The class period was nearly over.
“Pop quiz,” announced the teacher. The entire class groaned in unison. It was ten minutes until the bell on a Friday afternoon!
“The test has only three questions.” Three questions? Miss one question and you’ve failed! This is crazy!
“I won’t be collecting the test. It is for your own information only. Take out a sheet of paper and a pencil.” I looked at a classmate in puzzlement. What was going on?
“Question 1: Who are you?”
I wrote my name, assuming that my classmates did the same.
“Question 2: Who are you?”
I heard someone snicker behind me. I wasn’t sure anything was funny, I just thought it was weird. “I am a high school student,” I wrote.
After another pause:
“Question 3: Who are you?”
We all looked at each other in confusion. I think I wrote that I was a daughter, sister, and granddaughter. I was very glad that the papers weren’t to be turned in.
We put down our pencils. The teacher rose from his chair and moved in front of his desk. “I know you’re confused by these questions,” he said. “But I’ve asked them for an important reason. In a couple of years you will leave this building for the last time to make your way in the world. Some of you will go to college, some will go to work. Your lives may go in very different directions. The one thing you all have in common, the one way in which you are all alike, is the need to discover who you are.”
Every eye was on him.
“Is your name who you are? Is it your athletic ability? Your grades? Your popularity? Is it your occupation? If you are a Christian, did you say so?
“Only you can answer the question, ‘Who are you?’ But it’s a question that you must answer. If you don’t know who you are, you run the risk that someone else will define you, and wrongly. It’s not too soon to figure it out. Who are you?”
As if on cue, the bell rang. “Dismissed,” the teacher said.
We walked out of the room into the crowded hallway. I didn’t talk to any of my classmates about what had happened. I was embarrassed that, although I had been a Christian for several years, I hadn’t written that down.
A teacher in the public school system today would probably be fired for mentioning Christ in the context of such a quiz. But the question, “If you’re a Christian, did you say so?’” haunted me for years. At the time, I had made a profession of faith in Christ, but had not even thought of that when asked “Who are you?”
We spend years developing external identifiers. I am now a daughter, wife, mother, friend, volunteer, musician, employee, organization member, citizen, and more. Those are all important aspects of who I am. But external identifiers can change or even disappear. If my self-definition is completely linked to those, I am on shaky ground. The world is a fickle place. Families evolve, jobs end, friendships fizzle, glory days fade into the distant past. But my connection to God, and to his Son Jesus, is unbreakable. So I want my identity to be grounded in that.
During the season of Lent, Christians are encouraged to engage in a time of meditation, reminding ourselves of our need of God’s grace as we move toward the Easter celebration of Jesus’ resurrection. In my meditating, I think about that long-ago teacher and his pop quiz. That question set me on the journey to discovering just who I really was.
So ask me ‘Who are you?’ and I’ll tell you: I’m a child of God, and a follower of Christ. You won’t have to ask me three times.
(Dallas Morning News 3-08-09)
Sunday, March 8, 2009
First, take care of yourself
Recently while surfing the Internet, I learned about Ambush Makeover, wherein selected fans of the Today Show receive new hairdos, makeup and updated outfits. As I scrolled online through the photos of women who have received makeovers, I was delighted to see the transformations from "before" to "after." But one thing struck me: a lot of the "before" pictures were of women who looked tired. Really tired.
It was easy to guess why. A common denominator in the descriptions of many of the makeover subjects is that they are women who are so busy caring for the others in their lives that they neglect themselves.
Most mothers can relate to that. During the years that I was a stay-at-home mom, my focus was on my family’s physical, spiritual, and emotional care, often to the detriment of my own needs. In addition, I volunteered in schools, at church, and in the community. When you’re reaching out in so many directions, taking time for yourself is often the last thing on your mind. It is much easier to throw on any old clothes, apply minimal makeup and run a brush through your hair so that you can get busy doing things for others.
Similarly, though they probably spend more time on makeup and wardrobe, moms who work outside the home and then come home to care for their families and handle other obligations are often so exhausted that they don’t take the time to nurture themselves emotionally, much less worry about updating their appearance. Those of us who are caregivers for aging parents are often in the same boat.
We don’t want to let others down. There are so many people and endeavors that clamor for our time and talents. We usually don’t devote much time to thinking about how we look.
So how do we look? We look tired.
Remember that perfume commercial from the 1970s where the business-suited woman sang that she could "bring home the bacon, fry it up in the pan, and never ever let you forget you’re a man"? Wow! If the song had gone on, it might have described how she helped the kids with their homework, got them fed, bathed and into bed, organized their supplies for the next school day, did a couple of loads of laundry, cleaned the kitchen, and paid some bills. By the time that woman did all that, I guarantee she had no energy left for herself.
Not to provoke argument, but I think there’s a good chance that women really are wired as caregivers, that it is in our very nature to want — perhaps even to need — to nurture and care for those around us. Humans need nurturing, so the desire to nurture is a good thing, a necessary behavior. But we women sometimes feel selfish if we stop to re-charge, to take care of ourselves. And that’s a bad thing. Because while we’re so busy taking care of others, we often find, to our dismay, that there’s no one taking care of us.
Maybe that’s why I like makeover shows on TV. It’s OK to stop for a makeover, even if it’s just a psychological one. That may mean going to bed earlier at night in order to get more rest, asking a family member to take on extra responsibilities (even if the results are not quite up to our standards!), and learning to say no (and mean it!) to burdensome requests. It could mean regularly taking time to exercise, to read a book, to walk through the park, or hang out with a friend.
Or maybe even spending a little extra on a haircut without feeling guilty.
A lot of us seem to be afraid that the world will stop spinning if we don’t always do everything that everybody wants us to do. It won’t. Letting go of that burden might be a makeover in itself.
(Dallas Morning News online 1-30-09)
It was easy to guess why. A common denominator in the descriptions of many of the makeover subjects is that they are women who are so busy caring for the others in their lives that they neglect themselves.
Most mothers can relate to that. During the years that I was a stay-at-home mom, my focus was on my family’s physical, spiritual, and emotional care, often to the detriment of my own needs. In addition, I volunteered in schools, at church, and in the community. When you’re reaching out in so many directions, taking time for yourself is often the last thing on your mind. It is much easier to throw on any old clothes, apply minimal makeup and run a brush through your hair so that you can get busy doing things for others.
Similarly, though they probably spend more time on makeup and wardrobe, moms who work outside the home and then come home to care for their families and handle other obligations are often so exhausted that they don’t take the time to nurture themselves emotionally, much less worry about updating their appearance. Those of us who are caregivers for aging parents are often in the same boat.
We don’t want to let others down. There are so many people and endeavors that clamor for our time and talents. We usually don’t devote much time to thinking about how we look.
So how do we look? We look tired.
Remember that perfume commercial from the 1970s where the business-suited woman sang that she could "bring home the bacon, fry it up in the pan, and never ever let you forget you’re a man"? Wow! If the song had gone on, it might have described how she helped the kids with their homework, got them fed, bathed and into bed, organized their supplies for the next school day, did a couple of loads of laundry, cleaned the kitchen, and paid some bills. By the time that woman did all that, I guarantee she had no energy left for herself.
Not to provoke argument, but I think there’s a good chance that women really are wired as caregivers, that it is in our very nature to want — perhaps even to need — to nurture and care for those around us. Humans need nurturing, so the desire to nurture is a good thing, a necessary behavior. But we women sometimes feel selfish if we stop to re-charge, to take care of ourselves. And that’s a bad thing. Because while we’re so busy taking care of others, we often find, to our dismay, that there’s no one taking care of us.
Maybe that’s why I like makeover shows on TV. It’s OK to stop for a makeover, even if it’s just a psychological one. That may mean going to bed earlier at night in order to get more rest, asking a family member to take on extra responsibilities (even if the results are not quite up to our standards!), and learning to say no (and mean it!) to burdensome requests. It could mean regularly taking time to exercise, to read a book, to walk through the park, or hang out with a friend.
Or maybe even spending a little extra on a haircut without feeling guilty.
A lot of us seem to be afraid that the world will stop spinning if we don’t always do everything that everybody wants us to do. It won’t. Letting go of that burden might be a makeover in itself.
(Dallas Morning News online 1-30-09)
Fighting the ironing wars
When I was about 14 my grandmother hired me to do her ironing. I was thrilled, for at that age there are few ways to earn money. The price was the same, no matter the garment, so I was happy when there were lots of Granddaddy’s handkerchiefs to press.
I really did enjoy ironing. There’s something very satisfying about taking something all wrinkly and making it smooth and crisp. Using a big glass bottle with a spray head on a cork stopper, I would sprinkle the clothes and then roll them up and set them aside. If there wasn’t time to finish them all, we’d sometimes put the rolled-up garments in the freezer until the next time. I can still remember the delightful shock of holding a stiff frozen shirt, straight from the freezer, to my cheek.
Grandmother’s iron was a monster. With a shiny chrome finish, it was huge and very heavy. Once when I complained about its weight, Grandmother described what a chore it was when she was my age, having to use a flat iron heated on the stove. She considered the electric iron a great invention, and told me to count my blessings.
When I moved into an apartment, I was excited to buy my very own iron. (yes, I realize how pitiful that sounds). I don’t remember what brand it was, but I know this for a certainty: that iron was the standard bearer for a battle that I’ve waged ever since. It’s a battle I’ve yet to win.
It’s me vs. the irons.
Irons. Plural. Many irons. My grandmother had the same iron for as long as I can remember. (Back then, there was no such thing as planned obsolescence). In my 37 years of marriage I’ve probably owned 15 irons. Cheap irons, expensive irons, stainless steel irons, Teflon and plastic irons, it doesn’t matter: they’re all out to get me, and I hate them all.
I’ve had bare-bones irons that were basically Steam-No Steam. I’ve had fancy irons with multiple buttons that allowed choices between Cotton/Wool/Silk/Poly/Steam/Burst of Steam/Power Spray/Wash and Wax Your Car. I’ve followed the manufacturer’s instructions precisely. Irons used to require distilled water. Tap water might be okay for us to drink, but it wasn’t good enough for the iron. So I bought distilled water (is that even bottled anymore?) and was careful never to overfill the reservoir.
The iron’s instructions would mandate “Pour out all water when you are done - DO NOT LEAVE WATER SITTING IN IRON!” Not certain that the Minor Appliance Police weren’t peeping in my window to evaluate my trustworthiness, I dutifully poured out the water after each ironing session. If it said never to wrap the cord around the iron, I never did. If it said to leave the iron standing up until cool, I stood it up. I bought iron rests to make the irons’ lives easier. I bought a wall mount receptacle so that the iron wouldn’t have to rest on the laundry room shelf.
And none of it mattered. Because no matter what I do, or which iron I buy, they always defeat me. They quit working, they quit steaming, they leave water spots on my rayon or silk clothes, they refuse to heat up.
Once my iron died on me halfway through my husband’s dress shirt. Nicely-pressed collar, front and back, wrinkled sleeves. I had to go out and buy a new iron. Then I bought a back-up iron, in case the first one quit to spite me. Now the newer one -less than a year old- has quit steaming. The mister button still works, so I can spray the clothes as I iron them, but the steam feature has disappeared. And it occasionally spits out something brown (always when I’m ironing a white dress shirt) even though I use the self-clean feature and empty the water as directed.
So it’s back to the no-tech days of my grandmother’s youth. Next time I’m at an antique mall, I’ll be searching for an old flatiron. No steam, no electric cord, just a hot stove top and a pot holder, and I’m good to go.
(Dallas Morning News 1-11-09)
I really did enjoy ironing. There’s something very satisfying about taking something all wrinkly and making it smooth and crisp. Using a big glass bottle with a spray head on a cork stopper, I would sprinkle the clothes and then roll them up and set them aside. If there wasn’t time to finish them all, we’d sometimes put the rolled-up garments in the freezer until the next time. I can still remember the delightful shock of holding a stiff frozen shirt, straight from the freezer, to my cheek.
Grandmother’s iron was a monster. With a shiny chrome finish, it was huge and very heavy. Once when I complained about its weight, Grandmother described what a chore it was when she was my age, having to use a flat iron heated on the stove. She considered the electric iron a great invention, and told me to count my blessings.
When I moved into an apartment, I was excited to buy my very own iron. (yes, I realize how pitiful that sounds). I don’t remember what brand it was, but I know this for a certainty: that iron was the standard bearer for a battle that I’ve waged ever since. It’s a battle I’ve yet to win.
It’s me vs. the irons.
Irons. Plural. Many irons. My grandmother had the same iron for as long as I can remember. (Back then, there was no such thing as planned obsolescence). In my 37 years of marriage I’ve probably owned 15 irons. Cheap irons, expensive irons, stainless steel irons, Teflon and plastic irons, it doesn’t matter: they’re all out to get me, and I hate them all.
I’ve had bare-bones irons that were basically Steam-No Steam. I’ve had fancy irons with multiple buttons that allowed choices between Cotton/Wool/Silk/Poly/Steam/Burst of Steam/Power Spray/Wash and Wax Your Car. I’ve followed the manufacturer’s instructions precisely. Irons used to require distilled water. Tap water might be okay for us to drink, but it wasn’t good enough for the iron. So I bought distilled water (is that even bottled anymore?) and was careful never to overfill the reservoir.
The iron’s instructions would mandate “Pour out all water when you are done - DO NOT LEAVE WATER SITTING IN IRON!” Not certain that the Minor Appliance Police weren’t peeping in my window to evaluate my trustworthiness, I dutifully poured out the water after each ironing session. If it said never to wrap the cord around the iron, I never did. If it said to leave the iron standing up until cool, I stood it up. I bought iron rests to make the irons’ lives easier. I bought a wall mount receptacle so that the iron wouldn’t have to rest on the laundry room shelf.
And none of it mattered. Because no matter what I do, or which iron I buy, they always defeat me. They quit working, they quit steaming, they leave water spots on my rayon or silk clothes, they refuse to heat up.
Once my iron died on me halfway through my husband’s dress shirt. Nicely-pressed collar, front and back, wrinkled sleeves. I had to go out and buy a new iron. Then I bought a back-up iron, in case the first one quit to spite me. Now the newer one -less than a year old- has quit steaming. The mister button still works, so I can spray the clothes as I iron them, but the steam feature has disappeared. And it occasionally spits out something brown (always when I’m ironing a white dress shirt) even though I use the self-clean feature and empty the water as directed.
So it’s back to the no-tech days of my grandmother’s youth. Next time I’m at an antique mall, I’ll be searching for an old flatiron. No steam, no electric cord, just a hot stove top and a pot holder, and I’m good to go.
(Dallas Morning News 1-11-09)
Being a Christmas baby puts it all in perspective
Before the days of debit cards, when I carried my checkbook for retail transactions, there were four words I could be absolutely certain of hearing as I handed over my driver’s license and the cashier saw the birth date: “Oh! A Christmas baby!”
The next words would nearly always be something along the lines of either “How wonderful!” or, more often, “You poor thing!”
Both of those sentiments were correct.
As a first-born child, and the first grandchild on both sides of the family, my birth was already eagerly anticipated. When I arrived on Christmas Day, there was jubilation. My granddaddy joked that I came in a Christmas stocking, and always told me I was the best present he ever got. My Uncle Larry told me that when he saw the nurse carrying me, he thought I was the prettiest baby he’d ever seen.
I later realized that he was 12 at the time. I was the only baby he’d ever seen.
When I was young I thought being born on December 25 was terrific. By elementary school days, I realized that a Christmas birthday is definitely a mixed blessing. My friends got birthday cakes on their birthdays. If I ever had one when I was young, I sure can’t remember it. Milk and cookies were set out on Christmas Eve, but they were gone by the time I awoke on Christmas morning (no matter how early), so I don’t think they were for me.
And how many parents want to take their kids to a classmate’s birthday party on Christmas Day? (Answer: none).
Many cashiers over the years asked me, “Wasn’t it tough only getting one present a year?” What kind of stingy relatives did they have? I was always quick to defend my family. They were never so chinchy as to give one combination birthday-Christmas gift. There was always a separate present for my birthday. It was just that it was often wrapped in holiday paper.
There were definitely pluses to being a Christmas baby. I never once had to go to school on my birthday. In fact, I didn’t have to go back to school until the new year! When I was old enough to have a job, I never once had to work on my birthday. For weeks before, houses and stores were gaily decorated, folks were generally happy, there was lots of good food, and there was beautiful music at church.
But the Christmas that I turned 16, the only person who told me happy birthday was the boy down the street. Not a single person in my family remembered to say it. I did feel rather sorry for myself that year.
When Kyle Rote, Jr. played for the Dallas Tornado soccer team, a news article about him mentioned that his birthday was Christmas Day. A revelation! There were other people who were Christmas babies! I had never met another person born on December 25. And, wonder of wonders, he was born in the same year that I was. Kyle might never know me, but we were connected.
I wondered if he got birthday cakes.
I considered organizing a support group. “Born on Christmas Day? Tired of being overlooked in the hustle and bustle of the season? Join Christmas Babies Anonymous (since we might as well be…)”
Kyle and I could be charter members.
Over the years my perspective has changed, and I appreciate my Christmas birthday more than ever. I feel blessed to have been born on the day that Christians everywhere celebrate the birth of Jesus. I can’t imagine a more wonderful way to begin my birthday than to be in church, singing “Joy to the World” with people I love.
I recently asked Uncle Larry if he could remember anything else about the day of my birth. “I do remember that it was a great Christmas,” he responded. “I got a catcher’s mitt (YEEE-HAAA).” I asked my mom the same question. “I don’t really remember much about it. After all, it was nearly 60 years ago.”
Birthday or not, you can always count on your family to keep you grounded.
(Dallas Morning News online 1-05-09)
(Dallas Morning News online 1-05-09)
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