Liberal...Conservative...Who Really Cares?

I recently watched "Fireproof", the fictional movie created by Sherwood Baptist Church in Atlanta, GA to put a spotlight on marriage and God, in a nutshell.  I watched it with a somewhat skeptical eye, given my admittedly resistant reaction (at least, initially) to anything put out by the "conservative" side of Christianity.  This reaction in me stems from a less than pleasant experience with a "religious right" group of Christians while I was in Germany, and the southern baptist church unfortunately falls into the same category in my mind.

And you know what?  I liked it!  It filled me with hope, and it motivated me to take steps to deepening my own Christianity.  (As well as my marriage, for that matter!)  And yes, I thought most of the acting was UBER CHEESY and there was a lot of "God talk" that makes me squirm a bit, still.

And all this got me thinking...

Why do I, as what I would call a "liberal Christian", feel unsafe admitting that I got something substantive out of a movie like Fireproof?

Answer?

Assumptions.  That's why.

By saying I liked the movie, I assume that I am opening myself up to others' potential assumptions about the kind of Christian I am.  Does the fact that I enjoyed Fireproof also suggest that I am pro-life, anti-gay marriage, and read the Bible literally?  I hope not, because none of those are true about me.  So, why do I feel like I need to add a caveat to my reaction to the movie?  "Fireproof?  I liked it and got a lot out of it....and it's too bad they couldn't include a gay couple in it, too, huh? Or maybe a female minister?"

So that's where I am...struggling to react authentically, yet being mindful of the stereotypes our society has set in place and letting those invade my thoughts.

And what was the scripture reading today at church?  Romans 12:1-2, 9-10: "I appeal to you, therefore, brothers, by the mercies of God, to present your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to God, which is your spiritual worship. Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewal of your mind, that by testing you may discern what is the will of God, what is good and acceptable and perfect...Love must be sincere, hate what is evil; cling to what is good, be devoted to one another in love, honor one another above yourselves."  

Let's face it.  My held-onto stereotypes and assumptions are an expression of being "conformed to this world".  And I know they make Jesus cringe...so here I am, sharing them and trying to break them by saying: I liked Fireproof, and I also support gay marriage.  I liked Fireproof, and I also believe women should be able to lead in pastoral positions.  I liked Fireproof, and I don't interpret the Bible literally.

I liked Fireproof, and I would likely not become a member at Sherwood Baptist Church in Atlanta, but I might get something out of a sermon or two.  Baby steps, right?

Halloween Cyclo-Cross Racing in Oregon

This past Halloween, Brian and I joined our friends Michael & Rebecca for a cyclo-cross race in Astoria, Oregon.  (Yes, that's where they filmed The Goonies.)  Michael & Rebecca had done this race before, and said it was a lot of fun and so we decided to join them and give it a whirl!  It was a blast!  We camped, drank some local brew from Fort George brewery, and took in all the GREAT people-watching at the race.  There was everyone from super advanced (not us) to complete beginners (us) participating, and everyone was so nice.  Rebecca and I raced together and I was amazed at how friendly all the other women racers were.  Even the really fast ones were so kind and encouraging when they passed me on the course saying, "Good job, girl, that's it, keep going!" as they rode on by.  The crowd was great, too, cheering for everyone and having a good time...albeit a little rowdy here and there :)  There was even a super cute kids race, too, which was ADORABLE to watch.  Enjoy the pics...there are a lot more on our other website, too, but I thought I'd try sharing via this site also.  And I couldn't figure out how to move the pics around with the captions, so they're not in order...so use your imagination :)

That's a mountain bike he's carrying...which is a lot heavier than a cross bike like everyone else had!  You go boy!

Yep....lots of mud.

Michael, helping Brian get his number pinned on...in the best "nerd" fashion, of course!

So fast even the camera can't keep up with her!  :)

Anne & Rebecca Post Race: Muddy bikes, but fairly clean riders! 

Post Brian's Race (hence, the mud) & Pre-Anne's Race (hence, the clean)

What time is it?  Race time!  Next to a man dressed as a cow...

That's Anne lifting her bike up over the barriers, while a few racers perform their dance moves to "Single Ladies" by Beyonce...they had it playing on repeat :)  And, yes, that's a man wearing #251

Adorable, right???

The crowd cheered for the kiddos like crazy; it was great!

Listen

I didn't write this.  It's an excerpt from a reading for one of my classes on the importance of communication, and it struck me as something I really need to remember...so I thought it was worth sharing.  Reading it aloud worked well for me:

When I ask you to listen to me and you start giving advice, you have not done what I asked.


When I ask you to listen to me and you begin to tell me why I shouldn't feel that way, you are trampling on my feelings.

Why not give the gift of listening, this Valentine's Day?

When I ask you to listen to me, and you feel you have to do something to solve my problem, you have failed me.


Listen!  All I asked was that you listen - not talk or do - just hear me.


When you do something for me that I can and need to do for myself, you contribute to my fear and weakness.


But when you accept as a simple fact that I do feel what I feel, no matter how irrational, then I can quit trying to convince you, and get about the business of understanding what's behind this irrational fear.


And when that's clear, the answers are obvious and I don't need advice.


Irrational fears make sense when we understand what's behind them.


So please listen and just hear me.


And if you want to talk, wait a minute for your turn, and then I'll listen to you. 

- Anon (one of my favorite authors....hehe!)

And I Say to Myself, "Self..."

My high school chemistry teacher, "Doc Lorson", was famous for saying the title of this entry, and it always made me laugh.  I just celebrated my 10-year anniversary of graduating from high school, and the Doc's phrase still  sticks with me.

 One of the best ways I am able to express myself to myself is through writing.

When I was in high school and college, I filled journals like it was my job.  And I loved it.  Writing just flowed out of me the second I put pen to paper. 

For the few years after college, that easy flow stopped for some reason.  I guess I started exploring other ways of expressing myself, because every time I tried to sit down and get into the "zone" with my journal, I just felt stuck.  When I lived in Missoula, I took an Adult Education class on journaling to see if I could get my spark back...but it didn't stick.  [It was a way cool class, though; at one point, we wrote with crayons to be more free like a child :) ]  Whatever I was going through at that time just couldn't translate onto paper, as hard as I tried to make it.

Thankfully, my journaling bug is making its return!  Aside from whatever growth edge I was experiencing, in all my attempts to force journaling, I've realized that I was ignoring one of the most important pieces - the journal.  I've been trying here and there to scribble in boring notebooks that have absolutely no character!  It dawned on me last weekend that it's time for me to find my journal.  My safe space, where my pen can hit my paper.  When I really thought about it, here's what I determined: it needs to be hardcover, bend open easily (so the pages won't inconveniently flip), the pages need to be lined, the paper needs to be a certain shade of beige/tan, and also have a slightly soft/earthy texture to them....and I found it!    It's my safe space, and my pen seems to be hitting the paper much more easily than on any college-ruled spiral notebook. Thank you, Borders!

This all makes me think....(surprise, surprise!)....about the process of finding our expression.  How do you express yourself TO yourself?  

Hippo What?

Tonight I went to Papa's Pizza. It's a kid-friendly, over-priced, greasy pizza joint...and it's called Papa's.  Needless to say, not the typical restaurant Brian and I frequent :)  But tonight, I went, to support my massage school buddy, Mark.  I didn't know the details except that 50% of whatever I spent would go toward a non-profit that he works with that has something to do with horses and kids.  "Cool," I said, "I'll be there."

I thought I'd just pick up my to-go order, say hi to Mark, and be on my way.  What I did not predict was being asked by an incredibly enthusiastic woman named Ferronato if I'm interested in hippo-therapy.

"What?"  Blank stare. Inner thought: No, I came for the greasy pizza and Mark.  "What therapy?"

Hippo therapy.  You know, right?  No, I don't know what that is, and I've heard hippos are are violent, so I don't think I'm interested.  (Here's a little Greek lesson.)  Evidently (I was enlightened to learn) "hippopotamus" is greek for "water horse", and "hippo-therapy" is "horse therapy".  Oh, horse therapy.  Ok, I can wrap my head around that, sort of.  I told her I took horseback riding lessons in 6th grade, but that was about all the horse knowledge I had.

I listened intently to her describe (with great passion, I might add) what exactly she does, and I found myself tilting my head and raising an eyebrow when she said she's had chiropractors come out and adjust a human in a horse arena, then adjust the horse - yep, evidently gettin' cracked isn't just for humans! - and then she proceeded to describe this incredibly fascinating process of using hippo-therapy to heal and re-align someone's structural integrity.   Evidently the therapist (like my friend, Mark) will sit behind the "client" in the saddle and "massage" or manipulate their muscles and stretch/re-align them while on the horse.  And they do this with disadvantaged kids.  And they charge $100/hour.  Huh?  Who knew?


I walked out of Papa's with a common and getting-more-familiar feeling that I like to call an "only in Eugene" moment.

When my order came up, and Ferronato asked me again if I was interested in equine massage or hippo therapy, I said "No, I'm thinking more along the lines of prenatal massage...but I'll definitely spread the word about what you're doing!"
So, in keeping my word:

You can check out Ferronato's and Three Treasures Farms at: http://www.threetreasuresfarms.org/bio.php

One Night in Polson

For anyone who has never been to Polson, Montana, I highly recommend a visit.  It's gorgeous.  Rocky Mountains, Flathead Lake, small-town charm, and really good people.

I find it ironic that one of my ugliest (if not THE ugliest) moments happened right smack dab next to one of the most beautiful parts of creation (Flathead Lake - did I mention it's beautiful?) in 2006.  If you read my earlier entry (about my poor neighbors), then consider this my deeply honest and vulnerable follow-up.

For some (or most, maybe?) who read this, it might come as a surprise...and that's exactly why I want to share it.

Because life is not a gymnastics meet.

This memory is personal, and it takes courage for me to share....and yet I am feeling very compelled to do so.  I think this feeling stems from frustration at our society being so full of stigma and judgment for what the rest of us like to call "real life". 

I'll preface by saying that at the time of my "one night in Polson" (that you'll get to read about soon!) I had moved across the country to follow a guy I'd dated only a few months (not Brian), lived with his family, started a new job, moved in with new roommates, and was completely co-dependent... (and even just writing all that makes me laugh in disbelief.)

It was said guy's birthday, Thanksgiving weekend, his sister was visiting from college, his grandmother had been admitted to the hospital....and I was secretly fuming....about a list of things that have nothing to do with birthdays, family or turkey.  And I had no idea it was happening.

And I drank.  A lot.  I drank at Thanksgiving dinner, I drank while playing games after dinner, I drank at the bar we went to after the games after the dinner.  I drank while we played air hockey in the bar............................ and that's ...................................... when .............................................I lost it.  

The air hockey game, that is.

And then my senses.

Losing that air hockey game unwittingly became my window of opportunity to throw the biggest curve ball to said guy that he didn't see coming.  I hurled words at him that I didn't even know I was capable of saying.  Probably every third to fifth word was the f-bomb, my voice was louder than the music, my gestures took up more space than the people next to me probably preferred, and said guy just stood with a look of horror and confusion and quickly pulled me out of the bar (and out of sight from his sister and friends).

And I kept yelling.  And now we were outside.  And in earshot of a cop, evidently, because I remember a police car pulling up and the cop asking us if everything was ok?  I remember simultaneously feeling disconnected from the words coming out of my mouth, and inside saying to myself, "What is happening?!?!?!"  It was absolutely terrifying at the time.  For everyone involved.  Maybe not the cop...

"hmmmmm......"

Anyway, said guy walked me home, put me in the garage bedroom, and went back out to the bar.  Meanwhile, I drunk-dialed Caroline, told her what happened through choking streams of tears, and tried to hold back from vomiting.  In the middle of the night, I had to go to the bathroom and conveniently found that I was locked out of the house....so I had to resort to squatting on the side of the garage ............... peeing ................... in Polson, Montana.

And that's when I knew something was seriously wrong.

Have I mentioned this was my darkest night?

It's been long enough now and life has evolved to the point that I actually can laugh about all this, while still recognizing the serious lessons that it entailed.  [The squatting on the side of the garage always gets Brian :) ]

Why have I shared all this?  Because I heard that same anger in my neighbor's voice this morning.  And it's so easy to judge.  And all I want to do is take her out to coffee, and let her hear some of the most liberating words I've known: "I know, because I've been there."

I want us to do more of this.   Share.  Be real.  Let it all hang out with those we love.

And not be judged, but instead be understood.


...and just for the record, now when I feel like screaming, I try to aim for a pillow instead of the bar :)

Toast & Cupboards

I have a radio crush on this man :)

This morning I heard our neighbors having a fight.  I was sitting at the table, eating my toast, listening to Steven Inskeep talk about something profound (I'm sure) on NPR, when out of nowhere I heard screaming and thumping coming from next door.  I froze.  Dropped my toast, hurried to the radio to turn it off....and anxiously stood, trying not to let my breathing disturb whatever was going on behind the wall.

It was awful.  Screaming....I mean, screaming.  Cupboards slamming.  I could feel the anger behind each pound.  My mind started to race: "Should I call 9-1-1? Should I go over and knock to make sure everything's OK?  Should I pretend I can't hear them? Oh man.  This is not good."  The screaming and the thumping just kept going....

...so I called Brian to see what he would do.  We both decided it at least warranted a trip to the main office of our apartment complex to let them know what was going on and let them decide how to handle it.  So that's what I did.

The rest of the day, I kept thinking about what I heard.  I don't know what their fight was about, but I do know that anger had consumed someone.  I could hear and feel the loss of control and the pain.....the kind of pain that top-of-the-lungs-screaming comes from.  The pain that uninhibited cupboard-slamming (they ain't made of oak in student housing!) comes from.

And I felt for them.  And I remembered...

...one night in Polson.