buyer's remorse

Ever since I was pressured into making a decision I was not quite ready to make, I have had what amounts to buyer's remorse. I try not to make snap decisions about anything except occasionally thrift store purchases since there is no way to keep them from getting sold, and the prices are so low that even I can risk ending up with something that may not fit. I can always put it back in one of those Goodwill bins with no harm done.

But decisions about the more intangible things are far more difficult to undo. If, hypothetically speaking, I were part of a team assigned a writing task and after some deliberation came up with workable words, this would be considered a good thing. If said workable words show promise as a framework for the task at hand, this would be even better. But what if the others become bored with the process or feel the need to hurry it along and as a result decide to vote even though it is merely a rough draft? And what if somehow the rough draft is deemed worthy of taking the place of a final piece of writing? What does one do when the unfinished project has just become the cornerstone upon which all else will be built?

One can send out frantic emails making requests that may or may not evoke a response. Another plan can be presented, but to no avail. It is over; the decision has been made.

But it is not finished, I protest. I entertain this conversation while I am driving to work. I sound angry so I try to adjust my tone. I think about a myriad of possibilities, none of which will be taken seriously. I wonder what will happen next. And though I would like to think there is still time to do something differently, in the pit of my stomach I know the truth. What began as a collaborative intellectual exercise that got my heart racing as I tried to identify phrases that would sound good and just the right words to communicate effectively, it all came to a screeching halt. A casualty of this experiment, I went into a free fall hoping for a soft landing. Instead I went splat on the cold hard pavement of "done."

It makes me think about some of the powerful documents of our time. I wonder how long it took the Founding Fathers to write the Declaration of Independence and how many drafts were needed to pen the Constitution. Did heated discussions ensue when one word was chosen over another word? Who received the inspiration for such literary genius and who was merely standing there holding a pen? At what point did someone recognize the need for the process to end? And who got to decide when that would be?

When I'm writing a prayer I know I am done when I cry. As narcissistic as it is for this to happen, it is my guide. I figure if I am not willing to be vulnerable enough to reveal my truest self, no one is going to feel anything either. Not looking for a way to manipulate, I get concerned with too much emotional honesty. But without that part of the equation, my writing would lack its essential quality. My intent is to coax the reader or listener to travel with me on my narrative quest to find whatever it is I am searching for. I do not want to disappoint by settling for a rough draft. Even if I have to edit, rewrite and edit a few more times, it is the way of the writer. It is the necessary and satisfying part of the process. It is what I go back and do with these blogs, even after I have published them. Another powerful way to enhance writing is by sleeping, allowing dreams and visions to fill in the gaps not forthcoming in the waking hours. What I do not know when my head hits the pillow may eventually find its way to me by the morning light. Writing has its own timing. It does not answer to me.

As for said hypothetical writing project, whatever words written hastily on that easel and strung together to accomplish a goal remain frozen in place, forced to represent what we had set out to communicate. But they were not done with their creative dance. They had not explored other rhythms. The night was young and they had barely begun to get to know one another. Surely there would be one more song; one more chance. Instead, the music ended and they were sent abruptly home. In a sort of limbo they exist, wondering what happened and trying to understand why their voices were silenced. Doomed to hang forever in their unsatisfactory, preliminary structure, they dream of what can never be. They long to be rewritten.

as I went down in the river to pray

In order to process the thoughts that run themselves ragged around in my head, I either wake up startled or have a dream that brings a certain measure of clarity to these rampant ideas gone wild. Last night I dreamed.

In the dream I was at a baptism. It was not a baptism of an infant in which the baby, wearing a white dress whether the child is a boy or a girl, receives water on his or her head, sprinkled by a pastor or priest. The parents are asked if they are willing to take on the spiritual responsibilities for their offspring until the child is of an accountable age. Those present, sitting in the chairs or pews, are then asked to offer their services in the raising of the child. It takes a village to raise a child. It takes a church to raise a child in faith.

According to my baby book, I was given the sacrament of baptism while in the arms of my 20-something parents at our home church on September 10, 1961, 19 days after I was born. My mother's parents were named godparents for this momentous occasion. I believe the idea at the time was that baptism was the protective measure necessary for qualification into the heavenly realms, just in case.

The occasion celebrated in the dream was, however, an adult baptism. Not the kind Baptist churches are known for with the baptismal font behind the altar and white robes reserved for those whose salvation experiences have led them to this decision. Nor was it the more contemporary version of this sort of baptism that is also held inside a church with a less formal baptismal. This was more of a horse trough baptism out in someone's backyard.

In some ways it reminded me of the thought process I went through before the baptism I experienced at the age of 21 after I decided to give my heart to Jesus and wanted to make my own decisions instead of relying on those made for me by my parents. Though I had a dramatic spiritual encounter while in college, I hesitated to run down to the Red Cedar River which meanders its way through the campus of Michigan State University to have a man of the cloth perform the rite of baptism there. It was an unconfirmed rumor that if one accidentally fell from a canoe or intentionally jumped into the Red Cedar River, a tetanus shot was strongly recommended. I found it amazing that baptisms were done there in light of this possibility. Perhaps my faith had not yet reached the level that could allow for such a risk.

By the time I had found myself in Colorado, I knew it was time to be baptized. The large, nondenominational church where I went held baptisms at a recreation center swimming pool. I had hoped for a natural body of water, like Lake Michigan in late August, but since none had been forthcoming, I decided to go ahead with the pool idea.

It is a tricky thing dressing appropriately for such an event as one's baptism. I've heard more than one embarrassing tale regarding the see-through nature of those white robes. But my church was so casual, swimsuits were actually encouraged. And I knew my swimsuit would be deemed acceptable since I had never worn anything but a one-piece, a modest one at that. I always needed as much sun protection as I could possibly get, especially since back then sunscreen had only reached a level 8.

What I remember more than anything was that even though I knew having a pastor dunk me in water had no significant properties in and of itself to effect any kind of spiritual manifestation, something unexplainable happened to me as I was coming up for air. My friend who came with me said I stood in the pool praying for a long time in comparison to the others who were quick to get out and wrap up in their towels. It was as if I went to another place--a place where my soul found peace.

Back to the gathering of people near that horse trough in the dream, I came to realize I had been invited to see others get baptized since I had no need to do this again. One by one those who had prepared to make this decision would come forward, say a few words about why it was important for them to make baptism a public sign of their faith and then go through with it. Though I did not recognize anyone there, I apparently had been invited by someone and felt that we shared a bond of faith.

As the pastor finished baptizing those who were planning on this event, he asked if anyone felt so moved to experience it also, followed by the predictable hushed silence. Just as he was about to pray to dismiss, a friend went forward to be baptized. When one has walked in the faith a long time and has considered a second baptism as somewhat disrespectful to those who came before, I was surprised to see my friend go forward. Not concerned with what was being worn or what would be worn afterward, my friend stepped into the trough. The joy on the face of someone being baptized is a sight to behold. For a moment afterward I could sense the vulnerability of my friend being uncomfortable in front of others, realizing what had just occurred. Without a thought for what I was wearing or what I would wear later, I too stepped forward and requested baptism.

As I reflected on this dream today, I hoped if a situation required it that I could do something selfless to bring comfort to another. I thought about how we say we want to walk with someone through darkness or pain but often are reluctant to get too close. We make time in our schedules as long as our needs are met first. We listen intently as long as we are not terribly inconvenienced. But in this dream, none of that mattered. The pastor conducting the baptism was going to stay for as long as it took. Those in attendance were going to keep on singing another verse to a song. What anyone looked like was not important. What mattered most was the condition of our hearts.

a time to dance--revisited

If I were able to revisit my much younger self, I sometimes think about what I would say to her. I wonder if I could say something that would prepare her for the events that will shape her life.

To celebrate Easter, I was going to run the short story I wrote several years ago about one of those life-changing events. I actually went as far as typing it, and then changed my mind. Instead of sharing the story, I need to write the review. And even though the ending has already been changed once, I sense another ending in the works.

My story begins as I am dancing on the steps of my small Catholic school, wearing my plaid uniform and dreaming of being swept away by a handsome prince. I loved the story of Cinderella and wanted so badly to be cast in the leading role. But every time I looked in the mirror, my deformed lip that I had since birth stood out as my predominant feature. It would not be until later in that first grade year that plastic surgery would be performed to remove the unsightly bump, becoming a traumatic event in itself as I was not sure my parents would come back to get me after leaving me at the hospital. I am not sure why I thought this. But I did.

My red hair drew unwanted attention and relentless teasing. To make matters worse, my hair was unevenly chopped off either because it was one of those times I ran out of the beauty shop before the lady had finished with it or my mother had cut it herself. In any case I was not at all pleased that it had to be so short. Freckles offered to add color to my fair complexion but did little to create the princess persona for which I was aiming.

As my story goes, I am approached by the most desirable girl in the class at recess. An awkward child with few friends, I could not understand why I would look up to see this popular girl standing before me. What is even more confusing is that she has come bearing a gift--a gift for me!

Because it is almost Easter, this girl wants to give me a small basket filled with jellybeans and chocolate eggs. I see this as a gesture of friendship. I accept the gift equating it to receiving an invitation to the ball at the castle with all of the beautiful people. I have arrived!

At recess I can't understand why my new friend wants nothing to do with me. Even at the age of six I needed to know the truth. When I finally ask her what her intentions are, she says, "I gave you the basket because my mother told me that we are supposed to give to the poor. I don't want to be your friend."

Memories are faulty and unreliable. And yet, I remember this event as though it happened yesterday. It shaped the way I would look at friendship. It made me aware that I was perceived to be on the wrong side of the haves and the have-nots. I still think about it before giving to someone in need, not wanting anyone to ever feel like I did on that day. Sometimes it makes it difficult for me to give at all.

As I recall, I started crying just as the bell was ringing and in order to not have my hands slapped with a ruler by the mean nun who stood by the door, I had to act as though I was fine and go back into the school. With all of the pretending I had to do just to survive my childhood, I may have excelled as an actor if I had ever found the courage to take an acting class. Thus the real-life event ended here.

Years later, after counseling to overcome what this one simple incident had done to me, I was sitting in my rocking chair praying for a different ending to this story when I saw myself reenter the story, get up from the sidewalk and instead of walking into the school, I walk into the church. One was as scary as the other. The church was dark since vines covered the large stained glass windows at the front and the lights were permanently on dim. The confessional booth was the absolute worst when it came to scary places. Afraid of the dark, I would confess every sin I could think of just hoping to escape.

As a new ending for my story, I see myself standing below the huge crucifix holding the basket of candy I was given and wondering how I am ever going to end up having a real friend. I think maybe I need to give a gift even though the offer of friendship was not that girl's intent. The story ends as I sense the love of God surrounding me. I see Jesus as alive instead of hanging on the cross. I am not alone.

What emerges as I think about another ending for this story today is the strong maternal instinct I have toward this sad, lonely little girl. I want to meet her on the sidewalk where she sits brokenhearted, take her by the hand and lead her back into that church, no longer a place of fear. I light candles and we sit together on the altar as she considers her gift, and I consider mine. Even though I know a whole lot more about life than she does, I am at a loss for words.

I want her to know that she has more to offer than a silly little basket filled with jellybeans and chocolate eggs and that her need to know the truth will never steer her in the wrong direction. I want her to see that being the princess is not the goal and that true beauty is more spiritual than physical. I want her to never doubt that she is loved, even though she will. Though she looks so small and helpless, she will persevere. She will learn to forgive. There will be a time for her to dance again.

Leaning toward her, I smooth her hair, help her pull up those blue knee socks and tie those ugly orthopedic shoes. I offer her a tissue to dry the tears flowing down her sweet, freckled face. And then I hold her . . . for as long as she needs. Because sometimes words are just not enough.

knowing

As a person of faith, I usually go about my life blithely aware that there is a plan for me, carefully mapped out by a supreme being who has my best interests in mind. All is well until I smack up against the idea of trust. I know that I am supposed to have full confidence in this idea, this plan, this larger-than-anything creator of the universe, but sometimes . . . I don't.

It is Holy Week and I've been busily being "holy" attending to my lenten sacrifice and following a daily devotional. But it is now Maundy Thursday and I don't like what happens next in the divine narrative.

I like to picture the Last Supper as a dinner party. Jesus has rounded up his best friends, well, his best guy friends, and they are to celebrate the Passover together. There is an abundance of wonderfully prepared food, perhaps prepared by women who are not mentioned in this recorded history, and the wine is flowing and cheerfully consumed. It is a time for conversation and laughter. The kind of event that friends look forward to and remember long afterward.

But then the festive mood becomes more somber when Jesus feels the need to share with the group that one of them is about to break with the fellowship. He decides to get deep and philosophical with the bread and the wine. And he borders on inappropriate and perhaps a bit too intimate with the whole foot washing bit. Friends, however, can open themselves to each other when there is a certain level of trust involved even when they do not totally understand. At this point I wonder if they are starting to realize something significant is about to happen. What bothers me is that they probably are not.

Like so many things that end up being disappointing, I wonder afterward if the outcome could have been different had I been briefed ahead of time. Is there an equation in which "more information" somehow equals "less disappointment?" Why do I always think knowing something ahead of time is going to give me an upper hand? So I can protect myself? So I can control my emotions--perhaps choosing to withdraw instead of commit? Is this what I do to eliminate the need to--yes, here it comes--TRUST?

Where does trust get me? I wonder if this is an idea that crossed the minds of the disciples as they saw their leader taken away: the man they lived with and loved; the one they left everything and everyone behind to follow with their whole hearts. Maybe they figured once Jesus defended himself in court, their lives would go back to normal. Everyone knew he was not guilty. But then he chose to remain silent. He chose to let those who wanted to get rid of him win. This group of men may have been as angry at Jesus as they were at those accusing him. How could they have put their trust in someone like this?

Before they could catch their breath from the series of events that would have seemed more dream-like than real given the intensity of each hour that followed that seder meal, Jesus' life was over. Left feeling more alone than they had perhaps ever felt, his disciples now had to grieve his shocking, seemingly senseless death. So afraid and filled with sorrow, they, save one, could not even go to the cross. That part was left to the women.

That trite phrase, "God doesn't give us more than we can handle," in all of its sickening sweetness, slips into my mind. YES, HE DOES!!! If he gave the very closest friends of Jesus way more than they could ever deal with, who am I to think that I deserve better? When I have no ability to understand, no more words to speak, and my mind has gone blank with a numbing sorrow, all I can do is drag my bag of fears, insecurities, anger, and every other sin that hinders me to the foot of the cross. And like those who came with nothing to offer a dying savior, I perceive in that moment of utter despair something like a whisper--a knowing. This "knowing" has nothing to do with logic or reasoning, explanations or even information I think I should have had prior to this occasion. It is the simple knowing: it is ok to trust.

a night off

I am often asked, "What will you do when the boys leave home?" as though my very existence is dependent upon their every need and my life is lived vicariously through them. I try to make a veiled attempt to come up with appropriate answers. But when it gets right down to it, unlike others who seem to resist being by themselves and fill the hours with various sound and activity, I actually enjoy being alone.

With Joel out of town for a soccer tournament as a guest player with his friend's team; Ariel with his girlfriend for most of the evening; Gabriel enjoying his life at college; and Lee in Raleigh in preparation for an early morning marathon; I had an opportunity to spend the night in any way I saw fit.

Knowing this was going to happen in advance, I could have arranged a girl's night out and took in a movie or had gone out to eat. I could have even gone out by myself as I used to do many years ago. When one takes a book to dinner, she does not dine alone.

I then considered watching movies at home--the chick flicks that I can sometimes persuade one of the boys to watch with me when it is just the two of us, though they usually will not permit me to watch them when I am in their presence. Seeing their mother cry is not on their list of favorite things to do.

But I had a refrigerator of leftovers clamoring to be combined, so I made a big pot of soup. I turned on Prairie Home Companion as they were talking about their upcoming 40th anniversary and realized I have been listening to that program for about 30 of those years. Not exactly a social butterfly, I used to spend my Saturday nights in my tiny apartment in the Capitol Hill neighborhood in Denver making dinner or baking cookies and listening to the radio show. I would then eat while listening to the news from Lake Wobegon, and though I did have friends who would try to lure me away from my solitary life, I often preferred staying home and being told stories that reminded me so much of my childhood, but in a better, funnier way. Besides, laughter is good for the soul whether one is spending the evening with Garrison Keillor or with others.

Once the soup was made and the next radio program came on, I briefly entertain the thought of taking in that movie. Maybe I can have a good cry since I am alone and no one would be the wiser. Maybe I should finish that book I am not really enjoying but am trudging through since I do not like to leave a book unread. Better yet, I could read something that will speak to my soul. I then consider a musical accompaniment. We so often have either the television, stereo or something on the computer providing some sort of background music to live our lives by. But the lovers of such things were all out of the house, leaving me who prefers silence!

Taking the dog out into the night, I suddenly wished I were at the beach, sitting in my portable chair and looking up at the stars. With no schedule for days, I would feel the sea breeze as my mind wandered out beyond the confines of daily living into the arms of an awaiting universe. The wind, stars, Spirit of the living God would all be singing their gentle songs to me, beckoning me to find rest. The best part about being alone is that I never really am.

the whelming flood

His oath, his covenant, his blood,
Support me in the whelming flood;
When all around my soul gives way,
He then is all my hope and stay.

(My hope is built on nothing less, by Edward Mote, 1837)

I hadn't been thinking about this old hymn, the new Noah movie, or any number of flood-related metaphors when I had a vivid dream the other night. "Whelming flood," a phrase I remembered from this old song, however, describes it quite well.

Being more realistic than it has a right to be, it was one of those dreams that will stick with me awhile, as my subconscious makes an attempt to give it meaning before it is safely filed away in my memory.

The dream begins with the promise of food and fellowship, and though I am only able to identify one friend around a long wooden table, the others who have gathered have kind faces. It feels like the type of dinner one has at the end of a retreat after laughter and tears accompany the stories told about our journeys through life. And with the emotional energy it takes for prayer and reflection, a hearty meal is a welcomed treat. Though I do not see or smell the food in the room, I am certain it is about to be offered to us. I await it in eager anticipation.

I find a place to sit at the end of a bench seat in this basement room, no doubt in a church, and revel in the idea of all being invited to the table, a concept I have considered often. And there we all are--all different yet all united within this common bond of love we have one for another.

As some talk quietly among themselves, an older woman sitting next to me asks if I am ready for my feet to get wet. She smiles with a knowing look as if I am supposed to know what she is talking about. I have no idea. Because we are in a basement room I suddenly notice a large storm drain a few inches from my feet and wonder if water will somehow back up and flood the floor. Surely we would not be made to endure something so uncomfortable in the midst of this grand occasion.

A woman, standing at the head of the table, about to give the blessing and instructions about proceeding with the meal, calmly tells us we should put our heads down, preferably under the table. I watch the others do this without question. I am beginning to feel more than a little unsettled. I hear a loud rumbling sound coming from outside the window. It is dark and the large window near the ceiling of this room reveals no more than our leader has. As I begin to sense that something other than dinner is about to be served, I can hear the glass breaking as a powerful wave of water rushes at us with an overwhelming force.

My last thought is, "Why hadn't someone told me what to expect?"

Funny thing about dreams is that they often have absolutely nothing to do with our reality. Never mind the elder retreat held in our church hall that I just attended; the dinner around a table with those I do not know well; the group exercise led by a woman who guided us through a process giving us only one piece of information at a time; my status as a newly ordained elder "getting my feet wet" as I am at times overwhelmed by the flood of information I am supposed to make immediate decisions on and not ever knowing what to expect at the next session meeting. Any semblance this dream may have to my real life is purely coincidental.

my name is not melanie

My name is not Melanie. It never has been or has ever wanted to be. I would have been named Debbie if my famous namesake, Debbie Reynolds, had not gotten a divorce, which turned my mother against the idea of naming me after her. So since I could not be named Jeffrey James, for obvious reasons, I was named after my mother's grandmother, Mary, and not after the Virgin Mary as some have assumed since I did grow up in a Catholic household. Of course this gave my devoted Catholic mother a legitimate reason to name me Mary, just in case my father's Protestant relatives were wondering. The Ellen part is an attempt to name me in some way after my father whose middle name is Allen.

It would not be until I started school that I was called anything but Mary. Because it was 1966 and Mary was a popular name, there were five little Marys which presented a problem for me and my need for an independent identity. I decided then and there that I could not possibly go through life as Mary Tate, or Mary T. as called by the teacher taking roll. To me my name was about as exciting as Jane Doe. So I suggested that the teacher call me Mary Ellen and though in the future I would have to endure, "Good Night, Mary Ellen . . . John Boy. . . Jim Bob . . . ,"  it seemed to be a better choice.

By the time I got to college, the nicknames began. M. E. was the most popular. Tate also worked until it evolved into Tater. A farm girl with freckles who liked to go barefoot could not possibly be helped by being called Tater. A wonderful graduate student who thought I looked like Meryl Streep called me Meryl, while a close guy friend whom I should never have dated called me Merlin. I think by this time each person I knew felt a responsibility to come up with his/her own name to call me. It gave them all a challenge.

The tricky thing about nicknames is that when one creates a term of endearment, it can be awkward if others try to use it. When my mother attempted to call me Melba, the nickname coined by my friend, Tia, I had to put a stop to it. Of course my mother may have been trying to get my attention since she decided once I became an adult I should call her Mother instead of Mama, like I have been doing ever since I can remember. She even started calling me Mary Ellen instead of Mary perhaps to emphasize the point that even she could change. I didn't buy it.

As I entered my young adult years and had moved away from the people who knew me by whatever name they had decided to call me, I thought at one point of referring to myself only as Ellen. There are not nearly as many Ellens running around as there are Marys. (Of course there is now one on television who is always dancing.) The name Ellen seems to stand on its own, unlike Mary which always seems to have another name attached to it. If I had gone with the name Ellen, someone undoubtedly would have started calling me E. T. and though I tend to be a bit otherworldly at times, I'm not sure being compared to a strange-looking creature would have reduced my insecure tendencies.  

I have possibly been called all of the following more than once: Mary Ann, Mary Kay, Mary Sue, Mary Lou, Mary Beth, Mary Alice, Mary Frances, Mary Jane, Mary Helen, and Sue Ellen. I've also been mistaken for other people quite frequently but that is a whole other story. My twin goes to the local synagogue I am told. I wonder what her name is.

In recent years I have been called Melanie probably more than any other name that is not mine. It is unfortunate that there is a woman with the same married name as me who actually has this name--unfortunate for me, not her. We used to go to the same church. I could never understand why when there were at least four or five Melanies and only ONE Mary Ellen that I would be called Melanie. I still don't.

So today, when a very sweet woman, excited to see me and hug me, exclaimed, "Melanie!" my heart sort of sank a little. When I corrected her, like I usually do, she said she was close. She wasn't.