Art inspires art.  This art, found on the sidebar, inspired me.

I choose to respond in haiku.  You may respond as well, but we will only accept comments in haiku.  (5-7-5 for those of you who don’t remember high school English….)  Here are some thoughts to get you started:

Surprised Asian man:
Surprised because this Jesus
hails from fair Gondor?

Benjamin Franklin!
Even with your syphilis
you are on God’s side.

Smug Hollywood man
you are liberal and bad
but I would date you.

Blond business woman
you rate no commentary.
Where are your children?

Abraham Lincoln
freed the slaves and also starred
in a musical.

Professor Darwin
Educational elite!
I like chimpanzees.

________________________

I had a flash of deja vu a week or so ago, something triggered a childhood memory and I was struck by the oddest thought…I’ve somehow become the person I wanted to marry.  I guess I’ve always been a planner, and I had a very clear vision of what I wanted as a child.  I wanted to live in Northern Virginia, married to a man who was a lawyer, and who did international work.  (What that actually meant was a little hazy to me, but that’s what I wanted.)  I now live in Northern Virginia, and am a lawyer who facilitates criminal justice reform in other countries.  (I have a better grasp now of what the job actually entails, which I’m sure is a relief to my boss.) 

I didn’t plan it this way.  I majored in Russian and secondary education in college and finished all the course work, except the student teaching, to qualify as a high school teacher.  I didn’t decide to go to law school until the end of my junior year, and the whole process of making that decision was painful and jarring–it seemed daunting to me as a single woman.  In law school, I never considered going into public service, I was pretty sure I wanted to be a litigator, and I wound up at a law firm in D.C. doing commercial litigation after graduation.  Unhappy with private practice, I took a huge pay cut for a government job, unrelated to law, and wound up with a surprise transfer to my current position–it was not something I applied for.

I’m willing to admit that my interests have always been my interests, and I’ve gravitated towards them, even in the most circuitous ways.  I also believe that I was working towards goals that I didn’t want to admit to myself.  I’m also aware that I was very, very lucky.

I’m fascinated by the fact that my tween mormon self in Salt Lake City could not fathom that I could achieve the life I wanted in any other way than marrying into it.  My thirty five year old self finds it odd that for someone who was so academically driven as a child, I was alarmingly without long term goals, or the concept that those goals were valid for a woman to possess.  I think I would have told other girls to set goals and that they could be anything they wanted, but I was so disbelieving of that concept, that I wouldn’t even allow myself to admit that this career was what I wanted.  No one told me I couldn’t achieve, I just set those boundaries myself.  And then, over years of tiny decisions, negated those boundaries.  I’m horrified and relieved; embarrassed and proud.   Crazy what a little nudge of deja vu can reveal.

So how do we help girls avoid the mental boundaries?  How can we get them to not only repeat the cliche of “follow your dreams,” but actually visualize themselves doing it?

I signed up for my comprehensive exam today.  October 31.  Halloween is my favorite holiday, so I figured it would bring me good luck, and I’m going to need it.  See, I’m in trouble.  In order to graduate this December, I have to write my culminating paper this fall and pass the exam.  Normally, this program is one and a half or two years, but I took a couple of years off to move to Afghanistan, and so I took the introductory courses four years ago.  Apparently the exam is based on the introductory courses.  Right now my plan is to befriend some young, innocent, smiling grad student and cajole their notes out of them.  The fact that I go to class at night when I’m cranky is kind of a road block to this plan, but I’m cagey and tenacious, so I figure I can pull it off somehow.   The introductory course that I’ll be tested on is basically IR theory with some other stuff thrown in.  I’ve taken a few international relations classes, so I remember enough of it to think it’s pretty useless.  My four years working in international affairs has pretty much solidified that notion for me.  If I ever heard a diplomat justify his or her actions based on realist theory or a commitment to constructivism, I’d faint from the sheer shock of it.  IR theory helps people explain lucky guesses and screw ups in the past, not prevent present-day idiocy or encourage enlightenment. Maybe cynicism can be my schtick?  Do I need a schtick for the exam?  Law school was different, we just made stuff up, then argued really hard for it.  I like that kind of intellectual laziness, I’m comfortable with it.

This is not to say that I haven’t learned a lot of really great things in my program (international security studies.)  I had a very smart professor explain international monetary policy in a way that I could understand, and now when I listen to NPR market report I know what they’re talking about.  I had a professor pass out maps when he did area studies units–and I finally figured out what was up with Burma, and can find Nepal.  That’s pretty cool.  I pretended to be Joe Biden in a crisis simulation course, and neatly led the U.S. down the garden path towards total international isolation and nuclear conflict with Iran.  So I learned that I shouldn’t be vice-president, or maybe I learned that I shouldn’t negotiate with Iranians, or maybe I learned that I shouldn’t be a man…hmmm….on second thought I’m pretty much just remembering the humiliation and can’t think of what I should have learned.  I learned that if you write a memo over two pages in the government, no one will read it.  (Actually, I already knew that from work…and it still makes me giggle.)  I learned that micro robots can cooperate as a unit to surveille hostile areas.  I actually learned a lot about robots in my technology class, and now I want one.  (Truth be told, I want an astromech unit from star wars, because I’m sure it would be a loyal friend and do my housework, so that isn’t so much a school thing as a nerd thing.)  I learned that Russia and England fought over Central Asia in this fabulously dramatic “great game” of colonial intrigue–there are fantastic stories of spies, massacres, and one very brave pony.  Right now I’m taking a terrific class on mass media and security studies.  Apparently sensationalism, gossip, grisly crime, and animal attack stories have always been a staple of the American media–it’s not just CNN.

Despite all my, frankly very useful, new knowledge, I don’t think it’s going to help me on the comprehensive exam.  I think I’m going to have to bite the bullet, con a naieve youngster, and actually study.  I’ll keep you posted.

I’ve been at my current job for four years.  During that whole time, there has been a homemade sign hanging up in the bathroom stall:  LADIES PLEASE REMEMBER THAT OTHERS USE THE RESTROOM BEHIND YOU!! PLEASE BE CONSIDERATE OF OTHERS AND CLEAN UP BEHIND YOURSELVES.  ALSO THE AIR FRESHNER (sic) IS HERE TO USE.  THANKS TO ALL. 

I know that we all think these things.  Hey!  use the air freshener!  But how often are you agitated enough that you take the time to compose a note.  Then you stop, evaluate, and add pleasantries like “ladies” and “thanks to all.”  Then you print it.  Then you try and find tape (which is not easy in a modern office for some reason).  Then you walk all the way down to the bathroom and wait for people to leave the stalls so you can post your notes.  That takes some strong feelings and some great follow through.  That tenacity is then rewarded with bathroom sign immortality.  Four years!!  No one touches that sign–the edges may be tattered and curled, but the message lives on.  It occured to me the other day as I was, um, thinking in there, that this was like a modern day proverb.  There may have been a ridiculously disproportionate initial outlay of effort compared to the actual situation, but then your words live on.

Have you read any good proverbs lately?  There are some gems in there.  Some favorites:  Proverbs 6:6:  Go to the ant, you sluggard.  Consider her ways and be wise. That is some lasting sluggard-disgust there.  3000 years later and we’re still reading about it.  Another:  Proverbs 29:3:  Whoever loves wisdom brings joy to his father; But a companion of prostitutes squanders his wealth. Actually, that’s pretty good advice–I’m not going to mock it.  Read Proverbs 31 lately?  There’s this guy named Lemuel and his mother doesn’t like his girlfriend.  3000 years later, and the girl is anonymous, but mama is immortalized.  Words are power.

I’m trying to think of advice that I would feel strongly enough about to write it down for hundreds of generations to read:  Look before you leap?  Carpe Diem?  Actually, I think “ALSO THE AIR FRESHNER IS HERE TO USE” is probably the best advice I could give.   What about you?  What life proverbs do you feel strongly enough about that you would preserve them for future generations, or at the very least find tape and post on the bathroom wall?

I don’t dream much. When I do dream, they tend to be vivid and memorable. The other night I had a surprising vivid dream that I’m still thinking about: I had a conversation with my great-grandmother who died six months before I was born.

I’ve always been sad that I didn’t know her. By all accounts she was feisty and courageous–despite her diminuitive size. The first convert to Mormonism in that line of the family, she was an immigrant from Norway, and the story of her family’s journey defines tenacity. I’ve talked with my beloved, feisty and smart- as-a-whip 101 year-old grandma about her mama, and after every conversation, I really wished I would have been able to meet my great-grandma. So I guess the other night I did.

I was walking in back of my grandma’s house where the old chicken coops were, and went into an upstairs room of the barn. It was light and peaceful and I knocked on a door. This really beautiful, vibrant woman answered, and she had the kindest, biggest smile I’ve ever seen. I instantly knew who she was and we embraced.

We sat down at a table, and I said “Now that you’ve died, has your concept of theology changed?”

I don’t really remember anything else. That was it. I don’t know what her answer was. Above all, I don’t know why I asked that question. This was my chance–the chance to have a conversation with this person that I’ve admired my whole life, and I was asking about her concept of theology. That seems weird to me. I woke up thinking “you’re an idiot.”

But maybe that was just as fine a question as any other. I didn’t need to ask her if she was happy–that was obvious. I didn’t need to ask her if she loved me, because I felt it. I guess I was really asking for some wisdom from the other side about those age-old questions that humans have always struggled with. Maybe it was fitting that she didn’t answer me. Maybe the answer is that we try too hard to define the indefinable and just loving your grandma is a pretty good way to go.

It has recently come to my attention that we, as mormons, have done something shameful, I thought it may be too hot to post, but I can’t be silent. 

I was watching the news tonight, and when I say news, I mean E!News.  It has come to my attention over the past several weeks that Rob Pattinson (OMG, he’s so hot I love Edward Rob Pattinson…you know….yeah that one…the one with the hair)…..wait for it….may have some kind of substance abuse problem.  Allegedly, lots of bars, lots of the public drunkennes, apparently some valium, you get the picture.  How can one so young and so beautiful turn to the demon liquor and satan’s happy pills?  Clearly, one thing has driven him to chemical stimulation and de-stimulation:  Twi-moms.

I trick or treated at the (alleged)  head twi-mom’s house this past halloween, and if you think satan’s holiday is scary,  you should celebrate it with a cult of celibate-vegetarian-vampire lovers.  I just ran into the one (and a few of her minions), and I’m chilled with fear.  Rob Pattinson has to face them everyday.  They’re watcing his every movement.  They are *gulp* *whisper* experiencing sexual titilation because of his unkempt hair.  They screech, and cry, and teach their young to swoon.

Are we, as a culture responsible for this poor kid’s pain?  (Certainly a fair amount of his disorientation–that high pitched screeching can have an effect on the inner ear.)  I’m thinking that all our sobriety and sexual repression have a dark side, a very dark side my friends.   I was thinking of joining facebook and starting a  “save the hair from twi-moms” group, but then I’d just be part of the problem.  Oh the conundrum.  And the shame…..

I don’t think that gratitude is a natural emotion for human beings. Well, let me clarify, because that isn’t quite true. I think that gratitude can be classified in two ways. There is gratitude that we feel for indivuals–for recognizable and identifiable others who have performed a recognizable and identifiable good for us. The actual strength and level of gratitude we feel for others is probably tied up in the status of our relationship to those people and to the level of good that they performed for us. I think we can feel a profound sense of gratitude towards other people, and that feeling is often tied up with any number of other feelings, love, admiration, indebtedness, embarrassment, etc. That’s not the kind of gratitude that I’m talking about here. I’m talking about meta-level, non-individualized gratitude. The “count your many blessings” type of gratitude. I don’t think that kind of gratitude is natural for human beings, and I suspect that evolution is to blame.

Let me just say that I’m in no way qualified to actually make any scientific claims. Fortunately, I’m a blogger, so that doesn’t stop me, and I’m just going to go ahead and wax hypothetical. I’m sure we can count on our commenters to set me straight! So, here’s my theory of evolution–the Karen H. paradigm: people are ingrateful because a lack of gratitude gives us an evolutionary edge–the desire to attain and the ability to act in a way that allows us to attain. I think our minds should be formatted on achievement. This is healthy for society–inventors, engineers, social workers etc. are always striving to make things better. This may benefit them individually, but it also helps society move forward. I don’t know how to make a car, but I benefit from the knowledge of the dude that said “this horse is just too darn slow.” That car dude wasn’t grateful for his horse, and I’m better off for it.

Even more importantly, and this is the part that I’m particularly thinking about right now, I think it is healthy for us to take things for granted. (What? That’s heresy!) No, let me explain. Again, an example: I currently can’t walk. Remember a few weeks ago when there was an ice storm in Washington D.C. and the federal government called a two hour delay and President Obama said that we were all a bunch of wusses? He was pretty much speaking straight to me–I’m an ice wuss. It all started when I spent a winter in St. Petersburg as a missionary shuffling over vast sheets of ice, hoping not to fall. It hardwired a fundamental fear in me that I haven’t been able to get rid of. But that’s kind of embarrassing, so I don’t let it stop me, I still go out and shuffle around like an old lady. This works most of the time, but it didn’t work on the night of January 27. I made it through the ice okay, got inside a building, let up my guard, and slipped and fell in a puddle that someone had tracked in. I fell in a weird and graceful cartoonish kind of way, and to make a long story short and painful, a torn meniscus and damaged cartilage later, I had knee surgery on Thursday. Now I can’t walk, and it would be hard for me to describe the full extent of the ouchiness that I’m currently feeling. And with every jerky crutch-enabled step I take, I think “I’m never going to take walking for granted again. I will always be grateful for my ability to move around freely, to take care of myself, to go to the bathroom unhindered. I will always be grateful, I’ll never take it for granted.”

Of course, this is a foolish lie. I know myself. I say the same thing when I have a head cold: “I’ll never take for granted the ability to breathe again.” And of course I do. Everyday I walk and breathe and talk and do every other normal thing and totally take it for granted….because….and here’s the scientific hypothesis part….I forget what it’s like to hurt. I know that in a couple of weeks when I’m tooling around crutch free, I’ll forget what I feel like right now, and that’s a good thing! If I remembered what this felt like, I’d be paralyzed by fear. I would measure every step, become irritatingly and inefficiently cautious. My ability to perform my job would be hampered, my ability to interact with other humans would suffer. Fundamentally, my ingratitude allows me to function. Taking everyday blessings for granted makes me a contributing member of society. I’ve never given birth to a child, but I’ve heard people express this same idea: “If I really remembered what this felt like, I’d never do it again.” But we need people to do it again. Our population could not sustain itself if the world were made up of only-children.

But saying all this out loud just feels wrong, doesn’t it. Actually admitting that ingratitude might be healthy and unnecessary feels spiritually wrong. It may denote a certain amount of attainment success, but it certainly signals a spiritual paucity. Even though I recognize that forgetting my blessings is healthy, I don’t want to. And I don’t think I’m alone. Again, I’m no expert in comparative religion, but I think that without exception, every major world religion stresses gratitude as part of its fundamental theology. Prayer, meditation, whatever your chosen means of interacting with divine are, they likely include a pretty basic focus on gratitude and on expressing that gratitude. Even the great church of Oprah encourages us to keep gratitude journals. And this is probably pretty healthy too, because as I understand it, a marker of spirituality is always the struggle against instinct–the fight against the “natural man” as Mormons would put it. If spirituality is a quest for peace, then maybe it functions by lifting our eyes above a life of attainment. It makes us into the kind of people who do serve others, and merit the kind of gratitude I spoke about in the beginning of this post: individuals who identifiably and recognizably care about and serve those around them.

A good friend who was staying with me recently greeted me one morning with the following devastating news: “I don’t know how to tell you this, but you have a new roommate. He’s living under the dishwasher. I named him Jorge.”

That was actually pretty mean, naming the mouse like that, because during the epic battle that we waged I could not think of him as anything but Jorge. Jorge was pretty cute: petite, gray, saucy white patches, and a twitchy curious little nose that seemed to say “Hello world, I’ve come to sniff you!” I was in denial for the first couple of days. She was wrong, she had to have been wrong. My house is clean and pest free. (Well, except for the squirrel debacle of 1995, of which we no longer speak).

I even, for a while, decided that I could live with my houseguest (the furry one, not the human one). People have pets, right? Well, I just have a pet. That’s not crazy, right? Then, my houseguest (the furry one, not the human one) revealed a very bad habit: pooping on my kitchen counter. Pooping, pooping, everywhere. So much mouse poop. And that’s when I realized that my houseguest (the furry one, not the human one) was a pest, and he had to go. I called the pest control people, and they came with their humane glue traps and I waited for Jorge to succumb.

But he didn’t succumb. He kept pooping, and, oddly enough, eating apples. (Note to self and others: do not leave food on the counter when you have a mouse in the house). Then he resorted to the worst form of warcraft: he mocked me. I was sitting on the couch watching t.v. and he ran out from under the basement door and just stopped and looked at me. Twitching nose, beady little eyes, jaunty french accent: ha ha ha I mock you with my nose! Then he ran under the couch I was sitting on. I screamed, I jumped up and down, I MAY have (allegedly) cussed. Jorge stayed there for awhile. My bunker became his bunker. It was diabolical. Then he ran into ground zero, the center of our conflict, my kitchen. (Or at this point, we might as well have called it his kitchen, because he owned me.)

I decided to regroup and visit the armory: aka Home Depot. I stood in the pest control aisle for about an hour quizzing every passer-by. “What kind of mousetrap should I buy?” I ignored their silent looks of condemnation but I knew what they said: “You’re a bad housekeeper! You have a rodent in your house! You are a bad, bad person!” I persevered, because that’s the kind of gal I am. The consensus seemed to be that the old fashioned mouse traps are the best. Technology has not improved the pest-industrial complex. I bought “baitless” traps because they looked less messy. Some nice plastic cheese–no fuss no muss.

I put four traps in front of the fridge. That was Jorge’s base camp. I’d get him where he lived! It was genius. I set the traps and went to bed. Next morning. More poop, no Jorge. The traps just need another day, I told myself. Next morning, more poop, no Jorge. Clearly, plastic cheese does not fool an experienced foe. Finally, in despair, I contacted the guru, the fount of all knowledge trivial and useless: BCC’s own supergenius. His deep voice thundered from the mountains: USE PEANUT BUTTER! (actually, he just typed it into gmail IM–but it resonated in my soul.)

There was faint music playing in the background–sad shy instrumentals, haunting melody. Gracefully, in cinematic slow motion, I baited four traps with peanut butter, creamy. I gently set them in front of the fridge and quietly walked up the stairs to go to bed.

I didn’t sleep well. The next morning I woke up, and came downstairs. It was a horrible battle scene. Peanut butter and mouse poop everywhere. All over the kitchen. Jorge was still alive but barely. I think he died while I picked the trap up with a plastic bag and took it out to the garbage. I cleaned up the kitchen, then got in my car to drive to work. I cried the whole time.

I’ve recently returned from working in a conflict zone for the past two years. This is the first in a series of posts about how the heck I’m supposed to live in America now….I’m generally befuddled.

There’s not a whole lot to do at night when you live in an aluminum container converted into living quarters. You can take a shower, brush your teeth, surf the ‘net occasionally when the link is up, and watch your dvds of Buffy the Vampire Slayer over and over again. Then you’ve pretty much exhausted the possibilities. So to stave off boredom and to relieve a certain amount of job stress, I actually developed a good habit, which frankly surprises me and is somewhat out of character. Anyways, extreme conditions call for extreme actions, so I started exercising. Nothing too intense, but I would walk around the track surrounding our compound for about an hour every night. I’m quite sure that the guards snickered when I was passing and were taking bets about when I’d give up, but I just cranked up the Metallica and chose not to care. Here’s the surprising part, which I’m sure some people have discovered, it feels good to exercise. See, there are these things called endorphins and they make you feel groovy. Also, and this is shocking, exercise leads to weight loss, decrease in stress, and general heart health. I felt like a genius–in on a little secret that only a few people know…the beautiful people.

The beautiful people are not like us. They go to gyms, they wear clothes that weren’t bought on the out-of-style sale rack, and they shop at Whole Foods. They eat fancy cheese and organic vegetables. They breed and make more beautiful people. Those extremely small beautiful people get their clothes at Gymboree–all of them, not just Easter dresses. They live in perfectly remodeled craftsman houses. They recycle. They say they vote for democrats, but secretly they vote for republicans. They vacation in east asia. They’ve never been to a Cracker Barrel, in fact, they’ve never been on road trips. They don’t sweat. You get the idea.

I’m not one of the beautiful people. My idea of an exciting evening out is a trip to Target. I love strolling up and down the aisles, picking out Target music collector CDs, buying cheap towels, and topping it off with a trip to the vintage candy aisle. My idea of an evening in is laying on the couch in ripped pajamas and watching the dvd extras on Lord of the Rings. I don’t live in a craftsman house, I usually don’t recycle (gasp!) and I don’t go to the gym. I really, really don’t go to the gym. That is the kind of humiliation I don’t need in my life, or rather that I didn’t need in my life. But now I have problem, I have this groovy new habit, and a bit of an endorphin addiction. I’ve lost some weight, and am generally pretty proud of myself. I actually want to continue this new habit, and frankly, in my suburban neighborhood, the gym in the best option.

So I swallowed my pride, pasted a smile on my face, walked in the front door, and asked for a sales person. Much to my chagrin, they sent me to, well, let’s call him
“Joe.” Joe is 18, and just a teeny bit socially awkward. Here’s a snapshot of how it went. Him: “So I’m just going to ask you some questions.” Me: “Okay.” Him: “How much do you weigh? Sorry. They make me ask that. If I don’t ask, they’ll fire me.” Me: “xxx” (seriously, did you think I was going to type that number in on a blog for real!). Him: “Um, okay. So, um, where do you think you gain weight the most, I mean, like where does fat collect on your body. I’m sorry. They make me ask that. If I don’t ask, I’ll get in trouble. ” Me: “I guess my hips.” Him (turning a computer screen towards me): “So do you think this is pretty much what you look like with a bathing suit on? Sorry, they make me ask that.” Me: Holy crap, is this really happening! “Yeah, um I guess.” Him: “So, I’m almost done, I’m really sorry, but I have to do this. So, this chart is of your risk for heart disease, cancer, stroke, blood clots, brain tumors, shark attacks, lightning strikes, and spontaneous cerebral hemmorhage.” Okay, I made those last few up, but seriously, according to the gym, I’m about to die. Me: “ummm, okay.” Him: “So, if you join the gym, this green line shows where your risk we’ll be after exercising.” The green line magically shrinks to almost zero, and I am promised eternal youth. Me: “ummm, okay.” Him: “So, do you want to join the gym?” Me: “Yep, that’s why I’m here.” Good golly, why else would I be here Joe? Him: “Sorry, they make me do this. I’m going to sign you up for a free personal training session. They’ll do some exercises, but basically they’ll try to sell you on more personal training sessions. Sorry, they make me do this.”

So, I am finally referred to the kind of person I expected to meet at the gym. A beautiful person. A perfectly-coiffed, buffer-than-belief, brand-name-sports-clothes-wearing beautiful person. Let’s call him “Blaine.” I swear, Blaine took one look at me and let out a little sigh. Clearly, we were not going to be gym buddies. Blaine started asking me a very familiar series of questions, and did not apologize for it. How much do you weigh? Where do you gain weight? etc. etc. etc. Then, Blaine designed an exercise regime for me. Apparently, to stave off certain death, I need to have a personal trainer three times a week, and the grand total will be? About the same as my monthly mortgage payment. I am not kidding. “Blaine,” I said “There is no way I’m signing up for personal training. That is way too expensive. Sorry, that is just the truth.” But certain death? Don’t you care about certain death? “Blaine, no personal training.” Then we did some squats, and I can’t move today as a result. Blaine got his revenge.

So I went to the gym on my own tonight after work. No trainer, just me and the treadmill. Here was a sample of my inner monologue.

Wow, I’m cool. I’m at the gym, listening to the ipod. Proudly moving among the beautiful people.
I’m hungry.
I’m really, really hungry. I should have eaten something.
I think this treadmill is moving faster than I walked around the track.
I think it is moving so much faster, I only have to do half an hour to get the same results.
Yay! Ricky Martin! I love my ipod.
It’s my first time. I’ll just do half an hour.
Oh, my gosh, I’m hungry, I feel faint.
I wonder if people will notice, if I put my t.v. screen on the news.
And when I say news, I mean the E! channel Daily 10.
I’m so hungry! I don’t think I can move anymore…I’ll just put the treadmill on a little slower.
Does time move slower in the gym?
I am going to die from hunger! I am going to die in front of the beautiful people.
Ashlee Simpson got a nose job? It’s hard to tell with the sound off.
I’m so hungry.
Three more minutes. Put on more Ricky Martin, I’m not going to make it.
I’m done! I’m so cool, I worked out at the gym!

So. Clearly I have some work to do. I’ll mix it up tomorrow, try to break up my grueling 30 minutes and up my time a bit. I have a plan. I just may be getting a little more beautiful. Oh, and by the way, I shopped at Whole Foods this weekend. Bought me some cheese. God Bless America.

This post is possibly history making. I’m going to relate “Talladega Nights: The Ballad of Ricky Bobby” to the gospel. (I watched this movie in a trailer park with a bunch of armed security guards, so I just have to be a fan.) Anyways, at one point, Ricky Bobby prays to “Dear Lord baby Jesus” then, just to mess with his wife, escalates to praying to “Dear 8 lb. 6 oz. baby Jesus.” Heretical? Hypocritical? Scandalous? Nahh. This is why I love Christmas…

Some louder voices in the public sphere decry a war on Christmas, concerned that the commercialization and kitsch drown out the true meaning of the season. I have a different take. I love that at Christmastime, unabashed spirituality creeps into the public sphere. Those of us who are believers will always carve out devotional time in our lives. Our celebration of Christmas in our homes will match our belief and we will certainly celebrate Christ from the creche to the ascention. Jesus is our Lord and King, the Savior of the World, our Redeemer, our Friend. Nothing is more fitting for those of us who believe in the miracle of His sacrifice, than to listen and agree with the Hallelujah Chorus in Handel’s Messiah.

But not everyone in the world is a believer in Christ. Or perhaps their personal faith, for whatever reason, is not currently manifest in their lives. Christmas is a time when the simplest message of Christianity is embraced, unabashedly, by the public. “Peace on Earth, Goodwill toward men.” No matter what your religious belief is, that is a message that the world can get behind. Even if only for the fleeting moments of Christmas, when we hear carols in every store, see angels and lights on houses, and are wished good tidings by friends, that is a universal message that people are more inclined to embrace. It may be the lowest common denominator of Christianity, but what a common denominator it is. If only we could have peace, if only we can practice goodwill. That is a message I’ll share with those I love, no matter their religious belief or lack thereof.

So, at this Christmastime, I’m remembering the baby Jesus, and praying for peace. I’m praying that the wars will cease, and if that can’t happen, I’m praying that those separated from their families by war can be safe and protected. I’m praying that we can increase the measure of goodwill that we radiate. I’m remembering baby Jesus along with the large part of the world, and I’m glad He is something we can share.