Why not Grandma?

I was just reading an article in AARP Bulletin about how the Baby Boom generation is changing the role of grandparent. One of the most annoying aspects of the article were the large number of grandmothers who didn't want their grandchildren to call them "grandma" or the equivalent. One of the women was quoted as saying, "Not grandma. That moniker is quaint and oldfangled, and I am neither...I want my grandmother name to be fun, cool, inventive--or at the very least, not frumpy."

Oh come on! And what are these "cool, inventive" substitute monikers? Lalo, Nani, Bobo, G-ma, Mimi, Meema and (gag me!) Glamma. I don't see these names as cool or inventive at all. They are nonsense syllables, and do nothing to hide the relationship between the child and the grandparent. Do these morons really think they'll seem younger if a little child is calling their Botoxed face Mimi? Do they really think people will think, "Oh, look at that hip young woman with that child! I wonder if she's kidnapping him, or is she the nanny?" No, they'll just think, "Look at that delusional old woman who is trying so desperately to pretend she's under 60 that she won't even let her own grandchildren call her 'grandma'."

Come on, ladies! Were you fooled by those tarted up moms who made their children call them by their first names in the hopes that people would mistake them for siblings, not mother and child? No, of course you weren't. You looked down on them as pathetic fools who couldn't age gracefully. Please, take a look in the mirror! Or take a listen to your grandkids as they address you!

Forcing your grandchildren to call you a ridiculous made-up title doesn't make you young or inventive. Grandma is a respectable title. It has no age requirement. I know plenty of grandmas in their 40s, and they don't seem afraid to have a sweet little voice calling them "Grandma". They don't worry it makes them old. No one makes you old but you!

The old saying was that you are only as old as you feel. I think the reality is you are as old as you fear being. I'm not advocating giving up, letting your hair go gray and breaking out the rocking chair. Get out there and try new activities, eat well, exercise, and stay as healthy as possible! But don't fear aging. Don't be so desperate to hide it--everyone can see the desperation. And they can certainly hear it every time a 5-year-old calls you Meema or Lalo. We're not stupid. We can translate Bobo or G-ma or Glamma. It means Grandma. And that means you. Pull up your Big Girl Pants (or your Depends if you need 'em, you hip, glamorous gal, you) and enjoy it. It's a privilege!

Disaster Ghouls?

I'm watching a 20/20 episode on television. They have put together a show on the murders of the cameraman and reporter in Roanoke, VA.

My husband walked in a started a diatribe when he saw what I was watching. He sees shows like these as ghoulish, as trying to "make a buck from someone's grief." He mocked the dramatic language, saying they were "wallowing" in the grisly details of the crime.

I was silent. We just don't agree on shows like these. Obviously there's a market for recaps like this. People watch. And they aren't necessarily ghouls for watching. I know because I'm one of the people watching, and I'm not a ghoul. And I'm not really wallowing, in that I'm not immersing myself in the murders for pleasure.

These shows remind me of the way my family and community used to discuss the small disasters and problems that occurred to people we knew. We'd talk about what happened, why it happened, how other people had reacted to it, and what needed to happen in the future to deal with the problem and its aftermath. It wasn't a ghoulish impulse. It was sort of a consensus-building exercise, as we tried to construct a common, shared narrative about the event. We tried to understand it in order to deal with it, and to prevent the problem from happening in the future, or if it wasn't a preventable occurrence, like illness or a natural disaster, then ways to more effectively deal with the problem in the future.

These discussions were comforting somehow. We were pulling together in a way, yet pulling back at the same time. We tried to examine an event from a safe distance, with some perspective. We were trying to get some control over the uncontrollable. I see that as a healthy reaction, Humans are social animals, and we draw comfort from banding together to deal with problems.

Now it's harder to have conversations like that. Unless you live near family, you don't regularly get together and talk. There's still some water-cooler conversation of course, but it's more superficial. So shows like this serve the purpose instead. They seek out the various perspectives from everyone involved. They try to discover why the tragedy occurred. They try to point a way forward--how can gun violence at the workplace be reduced? When should we become concerned about a "crazy" co-worker?

Maybe it isn't the best way to do it. Maybe it's not very "tasteful." But it's human. And I'm human for watching.

Tiny Wonders

Sometimes the tiniest things spark a reawakening of wonder in my soul. 

This morning I was reading in the bathroom--I know, TMI, but that's what I was doing. I was startled by a scrabbling noise from behind me. I was alone, and there was no sign of our cats, so what could be in the bathroom with me?

I turned to the open window and was enchanted to see two female goldfinches clinging to the outside of the screen. They were pecking at something in the holes of the screen, something so small I couldn't see it. Maybe tiny insects? Although why would tiny bugs want to live on window screens? So many questions, so little data. 

But why did I need to know why the birds were there? Did it really matter why they were so intent on hopping about, often hanging nearly upside down, their delicate little claws circling the thin wire of the screen? The real magic was that they were there, oblivious to the comparatively huge human creature on the other side of the screen. 

I studied the soft grey, black and white patterns of their feathers, their small bright eyes and petite little beaks. I enjoyed the sounds--the soft flutters of wings, the tapping of their beaks against the screen, and that rattling, scratching sound of their toes as they moved from perch to perch. Tiny miracles of feathers and  minuscule beating hearts. Fragile, perfect reminders that the world is filled with wonders easily overlooked.

Good morning, lesser goldfinches! You have made it a very good morning indeed!

Sabbath: Lenten Photo for March 9

I remember having to memorize Luther's Small Catechism as a child in Sunday School. "Remember the Sabbath Day by keeping it holy." I wasn't really sure what might be involved in Sabbath keeping. As far as I was concerned, it meant going to Sunday School, and then church, where the organist would play hymns that I would sing to, and the minister would speak while my eyes wandered over the stained glass windows and the painting of Jesus walking on water that rose above the alter. Organ music, singing, and listening to a speaker in a special building: that was the Sabbath.

So when I saw that the photo prompt for March 9 was Sabbath, and I realized I was attending a pipe organ concert the night before, I knew I had my image. There's something so special about classical organ music. It feels holy and sacred to me. I'm not sure if it's just because organs and churches are often paired, if it's just my childhood memories of organ music every Sunday, or because many of the most powerful organ pieces were written especially for church ceremonies. But the organ carries a little of the Sabbath with it for me.

Celebrate: Lenten Photo for March 8

A special event combined with beautiful architecture spells a celebration to me. My spirits soar as high as the light-studded dome. I look around at all the people in their suits and dresses, jewelry glittering, and I can't help but smile.

Celebrating is all about that feeling of joy and lightness of spirit. For me, it's very closely entwined with gratitude--I'm grateful for the moment, for the experience, for being alive and present at that particular time and place. 

So thank you, Lord! It's a celebration!

Speak: Lenten Photo for March 7

I don't like graffiti. My town moves quickly to paint over it, seeing it as a threat to public order and a criminal attack upon public or private property. I agree with that position.

Yet I am often struck by the messages someone has felt compelled to write. Speech in the visual mode. Words screamed out in huge swirls of spray paint, often angry, sometimes profane. But those words are someone's attempt to communicate to the wider world, to express their pain, their confusion, their anger in a way we can't ignore. I find myself stopping, staring, listening with my heart instead of my ears to what they've spoken with a can of paint.

Prayer can be like that--our needs and our fears and our pain bursting out in garbled words and broken phrases. No matter what we say, or how poorly we express it, God is listening. And God is speaking to us as well. Not in ALL CAPS RIGHT IN OUR FACES. But quietly. In our hearts. We need to listen as well as speak. Faith is a conversation.

Beloved: Lenten Photo for March 6

Whenever I'm out in the natural world, and I'm left breathless by its beauty, I feel as if I've been blessed. I feel beloved. I feel God's grace touching me. We are all his creation, the product of his love. I'm grateful to be here.

Follow: Lenten Photo for March 5

It's hard to forge your own path. So many doubts. So many fears. Is this the right way? What lies ahead? Should I turn back?

Following is easier most of the time. As long as the path is pleasant. As long as you feel confident in the wisdom of the person marching ahead of you. As long as you are convinced the destination is worth the trip.

Like in this photo, I tend to lag behind the pack. I bring up the rear, usually because I'm busy peering through a camera or studying a flower or an insect, but sometimes because I'm a little reluctant to follow the people ahead of me. I may not be looking forward to the destination. I may not feel like I belong with the group. The footprints may seem too big for me to fill.

It can be hard to follow in Christ's footsteps. Through his grace, we don't need to follow him to the cross, but even so the path isn't always the most pleasant one out there. But we can trust in his leadership. He won't lead us astray. And he doesn't mind if we lag along the way. All he wants is for us to keep following, to ask him to show us the way forward. Step by slow step.

Poor: Lenten Photo March 4

Poor me. "Never my way."

I had noticed this sad little graffiti some months ago. I felt a kinship with the "artist". We've all felt this way--that life just isn't going our way. Nothing is working out as we'd hoped or planned. The world is against us.

At the most basic level, being poor involves lack of money and/or lack of the necessities of life such as food, clothing and shelter. But there are other ways of being impoverished. Our lives can be missing other things that leave us feeling lost and less fortunate than others. We can lack friends or family or love. We can lack confidence and security. We can lack hope and the belief that the future will be better. All of those leave us feeling poor in comparison to others. 

As Christians, we should feel the need to reach out to the poor, to help with whatever the need may be. We don't need to be rich or happy or perfect to give to others. All that's required is to recognize a need, a sadness, a void in someone else and then to try to offer comfort and help in whatever way we can. Nothing grand, just food for a local food pantry, or comfort to someone grieving, or offering friendship to someone who is alone. And we'll probably discover there's a special magic about giving of ourselves. It often seems that the more we give, the less poor we feel.

Near: Lent Photo March 3

Our cat likes to get close to us--very close. He peers earnestly into my eyes, trying to communicate. When he gets this close, I get uncomfortable. I pull back, wanting to see him at a bit of a distance. I think I do the same thing when it comes to faith--I will draw near to God, then I feel exposed and vulnerable, and I pull away. I think God understands this little dance. It's part of the reason he sent his son in the first place: to appear in a form that we recognize, a form that doesn't appear so remote and abstract and different to mere humans. He wanted to draw near to us in a way that would encourage us to draw nearer to him as well.

Bless: Lent Photo March 2

Living in a land stricken by years of drought, rain and water are a blessing. I loved how this freesia seemed to delight in the rain--that top petal looks like eyes squinched shut in delight, with the orange center puckered in a kiss. Yup, I'm anthropormorphizing. But the yellow color, the raindrops, the beautiful March day--all of them make me happy, and make me feel blessed.

Powers: Lent Photo February 28

Power is something I always seem to have in short supply. If my phone isn't low on power, then my computer is warning me it's down to 6 percent, or my I-pod or Kindle is threatening to shut down unless I plug in. I'm always looking for a charger and an open power plug. I guess that explains why the first image for the word "powers" that popped into my head was a wall plug and devices busy sucking up energy.

It's really not a bad analogy for our relationship with God. We are really powerless unless we're connected with God. We need his strength, we rely on his power. Without faith, we're always in danger of shutting down.

Wait: Lent Photo for February 27

Farmers and gardeners are masters at the waiting game. They plant their seeds, monitor the weather with resignation, watch for the first little shoots to come up, and then water and feed and wait for months before they can reap their harvest of crops or vegetables or fruit or flowers. No instant gratification there.

Prayers are like that. God answers in his own way, and in his own time. Our job is to believe and wait. We know we should be patient, but it's hard sometimes. And our "harvest" may not be what we expected or dreamed about. But the harvest will come.

Place: Lent Photo for February 26

I wonder if everyone has a mental image of a place in their head that means "home" to them? A place that, as you are driving in a car and you see it, you feel that sense of recognition, that sense that you can relax because your drive is nearly over. I've always had one. Back in the rural area where I grew up, the water tower of the tiny town near our farm was visible for miles, rising above the corn and soybean fields. That was my "home" signal. And there was a certain curve in a two-lane road that told me I was nearly at my grandparents' home.

Now I use this grouping of trees. This small eucalyptus grove grows on the corner just before the turn into our neighborhood. Like that old water tower, it's visible a ways off, and tells me I'm home. I'm at my "place".

"Place" doesn't have to be impressive or old or elegant or beautiful. It just has to hold meaning for you, to resonate somewhere in your soul.

Remember: Lent Photo for Feb 25

I'm a very visual person, so photos serve as my door to memory. When I look at old photo albums, I almost relive the occasion. I remember how I felt when I took the photo. I remember the person or people as they were at that particular moment. I remember buying the clothes we're wearing and whether it was hot that day, and what had happened before the photo was taken, and what came afterward. I like to joke that like a computer, I have Random Access Memory, but mine is really, really random. Photos help me organize that randomness. 

But the best part of remembering with photos? They usually show the best moments in life, not the worst. And that's what we sometimes need to do:to remember the best, not just of our life experiences, but the best of ourselves, the "better angels of our natures" as Lincoln said. When life drags us down, and our minds are stuck in that coulda-shoulda rut of self-doubt, it's good to remember our successes, our triumphs, our moments of happiness. We can remind ourselves that the road won't always be rough and that we can and will survive the dark times. We can reassure ourselves that there will be new smiles and bright moments ahead of us.

Path: Lent Photo for February 24

This isn't the prettiest path. It leads downhill into the creek, and it's rough, studded with rocks and ridged with muddy footsteps, The first plants of spring are just coming up, and the shrubs and trees along it are just sending out their first tiny leaves, so they don't provide much beauty in the way of scenery. 

So why did I pick this photo? As far as I'm concerned, the path's unattractiveness is the point  Our path through life often seems like it's leading us downhill through some ugly real estate. The way is hard. We have to watch our step, and pick ourselves up when we stumble. But if we keep moving, and as long as we've picked the right path with the right destination at the end, our efforts will be rewarded.

Let's face it, if the right spiritual destination is at the end of the path, it's often the harder road to travel, with fewer pretty distractions along the way. But that end point? Definitely worth the trip.

Covenant: February 23 Lenten Photo

Cov-e-nant. Noun. An agreement. A contract.

According to lawyers, there are six elements to a legal contract. But for the layman, it really boils down to two small words: "if" and "then". If one party does "x", then the other party will do "y". It's a contract. A promise. A pinky swear. Cross your heart and hope to die.

If you believe, then you will be saved. A very simple contract. The new covenant.

When life gets difficult and frightening and bleak, it's hard to remember that covenant. But it's always there. We don't need a lawyer or a notary or forms or signatures to ensure the contract is binding. Belief will redeem.

This image reminds me that God's covenant is always there, waiting for us to enter into it. Just like the sun is always there, behind the clouds, ready to warm us and light our way.

Celebrate: February 22 Lenten Photo

What can this photo have to do with celebration? If you don't live in Southern California, you'd never understand. We're in our fourth straight year of severe drought. This area is nearly a desert at the best of times, with an average rainfall of only 13 inches per year. We've been getting half that. Half.

The flora and fauna are devastated. The deer are dying from lack of forage. The smaller mammals aren't reproducing--with so few mice and voles and rabbits, the hawks and owls aren't laying eggs and are disappearing from our skies. The trees are dying. Our natural world is desperate for water.

So anytime I need to turn on my windshield wipers, I'm dancing in my seat, a huge smile on my face. Rain is a tiny miracle here. A cause for celebration.

This is a reminder that we don't need to wait for a big event to celebrate. There are bright spots in our lives every day, and they should be appreciated. Celebrated. We should be grateful for them.

So it's a celebration! Who needs confetti? We've got raindrops!

Joy: February 21 Lent Photo-a-Day

While I don't suffer from synesthesia, I do associate emotions with certain colors. Joy is bright. Joy burns.  Joy is that intense, sort of eye-searing orangey-red that wakes you up, makes you sit up straight, breathe deep and feel glad you're alive. That's joy.

That's also the color of pyracantha berries. An appropriate name, from the Greek words for fire and thorn. The berries are the color of fire, and set against the bright green leaves, they seem even more vivid. The plant also has vicious thorns. Those will wake up the unwary even more than the color!

This photo wouldn't scream joy to anyone else, but that's what I feel when I look at it. I recently read a series of devotions on joy which distinguished it from happiness. The author argued that you don't need to be happy to experience joy--that joy is a more complex emotion, a sort of sharp piercing reminder that we are alive and experiencing the world in all its messy glory. 

Alone: February 20 Lenten Photo-a-Day

Alone. 

When I think about the condition of being alone, it feels darker and more intense than just experiencing a lack of companionship. To be alone is to feel alien and separate, realizing that you are removed from the most fundamental of human experiences. We are social creatures. Our understanding of our own individuality arises out of our recognition that we are separate from others--we need to interact with others before we can achieve an identity of our own. 

There are many ways to photograph the concept of "alone". I could have photographed a single person. A single flower. I had another photo I really liked of a lone flower petal on the sidewalk. But this single leaf on the street after a rainstorm best conveyed that sense of alienation. The leaf is not only separate from other leaves, but it is completely removed from its home, the tree. It is displaced, transported to a hostile environment--an environment lacking color, that is hard and roughly textured. The black frame of moisture surrounding the leaf further isolates it.

Unlike this leaf, we have the power to break free of loneliness. It is up to us to reach out. To other humans. But also to God. We're not really alone, after all. We just believe we are.   

Look: February 19

In the rush of everyday life, we rarely take the time to look beyond the surface of things. We glance, we process the most critical items and mentally blur out the rest, and we move on. But this day's word, "Look", demands that we do more. That we look more deeply. That we move beyond the surface. That we not only use our eyes to collect information, but that we also use our hearts and minds to contemplate what we have seen.

My photo is a visual reminder to me to do just that. I have a scraggly purple mallow bush in my yard. The flowers are large--about the width of a coffee cup--with petals of a lovely shade of violet that fan out from a tight base. The fertile organs of the flower--the stigma and pollen-covered anthers--are hidden deep within the furled petals. If you just glance at the plant as you pass by, you only see the petals, and you think that's the only beautiful part, the most important part.

But that center is, for the life of the plant, the most important. And when you look, you realize it is lovely as well--the curved white sections of the stigma, and the brilliant yellow anthers rising up on their tiny stems. Such complexity! The purple petals are the perfect foil for the hidden treasure within. A treasure only visible when you take the time to look. To really look. 

Lent Photo-a-Day: Announce

During the past year, I've been exploring faith, contemplating what I really believe, what I have trouble believing, and how my faith has--and shall--affect and order my life. I still have more questions than answers, but I'm enjoying the journey while learning and growing along the way. 

As part of my journey, I decided to participate in RETHINKCHURCH's Lent Photo-a-Day project. I wanted to contemplate the Lenten season more deeply and intentionally than I have before. Since I enjoy photography, this seemed like an ideal bridge.

I wanted to write about my photos, but what to say? I think I'll just explain how I think my photo illustrates the word or theme of the day. A modest goal, but more likely to be accomplished than a promise to write an essay on the topic. If I'm inspired to write more on occasion, wonderful. If not, no guilt. 

So, announce...

When I think about "announce" in connection with Christ, I think of the Annunciation. That makes me think of how classical artists portrayed the annunciation--the colors, the symbols, the mood. The paintings are usually infused with color and light, creating a joyous yet portentous mood. 

The word "announce" also makes me think of grand entrances, announcing the arrival of kings or leaders. Drama and trumpet fanfares.

So this led me to set up a specific image: the bell of a trumpet, glowing in the sun, preferably surrounded by bright color, combining the imagery from both threads of thought. I wandered through my yard with my son's old student cornet, looking for the perfect backdrop. When I held it up against the pink of the jasmine buds, I felt I'd found my image. Buds are joyous and portentous: they signal spring and new life. Exactly that Renaissance Annunciation mood I so loved.

And this image announces my intention to think about Lent, about Jesus' journey to the cross, and my own journey in faith.

Only thing stolen: Sense of Security

I live in a pretty safe area. Our neighborhood has few crimes unless you count getting TP'd. A woman can walk alone late at night without any real concern. People actually leave their doors unlocked if they are just running a quick errand or walking the dog. We joke that we live in "the bubble"--a sort of Shangri-la place where the ugliness of the real world, thankfully, rarely intrudes.

So I am often pretty careless about locking my car when I pull into the driveway. Admittedly, I don't leave anything in it that's valuable, and my car is over ten years old with a peeling clear coat--it pretty much screams that it wouldn't have anything valuable in it at the best of times. Last night was one of those times I just didn't bother to hit the lock button. It was a weeknight. Quiet. Normal. Nothing to worry about.

When I wandered out to my car today to run an errand, I was baffled to see my glove compartment hanging open, the contents spilled on the floor and passenger seat, and CDs tossed carelessly on the driver's seat. It took me a few seconds to realize someone had "broken" into my unlocked car.

Like I said, I had nothing--absolutely nothing--of value there, so I didn't get that panicky feeling you get when you mislay your phone or your purse. I quickly realized the few things I did have in the car--a couple random CDs that I never listen to, cheap clip-on sunglasses, an ancient half-broken pair of binoculars that I used years ago to see if my kids' soccer teams were done practicing at the far end of the park when I arrived to pick them up--had been rejected by the thief. I picked them up and put them back in the console. Even the twenty or so cents in the coin slot hadn't been worth his trouble. And of course the bag of books I had in the back seat to donate to the Friends of the Library bookstore was still there. I somehow doubt thieves are big readers. He'd passed on my gym bag too. Go figure. Maybe it was because it was a repurposed book bag that only held a sweaty towel and a half-empty water bottle.

I derived a little bitter pleasure at the thought of the hapless thief riffling through my emergency tampon stash, assorted gas station receipts, drive-thru napkins, and the old supermarket lists that had cluttered my glove box and console box. All that adrenaline pumping through his system (I know it wasn't necessarily a guy, but let's face it, nine times out of ten, car thieves are young and male) for nothing. Nada. Junk in a junky old car. Na na, jerk! You got a big fat nuthin', which is what you deserve!

But my pleasure was short-lived. Because when I got back from my errand, I locked my car. As I will from now on, even though I don't plan on ever leaving anything valuable in it. The thief successfully stole one thing from me: my sense of security. He popped "the bubble".