Where have you seen Jesus lately?

So this morning the news tells me that four cops were shot in my area. News also says some lady discovered Jesus on the face of her iron. So we've seen Jesus in a cheese sandwich, in a rock, on the bathroom wall, and now in an iron. In the first place, why is this "news" on the same page as four policemen being slaughtered while sipping morning coffee? Second, if Jesus is going to appear, why is it going to be on this woman's appliances, or that guy's cheese sandwich? I wonder how much she's going to sell it for on e-bay. I'll tell you something - I see Jesus every day. I see it in my kids faces when we're talking and laughing. I see it in the kindness of strangers and neighbors alike. I see it in the miracle of a happy marriage 16 years in. And I see it in the support of a community for the unfortunate family members of the brutal and meaningless crime against those who serve us daily far beyond the worth of their paycheck.

The miracle is not in your starch stain, sister, it is in the good that you do and is done for you every single day despite the challenges we face. The knowlege that our Savior lives and knows us and loves us is what inspires us to live as He lived, and that, my friends, is what matters. Now go clean your iron before you stain your husband's Sunday service shirt.

Danger: Withdrawal

I recently asked clients to demonstrate what they do when they fight by having them stand in two separate corners of my office. They had shared with me that typically they don't talk, they simply have a silent stand off. I asked them to each take a corner, and wait a few.

So they stood. And stood, and stood. No peep, no comment, nothing. For 1/3 of the session they stood. Finally after 20 minutes of zero movement and utter silence (I was reading a magazine, btw) she turned around and said "has it been five minutes yet?"

I did a little dance, because in their relationship she is never the one to break silence first, he is. For some reason, today, she felt safe enough to do something differently. I pointed this out, and also reminded them how much money they'd just spent in their silent spaces.

It was a waste of their money, I suggested. For some reason, money talks. The next week, they returned and reported that when they had fought that week, that when she retreated, she remembered the therapy experience and broke the silence much earlier.

I'll talk later about this phenomenon we call "withdrawal." It is, incidentally, the most dangerous seat at the table of marriage.

Sharing is Caring

A week ago, I had a garage sale. Or, should I say, a week ago I was violated. It goes something like this:

"Hey, whatddya want for that stove there in the back of your garage?" (not displayed for sale).

"Oh, gee, I don't know. I haven't even cleaned it yet to sell. I guess, I dont' know, 50 bucks?"

"How about $15"

Sigh. "Whatever. Take it."

All in all, I cleared maybe $70. That's two days worth of listening to "will you take" - I figure the government owes me something for pain and suffering. After all, I put out some good junk. Real good junk! Quality junk. I shoulda made at least $150.

So this weekend, I loaded up the car with all the leftover quality junk and took it to the Salvation Army drop off station. Of course, I have to leave the kids out of the loop because if they're not gonna make money, they wanna keep the junk. And once the junk's in the garage, I wanna get rid of it. So off it goes, kids none the wiser. But even I'm thinking, as I'm loading up the car, this here's some good quality junk.

So I pull up to the drop off, with this strange feeling like I'm gonna make this guy's day. Here I am, going through all this effort, to give him - just hand him - quality junk. I'm not going to charge him, I'm not going to haggle with him, I'm just going to GIVE him all. this. stuff. This is how I imagine it's going to go:

Maam, are you SURE you want to just give this stuff to me? This here is some Quality Junk.

Go ahead, son, take it. It's yours.

But why me? What makes me so special? (choking back emotion)

I look at my Q.J., wondering if I'm making a mistake. Then I'm overcome with the gift of donation and say "take it. Just take it." He runs to write a tax receipt, insisting it's the least he can offer in return. We hug, and I drive away, treating myself to a milkshake from Burger King for a job well done......

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Reality is often times a rude smack in the jaw. Dude at the drop off post was nearly irritated to be burdened with so much Quality Junk. I almost felt bad, handing him my Q.J. Go figure. It took me a solid 3 minutes to unload, thoughtfully organizing the Q.J. in bins so that Dude wouldn't be too put out....I hated to bother him with my receipt request, but come on, I gotta be able to at the very least write this stuff off - you'd have thought I'd requested a urine sample(Sigh.) With much pomp and circumstance he grants me my receipt and I tiptoe away. Don't want to upset the delicate balance....

At least I have less quality junk at my house. I feel lighter, some how - if not seriously violated.

Sorry

To any Los Angeles travelers who may have been flight delayed on Monday after 1:30 -

That single, black and blue backpack left unattended held no dangerous fluids or objects, other than skivs with possible skids.

Cameron boarded the plane quite comfortably, thank you, and was not crowded by intrusive baggage under the seat in front of him.

And no, I'm not buying him new clothes to replace the backpack full of clothes he left in terminal 33c.

The Psychology of Pants

Our washing machine has been broken for 5 weeks, so yesterday we took yet another trip the the laundromat. Actually, my husband dropped the kids and me off at the mall while he went to the laundromat (I shouldn't take credit for that, should I?). The weekend before most schools in the area were to start....you know it's going to be crowded at the mall.

So if you want to be schooled in the art of modern fashion, go to the mall. You'll get your education. Used to be that girls were the ones who fussed over "what to wear today" - but clearly, there's a movement on the rise for boys' pants not to be. On the rise, I mean.

Okay so granted, with the rap movement came low riders, I get it. But folks, we have moved on to a whole new statement - the boys are now donning Colored Straight Leg Very Tight Jeans (red, green, puce, etc) Cinched Around Just Below The Butt Cheek Line With A Phat Belt, With The Bottom Of The Shirt Just above the Bootie Crack with (thank goodness) Boxers In The Middle.

Yes, folks. We're getting to the bottom of things, and it's not pretty.

I offered my kids a $20 to approach any butt baring bad boy and whisper to them that we can see their bottoms. Now mind you my kids are money hungry, and will sit out on a street corner for an entire Saturday selling (or not selling, as it were) soda crackers and fruit punch, but they refused my generous offer. I asked them what they would give me if I would drop my pants around my ankles and approach said pack of boys and ask them 'whazzup.' My children started to cry.

All I gotta say is, if I ever see my kids' underwear it had better be at the laundromat. Not at the mall.

Organize This

Yesterday I went over to a friend's home to help her clean - she's "supposed" to be taking it easy after surgery. How depressing is it to clean someone's house that is cleaner than yours on a "good" day? My job was to vacuum, which took me upstairs to the master bedroom. I nearly passed out at the sight of the closet - clothes organized and hanging in groups of color. Ten black shirts, followed by ten red shirts, followed by ten cream colored shirts - you get the picture. Fast forward to night time as I'm taking off my day's accoutrements and tossing them on the top of the pile on the floor. Definitely not alphabetized.

I'm inspired now, though - so I dump out my top drawer in the bathroom and replace the shelf paper with clean, fresh, new, bright shelf paper. Ahhh. All is well, only 25 more to go. I think I'll update my blog instead.

I was crazy once. Maybe more than once, but this "once" I cannot be in denial for it. My excuse is that someone else made me crazy, so I'm not really all that worried about it.

I was 8 months pregnant (ooooh, you say. Say no more.) Grocery shopping, minding my own business. There, shadow shopping in the fresh foods, was an elderly man and a young boy about the tender age of 7. (Mind you, I was expecting a boy. Ooooh, you say.) I couldn't help but overhear this older man chiding the boy for this and that, and before long it escalated into threats - "Dont touch that cart or you'll get the belt when we get home!" Stuff like that. Enough insanity to welcome stares from other concerned shoppers. Poor kid looked defeated and small - but not so much so that he wouldn't offer to run and get a box of crackers - "go ahead, get." was grumpy old man's reply.

Problem was, the child returned with the "wrong" box of crackers, and if he didn't catch it good for that mistake. Old man ranted and raved, again threatening the belt. Didn't the boy know those were too expensive, and what was he thinking? By this time, people were starting to chatter amongst themselves, and I'd heard ABOUT enough. I followed after that man headed for the frozen foods, with a clear agenda but no plan (dangerous combination). By the time I turned the corner with my cart 5 feet in front of me (big belly) - I could hear this guy hollering at the boy, "Are you dumb? are you dumb?"

It was like slow motion, these words coming out of my mouth in a half crazed shriek of mother bear like proportions: "DON'T you ever call him DUMB, AGAIN!"

The old guy flipped around, marched up to my face (belly in between us) and breathed, "what in the hell did you just say to me?" In a less confident but equally justified voice I said, "Don't you call him dumb again."

He hissed back at me, "I 'said', are you done. Not dumb, done." Then he turned on his heels and returned to his own cart and a very stunned little boy.

"Clean up in the frozen foods." I was a complete blubbering mess.

No doubt my little crazed display resulted in an extra switch with the belt, for humiliation of confrontation. My only comfort is that maybe that boy saw something in this crazy lady that told him his grandfather was waaaay out of line, and perhaps someday when he's big he can kick his grandpa's arse.

I recently went to a conference on personality disorders and how to diagnose them. The nutshell version was effective enough. Someone who acts crazy is schizoprhenic. Someone who makes YOU feel crazy has a personality disorder.

I shouldn't have yelled at the guy - I should have given him my card.

Time Machine

 I recently delt with a couple who struggle with an old issue - one that remained untouched for years.  20 years, actually - and one partner did not realize the extent to which the other had been struggling all along.  The oblivious partner was the one who had offended, the hurt partner was left to resolve it alone yet never was able to.

Why do people carry burdons for so long?  Is it because they don't have the skills to work it out?Is it because they have no hope for change?   Or do people just get so accustomed to their pain that they don't realize the impact it has on their lives?  

I believe that people get confused about the concept of forgiveness.  They believe they must "move on" - pack their emotional baggage into the uhaul and park it outside the new place, and never unload it.  This way no one has to look at it.  But....it's still there, isn't it? Rusting in the drive.  

Work often imitates life in my line of business.  I have issues from college I never truly addressed - mostly because the hurtful parties disappeared from my life.  Janis Abrahms Spring addresses resolve in this way:  When the hurtful party is not present to aid in healing the pain, true forgiveness is in fact not possible.  The next best thing for mental health is acceptance - she then lists the steps toward that end.  

I have not thought about college for a very long time, and at times when I have it has been fleeting.  This week I "reunited" with my best friend from childhood, via Facebook of course (everyone else is doing it), and she brought up all sorts of questions that stirred up my uhaul.  In fact, the door busted wide open and now all the ugly monsters are banging on my door.  The "offenders" are no where to be found (not even on Facebook, I tried that).  So as a faithful follower of Spring I turn to" Acceptance" as opposed to "Forgiveness", which if I were to try could only result in the less appealing and problem loaded "Cheap Forgiveness."  

Problem is, I don't wanna.  Not right now, anyway.  I don't want to accept, because my anger feels too good.  It is soothing, and protecting me.  I feel justified in my anger.  Maybe later.  Maybe later I'll consider "Acceptance".  For now, I embrace "No Forgiveness" - even though I teach my clients on a daily basis that "No Forgiveness" bleeds into other areas of life, and causes havoc - 

But I bet even dentists get cavities sometimes.