New Year, Old Year

Yesterday found the Williams Henke family settling down into a typical evening. Eat dinner, wash dishes, chat with the kids, retire to our respective spaces to unwind before bed. No staying up until midnight, no New Year’s champagne or kisses. I've spent most of my life on the outside of American holiday traditions, so I don’t usually pay them much mind. Though vehemently opposed to religious holidays when I was religious (yeah, you read that correctly. Funny thing about religion, any other than your very own can twist your knickers), these days I could take or leave most of them. I don’t always have the umph required to celebrate the arbitrarily assigned holidays, but friends change things. Good friends are always a reason to celebrate. A holiday is just an excuse to spend time with the ones you love.

A sweet three minute holiday greeting in video form from our friends across the pond got me into the spirit of this new year/old year business last night. There they were, champagne in hand, sitting on the hearth with a warm fire behind them, telling us how much they have enjoyed getting to know us over the last several months, saying a little something for each of the nine of us by name, looking forward to the new year with us in their lives, and making me melt into a puddle of tears. Afterward we chatted online and counted down to the new year with them, six hours in advance of our own. We celebrated by snacking on some of the British biscuits they’d sent us a couple weeks before. Today we gathered and recorded our own greeting in response. A bit longer, as there were more of us to cover, though it was like pulling teeth to get the kids to say anything at all. Little beasts. Denny, clever man that he is, added cricket noises over the kids’ silent shrugging. Perfect.

It’s all got me reflecting on the year past and feeling right hopeful about the year to come. Here’s where I get teary-eyed.

Two years ago today I gratefully took a seat at my dining table with family and friends (one of which was Denny—who’d have thunk he’d be moving in almost eight months later?), fresh bread and hot tea, and a cozy fire in the stove. I’d spent most of the previous month in bed with a back injury and, just for fun, a kidney infection. I was happy to be recovering, to have friends over again, to bake bread again. I was feeling vivid and alive with my new freedom and my new friends. It felt like a splendid way to bring in the new year and I considered making a tradition of it. It didn’t happen this year, in part because some of the kids have a touch of a cold, but no matter. In the past several days we’ve spent all kinds of time connecting with our dearest friends, the people that make our lives worthwhile. Some on the phone, some in person, some online. So what if it didn’t all happen today?

If that were all, I’d feel right rich and content, but there’s more. This year I’ve matured and developed deeper character while exploring what it means to be me, to be free. I love who I am today. I feel like I have my very own identity for the first time in my life. And I love all the changes and challenges and people that helped shape me; Denny, my children, my parents, my friends, my readers, my reviewers.

Thanks to Denny, last year I was inspired to dig within and scrounge up the gumption to complete and publish my first book, the first of many. I did it for him, I did it for the children, I did it for myself. What I didn’t anticipate was the floodgate of responses. I’ve been completely humbled by the kindness and warmth with which my words have been received. Because of the autobiographical nature of my book people feel they are directly connecting with me when they read it and many have reached out; some to encourage, some out of curiosity, some even for help. I have wonderful friendships at the turn of this new year that I didn’t have at the turn of the last, simply because of the writing and publishing experience. It was unexpected and is very rewarding. There’s no feeling quite like it.

Last year I explored new aspects of motherhood at the side of Denny, who has been embracing and exploring fatherhood. I’ve heard “you’re such a good mom” more times and more sincerely than I’ve heard the whole time I’ve been a mom. I’ve thoroughly enjoyed having a partner who cares about the children as much as I do, and cares about me while we’re doing this parenting thing. As a family we are learning to navigate the teenage years, transitioning these young people into adulthood with as much grace as possible, while giving the younger ones a good foundation and happy childhood. Perfectly? Heck no. But we communicate, we love, we strive for understanding. I’ve thought a lot about my past and my mistakes, but I wouldn’t undo a moment of it because wow, these kids are astounding.

Our home school has cranked up a few notches in quality. The older children are writing up a storm in the form of reports as well as creative projects. Instead of a narrow history of the earth starting six thousand years ago and involving a worldwide flood, the children are learning about the history of the universe, evolution, our place among the stars and the animals. Social studies happen regularly as we discuss events current and past. The children are inundated with some form of science study nearly every day and all seem hungry for it. Algebra has found its way to the table. We are also learning gobs about Britain, thanks to our friends over there who love to share their knowledge and experiences. We’re very much looking forward to traveling to the UK as soon as we can afford it, probably within a few years. (Donations accepted!)

Together we have worked and sacrificed to pay off debt and, aside from a moderate mortgage and a small dental bill, we’ve done it. Not only that, but we’ve managed to get my and the children’s health up to snuff with dental visits and vaccinations. (Without a dime of support from my ex. Just sayin’.) We’ve improved our home with some orginzation, lots of shelves, a bit of paint, and sundry other things. Our property saw the addition of a duck pond, two cedar arbors and some trellises, hugelkulture garden beds, and many perennial herbs and flowers. In a bittersweet vein, we parted with our goats to free up time and energy to pursue other things. But we still make and sell soap.

We’ve had a lot of laughs, shed a few tears because we’re really just big softies, and enjoyed the year thoroughly. Thanks to all who have been a part of it. I can’t begin to imagine what next year will bring to my door, but I greet it with open arms.

Time Is On My Side

Tock, tick, tock, tick, tock.

That classic sound of time slipping away is announced by the grandmother clock above my mantle. A birthday gift from my dad two years ago. (Or was it three? Tricky time.) Somehow it’s wormed its way into my heart as one of the most soothing sounds in the world. If I can hear it, it means the house is quiet. The only other sound on this wintry afternoon is the hiss of the water pot we keep simmering on the wood stove. And the occasional slurpy sip of hot Yorkshire tea with a little cream and sugar—that’s me, being cozy. Every now and then I hear a shout or a note of laughter drifting from the yard, where my younger four children are at play, bundled up in snow suits, hats, mittens and boots of assorted colors. (I love that my boys don’t mind wearing pink.) Make it do or do without. There’s no snow on the ground today, just an inch of ice and sleet. It’s a make-it-do winter.


My older three children are upstairs doing their school work. When the younger ones come back in I will fix them some hot cocoa and we’ll read together on the couch and then they’ll do some copy work at the table. Maybe today I’ll break out the sewing machine and teach Blue to use it; she’s been asking me to. Denny is in the back working at his computer. I see an occasional flutter at the bird feeder outside the dining room window as titmice, nuthatches, chickadees and cardinals fly in for a quick snack.

But it’s mostly quiet. Stillness prevails. I am basking in it.
We must, as parents, you know. We must pause to note life's peaceful moments. Did I say parents? As people—with children or otherwise. Slip away from the children or send them outside, set the iPhone aside, turn off the TV or radio, find somewhere inviting and just be for a few minutes. Funny, we have to unplug occasionally to fully recharge. (For the record, I did spend at least nine minutes this way before I thought how nice it would be to write it down and grabbed my laptop.) 

I enjoy the house at this moment with the awareness that someday the children will be grown and gone, the days more still and quiet than busy and noisy, and I’ll go about my days and nights with more time to remember how full of life it once was. Not that I anticipate the fullness going out of my life when my kids are gone--I have plans, ideas, hopes—but it will certainly be quieter and… different. I’ve read the mommy poems about the fingerprints on the walls growing higher and higher and finally disappearing. I’ve cried my share of sweet and bittersweet tears as I’ve watched my children play together, say the darnedest things, reach personal milestones, snuggle next to me on cold mornings and give me hugs when I needed it most. Childhood is fleeting. Time is fleeting. I’m neither in a hurry to see it pass nor longing to hold onto it. Sometimes I’m just incredibly aware of it. And in those moments it seems to stand still.

My mind snaps photographs, desperate to capture the moments. I take actual photos or write down descriptions if I’m able. It’s a process of observation, pausing to acknowledge my life, to memorize and appreciate it. I take the moments in and they shape me, help to make me who I am and who I will be. I don’t want to rush by them and end up at the end of the road wondering where my life went, you know? My house will likely be very quiet one day, but, if I’m careful to capture them now, it will be full of vivid memories. What’s more satisfying than the knowledge of a life purposefully lived?

Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick.

A Nonreligious Experience

Happy child of atheist parents.

It’s a sunny July afternoon. Unusually cool and pleasant for July, as the mild breeze drifting casually in through the propped -open door attests. I’m standing near the circulation desk at our small-town library, waiting for two of my older children to finish checking out their books. One of my younger children is near me, her nose in a picture book, and my three year old is playing peek-a-boo around the corner of the desk with a sixty-something year old lady at a table near the resource room. She is smiling at my boy and chuckling when he shyly ducks away where he can’t be seen, only to peek at her again a moment later.

The woman rises, approaches us, and my youngest scoots behind me.

“He’s so cute!” she says. “He was making faces at me over there. How old is he? About three?”

I answer in the affirmative, smiling and patting my shy little one on the head. The woman glances at my other three children, with their stacks of books, their summer glow and happy countenances.

“Are these all yours? They’re such happy, beautiful children!” she says.

“Thank you. Yes, they are. I have three more at home.” True enough, my oldest and two middles are at home. I used to take all seven out with me, but these days they take turns running errands with me in our small car; our 1-ton Chevy van that seats our nine member family, our “homeschool bus,” is neither inexpensive nor environmentally friendly to run so we save it for family trips.

This woman before me looks surprised, but pleasantly so, it seems. Not many people meet our vivacious family with frowns.

“Do you go to church anywhere?” she asks.

Ah well, it’s inevitable in rural Missouri.

“Nope,” I answer truthfully, but not feeling the need to elaborate.

Is she disappointed? Put off? Of course not! This is her opportunity to invite me to her church. I am silent while she works around to it, telling me where she attends, what time their services are and what kind of programs they offer for children. I wonder how many of these conversations I will have in my life. I wonder if I will always be as patient and friendly as I feel today. It’s almost become a game, seeing how long into the conversation I can go before being put on the spot.

“So, will you come?” she arrives at the point.

I love this part.

“No, thank you,” I smile, my sweet children beaming next to me.  “We’re atheists, actually.”

Judging by the combination of confusion and surprise on her face I’d say that we were her first. And that she didn’t expect atheists to smile and have happy children.

Sometimes I have too much fun being an unbeliever in the Bible belt. But I feel I deserve to enjoy it occasionally, as much grief as it brings our family other times.

The woman regained her composure and apologized. She did what? Yep, apologized. That was a first.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know.”

“Of course. How could you possibly know?” I am still exuding genuine friendliness which now seems to slightly alarm her. She takes a couple steps backward toward the door. “There aren’t a lot of us here in Fredericktown,” I whisper conspiratorially. She looks the children over, as though she’s still trying to get it straight in her head. She fumbles around for an appropriate goodbye, apologizing again so that I almost, ALMOST, feel bad for her. I say goodbye. She turns and walks out the door.

True story.

Picky Eaters part 2-- Children Are People Too

Yes, yes, yes! A good friend of mine responded to my last blog post and gave me permission to share it anonymously here.  This is what I love, this interaction, this exchange of ideas.  This is what we can do for each other, folks!

Ok, so first, I've been following a family on Facebook called The Libertarian Homeschooler. She is the one that got me thinking. Then, in light of leaving the Bible and God's authority, it has made me come up with better reasons than, "God said so, so I said so," to say to my kids. Which then begs the question, why do I say so and why should they listen to me? So, then I have to ask myself, what authority do I really have over my kids, except that they live in the house that I provide for them, but does that mean they aren't still their own people, with their own desires, needs and ways of expressing themselves? 

In the Biblical model we are taught to believe "because the Bible says so" and "because the parent says to." But don't we want to raise kids who are able to think completely on their own without influence from us or the Bible or anyone else? Clearly, there will be some influence, but we want to raise independent thinkers. That is impossible to do in a biblical model, I think, so it's hard to let go of this idea that I have complete authority over my kids. I mean, they aren't really "mine" are they? They are only in my care because I birthed them and they are somewhat helpless until such a time as they can fend for themselves. My job is to provide food/shelter/protection/support until such a time as they are ready to be on their own.

Which brings us to your issue of food. And everything I'm saying, I'm saying just as much to myself as I re-think my role as parent in my world, so don't feel like I'm picking on you. 

What does it really matter if they turn up their nose at a certain dish? If it were a table full of adults in your dining room instead of a table full of kids, would we even for a second stop to question their reason for passing on a certain dish, or making them defend their reasons for wanting a piece of fruit instead of a pasta dish? Do I ever for a second consider myself ungrateful if I don't want to eat liver when it is served to me, or do I just know I don't like liver? Or pasta. Or whatever it is that I think my kids should eat, but won't. Why is it so bad for our kids to decide they would rather go hungry or to comment that they don't care for something and would rather not partake of it? I mean, if they are forgoing dinner because they are looking forward to ice cream, then maybe we need to help them see how those are bad choices for their health, but if they are choosing a piece of fruit instead, what is really so bad about that? I don't know... I want to raise autonomous kids who know their own mind, and that means they need to be able to make decisions for themselves, even the foods they eat, but that also means I have to allow them to make decisions, even ones that I don't like or agree with! Eeeek! Now, I think there is a way to teach being gracious and polite and such, but to make them eat something that they don't like just because we think it's the way to do things, isn't really respecting them as people is it?

One thing that has really made me go huh? is to ask myself if I would do the same thing to either me or another adult. So, if I were made to finish a meal I didn't like, how would that make me feel? Would I appreciate it? Would I learn a lesson or would I just be pissed that I was made to do something that I didn't want to do? Especially something as benign as eating something that was gross to me. In the whole scheme of things, taste is so individual and also so not a big deal, right? I think part of my thinking that it is a big deal is because mealtime is so much about authority/control in the biblical model that is still seeping through in my parenting without me even realizing it. So much stuff to get rid of, but man, it's hard!

Holy pasta, I love this woman!  It's such a pleasure to parent alongside her.  My response:

Thank you sooooo much! You've hit the nail on the head, methinks. Denny and I go back and forth with these conversations. What's funny is that I struggled with that whole, "God said so, I said so" authority thing early on, as I wrote about in my first book, and backed off on some of my former child-training methods. Denny, a long-time anarchist, oddly leaned more at first toward reigning the kids in a bit.  But we end up talking about these things at least once a week. 

 It's tricky, isn't it? Humans having such a long developmental stage is interesting.

We probably went too far with the food thing, too authoritative, but the thrust of our overall approach was one of attempting to help the children with some perspective. This is a way I think we can and should be helping our children. Not "Eat this because I said," but "Here are some reasons you might consider eating this without complaining." I realize I didn't wrap up the blog by saying what approach we would take from here on out. I’m actually not sure we decided on anything, we were just desperate to help them see some reasons their complaining is unpleasant.  I'm not inclined to force them to eat food they don't like, never have been.  I had a long talk with one of them, asked him to write up a list of foods he likes, and I'll do so with the other children, too.  We'll see if we can come up with some nutritious meals everyone enjoys. And I will invite them to help create them.  I said, "I'm a busy momma and I have nine people to feed, three times a day, every single day.   It's not always going to be food everyone likes.  But I'm more than willing to accept help in this area.  I want input, but I want it polite.  And I don't appreciate complaints from people who aren't willing to help."

You're so right; contrary to what we believed before, these children are not ours. You couldn't have explained it better.  I feel my oldest testing me from time to time, and stories of wild and "rebellious" teenagers have been coming our way. I told her, "If you want to do those things, you're absolutely free to.   You're your own person with your own choices to make, I'm just here to support you.  There may be limits to what Denny and I allow in our presence and under our roof, but we can talk about those things when you’re ready.” She appreciates it. I feel like she is growing tremendously and expects to crash into my boundaries any moment, but when we talk like this she relaxes. By giving her the freedom to be who she is, who she wants to be, I feel like I am giving her the freedom to make better choices for better reasons. I want her to have no one to rebel against and focus instead on being who she wants to be. Are their going to be bumps? Hell yeah. But I think this is the best way, and I think that as a result there will be fewer bumps than if I try to shape her into what I think she should be.

Anyone else?  Feel free to chime in in the comments!

Picky Eaters

A possibly culturally insensitive ramble about intentional parenting

My kids are picky eaters.  Most of them.  I was determined they wouldn’t be, but, try as I might, here we are.  Granted, they are probably not as picky as most American kids their ages (three to fourteen), and the odds of serving one meal that pleases all seven of them are less than if there were only two of them, but more often than not we hear a complaint or a simple, “I’ll just go hungry tonight.”

In the past I have worked hard to respect the fact that we all have different tastes and preferences and that sometimes we just don’t feel like eating.  As a stay-at-home mother I have been relatively in tune to my children’s health and well-being; I know what they’re eating and when.  No one is allowed to help themselves to food, they ask for fruit for snacks if they want something mid morning or mid-afternoon, they drink water all day and sometimes milk with meals, and the three meals are generally served at regular intervals.  If, for instance, Royal is quieter than usual and says he doesn’t feel like eating, he probably is coming down with something and it would be foolish to make him eat.  My ex used to make the kids eat everything on their plates and more than one of them threw up their dinner as a result.

It takes discernment to decide if they don’t feel like eating or if they just don’t like a particular food or if they’re just being ornery.  I ask them to try two bites of new foods and if they don’t like it they can go hungry.  For my little ones (three and under, or thereabouts) I’ve been more flexible, allowing them to have a glass of milk and/or piece of homemade wheat bread instead.  Over time we’ve learned that Atira just can’t stomach bell peppers or the texture of quiche, and the same with Blue regarding beans or Mexican-seasoned food, so if I put these foods on the table I also serve something they will eat.

I have allowed the just-go-hungry option recently for the older kids, but the younger ones have joined in on it.  What ends up happening now is that 1/3 of the table’s occupants opt out of the meal every other afternoon or evening and just wait until the next meal, hoping it’s something they like.  Some of them pout about it and we deal with that separately; I don’t want attitudes like that around, not for any reason.  There are two other issues we are concerned about; one is the ungratefulness for the food and the labor of the one who prepared it, another is that more often they are opting out of the more nutritious meals of the day.

Most months I plan ahead, creating a 30-day menu of evening meals (breakfasts are standard—every Tuesday this, every Sunday that, etc.—and lunches are leftovers or whatever easy, simple food we have around).  I would keep it posted on the fridge.  Denny observed that the children looked at the menu and decided to skip a lunch they didn’t like because dinner would be more to their satisfaction.  Or they would ask for snacks in the afternoon, planning to skip dinner.  We took down the menu.  That still didn’t help much.

It’s not like I’m cooking up wild ethnic foods, here; nothing spicy, rarely anything strong-flavored at all.

How do we help these children be grateful for the nutritious meals prepared for them?  We have told them about the children in Africa.  They were unimpressed.

This afternoon we had an issue over lunch.  A benign pasta dish which everyone used to like has fallen out of favor with a couple members of the family.  Pasta, mind you.  A couple more turned up their noses because I added some vegetables to it today.  I decided to offer them a small serving each and, trying to hide my frustration, make them sit at the table until they’d eaten it.  I won’t go into all the details, but one of my older children is having cold pasta for breakfast.

Here’s where having a wonderful man like Denny has made the difference in our home.  With my ex there was no talking sense, only butting heads, with kids caught in the middle if I wasn’t careful.  Certainly no conspiring together to educate the children and help them become better people.  But Denny is thoughtful and considerate.  We discussed the issue at length and came up with a plan.

I put a pot of rice on to cook.  Denny put together a third-world slide-show; starving children living in dreadful conditions.  He mixed up a small bowl of mud and set it aside.  When dinner time rolled around we sat the children down and talked to them about privilege.  We realized that we live in a bubble.  These children really have little idea what is going on outside our community.  I haven’t done a very good job of keeping the world on our radar over the years.  It’s time for that to change.  I don’t know yet what all it will entail, but we started with this tonight.

We played the slideshow and discussed with the children starvation, malnutrition, illness, death, and things we take for granted. It was very somber.  We moved to the table and Denny passed around the bowl of mud, asking the children to imagine being hungry enough to want to fill their bellies with that.  Yes, some of our children are too young to really understand, but they did seem to pick up on the mood and were listening quietly.  Then Denny fetched nine bowls from the cupboard and placed about a third of a cup of cooked brown rice in each one.  No butter, no salt, no soy sauce, no eating utensils.  We ate with our fingers and no one complained.  Justin, the youngest, looked a bit put off, but eventually ate with no complaints.

When we had finished eating we talked a little bit more about nutrition and being hungry.  Denny asked the children to look across the table at a sibling and imagine him or her as thin and sickly as the children in the photos. That seemed to really affect them.  It affected me.  Tears in my eyes and voice trembling, I told them that tonight, when they stretch out in their clean beds, cozy and safe, their tummies rumbling, to please not be upset with us, but to really think about the privileges they enjoy every day.  I asked them to please, please never again look at the food on our table and complain or turn away a nutritious meal because it’s just not to their liking.


How culturally insensitive is all this?  I couldn’t say.  I don’t for a moment feel that our actions in any way benefitted the world’s starving children. That was in no way our intention; a silly notion.  Actually, I feel what we did was a tad on the ostentatious side.  How can a considerate person not feel that way when comparing their lifestyle to that of the underprivileged?  The unprivileged?  Using images of unfortunate people and situations as props for my own goals rather left me feeling painfully white, sickeningly rich, and somewhat ashamed.  I think we made an impression on the children, though it won’t last without some continued education.  I think we managed wrap up the meal with humility, not pride, but maybe even that sentiment smacks of pride.  How do you sort out these feelings?  Is there anything we can actually do to help starving children in Africa or elsewhere?  If we reach out, will it be to improve their lives or to assuage the guilt of sitting down to a balanced meal at home?

Sci-fi, Fantasy, Religion

Another tale from a rural, mid-American atheist.
Because what is commonplace here might just make an interesting story somewhere else.

A bit of rambling backstory first.

With a houseful of rapidly growing children who are receiving their education at home, we are keen on opportunities to get the family out of the house for worthwhile activities and socialization.  Trips to the feed store, library and dentist are great, but they don’t quite cut it.  There are doubts that the weekly homeschool playgroup we’ve attended the last two years will come back together this fall, so we have been discussing our options.

Farra, "dark elf" age 14

Freed from the religious bondage that kept wizards, witches and Klingons at bay, my children have all blossomed into sci-fi and fantasy fans.  My wee ones run around with wands carved by their older siblings, casting spells in Latin with delightful British accents.  My oldest girl and boy have begun working metal, wearing elf ears, and experimenting with stage make-up.  (The cloaks are not new, however.  Cloaks are always in style.)  Our van will soon sport a Star Trek logo with “WWDD” by it:  What Would Data Do?

The children are writing stories about interstellar space travel, cursed elves, magic dogs, and hillbilly children named after, uh… plants.  The creative juices are flowing.  My oldest, at nearly fifteen, shared with me that she would like to be a traveling costumer and writer.  The most benign children’s games can turn into life-long hobbies and careers, you just never know.

So how do we, as parents, foster these seven creative geniuses and their unique skills and interests?  We start a sci-fi & fantasy club.  Duh.

Bonuses:  it involves other members of the community, feeds creativity and imagination in all, encourages each one to set goals and offers the support needed to reach those goals, and helps them develop social skills (especially as we hand over leadership of the group to our older children).  It’s like Scouts.  For geeks.

We put a little extra thought into creating something that would cross the religious bounds of our community.  No atheists or believers here, just sci-fi & fantasy fans.  In our community there are oodles of activities if you are a child of christian parents, especially in the summer with camps and vacation bible schools. There aren’t enough secular families to justify starting a secular group of any kind; besides, who wants to discriminate like that?  Nope, everyone would be welcome in our group.

So, our first meeting of Fantastic Worlds was last night.  We had only a few people outside of our family in attendance (still getting the word out, and it will be interesting to see if we get more or fewer people when school starts next month).  We discussed the purpose of the group, our favorite books, movies and characters, and we were in the middle of making the cardboard and duct tape daggers that one of the moms had bought for a project when in strolled a man that I at first took for a teenage boy.  Second glance put him maybe around thirty years old; he was short and awkward.  He was wearing a dress shirt, tie, and dark slacks.  He had come to inquire after one of our crew members, a fourteen year old boy who’d apparently skipped his piano lesson to join us.  The boy introduced us.

This boy happens to have a special place in my heart.  His grandparents used to live across the creek from us and when he would stay with them (just one of the many places the unwanted chap was passed around to) he would cross the creek to visit with us.  I’ve known him a few years; he’s bright and remains tender-hearted in spite of the neglect of those responsible for him.  Church is one place he’s been well-received and shown love; if not genuine love, then at least attention, and “good, clean” attention as far as our community is concerned.  (The best place for a troubled youth is church, right?  Where else is he going to learn morals?)  As it turns out, this piano teacher was an acquaintance from church.  I overheard my friend talking with him about the next Fantastic Worlds meeting, which would fall on an evening the church was hosting a revival (a hyped up, week-long church service).

The church man turned to me to ask if he could make an announcement.  I guessed he wanted to announce the revival and invite everyone.  Yep, seriously.  An evangelical christian knows no limits.  If there is a group of people gathered, for whatever reason, or even a single person, he or she will take the opportunity to try to get you to their church, or at least get you to believe you are a worthless human being in need of a bloody salvation.

Trying to think quickly, I decided to let him say his piece, but not without putting a word in myself.

His invitation was awkward, but sufficient.  He jazzed it up by saying, “You all are into sci-fi and fantasy.  Well, what I’m offering is even cooler.  All kinds of miracles happen.  People dance with their eyes closed and don’t even bump into things…”   He trailed off.  That was it.  I swear to pasta, that was the miracle he had to share with us.  Frankly, I was slightly embarrassed for him.  I would have been even three years ago, when I was a christian myself.  But my embarrassment for him didn’t prevent me from speaking my piece.  When he hopefully looked my way I took a deep breath for courage and a chuckle escaped me before I said, “Um, no.  Been there, done that.”  He looked at me, puzzled.  “I’m an atheist,” I said, clearly, proudly.  Maybe it was my imagination, but the look on his face turned to wonderment.  I like to think he was an atheist virgin and that I was his first.  Ha.  I continued, “I was a believer for many years before that.”

“Oh,” he stammered.  “Do you mind my asking what happened?”
“Sure,” I smiled, as friendly as I could be.  “I studied my way out of the Bible.  I was really steeped in it, but I studied and found out the god of the Bible was not real.”
“But he is real.  This stuff you guys are doing here, it can all be disproven, but God can’t.”  He almost found his feet there for a moment.
“Sir, I make no pretenses about what we do here, this is entirely and admittedly fiction.  As it turns out, so is God.”
He had nothing else for me.  He began to back toward the hall he’d entered by.  I had one more comment for him.
“But this group is open to everyone, believers or not.”  I didn’t want to misrepresent the group, make it seem like an atheist gathering.  I’m not sure he heard me as he turned and shuffled toward the door.

He retreated.  He actually turned and retreated at my words.  I have mixed feelings about that.  Part of me feels good for standing up and making it known that his church propaganda was not entirely welcome, that there are people who aren’t interested, people who know better.  Obviously to him we don’t “know better,” but I want people in my town to know that there are unbelievers here, that they are not the only ones around, and that if they are going to go into random places, uninvited, and share their “good news” then at least this one unbeliever is going to stand up and be noticed.  Yeah, I’m the kid that pointed out that the Emperor was bare-ass naked.  My only hope and purpose is to give others the courage to think about what it is they believe, or don’t.

A greater part of me wishes I’d handled it entirely differently.  I wish I’d thought more quickly when he asked if he could make an announcement.  I didn’t necessarily want to make a scene.  I wish that, knowing what he wanted to announce, I had asked, confirmed it.  Then I could have told him that although everyone is welcome in our group, religion isn’t, unless it’s acknowledged as the science fiction or fantasy it is.  Then, had he asked, we could have talked about my unbelief.  I feel this would have been a far nobler approach. 

Sigh.  I’m learning.

Rainbows

This morning I craved rainbows.  I was sad.  I was wondering why hard reality always makes me sad, makes me want to curl up in a ball and disappear to somewhere with rainbows and unicorns, some place where problems somehow don’t exist.

I was somewhat obsessed with unicorns and rainbows as a child.  When I was just a few years old my parents painted a big rainbow with clouds and rainbow-colored stars on a light blue background on the slanted ceiling of my bedroom.  My room had no windows, but this cheered it up considerably.  I had unicorn stuffed animals, posters, knick-knacks, a yellow Rainbow Bright lunch box and Thermos, a Rainbow Bright doll, and a Rainbow Bright blanket on my bed.  Also on my bed was a vivid rainbow afghan crocheted for me by my mom.  I still have it.  Blue and Little take turns with it.  I swear it’s as vivid and tightly stitched today as it was nearly 30 years ago.  Remarkable.

I think I eased up on the rainbows as I entered into the teen years.  The unicorn fetish continued.  By this time I’d seen all the important unicorn movies many times over:  Unico, The Last Unicorn, Legend.  (If anyone’s wondering why my older brother has the strong character he does today, I’d bet it has to do with resilience formed hearing Unico’s voice over and over and over and over and over…and managing not to strangle me or tear the Betamax apart.)  I’d rewritten the words to Shel Silverstein’s “The Unicorn,” about how unicorns didn’t make it onto Noah’s ark so you’re “never gonna see no unicorn,” which I’d learned in song form.  My version was much more hopeful.

Symbols of childhood.  Symbols of a time when the most difficult reality to face was Mom getting you up early for school or having to perform in front of the class.  Naturally I would occasionally desire to go back there to be free of the mean tricks of adult life.  If I could just magically land in Matt Martin’s dank cellar, the two of us playing “Dungeons and Vampires” and then running off into the woods and cornfields on Young Detective Club adventures…

There are things about adult life I sure do love and appreciate.  Of course.  Of course.  It just gets me sometimes; the realness, the discomforts and pains.  Especially when, like lately, my life is so rich and full and unbelievably happy.  It’s the contrast.  It’s the reminder that I’m not living in Never-Never Land.  

About two hours after my little baby I-want-rainbows-and-unicorns-and-magic-to-make-my-problems-go-away crying fit this morning I was sitting outside on my back deck listening to the rain and writing lists (which are almost magical—bringing order and rightness to the world—the closest thing to magic besides love that we’ll know in this world).  I was quite composed.  Passers-by glancing my way may even have mistaken me for a grown-up.  (Shhh!  Don’t tell!)  My daughter Blue decided to pop out onto the deck to see me.  With her tow-colored ringlets bouncing around her slender pixie face and her green eyes twinkling, she handed me a folded piece of paper which had been carefully shaped with scissors.  I opened it.  There, in vivid crayon scribblings, taking up the whole page, was a rainbow.

Maybe there’s a little magic floating around the world after all.  The children soak it up with their wide eyes and disperse it with butterfly kisses and crayons.