To Be Truly Free

Recently, I was in the emergency room to deal with my personal tragedy and my ankle. As I sat there, I listened to a very skilled and patient interpreter help an illegal woman and her children understand what was going to happen when her child was taken back for treatment.

The worry about INS agents coming to take them away for seeking treatment was obvious in this woman's eyes.

In my halting Spanish, I spoke to her little children and greeted them while I waited for my name to be called for my own treatment time.

I am free to be seen without fear of reprisal. They are not.

Because they are not in this country legally, they are looking over their shoulder 24-7 to keep one step ahead of deportation.

What kind of life must that be to live in abject fear that you will lose any advantage that you have gained by coming to America?

I feel for these Children of God. They have transgressed the laws of man by coming to this country without proper paperwork and proof of status for being here.

But a larger question is whether or not they have also defied the laws of God by not respecting the rule of law in a nation they say they wish to come to and live within the borders.

I struggle with this because everyone needs help in this life. We are, none of us, an island of self-sufficiency unto ourselves. But what if we are in violation of the very laws that are actually meant to protect us?

If I break the law, I know there will be consequences, whether they are the laws of God or of man. I don't expect to skip around freely without having any kind of reparations, repentance and restitution for what I have done.

But I can wake up in my home and not worry about someone kicking down the door to my home and taking me away.

We don't live in a Banana Republic where that is common even among the citizenry of the nation, nor do we live in a police state. I'm thankful that both of those are not the case.

But what will happen if more and more people get the idea that they don't have to obey the laws of our nation? Our borders have been as a permeable membrane allowing passage without let.

How do we convince people to come here the correct way?

How can we help and probably make compromise with those who are already here?

And most important of all, how can we show them that the blessings of truly being free are worth the hassle of the paperwork, the citizenship testing and the struggle to learn a passable version of the English language in order to get along in even the most basic situations?

I cannot imagine the fear that inhabits their hearts. To know that the work they have done isn't truly accepted because they aren't properly papered. To know that they are disposable to society in general. To know that those who are crying out for change are a mixed bag of personalities ranging from the seriously concerned seeking only what is right under the laws of the land and those who are fringe lunatics looking to bust some heads under a delusional belief that they are somehow 'better' because they were born within the borders instead of without. To know that each night in this nation might be the last if the federal agents of the rule of law can find and deport them at any moment.

We who have been blessed to be born here in this nation aren't given some special status that allows us to turn a deaf ear, a blind eye and a cold heart to our brothers and sisters who often come here fleeing oppression we can't even begin to imagine.

But we who have been blessed DO have a responsibility to help others be lawful by not only abiding by the laws ourselves, but enforcing our national and state laws and encouraging everyone else to do the same. Without that respect, we don't have a nation at all. We have a mess waiting to happen.

Volitility is growing.

I'm smart enough and observant enough to realize that without constructive and forward thinking means, we can't fix this problem. We will only be granted ringside seats while our nation destroys itself from within as people take sides to determine what is to be done.

We should help them see that doing so the right way is really the only way.

Sucks to be Me

Normally, I am a touch cynical but have a relatively cheerful and hopeful outlook. Today is just not going to be one of those days.

My ankle is broken.

Not my bad right ankle, campers. Oh no. That would be both predictable and easy. I'm USED to having it broken. Over the course of my married life, my right ankle has been broken multiple times.

But this is a first.

My LEFT ankle is broken.

It's NEVER been broken before.

It's a small avulsion fracture, but more painful than a complete break and I have plenty of comparison fractures from which to choose.

Plus, to add excitement to the day, my X-rays also revealed some delightful little violently painful bone spurs on my heel jabbing into my Achilles, which explains the swelling and pain I've been having in my Achilles despite warming up and stretching before walking.

Wonderful. No clue what that will mean...  surgery, treatment, amputation... I digress.

At this point, my weekend will be taken up with pain medication, elevation of my left leg and a healthy dose of whiny-ass self pity.

Thomas kindly patted my shoulder and said I was a crap magnet.

I tried to find a way to make that comment palatable, but there was just no way to dress it up and make it pretty.

Polish a turd and it's still a turd.

Go ahead and laugh. I know you want to.

I'm quite sure that I'd enjoy a good laugh, too...

if it wasn't ME that it kept happening to with such alarming frequency.

Adult Children

Are they adults or are they children?

Are they some hybrid of both that switches around according to personal preference of THEM not US?

A single word with no attached meaning can color an entire afternoon.

It runs both ways.

I confess that as my kids have gotten older, I've started remembering that there is a "ME" in here somewhere. There are days that the "ME" is more external than is apparently bearable for the other inhabitants of the planet than they are accustomed to dealing with and enduring.

It's odd how we never see clearly what we put everyone else through. Some days, I confess that I'm afraid to know what I do to other people under the guise of 'helping' or 'advising' them.

Despite intentions being somewhat decent, I'm inevitably stuck between the devil and the deep blue sea when it comes to human interactions. I see one outcome following a nicely dotted line from my ideas that swirl in my head and the reality that is played out in my actual presence.

It was so clear-cut and easy in my head.

But I forgot about that pesky personal moral agency given to every single one of God's children as a gift. Sometimes that is a gift that I wonder about.

When kids are little they NEED you.

When they are growing into their own persons, they push you away only to come running back when they need to be reassured and refreshed from the battle of life that has visited itself upon their young and inexperienced person.

Inevitably comes that day when they no longer need you at all in the way that you have had decades of familiarity in working through.

Now, the need has changed and no one managed to send a memo, a handbook of instruction or even a forwarding address to the person that cherubic infant is on the way to becoming as a self-assured and confident adult.

It's like a ballet on eggshells. Sometimes you break an egg and wind up with the remnants of yolk firmly stuck upon you to deal with as you explore the suddenly steep learning curve of seeing your little baby transform before your eyes from a little chick needing the loving care of your enfolding wings into a full grown and soaring eagle testing its wingspan against an amazingly blue sky dotted with the clouds of adversity.

No matter how much you want to save them from the inevitable, life shows up on their doorstep and  your own. Not all of these intrusions of reality are unpleasant, however. Many of them are wonderful and exceed all expectations.

Hopefully, they will find someone with whom they can share their life and times in a way that was once your own joy to discover.

They have happiness and abundance on the same shoreline as the passage of time also brings the winds of change and waves of trials.

They are no longer children.

When did it happen?

Was I just not paying attention?

We still have awkward interactions of circumstances where our definition of what is to happen doesn't mesh at all.

But it is quickly overtaken by the sheer wonder of seeing that once tiny bundle of need become a thoroughly competent and willing participant in the adult side of life that can bring so many rewards.

I don't want to keep my children babies forever. We get a taste of that with Jared each day and I pray each day that he will someday get his chance to experience life with no hesitation and no obstacles in his way.

But some days, I wouldn't mind a refresher course on holding a little barefoot body clad in tiny overalls and kissing the top of the sweet smelling baby head.

I kinda miss that.

Musical Personality Disorder

Fairly well versed in a variety of musical styles and genres, I am comfortable shifting from one to another in a single play list without too much struggle.

It isn't a moment of particular gravitas to hear the Mo Tab on one track and the Commitments on the next. And Elvis sandwiched between Carrie Underwood and Van Halen presents no agony of delete or repeat for my itchy selection finger.

But with each particular selection, a different portion of my personality or warped psyche is exposed for what it truly is... which may or may not be frightening to small children and pregnant women.

In my heart of hearts, I am a percussionist who can drive the rhythm section of any song. In reality, I often struggle to find the beat. I DID play the drums through school and can manage to find a simple groove from time to time, but not enough to truly make a career of it unless we are discussing ways to impress people by pounding out a drum beat while cleaning the shower stall.

I also play the guitar. Sometimes, I can mimic what is being presented by the 'big dogs' and hold my own with them. Other times, I am just playing air guitar and wishing.

When I hear the symphony draw the music of an orchestral arrangement to elegant and joyous heights, I have at least a minor appreciation for the struggle and effort required to blend together the notes and the number of musicians who desire to match their skill to the conductor's vision of what should happen.

I direct the music... generally when no one is home but me and the dog and she doesn't normally complain if I miscue her on an entrance. Frankly, she is so used to living with a musical savant schizophrenic, she usually just yawns and rolls over.

One of my greatest pleasures is strolling through my musical memory of songs good and bad, happy and depressing and songs that just act as a time portal to a specific moment that is catalogued in my lifetime of memories.

Funny thing is, a great deal of who I am and what I have allowed myself to become is connected directly to the music that was going on at the time.

I remember the music that was playing when the first boy I was not directly related to asked me to dance. "Color My World" by Chicago. I learned to play it on the piano just to preserve that moment. No, I didn't love the guy - I didn't even KNOW him.

Frankly, it was a church dance where the boys were all COMMANDED to dance with every single girl in the building "regardless of whether or not she is a 'dog'" and the fact that it was more commandment and obligation than choice and opportunity was sort of like taking a rasp to a piece of rough plywood and calling it beautiful music. But it was dancing and it got us off of our butts for at least a few minutes that night.

It wasn't until I got into college that I realized that my musical tastes were abnormal in comparison to the other gals in the dorm. They were devoted heart, body and soul to singular artists or groups.

I felt no such constraints. How could you love only ONE artist or group or style when the world was filled with so many who needed a momentary piece of your musical worship??? Yeah, it was a form of idolatry, but we all grow at different rates, so sue me.

Happy with Frank Sinatra and The Bee Gees equally and completely at home with Olivia Newton-John all occupying beloved slots in my record collection. Alabama crooned songs that reminded me of home and the 'what could be' that all young girls dream over combined with the Roseanne Cash songs that I was SURE that I sounded just like while in the shower. My roommates disagreed, I'm sure.

As I have gotten older, my tastes haven't changed so much as they have expanded. I have welcomed new artists into my collection, but have kept room for those songs and artists that mark the passage of both time and a mental bookmark.

It doesn't take much to send me on a trip. All I need is a particular song and I know where I was and with whom I was spending my time or if I was alone.

Even now, listening to the EXTREMELY odd collection that lives on my iPod or iTouch, I know it is a truer measure of who I am in reality than the carefully crafted persona that I show to the world. I can be cultured and calm.

People who truly know me aren't fooled by the "Sunday go to meeting" face.

Truthfully, I'm not trying to fool anyone. The reality is that I am still very much a work in progress. Sometimes, a song says everything I want to say but often lack the words on my own. Songs come into my life that share emotion that I may be uncomfortable under other circumstances in showing. But let that music play and it changes who I am, if only for a moment.

Sometimes, I hear songs that I truly wish I could dance to the way I see other people dance. Even when everything still worked and didn't hurt, my body simply hasn't ever moved in those lithe and sinuous movements that other people seem to be possessed with and in control over. But I move however I can, generally in the shower so no one can see or laugh at the spectacle.

In my egotistical mind's eye, there are some songs that I hear that make me think "gee, I could do that one for a ward activity or family party". Unabashedly, I sing along and picture myself wearing a 'rocker chick' ensemble that I used to own and a body that hasn't been mine in decades. I play and sing with the skill of a pro and have lights and sound that would make Kelly Clarkson envious.

Do I care that people know that I am a lunatic? Maybe not. I have the feeling most people have personalities every bit at splintered as mine on the music that moves their own heart in ways that cannot be enumerated to one not afflicted in a similar manner.

I can listen to the soundtrack to "Coyote Ugly" and see myself on the bar dancing and singing and commanding the music to be mine. Likewise, I listen to the Alto Air #20 from Handel's Messiah and be fully convinced that it could be something that I could share and enjoy.

I'm not sure that all of my musical leanings are extremes from the sacred to the profane. I sure hope not. But if God didn't like music, why is there so much variety from which to choose?

Enough for now. It's time to enjoy Francine Reeves bringing on a fine arrangement of "Wild Women Don't Get the Blues". Sweet, sweet music... and, you know, with a smokey bar and a sweet jazz band to back me, I could do this....