Author: jenzug

Happy Thanksgiving!

Because it’s Thanksgiving, and because I have several Australian readers (go figure!), I thought I would tell a story that involved both!

Years ago I had an American co-worker who had spent much of her childhood living in Australia where her father’s job was located. Every year, in an attempt to keep some of their family’s American traditions, her mom would make an entire Thanksgiving meal – turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, and the whole works – in the dead heat of the Australian summer. She claimed the neighbor kids thought it was so strange that they peered through the windows, spying on this odd tradition of cooking such a meal in the sweltering heat.

Then one day my friend’s dad asked her who George Washington was. She cringed a little and said, sheepishly, “I’m sorry, dad. Did he call and I forgot to leave you the message?”

And thus began that family’s transition BACK to American soil.

The End.

On This Thanksgiving Holiday, I thank YOU.

This week has been a fun Thanksgiving preparation week, both on the hospitality front as well as the project-completion front (my basement looks pretty again!). Bryan and I are hosting seven adults and five children (including our own family) for dinner tomorrow afternoon, followed by an open invitation to hang out with us in the evening for dessert, games, and a little football (or movies?) on the HDTV. Anyone in the area who wants to join us, just leave a comment or send me an email.

As long as you’re not a stalker. Or a church protestor.

What’s on your Thanksgiving menu? I’m supplying the turkey and stuffing (my favorite recipe from Gordy) and a few surprises, and friends are bringing the candied yams, potatoes, green beans, and pies aplenty. One of my friends is from Haiti, and she’s bringing a special Haitian dish. I’m so excited!

I also got a great idea from Suebob to hang some butcher paper on the wall in my hallway so everyone who passes through our home tomorrow can write down things they are thankful for.

On a personal note, I want to publicly thank Annagrace, Julie Leung, My Pink Toes, and my many offline friends who have encouraged me during the last few weeks via emails or in person in regards to the content I post on this blog. You may not have known it at the time, but I was feeling in a ‘tight spot’ on many levels, and if I may take the liberty to say this: God used you to encourage my heart and confirm why it is that I enjoy this medium so much. Thank you for taking the time to send those emails, and for reminding me how important it is to encourage others.

Many moons ago I began blogging to process through my grief as Gordy’s health declined, and in the process I discovered my writing voice and a deep love and commitment to continue writing. Grieving drew out my gift, and now I am convinced it is my calling.

Writing publicly has matured me, challenged my critical thinking skills, thickened my skin, opened my mind, brought me new friends, and given me confidence in myself and in the gifts God has given me. This Thanksgiving I am thankful for this blog, for you who read it, and for the few who have taken the time to participate in the conversation.

You know the one about the apple not falling far from the tree?

Ruthie’s preschool class had its Thanksgiving party today, which of course involves loads of cookies and candy to get everyone amped up for nap time. I stepped out to run an errand, and when I came back I was told Ruthie had loaded up her plate with cookies, only to abandon it when she discovered the yummy cream puff balls from Costco that someone had brought.

Cream Puff Addiction must be genetic.

And remember those cookies where you press the chocolate kisses into the middle? Yup, she ate JUST the kisses and left the cookies.

Genetic.

I sure have some STRONG GENES.

The Regular

This is what I love the most about living in a walkable community – being The Regular. I walk into the Coffee/Wine Bar near my house and Charlie the Customer greets me, asking me how the book is coming along. He says he admires me for my consistency in setting aside time to write.

The lovely barista is excited to tell me she has two more pours of that New Zealand Pinot I had last week, and would I like her to start my goat cheese plate?

It’s Peg’s birthday today (she’s another Regular) and we share stories as she drinks her birthday beer.

There are many things that I like about being spontaneous and adventurous, but community and familiarity is what grounds me. I am faithful to my little coffee shop on the corner, and it’s a comfortable place for me to write. I’m the fat guy at the end of the bar that everyone knows by name. I have arrived.

The Level Ground

It’s interesting to me how many areas of my life are intersecting during this season – one of the side effects of so much introspection, I suppose. I’ve been reading a book that Kristin recommended, Writing from the Inside Out, by Dennis Palumbo. As a former Hollywood screenwriter and current psychotherapist, Palumbo has a unique insight into the writer’s life, and I have found this book very useful on many fronts.

He talks a lot of going the distance with writing, of not being in it for the rewards, but rather, for the craft itself. In a section he titled, “Inspiration,” Palumbo paraphrased author George Leonard from his book, ‘Mastery’ –

Leonard contends that the peaks of achievement, whether in the arts, sports, or any area of endeavor, come from a love of the day-to-day practice of the thing. Because the truth is, in any consistent endeavor, you spend most of the time not on the peaks but on the level ground, where you rarely see any noticeable improvement. If you just live for, or get pleasure from, the peaks, you never grow. Love the craft, the practice of your art, and the peaks will come.

There are many monotonous aspects to being a stay at home mom. Many days my time consists of coloring, cartoons, time-outs, and poop – things that don’t exercise the brain, but definitely exhaust it. Sometimes – even though there are more bright moments to being a mom that I can count – it’s difficult to stay motivated under piles of laundry.

Three weeks ago I wrote about a new routine I was trying out, and so far it’s been going well. I think it’s the perfect ratio of tasks to white space, because I’ve had busy days where I’ve had to shuffle things around but I’ve still managed to get it all done by the end of the week. Busy days and projects are my biggest distractions to the mundane tasks because I’d rather re-organize a closet than wash that same damn pair of pants again.

When I read the above passage in Palumbo’s book, it resonated strongly with me concerning the day to day chores of my life as well as with my writing life. It is true that life is lived on the level ground. Sometimes we despair, and sometimes we soar, but we always come back to level. At least we hope.

Having my work defined has freed me to live more in the moment, to have fun, and to adjust for spontaneity (yes, Bryan, I can hear you laughing from the basement – you can say you told me so). It has even allowed me to find a little bit of joy and sense of accomplishment in the mundane. Having a vacuumed rug, a clean bedroom, and a pleasant smelling bathroom is very rewarding.

And it means that when Ruthie, who has turned into a chatterbox overnight, relays stories and memories of her trip to the children’s museum on a bus with Bryan (because she sees a bus driving in the lane next to us), I am amused and in awe of her memory and vocabulary and ability to communicate her thoughts and make connections. I don’t turn up the radio and ask her for quiet time, but I engage. Because I’m learning to embrace the level ground, I am discovering peaks in places I once dreaded.

And even now as I’m writing this essay, I recognize the significance of this passage in my Recovery – especially when it says that the level ground is ‘where you rarely see any noticeable improvement.’ It’s like spending every day with your children, not realizing how much they are growing because you have no perspective. Then one day their pants are too short, or you stumble across an old picture, and you suddenly see them differently, and you realize they are bigger.

Recovery is a lot like that. Just when I think I haven’t changed a bit and I will always live in a funk of bitterness and anger, I read an old post or some notes in my recovery journal or a friend reminds me of how things used to be, and I suddenly have perspective. I see that I have changed.

The level ground is where it’s at, people. I’m convinced of it. The sturdier the ground you’re standing on, the stronger the rush when life peaks.

Rage Worked Out

Monday was a bad day, and I knew it from the moment my ears opened to the sounds of my daughter crying when Bryan attempted to get her back to bed again at the crack of dawn. She would not have it. As a compromise, he let her sit in the recliner in his office, watching Dora on his video i-pod, like he has done so many times.

On one hand, this is a nifty arrangement for me, as I am able to either sleep in until a normal hour or get up and have my coffee in peace. The problem lies in the aftermath when the video must be turned off and the rest of our day is to be tackled: the screaming, the wailing, the flopping, the kicking of the wall. Bryan’s attempt at integrating his daughter into his work-at-home life backfires every frickin’ time.

It definitely set the tone for our Monday, because right from the get-go Bryan and I were both the bad guys, forming a united front against Ruthie’s head turning into a t.v. screen. The difference is, he can lock the door to his office and I still had this kicking and screaming little munchkin to deal with – a fair trade-off for not having to work outside the home, I suppose.

So as Ruthie’s bad attitude continued, and my stress level in dealing with it continued to rise toward Red Alert, I decided to drop everything and get to the gym for a good, sweat-inducing, stress-relieving work out.

And here is where the story gets interesting, because Monday dropped record amounts of rain in our area, causing mass flooding everywhere, including the parking lot of my gym. So when I stepped out of my car, already irritated, and stepped into ankle deep water, I nearly grabbed Ruthie’s pink umbrella and started smashing some windows. My feet were soaked – shoes, socks, and all ten toes, and there was no way I could work out with wet feet.

I got back in the car, slammed the door, and headed for home to change my shoes so I could go to the grocery store instead – bitter and angry that my chosen method of working off some steam was stifled. But as I drove to the store in my Keens, I remembered a quote from the book I am reading: All anger is related to the question, ‘Is life (God) just’? …. Anger attempts to rectify God’s passivity by empowering us to act instead of waiting vulnerably for God to do something. It is not only a protection against harm and an energizer for battle; it is a taunt against God for apparently refusing to act on our behalf.

I felt Step 5 kicking in again (Am I willing to change? Or do I just want to talk about it?), and the tunnel vision I was experiencing began to broaden. I remembered that God is not out to Get me. I realized my Keens were made for hiking, ergo I could try running on the Monotonous Machine of Monotony with them and hope I didn’t break out in blisters.

I took a deep breath and pulled an A-Team-like u-turn back to the gym (and took care where I parked the car this time), and ended up pressing through a forty-minute workout in which my adrenaline was so high I actually sprinted full speed for the first mile and a half. My chest caught on fire and sweat soaked through every inch of my clothing, but my feet were happy and dry and I actually wondered if my Keens weren’t a better shoe for me to work out in.

I once viewed my anger like a train leaving the station – it chugged on down the line, stuck on one track until the whistle blew – and I was a helpless passenger. But now it seems more like a race horse to me – bursting out of the gate with great force at the sound of one shot, hooves pounding in the dirt toward the finish. I am not a mere passenger on this horse, though. I am a petite jockey on the back of this powerful animal, holding within my hands the ability to simply pull on the reigns and stop or redirect the horse.

God has empowered me to Change.

Things I Rant About

I am tired of hearing people say that online communities are not real communities. Sick. and. tired. I know many people believe this because they think it is easy to hide our true selves online and put forth a façade of how we want others to perceive us. But here’s the thing, isn’t that a HUMAN NATURE problem? Isn’t it HUMAN NATURE to hide behind the mask we want others to see?

Every person in the universe can hide any aspect of themselves that they want to – at work, at school, at home, and hell, even in Christendom. A person can sit in church every Sunday and make conversation with the person next to her, attend a weekly bible study, and have lots of friends – yet that same person could be abusing her children, or contemplating suicide, or having an affair, or watching porn addictively.

But we put on a good face and show you what we want you to see.

That was the beauty of Mr. and Mrs. Smith (I know – HOMEWRECKER!) – that as long as they were keeping secrets from each other their marriage was lifeless and distant. But as their true identities surfaced they got all hot for each other again. Truth brought intimacy.

I think The Church in general is very far behind the times in terms of technology and the internet. It is ignorant of the blog world and does not take advantage of blog-like formatted websites like this one from The Landing, a new shopping center developing near my home. It is a great example of a corporate website with a blog feel. It doesn’t just provide information – it invites conversation. Churches should embrace this.

I also think The Church is slow to embrace the idea of asynchronous gatherings. Do we have to be in the same room to have meaningful conversations? Absolutely not. My children connect with Bryan in meaningful ways during the weeks he travels because we communicate with our web cams via Sight Speed. Ruthie shows Bryan her art work from the day, Thomas gives him ‘nucks, and they both kiss and hug the computer every evening. Ruthie has even tried to feed Bryan a bite of her dinner through the computer screen.

Using technology has kept our family connected, so we could feasibly also lead a community group through our church using this same technology, allowing Bryan to teach and participate even on the weeks he is traveling. The use of blogs can also assist the creative process amongst the writers and artists of churches, creating a place to post pieces and receive feedback – especially for those who have schedules that make it difficult to attend workshops in person.

Mars Hill is a church in the area that has chosen to accommodate its increasing attendance by creating satellite services with its pastor’s sermons piped in via a live feed on the internet. At first I was offended by this concept because I thought, who are THEY to take over the World? But the more I think about technology and The Church, the more I realize that Mars Hill is embracing technology and using it to share the Gospel. They believe that meaningful conversations can take place asynchronously. And THAT is a concept I can get on board with.

I realize, though, that I may be preaching to the choir. You are reading my blog, which means you not only know what the internet is, but you are connected with what the latest trends are for communicating. So you are likely thinking, yeah, I get it. So maybe this is just a rant. Technology and the internet is not something to be feared. It is a tool. Like money. It can be used for good, or it can be squandered. I just want it to be represented correctly.

Election Day

Today is election day, and every time this comes around I am faced with my own ridiculous apathy regarding anything political. I just don’t care. But lately I have been trying to make myself care, and not just to be hip, either. If I’m going to enter Recovery and spend an entire year turning myself upside down and inside out, I might as well not leave any rocks unturned – including the political ones.

I don’t even know where to begin unpacking the labyrinth of my political views or nonviews. I think it begins with my personality generally being one that follows rather than leads. I’m lazy. I would rather have someone tell me what to believe than do any work to figure it out for myself. So, just as much of my Christian faith felt inherited by my family until I wrestled it out on my own in my twenties, my political views are largely inherited by my upbringing as well.

Where I come from, Christians are Republicans. So I’ve always assumed I am a Republican. Which is laughable to me since I’m constantly distancing myself from anything remotely resembling the ‘religious right,’ reassuring anyone who doesn’t already know that I am not THAT kind of Christian. I mean really, who wants to be associated with The Guy who says homosexuality caused airplanes to fly into buildings? CERTAINLY not me.

I also have these two friends – who I love dearly and whose walk with God I am in tune with – who rant about the Iraq war and (gasp!) complain about Bush. Christians? Complaining about our REPUBLICAN President??? At first the thought of this dazed me because, for cryin’ out loud, CHRISTIANS ARE REPUBLICANS. So slowly, over time, I have begun to separate the idea of being a Christian with also being a Republican – and not necessarily because I didn’t want to be a republican anymore (not that I ever knew what that really meant), but because I didn’t want to be ignorant anymore.

It was as if Jesus and Bush were married, then got divorced, and I had to choose which one to still be friends with.

So now I am starting over. I am a virgin politic. I know nothing and have allegiance to nothing, and I promise to follow the issues and not be apathetic anymore.

“I am a deceiver and a liar.”

I don’t often write about things of faith and religion outside of my own personal journey. I am a Believer in Christ, so everything I do and say and believe and struggle with is filtered through this lens – though I try, very intentionally, to keep it as MY lens and not something I attempt to preach.

I hope I have been successful in this.

So in the wake of the Ted Haggard scandal in Colorado Springs, I find it interesting that I feel compelled to comment, adding my thoughts to the pages of Technorati threads.

I have to admit I have followed this scandal only loosely. In fact, were it not for Bryan mentioning it to me, I’m not sure it would have blipped on my radar. But this situation with Haggard fits into the vein of much of what I have been thinking about in regards to my own sin and redemption, because my first reaction was to judge, and say, “This man got what he deserved.”

But through Recovery, I have come to recognize the frailty of my own humanness, that Ted Haggard and I are equal in our sin nature, that I am capable of making choices that hurt others and sin against God. I have come to realize that I, too, am a deceiver and a liar.

I remember one day during the summer, with my windows open wide to let in the breeze, I heard my neighbors in the house next door. The baby was crying. The baby always cried. All afternoon and all evening the baby cried. I always pictured that the baby was left sitting in the corner, alone, to cry, because the baby never stopped crying. It never occurred to me that maybe the baby had colic, or acid reflux, or was just cranky and there was a desperate mother who didn’t know what to do. I always assumed the baby was being neglected. That was judgment number one.

On this particular day in the summer, I heard a man barking at the baby to shut up. Stop crying, he ordered. His tone was filled with impatience and frustration, and as I listened through my kitchen windows I crossed my eyebrows at the curtains flitting in the wind. How dare he talk to a child like that, I thought. And as the thought sparked through the wires of my brain, I felt ashamed. That was judgment number two.

For at the time I was in the midst of my own battle with anger and self-control, and had on many occasions spoken unkindly to my children. I was pointing out the speck in my neighbor’s eye while ignoring the log in my own.

None of this is to excuse my behavior, or my neighbor’s behavior, or Ted Haggard’s behavior, or Andrea Yates’ behavior. When we lie, cheat, steal, kill, and destroy there are natural consequences for our actions. But in the last year I have been humbled by my own imperfection, and have found myself more easily understanding The Fallen. Some fall farther than others, and harder, and with less grace. Some repent and change. Others continue deceiving.

The point is, everyone falls.

He’s Come a Long Way from ‘The Beach’

Have you ever planned an entire date around one drink? I think of that Kohler commercial where the lady sets a faucet on the architect’s desk and says, ‘Design a house around this.” I did that tonight. I designed an entire date around the Jitterbug Martini.

Tonight was our first date in many weeks due to travel schedules and a slight hiccup in our feelings of adoration for one another. October was a tough month so it was nice to get out and enjoy each other’s company.

Which is why I planned our entire date around the Jitterbug Martini. I just HAD to have one. Or two. I would have had more, but I lost the coin toss for driving the babysitter home.

Columbia City has a mom-and-pop type movie theater that just happened to be playing the movie we wanted to see, so you can tell how the Jitterbug was in the stars for tonight. We saw The Departed, and I think this may be the best damn movie I’ve seen in my whole life. You may think that’s the Jitterbug talking, but I only had two, and I was saying this before I’d even had a drop. It was so heart wrenching and suspenseful that I nearly had a nervous breakdown. In a good way. I definitely have an ulcer.

If you liked The Usual Suspects and L.A. Confidential, you will love this movie. Leonardo was amazing. This was no shallow blockbuster performance a la The Titanic or The Beach. This was ACTING. He had RANGE. During the movie I forgot he was Leonardo and felt compassion for Billy Costigan. And as Bryan said, it was also good to see pretty boy Matt Damon play a darker role.

Speaking of Bryan, he also thought The Departed was a good movie, but contends that it does not nudge the perfection of L.A. Confidential.

If you have a husband and you don’t go on dates regularly, you should. It’s a must. After sex, it’s the most important ingredient to a healthy relationship. If you can’t afford a babysitter, use the buddy system. Grab a friend and do a swap – an I’ll watch yours if you watch mine kind of thing.

And go see The Departed.

That’s My Girl.

Ruthie, pointing to my nose: “Mommy, what is this?”

“A nose pierce.”

(Pointing to her own nose) “Can I have a nose pierce too, mommy?”

“Yes, someday you can have a nose pierce, when your nose gets bigger.”

“You take me to get my nose pierce at the store?”

“Yes, I’ll take you to get a nose pierce at the store.”

“YAY! I WANT PINK! I WANT A PINK NOSE PIERCE IN MY NOSE!”

Rage Interrupted

Ruthie is digressing. Or relapsing. Or rebelling. Or whatever you call it when a perfectly normal potty trained three-year-old starts pee-ing herself several times a day. Oh yeah. I’m angry. And I’m not just irritated-angry or inconvenienced-angry. I’M ANGRY. In fact I’m REALLY REALLY angry. I was already angry that this was happening, but then the proverbial cherry on top was when she just now pee’d while SITTING ON MY LAP. It soaked through my pants to my underwear, and through the chair fabric into the cushion.

—

I wrote the previous paragraph earlier today when I was, well, angry.

I was tempted to continue on with my rage of words – the bitterness, the stabbing, the indignation – it was all fueling my adrenaline. My heart was pounding, my eyes were narrowed, my lips were pursed –

And then I stopped writing.

I just knew where it was heading – a lamenting post about what a bitch a three foot tall Dora-lover is for pee-ing in her pants. I was taking it personally. And though I believe her potty rebellion is a declaration of control and not merely a series of accidents, my response to her in recent days has, I’m sure, fueled her flame as well.

Step 5 kicked in.

Step 5, as they say, separates the boys from the men. Am I going to talk about overcoming anger? Or am I going to make a change?

(As I wrote this last sentence, it sounded eerily similar to yesterday’s post.)

As Ruthie soaked in the bathtub, I found myself cornered in the kitchen – sobbing, grieving, ashamed. I am the fat kid from Mean Creek, shaming others and making them feel small, delusioned that this will win their respect or somehow satisfy my need.

Every day that goes by, every hour, every second, every time she laughs or dances or begs me to sit with her I am aware that my time with her is fleeting. I have a narrow window to get my shit together and it better happen soon because Ruthie is smart – scary smart – and one day she may stop giving me hugs and kisses when I ask her to forgive me.

Sometimes this reality drives me to action and motivates me to change. But there are times when I believe a Lie, the one that asks, “Did God really say – ?” And I project twelve years down the road to a teenage Ruthie who hates me, who rebels, who feels unloved by me, and this makes me certain that I will never change and there is no hope.

I keep my Love List from I Corinthians taped to one of the cabinet doors in my kitchen. I refer to it often, and continue to pray that God will change my heart to reflect more of what love IS than what love is NOT.

I checked that list as I stood in the kitchen crying, and I spoke the words out loud, “Patient. Kind. Unfailing.” I was falling short on all accounts today, and I asked God to forgive me.

It was a small victory, though it seems twisted, in a way, to declare victory from within the ruins of nuclear annihilation. But the Word stepped in and set me free to move on and let go. My pulse retreated and my tightened chest released – the physical tension dissipated without being satisfied.

I was interrupted.