What do you do when your friend’s child is a brat? Come on over to Whole Mama and let’s chat about it.
How To Create a Prodigal 101
May 2, 2012 By Leave a Comment
1. First, students, remember to major on minors: Make no differentiation between social guffaws and moral absolutes. In fact, invert your response if possible–For commandment-breaking acts, throw up your hands and say, Oh, she didn’t actually mean to lie. And, for matters of indifference, go bat-crud-crazy: HOW DARE YOU LEAVE THE HOUSE WITHOUT SHOES, and so on and so forth.
2. Concern yourself with externals like ‘modesty’ over internals like ‘a growing resentment that will take years of therapy to even begin to undo.’ Your daughter wants to do what?? Wear a tank top?? Doesn’t she know tank tops are of the Evil One? Refuse at once, shame her for even asking, and then turn a blind eye when she goes to chat on her iTouch with a 14-year-old boy who wants her to talk dirty to him.
3. Care more about what the church ladies think than what God thinks. Discipline only for behaviors that embarrass you during the coffee hour between Sunday School and church, then ignore the same ones at home because no one’s there to watch Miss Sassy Pants give you the lip.
4. Frustrate your child at every turn: She wants to go to her friend’s house? Make her pay. She can only go if she does ALL her chores, WITHOUT complaining once even though you are forcing her to do her brother’s dishes as well as her own, her homework, her piano practice. Make her clean her room and babysit her baby brother whenever you need a break or have a headache, even if that’s seven hours a day. Should she dare to defy you on this, cancel the get-together at once. Better yet, wait until the very last moment and THEN cancel it. How will she ever learn to submit if it doesn’t hurt?
5. Treat her like a slut. Again, crucial. Shaming her for liking that sundress is only the beginning. Showing an interest in boys? Flirting? Caught kissing once, even? Label her ‘loose,’ immediately. Freak out well out of proportion to her ‘deed.’ Give her every indication that you believe, deep down, she is a bad seed and has some sick perversity no other girl has. Whatever you do, steer clear of honest talk about sexuality, periods, and what is normal (and God-given) in that arena. It’s integral that she feels dirty as young as possible.
6. When you see what she wants/needs, make it a priority to give her the exact opposite. Is she needy at night, wanting to take up your precious bath time to chat? Push her away. Teach her the meaning of ‘me-time.’ Roll your eyes. Does she need an outlet, a friend, advice, encouragement? Toughen the big baby up by just ignoring whatever wheel is squeaking loudest. Make her life an obstacle course of pleasing you, of avoiding your mercurial wrath, of lying just to keep you off her back and have a moment of peace.
7. Never, ever say you’re sorry. What, and risk her thinking you flawed, or, worse, human? Shame on you for even considering such a thing…
8. Keep your distance. To make sure she knows who’s boss, it’s important to remain aloof and detached. Whatever you do, don’t cuddle up on the couch and watch a chick flick together. Be as cold as possible, let her know your displeasure in her very being, and be sure to never tell her that you, too, have bad days, wonder who you are or who God is, or hate your thighs like she does hers. Instead of living life alongside her, live across the river, detached and indifferent, but be sure to flip out when she gets the attention and affection she craves elsewhere.
9. Never smile at her. This may communicate that, no matter her weaknesses and struggles, you actually adore her. Make sure you are distracted when she talks and be sure not to praise her most recent accomplishment too lavishly. In fact, try not to attend her recitals or games or play performances if at all possible. What, and risk her getting a big head?
It’s so easy to look at a rebellious child and think, what is her problem and to further shame her in our attempts to pull her back onto the straight and narrow. But, what if we are to blame, at least in part, for creating our prodigal? What if we’ve been boorish and unreasonable and perfectionistic and relentlessly demanding and too harsh? What if we’ve toyed with our child’s psyche or bludgeoned her vulnerability and withheld from her the warmth and love she so desperately needs? Perhaps the first stop on the road to a prodigal’s return is a heartfelt apology from her parents.
I hope this class is one we all fail abysmally.
The Hypocrisy of Oprah Magazine
April 23, 2012 By 1 Comment
Admission: I like O magazine.
I sneak it into my cart when Ian isn’t looking. I check it out at the library when he is, but under a pile of biographies. When he discovers issues hidden under dirty laundry in the bathroom, he chides me: Ames, if you want this, let’s just get a subscription.
But, of course, I can’t admit that I want it. In Reformed circles, Oprah is on par with Deepak Chopra…Feministic. Edgy. Man-hating. Liberal. Touchy-feely. Do you blame me for shying away from any association with her?
But there’s just enough that appeals to me to shun it altogether: The emphasis on decluttering appeals to some deep part of me that struggles with a childhood spent knee-deep in ‘stuff.’ The emphasis on self-improvement appeals to those areas I’ve never been able to pray away. The emphasis on ‘accepting yourself’ scratches a forty-something-year-old itch that started in somewhere between All we like sheep have gone astray and never hearing the words, I love you, until I was 18 and forced from them a begrudging, and most uncomfortable ‘love ya’ in response to mine at the end of a college phone call.
Sitting here with my newest issue, I realize that, no matter my semi-verboten enjoyment of O, the magazine is a sham. Way beyond the debate about Oprah’s spiritual state (I’m exhaustified of my sorts trying to peg her into any particular theological heresy), what hits me is the O‘s in-your-face-how-can-we-not-have-seen-it hypocrisy:
Accept who you are!–(Yet, How to get better with age! Rev up your metabolism! Refresh your style! Recharge your spirit!)
Be original!–(Here, dress in this cool $895 outfit, try this new $98 skin enhancer, copy the liberated lives of these five uber-original women who have–surprise!–ditched their husbands to find fulfillment!)
Declutter!–(But first buy this Physician’s Formula lotion–Look 6 years younger in 4 weeks: We promise!…Buy these four books actor Bill Paxton recommends, Try one or all of the ten books Oprah herself recommends!, Fill your closets with these no-fail outfits sure to get you attention in the spring! And the ever-so essential wide-brimmed hat for only $58! And the shampoo to eliminate that pesky dandruff! And these neat new ceramic containers that double as a colander AND a serving dish for strawberries! And these neat, new, green versions of the wing-tip gold shoe that no truly fashion-aware woman dare not have stuffing up her closets!
Have mercy.
I know mags are in the business of making money, and, in large part, this means selling advertising. But to have actual articles pushing material goods right next to articles espousing the importance of giving or sacrificing or bettering the world via anti-materialism is, if nothing else, ironic. Oprah, or whatever bobblehead is running the cash cow called O mag is living–and selling–a contradiction. If those associated with O mean even a fraction of they claim to mean, their magazine ought to prove this. They ought to declutter their obnoxious advertisements. They ought to refuse to accept any ad for any beauty product, whatsoever. They ought to get rid of any column or article promoting the seasonal necessity of this or that buckoo-bucked outfit.
If you believe what you claim you do, O mag, live–and publish–like it. No matter how you draw me in with the occasionally-decent and authentic article, if you can’t align what you print with what you claim to believe, I’ll find a mag who does.
Ian will be ecstatic.
I Found Jesus in the Thrift Store
April 4, 2012 By 2 Comments
I can’t count the number of times I have gone into one or another of my favorite thrift stores in search of something and, despite a mountain of junk, found it.
One time we were invited to a black tie cancer research fundraiser and I had nothing formal to wear, nor did I want to spend hundreds of dollars on something I would wear for only one night. As I walked into our ARC thrift store, I silently prayed, “Okay, God, you know what I need, help me out here.” An hour later I had found no less than five super cute, super nice dresses that all fit perfectly (stock up when that happens, girls).
Over and over this has happened. I’ve found a slip for one daughter’s choir outfit the day of her performance, Born Mary Janes for another who desperately needed church shoes, and even Easter hats I could never spend the frivolous money on otherwise.
God has come through for me in these tangible ways time and time again. But nowhere do I find Jesus speaking to me as clearly as in the book section. No matter what issue I am struggling with or what topic I am currently studying or interested in, I find something related at the thrift store.
To wit: While in Maine a few years ago, my daughter and I stumbled upon several tiny, hole-in-the-wall book stores. In one I found a used copy of a Frederick Buechner book I had been looking for. In one I found several C.S. Lewis books I had been wanting to replace since I loaned out my theology library (yes, all of it, bad, bad) and never got it back. In the third store, I found a copy of Sheldon Vanauken’s A Severe Mercy, which my uncle had recommended just the day before. In the fourth, way on a bottom shelf in the very back of a miniscule Kansas antique store, I found a darling copy of Horton the Elephant, which was the only thing, I had told my girls that morning, that I wanted to find.
Some might argue that since I have my eyes open for certain books, I am just noticing them more. But I don’t think so. I think Jesus loves me enough to send me these little whispers of love, even if it means being crouched on the floor for hours with my head craned to the side to read the spines better.
Yesterday I found a book called Bringing Home the Prodigals. The book is thin and easily read in an afternoon, which is what I did. Lent seems a perfect time to talk about the prodigal son and this book spoke to me just exactly what I needed to hear as we enter Holy Week.
I’m reminded, among many other things, that we’re all prodigals. No matter our flawless church attendance record, our tee-totalling, our nicotine-free lungs, we are all prodigals. No matter that we don’t swear like sailors or fornicate or read Danielle Steel novels, we are all prodigals. No heart is perfect, free from judgement or pride or unkindness, no matter how nicely we clean up on the outside. None of us forgive like we should. None of us love like we should. None of us pass on grace like we should.
Despite each and every thing we have done wrong, God, who has been watching for us all along, runs down the road with open arms, not even allowing us to properly prostrate ourselves or offer penitence before enveloping us in a great big bear hug and shouting orders to prepare a rocking party for us.
Can you imagine??
Easter week is especially sweet for the prodigal. It is rain on a scorched soul, the washing of tired feet, being tucked once again under the shelter of His fatherly wings.
I met Jesus in the thrift store and you know what He said?
Welcome home.
A Letter to Bristol Palin
March 27, 2012 By 20 Comments
Hey Bristol,
You don’t know me, nor do I know you. I don’t even know much about your mother or her politics, having been scarred in childhood by parents who were so politically active dinner was sometimes forgotten. I’ve never even watched Dancing with the Stars.
All I know is that you are a woman, a daughter, a sister, and now, a mother–one without a husband, with all the stigma that brings.
It’s funny, isn’t it, how quick the world is to point fingers at public sins? Being proud or gossipy or judgmental or mean-spirited is never really considered ‘bad,’ is it, because all these things can be hidden behind veils of smiles and excuses and civility. But, a baby? Who can hide that?
It can surely be no surprise or secret to you that many people are following and will follow your blog because they want to gaze upon you like a circus attendee gazes upon the fat lady or the tattooed man. These sorts, surely, are giddy with the opportunity a blogging forum holds to communicate to you the depths of their derision for your oh-so-awful choices.
I am writing to tell you that this derision is the best gift they can possibly give you. Because, if you can stand against it and not let it squash you, it can teach you something it takes many of us forty or fifty or sixty years to learn: What other people think about us DOES NOT MATTER.
I write this to you having learned this lesson the very hardest of ways, having lost reputation, friends, family for poor choices I have made. You think you’ve made mistakes? Girl, what you’ve ‘done’ is a mere scratch compared to the gouges some of the rest of us (far older and supposedly more mature) have etched in the table of our lives.
You’re happy and thriving and moving past it all, which is exactly what you ought to be doing. But other women in your shoes, other women, period, are flogging themselves and living in agony for poor choices…I have a friend who still grieves an abortion she had twenty years ago, one whose marriage is falling apart, one who has lost custody of a houseful of children.
To you, to them, I say, keep on. As my well-meaning mother says, Don’t let the devil win. No matter the past, it does not define you. You are God’s beautiful daughter and your child is His gorgeous son. Not-so-great choices have a way of being sticky, of pulling us down into other not-so-great choices because we have consciences and the guilt of what we’ve done sometimes convinces us we’ll never do better, be better. But then we are playing God, not forgiving ourselves, when He has forgiven us as far as the east is from the west. That’s a long way, sister.
So go, conquer the world with your story, beautiful girl. Love that little guy with abandon. Life has just begun for you, and I can’t wait to see what you do with it.
Love,
(Praying hard to be a) Whole Mama
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