5 Reasons You & I Are No Longer #Friends

Facebook is a funny cyber-world. We all go through some kind of thought process in “friend-ing” folks. Though every person’s criteria for clicking “accept” is different, there is some bar to be met.  On the other end, there’s the process of de-friending – the touchy, sensitive clicking someone off of your friend list, barring them from your timeline, never to know what you had for lunch again.  How many times have you seen someone post a message about being defriended?  Aren’t they so sad in their mystery and wondering why this happened to them?  I admit, I have defriended some folks. And perhaps, I have been defriended, too – but due to my tech-savviness, I don’t even know if I have been or not.

So for those who notice that you no longer see my smiling face or my status about my craziness, here are 5 reasons you may have been defriended.

You posted too many Scandal spoilers.  I wasn’t watching Scandal in season 1, so all the  posts were a mild annoyance filling up my timeline (and my Twitter feed). But by season 2, I was catching up and watching on demand. The posts weren’t so bad because I was so far behind, I didn’t know what folks were talking about yet, anyway. But now, that I am in the present season, but a few episodes behind – it’s killing me! Even if they aren’t intentional plot spoilers, I don’t want to know nothing.  All the posts of who is playing Olivia’s momma – come on, folks – I didn’t want to know her mom was going to even show up!  So, if you’re defriended, check your Scandal posts.

You posted the sex of your baby prior to its birth. Yeah, I’m one of those rare people who don’t want to know whether the baby is a boy or girl until it breathes oxygen in its lungs. I didn’t find out with any of my four and I don’t want to know any of my friends.  Yes, I did warn my god-daughter’s mother that she was free to post her sonogram if she wanted to, but if anyone commented on the gender, I was going to click the defriend button. Pregnant friends, you have been warned.

You complain too much. Oh, woe is me, nobody likes me, my life is awful, I’m so sad, but I’m not going to tell you why I’m singing the blues. Okay, then I can’t help you and you’re dragging me down. Click.  But you won’t notice anyway because you’ll be too busy waiting for comments that say “keep your head up,” “you gonna make it thru,” “I’m here for you.”  I can’t be there for you if I don’t know where you're at.

You posted too many long, sappy stories about God and faith that didn’t make any sense.  Now, I’m a Christian and I’m all for faithful encouragement, some of y’all’s Bible verses hit the mark for me on some days and I’m grateful for that unexpected little reminder and boost.  But some folks and their “true stories” of God’s will - you know the ones – they don’t build me up nor give me strength. They annoy me because they’re bad stories and I don’t believe them.  And they take up too much space on my little phone screen.

You have a perfect family.  Right now, there are towels on the bathroom floor, candy wrappers on the couch, a wet bathing suit in a swim bag, no milk in the fridge, and an unidentified pair of socks in my living room.  My kids didn’t eat their breakfast, didn’t like their lunch, and will demand pizza for dinner.  Within five minutes of being home from school, they will have argued with each other sibling, spilled a cup of apple juice, and asked me 100 questions.  Most of my week is spent as a pseudo-single mom because my husband’s job takes him to Texas or Paris or on long lunches in Virginia.  Your neat home, perfectly behaved children, happy date nights, and balanced meals affect my self-esteem.  My therapists said to defriend you.

You posted too many pictures of your pet cat. I don’t like cats. That’s all.  (I know, that makes 6, but I wanted you to know.)

If I have defriended you and you did not commit one of these atrocities, it could just be that I could not remember who you were and I needed to cull my friend list.  Nothing personal.  

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Please be Patient... I'm My Own Work in Progress

WIP Wednesday is usually about my current work-in-progress yarn project. But as the old pastors say, God put another message on my heart today.

Let’s start from the beginning. My high school student missed the bus.  Why? I claim it is because she never packs up her stuff the night before.  She has her school books, binders, clothes for after-school sports practice, a lunch box, and who knows what else she carries in that backpack.  Every morning, she rushes around trying to get ready for school and gathering all that stuff. And not to single her out – all my kids do this.  Despite me saying every night, “Be sure to get your stuff together tomorrow. Put your lunchbox in the kitchen.  Don’t forget you have xyz after-school and need to get that stuff, too.”  They all say “Uh-huh, yeah, we did,” then return to playing Barbies, building Legos, reading a book, or polishing their nails.  And then the mad dash begins in the morning.

Let me explain the next piece of the puzzle. When my oldest misses the bus, we have to drive her to school. To a school that is about 20 minutes away, making for a 40 minute round-trip, which no matter how you figure it, makes somebody – at least one of the four – late for school, and everybody eat breakfast in the car.

So this was my pre- 8 a.m., 1 cup of coffee start to my day.  Yes, I was fussing. “How many times have I told you…” “This is not fair to your brother and sisters….” “Everybody, hurry up!”  You get the picture.

As I was pulling into my driveway after making the school rounds, some mom-guilt came over me.  Why aren’t I one of those moms whose kids are perfectly bathed and in the bed on time each night, with their clothes laid out neatly for the next day, backpacks packed, lunchboxes lined up on the kitchen counter? Why aren’t we having fresh-made biscuits and omelets in the morning?

And then, an old gospel song crept out of my brain cells. A song I haven’t heard in church for awhile because it seems choirs don’t sing old gospels anymore, only contemporary gospel, but that’s a different discussion for a different day. They used to sing this song, recorded a long time ago by Albertina Walker and James Cleveland (told you it was old), in church and it came to my mind this morning and has been with me ever since.  The key words …

Please be patient with me, God is not through with me yet.

I breathed and realized, no, remembered, that I’m not a perfect mom, but I’m doing the best I can.  And you know what? It’s the same for my kids.  They aren’t perfect, but I wouldn’t trade them for nothing.

Now, if you don’t believe in God or are some religion other than Christian or not religious at all, don’t let this message get lost, disregarded because of the mention of God.  The message to us all – moms, dads, kids, people – is that none of us are perfect.  We can strive for and work towards and develop our plans to be perfect, but none of us are there yet. We are all works in progress.  Be patient and see what beautiful thing you continue to become.

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The Book I'm Carrying Around: When She Woke

When She Woke by Hillary Jordan

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Again, I didn't read the back of the book and had no idea what I was getting into.  You can take this as a love story, a moral tale, a crime/suspense novel.  Or all three.

*I'm trying not to give any spoilers, but have to give a few details to review the book and I promise I won't tell any major plot twists or the ending*

Everyone knows that Hannah has committed some type of terrible, punishable crime. How? Because she's red.  From head to toe, dyed thru the skin red. And she will continue to be red until her sentence is over.  She's free to roam the streets, but everyone will know she's a criminal.

What was her crime? She had an abortion.  Yes, Roe v. Wade has been repealed and abortion is illegal.  In the U.S., which is a religious state, it is anyway.

Jordan doesn't give us a time for When She Woke, but its conceivably not too far in the distant future.  Some of the electronic gadgetry is our navigation maps and smartphones and iPads taken up a few notches.  Religion, Christianity specifically, has become, if not the law, then the basis of the law of the land and the country is ruled by a moral code.

One can consider this story on a number of different levels.  As a Christian, I have to admit, there were angles that I agreed with, and then there were others that I thought, "no, I don't think that's what the Bible means."  When you have sinned, do you believe that God will forgive you, regardless of that sin?  Even if its against the law?  Can you forgive yourself?

Obviously, your personal belief on abortion will influence what you think of Hannah's sentence. But, if you are pro-choice, do you support breaking the law in the name of personal choice? If you are pro-life, do you think a woman, alone, should be punished?  I'm not getting into a pro-life/pro-choice debate, but you can't discuss this book without raising the subject.

In Jordan's novel, criminals are dyed different colors depending on the severity of their crime. Interesting to note the discussion on how these "colored" people are treated.

When She Woke definitely kept me awake, late into the night to get to the next page.


* I've also read and reviewed Jordan's Mudbound.

View all my reviews

A Last Meal

Its customary in many countries, to give a death-row inmate the option to request a last, special meal.  Although, after one such prisoner ordered a buffet-like table recently, the powers-that-be in the state of Texas declared that his was the last last meal.  From now on, Texas inmates will eat what everybody else in the prison eats on their last day.

It is an interesting custom, letting a prisoner choose his last meal.  He can do that and choose to see a religious figure, a priest, a pastor, whomever his beliefs require.  I guess it’s the prison systems way of extending some display of graciousness and hospitality before they put a person to death.  It must be important, too, the news reports of an execution always include the menu of the last meal.  The varied choices are interesting, ranging from lobster to chicken fried steak to cookies and candy bars.  I’m sure I’m not the only one who wonders what I would choose for my last meal.

Not declaring a position for or against capital punishment, I can see the attraction of being granted a last meal.  With certainty, the prisoner knows that the events of his last few days and hours, like the months and years before it, will be out of his control.  He will make no decisions about what he will wear, where he will go, what he will do in his remaining days.  As he ponders his mortality, he has two decisions that he can control.  One, has he made his peace with God.  Two, what is the last thing he’s going to eat before going to see God (or not).

These two thoughts can occupy a man’s mind quite fully.  Hours, if not days and weeks, can be spent coming to some conclusion.

 Do I believe in God?  Steak or fish?  Such fundamental questions may require a person to go back through the feelings deep in his soul.  What is it that they believe in, what do they hold to be important and true.  Do they believe in an omnipotent higher power?  Are they making the world a better place by not eating red meat? 

After the chicken and the sweet potatoes and rice, a last meal wouldn’t be complete without dessert.  But all desserts aren’t made the same.  Generally, the best ones are laden with the most sugar and the most fat.  A great dessert would be one that someone else takes on all the calories and you can just enjoy the sweetness.  What if there was that kind of dessert?  Do I accept Jesus as my savior?  Chocolate chip marshmallow toffee ice cream or fat-free, low sugar apple pie? 

Do I want to go to heaven?  Will I be reincarnated?  Iced chai latte or Red Hot cocktail?  Soon after the meal is over, the person will enter perpetual sleep.  The decisions he makes before he closes his eyes will determine what happens after that.

It’s a lot to think about.  But at least the inmate has a good guess on the day and hour by which he needs to decide.  Milk and honey or Devil's Food?

I believe in God, the Father Almighty, maker of heaven and earth...

If you've been in church enough, you know the Apostles' Creed.  Your mind knows the words, and today, I found that even without knowing the language, your heart knows the rhythm.

We visited The Cathedral of Notre Dame (Paris) this morning.  Just as we were crossing the street, the famous bells tolled, calling the faithful to service.  We entered thru the massive doors and took a row of seats near the back.  In revered awe, my eyes could not help but look higher and higher into the ceilings above us, drawn to the architectural lines and the magnificent stained glass windows.  Accompanied by singing, I saw the cross being carried into the nave and down the aisle to the pulpit.  The priest waved incense thru the air and the service began.  Now, let me note here that we are not Catholic, so this entire mass experience, aside from being in French, is new to us.  We followed along, standing and sitting when everyone else did and watching as the priest served communion.

In the comforting sound of the French mass, I felt calmed enough to think about where we were and how we got there, not only on this particular Sunday morning, but in life in general.  I reflected on how God has blessed our lives and covered us with grace.  With my eyes resting on the curved lines of the ceiling, I imagined the hundreds of people that built this cathedral for praise and the thousands who have worshipped here.  I marveled at the universality of faith in God, Jesus, and the Holy Spirit.

At some point in the service, the rhythm of the congregation's words felt familiar. And we fell in concert...
"who was conceived by the Virgin Mary, suffered under Pontius Pilate, crucified, dead and buried.  On the third day, He arose from the dead and ascended into heaven..."

After service, we found rows of candles lining the walls.  Each candle the physical manifestation of someone's prayer.  To me, each candle was a reminder of our own flickering, temporal existence in this great world.  How much that light wavered and how long it lasted was not under our control, but God's, no matter how long we wanted it to burn.  In that great cathedral of worship, I lit a candle and said a prayer.  And then I left those hopes and worries in God's hands.