of Christian music came up.

Hey! I was a Christian music fan! My friend Paul, trying to save my soul from country music, gave me some tapes he made: Kenny Marks, Twila Paris, and someone else whose name I forgot.  This somewhat impressed Glenn that I had those tapes.  And that I listened to them.  In my heart I forgave Paul for not taking me to the prom, because of that “satanic music.”  Because of Paul’s desire to have me listen to good music, I had something in common with Glenn now, and this was shaping up to be good.

Glenn and I began dating in earnest, and I was on top of the world, in spite of the fact that my mother was very unhappy. She did not like Glenn, did not like how he came down to the house and just played guitar (my favorite song of Glenn’s, Yet There Is Room, was introduced to me during one of these visits.)  My mom and dad didn’t like that he was “religious.”  I liked that he was religious.  I couldn’t  explain why, but I did.  (I didn’t see the unseen hands reaching out to me all those years.  I only saw my loneliness.)

[Back Story]

I had renewed my dabbling in religion thanks to my involvement with Glenn.  When I was a young teen, my bestest friend Cindy took me to Sunday School at the Baptist Church in Hawley with her.  I liked it, mostly.  Cindy once told me I needed to be baptized, to wash all my sins away.  (She was a little confused.)  My mother, on the other hand, was offended.  She said, almost mockingly, “What sins could you have?”  (She was confused too.)  Maybe she didn’t mean to mock, but that’s how I took it.  I eventually stopped going to Sunday School.  Mom didn’t encourage or discourage me but she didn’t mind that I didn’t go.

Anyway, in spite of ditching church, I considered myself a “born again Christian” at this time, because one night when I was about 12, or 13, I was overwhelmed with heartbreak and loneliness over something, (I don’t know what…at that age, anything upsetting is the end of the world.)  I was just lonely and crying in my bed.  I had memorized, along with The Lord’s Prayer, Psalm 23, and was repeating it over and over in my head.  With my eyes closed, I envisioned that Green Pasture, and then I saw Jesus in my mind’s eye.  He wanted me to come, and I did…and I fell asleep.   The next day was business as usual, but off and on over the years following that, I would get out my Good News Bible, or the NIV my cousin gave me for Christmas one year, and read it.  Then I became friends with Paul in high school, and that was interesting.  He was appalled at the state of my soul, because I read Stephen King and listened to “secular”music.  Then Paul moved away. But I had Twila Paris, and Kenny Marks, and my Bible.  I was a Christian, in my mind, anyway.

[ /Back Story]

Back to 1987… just before Christmas, Glenn called me to tell me that he couldn’t see me anymore.  He said that he could not get involved with me as I was not a born again believer.  I was annoyed by this.  Who did he think he was? Didn’t I listen to Christian music? Didn’t I willingly go to bible studies with him at his pastor’s house?  Was it my fault I had to work on Sundays and didn’t go to church?  At any rate, it was over, and I was devastated.  Once again, I was alone, rejected, blah blah blah (violin music begins.)

However.  I was not to be defeated.  I recalled that Glenn’s dear friend Joe attended the Baptist Church in Hawley, the very church where I used to go to Sunday School with Cindy. And…hey, while I couldn’t go to church in the morning, I could go at night, and meet this Joe person, and somehow let him know that I was Glenn’s former flame, whom he ditched for not going to church enough.  Hmmmm.

My plan worked pretty nicely.  Sure enough, about a month or so after my attending church on Sunday nights and meeting Joe, Glenn called me.  And we got together again.  And to make this long story less long, Glenn asked me to marry him.  And I said YES!

Finally, I was going to have a place to belong!  I was going to belong to a man who loved me!  And I would have a new name.

Screeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeech!

Glenn’s friends stepped in.  They did not believe I was saved.  Again, this irritated me.  How could they possibly know? They had never MET me!  Glenn again, broke up with me, this time in his pastor’s office.  I told that pastor, and Glenn, about my experience at that night when I was crying, and thought of The Lord’s Prayer, and saw Jesus, and I went to him, and I was saved.  Neither one of them gave much weight to that.   Then I said I’d been going to church, and I even wrote a Christian song, and that didn’t impress them much either.

I left the pastor’s office a broken, broken woman.  I was 18 years old and my world had ended, I was beyond devastated.  I do not know how I made it home alive, because I did think about just ending it all with a well planned car wreck.  How many times would I have to be rejected?

How many times?

Then I realized, to my horror, that I had been using God all this time, I had been lying, I didn’t care about being a Christian as much as I wanted to be a Christian so I could have Glenn.  I didn’t love Jesus, I was using religion as a means to an end.  And I was horrified.

How could God ever forgive me?  What was that unpardonable sin I read about?

I was doomed.

[I think this is going to take more parts than I anticipated. Thank you for reading so far. Part 3 coming soon.]

Follow Up – Twice Adopted Once Redeemed Blog

My previous blog ended on a rather bleak note. Not sure if my story is going to take one or two more parts to finish – but I wanted to say it has a VERY happy ending.  I just need time to write it.

I also wanted to say that I’ve been thinking a LOT these past couple of weeks, about a lot of things, and among my thoughts are the need to confess, repent, and forgive – I have a lot of baggage that I’m still hauling around with me, much like Bunyon’s Pilgrim I guess.

I have a lot of things to work out, and I’m hopeful that whoever is reading this will find my words and convoluted story somewhat helpful or encouraging.  I have some of my own confessions to make and behavior to repent over – my life may have been somewhat disconcerting and dysfunctional, but who hasn’t had that?

Anyway, thank you for wandering with me.

Twice Adopted, Once Redeemed; No Longer Wand’ring

Part 1:  Twice Adopted -  Part 2 – Click Here

My name is Karen Elizabeth McGinnis.

How I wanted to say those words many times throughout my youth.  That was the name given me by my mother when I was born.  I can’t imagine my father had any interest in naming me.  My grandmother, who died when my mother was a wee child herself, was named Elizabeth.

My mother, Ellen, tragically died after a fall when I was not yet two years old, leaving my brothers and me in the custody of our respective fathers.  Ronnie’s father, unknown to us until this time, swooped in from out of nowhere and took Ronnie back to New England to live with him.  Michael and I were left in the care of the man who took part in our creation – who then left us in the care of an elderly, arthritic, depressed, and muscatel-loving grandfather, who had lost two wives and his only child after coming to America from Sweden.

The man known as our father loved his freedom more than he loved his children and he soon disappeared.  His sister apparently wanted nothing to do with us. We had step uncles and aunts who were mysteriously gone from our lives.   Except for Morfar, our grandfather, we were orphans in a huge house by the river.  Eventually, I was adopted by some neighbors who stopped by looking for their lost cocker spaniel.  Lose a dog, gain a kid.  Interesting.

I remember the day my mom sat me down in the kitchen, telling me “You can’t call us Doris and Skip anymore. We are Mommy and Daddy.”  Oh.  Okay.

I was adopted out of a life without parents, a life of certain hardship, of being an orphan, and brought into a home and being a loved daughter.  It was dysfunctional, but I know my mom loved me.   She was a bit of a control freak, but she loved me.  My dad? Well, it was tough with him. That’s another story for another day.  My brother, Michael, ended up journeying down a different path with his own trials, tribulations, and triumphs.  I am so proud of him.

So much power in names.  I never thought twice about my name until I was in school and discovered the annoying sing-songy way Karen Keim sounded and how the kids soon discovered it rhymed with Slime.  Slimy Keimy soon was shortened to just Slime, and became the name by which I was known in school.  I hated it. I hated school, and I hated myself.  Once, even one of the teachers referred to me as Slime.  Nice.

One day I found my original social security card.  It said “KAREN ELIZABETH MCGINNIS” and I was filled with anger.  Kids couldn’t call me Slimy Keimy if my name hadn’t been changed from McGinnis.  And, after all, it was MY name. Nobody had the right to CHANGE it.  If I were Karen McGinnis, I would not have to argue with kids to make them believe that the popular Mike McGinnis was indeed my brother. I could ride on his coat tails and have some validation.  But instead, I was just Slime.

I can still hear the kids on the bus.  “Get out of the way, Slime!”  “Ew, who wants to sit by Slime! You’ll get corroded!”  It didn’t help that my parents were chain smokers and I reeked of cigarette smoke.  I had no idea. Growing up in a smoker’s house, I never was aware of the smell, but other kids were and told me, frequently, how smelly and slimy I was.

I was adopted.  I had a new name, and I hated it.  I wanted to cling to my old name, even though that name was connected to a father who didn’t want me or love me, connected to being motherless, connected to being an orphan.  On the positive side, it also connected me to my brother, and to the mother who gave me life and nurtured me from the womb.

Looking back tends to be human nature, I guess.  Look at Lot’s wife.

As I grew from childhood into adulthood, my life was centered around finding happiness.  And while I didn’t realize it, I felt that happiness would be found in finding a man to love me.  My father’s abandonment left a gaping hole in my soul. My dad (adopted) did not know how to show love and was, in fact, expert at the opposite.  Boys at school wanted nothing to do with me.

The first man I remember “crushing” on was my dad’s friend Jimmy.  My mom told me once I ran up to him calling him “Daddy.”  Odd since he didn’t look like my dad. (I later learned he played guitar and wore a cowboy hat, which made him resemble my real father. Later it was other friends of my parents – Clyde (“Tinker”) was a favorite because he always took time to twinkle at me and let me know he was pleased to see me.

When I was 13 a man who knew my parents showed attention to me in an inappropriate way.  He was 47 years old and told me how pretty I was.  He kissed me, secretly, numerous times. And I was ecstatic. A man found me attractive! A man wanted me!  I made the mistake and told someone at school who scorned me and naturally, did not believe me. I didn’t care.  It was my special thing, and he didn’t care that my name rhymed with Slime. Little did I know how dangerous this was and how close I came to being molested.  Now looking back I am glad for the watchful friend of my mom’s who spotted a clandestine kiss and that was soon the end of that.

As I grew older, I grew more and more depressed. Nobody would take me to the school dances, nobody asked me to the prom.  Nobody missed me when I didn’t go on the senior trip and I was not included in any graduation celebrations.  No Friday night dates, no weekend sleepovers except when I had a few slumber parties and invited some kids over, who amazingly, came…I guess it wasn’t ALL bleak but invitations for me were few and far between.  One boy DID ask me out and I thought he was joking and I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of hurting me.  Years later I found out he was serious and did like me, but my insecurity kept me from believing it.

Then after graduation, I found Glenn.  I wanted him.  I wanted him to give me a new name – his.  I was 17 and knew what I wanted.  I would now have a “place.”

To be Continued…..Part 2 click here.

More of my Puzzle Pieces Journey, if interested: Click Here

 

Mr. McGinnis’ Oscar

Today I took my youngest daughter to her school to audition for the talent show.  There were some other kids there in full costume…looked like they put a lot of time and thought into their routines.  Rachel and I didn’t realize it was a “dress” audition, but oh well; she did her best and she has a lovely voice.  Hope she makes it.

Driving home I started remembering something I hadn’t thought about in many years – I was in the talent show too, once in 6th grade as part of an act with several others in my class (we parodied The Gong Show.)  In 7th grade, I was a solo act, and I sang “Just When I Needed You Most” along with my Randy VanWarmer record (a big black plastic disc that spun around on a “turntable” and was stimulated with a “diamond tip stylus” that made the music come through the speakers.)

The talent show was held in the middle school cafeteria.  The kids all sat at the lunch tables.  The room was dark and I couldn’t see many faces beyond the first row.  And I’ll never forget the first row.

Right in front of me were three girls who I will never forget as long as I live.  I rode the bus with them, and often they ignored me but sometimes, they could not resist pushing me, “bumping into me” or saying nasty things to me.  There they were, right in front of me as I sang.  My heart sank.

Brenda, Billie Jean, and Valerie.  I can still hear you – the three of you took turns barking at me, growling at me, sneering, and laughing.  During my entire song.  I tried my best to ignore you, yet I could not take my eyes off you, and you loved it.  I did, however, finish my song.  My stomach was sick, my knees were weak, my hands were shaking.  I was humiliated, I wanted to cry.  But I finished my song.

I remember in 5th grade, my best friend Cindy and I sat in the very back during the talent show.  We whispered to one another our comments about the various routines.  Even with kids we didn’t like, we had to admit, they were good!  So we exchanged stuff like “Wow, she’s good!” or “She must be GIFTED” all in whispers.  All in the darkness of the back row. But Mr. Melody saw us.

Mr. Melody was about eleven feet tall and weighed what looked like 3oo lbs.  He found us extremely disruptive and sent us to the office.  After the talent show was over, we were sentenced to detention, and we also were told that we could not participate in the long-anticipated Field Day Activities the next day, because we were disruptive during the talent show.

Yet…Brenda, Billie Jean, and Valerie barked, growled, and laughed at me during my entire song, without any recourse.  Where was Mr. Melody, the Talent Show Police then? I guess whispering good things to a companion is “bad” but heckling is “good.”  But I digress.

Back to 7th grade…I was so relieved when my song  was over, I don’t even remember if there was applause.  I exited the stage and cowered in the darkness of the back of the cafeteria.  I leaned on the wall for support and I’m sure I started to cry.

Someone tapped my arm.  I looked up and it was Mr. McGinnis – my social studies teacher (and one of my favorite teachers of all time.)  Even though it was dark, I saw his encouraging smile, and he gave me a thumbs up.

I understand what Sally Field meant when she expressed such delight while gushing “You like me! You really like me!” at the Oscars.

Brenda, Billie Jean, and Valerie…I really don’t care that you barked at me.  Mr. McGinnis gave me my Oscar.

Washing Feet

I read an excellent little musing on the ceremonial “foot washing” that occurs in some churches at this time of year.

Meant to pay homage to the example Jesus set forth by taking on the role of the lowliest servant by sitting down to wash the filthy feet of his disciples, the ceremony as practiced today is quite different.

Back in bible times, foot washing was a necessity given the vulgar conditions of people’s feet after traveling the dirty streets of Palestine in nothing but sandals, or perhaps barefoot. These were the feet that stepped in dung, among other elements.  Upon entering a home it was necessary to wash feet to avoid tracking the filth of the day all over.

This task was often done by servants.  Jesus was teaching His disciples that they should never consider themselves above others and to serve them even if the task is unpleasant and distasteful.

In modern ceremony however, most people partaking in such an event more than likely

Washing Clean Feet

come to church with their feet sparkling clean and the foot washer does not really have to “wash” anything.

My challenge is to take this real lesson from scripture and apply it in a practical way for today.  People generally do not traverse the highways and byways barefoot and most “normal folk” do not have servants to perform menial tasks that are “beneath them.”

But what about the single mother who is facing losing her children because she can not keep order in her household due to working every waking hour to eke out a living? How about pitching in with babysitting for free or bringing by groceries?

What about the “cat lady” who smells bad – how about giving her a ride to the doctor or to the store, even if it makes your car smell afterward?

Would the eager partakers of a “foot washing ceremony” be as willing to do things such as these?  If yes, then the lesson of the foot washing has been learned and applied as Christ intended.

If not, then something needs to change – from within.  It’s not about the feet. Partaking in a rite for the sake of ceremony is worthless, apart from having “real works” to back it up.

James 2:14-26 (New King James Version)

¹⁴ What does it profit, my brethren, if someone says he has faith but does not have works? Can faith save him? ¹⁵ If a brother or sister is naked and destitute of daily food, ¹⁶ and one of you says to them, “Depart in peace, be warmed and filled,” but you do not give them the things which are needed for the body, what does it profit? ¹⁷ Thus also faith by itself, if it does not have works, is dead.
¹⁸ But someone will say, “You have faith, and I have works.” Show me your faith without your^[a] works, and I will show you my faith by my^[b] works. ¹⁹ You believe that there is one God. You do well. Even the demons believe—and tremble! ²⁰ But do you want to know, O foolish man, that faith without works is dead?^{[c] 21} Was not Abraham our father justified by works when he offered Isaac his son on the altar? ²² Do you see that faith was working together with his works, and by works faith was made perfect? ²³ And the Scripture was fulfilled which says, “Abraham believed God, and it was accounted to him for righteousness.”^[d] And he was called the friend of God. ²⁴ You see then that a man is justified by works, and not by faith only.
²⁵ Likewise, was not Rahab the harlot also justified by works when she received the messengers and sent them out another way?
²⁶ For as the body without the spirit is dead, so faith without works is dead also.

It’s about the heart.  As always.

Spring Spheres Are Geometrically Incorrect

Yes, my friends, the PC Police are at it again! This time, a private school in Seattle has

These are colored spheres.

decided that the term “Easter Eggs” is religiously offensive, and prefers the use of “Spring Spheres” instead.

This is wrong on so many levels.  First of all, eggs are NOT spheres!  Spheres are round.  Eggs are not.

Second, and this will annoy people I am sure, but Easter Eggs are not Christian (which is the religion most PC Police are trying to protect the world from with these stupid ideas) and to be honest, neither is the term “Easter.”  So banning Easter eggs is kinda silly, as pagan stuff tends to be more acceptable and PC…

I would worry about the education my child is receiving at such a school; they don’t know

These are colored eggs.

that Easter Eggs are really in the  “non Christian” camp by their very name, nature, and origin anyway; and furthermore, they obviously don’t know geometry.

Colored ball photo courtesy of Flickr Creative Commons, Acockle’s photostream.

Easter eggs photo courtesy of Flickr Creative Commons, Vanherdehaage’s photostream.

Searching for Spiritual Truth & Reality

John 4:24 - For God is Spirit, so those who worship him must worship in spirit and in truth. (NLT)

Some time ago, my husband and I began what I am calling our “Unchurching Odyssey.”  In typical Christian circles, “the unchurched” is a  politically correct term to use instead of “the lost” or the “unsaved.”

My usage of the term when referring to our Christianity is actually a spin on a particular style of homeschooling, called “unschooling,” used to describe a departure from the institutional way of doing things; essentially becoming  free-form or organic in lifestyle and practice.

We’ve grown weary of the institutional church.  Let me be clear, I am not picking on any one particular church; we are not pointing fingers or laying blame; it’s the entire system that bothers us.  It’s not working for us, and it’s not working for a lot of folks, hence the popularity of such books like So You Don’t Want to Go to Church Anymore by Wayne Jacobsen and Dave Coleman.

One of my reasons (and believe me this is just one of them, there are more!) for being discouraged by the institutional church system is the artificial behavior that springs from putting on our Sunday Best – the smiles, the forced greeting time, and, in many “Spirit filled” churches, the manifestations of the “spirit” that are, in reality, nothing more than fleshly posturing to prove to the others that you “have it” and “are filled.”

The opposite of this, the “ying for the yang” so to speak, is the forced restraint found in non-charismatic churches.  “Do not raise your hands in praise during worship, that’s fake and looks Pentecostal.  Do not move your body or allow your emotions to show, that doesn’t impress anyone…” and so on.

All my Christian life, I have been searching for “reality.”  Meaning genuine, not artificial.  I memorized scripture and listened to good Christian music essentially to prove to my elders that I was becoming spirit filled.  I watched them on Sunday mornings and Sunday evenings and listened to their King James-esque eloquent prayers that rolled effortlessly off their tongues in flowery beauty and I wanted to be like them. I did not want to stumble for the correct words to pray, I wanted to know what to pray and how to pray it and how to be “the perfect Christian.”

My first experience with a Pentecostal assembly was horrifying, to be honest.  Up till that point, I had been attending a very old-fashioned, quiet Baptist church – the most raucous that church got was when a hellfire and brimstone guest speaker named Dr. Ernie Childs came and yelled at us all, telling us how awful and pitiful our attempts were at pleasing God.  He came equipped with pamphlets he authored to teach us how to lawfully live out a Good Christian Life.

Anyway, I am somewhat reserved in nature when out in public unless I am extremely comfortable with my companions and surroundings (such as when I am bowling).  So the laid-back atmosphere of the Baptist church was appealing to me.  I was amazed at the behavior during the Pentecostal service – such fervor!  A lady in front of me, who practiced head covering with a little crocheted doily, was jumping up and down, up and down, up and down – I can still see the doily flapping. I was not drawn into a deeper knowledge of God; I was distracted by the doily.  People were yelling, some guy stood up with a “word” that everyone was ga-ga over, and I later compared it to reading a fortune cookie or reading the horoscope. You could make it apply if you tried hard enough.  I didn’t think God’s word worked that way.

There were people moaning, and mumbling, and doing what I later learned to be “speaking in tongues.” Only it sounded a lot like babbling, and a lot of repetition.  Baptists generally don’t believe in the gifting of tongues – certainly not as manifested in many churches today.  I never really bought the theology that tongues were not for today – can’t find anything in scripture to support that.  But I also can’t find anything in scripture to support what is being manifest as tongues in most Charismatic churches either. In fact, quite the opposite.

Charismatic friends have shared with me that they (or others they knew) were coached by elders to “Just babble nonsense to loosen yourself up, until the Spirit comes” or “Try these practice phrases until your language is manifest.”  I just don’t see that in scripture.  It came upon them from the Spirit and they spoke in tongues (and were understood by the listeners) without any coaching ahead of time or warm up babbling.

This forced behavior has been encouraged for years by preachers and teachers in churches, and it’s a tough habit to break. It even shows up in home fellowships.   The other night I was “told” by the pastor to speak in tongues.  “Everyone speak in tongues – I feel led to say that.”  Really?  And once again add me to the ranks of people who “don’t” and aren’t “up to snuff.”

So, someone there began to babble “Ma ma ma ma ma ma ma ma ma ma” occasionally broken up with an “Oh Lord!” or “Jesus!”.  It was extremely disconcerting, distracting, and disheartening.  How many people have been harmed spiritually by this junk? Either harmed by being forced to be dishonest…(pretending and faking tonuges, so as to fit in) or by feeling inadequate and not good enough because they’re too honest to play along and pretend to speak in tongues?

If it is a manifestation of the Holy Spirit it is going to happen without our theatrics or demands on one another.  It is going to be genuine and it will be AWESOME.  But we can’t FORCE it on each other or ourselves.

By carrying on like this we totally dilute the reality of it when it does happen. God is not a dog and pony show that we can control for our entertainment (oh wait, we want to call it “edification”).

YES, tongues is but ONE spiritual gift. Discernment is another. Above all, worshiping in spirit and in TRUTH is the most important aspect of worship.  I do not want to partake of phoniness, and I do not want to be around it — no matter how sincere the parties involved may be.

I have spent years trying to prove to myself that I was a REAL Christian, that I was a REAL believer that I was a REAL child of God. I did not want anything FAKE or “put on” for Sunday morning. Or Saturday night, or in the sanctuary, or in the living room.

Experiencing the presence of the Holy Spirit is awesome enough without having to enhance it with fake experiences to “loosen up” or to obey some command…

SCHOOL BULLYING, IMPOTENT ADMINISTRATION…What Is Up With This??

I just finished reading this blog written by Danielle Gauthier the mother of Morgan, a girl who was beaten and assaulted by not one bully, but several, in the cafeteria at McLaughlin Middle School in Manchester, NH.

This girl was beaten so badly that she lost teeth, needed to have her jaw wired, and she suffered a concussion. Her dentist said that Morgan’s was the worst dental trauma she had seen to a child’s mouth. Yet, the school and police seem very casual and blase about it. The school nurse treated the girl herself, rather than call an ambulance.

It came as complete shock when our family received a call from the school nurse stating that Morgan had been involved in a fight and “her mouth is a little screwed up”.  Upon arriving at her school it was very disturbing to see her condition.  Immediately we knew by the blood gushing and her inability to remember her mothers name or phone numbers, she should have been transported to the ER by ambulance.  Instead, she sitting in the nurses office being asked to stop crying.  Stop crying about the teeth that had been punched out of her head?

The assault in the lunch room took FOUR TEACHERS to get one of the bullying boys off of her.  Yet the school did nothing. The nurse told her to “stop crying.”

This is an outrage.  Please spread the word so that as many people as possible know about this atrocity.  These so-called “administrators” need to be called out, shamed – and in my opinion, REMOVED FROM THEIR POSITIONS for not only allowing this girl to be bullied, but for sitting back and doing NOTHING about it.

Please forward Danielle’s blog to everyone – we must ALL take a stand not only against bullying and bullies, but against IMPOTENT SCHOOL ADMINISTRATORS!!!!!