Day Six or Our First Day

Although it was the sixth day into our trip and although we had arrived at Fundacion Para Amar two days earlier, Day Five was our first full day of work at the Home.

We awoke early enough to walk with the girls to school. And three of us rode with Jessica, a deaf and mute girl at the home to her school where she would live for the week. It was a little sad to have to say goodbye to one of the girls already. She had been the second child we met, hanging around the stairs up to our apartments and then clinging to Rodrigo (Viviana's husband) when we found her. We were consoled because we knew she would return on Thursday for the girls' birthday party (it was Monday).

I wondered how the girls would react walking to school with a bunch of Tias and Tios. I remembered the kids from my elementary school who went to a Home as well. Everyone knew who they were and they didn't have a lot of friends because they smelled different, looked different and had lice. But the girls (after a greeting of kisses) had already found their favorite Tias and Tios and slipped their hands into ours and we headed down the block to school. I walked with a middle school aged girl named Rebecca and carefully monitored her reaction to me. She called out to a friend getting off the bus and hand in hand they walked in front of me toward the school. We crossed at the walk together and when we arrived she kissed me good-bye, as did her friend, and bid me good-bye as did who friend who looked sort of jealous of our relationship.


(picture from later in the week)

Maybe it's cool to have a bunch of Americans walk you to school, even as a teenager. Who knows.

Several of the girls didn't go to school at all though because their teachers were on strike. Not getting paid enough or something, who knows. So after we return from the short jaunts to schools and had our breakfast, as we began our work we were often spied upon by a little nina or two.


(our dinner table)

Our jobs were as follows:
1. Paint the fence
2. Paint the storage closet
3. Beautiful the study room

Piece of cake! I thought when Viviana told me. But each job proved to be more challenging than I first anticipated.

The fence painters had to first scrape off with a metal brush the old paint chips. And there's four sides of each tall skinny pole to paint black. And you can only paint when it's dry and sunny... riiiight.





The storage closet people had to first remove every book, paper, phamphet, toothpaste bottle and piece of trash from a closet that was probably 8x8 feet wide. That took several hours. Then they had to sand the shelves and clean them. Then finally paint. Probably 50 shelves and each of the four posts around them. Whoa!





And the study room people got to do the fun stuff. Those studying to be teachers got to make initial plans for the room. Then they left to buy supplies while others began washing walls (which would be polished), moving huge furniture items to the hall, sanding tables (which would be painted) and cleaning out the room.





We broke from these jobs around 1pm to clean up. During this process, Glenn, Grant and I discovered that we had been painting with corrosion-free black paint which would not come out of our brushes or off of our hands.

"Find Steve."

After some question and answer sessions with the Tio Carlos the custodian and Tio Jaime the business manager, we finally got some paint remover stuff to begin washing... and washing... and washing our hands.

We were late to lunch.

But at least our hands were no longer Black. All. Over.

That afternoon we piled into two cars and headed out to Mapuche land again. This time (now in sunshine) we visited a religious site where they have ceremonies and religious festivals. Here is the god(?) who stands in the middle of the big open field.





From there we squeezed back into our cars and headed to the Temuco market to shop. That was fun and reminded me of all the shopping malls anywhere overseas. Name a country and I've been in a little shopping pavilion like that. Lots of touristy things for cheap and you have to haggle for your prices. I picked up a couple of small gifts for my sister though. And a little wooden Tea holder. I really wanted a sheep fur rug but didn't want to fork over the money for it. But it was SO SOFT!

We were late to dinner that night and Tia Ceci was not happy with us. I don't know what Steve said to her but he apparently smoothed things over.

That night we gathered, a little poorer than the night before, and had our next devo. Meredith led with some questions about community. And I kind of started to push back on the students. Several of them talked about their churches and where they are now and Christians versus non-Christians and what community looks like with different people. I realized I have had very different experiences with community than most of these students. And that was weird. By this fifth night of devos I was having fun just being in a community myself. So often I've leading the bible study or discussion or am at "work" where I have to behave and monitor what I say, but with these students and Steve, I was safe, so I felt comfortable talking. That was an amazing feeling. Gosh it was fun just talking and throwing out ideas and discussing things as a group where I was just one of a crowd. It made me realize how much I miss being in a small group or bible study of my own apart from my role as Minister at the church.

Day Five: This Is the Day the Lord Has Made

Sunday morning started early with a breakfast of white bread, butter, jam, cheese slices, meat slices (ew!), eggs and tea. We did not yet know that this would be our regular morning meal and that this was the beginning of all the white bread I ever want to consume in my life. But Tia Cecelia came in special Sunday morning to make it for us, so we were grateful.

Afterwards we gathered with the children for church. We piled into a bus that they had rented (still not enough to seat 23 girls, 12 North Americans, 2 Germans, a driver, and a handful of Tias. So we sat on laps and stood up and scrunched in for the hour drive to Mapuche land.



I read about the Mapuche people in my Chile guidebook. They are comparable to our American Indians in that they were here first and of course the European, Peruvian and Argentinian settlers came in and eventually won the land and developed it. Now the Chilean government allots land and a small allowance to the poverty stricken Mapuche people who are generally looked down upon by the upper class. For example, one girl at the home is Mapuche by birth but was punished in school if she spoke Mapuche and is now ashamed of her heritage. Awful.

In planning the trip to Chile with Raquel, the President of UBACH (Chilean Baptist Convention) I had requested a visit to an indigenous church, not an FBC America transplanted in Chile. She was thrilled and spoke with Viviana at the home. We ended up being invited to a small Mapuche church about an hour outside of Temuco where the church honored the children's home on their 55th anniversary. The children sang a song and Viviana spoke a lot.



The men and women's equivalent of our WMU each spoke as well and presented gifts (monetary) to the Children's Home. We sang Spanish songs to a guitar and keyboard and finally the pastor preached on the Good Samaritan.

Consequently, it felt more like an awards ceremony than a church service, but it was beautiful seeing the man who had travelled all day to come to this small church to see the leaders of the children's home and the girls themselves and present money his men's group had spent all summer raising from out of their own poor pockets. And we loved listening to the girls' choir perform. I got the impression that the church's natural look would have still reflected a western service had we not been there and that was challenging to observe. Western Missionary fingerprints were all over that church.

But so were the fingerprints of the Mapuche people themselves. I sat next to a man at lunch who is the father of the current pastor. He built that church with his own hands. And while we ate (and Steve translated) he taught us (and Steve!) Mapuche words. And we taught him English ones.



The dinner was extraordinary and was prepared in honor of the celebration of the Children's Home. Unfortunately the night before (as I mentioned before) there had been hard rains and the Mapuche realized their water sources had all been cantaminated. I kid you not, two people who lived several miles away WALKED IN enough jugs of water to cook for the 41 of us, the 10 other Baptist visitors and the regular members of the Mapuche congregation. They walked in water to feed around 75 people.



Amazing.

Unfortunately the dinner was horse. As in Mr. Ed, Black Beauty and the likes. I am not lying to you. I knew this ahead of time as Viviana had warned me and left it to my discretion to tell my students. However one of them overheard and not being of the keep-it-to-yourself sort of girl, she promptly informed everyone before we boarded the bus. Great. But I planted myself next to a hearty American boy and passed the meat from my stew on to him and just ate the potatoes and squash. This was a feast for our new friends.



After lunch, because we couldn't travel through the mud in the bus to visit the indigenous, traditional homes of the Mapuche people, one couple let us carry them back to their land (more people on the bus!) where they let us walk around and see a now raging creek and the bridge their children had built years earlier. It was beautiful countryside. In return, the North Americans sang Amazing Grace at the request of the Choir Tia for the Mapuche couple. It seemed to be appreciated.





After most of us snoozing (while the girls used our cameras to take pictures of each other) on the way home we arrived in time for dinner (white bread, jam, etc.) and then headed up to our dorm rooms for another devo. David (our children's minister's son) led and read to us from Ezekiel 34:1-16. He spoke about his expectations and asked us to reflect on ours as well. He nailed our reason for being in Chile at that home when he said, "I expected to come here to take care of people and instead I'm coming to join the flock." The Mission Trip I planned was designed for us to be extra helping hands to a hard-working Christian social justice outreach. We can do what they don't have time or sometimes money to do. We were there to provide relief and encouragement to the God's workers by giving them time off or at least hopefully alleviating some stress by entertaining the girls in the afternoons. We were there to play with and love on God's little girls. We were there to work where God was already at work. And David understood that. "God takes care of people," I wrote in my journal, "and we are joining who God is already taking care of..."

Chile: Day Four or Day Is Done, Gone the Sun

On the morning of our flight out of Santiago and on to Temuco, Steve argued that we had time to visit Santiago's cathedral before we headed to the airport. So, sure enough, I complied and our Shalom amigos (Julian and Freddy) dropped us off back downtown to view the inside of this beautiful cathedral. I asked my students to take in their journals and spend not only some time admiring all the art and craftsmanship, but to also meditate and prepare for our day ahead.






The cathedral was beautiful and I spent some time writing on thankfulness.

After yelling and hollering and threatening that if they bought one more postcard they would miss our flight, everyone was back on the bus and headed to the airport.

The flight to Temuco was short and not in a puddle hopper which I think everyone was grateful for. I've flown in some real doozies overseas and so it was nice to be in a stable aircraft. After landing and searching for our bags we met Jaime, the first member of the Fundacion Team.

He spoke no English.

Thank God for Steve.

Outside, we met Viviana, the director of the children's home. And after explaining to each other that neither of us spoke much of the other's native language we began the long haul of stuffing twelve people (and three adults from the Fundacion Para Amar) into two vehicles. Little did we know that this trip would merely foreshadow many more to come.

Three minutes down the road, we stopped. Now, I need to explain a little something about dynamics in our group and some jokes that developed - rooted of course, in reality. One such joke goes like this: Can I change money? Sure... tomorrow. You see we NEVER seemed to be able to find or have time for changing money from dollars into pesos. It became a little ridiculous actually. In the airport: "Can we change money?" Too expensive, wait for in the hotel. At the hotel: "Can we change money?" Not a good rate, wait until later. On the city streets: "Can we change money?" I can't find a place that's open. I mean, seriously, as a group we changed money ONE TIME in 11 days that i can remember.

But three minutes into our drive into Temuco, we stopped. "Steve is taking us back to the airport to change money." This came over the walky talky about a bunch of niners and ten fours. But changing money? Brilliant. Finally. This is what could have happened before we loaded 22 suitcases and fifteen bodies into two cars, but whatever. We headed back.

The money change place was closed. So Steve loaned money (as he did most of the trip) to the students in dire need at that very money and we piled back into the two cars.

And after half an hour facing backwards and practically sitting on the dashboard of our van...



... we arrived.

Temuco.

The orphanage.

Our mission was beginning.

It was pouring. The sunshine and cool warmth of Santiago had been replaced by pouring rain and cold wind. We came out of the van like clowns from a car in the circus and rushed inside the building that would be our home.

A cute girl of fifteen wearing anime-looking pigtails and a pink shirt greeted us at the door with a kiss on the cheek. She grinned from ear to ear. The men who picked us up were bringing in our wet suitcases which began piling up at the bottom of the staircase to our right. We just kind of stood around until Viviana showed us upstairs to our room.

The main building had two wings: the side the girls use with the kitchen, dining area, study room and offices and another side that can be rented out by groups for small conferences, meetings, retreats, etc. Above the two wings are the "girls' side" and the "boys' side" suites with bedrooms. Each area has a small kitchenette, dining and living room area and 7 or 8 bedrooms with one large bathroom like on a dormitory hall.

The accommodations were excellent. Better than I expected. But that would turn out to be a theme for the week.

"I was beginning to wonder why we came all the way over here to work" one student reflected on the first hour a couple of days later.

We took quickly split up rooms and unloaded our luggage and put some extra layers of clothing on. (There was no heat at the Fundacion). And then we headed downstairs to the left wing for a late lunch: some sort of ground beef stirred into mashed potatoes with melted cheese on top. A huge plateful. I ate around the meat as my stomach was still irritated by the short plane ride earlier that day. Best not to make it any angrier by adding cow to it's digestive agenda. "No te gusta?" Viviana asked. "Airplane," I responded and pointed to my stomach and gave the thumbs down sign. She nodded her head.

"Now the girls will be coming in soon for afternoon activities. Do you have games you can play?"
"Uh..." Most of them were outdoor games. But based on the gushing of water outside the window and the flickering lights, I guessed we wouldn't be playing outside today. "Si. No probleme."

After lunch all the tables and chairs were moved to the sides of the room and when we re-entered the dining hall having had a brief brainstorming session the little ninas began to trickle in. One by one they came by all twelve of us giving us an hola and a kiss on the cheek. One by one they filled their chairs laughing and giggling and talking, I suppose about the new gringos.

"Okay girls, quiet down, first we are going to do introductions," Steve translated. "Let's start with the visitors." Oh god. Here we go. One by one we went down the line saying hello, our name, where we were from and where we went to school and Steve translated to the children.

"Hola, Mi nombre es Ann. And I'm from Austin, Texas where I'm a minister. I'm not married, but I do have a dog and two cats." Steve translated and everyone laughed. Only later did I learn he told them "two cats: a good one and a bad one."

Then the children introduced themselves saying their names and where they went to school, how long they'd been at the home and also pointed out any siblings sitting in the room too. There was the shy new six year old who had just arrived the night before. There was an 18 year old in school to become a teacher. There was a set of three sisters. There were the squirrelly girls who when it came time to talk mumbled with their heads lowered and their eyes peeking out from under their bangs.

We ended by meeting the tias, the adults in the room with us: a social worker, a sign language linguist, two german volunteers, a psychologist, and a cook. All tias.

"Geez there's a lot of women named Tia who work here," I thought to myself. Someone explained later that Tia means "aunty." And Tio Steve means Uncle Steve.

I became Tia Ann.

After countless rounds of "Ride That Pony," "Gorilla, Man & Gun," and "Look Up, Look Down," and some other games the girls taught us,



we were exhausted and took a break to move the tables and chairs back into their lines, wash hands and prepare for dinner.

Before we ate though, Viviana asked if any of the students had anything they'd like to say.

The 18 year old (who got to sit with the adults at our table) said thank you to the visitors from America for coming here and gave thanks to God for us. As we began to start grace one of the little girls piped up that she would like to speak. She too gave a brief but mature word of welcome and thankfulness to the Americans for joining them. Then the girls all sang their grace in Spanish of course. Don't ask me for the words. I listened to them all week and never picked it up.

Then we ate. Hotdogs in a huge white subway bun with mayo and guacamole and tomatoes slathered on them. And there were some chips and crackers and a slice of cheese and (as I was coming to realize would be a regular at every meal) tea. With sugar. Lots of it. The lights flickered and went out. "Oooohh," the girls all squealed. Just like North American kids.

After dinner we received our second round of kisses as the girls filed through us saying Buenos Noches and Ciao. We looked at each other amused and retreated upstairs.

"Devotions in fifteen," I hollered into both suites.

Anna's turn to lead Devo Time, as it came to be called revolved around her question, "How do you experience, God?" Several students mentioned music or traditions as how they experience God, but relationships was the real winner: experiencing God through other people. Hmm. How do I experience God? "In words, I think..." I finally answered. "I mean, it's no surprise to most of you that I'm not really a kid person. I like children one on one or one on two, but mass quantities of children make me tired and quite frankly, I'm exhausted after the afternoon's activities. But what gives me energy is words. I experience God best through beautiful words, well crafted sentences. That's why I like the bible and story telling and preaching and music so much, I love well beauty created from words... I learn about God through the creative communication of words and I return that love to God through words. I think that's my final answer."

Anna closed us in prayer and most of us headed to bed, seduced to sleep by the pounding rain and our pounding hearts. Tomorrow would be our first full day at the home.

Chile: Day Three

Friday we woke up early for our second and final day of sightseeing before flying to Temuco to work at the children's home. Our friends at Shalom picked us up and took us back to the "palace" we'd visited the the previous night before the bus debacle. It was even prettier during the day.



And once we hiked all the way to the top we had an amazing (if smoggy) view.



After that we piled back in the van and settled in for an hour's drive to THE BEACH! I promised my students we'd go to the beach, I just knew they wouldn't be wearing swimsuits! Some of them did still dip their feet into the pacific ocean and this is my favorite picture capturing their surprised faces when the waves crashed in on their bare legs.



However before we reached the beach we got to visit a b-e-a-utiful winery. Oh my gosh, Michelle would have loved it.



It was up on a hill and we ate the grapes and toured the production room and cellar and then many of my students had their first wine tasting. They got a big speech on the bus about what was kosher: smelling, swishing, tasting and then NOT FINISHING because we would be sampling several wines. I explained spittoons and pouring out the wine after you sipped it and they listened very carefully. Of course, once in the tasting room we discovered we'd only be tasting three wines and there was no spittoon. But they were very well behaved anyway and just tasted (rather than gulping and finishing all three glasses) the wine, which was delicious.



When we got to the beach we picked out which restaurant we were going to eat at (the one with the giant shark in front of it of course)



and inside we spotted a stuffed penguin.



I announced my goal (far-fetched I figured) to see a penguin at the beach. And you guys, I'll be darned in when we walked down to the beach there wasn't one swimming in the waves. We even sought confirmation from some Chilean guy laying out (in 50 degree weather?!) on the sand. I got a picture of the precious little penguin, but it's just a little black dot and there's no point. But seriously, we saw it. I thought it was a drowning duck at first but then someone said it was swimming and thus we determined that indeed we had seen a penguin.

That would have been enough for me quite frankly, but we had much more to do. After an amazing late lunch at the aforementioned restaurant (where I tried eel - eek!! gross) with all fresh fish, we headed up into the town to see what else we could see before nightfall.

The city was very colorful.



Houses, walls and businesses were all painted blue, red, purple, yellow... I made for a lot of neat photos.



And to get back down the hill, we had to ride a ski lift type thing on rails down a steep slope. It was a little unnerving.



But the bus met us at the bottom and we were able to see the cathedral in this beach city (which I can't spell the name of) before we left. The most interesting part of the Cathedral was a statue of Jesus given to the church from the Polynesian Islands (i think - correct me someone if i've remembered incorrectly) with interesting polynesian symbols of royalty and love.



After that, the students (and I) were exhausted. So we made the LONG (it was apparently rush hour) trek back to Hotel Bonaparte in Santiago. That night we had our first devotional as a group and Steve led it using some scripture on thankfulness. Little did we know how much we would really have to be thankful for...

A Secret From Chile

I brought my students over here to be changed but it is I who is changing...

Chile: Day One...

Chile Day One:

Actually not in Chile. In the Austin airport, checking in, playing cards, boarding plane, coloring in coloring books, disembarking plane, eating at TGI Fridays and ordering six appetizers and being accused of overeating (story for another time), boarding second plane, leaving Atlanta on a Jet Plane…



Day Two:

Day two still feels like day one since most of the students only slept about four hours on the plane. I probably got around six. That’s a guess though. The movies offered were lame and since I held the itinerary and knew the day we had waiting, ear plugs, an eye mask and wine with dinner helped get me the rest I needed.

Airplane food is nasty and of course doesn’t digest well, so that proved difficult, but other than that the plane ride was just fine. Over night flights rock. Especially when the plane isn’t full and you can stretch out to sleep in multiple seats.

We were retrieved at the airport by a bus company who had the names

ANN PILLMAN
ANNA TAYLOR

Written on a sign. Obviously the first two names in our group alphabetically. And obviously misspelled.

We got in their bus anyway.

The first major obstacle could have been a real mess, but fortunately it was thwarted. Several men were at the bus putting our bags in the back. After we loaded, they got on with us and asked for a tip in broken English. Already? Fine. “Do you want the money for the bus now before we leave?” “Yes.” So I handed him the $65 and thought nothing of it. I almost always pay van fares before we take off. My students fished in their pockets for some dollar bills that they handed to the main man speaking and then the men got off the bus. Wait a minute, I thought…

Crap! I paid the guys “working” the airport crowds all the money I owe the bus company!

Wait! I hollered. And tried to explain that I gave him all my money. “Sixty-five dollars. I gave you the wrong thing.” Of course then the man spoke no English but his companion looked on me with pity and told him to hand over the wad again. I withdrew my sixty-five dollars (or 35,000 pecos) and thanked the man and then had to go digging for a dollar bill.

Tragedy averted, we began our drive.

On the CD speakers in the car we heard “I Could Sing of Your Love Forever” in Spanish and “Shout to the Lord” in Spanish and really what more could you ask for when entering a foreign country than American praise songs from the 80s softly serenading you in Spanish?

I just threw up a little.

But the van company was Shalom and as we learned throughout our two days in Santiago, the are evangelicals and really, “why would you want anything other than a Christian driver” so spoke the van company manager. We don’t think Cathedrals are very interesting because we’re not Catholic, we’re evangelicals, but we’ll take you there if you want. The Cathedral kicked ass. We didn’t schedule you a visit to the winery because we know you’re Baptist evangelicals. Let’s remedy that immediately.

You get the picture.



Sightseeing indeed was awesome. Granted, Santiago is a smog-covered city, but it was warm and everyone gave me grief about telling them to pack winter clothes (they have since apologized – more on that later). A beautiful city with the Andes snow-capped mountains on one side and the desert hills on the other, we took a double-decker bus to view the city. We got off to see more closely the Bella Vista neighborhood and visited Pable Neruda, the nobel prize poet’s house with his mistress and eventual third wife. It was awesome and kept going up and one and up one room at a time. Apparently he loved ships (even though they made him motion sick) and all his houses resemble a ships structure.

We ate lunch in an interesting part of town (it reminded me of Austin with the Mohawks and hair dyes and band tee-shirts) that had lots of street vendors selling random stuff on the street. We also came upon two men selling rides on a llama and if you think I didn’t take them up on their offer, you’re wrong. $1.50 well spent.



Additionally we stumbled upon a phenomenon infiltrating Santiago’s streets. We first heard and eventually saw the little drummer boy, a twelve year old boy playing drums (percussion) as a one man band in the street (think Dick Van Dyke in Mary Poppins) and dancing. Don’t worry, I got a video of it. He’d being playing since he was four which I was skeptical of at first, but later believed when we stumbled upon a family of men one of whom couldn’t have been older than six playing their drums as a trio.

Cuh-ray-zee.

“What could be better than seeing that little boy playing the one man band percussion set?” our resident drummer Meredith asked, “Seeing three of them.”

We also saw the Chilean History Museum but it had to be the fastest museum viewing ever. I was literally spending three seconds in each room and were done in ten minutes. I did manage to take a few illegal pictures of items I spent a whopping five seconds in front of when they drew my attention.



Fortunately most of the art was of a colonial style which I hate, otherwise I’d have been very sad about rushing through a museum. But we were one a mission and had to make it back to the red bus stop.

The fastest way to this stop was straight down the road past the Presidential Mansion. Awesome! Two birds with one stone. We’d make it to the stop and still get pictures of another site on our maps.

There was a glitch though. The guards wouldn’t let us walk by it on the sidewalk. “It’s after hours,” so they told my co-sponsor Steve who stood there arguing with them in Spanish.



“But they are letting cars drive by,” I argued, perturbed. “Cars can hold bigger bombs than people do.” I guess it’s a good thing I don’t speak Spanish.

So we walked around the park in front of the President’s place and shot for another red bus stop. Having successfully caught it we foolishly thought we could hop off at one more site and then hop back on.

“Okay we’re going back a block to the subway and up on the other side of the street (divided by a fence) and we’ll visit Santa Lucia, municipal park.” It was awesome looking in the dark.



All these lights shining up a hill onto a gorgeous fortress with fountains and greenery. It was like looking at a palace. Up we ran… and ran… and ran until about half the group began to gripe loudly enough that I stopped. “We think we should go back.”

So I hollered at Esteban (Stve, the initiator of this escapade), to slow down and tried to explain to him that we’d been up for like 36 hours and were running on four hours of naptime (he had met us in Santiago after an interpreting gig in Argentina). Let’s go back. So we hopped back down the hill and headed for the subway.

“Hey… isn’t that our bus?”

Oh Lord. In the opposite direction of the subway and about two blocks ahead of us and across a street that we physically couldn’t cross until about three blocks past where we were was the LAST BUS of the night.

RUN!

And we did. If we thought we had run up that hill, we had no idea what was ahead of us. I couldn’t breathe, not because I was running so fast but because I was laughing so hard. At us. At a group of Americans running down the street in the middle of a major world capitol on another continent. It is virtually impossible to run, laugh and breathe at the same time. But we made it. The bus waited while we ran in a giant horseshoe for five minutes and Esteban, who beat us all there, coerced the bus driver to wait for us.

Thank God, he did. He then drove us to the final stop of our tour, near our hotel. After walking five blocks back to Hotel Bonaparte, we agreed to meet up in thirty minutes for dinner which I promised, according to Esteban, was only four blocks away, and I’d be buying.

Dinner was amazing.

When we finally arrived.

Four blocks turned into six which turned into ten and I quickly learned that my co-sponsor and I might have communication issues.

“Dude. Seriously. Four blocks? We’ve been walking for fifteen minutes.”
“It will be worth it, I promise.”
“I’m sure it will, but I need to know if something is going to take an hour to get to and from because it affects the schedule I make for the night.”
“Look. It’s right across the street.” (and around the corner and up the block).

Sigh.

“Here we are,” Esteban said, kissing a woman on the cheek in a traditional Chilean greeting. “This is my friend Claudia who will be joining us for dinner.”
“Nice to meet you all, welcome to Chile, now who’s been whining?”

STEVEN!

But dinner was good. Delicious even. Italian and expensive. Enough said.



And after another ten blocks home we were in bed. Day one was finally done.

Thirty-One Is Where It's At

Oh my gosh, you guys, this was an amazing birthday week!

Despite the fact that I had to go to a deacon's meeting ON MY BIRTHDAY and despite the fact that I had to go to a strategic plan meeting at 9AM the morning after my birthday celebration, overall this was an awesome birthday.

So you already know about the boots, but why, you might ask, was i wearing heels before i threw them off to put on the boots? Excellent question. A lovely family in my church whom I have come to know well over the past year gave me two tickets to go see the Broadway touring company's performance of RENT!!!!

AUGH!!!!

So after getting everything ready for Beresheth on Thursday night, I kissed my Beresheth peeps good-bye and Michelle and I headed to the theater. The two leads are played by the two men who premiered them on Broadway and while initially I found it a little creepy that such old men were acting young, grunge, nineties-ish, by the end of the play I totally bought it. What an amazing performance. I knew some of the songs and the general plotline, but I'd never seen the show and needless to say, like most musicals, i LOVED it.

Then on Friday, Pete, Joy and Baby Zoe came into town!! So, of course, we went swimming and I got to buy Zoe her first swimsuit and which of course then needed sunglasses and a swim hat and sunblock and swim diapers and ... well I love Target. Look how cute Zoe is in her suit!! (um, ps, i didn't buy that orange hat to go with the suit. the cute pink hat i bought was too big).



Friday night was awesome too because my old roommate from Waco whom I haven't seen in probably five years or so, drove down with her boyfriend from Dallas (she recently relocated from Colorado to the Dallas area). Too cool! It was amazing seeing her and she bought me the cutest pair of jammies from Vicky's Panty Land because she loves me :) Thank you, Cat!!



Saturday was rain, rain and more rain but i didn't mind because my flowers and plants (even the cacti) were singing all afternoon they were so happy.

Sunday at church a couple of my students and young adults gave me gifts like, "Looking Good for Jesus Lip Balm" (thanks Katherine) and "If it has tires or testicles there's going to be trouble" napkins and coasters. Ah... they know me so well.

Monday was my actual birthday day and I started it off with therapy at 8am. That's right people, I arose at 7AM to go see my counselor and pay her $85 to tell me I have problems on my birthday. Just kidding. About the problems part. I don't really. Just one or two issues I'm working through. i call it being self-aware...

For lunch, my roommate and my colleague and I went to OPAL's, my favorite, for lunch. I, of course, had my usual, a Bloody Mary and a tuna sandwich. YUM. I went home and found FLOWERS from Moxi in DC on my front porch. Awesome! After a nap, I packed my clothes for Chile and headed back to work for Deacon's Meeting which is actually much more tolerable on your birthday because you're having a great day and it's easy to laugh and it makes one less judgmental and antsy and irritated when people talk for too long.

Two and a half hours later (seriously people. we have long deacon mtgs.) I ate a delicious dinner prepared by Chris (and saved for me since Michelle and baby-in-belly have to eat earlier) and then he, Ben, Bethany and I all went out for a drink at Dulce Vita. (I made Chris call a bunch of restaurants to see which ones served Mudslides because I am convinced that one must have ice cream on one's birthday and combined with alcohol, it doesn't get much better). We played Spades and Ben and I won and then we retired because I was tired cause i had to wake up at 7am that morning.

And always trying to stretch out a birthday as long as i can, yesterday I got to choose where to eat for lunch with the staff (a birthday tradition) and I chose Romeo's which not only has amazing pasta but also gives you a free Sundae for birthday girls!!! Yes!!!

So, people, my birthday was awesome. Thanks to all my friends whom I hope I got to celebrate as much as I was celebrated this weekend. You are the best and I love you. Old and New. And thanks to all the people on FB who wrote on my wall. It was awesome reading, "You have 99 Notifications."

31 is for winners. I can feel it...

Don't Tell Missouri...

But I've switched teams.

People, I've got boots. Cowgirl boots.

Show me you say?

Happily.



So remember when I posted my birthday wish list circa 2009? Well an old friend of mine from Waco, you know her as JenA, wrote me and said, give me your shoe size, the widest size of your foot, your favorite color and take boots off your list.

Jen was definitely the most texas girl I met when I moved to Waco (she's one of the people who told me texas could secede) and constantly fought for her State when I made fun of doormats and flags and potato chips in the shape of Texas. So it feels perfect that I would get my first pair of cowgirl boots from her. And now look at me. When I got home Thursday night and found the box on my couch, I threw off my heels and put on the boots...



AWESOME.

So now, I'm officially a texan. I came to this state kicking and screaming in December of 2000. I shed a little tear when I traded in my Missouri driver's license and tried to smile for the camera several years later. Even after buying a house in Austin when people asked where I was from I said, Kansas City. But Thursday night I jumped up and down in my living room in front of the pregnant and a little confused Michelle and shouted, "I'm at Texan! I'm a Texan!" and I slipped into my new dancing boots.

I've been in this over-indulgent, prideful, backwoodsy, conservative, gun-toting, bible-bearing. SUV and too-big-truck driving state 8 years and five months and finally, on the cusp of turning 31, and with my official owning of cowgirl boots, I'm surrendering my pride (of Missouri?!) and requesting no more St Joe Proud bumper stickers for my car. I'm keeping Austin weird now. Texas, I'm officially yours.

And I'm wearing my boots.

Mysteriouser and Mysteriouser

Okay people. I let you talk me into believing that I received Rachel Ray and Handgunner's and some fat girl magazine because I accidentally got put on some listserve somewhere.

HOWEVER.

At the same time of year, one year later, I'm not buying it.

You know why?...

Because I've begun to receive mysterious gifts again and these are not from some publishing house.

"Why are you mailing boxes to yourself?" the secretary at worked asked. There were two brown paper wrapped boxes in front of my door with the return address TYPED out as my home address and the deliver to address typed as my work address.
"I didn't. It's a prank. I didn't mail this to my job from my house. That's ridiculous. Here's what I got..."
"Aw...Cute," she said.

She has no taste.

I received two plastic ceramic I-don't-know-what little 1960s nick knacks: TWO boxes, one containing a boy and girl looking adoringly at each other (gag!) and the other, a little white boy and a black girl singing from a songbook together. Fantastic. Except neither was wrapped in packing of any sort so the little black girl's songbook had broken off. Oh darn.

I've been pranked. I knew that Rachel Ray magazine was a joke. I knew it.

At home tonight when I (finally) checked my mailbox for the first time this week, I found two more boxes with the return address being from church. Typed of course and wrapped in the same brown paper. These had two more children, a boy and girl, gazing into each others' eyes (vomit) and then some lame bible think with images of a girl praying and crap like that. Here's the pic in case you need a visual...



I texted Texas In Africa who was partially responsible for this prank. "Do you want to confess before I go public?"

Of course she denied knowing what in the world I was talking about.

I have to tell you something else though. I've been finding more Paul Powell books around my house.

I know that when Texas In Africa and The Librarian pranked me two years ago they showered my house in PaPa books (ridiculous books written by my former and most un-favorite dean, Paul Powell). Truthfully I thought I had found them all, but then I've discovered several more over the past several months that makes me think there's been another infiltrator. My Halloween party maybe? I mean, one of those damn books was in my movies bookshelf and I look at that all the time to pick out which movie I want to watch so I know it hasn't been there since 2007!

I'm being pranked and I hardly even know it's happening!

You'd think the pranksters would be bored with their unresponsive host, but no. It just keeps on coming. So fess up. Whomever you are. It can't be Frank cause he's in love and planning a wedding. I doubt Cody has time what with his busy ministry schedule. Which leaves Laura and Ginger...

Or someone who's grandma recently died, cause these figurines are ridiculous.

Ugh. I got a HANDGUNNER'S magazine for my 30th birthday and an interracial children's figurine singing christmas carols from a broken off songbook for my 31st.

Help! Normal people get flowers and cards and presents and condolences! I'm getting religious figurines! Make it stop!

This is very unfair.

Life With Shepherds and Thieves

Text: John 10:10-18... Sermon at Beresheth


Thieves do not break into your house or deceive you as an attempt to bring you life. Thieves by their nature are deceptive, intentionally conspicuous and they come to steal and deplete, never to give or refill.

Otherwise we’d call them saints or benefactors or maybe Santa clause, but as it now stands, those who take what is not theirs and lie about facts and break into our homes are called thieves, bandits or bad guys.

The only exception to this rule is Robin Hood, but he stole to give to the poor which may put him in a category all of his own.

Kind of like Jesus.

Jesus says, “I have come that you might have life.” And while saints bring food to the poor and benefactors bring money to the artists and Santa Claus brings presents to children, Jesus brings life.

Life.

The thieves will compete for you he warns, but don’t let them win. Only with me as your shepherd will life ever be satisfying, law ever bring you freedom or love ever redeem you. Those who lie to you and manipulate you and claim to know what’s best for you have intentions of stealing what they can from you and leaving you alone. But the good shepherd, the good shepherd always watches out for his sheep. He seeks out the lost and He carries the lame. And He’s got sheep all over the place… don’t think you’re the only ones, but He is the only shepherd and it’s time to enter by his gate.

It’s time to play by his rules.

And his rule is… live life abundantly.

During Lent some common themes are wilderness, confession, abandonment, etc. During Eastertide some themes might be baptism, hope and life as we’ve been studying here in Beresheth. But what does it mean to have life?

I mean, technically we’re all living. We’re breathing, blood is coursing, hearts are pumping, brains are functioning, we’re alive. But the way Jesus describes it, we may not all be living. At least not abundantly.

So what does it mean to choose life?

You heard earlier some of Frederick Buechner’s thoughts on the subject.

You’re alive if you cry and can spot beauty and can really listen to others.

But how do you get to that point? How do you get to the point of choosing life when the world offers you death on a silver platter? And I mean really, what else is lust and greed and gluttony and adultery and war and abuse and porn and drunkenness other than death? Death standing up or sitting down or maybe passed out on the floor. These are the things the liars offer us and tell us will fill us up, end the emptiness, heal the pain, ease the burden, make us rich, make us happy, make us famous, make us mad.

Make us crazy.

Because when we search and search and search and can’t find something or someone, we go crazy.

I couldn’t find my passport. I’m taking my college kids to Chile in 21 days and I couldn’t find my passport. I looked everywhere… My desk, my file cabinet, my receipts folder, last years tax file folder, this year’s tax file folder, my warranty’s and will’s briefcase, my underwear drawer, everywhere.

In the meantime I found some old love letters, $26 and a picture of my sisters from about 7 years ago but none of these things were what I was searching for, I needed my passport.

“Help!” I screamed into an empty house. Well, a house full of stuff, but not any person, not anything that could help me out of the mess I was in.

“Someone help me.”

I sat on the couch, I stood up. I got a glass of water, I grabbed a beer. I walked through all the rooms. I looked out the window. I paced, I breathed, I meditated. Where was the damn passport? And why wouldn’t anyone help me? “God, what I wouldn’t give for a boyfriend or a mom or a roommate or anyone right now.” I was going crazy.

Crazy.

I found my passport. It was in the bottom of my stationary drawer in the back bedroom.

Searching for life where we won’t find it will make us crazy.

And Jesus Christ came and died for all the craziness in our lives and now it’s time to walk in the newness of LIFE.

So how do we choose life?

I should have asked my therapist this week. She might have had some good advice for me. And some of us need all the advice we can get. Sometimes it’s hard hearing the shepherd’s voice, especially when everyone else is screaming so loudly at you. You’re not good enough! You’re standards are too high! You can’t do that! I want you! I need you! You’re not doing enough! Try harder! Be better! We’re doomed! It’s hopeless! You’re hopeless!

Whatever words you hear the plethora of voices shouting at you, our Shepherd’s voice is the quiet one that says, I love you. Love God. Love your neighbor. Love yourself. I am the way the truth and the life. Father forgive them. Male and female they were created in the image of God. I have come that they might live life abundantly. These are the words of the Good Shepherd, the one who whispers life into our ears, into our hearts, breathing into our very being.

I know it’s hard to choose life amidst all the death, but it’s time to do so. It’s Eastertide. And we owe it to ourselves, to our Shepherd, to choose the life given us, given for us.

We could spend weeks discussing how to hear God’s voice. We could go to spiritual retreats. Or take a whole day off and sit in silence and meditation. We could read our Bible more, go to Sunday school, attend lectures and maybe even Midweek Moorings. We could volunteer and live with the hurting children of God. We could donate money instead of indulging ourselves. We could spend ages and ages talking and discussing and trying to things, but that too might just be folly because Jesus didn’t say he came to give us stuff to DO abundantly, he came so we can live abundantly.

Live abundantly. With an attitude of gratefulness, humility an excitement that Life has come. It came in a person. Not in a theory, not in a thief, not in you or me. But you and I inherited it. And that shepherd walks behind us and beside us and before us and whispers, life… life.

Love God, Embrace Beauty and Live Life to the Fullest.

Amen.

Look Who's OCD... and it's not me.

So I need to preface this blog with a disclaimer... if you are inclined to ever say, "type-casting" or "like mother like daughter" or "that's the pot calling the kettle black," then please don't read any further.

Cause Potter has Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.

I kid you not.

It was his yearly checkup so we went to get his shots from our favorite vet, Dr. B. Just for safety's sake, I pointed out Potter's bald spot on his lower abdomen. I figured he'd gotten into some duct tape on one of his journeys into the great outdoors that is my neighbor's yard. But the doc said it's either mites or obsessive grooming (god knows he didn't get that from me). However, after a scraping of the belly, Dr. B ruled out mites and suggested he might suffer from OCD.

OMG.

And any other assortment of appropriate acronyms.

It's stress, Dr. B suggested and offered to prescribe my cat antidepressants. ANTIDEPRESSANTS. "Don't bother, I've got plenty in the cabinet," I wanted to say, but refrained. Instead, I argued: Potter's the happiest one in the house! How could he be stressed? So Dr. B offered to check out a fecal sample just in case it is mites (and not a mental disorder) and the mites are hiding.

Even worse. I should have kept my mouth shut.

"Can you get a fecal sample?"
"Have you ever followed an indoor/outdoor cat around all day? No. I cannot."
"Then shut him in a closed off room with a litter box."
Riiight. Cause that won't get my carpet ripped up and my shoes peed on.

Then I thought of another solution. I'd change the litter in the litter box. I rarely do that because they're indoor/outdoor cats and often take care of business where it recycles naturally. They only really "go" inside except when it's raining. And I'm convinced that changing the litter is for Potter like hearing stories of waterfalls and gushing rivers is to a child in a car. So, once home, I grabbed the scooper and began scooping. Then I waited. And before the dust from the litter even settled, Potter was in the litter box having a little moment. Unfortunately the moment only produced urine. But as he covered it up with his paws pushing the litter, he circled around once again and my hope was rekindled. Sure enough the squatted and hunched and a little squeek came out of his mouth.

I scooped the poop before he had a chance to cover it and closed in it the vet's container.

One cat down and one to go. My truly troubled cat is actually the opposite of Potter, he's essentially quit grooming himself. He has huge knots in his fur that he can't get out and I can't get out, and they keep growing and spreading, knotting his fur.

"Lion's Cut," Dr. B said. "Just do it."

And speaking of licking, or not licking as the case may be, I asked our favorite vet (i've practically put his kids through college, I'm sure), "Is it normal for dogs to lick things?"
"What do you mean?"
"Like... the bed. Or the couch. For long periods of time."
"The same spot or multiple spots?"
"Oh, different places."
"He licks the bed and the couch. He licks cloth, then."
"Uh huh."
"No, that's not normal."

Of course it isn't. But Dr. B assured me that neither does it mean she's ill. "Try telling her NO and then handing her a rawhide."

Yes, okay, I'll give it a shot. Let me know what you find out about my OCD cat's fecal sample and I'll bring Satan's Little Helper in for his Lion's Cut tomorrow.

Wait til my therapist hears about this...

31 and counting...

Surely you knew it was coming. Although I admit, I've only given you 26 days to shop, my bad...

- Real Cowboy boots!! (um... i'm not sure how to go about getting these...)
- red iPod nano armband $29
- Gift Certificate to Parts and Labour, my favorite store in Austin to buy shirts and jewelry! located on South Congress
- Bamboo Bird Wind Chime $14 or the Tree of Life Wind Chime $44 to hang outside my house from Ten Thousand Villages located on South Congress
- Kaiku Shower Curtain $29.95 (mom suggested it might be time to re-do my bathroom decor)...
- Fl-owl-er Power Wallet $27.99
- Gift Certificate to Anthropologie an awesome store I can't afford :) located on 6th and Lamar
- candles that smell good like Fleurs D'Oranger (Orange Flower Blossoms) by Cote Bastide
- Gift Certificate to Big Red Sun located on Caesar Chavez to buy flowers and cactii :)
- Gift Certificate to Home Depotso I can continue work on my backyard (blocks around tree, stepping stones, grass, wood for deck, etc.)
- Some new jeans... not sure what size... gotten bigger as I've gotten older :)

“Oklahoma better get to work on that border fence.”

tee hee...

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Risen to Walk In the Newness of Life: Thursday's Beresheth Sermon

“I baptize you in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit.” We practiced on each other in a swimming pool. Because I was one of the smallest “ministers” in my seminary class, I had to baptize the biggest man there. Fortunately he was my best friend so if I dropped him in the water, I wouldn’t be too mortified and embarrassed; although he might have dunked me in retaliation. “Tell your baptizee to bend their knees and you’ll lean them back. As long as you both do this, you’ll be fine…”

Four years later, Roger Paynter and I practiced again, this time focusing on the theology of the baptism. I was to perform my first baptism except not in a swimming pool and not on my best friend. “You will take her under the water and say, ‘Buried with Christ.’ And as you bring her up out of the water you will say, ‘Risen to walk in the newness of life,’” Roger explained. At that point in my faith, I began to really internalize what it meant to live resurrected. I began to understand why baptisms were often performed on Easter. And in the light of Easter, I began to understand Lent.

Two years before I performed my first baptism and one year after I practiced in a swimming pool, my Waco pastor and friend passed away preparing to baptize a parishioner one Sunday morning. There was a problem with the baptistery’s pool heater and the water was charged and as soon as Kyle touched something outside that baptismal pool, he became the road for the current to travel and his own road stopped short.

At a baptism.

So I have mixed feelings about baptism: it’s amazing but it’s very scary. Then again, most of us do have mixed emotions when it comes to baptism. While there are those who immediately run and fall at the feet of Jesus begging to be healed, while there are those to whom faith comes easily, most of us are Nicodemus who come to chat with Jesus in the concealed darkness of the midnight hour, most of us are the rich young ruler who can’t let go of his possessions, most of us are Thomas who doubt what God had done, most of us are the older son, lamenting the party being thrown for the prodigal little brother. We like our lives and we like ourselves, and pride most always keeps us from surrendering to God.

And in that way, pride does come before the fall because when we fall back into those baptismal waters we put to death, we say goodbye, to ourselves, to our hopelessness, to our giftedness, to our self-securities because none of those things matter or will get us anywhere while sin reigns in our lives. We have to let go of ourselves before we can let God perform a miracle.

While it may be considered just a symbol, in baptism, we get the miracle of resurrection.

I love Easter for that reason. The wilderness wanderings of Lent and Holy Week, the disciplines, the dying, it’s so very dark, but on Easter, all that has died is brought back to life not dark and deafening as it was before, but clean and new. Like Jesus, raised from the grave, death isn’t going to win in our lives. Our sin and our sorrow aren’t going to get the last word if we’ve committed to follow Christ. Rather, we experience resurrection… here and now…

I remember my own baptism. I barely remember the robe and the dressing room and wading into the baptistery. But when I came up out of the water I’ll never forget how I felt. Although I was only nine, I felt as if a huge weight had been lifted off my body, lifted off my shoulders. As I came up out of the water gasping for breath, I got it. Breathe enough to last a lifetime and then some. I felt relief and probably even joy although until that point, happiness was all I’d ever really known as a kid.

However, twenty years later I made another discovery.

While nostalgically perusing my baby album one afternoon, reading things my mom had recorded, looking at strands of hair from my first trip to the salon, I stumbled upon a certificate I had never noticed before.

I called my mom completely flabbergasted, "I was baptized as an infant?!"

But my mom didn’t remember that ever happening and neither did my father or grandma whose church actually recorded the baptism.

"Well there's a certificate in my baby book that says otherwise," I informed them all, indignant. "It has a minister's name and my name and the date. And it's glued in my baby book!"

Now, it should be noted that I have no problem with infant baptism. It is not a practice of my denomination, nor is it my preference for the baptism of a believer, but I understand what it symbolizes theologically and respect the tradition. In face, Frederick Buechner says this about Baptism, “Baptism consists of getting dunked or sprinkled. Which technique is used matters about as much as whether you pray kneeling or standing on your head. Dunking is a better symbol, however. Going under symbolizes the end of everything about your life that is less than human. Coming up again symbolizes the beginning in you of something strange and new and hopeful. You can breathe again.”

Buried in Christ. Born to walk in the newness of life.

He continues, “Question: How about infant baptism? Should you wait until the child grows up enough to know what’s going on? Answer: if you don’t think there is as much of the less-than-human in an infant as there is in anybody else, you have lost touch with reality. When it comes to the forgiving and transforming love of God,” Buechner writes, “one wonders if the six-week-old screecher knows all that much less than the archbishop of Canterbury about what’s going on.”

Buechner sure has a way with words. But I'm a Baptist minister and when I found that certificate signed and sealed in my baby book, I felt that knowing whether or not I was baptized as an infant and then re-baptized as a nine year old was fairly critical to my story. I mean, it’s my job to tell my story and encourage others to do the same in which case it becomes fairly critical for me to know my story...

So I guess part of my Christian story is that at one time, my family thought it was important enough to commit their first-born daughter to the community of Christ, and the covenant occurred. . . . It’s just that no one remembers it. ☺

My grandpa has almost the opposite experience. He was baptized at age 90. One Sunday I returned to my hometown where most of my family still lives. I preached at my home church and my grandparents came over to hear me. That Sunday after church my grandpa announced to my grandmother, “I want to be baptized.” And even though my grandpa is a lifelong member of the Methodist church, he’s also a demanding old man, set in his ways. So if that Methodist wants to receive a believer’s baptism, he’s gonna get one. Sure enough, several months later, he was the first in line, waiting in the baptistery as the curtains opened with my mother standing behind him to help escort her feeble father out afterwards. “Buried in Christ. Risen to walk in the newness of life.” As the minister gingerly and quickly pulled my grandpa out of the water my grandfather exclaimed, “Hallelujah!” and everyone in the congregation laughed, the joy contagious. That was the same Sunday I performed my first baptism. I doubt either of us will ever forget that day.

The choice I made as a nine year old child, confessing to my pastor that I loved God and wanted to be with God forever, is my first memory of the significance of baptism. The water that washed over me (and all other believers) as I was submerged, dying to myself and was then raised from, resurrected, into a new life with Jesus Christ remains the most special and significant water I will ever enter. No wonder early Christians saved all their baptisms to be performed on Easter Sunday. After 40 days of fasting and repenting and realizing their depravity, they let go of the depressing nature of carrying it alone and gave themselves over to the freedom of belonging to Christ. They were washed clean. Resurrected in the water. And though the Hydrogen and Oxygen compound is at it's most basic description just elements and numbers, it is a memory in each of us that is charged with symbolism, tradition and yes, something even magical. I left that pool of water 21 years ago changed – lighter and freer, and even my nine-year-old heart and mind knew it.

And so we enter into Eastertide: the period in the church calendar after Lent and Easter. We practice living daily what it means to be resurrected people: not perfect, and not without pain, but also not alone. We are accompanied by Christ, by one who became like us and went before us and resurrects us into new life with him every day.

A Spade's a Spade and Tea is Tea

One of the most ridiculous characteristics of many Texans is their pride over their supposed ability to "secede from the Union." Several people informed me of this notable fact when I moved to this state over 8 years ago. "Really?" I thought. "Cause it might be a brilliant move to secede from the frickin' United States of America. What have I gotten myself into?"

Sheesh.

But two days ago, if you missed it on the news, "tea parties" were held on the lawn of the Capitol and people screamed "Secede" at Govenor Perry as he arrived.

Puh lease.

Here to respond to these events more academically is Statesman columnist, Jody Seaborn...

"There are good reasons to be concerned about the huge deficits that have been run up the past few decades and the enormous debt that we have accumulated as a result. We should absolutely debate how much government we want and how to pay for it, but we must also stop pretending that we can have for free whatever size government we decide we want to have. One thing I wanted to ask Wednesday’s protesters was, Where were you when Dick Cheney was saying that deficits don’t matter? Or when the vast majority of our current $11.2 trillion federal debt was created during the administrations of Ronald Reagan, George H.W. Bush and George W. Bush? (Presidents Carter and Clinton actually lowered the federal debt as a percentage of GDP; Reagan-Bush and Bush significantly increased it.) So, a moment of honest self-reflection, please: Is it government spending that bothers you, or government spending by Obama and a Democratic Congress?"

Chill out Texas. Stop being hypocrites. Use your brains for something other than idiocy. And for once try some Yogi Tea Bedtime *Calm* for your mind... and try waking up in the 21st Century where we play like adults by voting and paying taxes and yes, even protesting. But not with threats of "I'm not playing with you anymore!" We're not in the third grade. You can't just threaten to not invite Obama or America to your birthday party and expect to get everything your way. Gah! Okay, I'm done. I may go have some Yogi Tea myself...

Happy Easter!

Heavenly Day by Patty Griffin...