Things To Do When You Are Four. Or More.

Stand on your head and your knee simultaneously, and wrap your hands behind your back.



Wear a fake nose and glasses.

Be a rhinocerousaraptor.

Make your tongue go purple.

Huckabuck.

In other words, don't stop. Don't stop being a goober. Don't stop being ridiculous. Don't stop being who you were when you were four. Or forty.

Don't forget the important skills you had. Practice them daily.

It takes dedication to be a kid!

(Much thanks to family and friends for the timely illustrations in this post.)

Dear Dr. Pierce

Dear Dr. Pierce,

I could not help but notice your sign prominently displayed at the Butte Montana "World Museum of Mining" which I was fortunate to experience this summer.

It appears that you are offering a reward in the amount of five hundred United States dollars for women who cannot be cured of female weakness.

I find this intriguing.

Are you interested in offering said reward in order to have the opportunity to study the unfortunate women who cannot be cured of female weakness for the purposes of professional inquiry or scientific exploration? Or are you proposing a clinical study of some new and amazing drug which offers the possibility of a cure for women who, up to this point, have been unable to be cured of said weakness and require a number of study patients in order to begin?

Perhaps you are suggesting that female weakness has some sort of interesting properties in and of itself, which, with further examination and perhaps some moderate adjustment, would be a suitable remedy for another type of affliction? Or an alternate source of energy, as in solar or bioenergy sources currently being explored? Perhaps you are seeking to harvest said weakness as a raw material for some future enterprise?

The illustration connected with your notice seems to suggest that women who cannot be cured of female weakness are demure, rosy cheeked, small waisted, and somewhere between the ages of 14 and 24.

I would like to note at this point that, although I am not demure, rosy cheeked, small waisted or anywhere near the ages of 14 and 24, I might be a suitable candidate for your inquiries.

You see, I am loaded with female weaknesses which, I fear, are irrefutably fused into my psyche and likely intertwined beyond any possibility of extraction. Allow me to enumerate them for your edification:

Female weakness number ONE: If I see a child in danger of falling off a shopping cart, dumping a large quantity of groceries on its head, running into the street, or in general being unsafe or obnoxious, I am most certainly prone to interception. Furthermore, if I am driving a car in which a child between the ages of one and fifty-seven is a passenger, and we are obligated to come to a sudden stop, I will most certainly do the "mom seatbelt maneuver" in which I throw my outstretched right arm over the torso of my passenger, despite knowing that my arm will not keep them from flying through the windshield.

Female weakness number TWO: Puppies. Strays. Also babies, kittens, baby guinea pigs, ducklings, chicks, rabbits, lambs, ponies, fawns, kits, and baby humpbacks. Orphans. And, oddly enough, baby bok choy.

Female weakness number THREE: Chocolate. Please do not assume that my placid behavior would prevent my ripping off your arm should you try to remove a milk chocolate bar from my grasp.

Female weakness number FOUR: A kind man holding flowers. Or chocolates, which he is about to hand over to me. Or a vaccuum cleaner, which he is not going to hand over to me. Or a mop. Or a spatula.

Female weakness number FIVE: Sex. Preferably with the honest and monogamous object of female weakness number four.

Female weakness number SIX: A bargain. Or a pair of jeans that do not make my butt look big.

Female weakness number SEVEN: A good cry. Not the kind that you have to do by yourself in the bathroom because you are embarrassed or angry or know that you really don't have a good reason but you want to anyway so there. No, I am talking about the good cry at the last five minutes of "When Harry Met Sally" or "Field of Dreams" or the time when you finally got a glimpse of tenderness from that one person that you know has always loved you but been too much of a schmuck to let it out.

Female weakness number EIGHT: Hope. For peace on earth, an end to poverty, justice for everyone, a fair shake, clean air, green gardens, and a pair of panty hose that don't make you sweat down there like a horse.

Female weakness number NINE: Candor. Don't try to pass any cowpies by me. All females, sooner or later, can smell it coming, and will tell you so.

Female weakness number TEN: An uncanny ability to love, despite. Despite evidence to the contrary, despite unrequited affection, despite flaws looming larger than Mount Everest. This is why Beauty loves the Beast, Jane Eyre loves Mr. Rochester, Fiona loves Shrek. We do love. We do it very well.

So now that I have innumerated the ten most glaring examples of my female weakness, and that of women in general, I hope that you are a wealthy man, Dr. Pierce.

Because if there were justice in this world, every woman would be lining up at your establishment for their just reward - $500 for being pretty much fabulous.

I eagerly await your reply, demonstrating female weakness number ELEVEN: Patience with men.

Yours Very Truly,

Karen Nelson

Olympic Gold

I'm watching the 2012 Olympic opening ceremonies and I can't help but make a correlation between it and heaven.

Why? Simple.

Everybody's invited.

I am watching all these young athletes from countries all over the world. The nations may be ticked off at each other, with sanctions and embargos and broken treaties and murmurings of war, yet here they come anyway. Blondes, brunettes, redheads, some with shaved heads, men, women, slim, hefty, built for speed, built for strength, tiny, huge, wearing hats, wearing turbans, bareheaded, some with scarves covering their heads; whites, blacks, Asian, European, Arabic, islanders and desert dwellers, every tribe and nation is here. And they all are doing the same thing - marching in, smiling, waving at the crowd, hugging each other, laughing, taking pictures of each other, eyes wide to catch every magic moment.

I know there are a lot of politics associated with the games. I am not that naive to think that there isn't a lot of complicated stuff just off the screen. But I think we are all glued to the televisions tonight not just because of national pride, or love of sports. I think when we watch things like this, or for the few of us lucky enough, attend them in person, we are remembering something that hasn't happened yet, but is familiar nonetheless, because its in our blood, our bones, our souls.

I think, for all the sin and shame with which we've covered ourselves on this little world, we are still hopefully remembering the place we were made for, where nobody is like anybody else, and all of us are exactly the same.

Maybe we all fantasize being Olympians a little bit because we all somehow remember what heaven is about. At least I do. I want a shot at that parade. I will be waving my little flag and smiling.

Hold Any Snakes Lately?

Mark 16:18
Today's New International Version (TNIV)
"...they will pick up snakes with their hands; and when they drink deadly poison, it will not hurt them at all; they will place their hands on sick people, and they will get well.”



This passage in the New Testament has been quoted many, many times to point out the protection that Jesus gives his followers. "Look," people say, "this says you can even pick up a nasty old snake and not get hurt! You can drink poison and not die! Jesus is Lord!"

But what about the responsibility of the hand holding the snake? Or the lips about to take the poison?

I know from years of being in the company of domestic animals that the one thing we humans are not particularly good at is being gentle. We move fast, we demand obedience, we put leashes on our dogs and briskly lead them exactly where we want to go. We declaw cats and debeak birds. When we hike, we don't walk softly as the deer; we crunch along the gravel or the beds of leaves with industriousness, because we have somewhere to go -- we are headed towards the top of the mountain, the bend in the river, the peak that must be conquered. We are the only animal from which all other animals know to run away. And why is that?

Because we are not gentle. We don't take time to wait, to listen, to sit with and to be observed ourselves. We are too busy making tracks, making points, making waves.

I'm not saying that our creativity and industry is wrong; I just believe its not everything.

Think about it. How gently would you have to approach a snake to not alarm it? How tenderly would you have to hold it to not generate fear? How long would you have to be still in order for it to relax into the warmth of your hand? How quietly would you have to breathe in order to sit with such a silent creature, which only has a hiss with which to warn or cry?

I am a Christian. I do believe that Jesus is my Lord and I don't take lightly the privilege of being able to say that. But I also don't take lightly the privilege of not being the center of attention, of having to wait, to listen, to be quiet instead of being right. Holding the snake is almost certainly scarier for the snake than it is for me. I have a responsibility to be the type of person who can hold the snake - or the enemy, the sinner, the reprobate, the angry "other", the one who is not like me (or at least I don't see the resemblance)- in my hands as gently as I would hold a young and precious child. You know why? Because no matter how uncomfortable that snake makes me, it is a creation of God, as precious and irreplaceable in its originality as myself. Whether I like it or not, the "snakes" of my life still belong to God, and as such, are holy in their essence, even in this fallen world.

And as for that poison?

We worry so much that the world will stain us. That our rights will be taken away, that our values will be undermined, that our lives will be relegated to second class. That we will be poisoned by this world. It's ready to eat us alive, from the inside out. Doom, doom, doom.

Perhaps. But I doubt it.

It's not what goes in our mouths -- or our ears or eyes -- that poisons us in the end. It's not what others say to us, or even about us. It's what WE say, what injuries WE will not forgive, the flaws WE choose to point out in others because that's what WE are looking at. It's the lens we focus that determines whether we see deeply, or darkly, or turn the lens the wrong way round and burn the vision clean up, like an ant in the sun under a magnifying glass. I wonder how many people I have unknowingly burnt under my gaze. I am sorry for that.

Don't even ask me how many people have gotten better because my life touched them. I fear the number so small it may fall into negative digits.

And so, this is not a passage as a reassurance of protection. At least, not for me.

It's a commandment - hold the snake, and hold it with respect. Don't let the poison become part of your blood. When given the choice to heal or hurt, heal.

Be gentle. Let your hands be warm, and your heart be safe haven. It's a start.

When Beauty Is Defense (Against the Dark Arts)

Sometimes, like today, I feel overwhelmed by the enormous sadness in the world. I saw an article about someone who intentionally set a dog on fire. It died. I listened to the news about Syria. It's not getting any better over there; people are still being shot, the government is still lying to everyone. My niece posts pictures of children in Russia who are waiting in orphanages for someone to adopt them. I know I will not be the one to do that.

I feel very small and very helpless. If I were a really faithful Christian I would read my Bible and get some comfort from it. But even that doesn't seem to be of any help today.

The only thing that seems to help is finding some small beauty to remember. In this case, some wild flowers Rusty and I found on a walk some weeks ago.

The beauty of these flowers reminds me that we are not all there is in this world, our sin and cruelty and lost opportunities of grace. In fact, we are mostly not all there is in this world. Even though we spend most of our time thinking about what we do and what we want and who we are, there is a lot more to this world that us and our interests. It comforts me that the flowers don't know how to fix this world any more than I do, yet they still have their place in it. They are incapable of fighting off the evil that exists, but they are indominable in their ability to bloom in spite of it.

Today, on the drive home, I wept and apologized to the Lord for my lack of faith, and for the terrible things that happened today. For Syria. For the dog. For my own weakness and fearfulness when it makes itself known.

I didn't get an answer. But I did get this image, this memory of these flowers. And for all it's worth, it helped.

So I guess my thought for the moment is this - I am helpless and of little worth in the world, but so are the flowers on the side of the trail. Still they raise their heads, they do what they can. It's not enough.

And it is.

Exploding Yellow Elephants!

This morning, I was driving into work when I was treated to a lovely sight - a school bus, waving its stop signs like elephant ears, slowly coming to a stop, and then -- oh my!

Kids exploded out the doors like fireworks going off - boom! bam! whizz! - their arms wildly whirling, backpacks catapulted, shouts and cheers and thundering sneakers pounding the asphalt as they burst into the endless sky of their first day of freedom - summer vacation has arrived!

They flew out and scattered like pigeons, and the bus, now alone in the street, started its engine again. I watched the bus pull in its stop signs, slowly rumble down the street another 300 yards, then wave the signs again and coast to a stop. Another explosion, more shouts, more hilarity.

This continued for two more stops before I had to turn off and go my way. I might have been irritated to have to stop every thousand feet, were it not for the undiluted primal joy of watching freshly liberated humans exulting in their newfound paradise. With so much happiness spilling out of the yellow elephant bus, how could I do anything but laugh?

It's a good reminder.

Being freed takes time. You have to ride the bus of your old life for awhile, watch the others take their turns. Three more stops before you get to your stop. Or maybe twenty. You think about all the homework you've been doing. And now, it's done. But you're still here, on this bus. You begin to wonder sometimes if you'll ever get off. Maybe it'll turn around and take you back -- oh, perish the thought! And that thing that sits on your shoulders like a giant backpack, that weight of responsibility or guilt or shame or whatever - it hasn't moved all that much in a while. It has worn grooves into your shoulders. You have been sitting slouched in the same place with the same goofy and annoying others around you and your butt is sore and you're beginning to wonder if your feet will ever take you anywhere again.

Don't worry. Sooner or later, your turn is coming. Your turn to stand up, take those first wobbly steps down to solid ground, turn around, see where you were, take another step, take a deep breath, and then, with all the energy you have in you, throw that backpack up and away with a rebel yell. Watch it arc high up into the sky and then plummet back down, but not on you. You can throw it in the weeds and leave it be, to be grown over by grass until it's long forgotten. Maybe someone else will pick it up, but not as a burden, and certainly not as yours.

Summer is coming. No matter if you have to sit on the bus through your fall and your winter and even your spring, there is a summer.

There is always a summer. I have seen the yellow elephants testify the truth, and I know that it is so.

YEEHAW!

If You're Waiting

In the movies, at a critical plot moment the music swells, the cinamatographer pans dramatically across the skyline, and the protagonist gets The Sign, a message from the universe that moves him in the benevolent direction that the fates planned for him. In a novel, the hero gets in a serious pickle but by chapter twenty-two there has been some sort of revelation or cosmic twist that sets him off on a new path, not knowing where it will lead, but certainly knowing it is taking him somewhere of note, and by the end he will be wiser, funnier, more seasoned and much fuller of a human being than he was on page ten.

In music, someone steps into a bar, walks into a coffee shop, bumps into someone on the street, or looks over at the stoplight and finds the love of their life. Someone walks on the street where you live, or sings in the rain, or boogies on the dance floor and the whole world shifts.

But on a Monday in June in Seattle, it rains. No great shaft of light piercing the clouds, no thunderous proclamation from on high, no flower suddenly springing up at your feet with petals that fall and spell out "conquer the future".

Looking for a sign? Looking for the next Big Thing in your life? Looking for that Certain Something that gives you permission, clears the field, scans the horizon of your dreams and gives you the green light? Looking for the blessing of your aspirations and haven't found it yet? Think God isn't paying attention? He is.

Maybe this is it. Your sign. The one that says, take the risk of kindness, step out on faith, challenge yourself to a new way of welcoming goodness into your daily routine. The Thing that says you are loved, it's gonna be ok, and yes, there really is a reason you showed up and kept breathing today.

Maybe this is your sign.

So - get moving!