the perverted mormon who lives in my phone

Do you ever use your house phone to call your cell phone to discover its whereabouts? And then, when you find your cell, relieved, you look at the screen and wonder whose call you missed, only to realize, it was you? I do this often.

Has your phone ever converted a voicemail to text? I received one such from a friend who does adoption advocacy...we were dialoguing about a board meeting and brainstorming ways to make money to support nannies who work in orphanages in China. This is how my phone interpreted her message:

"It's Saturday night it's 6:30 my time I have to run out tonight to my husband fucking party youre in hot key thing but I will be around tomorrow and yea I got some grease and stuff to do actually some video-stuff load so anyway can gimme a shout anytime bye."

Or have you ever been laying in bed and texted yourself a reminder, perhaps because you were too lazy to get out of bed and get an actual pen (while realizing that the chances of looking at a piece of paper were not as likely as looking at your texts)?

Yes, me again. I am not proud.

I was however, rather shocked when I texted myself the other night, and then rolled over to go to sleep. Couldn't sleep (not uncommon) and so checked my phone to see the time (and to check Instagram) to find that I had gotten a text back from myself.

I'm not kidding. Here's the transcript folks. I couldn't make this shit up.

Me text-jotting a writing idea to me at 1 a.m.: "You know youre old when you get 5 scarves for 40 birthday, like cover your wrinkly neck already woman, one from mom was the least fav per style and fabric, she should know I'm allergic to wool, dammit...but ironically, it is the one that had the most time invested she said she thought of me during each stitch I wonder if she thought mean things like I hope this itches the shit out of you... am I thoughtless or her...and there it hangs on the bedroom chair, staring at me like hangover guilt...and someone had to remind me recently that our own parents see us like we see our children and I told Thys that all I want for Christmas is him and he didn't believe me, it's hard to believe a parents love because it seems so obvious and yet so absent at the same time"

Me back at 1:30 a.m.: "I'm sorry you have the wrong number"

Of course hubs was out of town at the time and I wondered if a creeper had snuck into my house and stolen my cell to fuck with my brain. It took me 10 minutes to figure out what the hell was going on...

Then...

1:40 a.m. : me back to me: "Oh! I'm so sorry that you received my old phone number in Denver!"

1:42 a.m.: New me back to me: "No problem."

Then... me being 1:45 a.m. generous (delirious? perhaps): "If anyone else is looking for me, you can give them this number. I hope inheriting this number hasn't been too much of a burden."

Hoping for a litany of publishers and long-lost friends and interviewers who have all been desperately trying to reach me... but then...

1:47 a.m. "OK. Thank you. It's not a burden."

1:48 a.m. Lonely me still not sleeping, "Thank you."

1:52 a.m. New me: "You ought to check out the mormon messages on youtube--lots of uplifting and inspiring messages about life and family. Have a good night"

Oh Canada, I'm sorry

Christmas concert tonight.
Little girls picking noses in shiny skirts. Little boys tripping over bleachers and waving.
Moms and Dads pushing ipads in my face to capture aforementioned nose-pickings and waves.
It was all rather, well, nauseating.
Until.
My son got on stage. Then. I must admit. I felt this little well of water form in the bottom half of my eyelids. And this does not happen very often. And I have no idea where the fuck it came from. It was this weird pride mixed with this crazy disbelief that this little 7 year old doesn't nod to shenanigans because he wouldn't let me comb his hair and he dressed himself in what he called his "Sunday best" (without having a clue what that means) in jeans and converse and a white shirt untucked with chocolate milk stains all over the front. And next to the shiny girls, he looked mighty awesome.
And he sang his bloody heart out. So loud. So enunciated. All while stifling a smile in a most awkward way (he accused me later of looking at him too much and making him embarrassed).
I am supposed to be writing a paper. But I don't want to the way my sons never want to do, well, anything that does not involve an ipod or a hockey stick.
I want to write here. I miss writing here. Here I can write honestly and I don't have to quote someone every other sentence. Quoting someone else every other sentence is tedious (me, 2013).
Here in Canada, people apologize for everything.
I bumped you. I'm sorry.
I asked you for something. I'm sorry.
I stood on this piece of earth. I'm sorry.
But they're not sorry for things you'd think they should be sorry for.
Like... these remarks: A few people asked me how I was doing with school, etc. and I told them the truth (it's hard, brutal, busy, humbling, etc.) and one responded with, "Oh, you sound so cynical" and the another with, "wow, I won't ask you how you're doing again." And I found myself almost saying, I'm sorry. But I didn't. They asked me. I told the truth. I told my truth.
But Canadians don't seem to like the truth.
They're really "nice" here. So nice that they don't seem to like too much honesty. And by "they" I simply mean the few people I talked to. Yes, I'm generalizing (but I'm not generalizing about the I'm sorry thing. That shit is true.)
I fear that the "niceness" is a bunch of BS for not dealing with tough shit. I detest the heroic, I'm fine, I'm good, I'm doing okay, when you're clearly NOT. What happened in the world to make people think that they have to be so "okay" with crap? My husband has a horrible disease. I'm fine! My mom is dying, I'm good! My kids are out of control! I am A-okay. My neighbor is a racist! No problem.
These heroics are not for me. I'm sorry, Canada. I may start to apologize more than I should. But I will not apologize for being honest. Someone needs to be honest. We're not all "fine" most of the time. Most of the time, I suspect we're all dealing with devils in the closet and demons on the kitchen floor. To deny this and say we're fine smacks of hypocrisy, as if we're so in control that we can handle it all, no problem. Well, I'm sorry, again. I don't think we're meant to handle all of this, no problem, by ourselves. I tend to think that we need help to handle life. Maybe that's "American" of me, but I don't care.
No, but really, right now I am doing well. That was not a twisted cry for help. I'm not asking for sympathy. And I do mean that. Honestly.
Thanks for letting me rant. I hope you find time to snatch silvers of honesty this holiday season... if you can't, you can call me. Maybe I'll even mail you a new t-shirt for Christmas like the one I just got for myself.

Love. Ish.

Like most things trendy, I am a few years behind on this one:
The suffix: Ish.
As in, "I'll be there at 9. Ish." Or, "My car is clean. Ish." Oh, and, "Here's the money I owe you. Ish."
It's even better with just the right amount of pause before you pounce on the ish.
And said in the snarkiest way possible, it punches just like I prefer: a lick of control with flippant play.
I boasted of my love of the suffix to my husband tonight. But unbeknownst to me, The Children were still awake in their too-close-to-the-dining-room bunk beds.
"Mooooommmmmm!!!"
"What?"
"What is Ish?"
"Go to sleep."
"Really. Tellllll meeeee pleeeeeaasssse."
"It just means kind of sort of like shake-your-head-side-to-side medium not sure...ish."
"What?"
Giggles.
Mine.
"I need to understand Ish!"
"No. You don't. Goodnight."
"Pleeeeaaassse!!! Ish."
"Good night! I love you. Goodnight."
"I love you too. Ish."
And. Nothing entices me to tell the truth like a bad example.
I tried to explain. But this medium territory may be too abstract for a newly 7-year old. I tried again and again. I did. I gave lots of mediocre examples. To no avail.
So now I'll be stuck with an illogical echo that respects no boundaries...

Yet I realized--in humility--that to turn things like this upside down is much more interesting. And (like kids often do) my son yanked me closer to a truth. If nothing else, it will be Children who will snap us out of our Rational Delusions and point us to the reality that we can't see because we are too busy showing them what we think is truth.
Because, really, this does make more sense than the convenient Ish. And though I was born in convenience, I am slowly warming up to upside down irrational makes no sense kind of love. Ish.
I love. Ish. I mother. Ish. I work. Ish. I am lost. Ish. I know nothing. Ish. I write. Ish. I try. Ish.

Peace. Ish.

prepositional poetry

Prepositional phrases don't get enough attention.
Allow me to indulge them as I recall where I found myself last night:

On a toilet seat
inside a washroom
with no mirrors
in an arctic arena north
of the border
with my makeup
in hand to check if that big zit that recently emerged
on my chin was still making an appearance
for my new friends-whom-I-haven't-met-yet who stand
in the lobby
with their Tim Horton's coffees and their tall boots that go
up to their kneecaps
with their smiles and their laughter which I am not yet privy
to I don't care
about that yes I do I wish I had people to laugh
with to share
with to be
with to love there I was
on the toilet wishing all
of these things and thinking
about prepositional phrase because well because that's what I do when I'm stuck
in a washroom
on a toilet looking
into a foggy mirror
at my own reflection longing
to impress people I don't know
with my aging non-beauty hoping that they'll see something worth talking
to and maybe just maybe I will want to hear them too.

Blessed Oldness.

Happy Birthday To My Baby. 

(Every year on Thys' birthday, I write a cyber-note to his birth 'rents. Here is Number Seven:)

To the parents of a baby boy born in late September, 2006 and left on the doorstep of an orphange a few days later:

Here I am again telling you all about how wonderful and precious and amazing this little man is. He is a fairly typical little boy: snarky, giggly, crabby, funny, obsessed with Pokemon, Legos, money, and play. But he's unique too: creative and intuitive, surprisingly so at times. He has an impeccable memory and he's a hard and diligent worker. He loves to help me cook, and he can sit at the piano for an hour without complaining. And he's a wicked little ice skater and hockey player, much to everyone who watches him delight. See? We're doing an okay job as his 'rents? Right? Why do I desire your blessing? And why does this partly feel like a big "I told you so letter"?

He can also be a giant pain in the ass: last night while putting him to bed, I bent over the top bunk to pray for him, and he smiled and hugged me and then asked, "Is that your oldness?" To which I replied, "WTF?" And he repeated by pointing out the lines on my neck, the wrinkles, the crevices, and he asked again, "Is that your oldness?" And I cried a little. And then we prayed, like we do each night. And after I thanked God for his innocent, childish (albeit honest and devilish) soul, he shouted out, "Thank you for mommy's oldness! In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost!" Thank you Catholic school.

This year, we decided to finally push the whole Chinese language issue more seriously than we have in the past. Partly because he seems to have a natural aptitude for new languages, and partly because he desperately wants to visit China. So I am sending both of my boys to Catholic AND Chinese School.

It began a few weeks ago. The first Saturday, I didn't think my older son would make it. He's an aggressive, articulate, and (usually) confident young man. But I found him crying at my side as we walked through the hallway of the school to the classroom, big, real tears. I asked him what was wrong, he said he felt "really uncomfortable" with all of the Chinese people (he and I were the only non-Chinese people). I asked him how he thinks his brother feels EVERY DAY at school, at Church, on the playground, etc. He said, "Ya, but he's used to it." He had a point. I vowed to stay until he felt comfortable. But then I spotted Thys, sitting in the front row, hands folded on his desk, back straightened, and a grin that said, I am here. I am ready. Teach me. And the barking, harsh sounds of Mandarin that frighten many white, European kids, fell softly on Thys' delighted countenance.

It was all rather confusing. I'm quite certain that all the parents who came in after us assumed that I was coaxing my nine-year old to stay, but had no clue who the eager young boy in the front row belonged to. Chinese adoption isn't as common here as it was in Denver. There are a small percentage of Chinese children here, but they all have Chinese parents, most of whom don't seem too familiar with the concept of adoption. I get a lot of awkward glances from them when they realize Thys is my son. As if I have upset the balance of the cultural capital and they don't know what my motives are. To make him white? To pretend I am one of them? Who am I to take one of them? Would a Chinese person ever adopt a white, North American kid and bring him to China? Is this about domination?

Here's my point, birth 'rents: I understood my own motives when I/we adopted Thys, and I still do. And I am not afraid to disrupt people's assumptions. I rather enjoy it: You don't think Christians should cuss? Listen to me. You don't think women should be assertive or have strong opinions or drink or fart? Hang out with me for a while. You don't think I can do all these things and still claim an authentic faith that I care about deeply? Talk to me. You know what happens when you put an Asian kid in a white family? Shit. Neither do I. This is where we find ourselves. In the midst of this experiment. What if Thys doesn't want to interrupt people's assumptions? What if he just wants to fit in?

This is the first year I actually wish we knew you. So that you could truly be a part of his life and teach him Chinese things. That we could share him or something, though I have no idea what that would entail.

You did not give me permission to adopt him. But. You left him. Helpless on a cold street in the middle of the night. I know you wanted good things for him because you left a bottle with him... but what did you envision his life would entail? I sometimes feel like I have a responsibility to you. To raise him well. To honor you.

I think of you often. Thys is starting to think more of you too.

Thank you for this life I get to witness. Say a prayer for us as we navigate this unknown territory.
In the name of The Father, The Son, and The Holy Spirit.

Holy Depravity

A Cynic's Sermon Notes: 1.

Our new Padre recently preached about the Heidelberg Catechism Q & A 1.

Q: What is your only comfort in life and death?
A: That I am not my own, but belong--body and soul--in life and in death--to my faithful savior Jesus Christ.

I had to memorize these lines when I was 14 or so in order to make "Profession of Faith" (a formal way to become a Member at my parent's church, cool-aid drinking rights and all). This was a strange time for me.
I'm not convinced that my motives for doing this were based on
1. fear that I would somehow miss out on a cool retreat, a youth group hike, or heaven
2. shame that as the Pastor's daughter this was expected of me
3. peer-pressure because all of my friends were doing it. I know, I'd likely have jumped off the building too...
I'm not convinced my motives weren't those listed either.

I remember standing in The Holy Council Room in front of the 25-foot wide meeting table one night during the monthly Council Meeting. It was me against 13 old, white men who smiled and nodded as I clumsily and awkwardly recited Q & A Number One. This question and answer, this question that meant nothing to me. I had lived a privileged life. My only comfort in life at that point was that I would get to sit next to Mark Mayson on the bus the next morning. And that my crimping iron was in top shape. I had no knowledge or fear of death, save for my dear Uncle Albert whose death made the adults sad, and prompted in me a reverent silence to disguise my confusion in their midst.

So, my bias in hearing the sermon topic was palpable. I sighed, and I thought, what can you possibly say about this topic that hasn't been said at least 450 times over the past 450 years? I have this same revolt when I hear certain passages from the Bible. I am bored of them. And I am tired of hearing the same old phrases that seem to exist to help people brainwash themselves: "In God's timing," or "God will provide," or "God's comfort," etc. Worn out phrases thrown around as flippantly as greeting cards and carry as much power as "Just Do It," or "I'm lovin it." As if we've made God a capitalistic venture like all of his competition.

But Padre didn't recite those.

Instead he recited a litany of real-world shitty problems, stinky shit and all. He may or may not yet know the despair of a stressed-out, sleep-deprived mother, or have heard the tension spoken and hidden in an almost-broken marriage, or recognize the thought patterns of a lonely and suicidal life. But he told some stories that sounded like he did.

And then he talked about the courage it takes for humans to face and feel and live in... this depravity, this brokenness, this loneliness. And I'm not yet sure what this means, that I am courageous if I "let the loneliness wash over me." It seems like saying I'm courageous if I feel like crap. And I don't find this particularly courageous, and neither does my family. They like it much better when I'm not... feeling the pain. So, perhaps, what he meant to say was that it is courageous when I let the pain wash over me when it doesn't affect all of the humans who depend on me for their daily bread, toilet paper, and hugs.

Then it occurred to me that maybe the adults in The Holy Council Room decades ago smiled when they heard my memorized lines because they knew. They knew I would need that comfort. Some day. Maybe they smiled because they could see that I did not need those words yet. Perhaps they saw my innocence, the kind that can provoke a sort of smiling jealousy that looks like a weird smirk.

Padre ended with this: "We may find these are the stories dreamed in the heart of God--when we see him face to face." And I don't understand why God would dream of depravity. But perhaps by "dreamed" he meant "known" the way we know someone when we look into their eyes for a long time at close range. I dare you to try it. You will walk away a different human.

I am not my own. But I've certainly worked hard for many years to convince myself that I am. I forget most of the time that I belong to someone, something else. And much like all of my household chores, exercise, and being nice to others that I forget to do, I neglect to admire the faithfulness of God. Yet, here I am, almost four decades into this game of life, this dance around objects and ideas, the tangible and the invisible... still listening to the voice of God, spoken through a conduit, wondering if God got my Change Of Address Card, and then quite sure that he did.

(And, because I am immersed in a shockingly secular academic world right now, and longing for the Spiritual, I will attempt to open up comments to hear your thoughts and hopefully offer mutual encouragement. Thanks.)

Did Jesus fart?

I like to attempt satire. But. I suspect that my productions unmask my bitter side (see previous post). And worse, I think my attempts reveal more about my own jealousies and insecurities than they "seek to expose and ridicule the status quo with a desire to reform" as I used to explain it to my high schoolers. Satire is hard to teach. Even harder to write.

Alas, here's an attempt at another genre in which I like to dabble: (hopefully) humorous non-fiction.


Consumption--with life's trials and also of its bounty--often distracts me from gratitude, especially the act of it, i.e. prayer. Setting routines can be helpful, before eating, before sleeping, in hospitals, etc. I have tried to talk to my kids about God and faith and living a life of thanks, but the conversations often end up sounding something like this:

One son asks, "Do you think Jesus farted?"
The other son firmly replies without a doubt that "No. He probably pooped, but he definitely didn't fart."

Recently, my sister visited us (with four boys under the age of five in tow, well, one is technically 32). The chaos that ensued was earplug worthy, a technique that both my nine-year old and I practiced.
The moments of pleasure and relaxed conversation were snatched throughout the day and late into the night (while denying the cost to be paid in the early a.m.)...

So, tired parents, crabby kids, and, well, normal two-year olds sitting around the dinner table on the fourth night of the visit did not feel like an apt time to begin teaching about the importance and value of prayer and thankfulness.

But I do believe in a God that sneaks in despite my best efforts of ignoring him. It was after we sat down to eat when someone started to pray--I don't even remember who--and a few words of blessing and thanks were offered.

And then, perhaps what some may consider irreverence (but what I justify and perpetuate as a welcome departure from legalistic obedience to a seemingly old and crabby God) is our family habit of praying with our eyes open, as if we're having a real conversation...or maybe it was the sense of freedom and comfort we had with each other (my sister and I did sleep in the same bed throughout our entire childhood), or maybe it was the fresh Canadian air... whatever the precipitating reasons, the table erupted: The kids, unprompted, started yelling out random things they were thankful for:

"Waterfalls!" one shouted and giggled...
"Sand!"
"Swimming!" ya, ya, lots of agreement...
"Boats!"
"Beans!" more giggles...

It went on. And on. And on.

There was a palpable presence of God. I envisioned him smiling at us as we enjoyed him, each other, and the ease of living in a world where we can go on vacations and eat lots and whine about our first-world problems while drinking wine. I believe in a God that gets that too, who knows that regardless of the world in which we've been placed, there's always a barrier...
Until the children remind us and poke holes in it.