Day 8 of the Transformation...and thoughts on a book of poetry

I have something weighing heavily on my mind today, so I'll get the chart out of the way.  I fell off the bandwagon on Sunday and it's been difficult getting everything back in order.

Daily Reporting Table

Task	Completed!	Partially Complete	Not completed
Physical/Emotional Goals
2 ½ cups vegetables	X
Caloric intake < 1500/day	X
300 min/week moderate exercise		X
Sleep 8 hours per day			X
Complete a brain exercise daily	X
Clean hands per CDC guidelines		X
Professional Goals
8 hours focused work daily			X
Arrive at work before 8:30 am			X
Wear make-up and fashionable clothes	X
Leave work at work	X
Spiritual Goals
Read scriptures 10 minutes per day	X
Pray on my knees twice daily		X
Meditate 10 minutes daily	X
Parenting Goals
Absolutely no harsh treatment		X
If I say it, I have to do it immediately	X
Family meals (No TV, sitting at table)	X
One-on-one listening time			X
Limit screen time to 2 hrs or less		X
Read for 20 minutes daily	X
In their own beds by 8:30 pm			X
Home/Finance Goals
Stick to a strict budget	X
Clutter-free home	X
Social Goals
Listen more than I talk	X
Speak only positive ideas		X
Call someone on the phone			X

Score: 16/25 = 64%

I won't be offended if you thought "Yikes!"  I was a little surprised by the score.  It's been such a busy week and getting busier.  So... I need to contemplate how to make this all work when I get swamped.

Now on to what I really need to write today:

NPR today featured a poet named M.B. McLatchey who wrote a book of poetry called The Lame God.  Her poems were beautiful and she adequately captured an event about which I am, unfortunately, too keenly aware: the murder of a child.

I won't slam the book because it's beautiful and well-written, but I don't like the title or agree with the experience deciphered in the title poem.  Yet, I recognize that maybe I'm in the minority.

My best friend's sister was murdered in early June when I was 4 years old.  The clearest spiritual memory of my life occurred that awful morning, so maybe that's why God was always my partner on this journey. I was sitting in my sister's room, playing with a toy now long forgotten.  While we played, I felt this amazing stillness descend over the bedroom.  A voice in my head said, "Something horrible has happened. You need to be strong." The stillness disappeared as the doorbell rang.  A few moments later, my mom called out to us in a muffled voice.  I stood, knowing that I was about to hear news that would change my life.

And it did.  As McLatchey describes in her book, the murder of a child is a dirty shrapnel bomb - the shards tear through your existence in painful, irreparable ways.  You are never the same. It's impossible to be the person you were before the murder. A part of you descends into the cold ground along with a person you loved innocently and without fear.  In fact, you never love the same way again - you are too aware of how every relationship and every person holds the power to take you back to that dark place of devastation and despair.

I was strong.  I held my friend's hand.  I listened.  I tried not to feel thrust aside since the victim wasn't my sister, but as I had spent every other weekend with her and countless other hours; my heart loved her as I love my own sister.  But I did whatever I was told.  I tried to contain my own fears and grief whenever I was in the role of best friend.  Only once in all those difficult years post-murder did I ever lose control of my fear in the presence of my friend's family.

Instead, I depended on my own family and God.  At age 4, I had to confront the hardest, most complex question of spirituality: why did God let this horrible thing happen to us?  Where were his legions of angels? Why didn't he make that bullet rebound off the glass and kill the murderer?  I was taught early to pray about these questions, and I did.  I spent hours on my knees.

No voice ever answered, but every time I fell to my knees, the memory of that peaceful stillness on the horrible day would be back in my mind.  I didn't have answers, but I was never alone.  Later, God would begin to teach me the answers.  First, He let me get through the emotions and learn to be resilient by always being present whenever I needed comfort.  He listened to every fervent prayer (especially at night when my terror seems almost overwhelming to this day and despite years of therapy - some things, when they happen to you very young, just don't get undone in the brain).. Then, He taught me the doctrine. 

I suppose maybe I would believe in a "lame God" if I weren't Mormon.  We are an exceptionally practical faith.  We don't believe in magical tortillas (my apologies to the many faithful Catholics for whom this is a talisman) or even a magical God.  We believe in a God who exists to see us through the tests of mortality.  We believe in a God who honors human choice and who withholds justice until he has sure proof of our devilishness.  We believe in a God who champions human progress.

Mormons believe that God was very aware what pains would exist in this world when He created it.  We don't believe that The Fall of Adam created this paradoxical world where God elects not to save us while He, I assume, plays a game of planetary golf.  We believe that He created a world where humans would have a bevy of choices and then He set a plan in motion where we would experience justice based on the choices we made.  There is no lack of fairness.  We make choices and we are rewarded or bear consequences based on those choices.  For those of us who are victims, He sent Christ to this world to come to a complete understanding of our pain (you may remember He was murdered and had loved ones murdered) so that Christ can comfort us, give us strength to overcome, and help us to make something lovely out of the ugliness that comes when evil enters our world.

So, you see, there was no magic to save my friend's sister.  Had God intervened, justice could never have been doled out.  I know it's hollow comfort (please don't tell me that in comments - I've had 33 years to deal with this painful experience, I don't need anyone spouting philosophical ignorance.), but it's true.  A micro-managing God eliminates human choice.  He just shows up to put everything right.  We would forever be little more than pawns in His immortal game of Barbies.

I give my mom credit for teaching me who God is when it comes to bad guys.  On one of our (I'm sure it felt) endless trips to Idaho Falls where I wanted to talk about the murder, I asked her (for the millionth time) why God didn't save my friend.  My mom said to me, "Honey, what if He had?  What if He had struck the bad guy down at the crucial moment?  How could He judge Him?  Couldn't the bad guy wake up in Heaven and say, "Hey, man, I wasn't going to do anything. I was just going to scare her!"  In order for God to know who we are, He has to watch the entire scenario play out.  Now God knows that Amy's killer is a killer.  I'm sure God tried to convince Him otherwise, but you are pretty far gone when you take a life.  I doubt He was listening to the Spirit at that point."

Most people want God to be a vending machine.  They say a little prayer to be safe or to win the lottery.  When the vending machine fails to respond, they kick the machine and move on to the next quick fix.  Prayer is relatively meaningless in this way.  It's the I'm whipped prayers that get results. The results aren't amazing turns of fortune: they are quiet comfort to an exhausted heart, an infusion of much-needed energy, or a little piece of inspiration that resolves a problem.

I think the vending machine problem speaks to another problem: people want to believe in God but not the afterlife.  If you have no belief in a world where God reigns, then this world does seem like an unjust pile of excrement.  Good people play victim to bad people.  Greed wins over charity. So, I think people pray to the vending machine hoping that He will make heaven on earth.  However, it's the fact that God knows that death is hard on the living and not the dead that also makes Him not need to rush in to save the day.

I learned this lesson on another very spiritual day.  At the urging of a therapist, I went to a river to "say goodbye" to my friend.  I was a freshman in college.  Living away from my family had led to a resurgence of grief and fear.  So, I went to perform the therapist's prescribed ceremony.  I took a picture of my friend and I cried for hours.  When I was finally at a quiet place, I felt that usual spiritual feeling descend.  While I'm not sure who or what or if anyone was there, I felt a presence.  In my mind, I heard my friend's sweet voice say, "You know I'm okay, right? I'm not suffering. For me, it was a moment of pain and now I'm happy."  Maybe I was just comforting myself, but I took my biggest step forward in no longer carrying this burden every day.  I realized that my sweet, wonderful friend was not a victim for eternity.  She was one of the best people who had ever lived.  She was okay and it was time for me to be okay, too.

The last spiritual insight the awful experience of my friend's murder taught me came during the trial of her murderer.  I wanted him to be evil incarnate.  I sat in a court room praying for him to be sent to jail.  However, as I prayed, the opposite feeling started to come over me.  The familiar voice that I equate with Christ was in my mind.  "He is so sick," I heard it say.  For years, I was angry at the swell of compassion, but as I've learned more about mental illness, I understand more of Christ's infinite compassion.

John Walsh said, "It's not about closure, it's about justice."  I understand his desire, but standing on the far end of justice, I realize that once a murder has occurred, tragedy is the only bedfellow.  Everything associated with my friend's death is a tragedy.  Every life has suffered and the death of a mentally ill man would only add tragedy.  Her murderer is now dead, though at the hands of God after a stroke rather than the injection of man.  In the wake of evil is only tragedy.  Murder is simply tragedy and only the Atonement of Christ can ever heal the hearts beaten down by such an event.

I think I felt I needed to write this post so that the world can stumble upon the reality that not everyone who experiences great tragedy rants and rails at the heavens for being unjust.  For some of us, it's the beginning of a lifelong journey to know God.  I have no doubt that God tries to intervene in the ways He uses: He tries to teach, console, and get us to help each other.  But once a person makes a decision to walk an evil path, He will let it play out and merely help us to mop up the mess.  In the end, while it's painful, it's a better choice and I love Him for it (even though it does nothing to quell my night terrors, but that's what prayer is for).

However, Father, if you decide to be that vending machine one day, I would really LOVE a Prius, a trip to Italy, and a few million dollars.  And a baby girl.  And maybe a tame lion as a pet.  That would be really awesome.

Book Review: Hippie Girl (and my failed first day of my experiment)

Well - day 1. Ha. Ha.  I think I violated ALL 25 of the recommendations. I have this troublesome cold, my husband was sent on the road prematurely (less than 24 hours at home is not enough of a break for him or me) unexpectedly and my children were super-cranky.  So, I'm forgiving myself and waiting until Wednesday to start my 40 days.

In the meantime, I decided to read a book (which I didn't like, so reader beware).

 

I heard this author, Ingrid Ricks, speak on UPR (Utah Public Radio).  She was very kind-sounding, so I wanted to give her memoir a try.  I make an effort to keep an open mind and to explore my religion from every angle.  In the end, though, I found that this book has become popular for exactly the reason I suspected: loosely-veiled anti-religion rhetoric.

I really struggled with one aspect of this book in its entirety. The author paints a horrible picture of her mother.  In the interview, she repeated multiple times how much she loved her mom, but, in the book, we see a woman who may as well be hitting her daughter with wire hangers and talking about her "dirty pillows." (Pop culture references courtesty of Mommy Dearest and Sybil. If you want to see a one-sided and somewhat cruel representation of a mother, I highly recommend these two camp classics).

Her mother is villainized for getting into a bad relationship and permitting that relationship to impact the daughter.  It's pointed out several times that the mother is a poor immigrant. All of these unfortunate circumstances are blamed on "Mormon beliefs."  This was my first frustration.  Having worked with low income people for many years, I can tell you that abuse, bad relationships, and a misunderstanding of how to raise children is not exclusive to a Mormon upbringing.  However, the author neglects to mention this. It's just blah-blah-blah Mormons are evil.  

Even on NPR, it was brought up that her mom "made her pray 7 times per day."  I decided to add up how often I pray with my children.  We pray in the morning, at each meal and before bed.  Well, that's 5.  Apparently, I'm 2 prayers away from religious zealoutry and child abuse. Yay me (insert sarcastic tone of voice).  This was my 2nd issue with the book: the mother's attempts to share with her child the things of her heart are painted so ugly.  I know the mom made a huge mistake by marrying a jerk (But seriously? A homeless vet with previous ex-wives? When you add together mom's current choices with the much-lauded but totally dysfunctional ex-husband, you realize that this woman struggled to find love.  She likely had very little self-value.  It wouldn't have mattered where she lived, or what religion she hailed, she would likely have made poor romantic choices.), the mom tries to do things right,too.  

I feel that being a parent is so ridiculously impossible and this book illustrates that reality.  This mother tried to teach her daughter to pray and now she has to endure a NYT bestseller telling the whole world how "unbearable" her attempts were.  As parents, are we not allowed to share ourselves with our children?  Can we not tell them what matters to us because maybe in the future they will make different choices and be mad at us for trying to be authentic to who WE are?  This is just another example of what impossible expectations we have as a culture for our parents.  I suppose I should tell you, I had my boys say their prayers last night on grains of rice while I beat them repeatedly and called out demons.  After all, if you're going to paint me as a religious zealot and abusive parent, then I want it to be accurate. (I am kidding.  The worst thing that happened to my boys last night is that I yelled at them for dawdling on their way to bed.  My son did tell me I hurt his feelings, so I imagine I've destroyed him forever by not being some whacked-out perfect version of a grown-up Polyanna. Maybe I'll demand some royalties if I'm forced to listen to him blather on about how my very best in somewhat trying circumstances and given my status as an imperfect human being has so completely failed him.)

I won't belittle my 2rd point: the family's complete non-adherence to the actual faith as it's taught and commanded.  I don't want to add to the mother's burden (Oh my. I just want to give that woman a hug and help her to figure out what makes a good man).  My only beef is that the author is a journalist. By trade, she should know to do her research and to be clear when individual experience deviates from general experience.  But that doesn't tend to sell anti-Mormon books very well. (Oops - I violated my "Don't be so sensitive and bitchy" New Years' Resolution.)

So... if you already hate Mormons and think religion is just oppressive wishwash, you will LOVE this book.  For the rest of us who have grown up enough to realize that individual people are never perfect representations of an ideal and that mothers deserve compassion not criticism, you will likely find this book very disappointing.

A word about sacred things

Sacred.

It's a word that should be respected even if it's not understood. I don't get why Hindus find cows sacred but I respect that it is sacred to them. They don't need my endorsement but they do need my respect. And when they vote against me eating cows in their establishments, I don't carry signs calling them discriminators or haters. I respect that, despite the fact that I find cattle to be cud-chewing and foul creatures, cows are sacred to Hindus.

So, when thousands of celebs descend upon my sacred places, including marriage - that ever-elusive but long-held dream of mind - I get offended. Just as the Hindus would if I ate a hamburger in a Hindu temple.

Because sacred is what it is. Sacred.

I've called and written all my congresspeople to call for what I believe the true compromise in the marriage debate. There should be no "marriage" benefit. The constitution should be changed so that there is no political need for marriage, all would be accomplished in a civil union or domestic partnership - because, in the end, that's what this is...my sacred is just another tax benefit.

And I want that hamburger out of my temple.

My favorite thing about faith...

How God pops in at just the right moment to let you know that you're being a little bit precipitous...the quote that arrived in my in-box from a Listserve I use:

"At . . . moments of crisis and challenge, some choose to abandon faith just at the time when it most needs to be embraced. Prayer is ignored at the very hour when it needs to be intensified. Virtue is carelessly tossed aside when it needs to be cherished. God is forsaken in the all-too-human yet mistaken fear that He has forsaken us."

(David S. Baxter, "Faith, Service, Constancy," Ensign, Nov. 2006, 14)

A few weeks ago, a dear friend shared with me some very difficult truths of her own. As I listened to the LDS General Conference, I heard the answer to every one of her questions and the comfort sent for her heartbreak - and I longed to show her that God loved her and had sent many different people to share His message. I didn't pass the message along, however. Hard, long experience has taught me that people who have chosen to turn away value their own opinion far above God's tenderest attempts to calm their troubled hearts and will believe anything except the very idea except the ones He would teach.

In that vein of thought, though, I recognize my own easily swayed heart. I thank God tonight for sending my answer to so many upsetting ponderings via an email and a TV left on for noise while I did homework. He is so good to us all and I am grateful to have Him near me tonight.