Thoughts on the Gospel and...

What follows are peices of conversations I've had with people regarding various aspects of the Gospel. I thought I'd share a few of them with you...


The Gospel and The Realities of my Life

It is so true that God is the ultimate filler of our deepest needs and desires... and even our voids. He alone has to be the one in which we find our identity, security, worth, etc. I have found it so much easier to deal with life when my eyes are fixed on him and he is my security.

I know that no matter what I have gone through or experienced, God has made me a new creation and I don't have to live under the power of "what was". I have come to absolutely love the person God has made me. Not because I'm anything phenomenal, but because it is so freeing to simply be the person he created and designed. Although I am constantly learning new things about God and about myself, I do rest secure in who he is - God.

I have never wanted to think about my childhood. I have never wanted to search the depths of my life's experiences. Those are things that I naturally would love to sweep under the rug and move forward in life in the name of "keeping my eyes on Christ" and "God makes me new so it doesn't matter". In my naturally ignorant being, I would love to ignore my past.

The crazy thing is that, as I have found more and more security in God, he has freed me to see things in a new light. The more I find my identity in him, the more he takes me by the hand and begins to show me things about myself and about how to become more Christ-like. Some of those things he has begun to work in me, are things that force me to face my past and deal with the realities of my life.

I keep thinking about the story of Jesus and the woman at the well. In their conversation, Jesus could have easily revealed himself and then said "go and sin no more"... which he did... but not until he made her face the reality of her life; she had been with many men and her past had created a cycle of that in her present life. She had to face that because she was facing who Christ is and what he wanted to do in her life.

I know that my relationship with Christ is a constant transformation of myself. I don't think, by any means, that filling in the gaps of my memory or finding answers to my past will somehow cause me to "arrive" or to finally be the person I'm suppose to be. There is no "arriving" but rather a continuous transforming. To me, that is the most beautiful thing about how God works. I recognize that me asking all these questions and learning about my past is just a part of that transformation. (That is not to say that everyone needs to do what I'm doing... I'm just saying that for me, right now, this is something God is doing in me.)

I am confident that no matter what I find out about my past, whether all my questions are answered or remain unknown, I am confident that I will remain secure with Christ, that he will continue to work in me, that he will continue to be my everything. Nothing can separate us from the love of Christ, right? I take hold of that as I am on this journey.


The Gospel and The Wrestling

I am doing well. I am uncovering deep truths about myself and about God. I believe that as I wrestle with God, with truth and with people, that I will continue to uncover more and more. I don’t believe God ever intends that wrestling to end. Life is a refining process, a journey, sometimes a battle.

I have lived most of my life believing that if I was wrestling with anything, if I was questioning anything, “working on my issues”, then I wasn’t doing well. I have come to realize, though, that it is in that wrestling that God makes something beautiful out of my life. So if I am wrestling, I consider myself to be doing pretty damn well.

I am a broken being living in a broken world. God is leading me through a process of healing but I don’t believe that it will come to completion until this life is through. So if I’m walking in that process, I am doing well.
It doesn’t always look great from the outside. Usually, it’s pretty messy. So I can understand how someone could assume, from the outside, that I wouldn’t be doing well as I struggle through this life.

But the day I stop wrestling, the day I think I’m healed, the moment I feel able to walk on my own two feet, is the day I will say I’m not doing well. To me, this is a radically different view of life than the one I was brought up on. However, it is this truth that is revealed to me as I honestly seek to understand the gospel, and it has given me a freedom that I feel I’ve been repressed from throughout most of my life.


The Gospel and The Fullness of Life

I am all about being sensitive to God’s leading and following the spirit. I want nothing more than to be surrendered to God and live a life that glorifies him. But in that, I think God is about creating a full life for me, too; one that allows me to follow my hearts desires and passions in a way that works within his kingdom.
By that, I mean that I think there are two concepts that work in tandem with each other. On one hand I think God guides and directs us, sometimes to places and situations that we may not understand at the time. On the other hand, I also think that God created each of us unique, with passions, talents, etc., that he wants us to use to his glory. So for example, I have this huge passion for and talent of writing. I believe God gave me that ability and intends for me to use it in a way that honors him (however that looks).

Very often, I have seen Christians act and talk like doing things that make the individual happy, are bad. Like, for me to follow my passion of writing is bad because it's selfish, or it's all about me. When in reality, it's God who gave me that passion and I think I can use it in a myriad of ways that are all glorifying to him.

John 10:10 talks about how Christ came to give us life and to give it more abundantly (or to the full). I don't think this is limited to eternity. I think God created life here on earth for us to experience to the fullest. It can be a great and amazing thing - life. I have felt before that many Christians pound on the "self sacrifice" and "martyr" drum so much that they don't truly enjoy life; they just try to find one more "good work" to do for God or one more thing they can sacrifice for God. I feel like they give up so much of life that God actually intends for us to enjoy. Life here on earth is not inherently bad, simply because we're living in a fallen world.

Engaging Culture

At LCC we have been defining and re-defining the best way to communicate what this journey called Christianity looks like. Almost a year ago, a few of us spent countless hours in San Diego wrestling with these ideas. It is still a work in progress, but from that time we have deemed these ideas "The Process". It is a process of loving God, living in community with believers and engaging culture. I was asked to write about our Engaging Culture philosophy... this is what I could muster up:


Engaging Culture is a lifestyle. Unlike other aspects of The Process, you are not going to find a great deal of structure here. We define Engaging Culture as a way of life; being aware that every moment is an opportunity for the Holy Spirit to work and choosing to allow the Holy Spirit to work in whatever way, at whatever time, he chooses. This looks different for everyone because we are each created in a unique fashion and placed in unique circumstances.

In Christianity, everything is Gospel; Christ must be central in all things. Consequently, we engage culture by living out the Gospel. What does that look like? Fortunately for us, we have the example of Christ to look to. In order to understand the heart of Engaging Culture, one must understand the heart of the Gospel, the heart of Jesus. In Luke 19, Jesus weeps over the condition of Jerusalem, the culture around him. In order for us to truly engage culture, we must first develop a heart of compassion for the culture we are in.

Culture is the framework within which people live their lives. To engage that framework is simply to engage in relationship with other people. If we are accepted by Christ unconditionally, then our first and foremost responsibility is to accept each other the same way. Mercy is not optional in the Gospel of Jesus Christ. Jesus himself was labeled as “a friend of sinners”. We must care far more for the souls of people than any label the world might place on us.

If we wish to see the transformation of others, we need to be transformed ourselves. Our transformation comes as we discover God’s love for us. As we experience our own transformation, we begin to realize that it can happen for others, and we begin to desire that for them. Our own transformation, as we are open and honest about it, will bring about the transformation of those around us. Just as God is patient in our transformation, so we too must be patient with the transformation of others.

When God wanted to show his love, he did not demand that we go up to heaven to meet him; he sent his son, himself incarnate, to the earth to demonstrate his love. Then he calls us, his followers, to do likewise. We cannot demand that people come to us in order to experience our love. We must go to them to demonstrate Christ’s love.

Engaging culture can be messy; it is honest, it is real. As the Gospel of Christ is transforming us, we are constantly inviting people into that process of transformation by living out the gospel. In his infinite love, God sent his son to meet us where we are. Christ does not come to take us out of where we are but to transform us in the midst of it. In response, we turn to those around us and love them; we accept them as Christ does in the hope that they too will be transformed by Christ right where they are. Christ came to bring us hope. As we are transformed by Him, we become vessels of that hope to those around us.

Augustine once said of his writing that “the words printed here are concepts. You must go through the experiences.” So when people ask what does Engaging Culture really look like? All I can say is that it looks like Christ. It is having a heart and compassion for people, spending time with people, being involved in their lives and being a Christ-like presence in their life. It is a loss of self. It requires that we take our eyes off ourselves and look solely to the person of Christ. Being transformed by the Gospel, our hearts will naturally begin to see those around us in a new light; we will begin to see people the way Christ sees them. Transformation is an experience and we cannot fully understand the concept of Engaging Culture until we have experienced the transformation that only Christ can bring.

My Eye Just Can't Take It Anymore!

I got in a fight. I was trying to pluck out my eye. I don't know. Stress. I was crying too much. Your face just busted a blood vessel in my eye.

I say all sorts of random stuff when people ask me what happened to my eye. Truth is, I don't know. I woke up one day and it looked like my eye was bleeding, but on the inside, but I could see it from the outside. Strange phenomenon.

The first day it was just a red line along the side of my eye ball. The next day it was a huge red ball, nice and bright for the whole world to see. So I called Kittie, my resident eye doctor. "Is there any pain?" she asked. "Well, no, not besides the pain of embarrassment that my ego seems to be experiencing right now." She said it is probably a broken blood vessel and will go away in about a week. The cause? Probably stress.

Probably? So, like it could be a massive tumor in my head causing random blood vessels to blow? But it's probably just stress. Whew! Close call.

I'm also having trouble remembering things. I thrive on details. I'm an organizational guru of sorts. I remember things. I remember everything. I remember what color his cuff links were two and a half years ago at my uncle Joe's funeral. (Not really; I don't have an uncle Joe. Dramatic affect. Work with me.)

But lately I can't remember much of anything. Yesterday someone was recalling an event that took place a couple months ago, talking about who brought what, did I bring the cheese, the wine, both? Turns out I brought both. But for the life of me, I couldn't remember that until this morning. I was sitting in my car, parking outside of the polling place, and suddenly I remembered, "I brought the cheese AND the wine!" Then I went in to vote and realized that I had forgotten my ID in my car. Go figure.

Another thing; my muscles are tense, constantly. I get these fantastic tension headaches that linger throughout the day and on to the night. Advil is my closest companion these days. We go way back.

Did I mention that I've been sick, too? Nothing like good old fashioned head cold to ease the heavy burden of a stressful existence.

As I'm searching for a clever way to end this post, I have noticed that Blogger allows you to create labels for each post. They suggest "scooters, vacation, fall, etc." Hhmmm... I think I'll go with scooters. That word makes me laugh.

Scooters.

Couldn't say it better if I tried!

Check out this piece by Donald Miller, "My Journey from being a Reagan Republican to an Obama Democrat" ... Seriously, I couldn't say it better if I tried!

http://donmilleris.com/2008/11/03/from-reagan-to-obama-a-brief-political-history/

Going Public... continued

GOING PUBLIC

A View from Inside the Family Steeple

My dad was the Pastor of First Christian Church in Madera, California, for 21 years. Madera is where I was born and raised. It’s a small town tucked into the center of California, with nothing to claim but a hot valley of immigrant field workers. Growing up as a pastor’s kid is difficult to describe. I always struggle with answering people’s questions of what it was like or whether or not I liked it. There’s no doubt that growing up a PK had it’s perks; sneaking into potlucks early to score the only non-burnt brownie on the dessert table, finding all the secret hiding places before a youth group game of hide and seek, and hiding in dad’s office when the chairman of the elders went looking for all the reckless kids who broke the communion display.

I tend to liken the role of pastor to that of a politician, a blasphemous comparison to most but the truest in nature to those who have experienced either role. Dad was important, influential and led a congregation that was more demanding than the American public. In a crisp suit and a smile on his face, he could shake hands with the best of them. He was a social chameleon; to the rich and proud he stood tall and respectful; to the poor and downcast he knelt down in compassion. He was truly all things to all people and they loved him for it. If a vote was ever in question, he would win it by a landslide. As his wife, mom was always put together; hair neatly groomed, skirt and blouse perfectly pressed, always with stockings and scuff free shoes. She stands to the side and slightly behind her husband, smiling supportively while remaining submissively quiet. The children stand by in a perfect row of well behaved, neatly dressed and gleaming smiles; all glowing in the limelight of a great and wondrous family.

As kids, we all reacted differently to this façade. My sister, the oldest of us all, bought into the game with everything she had. As the first born female, she grew in the perfect parallel to my mother; she was the perfect child, with perfect grades, who married her perfect high school sweetheart. She completed her degree at the Christian University our church supported and then bought a house and settled down in our home town where she had her first daughter.

Second in line is my brother Andrew. He led a silent revolt against our family ideals, quietly aggravating my parent’s strong direction. He was the debater of the family; always questioning and arguing. He was also the comedian. He could debate any subject and argue until you were mad as hell, then he’d turn around and make you laugh. Most people developed a love hate relationship with Andrew. He was a good kid who just didn’t follow suit very well. His strong will defied it.

Frank is four years younger than Andrew and couldn’t be more different, from all of us really. Frank was one of the myriad of foster kids my parents took in over the years. They had him since his infancy and as soon he was put up for adoption they adopted him. Frank’s personality didn’t fit the Brazier standard but it worked well for him in the grand scheme of things. He was a cute little kid with a personable persona; he didn’t know a stranger, sometimes to a fault. Everyone loved Frank and as difficult as he could be, he could do no wrong.

I’m the baby of the family. I’m also a bit schizophrenic. I spent a great deal of my childhood striving to follow my sister in my mom’s footsteps. After a time I realized that perfection wasn’t really my thing, so I went for the comedic smart ass role, like Andrew. It worked much better for him than for me but I tried it on for size anyway. I knew I could never get away with Frank’s happy go lucky mantra, so I just straddled between being perfect, funny and anything that would label me as me, something with even a hint of individuality. It was a tough break though, because everything I did was seen as a result of me being a PK. If I did well, followed all the rules, excelled or achieved, it was all due the supposed advantage I had as a PK. If I rebelled, acted out or did anything wrong it, was made clear that I was simply acting out in response to the expectations placed on me as a PK. Nothing I did or didn’t do was in any way attributed to who I was as a person. My identity was my family, the pastor’s family; I was the pastor’s daughter.

I was the center of attention by default; popularity comes with the pastoral territory. Everyone knew who I was, even when I had no clue who they were. Not only did they know who I was, but they always seemed to know everything about me. I figured there was some underground newspaper detailing the ins and outs of the pastor’s family’s daily affairs. That’s probably a dramatic assumption but by the information everyone had on me, it doesn’t seem too far fetched. The church newsletter served more as the congregational tabloid and the prayer chain was just media hype in order to dig up more dirt for the tabloids. It was a fantastic system really.


A Matter of Systems

Every society creates it own system within which the people live their lives. There are expectations and rules and ways of doing things that go unquestioned simply because that’s the way it is. Someone, somewhere, at some point, decided that this is how it is and from then on that’s how it was and will forever be. Amen.

Growing up in a small church in a small town, it really was a matter of systems. To the lowest layman and average Joe the pastor was second only to the Lord Jesus himself and held as much power as the US President. For those arguing that the president doesn’t really have that much power, you’re right. But let’s keep that our little secret. In the wonderful world of an elder-run Christian church, the elders are to the pastor what congress is to the president. Yes, I hear your argument. Checks and balances and all that. Regardless. My point is systems. But, I digress…

My dad, the president. I mean, pastor. He shows up in his suit and tie every Sunday, parades the family through, and takes his place at the pulpit. His speech, I mean sermon, is crisp and new, fashioned in the most articulate style, delivered with just enough passion and flair to be inspiring and condemning at the same time, a double edge sword. The congregants laugh and cry and stand as on command to sing the Doxology. We are a well trained, well oiled machine, we Sunday morning Christians. Stand, sit, pray, repeat.

As we stand to sing our final anthem, pastor dad walks to the double doors and shakes hands with everyone on their way out. They say, “Great sermon, pastor.” To which he replies, “God bless you. See you next week.” He’s got a great smile, my dad. When I was very young, I would stand coyly beside my dad in those double doors, hiding slightly behind him as I would cling to his leg. It all seemed so strangely static and stuffy. But the old folks love a curly haired, little blonde girl, so I didn’t really complain.

They filter out of the sanctuary, through the foyer and out into the parking lot. This process usually took longer than the service itself. There was always a line of loiterers hanging around to steal a piece of my dad’s attention. There was the well intentioned elderly lady with a compliment that takes twenty minutes to stutter out. Her grumpy old husband was my favorite; we would grumble together about how long it was taking and how hungry we were. Then there was the chatty elder who never had anything in particular to say but he looked very important and involved sticking around like that. He could ham it up for hours. Of course there was always at least one person who had a serious issue to discuss with the pastor. You know, my sister’s husband’s brother’s cousin’s niece was offended by the Doxology last week because it was played on the piano instead of the organ, which if you know anything about the history of the Doxology, you would know just how wrong that is. Very serious stuff, my friend.

My dad would smile and nod, furrow his brow and tilt his head, looking very concerned. From one person to the next, he would talk to them all. By the time he was done, the place was deserted, except of course for the pastor’s family. My mom will have done her fair share of chatting with the ladies, and then would find a nursery or Sunday School room to clean. The older siblings would have found some friends to disappear with (the lucky bastards). After sneaking in and out of the church kitchen, I will have interrupted my parent’s talk-fest to get the family mini-van keys and sit ever so impatiently in the van, probably listening to all the secular radio stations that I wasn’t allowed to listen to.

It was a predictably conventional arrangement, this Sunday morning system. And I had a front row seat for every showing.

What I'm Listening To Right Now

"Stay With You" by John Legend

We've been together for a while now
We're growing stronger everyday now
It feels so good and there's no doubt
I will stay with you as each morning brings sunrise
And the flowers bloom in springtime
On my love you can rely
And I'll stay with you

Oh I'll stay with you through the ups and the downs
Oh I'll stay with you when no one else is around
And when the dark clouds arrive
I will stay by your side
I know we'll be alright
I will stay with you

Though relationships can get old
They have the tendency to grow cold
We have something like miracle
Yeah, and I'll stay with you

Oh I'll stay with you through the ups and the downs
Oh I'll stay with you when no one else is around
And when the dark clouds arrive
I will stay by your side
I know we'll be alright
I will stay with you

And there will be heartaches and pains, yes it will
But through it all, we will remain
In this life, we all know
Friends may come, and they may go
Through the years I know
I will stay
And in the end I know that we'll find
Love so beautiful and divine
We'll be lovers for the lifetime, yeah
And I'll stay with you
I will stay with you

Oh I'll stay with you through the ups and the downs
Oh I'll stay with you when no one else is around
And when the dark clouds arrive
I will stay by your side
I know we'll be alright
I will stay with you
Everything will be fine
And I will stay with you
Through the end of time
I will stay with you

from below the surface

I hate change. I wish I didn’t though. I wish I were the type of person who could stand tall and bravely face the world with a sense of exhilaration as the tides shift. I have a poster in my office that reads “Change: if you’re not riding the wave of change, you’ll find yourself beneath it.” It’s a constant reminder of my inner sense of drowning. It’s amazing how a motivational poster can be such a downer sometimes.

eHow.com

So, I just registered on eHow.com; you can write and publish "how to" articles and eventually, hopefully, someday, actually get paid for them. Now all I have to do is, well, write something. (Kind of a key step in the process, really).

Any ideas? Remember, it has to be a "how to" article...

Recollections of a Blind Man's Past

(Something I pulled out of my archives - written in Sept. '07)

Does anyone in our churches care about the people who are floundering? And why is our solution to their hurting always another program? Titus seems to think that the solution is for the older to come along side the younger; to teach them, to show them what it looks like to grow up in the Lord; to demonstrate the way of journeying through life in righteousness. He does not explain how to structure a mentoring program nor does he lay out a twelve step process.

We, on the other hand, see a few young guys wandering through life, making poor choices, hurting themselves and their lonely single mothers, and what is our response? We say things like, “Let’s do things for single mothers, let’s build up a mentoring program for young boys, let’s structure a process through which these boys can become Godly men.” And we all stand, applaud and shout amen.

But those programs never happen. The single mothers remain alone to fret over their lost and misguided young sons, continuing their destructive lifestyles, all the while thinking they are making a life for themselves. I suppose they are making a life for themselves, but it is not a life that I would, by any means, wish on anyone.

Why do these great and mighty initiatives never happen? Because they are just that, great and mighty. They are elaborate programs built with the assumption that they will wipe out the problem all at once. After making an initial effort, we find that the problem still remains. Or worse, we never make the initial effort because we simply do not have the man power to put together a program of that caliber.

I believe that Titus would say our efforts, although well intentioned, are utterly useless. There is no program that can replace loneliness, no church activity that can stand in the void an absent father has created in a child’s heart. It is the simple yet indescribably significant relationship of one to another that can make a difference. Mother Theresa once said that in this life we can not do great things, only small things with great love. She was one person who understood the teachings of Titus; that it is you and I who make the difference through our love. No program can provide that.

If there aren’t people, individuals, who are willing to step up and take the initiative, to enter into the lives of those they see hurting, lost and wandering, then there simply aren’t people who genuinely care. No one has caught the vision of Christ’s love, no one who has been compelled by God’s never ending heart of compassion.

Starbaic (star-bay-ick)

Do one at Starbucks next, huh? Well you sure are demanding. You know I’d never end up sitting at Starbucks with my lap top had it not been for your demand for another random writing episode, set in the serene Starbaic atmosphere. Yes, I did just make up the word “starbaic”. I think it might catch on.

I was lucky and scored the comfy chairs in the corner; my favorite seat. I’m sitting next to this Asian guy who is probably around my age, mid-twenties. It’s a typical sight, really; he’s dressed in business attire: black suit pants, socks and dress shoes, with a white pin stripe button up long sleeve shirt. His hair is neatly cut and combed. His cell phone is fashionably affixed on his hip in a leather cell phone case. He’s reading, so I look over, interested, and notice, to my absolute horror, that he is ready a comic book novel, which I didn’t even know until just now even existed. Go figure. He just took a call on his cell phone; definitely a business call, negotiations and what not. He’s writing on this notebook that looks like he stole from a fifth grader. Probably the same poor little kid he ripped off those comic novels from.

I’m bored with him, let’s move on. I was going to talk about the chick that was sitting at the table across from me, but she’s not there anymore. The cute guy who said goodbye to practically everyone in the store is gone now, so it figures she would leave. After he left, one of the workers said something to the girl at the table; she laughed in a “oh my god, I think he likes me” kind of way. I mean, after all, he did touch her shoulder as he said goodbye. I’m sure he’s in love. Anyway, she’s gone now. Which is a good thing because she was sitting at the designated handicap table and that could be awkward.

This place is crawling with the stereotypical southern Californian types. There’s the hip mom, stopping in quickly before picking up the kids. She talks on her cell phone ear piece as she comes in and out, oblivious to everyone. Of course there is the super cool young guy wearing black jeans and a wife beater who is way too cool to be here in the first place and walks in with a look that says, “I am way too cool to be here in the first place.” Then there is the older business guy who is, of course, all business and can’t even crack a smile at the barista, but barks his order and darts directly over to the pick up counter, obviously frustrated that his drink isn’t instantly waiting there fo him. Then there is the random teenager who sits on the patio with his iPod earphones in his ears and stares out at the street. What is he doing here? I’m sure he wonders the same thing about me. hell, most of the time I wonder the same thing about me, if we’re being honest, which is odd because really I’m being honest but WE aren’t being anything because writing isn’t exactly a two way conversational street. But I digress. The iPod kid just landed a hot chick on the patio. He makes it look so easy.

Uh-oh. iPod kids mom just walked up and sat down. I think the hot chick is his sister. What a let down.

I love the first looks people give, or don’t give. There’s the semi-cute but overweight guy who walks in, catches your eye and notices you averting your eyes and quickly acts like he wasn’t looking in the first place. It’s like with one look we just had an entire conversation about why we’d never work out in a dating relationship. Then there is the guy who is a total stud but clearly way too into himself. I think if he could make eye contact with himself right now, he’d definitely do it. He is clearly not at Starbucks to meet chicks. Go figure.

But wait, there is a semi-cute guy (as in, cuter than the overweight guy but not as cute as the total stud who makes eye contact with himself guy) who catches my eye just as, coincidentally, the self absorbed stud glances up and notices me making eye contact with someone else, and all of the sudden has this innate need to make eye contact with me, when ten minutes ago he flew right passed me. Isn’t it interesting how we’re not interested in something until we think it might be taken away? Yes, my friend, it is interesting. Interesting indeed.

Going Public

My dad was the Pastor of First Christian Church in Madera, California, for 21 years. Madera is where I was born and raised. It’s a small town tucked into the center of California, with nothing to claim but a hot valley of immigrant field workers. Growing up as a pastor’s kid is difficult to describe. I always struggle with answering people’s questions of what it was like or whether or not I liked it. There’s no doubt that growing up a PK had it’s perks; sneaking into potlucks early to score the only non-burnt brownie on the dessert table, finding all the secret hiding places before a youth group game of hide and seek, and hiding in dad’s office when the chairman of the elders went looking for all the reckless kids who broke the communion display.

I tend to liken the role of pastor to that of a politician, a blasphemous comparison to most but the truest in nature to those who have experienced either role. Dad was important, influential and led a congregation that was more demanding than the American public. In a crisp suit and a smile on his face, he could shake hands with the best of them. He was a social chameleon; to the rich and proud he stood tall and respectful; to the poor and downcast he knelt down in compassion. He was truly all things to all people and they loved him for it. If a vote was ever in question, he would win it by a landslide. As his wife, mom was always put together; hair neatly groomed, skirt and blouse perfectly pressed, always with stockings and scuff free shoes. She stands to the side and slightly behind her husband, smiling supportively while remaining submissively quiet. The children stand by in a perfect row of well behaved, neatly dressed and gleaming smiles; all glowing in the limelight of a great and wondrous family.

As kids, we all reacted differently to this façade. My sister, the oldest of us all, bought into the game with everything she had. As the first born female, she grew in the perfect parallel to my mother; she was the perfect child, with perfect grades, who married her perfect high school sweetheart. She completed her degree at the Christian University our church supported and then bought a house and settled down in our home town where she had her first daughter.

Second in line is my brother Andrew. He led a silent revolt against our family ideals, quietly aggravating my parent’s strong direction. He was the debater of the family; always questioning and arguing. He was also the comedian. He could debate any subject and argue until you were mad as hell, then he’d turn around and make you laugh. Most people developed a love hate relationship with Andrew. He was a good kid who just didn’t follow suit very well. His strong will defied it.

Frank is four years younger than Andrew and couldn’t be more different, from all of us really. Frank was one of the myriad of foster kids my parents took in over the years. They had him since his infancy and as soon he was put up for adoption they adopted him. Frank’s personality didn’t fit the Brazier standard but it worked well for him in the grand scheme of things. He was a cute little kid with a personable persona; he didn’t know a stranger, sometimes to a fault. Everyone loved Frank and as difficult as he could be, he could do no wrong.

I’m the baby of the family. I’m also a bit schizophrenic. I spent a great deal of my childhood striving to follow my sister in my mom’s footsteps. After a time I realized that perfection wasn’t really my thing, so I went for the comedic smart ass role, like Andrew. It worked much better for him than for me but I tried it on for size anyway. I knew I could never get away with Frank’s happy go lucky mantra, so I just straddled between being perfect, funny and anything that would label me as me, something with even a hint of individuality. It was a tough break though, because everything I did was seen as a result of me being a PK. If I did well, followed all the rules, excelled or achieved, it was all due the supposed advantage I had as a PK. If I rebelled, acted out or did anything wrong it, was made clear that I was simply acting out in response to the expectations placed on me as a PK. Nothing I did or didn’t do was in any way attributed to who I was as a person. My identity was my family, the pastor’s family; I was the pastor’s daughter.

I was the center of attention by default; popularity comes with the pastoral territory. Everyone knew who I was, even when I had no clue who they were. Not only did they know who I was, but they always seemed to know everything about me. I figured there was some underground newspaper detailing the ins and outs of the pastor’s family’s daily affairs. That’s probably a dramatic assumption but by the information everyone had on me, it doesn’t seem too far fetched. The church newsletter served more as the congregational tabloid and the prayer chain was just media hype in order to dig up more dirt for the tabloids. It was a fantastic system really.

***

To be continued...

***

Don't Worry, I'm A Professional!

This evening I picked up an old copy of The Sun magazine that was sitting on my coffee table. I had special ordered a couple of back issues so I could research the magazine before submitting my work. After receiving the copies, I placed them on the coffee table and proceeded to write an article that I was sure would be published as soon as it hit the editor’s desk. Months later I received the inevitable “thanks but no thanks” letter from The Sun and tacked it up on my “ode to rejection” wall with all the others. I read my inspirational quote before walking away, “A professional writer is simply an amateur who didn’t quit.” I didn’t even consider at the time why it hadn’t been published. “I’m an amateur. It figures.” was all I thought.

A year later I find myself enamored, flipping through page after page of the May 2007 (yes, 2007) copy of The Sun magazine. It is full of brilliant, thoughtful, witty narratives, short stories and prose. I can’t even remember what piece of work I had submitted over a year ago, but I realize now exactly why it hadn’t been published. I am sure it was definitely a piece of work. How embarrassing. Maybe I should have done far more with those back issues than place them on my coffee table. Whatever piece I submitted must have been a monumental waste of the editor’s time. I feel like writing a letter to the editor apologizing for submitting such a royal piece. Then again, making them read an apology letter would just waste more of their time. Maybe that’s not such a great idea.

It got me thinking though. How often I run after grand ideas, skipping, tumbling, floundering right over the details and then doing nothing more than tacking my rejection letter to the wall and walking away. Chalk it up to an amateur move. My life has become a sequence of amateur moves. It’s a damn good thing I gave up chess years ago. But if my inspirational quote is true, then I will be a professional in no time. Well, except that I naturally quit everything. I set up these lofty goals and try real hard, the first time. Then, once more, chalk it up to an amateur move and walk away.

At one point, I wanted to be published so badly that I figured I would start with the smallest venue possible; the local paper. The Daily Breeze newspaper has a “My Turn” column that publishes local work (one might call amateur work). Not only do they publish the work but they actually pay writers $25, which to this amateur is like a small fortune. So my bright idea was to write and submit piece after piece after piece until something finally got published. I sent out one piece for publication and have yet to receive a response. Care to guess how many additional pieces I’ve written and submitted? You guessed it. Zero. You see, I am a natural quitter at heart. It is one thing I never give up on. Maybe I can become a professional quitter.

When I Googled “professional quitter” the first result was a YouTube video of Mike Johanns, who apparently quits every office he has held. Sucks for agriculture in Nebraska. Who can blame the guy for quitting one thing to jump into something bigger and better? Don’t we all want what’s bigger and better? Maybe not. Every other search result for “professional quitter” was linked to anti-smoking campaigns and programs. It is a shame I am not addicted to nicotine. So much for the professional quitter idea.

Some day, my friend, I will find a way to turn all this quitting into something big. Yes, something great. Maybe I can write the first “Quitting for Dummies” book. I Googled that just to make sure that book has not already been written. Again, all the search results were nicotine related. Whew! Close call. I almost had to quit on that idea, too.

The Girl in the Mirror

Who am I? It shouldn’t be such a difficult question. Right? I suppose for some it isn’t difficult at all. I however, have spent much of my life ignoring who I am for the sake of who others are. It’s a sad reality of unhealthy extremes. So indulge me for a bit, as I remember who I am and indulge myself on a selfish journey of discovery.

I love…

Lazy afternoons.

Writing on my lap top in coffee shops.

Email.

Watching Sex and the City while drinking a glass of wine or stuffing my face with popcorn laced with sugar.

Text Messages that make me laugh or smile.

Beer and hot dogs at Dodger Stadium.

Watching planes fly in and out of LAX at night.

E.B. White, Shakespeare and J.D. Salinger.

A night on the city with my girls, talking and laughing about all the wild, crazy and even mundane things that happen in our wild, crazy and even mundane lives.

Driving around with the windows down and the music up, rocking out in my car.

Laughing.

Jogging at the beach.

Lounging at the beach.

Walking at the beach at night.

New York.

LA.

Chocolate.

Coffee.

Chocolate Chip Twists from Coffee Bean.

The way a fresh coat of nail polish makes me feel like a whole new person.

The sound of silence.

A cool breeze.

The color green, and blue, and sometimes brown.

Backyard BBQ’s in the summertime.

Watching the rain from inside a warm living room next to the fireplace.

The happy and friendly atmosphere of the holidays.

The way the trees turn colors in northern Cali in the fall.

Watching it snow.

Dressing up and being girly.

Dressing down and watching sports.

Oh! Sex and the City just came on… gotta run!!

The Rambling, Part Two

I never thought that I could learn so much, from the most random places, people and situations, in the course of a single day. Sometimes it’s like God just embodies every person I come across and screams in my face, “CAN YOU HEAR ME NOW?!” And it’s so obvious and bizarre that it makes me laugh out loud. Seriously, at the end of the day, I find myself sitting alone in my living room, laughing out loud.

I sat in a fireworks booth for four hours this morning doing pretty much nothing, which at face value seems like a monumental waste of time. And yet, I totally enjoyed myself. I loved sitting there with a random mix of people; some I knew well, some I just met today. We talked about everything; the weather, city politics, news, illegal fireworks, the vacations we’re taking this summer. A reporter from the Daily Breeze showed up. She was trying to find out if some comment the governor (or was it the president?) made about fireworks was impacting the sales. She tried to interview a few of the customers but most refused to talk to her, which I thought was funny in and of itself. She talked to us for a while before heading off to another fireworks stand. As soon as she left, we got the low down from the Chamber of Commerce president on who she was. That Chamber lady knows everyone, it’s awesome. I found myself totally envying that reporter. Not that I want to be a reporter by any means, but anyone who gets paid to write is pretty high up on my list of people I envy.

I don’t know why I told you about any of that because it’s not even the most random part of my day, as I was alluding to earlier. I could go back and delete that whole paragraph because, well, it’s pretty pointless. But I’m not going to do that because I plan on titling this “The Rambling, part two” and, well, what good would that be if I didn’t ramble?

So there I was, sitting at the bar…

(I have always wanted to start a story that way. I can’t believe my moment has finally come!)

No really, there I was, sitting at the bar. Well, actually, I was sitting at a table adjacent to the bar and some random guy was sitting at the bar with his back to me. I noticed him when I first sat down because the back of his hair came to a point at his neck and it reminded me of someone else I know and I kind of thought it was him but it turns out it wasn’t. As it was, I paid little attention to the guy because he had gray hair and was wearing a suit jacket with jeans and flip flops. Okay I’ll be honest, the suit jacket, jeans and flip flops means nothing. It was the gray hair that did him in. What can I say, I’m 26!

My friend and I were the only other people in the bar at this point so it was inevitable that the three of us would end up in at least a casual conversation. An hour and four rounds later, we’re engaged in a lean-forward-gather-round-we’re-becoming-best-friends-conversation that quite frankly, I don’t think any one of us would ever have anticipated had we been told a head of time that this would happen. For months I have been wrestling with questions that he seemed to have all the answers to. Right there in the bar was some random guy with all the right answers to all my tough questions. We laughed, we cried and I’m sure at some point I drooled over his seemingly intense wisdom. Okay I didn’t cry and I don’t think I actually drooled, but either response would have been appropriate, I’m sure.

This amazing moment, this incredible collision of paths crossing and lives being shared in such a pure and authentic way, this jaw dropping, wisdom sharing, insight finding moment was completely ruined when Mr. Random shifted his attention from insight into life, to insight into my pants. All of the sudden it was, here’s my number, can I get you’re number, you’re amazingly attractive, do you think I’m attractive, let’s have coffee, let’s get a drink, when can I see you again? Whoa, whoa, whoa, slow your roll buddy.

Did I mention the gray hair!? My friend quickly intercepted and we bolted. Phew! Got out of that one alive.

Although Mr. Random was a little too random for my taste, I was able to hold on to what little wisdom he was able to spew out before falling pray to whatever it is all single men in LA fall pray to that makes them turn into complete morons (yes, harsh, I know). I have taken those words of wisdom and put them into a little compilation I like to call “Words of Wisdom by Mr. Random” (If you’re thinking “Deep Thoughts” by Jack Handley, I love you.)

A-hem. Cough. Cough. Like I was saying…….

Words of Wisdom by Mr. Random

(Hold on. I think I set this up all wrong because now you’re all waiting for more of my witty, sarcastic, painfully harsh humor and you’re going to take everything I’m about to say the wrong way. So let me back up and say that although this guy, now called Mr. Random, ended up on my “you’re total a duce bag” list, he didn’t start out that way and I’m thinking that his fourth glass of wine probably contributed to his unfortunate decline from Mr. Wisdom to Mr. Random. So with that said… I continue.)

Words of Wisdom by Mr. Random

“At any given time you can walk into a bar, see ten guys lined up and find maybe one who has the qualities you’re looking for. Or maybe none of them do. And if that’s the case, who cares? Move on. It’s not worth it.”

He went on to ask me what it is I’m looking for in a guy. I threw out a few noble characteristics; intelligent, responsible, grounded. He interrupted, “No you’re not. Women don’t go for that. Why is it that women always go for the bad ass, motorcycle riding guys who break their hearts? “I had to laugh at the irony of that statement. So I did. I laughed.

He continued, “Seriously, tell me about the guy you dated last.” I laughed even more when I had to tell him the truth, “Well, he’s a bad ass motorcycle rider who broke my heart.”

“See. I told you so!”

Thank you. Thank you, Captain Obvious!

How do even complete strangers know I’m an idiot when it comes to dating?

Anyway, I know that this guy said much more that I’d love to share with you but I was just distracted by a receipt that fell out of my bag with something scribbled in ball point pen, “Lane 949-232-….” And I’m reminded that Mr. Random, or Captain Obvious, or Mr. Wisdom, or whoever he was, has a name and it’s Lane. Actually, it’s Lanan or something like that, but he said to call him Lane. Which is humorous because when he first said it, I thought he said “lame”. Sure buddy, I’ll call you lame anytime.

Looking back in all that I have rambled on about, I realize that I started out telling you that I learned a ton of stuff in the most random ways and from the most random people today, and I didn’t really end up tell you much of what that incredible stuff was. And I don’t think I’m going to, because in all honesty, I’m still wrestling with the profound implications of it all. But if you just stop, and listen, tone down the ego and really listen, you’ll hear it.

At least, that’s what Mr. Random told me.

I am a hopeless romantic. I realized this at my niece's fourth birthday party last weekend. It was a princess party and she of course, was the princess. She had her frilly pink princess dress on with a hot pink tearra that said "Happy Birthday".
She is a gorgeous, beautiful little girl. She has porcelain white skin, wavy blond hair and the biggest, bluest, most adorable eyes I've ever seen. She has a goofy, innocent laugh and a smile that can make the grouchiest old man grin.

We didn't play "pin the tail on the donkey" but instead played "place the star on Tinkerbell's wand". She loves Tinkerbell, who coincidental is also a cute little blond girl, except that she can fly and there is this magical air about her. Which I suppose, is what draws any of us to her.

I was sitting across the table from my niece at lunch, just watching her. It made me smile ever so slightly and I chuckled a little bit at her silliness. She looked up at me, furrows her brow and with all the gusto a little girl can muster up she demands to know "What's so funny!?" Making me laugh harder and smile wider.

There is something captivating in that little girl's world that races straight to my heart and locks me in. Is it her innocence? Her pure assurance of happiness? Her giddy laughter that knows no end?

It causes me to question, where does that go? What happens to all that laughter? At what point did I put the silliness aside and declare life to be nothing more than a chore; a serious, straight faced chore?

"Auntie watch!" She exclaimed, interrupting my random train of deep, methodical questioning. It's really a form of self-torcher, these questions. I don't know why I do that to myself.

I looked up to see this little girl in her pink princess dress, hands placed purposefully on her hips, knees just slightly bent, shaking her butt in the air. And through the laughter she sings, "Shake your smarty pants! Shake, shake your smarty pants!"

I don't think I have laughed as hard as I laughed that day in a very long time. And driving home, on the loneliness of the open freeway, I realized that she has what I long for, what every girl longs for. The pure, hopeful, silliness that settles deep in the bottom of every girls heart. The purity that makes you believe in people simply because they are people and the human soul has value. The hopeful belief that life is not all bad and that dreams are seen through to fruition more often than not. The silliness that carries life on with meaning and joy and laughter.

Mondays are so tragic…

Today should just be eliminated altogether, just deleted from the annals of history, forgotten forever. Dramatic? Maybe. But it’s Monday, so it doesn’t count.

Top 10 Reasons why Monday shouldn’t count, at least, not this Monday:

10. Street sweeping day – I had to move my car by 8am, so I skipped my shower and came to work early in attempt to get my car off the street without another ticket. The list should just end right here.

9. Finance day at work – today is the day we all sit anxiously waiting for the counting team to tell us whether we’ve brought in enough money to cover payroll.

8. Counting team is late – so I get to sit here for an extra hour of waiting, filtering through thoughts like: will I be able to pay rent tomorrow? Do I get to keep my health care for one more month?

7. Financial advisor arrives – he too is miffed that the counting team is late, let’s me know that he’d like to cover payroll before paying Edison (thanks for that) and let’s me know that my new spreadsheet is brilliant (there’s a glimmering sparkle of silver).

6. Decisions – I get to make all these seemingly monumental financial decisions today. Before 10am I have already freaked out and can’t even decide where to go to lunch.

5. “Betty” arrives with her new little dog (names have been changed to protect the innocent) – “Betty”, our volunteer phone answer lady, comes in with her brand new little dog. Her doctor said she needed a companion, so she went out and spent $1700 on this little shit. Let me explain about “Betty”; she’s an aging, single, diabetic, overweight lady who lives across the street from the church. She has this wretched hacking cough and whenever anyone asks her how she’s doing, she always answers, “Oh I’m blessed.”

My mind takes a wild spin off the financial road and delves into the depths of a potential future I’d rather not consider: I don’t want to be “Betty”. Good Lord, I don’t want to be “Betty”. I don’t want my doctor to tell me that I need a companion and then have to shell out a thousand bucks for a shit smelling dog that I carry around in my purse. Dear God, don’t let me end up being “Betty”.

What if I end up like “Betty”? Or worse, “Miss Dorothy” – the old lady who’s never been married, but was engaged once and has like a bazillion cats in her house, and wears high heals with jogging pants and pearls. I don’t even like animals that much! What if I end up 50 and alone and the only companion I can find is a mangy pet who sheds and stinks and craps all over the place? Am I really going to end up like that? Did “Betty” and “Miss Dorothy” ever think they’d end up like that? That’s so terribly tragic.

Sorry, I lost track… where was I? Ah, reason number 4…

4. People are so very strange – I got a message from a man whose father died two years ago, saying they are going to burry him this Thursday. Really? He died TWO YEARS AGO and you’re going to have him buried THIS Thursday?

3. Two homeless guys vying for… whatever it is one vies for here.

2. Homeless guy number one – his flea infested dog trots fleas in all over the office and every time he comes within two feet of the front door I catch a drift of that dirty, nauseating dog smell that literally makes my stomach churn.

1. It’s not even 11am yet and already I’m starving, and broke, and … the final financial count has come in. It’s looking dim, my friends, dim.

And all of the sudden I jump out from behind my desk, dance across the office and burst into a rousing rendition of, “the sun will come out, tomorrow! Bet your bottom dollar that tomorrow…”

Love, Politics and Scrubs?

Love is a treacherous thing. And in this tragic life, is it ever found to be easy? Shakespeare pens lines like “the course of true love never did run smooth” and we quote it like we know something of it, like we know it enough to determine its way. I think if we knew it that clearly we wouldn’t struggle so much to follow its lead.

The brilliant Dr. Bob Kelso, of the even more brilliant sit-com Scrubs, says that “nothing in this life that’s worth having ever comes easily.” I think I actually cried watching that episode. Okay, maybe just teared up a little at the realization of what a profound truth that is. Had I not been interrupted by Dr. Dorien’s humorously gorgeous, well crafted, witty narration, I would have broken down and balled right then and there. Or not. We’ll really never know.

At any rate, life continues to prove this thought true. Take the recent “Unity” event in Unity, New Hampshire on Friday. Obama and Clinton, sharing the stage instead of battling over it, stumbling over lines like, “We look back at the votes cast here in the snows of January not as 107 votes for Hillary Clinton and 107 votes for me but as 214 votes for change in America.” I have to hand it to Obama’s speech writer; that was a good one.

Of course Clinton’s admonitions of Obama were just as well crafted (still not as well crafted as Dorien’s witty narrations); “Although we weren't able to shatter this highest, hardest glass ceiling this time, thanks to you, it's got about 18 million cracks in it, and the light is shining through like never before… it is this belief and optimism that Sen. Obama and I share, that has inspired so many millions of supporters to make their voices heard. So today, I am standing with Sen. Obama to say, 'Yes, we can.'"

I’m almost positive there is a SNL skit in there somewhere.

Clinton, though was not about to lose her own dearest supporters, "To all those who voted for me… you have inspired and touched me. You have humbled me with your commitment… eighteen million of you from all walks of life -- women, and men, young and old, Latino and Asian, African-American and Caucasian, rich and poor, middle-class, gay and straight ... you have stood with me," she said.

Well done, Clinton! Way to reach out to the working class, straight, white men. (Remind me not to use her speech on my next date.)

What does this have to do with anything? You ask. Well, for one, you have to agree that it’s tragic; a black male and a white female, both fighting to become the first “whatever” president of the US – someone’s pride will inevitably be laid out for all of America to shred. At least it was Hillary’s; she has to be used to that by now. And, they say, she’s handling it well (I’ve heard that somewhere before), “I think she's making a good stand down. She's a lady. She's doing it well."

Putting personal bias aside, I realize that at the end of the day, this has to be tough on her. For all intents and purposes, I’m sure she believes and is at least partially baffled by the fact that she wasn’t the one chosen. After all, she has all the makings of a great president – she’s been in the White House for some time now, her family heritage runs long in the political scene, she’s been on stage more often than not. She’s there, she had it, she should have been it! And all of America rises to say, “Really, you’re the best VP and we’d love to see you fill that spot. But Obama’s running for our heart.”

And with that, she pulls herself together, puts on her best political smile and says, “We may have started on separate paths ... today our hearts are set on the same destination for America ... to elect Barack Obama as the next president of the United States. We are one party; we are one America.” Whether she meant that or not, it had to be hard to say out loud.

So maybe it is true, that nothing in this life that’s worth having ever comes easily. Clinton can still make it to the White House. It might mean riding on the coat tails of Obama for the next eight years, but if she sticks it out, her day will come. Maybe that’s what we’re all waiting for – our day to come. And for some, like Hillary, we find our tune best sung by 3 Doors Down – “It’s Not My Time” – and find comfort in the driving, danceable rhythm.

… And besides, there’s always McCain!

The Rambler

I'm supposed to sit here for an hour and write; write anything, anything at all. I just wasted the first five minutes staring at the most daunting white screen I've ever seen. The evening breeze carried the sound of my neighbors TV; the sound twirled through the window curtains and into my ears. It's a nice evening here; much cooler than the previous week. The birds are chirping like it's five o'clock in the morning. I hear the sound of cars driving off in the distance. The birds have gotten louder. The neighbor's TV is getting louder, too. I turned off my phone to eliminate distractions but all I can do is sit here and wonder if anyone is trying to call me right now. Speaking of distractions, I opened the shades before sitting down to write and as I look out the window now I am distracted by a lady walking down the street. She's in an odd hurry. My neighbor across the street is standing out in front of her house wearing bright pink pants. How embarrassing.

I decided it was a good time to start another paragraph. The headlights of cars driving down my street are peering into the window. I pause as they pass, wondering who is in them and where they are going. I can hear another car pulling up but I can't see who it is. Maybe it's my knight in shining armor, here to sweep me off my feet. Probably not. Even if it was, I would have to walk downstairs and unlock the gate for him. Then walk all the way back up the stairs so I can act surprised when he shows up on my doorstep. It kind of kills the moment really.

The birds are still chirping, the cars still driving by, the sound from the neighbors TV has faded. The family living below me is banging around in the kitchen; I can here cupboards opening and slamming closed, dishing being moved from one place to another. Looking out of my window I can see kids running out of the house across the street from me; the one where the woman in the hot pink pants was standing earlier. I wonder what the kids had been doing inside all this time, and why did they choose to come outside now? Someone else just came out of that house, walked to the car and is driving away now. I wonder just how many people live in that house. It's a big house, but I guess not so big with that many people inside.

Another car just sped by, this one with the bass booming so loud it set off a car alarm of a car that was parked on the side of the road. Finally someone came out to turn off the alarm. A young Mexican couple are pushing a stroller down the sidewalk. I really just assumed they are young. I couldn't actually see them that well to guess their age. It didn't really take much to guess that they were Mexican though. Pretty much everyone in the neighborhood is Mexican. Except me and the lady across the street in the hot pink pants. She's Asian. I'm not. I'm white, I'm very white.

I can't believe I'm still writing. It's been eleven minutes and I'm still rambling. I can't believe some people get paid to do this. To write, I mean, not to ramble. Although some writers really do just ramble and they get paid for it. Why do people read that stuff, the rambling? I am writing the rambling and I don't even want to re-read my own work. Not that I consider this work of any sort. Maybe I should call it "the rambling". Very creative, yes, that's me. Creative. The creative rambler. Not a bad pen name if I don't say so myself.

I just went back and re-read what I have written so far and I find myself strangely intrigued. "What's she going to write next?"  I ask myself in third person with intense anticipation, "She's got me on the edge of my seat! I just can't handle the suspense! Oh for the love of God would you please write something! Anything! Hurry! Hurry! I'm dying here!"

The odd thing about rambling is that the reader doesn't want to stop reading because they truly have no idea where this is going; one thought is not connected to the next, nor the next, and at any given moment the rambler could write something incredibly insightful like "the birds are chirping louder now." And you wouldn't want to miss that line. That's a key line really. By the way, the birds are definitely chirping louder now.

Don't worry, my friend, I only have thirty three more minutes of rambling before the madness ends.

The sun has just about set now. I see more of my own reflection when I look out the window than I see what's really out there. That's an insightful though, isn't it? Of course, I'm not going to expound on that one. I'd rather ramble about things like chirping birds. God damn it they won't stop!

I can smell the smoke from my downstairs neighbors. They smoke in strategic spots of the backyard, like in the far corner on the other side of the garage. I guess they forget smoke isn't stationary. I don't suppose they care that the smoke rises and drifts into my apartment, into my nostrils, into my lungs and is slowly killing me. I am sitting here in my apartment slowly dying. You are reading my slowly dying words. Not that the word are slowly dying, but I am, and at the same time I'm writing. I am writing while I am slowly dying and you are reading the words that I am writing… as I am slowly dying. Second hand smoke kills. Cough. Cough.

Control – S. Whew. Wouldn't want to loose this document! That was a close call. Nice save, creative rambler. I like your moves.

I hear crickets now. The birds have stopped chirping. I hear a dog barking somewhere off in the distance. And I'm wondering again if anyone is trying to call me right now. That's an odd thing to wonder though because no one really ever calls me, at least not at this time on an evening when I don't have plans with anyone. My call list today included one person, and that was my boss. Sad times, my friend.

I just heard one of my downstairs neighbors laugh. He's an odd fellow. I wonder what he's laughing at. Sounds like his TV is on; he was probably laughing at something on TV. I wonder how often he has heard me laugh. I do that a lot, laugh at something on TV. And I almost always wonder if anyone heard me laugh. I only wonder that when I'm alone though because obviously if I'm watching TV with someone, they definitely hear me laugh. Unless they are deaf but I don't know any deaf people so that doesn't really apply to me.

The sun has completely set now and all I can see when I look out the window is my own reflection, and the street light. I can hear an airplane flying somewhere up high in the sky. From my front porch you watch planes fly into the LAX airport. One of my favorite things to do is stand out there at night with a cup of hot chocolate and watch the airplanes fly in. I wonder who the passengers are; are they coming home? Are they visiting someone here? Are they on a business trip? Maybe someone in their family died and they are flying in for a funeral. Is it a sad trip or a happy one? My mind drifts into who they could be, what they might be here for, and so on, as the breeze floats on and the crickets still chirp. It always makes me smile.

Although I am seventeen minutes away from fulfilling my hour long ramble session, I am already thinking of a clever way to end it. I'll probably write something like… Well folks, sixty minutes, one thousand-three hundred-seventy two words, one huge glass of iced coffee, and one trip to the bathroom later, I am officially ending this creative rant. Our together is coming to a close. I'd like to thank you for sticking with me and reading all this. I apologize for the time you wasted reading all of this. I need to go check my phone messages now to see how many people didn't call me in the last hour while my phone was off.

Okay, well I probably won't end this that way because now I've blown my big ending by letting you read it before my sixty minutes are actually up. I always blow the big endings that way. It's kind of a let down, much like having to go unlock the front gate for prince charming and then pretending to be surprised when he makes it to my doorstep. Very disappointing.

I don't think I'm going to make the last twelve minutes of this sixty minute stretch. Some would argue that I've come this far, I can throw down another twelve minutes. Okay eleven minutes now. But I would argue that they don't know me; they don't know the natural quitter inside. That's unfortunate. They are about to be severely disillusioned by my sudden ……..

I just can't take it. Ten more minutes is just too much. I quit.

No joke, this is an actual article from TIME online. Awesome. You can check out the original post here:

http://time-blog.com/work_in_progress/2008/04/girls_who_go_to_church_work_ha.html

 

Girls who go to church work harder

Posted by Lisa Takeuchi Cullen | Comments (28) | Permalink | Trackbacks (0) | Email This

Growing up, I was made to go to church every week without fail. The experience left me with deep psychological scars. Here's one, according to a new study: having gone to church regularly apparently makes me work harder.

Researchers at the University of Georgia found that women who had attended religious services frequently (at least once a week) during childhood work about 80 additional hours per year when they are older. This effect is roughly equivalent to the impact on labor supply of an additional year of labor market experience.

A whole extra year! But at least I was raised a lazy Catholic. Worse off are my Protestant sisters:

Among Protestant women, the effect on annual hours worked of frequent religious participation when young is almost twice that amount.

Economics prof Ron Warren of Georgia's Terry College of Business, who conducted the study along with colleague Chris Cornwell and Terry alumna Karen Tinsley, a researcher in UGA's Housing and Demographics Research Center, speculates that

religious observance when young may give women a direction or "calling" to their personal conduct as adults, including a grea ter focus on market work. "Religious participation in childhood may instill a work ethic that is driven by early religious training, beliefs, or practice," he says.

And guilt. Don't forget the guilt.