For my mother, on her 60th birthday

I don’t remember the day when I first realized my mom was a woman and not just my mom. Perhaps it was the day that she went shopping for a new suit to prepare for arguing in front of the Supreme Court. Or maybe it was the day I found, in an old photo album, a black and white head shot from her early 20s and almost cried at the image of such a beautiful, stylish woman. Or it could have been the first time we shared a bottle of wine and laughed long into the night.

Probably it is an ever growing realization. She is a strong woman: of that I have never had any doubt. Defense attorneys would tremble when facing her in the courtroom, and she has never backed down from a life challenge. It was in the midst of battling breast cancer that she set the goal of hiking the Grand Canyon, a goal she accomplished less than a year after her last treatment. No doubt about her mental or physical strength.

And her power of negotiation is a wonder to behold. She possesses an unstoppable combination of complex reasoning, pure eloquence, and endearing charm. People not only give her her way, but come away feeling better for having done so. Though it infuriated me as a teenager, I now find myself attempting to emulate her.

But these qualities weren’t the ones that surprised me when I discovered my mother is a woman. In fact, they may have blinded me to her deeper qualities, those closer to the core of her being: passion and tenderness.

My mother, as it turns out, is not only strong, courageous, and determined, but she also pours her heart into the people and things that she loves. Her children have never doubted

for a second that she is on their side, cheering the loudest and crying even more than we do when we lose. Her friends value her intense loyalty and steadfastness, for they know and feel a love that is full and tenacious where it chooses to love. Professionally, she has consistently chosen the path that follows her heart rather than the money, which is why she has laid aside practicing law in order to teach it. And now she pours herself into her students, whether it is accompanying one to court who has been harassed by the justice system, or bringing one who lived thousands of miles from home to her own home and family for Thanksgiving.

I suppose it is natural that one who is so passionate is also tender, but this is the one I forget the most. It is difficult to remember that this strong, powerful woman can be wounded. And so sometimes I slip and say a harsh word, and immediately see the hurt in her eyes. Or I will hear the pain in her voice when she relays the story of discovering that a few of her best students cheated on an exam. What is truly amazing is that each time her heart hurts, she become not colder or more callous. She does not build impenetrable walls around herself. No, she instead becomes more compassionate, loves even more deeply, and continues to extend herself to those around her.

These qualities combine to make the most incredible woman I know. The day that brought her life to earth is to be celebrated indeed, for my mother has made the world a more beautiful, more joy-filled place, and will continue to do so for many years to come.

Happy Birthday mentor, friend, hero, comfort, mom. I love you.

An upper for the teacher

As a teacher, opportunities for celebration, both large and small, pop up everyday. A few highlights from the last couple of weeks:

1. One of my students walked into my room with a shopping bag full of clothes. “These are for D____,” she said, “because I know he’s homeless and doesn’t have anything. I bought these for him. I know what it’s like to be homeless; I was homeless when I was 10. So, would you please give these to him?”
2. All of the statistics are stacked up against one of my students. His parents are unemployed and have absolutely no money. They live with his grandparents, who also have very little. He spent most of last year in prison. But I have watched this young man fight the odds and rewrite his future. He has been one of our most diligent students this semester, and it looks like he’s going to earn our college’s presidential scholarship: a two-year full ride.
3. Finally, all those college science classes are paying off. A couple of my more ambitious students are reading science lessons on their own. They came to me last week and again this week with questions about cellular biology and genetics. Fun to pull that dusty knowledge off my brain’s shelves. Even more fun to watch their eyes light up every time they learn and understand a new concept.
4. On the last day before Thanksgiving break, I substituted at our family literacy program. We’ve teamed up with the local school district for this program. While their children attend a half-day of pre-school, parents (all mothers in this case) attend ESL classes. I taught both the morning and afternoon sessions of ESL on Friday and loved it. These women impress me beyond words. They have undertaken the task of learning a new language and culture in a new country in order to increase their own and their children’s opportunities. They do so not only with great strength and determination, but also with beautiful grace and humor. Spending a day with them lifted my spirits (which were already fairly high) and instilled a fresh sense of hope in me. Oh, plus I got to watch the kids play in shaving cream, and you just can't put a price tag on that kind of fun.

Even as winter approaches new life springs about me everyday. What a very good place to be.

Using the Bible as a rulebook is like using a Monet as a power drill

You won’t get the job done effectively and you risk ruining both the wall and the Monet.

This article is inspired by the recent decision of an appellate court in Texas concerning an arbitration agreement in a contract between a Christian School and a teacher. According to the contract, employees agree to seek “Biblically based mediation” to address employment conflicts.

I’m not going to address the legal aspects here; that’s my mom’s job. What I am going to rant about is the idea that there can be any such thing as Biblically based mediation.

If you think that the laws of our country can be confusing, open to a wide spectrum of interpretation, and at times even contradictory, the Bible, when used as a rulebook, is a million times more so. Consider these facts:

*The Bible has been used to both defend and oppose slavery.

*The Bible has been used to both promote and destroy women’s rights.

*Faithful Bible followers embrace the use of alcohol, even using it in religious ceremonies, while other Bible followers condemn alcohol as an evil tool of Satan.

*Reformed theologian John Calvin, mister sola Scriptura himself, watched on approvingly as a man was executed for heresy. The man’s crime? Suggesting an alternative theory to the nature of the bread and wine used in communion.

*The Bible commands people to “love your enemies,” while also instructing specific groups to annihilate their enemies.

*Biblical law requires that a man who rapes a woman marry that woman.

*The Bible is used by both rich and poor to prove their favoritism in God’s eyes.

So, if you want to risk inconsistent, unjust, possibly oppressive and most likely sexist mediation, then go ahead and sign an employment contract with such an arbitration clause.

If, however, you would like to work toward a life that is life-giving and freeing, appreciate the Bible for what it is- an ancient document containing the history and tradition of many cultures and several people including beautiful poetry, rich tradition, and even some enduring wisdom- and don’t try to use it as something it’s not- a rulebook, life guide, legal standard, or moral ideal.

How do you translate that?

Last week I substituted in our ESL program for the first time. These students are awesome, by the way. They were all eager to learn and hard-working, and they had amazingly positive attitudes.

Ok, back to the lesson. They were learning to conjugate verbs in the present perfect tense, and to help them practice this as well as their listening skills, their instructor left a handout with the lyrics to Pink’s “Glitter in the Air,” with blanks in place of many of the verbs. We listened to the song a few times so that they could fill in the blanks.

After listening to the song twice, we went over the lyrics to ensure that everyone had the right verbs in the blanks. I then asked the class if there were any other words or phrases that they didn’t understand.

One young man raised his hand and asked me about the song’s phrase, “Have you ever been touched so gently you had to cry?” After I explained the word “gently” he asked, “Why would you cry if someone touched you gently?” A very good question indeed.

I looked over to the women’s table (for some reason they tend to segregate themselves by gender, and all of the men looked clueless) and asked, “Can any of the women answer this question?” One looked at me with understanding in her eyes and answered, “It would make you cry if you had never before been touched gently.”

Yes, that would make someone cry. Yes, that would melt a heart. Yes, that would break something open that needed healing.

And so I started to wonder how many people in the world need to experience a gentle touch that would make them cry; how many people need a gentle word to relax their spirit; how many people need an embrace that feels like home.

The next line of the song is, “Have you ever invited a stranger to come inside?”

Covered in elephant spittle

A friend of mine is an elephant trainer at the Kansas City Zoo. From her stories, I’ve deduced that a person must absolutely LOVE elephants to work this job. If you’ve ever changed a dirty diaper, multiply that by 2,000 and you will have an idea of her daily routine. As her fiancé said, “When she comes home and says things like, ‘one of the elephants had the runs today,’ I just can’t even begin to picture the mess.

Tuesday night she shared another lovely story with us. At work that day, one of the elephants spit on her. Yep, that’s right, just like that annoying boy that sat behind you in 7^th grade, only much, much, much more so. She said her back was turned to the elephant, so when she first felt the wetness she thought the beast had just sprayed some drinking water on her. “She likes to do that sometimes. She’s a jokester.” But then she turned and saw that the elephant hadn’t been drinking, and then she touched the thick, sticky fluid covering her body, and she knew that this wasn’t mere water; it was pure elephant saliva.

How would you have reacted? Yeah, me too. But here’s the thing. My friend said that she had to pretend that nothing had happened. “If we react when she does stuff like that, it’s like a reward, and that encourages her to do it again.”

So I’m thinking, how does a person pretend that weren’t just slathered in elephant spit? That level of nonchalance sounds nearly impossible. Her self-control and tolerance for ick are certainly amazing to behold.

Elephant loogies make me think of Fred Phelps. When his son Nate Phelps spoke in Topeka this past summer, someone asked him what would be the most effective means to discourage Fred and his tribe. Nate responded that if it were possible, the most effective means would be to completely ignore them. Media coverage, outraged crowds, taunts thrown back, all only reward and encourage them.

Now, I’m not suggesting that we always tolerate bad or destructive behavior. A woman in an abusive relationship needs to take action. A teacher with a student who disrupts class, thus hindering the other students’ learning, can not simply ignore the behavior.

I’m talking about all those people in your life and mine that do or say really annoying things to get our attention, push our buttons, make us angry, or disgust us. What happens when we give them attention? It’s a reward, and they are encouraged to continue the annoyance. (By the way, it’s important to acknowledge that all of us at times are the elephant).

So give this a try. Do what my friend did. Turn your back on the elephant, walk away, shower off the spit, and go out and have a beer with your friends. The next day, you may choose to give the elephant another chance, or you may choose not to. Me? Well, I’ll order another pint then sleep on it.

Night at the museum

As luck would have it, I'm a friend of a Friend of the Museum, so Friday night we indulged in cocktails at the Young Friends of the Museum 2nd Fridays event. There we met two lovely people, one of whom writes the relationship column Kiss & Tell for Ink Magazine. (sidenote: as much as I love my job, and I do love my job, I was sooooo tempted to ask him how one lands such a fun, cush assignment. I could get used to hanging out in my PJs all morning and writing. Much like I'm doing now, only I soon have to get dressed and report to work).

After cocktails, the four of us headed to one of the Nelson's new exhibits, "Through African Eyes." The exhibit was amazing, sobering, and too much for the hour we had before closing time. One of our new friends commented, "I could easily spend an entire morning in that exhibit." At least.

Read my review and watch a cool video here.

Critical Massing: obnoxious or just plain silly?

It happens every last Friday of the month.

No posters, no Facebook invites, no traditional publicity, and yet it happens every month like clockwork.

Well, not exactly like clockwork, because there is no official start time. It begins when enough people feel like it’s time to begin (Kairos time keeps creeping into my life experiences and my blog).

It’s called Critical Mass and it’s the most obnoxious bike ride Kansas City offers. On the last Friday, around 6:00 or so, the cyclists begin gathering at the Westport Sunfresh. About an hour and several beers later, someone starts riding around the parking lot and people gradually join him. They are massing.

It’s pretty much impossible to not fit in with this group. The ages range from 5 to, well, up there. There are dirt bikes, mountain bikes, recumbent bikes, road bikes, cruisers, and a few that I don’t even know where to begin with description. Cyclists dress in jeans, athletic gear, dresses, sweats, and just about everything else. The only thing missing is neckties.

When the mass is large enough, someone leads the group of nearly a hundred cyclists out of the parking lot and down the street. For the next couple of hours, the mass rides through Westport, The Plaza, Westport again, The Plaza again, downtown, and the river market. Traffic lights and lanes hold little meaning for this band of merry bikers. At major intersections, a few riders stop directly in front of potentially oncoming vehicles to ensure that they don’t enter the intersection while the mass is riding through.

The reactions from motorists and pedestrians are mixed. Many smile and wave back to the cyclists calling out to them, “Happy Friday!” A few, not used to KC’s urban traditions, get annoyed and blare their horns or scream obscenities. This 5 minute delay in their lives’ plans is more than they can tolerate.

What’s the point? There is no obvious political agenda. If they were seriously trying to promote a “share the road” attitude between cyclists and motorists they would respect traffic laws. No common social or religious thread binds these people together.

So maybe there is no point.

Or, rather, the point is exactly what they say it is, “Happy Friday.” The point is that a large group of people gather once a month to laugh, act silly, and Puckishly defy the guidelines and norms that rule over us the rest of the month. The point is to intentionally not take life so seriously, even if only for a couple of hours. The point is that an impish young woman and her bike holding back a monstrous black Hummer is a beautiful sight.