how does the shoe feel on the other foot?

First, you have to read this article. (Thanks, Sara.)

So is Mr. Denn Hollander (oh how I wish he had a different name!) for or against the double standard that has plagued women for decades? Perhaps he'd like to see to it that women get studied in history and literature classes just as often as men do, so we wouldn't have to have separate study programs. In school I would have loved to hear more about Rosie the Riveter and WASPs during studies of WWII. Or about people like Dorothea Dix and Dr. Elizabeth Blackwell in the 19th century. But instead I had to wait until I took a women's history class in college to hear about some of those women, and I had to study on my own to find out about others. Women's studies "[spread] prejudice and [foster] animosity and distrust toward men with the result of the wholesale violation of men’s rights due to ignorance, falsehoods and malice,” says Denn Hollander. Gee, and no men in the history of the world would have given women a reason to do that, would they?

Discrimination feels completely different when it's happening to you instead of someone else.

Next I'm sure he'll go after the NAACP for being racist.

why do we do (or not do) what we do?

Last Saturday I went to David's Bridal with Lins, sis-in-law Christina, Lins's 5-year-old niece, and her Mom (Mrs. W.). The store was quite busy, but fortunately we all had an appointment. The saleslady who was supposed to be helping us became less and less attentive as the afternoon went on, until by the time it was Lins's turn to try on gowns Christina and Mrs. W. got fed up and started pulling gowns off the racks themselves. Still, every 15 minutes or so the saleslady would appear and say "I'm sorry, I feel like I should be spending more time on you guys." I felt like saying: "Don't apologize, just fix it. If you feel like you're not spending enough time with us, then do something about it." But instead I said nothing. At the end, Mrs. W. thanked her for "all her help", even though in my opinion her help was lacking in both quantity and quality.

Once I was waiting in line inside Culver's, and someone else who had just come in the door cut in front of me. I stood up for myself and said "excuse me, but I was in line and you cut in front of me." Afterward I felt like a huge bitch and wished I had just said nothing and waited longer.

Why are many of us, as women, like that? We apologize for things that we can't control. We lie and say everything is fine when actually we are not satisfied. We don't stick up for ourselves. If we do stick up for ourselves, we are labeled as bitches (whether by society or just in our own minds).

in which I have nothing to say

After the Martha's Table worship service, it is my habit, as hospitality coordinator, to visit each table and say hello to the folks as they are eating their dinner. I introduce myself, tell them why I'm greeting each table, and try to mix it up each time so I don't sound like a broken record. The majority of the time, the folks are too focused on eating to have much desire to converse with me or ask questions. Buuut, a few weeks ago (the last time I was at Martha's Table) I met a homeless man named Ron who had a great deal to say.

At Ron's table I asked if the guys seated there were feeling peace. The rest said yes, but Ron said no with emphasis. I asked why not, and he spoke with cynicism and near-rage about the fact that he would spend the night trying not to freeze while at the same time trying to avoid the police who won't let homeless people sleep where they please. He also spoke at great length (despite his table-mates' attempts to turn the conversation to other topics) about what an evil and hypocritical place is the Gospel Mission, in his estimation. "When I leave here I have to find a place to sleep and try not to freeze my ass off," he said to me. "What would Jesus have to say about that?" The tone of his voice was a challenge.

I can say with confidence that very few times in my life have I been unable to find something to say to someone. This was one of those rare times. What would Jesus say to this homeless man with so much anger in his heart? "Think on the treasures you have stored in heaven" seemed empty considering what this man was going to face when he left the warmth of the church building. "God never gives a person more than he can handle" or "the bruised reed He will not break" would surely have sounded like verbal slaps in the face. "Perhaps your faith is being tested, like Job" also would have sounded hollow and completely bereft of any understanding of Ron's current situation. "I don't know what Jesus would say about that," I told him. I looked over at Pastor, sitting at another table, involved with the folks who had joined him there to eat. I willed him to look up and catch my eye, but he didn't, and Ron continued to spew his vitriol.

The best I could find in my mind to say to him was that life can almost always be worse. How, he wondered, and I pointed out that he seems to be a healthy man: He has two eyes, two arms, two legs; he would leave under his own power and was not lying alone in some hospital bed. Ron complained about how it could be so much better, and I said that it's important to focus on what he does have, rather than what he does not. "Would I love to be a famous singer? Of course. But I'm not, and I try to focus on what I do have in life because it's much more cheerful." More grumbling.

When I was finally able to extricate myself from the conversation, I promised to pray for Ron. Fat lot of good that will do me, I'm sure he was thinking. But I did, and I still do. Anger is like cancer, and he has a severe case of it.

When I left the church that evening almost everyone else had already left. It had started to rain, a cold rain that threatened to change to sleet or snow. I hurried to my car and drove home in silence, feeling very thanful indeed for the blessings in life that I normally take for granted.

this is how I know my dreams don't mean anything

I'm at some sort of fair or carnival with numerous rides designed to gyrate a human body in unnatural, unexpected, and even frightening ways until the person pukes. This carnival must be set up on a plateau on the side of a very big hill or a mountain, because in the distance in the valley I can see a pristine blue lake. My family is here, and so is Jim McK. from church. He brought three Sunday School kids with him. The weather is fine at the carnival, but in the distance on the pristine blue lake waterspouts are forming, spinning, dancing, and then shrinking and disappearing. Not a one ever leaves the water. Jim is very upset because a psychic saw the significance of the numbers five and three and told him that something bad was going to happen. He thinks he's going to get killed. Five, the number of adults, and three, the number of children. As dusk falls we sit in beach chairs all in a line, five big ones and three empty small ones, watching the kids riding the ride in front of us and screaming. The stars come out. Then Star Trek/Star Wars ships start flying out of the stars, completely silent except for the occasional pew-pew-pew of one of the Star Wars ships firing. One hurtles out of control at us silently, and Jim and I jump out of the way. It crashes right into his beach chair and smashes it. In the sky it looked huge, but on the ground it's no bigger than a sedan. Then my cat jumps on me and wakes me up.

why yes, my glass is half full!

On Sunday morning as I was walking through the church parking lot I heard a robin singing. I looked up to find the source of the cheerful song and in a moment had spied him sitting at the very tip of the sanctuary roofline above the stained glass window. It wasn't a spectacular day, weather-wise, but this bird was singing anyway.

The next day I was walking through the church parking lot at the same time of day to attend the every-other-Monday staff meeting. The same robin was in the same spot at the very peak of the roof. He was singing again despite the chilly temperature and the fact that the weather was trying its hardest to rain.

I felt like that robin was singing just for me. It didn't matter to him that the weather was grey, chilly, and wet. He was up there anyway singing for the blessings he has in his wild and feathery little existence: life, fresh air, his mate (I presume), a territory to call his own, and rain that makes the worms squirm out of the dirt. All of us, myself included, could stand to think more like him.

my first official blog post

This is my first official blog post.

Not sure if I like this "scribe" template. Of all the options, this is the one I disliked the least that was not also copying a friend's layout.

I wish I had something monumental about which to write, but I don't.

Monumental thoughts will come........