Monday, October 22, 2007
That's bogus!
Sometimes, if you listen with your non-parental ears, you catch your kids saying some insightful and important, if not downright, profound things. In this case, it’s 14-year-old Logan’s new favorite phrase, retort, complaint, commentary, epithet, challenge and insult: “That’s bogus!”
To my dad ears, that’s lazy diction at best and sass at worst. I hear it more than I figure is my fair share, usually when I’ve asked him to do a chore, caught him in a word-mincing half-truth, or just demanded 20 pushups as a consequence for disrespecting his mother.
But to my armchair philosopher ears (all men over 40 become philosophers of a sort, don’t we?), there’s something in his “That’s bogus!” that rings true. Although Logan frequently uses “bogus” when he means “unfair” and “displeasing,” it actually means “artificial, phony, fake, false." Bogus.
And as a terse cry of protest against the world he’s growing up in, “That’s bogus!” is especially apt. There is little in his world that is worthy of his trust – few people and even fewer institutions. This bogacity (no that’s not a word, but it should be) extends from the trivial to the sacred, touching most everything in between along the way.
The trivial: Last week, in his football game in another town, the home-field referee measured to see whether the home team had achieved a first down. The ball was placed near to our side of the field, and those of us on the sideline were only a few feet away and we could clearly see that the home team had fallen short by a few inches. The referee then took hold of the yard marker and pulled it backward, so that it touched the nose of the ball, and then signaled the that home team had, in fact, achieved a first down. Player and parents alike stood dumbfounded at the boldfaced dishonesty. We roared our disapproval, but we might better have shouted “That’s bogus!”
A friend of mine who is a referee for kids’ soccer in our area tells me that being dishonest is encouraged among players of high school age. “The kids get the clear message,” he told me: “If you ain’t cheatin’ you ain’t tryin’.” That’s bogus.
The trivial: When the Coca Cola company wanted to increase sales of its soft drink, it spent thousands of dollars researching what one word had the most appeal among American adolescents. The word, the researchers found, was “real.” So Coca Cola became the “real thing” in one of the most ironic marketing pitches in the history of bogacity: a drink that has absolutely nothing to do with anything real is sold as the source of all that is real. That’s bogus and sad.
The profound: Think for a moment, how many politicians, priests or preachers do you feel you can trust? The kids know more than we’d like to assume about the liars, cheats and fakes of our grownup world. They hear enough of the news to get a good sense of the crisis of integrity we’re suffering in our churches, our government, our business and industry, our news media and social commentary, and our entertainment. (I’ll bet it takes you less than 60 seconds to name a bogus person, product, action or event in each of those categories.)
As a people, as a culture, as a nation, we are bathed in bogacity. You do it, I do it, we all do it – at least a little. Some of us do it a heck of a lot. We do it for a lot of reasons, too, but they all seem to boil down to one: to detach from our real selves and to create a “better” image of ourselves. Besides, honestly being ourselves puts us at risk for rejection and pain, and vulnerability isn’t cool in our culture. It’s considered week, immature, even worthy of ridicule. That’s bogus.
So we lie. We create a present a false image of ourselves that is always in control, always together and “all that.” It’s bogus.
Most of the anxiety we feel in our lives has to do with the poor fit between that image and who we really are, and the less they fit, the more danger we’re in. Damage is soon to follow in both our inner lives (emotional, psychological, physical) and our outer lives (friends, family, work). That’s bogus and dumb.
Maybe, for our sakes and theirs, we American dads and moms should come clean. Maybe we should not only "let" them see the real us, without the masks, maybe we should insist on it. For the love of Pete, some part of their world has to be genuine, and family life is the best choice, partly because it will have the most effect on their lives and partly because it’s really the only thing we can control.
Outside your arms, outside your door, the youthful protest is on the mark: Bogus!
Sometimes, if you listen with your non-parental ears, you catch your kids saying some insightful and important, if not downright, profound things. In this case, it’s 14-year-old Logan’s new favorite phrase, retort, complaint, commentary, epithet, challenge and insult: “That’s bogus!”
To my dad ears, that’s lazy diction at best and sass at worst. I hear it more than I figure is my fair share, usually when I’ve asked him to do a chore, caught him in a word-mincing half-truth, or just demanded 20 pushups as a consequence for disrespecting his mother.
But to my armchair philosopher ears (all men over 40 become philosophers of a sort, don’t we?), there’s something in his “That’s bogus!” that rings true. Although Logan frequently uses “bogus” when he means “unfair” and “displeasing,” it actually means “artificial, phony, fake, false." Bogus.
And as a terse cry of protest against the world he’s growing up in, “That’s bogus!” is especially apt. There is little in his world that is worthy of his trust – few people and even fewer institutions. This bogacity (no that’s not a word, but it should be) extends from the trivial to the sacred, touching most everything in between along the way.
The trivial: Last week, in his football game in another town, the home-field referee measured to see whether the home team had achieved a first down. The ball was placed near to our side of the field, and those of us on the sideline were only a few feet away and we could clearly see that the home team had fallen short by a few inches. The referee then took hold of the yard marker and pulled it backward, so that it touched the nose of the ball, and then signaled the that home team had, in fact, achieved a first down. Player and parents alike stood dumbfounded at the boldfaced dishonesty. We roared our disapproval, but we might better have shouted “That’s bogus!”
A friend of mine who is a referee for kids’ soccer in our area tells me that being dishonest is encouraged among players of high school age. “The kids get the clear message,” he told me: “If you ain’t cheatin’ you ain’t tryin’.” That’s bogus.
The trivial: When the Coca Cola company wanted to increase sales of its soft drink, it spent thousands of dollars researching what one word had the most appeal among American adolescents. The word, the researchers found, was “real.” So Coca Cola became the “real thing” in one of the most ironic marketing pitches in the history of bogacity: a drink that has absolutely nothing to do with anything real is sold as the source of all that is real. That’s bogus and sad.
The profound: Think for a moment, how many politicians, priests or preachers do you feel you can trust? The kids know more than we’d like to assume about the liars, cheats and fakes of our grownup world. They hear enough of the news to get a good sense of the crisis of integrity we’re suffering in our churches, our government, our business and industry, our news media and social commentary, and our entertainment. (I’ll bet it takes you less than 60 seconds to name a bogus person, product, action or event in each of those categories.)
As a people, as a culture, as a nation, we are bathed in bogacity. You do it, I do it, we all do it – at least a little. Some of us do it a heck of a lot. We do it for a lot of reasons, too, but they all seem to boil down to one: to detach from our real selves and to create a “better” image of ourselves. Besides, honestly being ourselves puts us at risk for rejection and pain, and vulnerability isn’t cool in our culture. It’s considered week, immature, even worthy of ridicule. That’s bogus.
So we lie. We create a present a false image of ourselves that is always in control, always together and “all that.” It’s bogus.
Most of the anxiety we feel in our lives has to do with the poor fit between that image and who we really are, and the less they fit, the more danger we’re in. Damage is soon to follow in both our inner lives (emotional, psychological, physical) and our outer lives (friends, family, work). That’s bogus and dumb.
Maybe, for our sakes and theirs, we American dads and moms should come clean. Maybe we should not only "let" them see the real us, without the masks, maybe we should insist on it. For the love of Pete, some part of their world has to be genuine, and family life is the best choice, partly because it will have the most effect on their lives and partly because it’s really the only thing we can control.
Outside your arms, outside your door, the youthful protest is on the mark: Bogus!
Labels: Logan
Thursday, July 05, 2007
Raising responsible citizens -- patriots
We celebrated the 4th, yesterday, in our traditional way: Rhonda organized the neighborhood parade – this year with both a firetruck and a squad car! -- and picnic, complete with goody bags, games, prizes and pinatas for the little ones and great food and great conversation for us older ones. The kids decorated their bikes and rode in the parade, then decorated themselves with patriotic wash-off tatoos at the picnic. After sunset, the neighbors gathered with lawn chairs to watch fireworks. The feeling of kinship among the neighbors and the feeling of celebration in all out events are things I’m happy my children are experiencing, because I think it will help make patriots of them.
As I had that thought, watching the kids play in the grass as the fireworks lit up the sky, a fear crept over me. I have a fear that growing up in this particular phase of our nation’s history will leave them confused over what it means to be patriotic. Grownups all around them, some very visible, some leading our nation, are confusing nationalism with patriotism, and it’s got to be tough for a kid to sort it out.
In my book, patriotism is a great and beautiful thing; nationalism is a bad and ugly thing.
Patriots are proud of their country for the ideals to which it aspires, the values it holds dear and the good that it does – which leads to a feeling of responsibility, both for what we do and who we are today and for what we want to do and be tomorrow
Nationalists are proud no matter what the country does, which leads to simple, stupid, blind arrogance. Nationalists are obsessed with have their nation be “greater” than all other nations, even if it means lying to themselves and others, even if it means imposing their will on other nations through violence or the threat of violence. Just as love for one individual which excludes the love for others is not love, love for one’s country which is not part of one’s love for humanity is not love, but idolatrous worship.
Patriotism is a consistent dedication of a lifetime and a steady part of our daily lives. A patriot has a sense of: I am – we are – responsible for what we are, as a nation, right now. Pride for the good and the shame for the bad are both mine. I am – we are -- responsible for living up to the things we say we’re all about. It’s my job to help my nation be the best it can be, to get closer to the ideals spelled out by the Founding Fathers in the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution.
Put into parenting terms: patriots are like the parents who recognize the good and the bad in their children and who work hard, every day, to help them grow up to be the best men and women they can be; nationalists are like the parents who can see no wrong in their kids, who coddle them, spoil them, make excuses for them and fail to nurture them. Once again, it comes down to responsibility. Good parents and patriots take responsibility, bad parents and nationalists do not.
A quick aside: I’d like my kids to understand that when we say we’re loyal to the flag, what we really mean is that we’re loyal to the goals and values laid out in the Constitution. The flag is a symbol, a short-cut way of saying a lot of profoundly important things. What’s important is the meaning we hold in our hearts and minds when we fly the flag, not the piece of cloth itself. Event the pledge of allegiance uses the shorthand: We’re not pledging our allegiance to the piece of cloth, but to the ideals represented by the cloth and our fellow citizens who share those ideals. People get confused about that, too.
We can use the “responsibility” test to separate good patriotism from bad nationalism. When our nation does something beneath our ideals, a patriot considers it a duty to speak up. When the patriot speaks up, the nationalist will say something like “Why are you tearing down your country? Why don’t you talk about this bad thing another country did?” The answer is: “I’m not responsible for that other country. I’m responsible for my country.” Nationalists don’t get that. I hope my kids will.
We celebrated the 4th, yesterday, in our traditional way: Rhonda organized the neighborhood parade – this year with both a firetruck and a squad car! -- and picnic, complete with goody bags, games, prizes and pinatas for the little ones and great food and great conversation for us older ones. The kids decorated their bikes and rode in the parade, then decorated themselves with patriotic wash-off tatoos at the picnic. After sunset, the neighbors gathered with lawn chairs to watch fireworks. The feeling of kinship among the neighbors and the feeling of celebration in all out events are things I’m happy my children are experiencing, because I think it will help make patriots of them.
As I had that thought, watching the kids play in the grass as the fireworks lit up the sky, a fear crept over me. I have a fear that growing up in this particular phase of our nation’s history will leave them confused over what it means to be patriotic. Grownups all around them, some very visible, some leading our nation, are confusing nationalism with patriotism, and it’s got to be tough for a kid to sort it out.
In my book, patriotism is a great and beautiful thing; nationalism is a bad and ugly thing.
Patriots are proud of their country for the ideals to which it aspires, the values it holds dear and the good that it does – which leads to a feeling of responsibility, both for what we do and who we are today and for what we want to do and be tomorrow
Nationalists are proud no matter what the country does, which leads to simple, stupid, blind arrogance. Nationalists are obsessed with have their nation be “greater” than all other nations, even if it means lying to themselves and others, even if it means imposing their will on other nations through violence or the threat of violence. Just as love for one individual which excludes the love for others is not love, love for one’s country which is not part of one’s love for humanity is not love, but idolatrous worship.
Patriotism is a consistent dedication of a lifetime and a steady part of our daily lives. A patriot has a sense of: I am – we are – responsible for what we are, as a nation, right now. Pride for the good and the shame for the bad are both mine. I am – we are -- responsible for living up to the things we say we’re all about. It’s my job to help my nation be the best it can be, to get closer to the ideals spelled out by the Founding Fathers in the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution.
Put into parenting terms: patriots are like the parents who recognize the good and the bad in their children and who work hard, every day, to help them grow up to be the best men and women they can be; nationalists are like the parents who can see no wrong in their kids, who coddle them, spoil them, make excuses for them and fail to nurture them. Once again, it comes down to responsibility. Good parents and patriots take responsibility, bad parents and nationalists do not.
A quick aside: I’d like my kids to understand that when we say we’re loyal to the flag, what we really mean is that we’re loyal to the goals and values laid out in the Constitution. The flag is a symbol, a short-cut way of saying a lot of profoundly important things. What’s important is the meaning we hold in our hearts and minds when we fly the flag, not the piece of cloth itself. Event the pledge of allegiance uses the shorthand: We’re not pledging our allegiance to the piece of cloth, but to the ideals represented by the cloth and our fellow citizens who share those ideals. People get confused about that, too.
We can use the “responsibility” test to separate good patriotism from bad nationalism. When our nation does something beneath our ideals, a patriot considers it a duty to speak up. When the patriot speaks up, the nationalist will say something like “Why are you tearing down your country? Why don’t you talk about this bad thing another country did?” The answer is: “I’m not responsible for that other country. I’m responsible for my country.” Nationalists don’t get that. I hope my kids will.
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
A glimpse into the mind of a 6-year-old
At 6 years old, Maya isn’t just fascinating to watch, as she figures out how to navigate the world around her, she’s also a source of prime entertainment and unexpected wisdom.
In a written report on what she did in kindergarten the preceding week, Maya wrote: Wednesday “We had ches pesu and aplles and pars and vechtbls. It was dlishish.” (Translation: We had cheese pizza and apples and pears and vegetables. It was delicious.)
She was discussing, not long ago, the boys in her kindergarten class. One of her siblings asked her, teasingly, whether she “liked” any of them. She considered the question for a moment, then offered that she did find a boy named Brandon attractive. He’s cute, she said, And nice. And smart. “But,” she added, “he always has boogers coming out of his nose.”
Ah, the pitfalls of kindergarten romance.
Maya wrote: Thursday “We had computer lab. I did freech ous. I did kid pix.” (Translation: I did free choice. I did kid picks.)
As she was settling into bed one night, she suddenly asked Rhonda, “Mom, if you had a restaurant, wouldn’t you just give the food to people who are hungry and poor?” Rhonda said, yes, she would. Maya added “I know that certainly Dad would.” Lots to love there: compassion for the needy; simple, direct problem solving; contemplation of serious issues far beyond her years; a rather sophisticated vocabulary; and a flattering perception of her father’s goodness.
I can live that.
Maya wrote: Friday “We had sign languaga. We lrmd hw to say slide. You pat 1 hand down ven you pat 2 fingrs on top of your athr hand and ven you got a slid in sign languaga.” (Translation: We had sign language. We learned how to say “slide.” You put one hand down. Then you put two fingers on top of your other hand. And then you got a “slide” in sign language.)
She’s learning to read and loving it. One day, as she was meticulously sounding out unfamiliar words in a book she was reading aloud, Rhonda complemented her on her calm dedication to the effort. (Jaden, her 7-year-old brother, gets famously upset when he doesn’t know a word and has to slow down his race to through the text to figure out a word.) Maya nodded and said, “I go carefully because I want to be like Dad – I want to be an author.”
OK. I can live with that, too.
Maya wrote: Wednesday “I had lunch. It was pesadiprs and apllss and frpoot and chklit milk or wit milk. I ast if me and Mackenzie cad have sam mor. It was delichichs.” (Translation: I had lunch. It was pizza dippers and apples and fruit and chocolate milk or white milk. I asked if me and MacKenzie could have some more. It was delicious.)
Our bedtime routine usually involves me resting next to her after lights out and singing, reciting poems or telling stories until she’s in that pre-sleep twilight zone. One night, she snuggled in to me and I put my arm around her. I was smiling to myself, proud of how strong and smart she is. I’m proud of her secure sense of herself as a person and her the-world-is-mine-to-enjoy attitude. I thought she was asleep, and was about to leave, when she suddenly said, “Daddy, when you have your arm around me like that, I feel like I’m a little baby again. I feel safe.”
Translation: Maya – my smart, strong, funny, compassionate daughter who believes she rules the world – feels safe in her daddy’s arms. And maybe, just maybe, there’s a “because” tucked in there somewhere.
I can live with that.
At 6 years old, Maya isn’t just fascinating to watch, as she figures out how to navigate the world around her, she’s also a source of prime entertainment and unexpected wisdom.
In a written report on what she did in kindergarten the preceding week, Maya wrote: Wednesday “We had ches pesu and aplles and pars and vechtbls. It was dlishish.” (Translation: We had cheese pizza and apples and pears and vegetables. It was delicious.)
She was discussing, not long ago, the boys in her kindergarten class. One of her siblings asked her, teasingly, whether she “liked” any of them. She considered the question for a moment, then offered that she did find a boy named Brandon attractive. He’s cute, she said, And nice. And smart. “But,” she added, “he always has boogers coming out of his nose.”
Ah, the pitfalls of kindergarten romance.
Maya wrote: Thursday “We had computer lab. I did freech ous. I did kid pix.” (Translation: I did free choice. I did kid picks.)
As she was settling into bed one night, she suddenly asked Rhonda, “Mom, if you had a restaurant, wouldn’t you just give the food to people who are hungry and poor?” Rhonda said, yes, she would. Maya added “I know that certainly Dad would.” Lots to love there: compassion for the needy; simple, direct problem solving; contemplation of serious issues far beyond her years; a rather sophisticated vocabulary; and a flattering perception of her father’s goodness.
I can live that.
Maya wrote: Friday “We had sign languaga. We lrmd hw to say slide. You pat 1 hand down ven you pat 2 fingrs on top of your athr hand and ven you got a slid in sign languaga.” (Translation: We had sign language. We learned how to say “slide.” You put one hand down. Then you put two fingers on top of your other hand. And then you got a “slide” in sign language.)
She’s learning to read and loving it. One day, as she was meticulously sounding out unfamiliar words in a book she was reading aloud, Rhonda complemented her on her calm dedication to the effort. (Jaden, her 7-year-old brother, gets famously upset when he doesn’t know a word and has to slow down his race to through the text to figure out a word.) Maya nodded and said, “I go carefully because I want to be like Dad – I want to be an author.”
OK. I can live with that, too.
Maya wrote: Wednesday “I had lunch. It was pesadiprs and apllss and frpoot and chklit milk or wit milk. I ast if me and Mackenzie cad have sam mor. It was delichichs.” (Translation: I had lunch. It was pizza dippers and apples and fruit and chocolate milk or white milk. I asked if me and MacKenzie could have some more. It was delicious.)
Our bedtime routine usually involves me resting next to her after lights out and singing, reciting poems or telling stories until she’s in that pre-sleep twilight zone. One night, she snuggled in to me and I put my arm around her. I was smiling to myself, proud of how strong and smart she is. I’m proud of her secure sense of herself as a person and her the-world-is-mine-to-enjoy attitude. I thought she was asleep, and was about to leave, when she suddenly said, “Daddy, when you have your arm around me like that, I feel like I’m a little baby again. I feel safe.”
Translation: Maya – my smart, strong, funny, compassionate daughter who believes she rules the world – feels safe in her daddy’s arms. And maybe, just maybe, there’s a “because” tucked in there somewhere.
I can live with that.
Labels: Maya
Monday, April 16, 2007
Thursday, January 11, 2007
A son reminds a father about life's priorities
The following post is by Rev. Randy Woodley, posted at www.beliefnet.com/blogs/godspolitics/
I picked up my 11-year-old son from school the other day. The conversation was business as usual, until he shared how he was bored in class and wrote a letter to the president of the United States. Flabbergasted, I asked him if he would read it to me.
The following post is by Rev. Randy Woodley, posted at www.beliefnet.com/blogs/godspolitics/
I picked up my 11-year-old son from school the other day. The conversation was business as usual, until he shared how he was bored in class and wrote a letter to the president of the United States. Flabbergasted, I asked him if he would read it to me.
He was against the war and any escalation of troops. He asked for an immediate withdrawal and politely chided President Bush for sending other young people to war when he would not send his own children. Finally, my 11-year-old cautioned the president that he did not want this war, or any war, in his future.
Today my son is back to riding a skateboard and watching cartoons, but what he said the other day was important, and caused me to take his words seriously and re-think some basics from his perspective. My 11-year-old son barely knows that he has hit upon a governmental principle of our Iroquoian nations (Mohawk, Cayuga, Cherokee, Huron, etc.). The principle is that before any course of action is taken, we must consider how it will affect the next seven generations. I see short-term thinking as a great malady in American society, especially in government policy. Instead of thinking through the consequences of our actions and policies, we sell out to short-term solutions and pragmatic compromises. This propensity for making decisions for immediate political gratification or corporate profit influences all areas of life.
But for my son's sake, I want to consider just one of the major concerns on his and many others' minds as it relates to short-sighted solutions - namely, war as a means to resolve conflict. While the first casualty of war is truth, in an atmosphere of spin and disillusionment, the human casualties are immeasurable - the so-called “collateral damage” that is inevitable in modern warfare.
Human beings were not created to rule over (or kill) one another, but rather to love one another and to respect one another - even when they hold ideologies that are very different. War takes away human dignity from both the winner and the loser. For the loser, hatred just goes underground and resurfaces in later generations. Hatred takes many forms, of which aggression toward the old enemy is just one. Self-hatred is another. Both the winner and loser end up hating themselves for their breech of humanity. This form of self-hatred leads to self-abuse and abuse of others, and like ripples on a pond, the abuse follows through to subsequent generations.
It is short-term thinking to disregard these natural consequences of war. The only people who prosper from war are those who can make money from it. These companies are able to secure public policies that allow them to continue disastrous environmental violations and an unhealthy dependence on unsustainable fuels. As long as we allow these corporations to shape government policy, war will forever continue. I could go on with this subject for a while - but I think the point is made. I owed it to my son to say this much.
Our actions leave our children, grandchildren, and subsequent generations with a debt that they will eventually have to pay, if they are able. We can change the future for our children by reasoning through our actions and re-thinking government policies for the next seven generations.
In the meantime, my son is waiting for the president’s reply.
Rev. Randy Woodley is a Keetoowah Cherokee Indian teacher, lecturer, poet, activist, pastor and the author of Living in Color: Embracing God's Passion for Ethnic Diversity (InterVarsity Press). http://www.eagleswingsministry.com/Monday, December 11, 2006
Why do we do what we do?This is a season of traditions. The trees, lights, music, gifts, meals, gatherings: they’re all part of the cultural picture for most of us, and this family is no different. Except, this family is very different.
We piled the kids into the car, and drove out to the country to harvest our family Christmas tree. The sun, hanging low in the sky, bathed the hillsides in a soft, diffused light that gave the day a magical look but did nothing to take the chill out of the winter wind – but even the wind added to the scene, giving it a clean, bracing feel. As we walked the woods, the kids ran ahead looking for “the right” tree. I looked over at Rhonda and felt nearly breathless, nearly overwhelmed. She caught my glance, smiled, and wrapped her gloved hand around mine.
Our tradition is that no tree is taken until it gains a unanimous family vote. This year fewer than half a dozen votes were required to find the tree, and the process produced excellent results. The size, the shape, even the imperfections make the tree a thing of exquisite character and beauty – which makes it a pretty good metaphor for our family. Neither the tree nor the family make be what is expected, may not fit the Norman Rockwell model, may not make sense to you, but both are just right for us.
Rhonda and I strung lights on the tree while Logan (13) baked molasses cookies and the rest of the kids hung ornaments. Bing and Nat’s voices crooned out from the CD player, almost inaudible above the chatter and laughter. On the mantle hung the hooks, waiting for Christmas stockings. On the front door is a wreath, over the garage door is an over-sized, lighted wreath. The white picket fence around the backyard is decorated with white lights and red bows. In the front yard red, green and blue lights shine on the big glue spruce and a lighted, wire reindeer stands vigil in the night.
All we lacked was a horse-drawn sleigh or we’d have been a living version of the quintessential Christmas card – the very picture of Americana, of Christmas tradition, of the way it was in the good old days. We would be, except we’re nothing like that.
Ozzie and Harriet inside a Courier and Ives we ain’t. Rhonda and I have both been divorced. Among our six – count ‘em, six – kids, some are step-kids, some are adopted and some are made from scratch. We have blondes, brunettes and redheads. Some of us are black, some are white. At Thanksgiving, we hosted in our home Rhonda’s former in-laws, her former husband and his new fiancé. It’s become our annual celebration, our tradition. Just a few days before that, Rhonda was scrapbooking with my former wife. Their friendship has become part of our family’s daily culture. That’s the way it is for us, and no one else I know.
All of which has me thinking that it’s not what you do or when or where you do it. It’s not how you do it or even who you do it with. It’s all about “Why?” And, I think, the answer to “Why?” – the thing that makes these moment in our lives matter – is love. Unoriginal, I know. But there it is.
Families are like Christmas trees: You can make a billion and one fake trees, each one identical to the other billion, and they might all be beautiful, but they’re still all fake; real families are like real trees, each grows in its own way and each reveals its own beauty and soul. Better yet, those irregular, imperfect, real trees are cherished because they are selected for their unique traits, just like our irregular, imperfect, real families.
Recently, a non-traditional family was in the news. Ugly things were said because some folks think a family must look just one way. What struck me as most wrong was when one of them said that love could not compensate for a family not fitting the Ozzie and Harriet model. Skipping, for now, the notion that a real family needs to “compensate” for not meeting someone else’s expectations, I have to challenge the notion that love isn’t enough.
In our tradition, love is always enough. Love never fails. Love defines the divine. Love is both the desire and the gift of the divine. Love is the supreme command of the divine. And of all the great and abiding things in the universe "...the greatest of these is love." Love, as I said before, is the answer to “Why?” when it comes to our traditions.
In this season of traditions, may we all find much of what makes our traditions matter.
Labels: Christmas, love, traditions
Monday, November 13, 2006
The more things change....Here's Grandpa (my dad) teaching Derek (my nephew) how to tie a necktie. No more whining now about how all the good things about how "it used to be" are all gone. Love is still love and family is still family, if you want them to be. And a boy still has to learn from their Grandpa.
Labels: grandpa
