One in every two marriages ends in divorce.
Two-thirds of these families include minor children, As a result, about 1 million children each year become "children of divorce."
Divorce is the most common problem children face today. It is more prevalent than drug abuse, teenage pregnancy, or the death of a parent.
Currently, about 37 percent of all American children live with a divorced parent. Before reaching 18, about 25 to 35 percent of American children will spend some time in a stepfamily. Two thirds of these children will have step- or half-siblings.
Thursday, June 29, 2006
Parenting through divorce
This excellent article on CBSNews.com gives a wealth of info on children of divorce, including how-tos for parenting, reactions to divorce by age of child, advice for post-divorce dating, and these sobering stats:
Stopping divorce before marriage
From USA Today:
More couples are getting premarital education, perhaps thinking it may give their new marriages divorce protection. And new research suggests they may well be right.
Wednesday, June 28, 2006
A different kind of love
ESPN has an article up on 70s tennis star Roscoe Tanner. I'd never heard of him, to be honest, (my first awareness of tennis started with Ivan Lendl) and I happened on the article for reasons that had nothing to do with tennis or divorce, but this article gives a good look at the devastation that can occur when families (not just marriages) fall apart. According to the article, Tanner has become a Christian; let's pray that his commitment to Christ will lead to real reconciliation and healing between Tanner and his children.
In an interview from her home in Aliso Viejo, Calif., an Orange County suburb, Roscoe Tanner's daughter said, "He's a charmer who will say whatever he needs to get what he wants. I don't care to hear anything he has to say."
Tamara grew up exceptionally close to her father. He attended her soccer games and tennis matches and helped sharpen her skills in practice. But lately, Tamara, now 20, finds herself wondering if those things ever happened."All of a sudden one day, he's gone," she said. "And he never came back. The things he's caused our family to go through -- it puts doubts in my mind about how real it was. How could he really love me and not come home?
"He pretty much erased us from his life. I didn't think that was humanly possible."
Sunday, June 18, 2006
More from Graham Greene
From The End of the Affair:
"Always I find when I begin to write there is one character who obstinately will not come alive. There is nothing psychologically false about him, but he sticks, he has to be pushed around, words have to be found for him, all the technical skill I have acquired through the laborious years has to be employed in making him appear alive to my readers. Sometimes I get a sour satisfaction when a reviewer praises him as the best-drawn character in my story: if he has not been drawn he has certainly been dragged. He lies heavily on my mind whenever I start to work like an ill-digested meal on the stomach, robbing me of the pleasure of creation in any scene where he is present. He never does the unexpected thing, he never surprises me, he never takes charge. Every other character helps, he only hinders.
"And yet one cannot do without him. I can imagine a God feeling in just that way about some of us. The saints, one would suppose, in a sense create themselves. They come alive. They are capable of the surprising act or word. They stand outside the plot, unconditioned by it. But we have to be pushed around. We have the obstinancy of nonexistence. We are inextricably bound to the plot, and wearily God forces us, here and there, according to his intention, characters without poetry, without free will, whose only importance is that somewhere, at some time, we help to furnish the scene in which a living character moves and speaks, providing perhaps the saints with the opportunities for their free will."
"Always I find when I begin to write there is one character who obstinately will not come alive. There is nothing psychologically false about him, but he sticks, he has to be pushed around, words have to be found for him, all the technical skill I have acquired through the laborious years has to be employed in making him appear alive to my readers. Sometimes I get a sour satisfaction when a reviewer praises him as the best-drawn character in my story: if he has not been drawn he has certainly been dragged. He lies heavily on my mind whenever I start to work like an ill-digested meal on the stomach, robbing me of the pleasure of creation in any scene where he is present. He never does the unexpected thing, he never surprises me, he never takes charge. Every other character helps, he only hinders.
"And yet one cannot do without him. I can imagine a God feeling in just that way about some of us. The saints, one would suppose, in a sense create themselves. They come alive. They are capable of the surprising act or word. They stand outside the plot, unconditioned by it. But we have to be pushed around. We have the obstinancy of nonexistence. We are inextricably bound to the plot, and wearily God forces us, here and there, according to his intention, characters without poetry, without free will, whose only importance is that somewhere, at some time, we help to furnish the scene in which a living character moves and speaks, providing perhaps the saints with the opportunities for their free will."
An unusual Father's Day tribute
From an article by blogger Jimmy Moore:
"I told Christine when I married her over ten years ago that we're cutting the word divorce out of the dictionary because it's not an option. She might have to kill me, but we're not getting a divorce no matter what. :)"
Jimmy shares a heartbreaking and encouraging story about the crazy upbringing and abuse he endured, his desire to break the cycle of abuse with God's grace, and his reconciliation with his father. Great article; go read it!
(Read more of Jimmy's blog here.)
"I told Christine when I married her over ten years ago that we're cutting the word divorce out of the dictionary because it's not an option. She might have to kill me, but we're not getting a divorce no matter what. :)"
Jimmy shares a heartbreaking and encouraging story about the crazy upbringing and abuse he endured, his desire to break the cycle of abuse with God's grace, and his reconciliation with his father. Great article; go read it!
(Read more of Jimmy's blog here.)
Thursday, June 15, 2006
What's God doing in my relationships?
Responding to the "Blog News" post Monday, Anonymous said, "What's god got to do with relationships?" That's a good question, Anonymous. I haven't been ignoring you; I just needed a little focused time to give you a thoughtful answer.
First off, let me assure you that you are not anonymous to God. He knows your name, knows exactly how long you're going to live, and even knows how many hairs are on your head (which is actually pretty amazing because this is a moving target--in other words, apparently He's keeping a running count). He knows that secret thing you do that you think no one knows about. He knows you better than you know yourself. The cool thing is, He loves you in spite of it all.
So about God. Most Christians believe that God is inherently relational. We believe in a concept called the Trinity, meaning that God is one god but is composed of three distinct entities: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Don't try to wrap your mind around it. This is why it's called faith. There are simply some things about God that are too hard for our finite human brains to fully comprehend and this is definitely one of them.
God created us as relational beings. In the Garden of Eden, at the beginning of time, Adam had a relationship with God. They took walks together in the garden. Kind of sweet. Still, God decided that Adam needed to have a relationship with another person. He created Eve. This was still in the garden, before sin, when everything was perfect. So God thinks relationships are part of His ideal world for us.
God went a step further with this relationship thing when He became a human being, when God the Son was born into this world as Jesus. Christians believe that Jesus was and is God Himself in human form. In this way, He once again walked and talked with us.
Jesus spent a lot of His time on earth teaching us about God (and who better to do so if He was the real deal?). Some teachers of the Jewish law once asked Him which of God's commands was greatest. Jesus responded: "To love the Lord your God with all your heart, mind, soul, and strength" then He added, "And the second [greatest] is like it: Love your neighbor as yourself. All the Law and Prophets hang on these two commands." In other words, if you love God perfectly, you will love others perfectly, and vice versa.
Jesus's best friend on earth, His disciple John, wrote about this in a letter. He said that when you love another person, God is living through you, and that no matter how much you say you love God, if you don't love others, it's all a lie. (See the post about the Graham Greene quote!)
The cool thing about God is that He really does want to have a relationship with us, and that means He gives us the ability to choose whether we want to be in relationship with Him or not. You can certainly choose to turn your back on God, to ignore Him, to marginalize Him, to pretend He doesn't exist. That's one option. If that's the option you choose though, you're on your own in this life. No one to pray to when times are tough, no comfort but your own strength, no joy but your own happiness however temporary. The other option is to choose to be in relationship with Him. I think it's the better option. I think it's a far better option for those of us who have experienced the heartache that accompanies divorce. I'm convinced that God has the only really effective answers to our problems, the only real comfort for our souls, the only real satisfaction for our desires.
First off, let me assure you that you are not anonymous to God. He knows your name, knows exactly how long you're going to live, and even knows how many hairs are on your head (which is actually pretty amazing because this is a moving target--in other words, apparently He's keeping a running count). He knows that secret thing you do that you think no one knows about. He knows you better than you know yourself. The cool thing is, He loves you in spite of it all.
So about God. Most Christians believe that God is inherently relational. We believe in a concept called the Trinity, meaning that God is one god but is composed of three distinct entities: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Don't try to wrap your mind around it. This is why it's called faith. There are simply some things about God that are too hard for our finite human brains to fully comprehend and this is definitely one of them.
God created us as relational beings. In the Garden of Eden, at the beginning of time, Adam had a relationship with God. They took walks together in the garden. Kind of sweet. Still, God decided that Adam needed to have a relationship with another person. He created Eve. This was still in the garden, before sin, when everything was perfect. So God thinks relationships are part of His ideal world for us.
God went a step further with this relationship thing when He became a human being, when God the Son was born into this world as Jesus. Christians believe that Jesus was and is God Himself in human form. In this way, He once again walked and talked with us.
Jesus spent a lot of His time on earth teaching us about God (and who better to do so if He was the real deal?). Some teachers of the Jewish law once asked Him which of God's commands was greatest. Jesus responded: "To love the Lord your God with all your heart, mind, soul, and strength" then He added, "And the second [greatest] is like it: Love your neighbor as yourself. All the Law and Prophets hang on these two commands." In other words, if you love God perfectly, you will love others perfectly, and vice versa.
Jesus's best friend on earth, His disciple John, wrote about this in a letter. He said that when you love another person, God is living through you, and that no matter how much you say you love God, if you don't love others, it's all a lie. (See the post about the Graham Greene quote!)
The cool thing about God is that He really does want to have a relationship with us, and that means He gives us the ability to choose whether we want to be in relationship with Him or not. You can certainly choose to turn your back on God, to ignore Him, to marginalize Him, to pretend He doesn't exist. That's one option. If that's the option you choose though, you're on your own in this life. No one to pray to when times are tough, no comfort but your own strength, no joy but your own happiness however temporary. The other option is to choose to be in relationship with Him. I think it's the better option. I think it's a far better option for those of us who have experienced the heartache that accompanies divorce. I'm convinced that God has the only really effective answers to our problems, the only real comfort for our souls, the only real satisfaction for our desires.
Decorating post-divorce
From an article in the Washington Post:
Children add an element of urgency in setting up a new home.
"Men realize the children need to be comfortable. If school-age kids are saying, 'Where is the kitchen table?' or, 'Here's a bed, but where do I put my clothes?' it will hit home sooner," Sember says.
Children add an element of urgency in setting up a new home.
"Men realize the children need to be comfortable. If school-age kids are saying, 'Where is the kitchen table?' or, 'Here's a bed, but where do I put my clothes?' it will hit home sooner," Sember says.
What tangled webs we weave...
Oh dear--that's all I can manage at the moment!
"Although Sam is helping Samantha raise both children, he has no legal rights to the little girl. Steven turns out to be Siena’s biological father—but he has her only for a few days every month.
"On top of it all, Sam and Samantha no longer have a sexual relationship. Though they are still married, Samantha calls the marriage a 'technicality.' On the film’s website, Sam explains, 'What we both want eventually is to live next door to each other raising our children together; we will both live with someone we love.' Since Steven already has a new partner, this would give Siena six parental figures and three homes!"
From the BreakPoint web site.
"Although Sam is helping Samantha raise both children, he has no legal rights to the little girl. Steven turns out to be Siena’s biological father—but he has her only for a few days every month.
"On top of it all, Sam and Samantha no longer have a sexual relationship. Though they are still married, Samantha calls the marriage a 'technicality.' On the film’s website, Sam explains, 'What we both want eventually is to live next door to each other raising our children together; we will both live with someone we love.' Since Steven already has a new partner, this would give Siena six parental figures and three homes!"
From the BreakPoint web site.
Wednesday, June 14, 2006
Graham Greene on love and hate
I'm an acknowledged bookworm. Last week, I went to a booksigning for Anderson Cooper's new book. I was #219 in line to get my book signed, so I had a little time on my hands before my group of 25 was called for our turn, always a dangerous thing for me in a bookstore. Wandering around the store, I picked up a Graham Greene novel that sounded intriguing. Cooper was surprisingly personable, exchanging a few words with nearly everyone in line. He asked about the other book I was carrying and expressed his own enjoyment of Graham Greene's novels.
The reason I love Greene is that he delves unhesitatingly into the doubts and surety, joys and pain of faith and life. Here's a sample from this week's read:
"I have never understood why people who can swallow the enormous improbability of a personal God boggle at a personal Devil. I have known so intimately the way that demon works in my imagination. No statement that Sarah ever made was proof against his cunning doubts, though he would usually wait till she had gone to utter them. He would prompt our quarrels long before they occurred: he was not Sarah's enemy so much as the enemy of love, and isn't that what the devil is supposed to be? I can imagine that if there existed a God who loved, the devil would be driven to destroy even the weakest, the most faulty imitation of that love. Wouldn't he be afraid that the habit of love might grow, and wouldn't he try to trap us all into being traitors, into helping him extinguish love? If there is a God who uses us and makes his saints out of such material as we are, the devil too may have his ambitions; he may dream of training even such a person as myself, even poor Parkis, into being his saints, ready with borrowed fanatacism to destroy love wherever we find it."
No one-size-fits-all solutions
From a chat today with advice columnist Carolyn:
Wondering: I appreciate and agree with the idea that not splitting up with someone you're not really in love/happy with is selfish (that person deserves to be happier, too). I'm wondering if you could comment on that in relationships involving kids (and does age of kids matter?). If both partners are fairly clearly not happy in the relationship, but both feel strongly that they don't want to mess up the kids' lives...? Not being the potential custodial parent particularly sucks, it just isn't the same not living under the same roof as your kids, no matter how stressful staying can be. There is more clear support nowadays for the idea that two happy parents living separately is better for kids than two unhappy ones under the same roof, but I knew that when I was in an unhappy relationship and -still- my reaction was 'yes, I believe that generally, but not for -my- kid' - and now I see a friend going through something similar (worse, because he would likely end up non-custodial). Sorry, not exactly a question...
Carolyn Hax: No, it's fine, I think I understand the question in there. Kids complicate things--immeasurably. Which is why I don't "support" either camp, the stay-for-the-kids or the go-get-happy-for-the-kids. I've seen both decisions up close and -so- much of the choice hinges on the specific personalities/strains/temperaments/life circumstances involved. I guess what happens is that the definition of "selfish" gets a lot more complicated, because you're not thinking "your needs, my needs" anymore, which of course is complicated enough. But kids mean it's yours, mine, theirs--and you are the guardian of theirs. No one can know what will tip his or her own family's scale, much less someone else's.
Wondering: I appreciate and agree with the idea that not splitting up with someone you're not really in love/happy with is selfish (that person deserves to be happier, too). I'm wondering if you could comment on that in relationships involving kids (and does age of kids matter?). If both partners are fairly clearly not happy in the relationship, but both feel strongly that they don't want to mess up the kids' lives...? Not being the potential custodial parent particularly sucks, it just isn't the same not living under the same roof as your kids, no matter how stressful staying can be. There is more clear support nowadays for the idea that two happy parents living separately is better for kids than two unhappy ones under the same roof, but I knew that when I was in an unhappy relationship and -still- my reaction was 'yes, I believe that generally, but not for -my- kid' - and now I see a friend going through something similar (worse, because he would likely end up non-custodial). Sorry, not exactly a question...
Carolyn Hax: No, it's fine, I think I understand the question in there. Kids complicate things--immeasurably. Which is why I don't "support" either camp, the stay-for-the-kids or the go-get-happy-for-the-kids. I've seen both decisions up close and -so- much of the choice hinges on the specific personalities/strains/temperaments/life circumstances involved. I guess what happens is that the definition of "selfish" gets a lot more complicated, because you're not thinking "your needs, my needs" anymore, which of course is complicated enough. But kids mean it's yours, mine, theirs--and you are the guardian of theirs. No one can know what will tip his or her own family's scale, much less someone else's.
Staying in contact with former stepfamily
From an advice column focused on divorce: "My wife and I are going through a divorce after 18 years of marriage. We didn't have children; however, she has children and grandchildren from a previous marriage...would it be OK to send [birthday/holiday] cards to her children or grandchildren?"
The importance of fathers
From a Father's Day column: "Children recover more rapidly from the emotional trauma of parents' separation when they maintain close ties with their fathers. The continuing involvement of divorced fathers in families where mothers maintain physical custody has become recognized as an important mediating factor in the adjustment and well being of children of divorce."
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
Your assignment, should you choose to accept it
Stop and think for a moment of the ways God shows His love for you. If you need to, pull out a piece of paper and begin listing down all the things God does – big and small – to show you His love. Now tuck that list away in a safe place. The next time you wonder if anyone loves you, or what exactly love is, or whether God is for real, you can pull that list out and remind yourself of the greatest love you’ll ever know.
In Isaiah 54:10, your loving Father says, “Though the mountains be shaken and the hills be removed, yet my unfailing love for you will not be shaken.” This is a love you can cling to. This is a love that won’t fade when you’re no longer a cute little chick magnet, or when a new spouse and stepkids come along. There is nothing you can do to lose God’s love; and there is nothing you can do to get God to love you more, because He already loves you perfectly and completely.
In Isaiah 54:10, your loving Father says, “Though the mountains be shaken and the hills be removed, yet my unfailing love for you will not be shaken.” This is a love you can cling to. This is a love that won’t fade when you’re no longer a cute little chick magnet, or when a new spouse and stepkids come along. There is nothing you can do to lose God’s love; and there is nothing you can do to get God to love you more, because He already loves you perfectly and completely.
Monday, June 12, 2006
Sunday, June 11, 2006
Putting on an act
From an interview with Robert Emery, author of a book, The Truth About Children and Divorce:
"I found ... that all the advice I'd given was true, but it was a lot harder to follow than I realized.
The hard part was being able to step back from hurt, pain and grief and really put your children first, bite your tongue, control your anger. Sometimes, it's putting on an act for your kids. That may seem impossible or disingenuous; it's not. It's a reason and a justification."
"I found ... that all the advice I'd given was true, but it was a lot harder to follow than I realized.
The hard part was being able to step back from hurt, pain and grief and really put your children first, bite your tongue, control your anger. Sometimes, it's putting on an act for your kids. That may seem impossible or disingenuous; it's not. It's a reason and a justification."
Thursday, June 08, 2006
Dearly beloved
"What would happen if people had to own up to separation?" This is the question asked by a young documentary film maker, Thomas Collardeau, in his film The Parting. We make wedding vows in the context of community; what if we had to dissolve them in front of our closest friends and family?
Sunday, June 04, 2006
NPR on divorce and moving
"Judges say it is now one of the hardest decisions they have to make. Just a decade ago, most divorces ended with one parent -- usually the mother -- getting sole custody. Courts would almost always allow the mother to move, as long as she could prove she wasn't motivated by spite. Judges generally believed that if the mother was the primary caretaker, keeping her happy would ultimately benefit the kids as well.
"But with a growing number of parents today sharing custody, and with new research showing the importance of children staying connected to both parents, many courts are now raising the bar."
Read the whole article here.
"But with a growing number of parents today sharing custody, and with new research showing the importance of children staying connected to both parents, many courts are now raising the bar."
Read the whole article here.
Marketing to Generation Ex
From a NYTimes article on Anthropologie:
"ON a philosophical level, there is something about Anthropologie that is well intentioned but makes me profoundly depressed. The old bicycles, the old-fashioned Marvis toothpaste, the etched-glass candleholders, the calico pajama sets, the teacups and saucers — all are the trappings of a grandparent's or a parent's home.
"But the 30-something generation that shops at Anthropologie, among the first to be widely defined as children of divorce, no longer has access to those homes, which have long since been dispersed. There is no longevity in their parents' houses. The romantically weathered chests of drawers and stacks of pristinely aged National Geographic magazines were all put into storage, sold or dispersed among the various interested parties.
"This is where Anthropologie steps in: It helps the shopper create the illusion of household continuity by allowing her to reimagine a place where Grandma might leave out her pre-fluoride tooth powder, to simulate a life in which Mom and Dad still live together in a house with European teacups and flocked bedspreads. In a world of Anthropologie furnishings and clothing, the consumers can reclaim lost childhoods, lost marriages, lost virginities. The store's philosophy takes the colloquial and sad world of regrets and realities and wraps it up in a swath of vintage calico, tied with a satin bow."
"ON a philosophical level, there is something about Anthropologie that is well intentioned but makes me profoundly depressed. The old bicycles, the old-fashioned Marvis toothpaste, the etched-glass candleholders, the calico pajama sets, the teacups and saucers — all are the trappings of a grandparent's or a parent's home.
"But the 30-something generation that shops at Anthropologie, among the first to be widely defined as children of divorce, no longer has access to those homes, which have long since been dispersed. There is no longevity in their parents' houses. The romantically weathered chests of drawers and stacks of pristinely aged National Geographic magazines were all put into storage, sold or dispersed among the various interested parties.
"This is where Anthropologie steps in: It helps the shopper create the illusion of household continuity by allowing her to reimagine a place where Grandma might leave out her pre-fluoride tooth powder, to simulate a life in which Mom and Dad still live together in a house with European teacups and flocked bedspreads. In a world of Anthropologie furnishings and clothing, the consumers can reclaim lost childhoods, lost marriages, lost virginities. The store's philosophy takes the colloquial and sad world of regrets and realities and wraps it up in a swath of vintage calico, tied with a satin bow."
Cynical or smart?
I can't decide. The latest Sweet Potato Queen book is called The Sweet Potato Queens' Wedding Planner/Divorce Guide. Sounded pretty horrible to me until I read the entire AP article, which offered two insightful quotes by author Jill Conner Browne: "If you read both ends of it and you pay attention, you can avoid whichever end of it you want to avoid. If just reading about a wedding scares you, you should run for the hills;" and "Weddings take on lives of their own. They really have nothing to do with marriage. Five minutes after the wedding you are no longer the bride. You are just a wife married to that husband and it is one of the ruder awakenings that the universe has to offer."
Advice for school
Summarized from an education advice column:
- Be united with your ex in love for the child and rules.
- Let the school know and give the necessary emergency contact info
- Let the school know how to handle reports cards and other school records
- Establish routines
- Establish new traditions
- Talk regularly
- Get help when needed
NPR on God and divorce
NPR's Religion and Ethics Newsweekly did a story Friday on adults who were children of divorce and the impact on their spiritual lives. Here's an excerpt:
"Jen says her church did nothing when she was a kid to help her cope with the pain of her parents' divorce. That's changing now, thanks to the efforts of adults who still suffer from their own parents' breakup. They hope the new church-based programs for today's children of divorce will assure them that the love of God will be a constant in an otherwise turbulent time."
Read the whole transcript here.
"Jen says her church did nothing when she was a kid to help her cope with the pain of her parents' divorce. That's changing now, thanks to the efforts of adults who still suffer from their own parents' breakup. They hope the new church-based programs for today's children of divorce will assure them that the love of God will be a constant in an otherwise turbulent time."
Read the whole transcript here.
Monday, May 29, 2006
Imagining a home
From a poignant May essay in the New York Times Magazine:
"When I was 11, my two sister and I lived with my father in an old brick building in Montreal. There was water damage on the ceilings, and the windows were broken and held together with masking tape. Going up the dark stairwell to our door after school was one of the most unpleasant feelings in the world, but going inside was worse. The apartment was ugly, tiny and filled with cockroaches. We moved there after my mother left us behind with our father, and everything in our lives felt bleak."
"When I was 11, my two sister and I lived with my father in an old brick building in Montreal. There was water damage on the ceilings, and the windows were broken and held together with masking tape. Going up the dark stairwell to our door after school was one of the most unpleasant feelings in the world, but going inside was worse. The apartment was ugly, tiny and filled with cockroaches. We moved there after my mother left us behind with our father, and everything in our lives felt bleak."
The joys and limitations of stepfamilies
From an April essay in the New York Times Magazine:
"The step-labels mislead us. 'Stepmother' imples that I am some variation of my stepchildren's mother, when I am actualy the adult person married to their father. I have felt motherly toward my stepchildren and like a daughter to my stepmother, but I have also felt the failure of not living up to either role."
"The step-labels mislead us. 'Stepmother' imples that I am some variation of my stepchildren's mother, when I am actualy the adult person married to their father. I have felt motherly toward my stepchildren and like a daughter to my stepmother, but I have also felt the failure of not living up to either role."
How Generation X views life
From Fred Brock's Live Well on Less Than You Think, some demographics on GenXers:
"Xers have grown up with a strong sense of reality and a sense that they have to take control of things for themselves."
"Their formative years have taught them to expect the unexpected, to distrust projections and promises, and to count on little except themselves and their friends."
"Xers have grown up with a strong sense of reality and a sense that they have to take control of things for themselves."
"Their formative years have taught them to expect the unexpected, to distrust projections and promises, and to count on little except themselves and their friends."
Sunday, May 28, 2006
The healing process
I injured my jaw in December. No, it wasn’t a rough hockey game or a tragic skiing accident. It was a vicious bowl of tortilla chips.
One of my weird family inheritances is loose joints. It can come in pretty handy as a party trick and, despite some bad dislocations through the years, I’ve never broken a bone—the joint gives way before the bone. It seems to afflict different joints at different times and for the last several years, the right side of my jaw has been the problem area. It had gotten so bad last fall, my jaw would literally just fall out of joint while I was sleeping and it would pop out when I ate crusty bread or kettle-cooked chips (yum!) or, yes, tortilla chips. I was waiting for a friend at a Mexican restaurant and, though I knew I shouldn’t, I couldn’t help but chow down on the chips. Sure enough, out it came. But this time it wouldn’t pop back in!
OK, this had never happened before! After two weeks of pain and a jaw that would barely move, I went to the doctor, got x-rays, and talked to an oral surgeon. The bone was back in joint, but the joint was damaged. It would heal on its own with time, but it was also likely to be reinjured frequently while it was healing since it’s a joint that gets used all the time. The best way to let it heal fast was to go on a soft food diet, which—yeah—was not happening, so I chose the slower healing process.
So six months later, I realized last week that I could yawn—really yawn big—without pain. What a feeling!
In the shower next morning, I yawned. No biggie, right? Wrong! I felt everything in my right jaw joint grind together and I grabbed my jaw in pain. I saw the previous six months flash before the eyes of my stomach—no more hamburgers, no more kettle chips, no more loaded corned beef and coleslaw sandwiches from J.P.’s.
But as the day wore on, I realized that while my jaw was a little sore, the new injury was not as bad as I had feared. The healing process was far enough along that what could have been a major setback was instead a minor inconvenience.
And then I thought about the other hurts we carry around. Those places in our hearts where we are flexible and feel good until one day, out of nowhere, wham! It hurts, sometimes excruciatingly; sometimes it’s crippling. We have to learn how to open up again, and gradually we begin to feel joy again where they had been only pain. But there can still be setbacks, new hurts that wound us in the same place. When that happens, there is a temptation to let the fear of the old hurt magnify the new hurt and to become paralyzed in that fear. But sometimes, there is a surprise. The new hurt that we so fear turns out to not be so bad. We have grown and healed and that place that used to be so raw and tender has toughened up and can withstand this new stress.
This is part of God’s design—for our bodies and our hearts.
One of my weird family inheritances is loose joints. It can come in pretty handy as a party trick and, despite some bad dislocations through the years, I’ve never broken a bone—the joint gives way before the bone. It seems to afflict different joints at different times and for the last several years, the right side of my jaw has been the problem area. It had gotten so bad last fall, my jaw would literally just fall out of joint while I was sleeping and it would pop out when I ate crusty bread or kettle-cooked chips (yum!) or, yes, tortilla chips. I was waiting for a friend at a Mexican restaurant and, though I knew I shouldn’t, I couldn’t help but chow down on the chips. Sure enough, out it came. But this time it wouldn’t pop back in!
OK, this had never happened before! After two weeks of pain and a jaw that would barely move, I went to the doctor, got x-rays, and talked to an oral surgeon. The bone was back in joint, but the joint was damaged. It would heal on its own with time, but it was also likely to be reinjured frequently while it was healing since it’s a joint that gets used all the time. The best way to let it heal fast was to go on a soft food diet, which—yeah—was not happening, so I chose the slower healing process.
So six months later, I realized last week that I could yawn—really yawn big—without pain. What a feeling!
In the shower next morning, I yawned. No biggie, right? Wrong! I felt everything in my right jaw joint grind together and I grabbed my jaw in pain. I saw the previous six months flash before the eyes of my stomach—no more hamburgers, no more kettle chips, no more loaded corned beef and coleslaw sandwiches from J.P.’s.
But as the day wore on, I realized that while my jaw was a little sore, the new injury was not as bad as I had feared. The healing process was far enough along that what could have been a major setback was instead a minor inconvenience.
And then I thought about the other hurts we carry around. Those places in our hearts where we are flexible and feel good until one day, out of nowhere, wham! It hurts, sometimes excruciatingly; sometimes it’s crippling. We have to learn how to open up again, and gradually we begin to feel joy again where they had been only pain. But there can still be setbacks, new hurts that wound us in the same place. When that happens, there is a temptation to let the fear of the old hurt magnify the new hurt and to become paralyzed in that fear. But sometimes, there is a surprise. The new hurt that we so fear turns out to not be so bad. We have grown and healed and that place that used to be so raw and tender has toughened up and can withstand this new stress.
This is part of God’s design—for our bodies and our hearts.
Agreeing with NOW??!!
According to an article in the Lansing State Journal, Michigan is considering joining the ranks of states that will force family court judges to award joint physical custody unless one parent can be proved to be unfit. Surprisingly, I'm actually on the same side as NOW, the infamous ultraliberal feminist group, on this issue. NOW has issued a statement that this pending legislation "places the interests of parents over the child's interests."
By and for children
From an article in the IndyStar:
Zoe was 8 and Evan 6, when their parents split up about 16 years ago. Several years later, the brother-and-sister team was approached by a publisher and editor to write a book about divorce.
They decided, with Mom's help, to tackle the topic. "Divorce is Not the End of the World" was published in 1997 to give kids a coping tool when their parents break up.
"I think it's easy to think you're gonna get left behind and that they're gonna forget about you, that you're gonna lose all of the rituals and the family memories that you have," Zoe said.
"It's basically losing the structure and the understanding of your life as you know it," said Evan. "It's like a lot of emotions at once. It changes your life permanently and that is a hard thing to deal with at a young age or at any age."
"I think that in a way I'm less likely to get divorced because I've seen divorce up close, firsthand, and it's not something that I want to go through or that I want my children to go through," said Zoe.
Zoe was 8 and Evan 6, when their parents split up about 16 years ago. Several years later, the brother-and-sister team was approached by a publisher and editor to write a book about divorce.
They decided, with Mom's help, to tackle the topic. "Divorce is Not the End of the World" was published in 1997 to give kids a coping tool when their parents break up.
"I think it's easy to think you're gonna get left behind and that they're gonna forget about you, that you're gonna lose all of the rituals and the family memories that you have," Zoe said.
"It's basically losing the structure and the understanding of your life as you know it," said Evan. "It's like a lot of emotions at once. It changes your life permanently and that is a hard thing to deal with at a young age or at any age."
"I think that in a way I'm less likely to get divorced because I've seen divorce up close, firsthand, and it's not something that I want to go through or that I want my children to go through," said Zoe.
Surviving School
Just in time for the end of the school year, here are some good tips from an article on MyWestTexas.com:
Drs. Nicolas Long and Rex Forehand offer the following suggestions in their book, "Making Divorce Easier on Your Child:"
-- Work on strengthening your relationship with your child. Several studies have indicated that if a child has a good relationship with at least one parent following divorce, his or her grades are higher.
-- Closely monitor your child's school performance; that is: check on homework; review tests and assignments; and maintain a close working relationship with your child's teachers.
-- Tell your child's teacher about the divorce so that you can work together to minimize its impact.
-- Try to have a regular time for doing homework; usually before your child starts watching TV or playing video games.
Drs. Nicolas Long and Rex Forehand offer the following suggestions in their book, "Making Divorce Easier on Your Child:"
-- Work on strengthening your relationship with your child. Several studies have indicated that if a child has a good relationship with at least one parent following divorce, his or her grades are higher.
-- Closely monitor your child's school performance; that is: check on homework; review tests and assignments; and maintain a close working relationship with your child's teachers.
-- Tell your child's teacher about the divorce so that you can work together to minimize its impact.
-- Try to have a regular time for doing homework; usually before your child starts watching TV or playing video games.
Monday, May 22, 2006
Focus on healing
Thanks to my friend Kelly for the referral to this excellent web site for single parents by Focus on the Family.
Monday, May 08, 2006
France and New England
I leave tomorrow for France and won't be back until May 21, so the blog will be quiet until then. In the meantime, I'm posting a piece I wrote after I took my first solo vacation, about seven years ago. Enjoy the travelogue and I'll look forward to catching up with you all when I get back from France. Au revoir!
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I began planning the trip in April for mid-September. I called or wrote each of the New England states to get their free vacation packets. Maine, New Hampshire, and Vermont all sent state road maps along with the usual magazine of places and events. I finally narrowed down my trip to those three states and began to plan where I would stay and what I would see. Eventually, I came up with a rough itinerary but left plenty of time to wander and see whatever caught my fancy at the moment.
I left Virginia on a Tuesday night and drove to my parents’ house in south-central Pennsylvania. I was stopping just outside Albany, New York to visit a friend briefly and I still hoped to be in Bennington, Vermont by 4:00 in the afternoon, so I figured getting in two hours of my trip the night before and visiting my parents and brothers was a wise start. Wednesday morning, I was on the road bright and early, after dropping my 17-year-old brother at his bus stop on my way out of the neighborhood. The trip into New York was uneventful, marked only by the excitement of seeing five wild turkeys by the side of the road just outside Oneonta.
I pull into Gene’s Fish Fry in Defreestville, New York around 1:30. My friend and her husband are leasing the fish fry from her father-in-law to decide whether they want to buy it. It’s a good business, but they are in their last week of the season and everyone is tired. The girls, aged 4 and 1, are in the back room, Alexia on a blanket and her baby sister Adrianna in a playpen. They are watching a Disney movie on the TV/VCR combination that their granddad bought them. Priscilla is busy filling orders, but we talk in between and even find time to look at pictures. She fixes me a clam roll, which I know she won’t let me pay for. I try to get the teenage worker to put some money in the cash box for my lunch, but her loyalty is to her boss and she won’t take it.
Back on the road, I drive through Troy, New York. It’s a disappointing town, too much like the urban New Jersey neighborhood where I spent my teenage years. Soon enough, though, I’m past Troy and heading into Vermont. The road winds alternately between woods and farmland on either side and then suddenly around a bend there is a bridge over a river and I am in Vermont. Bennington isn’t far, less than an hour and a half from Defreestville.
The town is beautiful and quaint and picture perfect. It is exactly what I have always envisioned Vermont to be. Coming up on the old town square, the road curves right around the Old First Church. Cars and busses are parked along the road as I drive past and people are everywhere taking pictures, capturing the nostalgia on film. Beyond the church, small shops line the main street. A bookstore looks particularly cozy with a comfy armchair right in front of the plate-glass window. A few cafes still have tables and chairs on the sidewalk and another fish fry sits on a corner. Right now, I want to locate my lodging for the night and check in before finding dinner.
On the other side of town, I finally find the Molly Stark Inn where I have a reservation for the evening. A sign on the front door says the owners will be back at 3:30, but it is 3:30 now and they have just returned. They have friends visiting and are just pulling off their boots after a short hike. Cammie and Reed are the perfect innkeepers, bright, vivacious, and welcoming. Cammie’s enthusiasm makes everyone smile in spite of themselves, and Reed is perfectly gracious. Cammie shows me my room, a cute little corner room with antique furnishings and a quilt and feather pillows on the bed. I have a private bathroom with a stall shower and pedestal sink and I retreat there to take a shower and wash away the greasy feeling from the fish fry.
After my shower, I head downstairs to check out the local menus and decide where to eat. This is the big decision time. Eating alone is a tricky thing. I want to eat somewhere where I won’t feel uncomfortable or attract attention by being alone. Indecisive, I finally just drive through town and look for someplace. The diners that are open look too frequented by locals and I’m afraid I’ll stick out, particularly by myself. The cafes, where I imagine I would feel more comfortable, have all closed shop for the season. Finally, I chicken out and head for a McDonald’s. Over a Quarter Pounder, I vow to be braver tomorrow. After eating, I follow one of the maps I picked up at the inn to two of the three covered bridges in town. One is closed to traffic, but the other is open and spans a rocky creek. Across the street is a beautiful inn surely out of my price range. I snap a few pictures and head back to my own, more reasonably priced, inn.
The inn is quiet. Reed and Cammie are entertaining their guests over dinner on the screened in porch. I pull on an extra sweater and take my journal and my schoolbooks (I’m working on my Master’s) out to the front porch. The road is fairly heavily traveled, but the woods across the road are full of pine trees, the air is nippy, and I am savoring the feeling of being in Vermont. After an hour or so, the air is too cool and I head for the toastiness of the parlor. I trade my schoolbooks for needlework and decide that I lend a quaint and genteel air to the charm the inn already has. When I finally head to bed, I’m asleep nearly as soon as I lay down.
In the morning, the smell of coffee wafts up the back staircase from the kitchen. I head downstairs and take a seat at a table on the screened porch at the side of the house. The morning air is cool, but I’m still in love with the fact that I’m in Vermont and this crispness completes the feeling for me. Cammie informs me that Reed makes everything from scratch and the breakfast is indeed wonderful: fresh fruit followed by two muffins and then a puffed apple pancake, served in a heart-shaped cast iron pan, with maple syrup (what else?) and sausage. Reed later wraps the muffin I didn’t eat at breakfast and I take it along for the road. An older couple from Minnesota sit near me on the screened porch for breakfast. We chat off and on and then friends of theirs arrive and I finish my last cup of coffee alone before heading back upstairs to pack my things. I want to see some more of the town and then get an early start on this day’s journey, so I check out right after breakfast.
The first place I head is the Bennington Museum. I saw this in a AAA travel book someone gave me for my trip. There is an admission fee, but it is reasonable. The museum holds items once used locally on farms and in homes, a collection of glass and pottery from nearby factories, and—their real boast—several paintings by local girl, Grandma Moses.
After perusing the collection, I drive around the corner to Old First Church. This is a treat. Robert Frost is buried in their graveyard and I head to his gravesite first. Signs mark the path that so many lovers of literature must have walked. I locate the long slab that marks the grave of Frost, his wife, and several of their children. I take a few moments to look around and absorb the view of the natural beauty that inspired so many of his poems. I’m already feeling reverential when I head for the church itself.
When I enter the church, an older woman is recounting some facts to a visiting couple. She tells them that the seating has all been restored to the original box seats. I think how funny it is that on a crowded Sunday some people might sit with their backs to the minister. Indeed, the older woman tells us, this is often the case on Christmas.
She gives us a delicious bit of information about the church that I have to see for myself. Teenagers and unmarried adults used to sit in the balcony, girls on one side and boys on the other. The girls’ side is nearly perfectly preserved; the boys’ side, however, is marked up by pocketknives. Some of the boys merely chipped away at the wood until they bored holes straight through to the box next to them. But many carved their initials in beautiful block letters. I smile and think that I wouldn’t have known whether to scold them for defacing the church or complement them on their carving skills. An older gentleman—the tour guide’s husband perhaps— plays hymns on the pipe organ as I walk around the church, lending an atmosphere of worship.
After the church, I head over to the Bennington Monument. The guidebook says this is the tallest manmade structure in Vermont. It is a memorial to a Revolutionary War battle that is said to have turned the tide of the war. Inside the monument hangs a trophy of the battle, a cooking kettle used by the villainous Redcoats. There are stairs to the top of the monument, but they are no longer in use. Instead, an elevator takes me and 5 others to the top lookout area. Long windows surround the lookout and every other one is open to the fresh air on this day. Signs on each wall let us know which view we are seeing: Vermont, New Hampshire, or New York. This birds’-eye view is beautiful, and the stone monument feels much safer than the slightly swaying form of the Statue of Liberty.
Finally, I’ve seen all the sights I wanted to see in Bennington and I head for New Hampshire. The drive is breath-taking. Around every bend is something unexpected: a quaint town, a country church, a mountain stream, a panoramic view of valleys below. I’m driving too slowly in some areas, but I realize that the New Hampshire drivers really don’t mind. They just speed on by, seeming to take the double yellow line more as fair warning that visibility might not be good than as a hard and fast rule that this is a no-passing zone. Still, I have allowed too much time for my drive to Greenfield. And this isn’t Bennington. Greenfield, New Hampshire turns out to be a sleepy nowhere town with nothing to really look at or do to kill some time before I can check into the inn. I finally make my way to Greenfield State Park and find a lakeside beach there where I can read and pray and write in my journal.
Finally, it is time to check into the Greenfield Inn. The inn is more promising from the outside than the interior decorating lives up to. I think that my grandparents might like this place, and the owners are older here than at any of the other inns I stay at. The town is a lovely experience, however. I’m tired of driving, so for dinner I walk down to the all-in-one convenience store/deli/gas station—ever present, I discover, in small New England towns—and buy a sandwich, some chips, and a Coke. I eat on the large wrap-around porch of the inn, listen to the kids playing outside, do some more needlework and finally watch the sun set before heading to my room for the evening. There is complimentary sherry in my room so I treat myself to a small glass while I’m watching television. I have a shared hall bath this time, but there is only one other room of guests in the inn this night and they have a private bath so I don’t really have to share.
In the morning, I’m downstairs while the innkeepers are still getting the breakfast buffet set up. I fix a cup of tea and then, because I’m the only guest who shows up for breakfast, I’m treated to a served meal and the company of the innkeeper. We talk politics over more food than one person should be expected to eat.
I keep driving east to the Maine coast. I pick up Route 1 as quickly as I can since it has been described to me as similar to the Pacific Coast Highway. I have been greatly deceived. Route 1 is not a bad road, but I don’t see the ocean once so I’m disappointed. I get lost in Portland when Route 1 takes an unmarked right hand turn. Forty minutes later, I find the turn and I’m on my way again. I stop in Freeport to hit the LL Bean outlet. The trip is successful and I’m in and out of the store with a purchase in less than 10 minutes! I stop quickly at a street vendor and buy a Coke and a hot dog for the road. This turns out to be a big mistake. Mustard gooshes out the back of the hot dog all over my sweater and one of the two scant pairs of jeans I’ve brought.
I arrive in Boothbay Harbor at just the right time. I follow the directions up a steep hill and see the Welch House perched right at the top. One of the two innkeepers leads me around to the front of the house where my room is located. As we come around the corner, my breath is taken away. There before me is a stunning panoramic view of the town, the harbor, and the Atlantic. I wasn’t expecting this. This night is the best one of my vacation and I wish I had spent two nights here. My room is beautiful, with a canopy bed and another quilt. I take some pictures of the views from the inn and then head down to the town. This is the quintessential Maine town, what I have always imagined and will always remember. It is full of touristy shops and restaurants, but they are in old buildings that fit the image of a seaside town. Everything is quaint and just beautiful.
For dinner, I take the walking bridge across the short end of the harbor and head for the Lobsterman’s Co-op. The innkeeper has recommended this place to me. The charm of these innkeepers is that they seem to be able to size up their guests and recommend just the right thing for each one. This is the perfect place for me, although I don’t hear them recommend it to anyone else.
The co-op is just a couple of walk-up windows on a fishing pier with several rows of picnic tables. The lobsters are in tanks with big steamers next to them. I order the smallest lobster available, a Coke, and a bowl of clam chowder. The chowder is served up immediately and I pick a spot to sit and dig into the best chowder I have ever eaten. Finally, my number is called and I go to retrieve my lobster. I have to leave a $1 deposit for the nutcrackers I get. The lobster comes with little picks, a dish of butter, and hand wipes. I take a picture of the little guy before I crack his first claw. I think this gives away the fact that I’m a first-time lobster eater. A middle-aged woman several tables away comes over.
“I don’t mean to be nosy,” she says, “but is this your first time eating a lobster?” I admit that it is. She continues, “I always have a hard time getting it all cracked open. Would you like my husband to help you crack the lobster open and we can take a picture of you eating your lobster?” So sweet! Of course I agree.
They snap my picture. He gives me a few instructions on how to get all the meat out, but at the first crack of the tail and the remaining claw, the meat just slides right out. The lobster is delicious and I enjoy this new culinary experience while watching sights of this less-touristy part of the harbor.
After dinner, I head back to the inn and sit on one of the decks to write in my journal, drink a cup of tea, and watch the sunset. A schooner parades around the harbor below me and completes the picture. Finally, when night has settled in, I head to my room.
In the morning, I get up early. The breakfast area is right outside my room so I decide to be the first one out there so as not to be disturbed. The innkeepers don’t cook the breakfast here. They have a man and woman who come in and do that. They lay out a buffet, the most notable item of which is scones. They are delicate and light, made just right. A couple from Italy sits near me. The wife speaks no English and the husband is not much better. One of the cooks later tells us that a large percentage of Maine visitors are European. I take a long walk through the town again before I check out. I’m reluctant to leave this area.
I follow the advice of the cooks and make a detour to Ocean Point on my way back to Route 1. They tell me I’ll see the rocky coastline that everyone thinks of when they think of Maine. They are right. I get out several times and climb around on the rocks to take pictures. The ocean roars and splashes up over the rocks. I’m far enough away to not be in danger even from spray and the sea is calm, but the view is still spectacular. Near where I’ve parked my car, the water comes up to a sandy area. I take of my shoes and socks, just to see if it really is as cold as I’ve always been told. It is.
A little farther down I follow directions from my welcome packet at the Welch House to the Pemaquid Lighthouse. I haven’t seen a lighthouse yet and pick this one at random, but it’s a good choice. Walking up to it, a sign separates grass from rock, warning visitors that those who go out on the rocks do so at their own risk; but people are everywhere on the rocks and it looks safe enough. My pictures later do not do this sight justice. The rock has been worn away in long, deep chutes from years of water washing up and back. The striated patterns of the rock are revealed and you can follow the chutes almost down to the water if you dare. Watching the water crash into the rocks and then pour out through crevices makes me think how frightening and dangerous it would be to try to swim ashore here if your ship were sunk off this coast. Thankfully I’m on dry ground.
I head off for Bar Harbor. At the inn where I am scheduled to stay for two nights, I cannot locate the innkeeper. When I do at last find him, I am already a bit disgruntled and disappointed with my choice of lodging. My outlook doesn’t brighten after discovering that my room is cramped and cold, the shower in the shared bathroom is dirty, and there are no locks on any of the doors. The innkeeper’s one redeeming quality is a good knowledge of the island and a desire to see that his guests find the hidden sights. I leave the inn that afternoon and drive around the island, eventually ending up at the Jordan Pond House in Acadia National Park for dinner. The scenery at the restaurant is beautiful and serene: woods and a small pond, separated by a wide meadow where the deer come to graze at dusk. The food is good if pricey. One of the restaurant’s specialties is afternoon tea, but since I have arrived too late for that, I order a pot of tea with my dessert and linger at the table watching afternoon turn to early evening. Leaving the restaurant, I race partway up Cadillac Mountain and find a good view for the acclaimed sunset colors. Then I head back and go to bed early in hopes of being out of the dreaded inn as early as possible in the morning.
Next morning, I wake and shower, trying not to stand flat-footed in the shower stall, and then head to the country kitchen. Dirty dishes are piled on the countertop and in the sink and, to my chagrin as a lone traveler, breakfast is served family style at the large round table. I manage to eat a blueberry muffin and drink a cup of tea and then leave for my day of sightseeing. Most of my day is to be spent in Acadia National Park. I haven’t gotten up early enough for sunrise on Cadillac Mountain (those who do are the first in America to see the morning sun), but I head to Sand Beach. Located in a quiet little cove and boasting a serene atmosphere, Sand Beach is still just that—a sand beach. It owes its fame here to the fact that so much of the Maine coast is rocky, making it something of an anomaly. My next stop is Thunder Hole. I spend over an hour here waiting for the tide to come further in and make the site begin to “perform.” Unfortunately for the performance, I have visited the park on a day when the sea is too calm to produce any real splash and “thunder” here. Still, the larger waves that do roll in give a small foretaste of the sight and sound that must be here during rougher seas.
My next stop is where my unfortunate choice of innkeepers really pays off. He has directed all of his guests to the “beach of the magical, musical stones.” Not marked on any of the Acadia maps or mentioned in any of the guidebooks I’ve read, this beach is composed of thousands and thousands of small rocks that click together as you walk over them and create a virtual symphony of music as the waves roll them over and against one another. The sound is lovely anywhere on the beach, but to really enjoy it best you have to get so close to the water that you must keep a constant lookout to keep from getting wet. I spend several hours here, slowly moving back as the tide comes in further. Finally, with reluctance, I leave.
I see a sign for “Bubble Rock” and remember seeing it in a magazine before I left. It’s only a short hike, according to the trail sign, so I follow the trail markers along the path. Very soon, the path becomes steep and rocky. Rail ties have been embedded in the path to make a sort of staircase. With legs as short as mine, the climb quickly begins to burn in my muscles. Soon, however, I reach the top of the mountain where the views are indeed beautiful. Bubble Rock seems balanced precariously on an edge of this crest; however, the magazine article I read mentioned that hundreds of children have tried unsuccessfully over the years to dislodge it. The rock scrambling in this less traveled part of the park is fun and the hike back down to my car is much easier than the trek up. I’ve missed the last horse-drawn carriage ride through the park, but my tardiness saves me some money. Instead, I drive up Cadillac Mountain and eat a quick lunch. Tourists line every rock, so this isn’t a place to come to be alone with nature. The views are panoramic: Cadillac Mountain is the highest point on the eastern seaboard and the water below is strewn with small islands.
I feel like I’ve seen all the sites I wanted to in the park, so I drive down to the town of Bar Harbor hoping to catch a whale watching boat tour. When I finally find a parking space and walk back to the launching site, there is a harbor tour boat just getting ready to leave. I opt for that instead and it turns out to be a good choice. Our tour guides are Maine lobstermen and the boat is a lobster boat. We get a lecture on lobster fishing and watch as our guide pulls up several lobster traps. More than lobsters get caught in these traps, and we get to look at a crab and touch a sea cucumber, a starfish, and several other sea creatures. The destination of our trip is a group of rocks where harbor seals are sunning themselves. We cruise back and forth while all of us snap photographs of the seals. On our way back into the dock, our guide points out the nest of a bald eagle and the eagle mother sitting on a nearby branch. We are far away and her size is far more impressive to see than to read about.
One smart thing I’ve done during this day is to keep different types of clothing with me. I start with a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, over which I layer a flannel shirt and a sweatshirt. Later, during my hike to Bubble Rock, I leave the sweatshirt behind and eventually end up with the flannel shirt tied around my waist. For the boat tour, I dig a wool pullover sweater out of the trunk of my car and leave that on for the remainder of the afternoon and evening.
Back in town after the boat tour, I walk around to see what the shops have to offer. This is another disappointing town for me. The shops are like any you would find in a New Jersey seaside town and everything looks new and touristy. There is a good fudge and ice cream shop where I buy a chocolate-covered pretzel and some non-pareils to keep me company. A restaurant has been recommended to me and it looks like a place that would have good food; however, it’s not a spot for the single traveler. It’s at the end of a quiet street and appears very retiring. I opt instead for a sidewalk café in the middle of town where I eat seafood linguine and watch the passersby. After dinner, I drive back up Cadillac Mountain in hopes of seeing the sunset and delaying my return to the inn. The sun disappears in the mist only halfway to the horizon and I linger until the light fades before making my way back down.
Next morning, I eat breakfast and head out as early as possible. I have a long drive ahead of me anyway, so the early start is good. The morning is foggy and I miss seeing any sights on my drive through inland Maine. I end up in New Hampshire by mid-afternoon. I’m in the White Mountain region where scenic lookouts appear along the road every couple of miles. I don’t stop until I see the unmistakable sight of Mt. Washington, tallest peak in the eastern U.S. Here I stop by the side of the road and snap several pictures out of my window. Soon after, I reach my inn for the next two nights, the Jefferson Inn in Jefferson, New Hampshire. In stark contrast to the inn I have just left, this place is gracious, lovely, and well run. Jefferson is another nowhere town, but I love it. I head across the street to the deli/grocery/gas station and buy a Coke to enjoy on the porch of the inn. Later, for dinner I head into the next town and get a sub and fries at a pizza shop. Back at the inn, I head to my room. This is a room I can enjoy spending the evening in. The room is large and comfy with Shaker style décor. The poster bed has flannel sheets and a quilt covering and a rocking chair sits in the corner. I curl up in bed with a novel about Jefferson that is lying on the bedside table and read until I’m too sleepy to see.
Breakfast here is better than any other place I stay. The meal is served in a good-sized dining room at the back of the house with views of the wooded mountain stretching behind the inn and the innkeepers’ horses exploring their sloped pasture. A fruit platter is followed by pancakes, sausage, and asparagus quiche. I spend the entire hour chatting with a lovely couple from North Carolina who are seated at another table. They want to fix me up with their son who lives in the same Virginia town I do. When breakfast is done, I trade my clogs for hiking boots and head out for the day.
I drive to the Flume, a waterfall and stream nestled in a long narrow gorge and reminds me of wooded trails I walked with my parents years ago. The hike takes me about two hours since I meander along the paths and stop often to enjoy the scenery. There are two covered bridges along the path, and natural beauty is unabashedly everywhere. Chipmunks and squirrels play in the leaves and the sound of water is never far away. After the hike, I spot signs along the road for the Old Man in the Mountain and pull off where indicated. I expect to have a short hike to the spot where I can see this natural sculpture jutting from the rock at the top of a mountain, but I get out of my car and turn my head and discover the phenomenon before me. I must have been staring at it all along my drive, but only from this angle does the human profile become apparent. It is striking, and I regret not bringing my parents’ camera with the zoom lens or at least a pair of binoculars.
I arrive next at Mount Washington itself. I have read the brochures on the Mount Washington Cog Railway and decide I can’t miss this attraction. It’s the most expensive thing I’ll do on my vacation, but I know I’ll regret it if I don’t go. I get on the 1:00 train, but it’s a three hour round trip and well worth every penny I spend even on this foggy day. By the time we reach the summit of the mountain, the air is so heavy with fog that it is raining. The temperature at the top is low enough that occasionally a snowflake floats by with the rain. I scramble up the pile of rocks to the official summit just to say I’ve been there and then, too soon, the twenty minute stop at the top is over and we’re heading back down. On the way down, I sit next to a woman who has just hiked up the mountain with her husband, father, and seven-year-old daughter. I feel like a wimp having taken the railway both up and down.
There is no time for a nice dinner this evening as I am scheduled to go on a moose tour. I grab some fast food and head to the town of Gorham where the tour departs. The tour bus is a little late in arriving, but I do not mind. As I wait, I dream I live here, as I watch a high school soccer game on the field in the middle of town, a quaint church off to one side, a hill dappled with fall colors behind, and even a train that comes whistling through to complete the picturesque scene.
The moose tour guarantees a moose sighting or your money back, but the tour also provides some good history of the local area including information about the logging companies that built these towns. Our moose sighting doesn’t occur until the very end of the evening when we finally spot a cow in a bog just off the road. We all exit the bus to take pictures of her and she actually walks closer to us. She seems to want to cross the road but is confused by all of us standing there watching her. Finally, she walks back into the woods and we get back on the bus and head back to Gorham. The evening is a success and the town of Gorham keeps our tourist dollars for this trip.
Next morning, breakfast is another treat and I reluctantly leave to head toward Burlington, Vermont. The drive across the rest of New Hampshire and on across Vermont is lovely and I see so many places I’d like to stop and spend time exploring. I arrive in Burlington much earlier than I had anticipated and decide to check out the town first. This is good-sized town. It still retains an aura of New England charm, but it is no quaint little village. The air is a little nippy here along the shores of Lake Champlain, so I decide not to walk around anywhere. It’s still too early to go to the inn I’m scheduled for tonight, though; so instead, I see some outlet stores just off the highway and pull off to do some shopping. I find several good purchases and then head to the inn.
After a week of traveling, with both good and bad experiences, I want someplace quiet where I can be alone for the evening. Arriving at this inn, I discover that it is really just a room for rent. The bathroom is downstairs and at the other end of the house. The house itself is located on a busy corner with lots of traffic noise, and the owners have two granddaughters staying with them who are blaring the television. I lay down on the bed and indulge in some tears while I decide what to do. Finally, I decide. This is my last night. I can either stay and be miserable, or I can leave and drive home tonight. I opt for the latter course. The innkeeper is offended that I’m leaving, I can tell, but I pay my bill and hit the road. I call my parents from a McDonald’s and tell them not to wait up but to leave the door unlocked. It is 3:30 when I leave and I know it will be at least a nine hour drive. I stop once outside of Binghamton, New York for gas and some Nutter Butters and then drive straight through. By 12:30 am I am getting tired, but I know I’m almost home. I pull into my parents’ driveway at 1:00, dump my bags on the floor and sleep on the couch.
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I began planning the trip in April for mid-September. I called or wrote each of the New England states to get their free vacation packets. Maine, New Hampshire, and Vermont all sent state road maps along with the usual magazine of places and events. I finally narrowed down my trip to those three states and began to plan where I would stay and what I would see. Eventually, I came up with a rough itinerary but left plenty of time to wander and see whatever caught my fancy at the moment.
I left Virginia on a Tuesday night and drove to my parents’ house in south-central Pennsylvania. I was stopping just outside Albany, New York to visit a friend briefly and I still hoped to be in Bennington, Vermont by 4:00 in the afternoon, so I figured getting in two hours of my trip the night before and visiting my parents and brothers was a wise start. Wednesday morning, I was on the road bright and early, after dropping my 17-year-old brother at his bus stop on my way out of the neighborhood. The trip into New York was uneventful, marked only by the excitement of seeing five wild turkeys by the side of the road just outside Oneonta.
I pull into Gene’s Fish Fry in Defreestville, New York around 1:30. My friend and her husband are leasing the fish fry from her father-in-law to decide whether they want to buy it. It’s a good business, but they are in their last week of the season and everyone is tired. The girls, aged 4 and 1, are in the back room, Alexia on a blanket and her baby sister Adrianna in a playpen. They are watching a Disney movie on the TV/VCR combination that their granddad bought them. Priscilla is busy filling orders, but we talk in between and even find time to look at pictures. She fixes me a clam roll, which I know she won’t let me pay for. I try to get the teenage worker to put some money in the cash box for my lunch, but her loyalty is to her boss and she won’t take it.
Back on the road, I drive through Troy, New York. It’s a disappointing town, too much like the urban New Jersey neighborhood where I spent my teenage years. Soon enough, though, I’m past Troy and heading into Vermont. The road winds alternately between woods and farmland on either side and then suddenly around a bend there is a bridge over a river and I am in Vermont. Bennington isn’t far, less than an hour and a half from Defreestville.
The town is beautiful and quaint and picture perfect. It is exactly what I have always envisioned Vermont to be. Coming up on the old town square, the road curves right around the Old First Church. Cars and busses are parked along the road as I drive past and people are everywhere taking pictures, capturing the nostalgia on film. Beyond the church, small shops line the main street. A bookstore looks particularly cozy with a comfy armchair right in front of the plate-glass window. A few cafes still have tables and chairs on the sidewalk and another fish fry sits on a corner. Right now, I want to locate my lodging for the night and check in before finding dinner.
On the other side of town, I finally find the Molly Stark Inn where I have a reservation for the evening. A sign on the front door says the owners will be back at 3:30, but it is 3:30 now and they have just returned. They have friends visiting and are just pulling off their boots after a short hike. Cammie and Reed are the perfect innkeepers, bright, vivacious, and welcoming. Cammie’s enthusiasm makes everyone smile in spite of themselves, and Reed is perfectly gracious. Cammie shows me my room, a cute little corner room with antique furnishings and a quilt and feather pillows on the bed. I have a private bathroom with a stall shower and pedestal sink and I retreat there to take a shower and wash away the greasy feeling from the fish fry.
After my shower, I head downstairs to check out the local menus and decide where to eat. This is the big decision time. Eating alone is a tricky thing. I want to eat somewhere where I won’t feel uncomfortable or attract attention by being alone. Indecisive, I finally just drive through town and look for someplace. The diners that are open look too frequented by locals and I’m afraid I’ll stick out, particularly by myself. The cafes, where I imagine I would feel more comfortable, have all closed shop for the season. Finally, I chicken out and head for a McDonald’s. Over a Quarter Pounder, I vow to be braver tomorrow. After eating, I follow one of the maps I picked up at the inn to two of the three covered bridges in town. One is closed to traffic, but the other is open and spans a rocky creek. Across the street is a beautiful inn surely out of my price range. I snap a few pictures and head back to my own, more reasonably priced, inn.
The inn is quiet. Reed and Cammie are entertaining their guests over dinner on the screened in porch. I pull on an extra sweater and take my journal and my schoolbooks (I’m working on my Master’s) out to the front porch. The road is fairly heavily traveled, but the woods across the road are full of pine trees, the air is nippy, and I am savoring the feeling of being in Vermont. After an hour or so, the air is too cool and I head for the toastiness of the parlor. I trade my schoolbooks for needlework and decide that I lend a quaint and genteel air to the charm the inn already has. When I finally head to bed, I’m asleep nearly as soon as I lay down.
In the morning, the smell of coffee wafts up the back staircase from the kitchen. I head downstairs and take a seat at a table on the screened porch at the side of the house. The morning air is cool, but I’m still in love with the fact that I’m in Vermont and this crispness completes the feeling for me. Cammie informs me that Reed makes everything from scratch and the breakfast is indeed wonderful: fresh fruit followed by two muffins and then a puffed apple pancake, served in a heart-shaped cast iron pan, with maple syrup (what else?) and sausage. Reed later wraps the muffin I didn’t eat at breakfast and I take it along for the road. An older couple from Minnesota sit near me on the screened porch for breakfast. We chat off and on and then friends of theirs arrive and I finish my last cup of coffee alone before heading back upstairs to pack my things. I want to see some more of the town and then get an early start on this day’s journey, so I check out right after breakfast.
The first place I head is the Bennington Museum. I saw this in a AAA travel book someone gave me for my trip. There is an admission fee, but it is reasonable. The museum holds items once used locally on farms and in homes, a collection of glass and pottery from nearby factories, and—their real boast—several paintings by local girl, Grandma Moses.
After perusing the collection, I drive around the corner to Old First Church. This is a treat. Robert Frost is buried in their graveyard and I head to his gravesite first. Signs mark the path that so many lovers of literature must have walked. I locate the long slab that marks the grave of Frost, his wife, and several of their children. I take a few moments to look around and absorb the view of the natural beauty that inspired so many of his poems. I’m already feeling reverential when I head for the church itself.
When I enter the church, an older woman is recounting some facts to a visiting couple. She tells them that the seating has all been restored to the original box seats. I think how funny it is that on a crowded Sunday some people might sit with their backs to the minister. Indeed, the older woman tells us, this is often the case on Christmas.
She gives us a delicious bit of information about the church that I have to see for myself. Teenagers and unmarried adults used to sit in the balcony, girls on one side and boys on the other. The girls’ side is nearly perfectly preserved; the boys’ side, however, is marked up by pocketknives. Some of the boys merely chipped away at the wood until they bored holes straight through to the box next to them. But many carved their initials in beautiful block letters. I smile and think that I wouldn’t have known whether to scold them for defacing the church or complement them on their carving skills. An older gentleman—the tour guide’s husband perhaps— plays hymns on the pipe organ as I walk around the church, lending an atmosphere of worship.
After the church, I head over to the Bennington Monument. The guidebook says this is the tallest manmade structure in Vermont. It is a memorial to a Revolutionary War battle that is said to have turned the tide of the war. Inside the monument hangs a trophy of the battle, a cooking kettle used by the villainous Redcoats. There are stairs to the top of the monument, but they are no longer in use. Instead, an elevator takes me and 5 others to the top lookout area. Long windows surround the lookout and every other one is open to the fresh air on this day. Signs on each wall let us know which view we are seeing: Vermont, New Hampshire, or New York. This birds’-eye view is beautiful, and the stone monument feels much safer than the slightly swaying form of the Statue of Liberty.
Finally, I’ve seen all the sights I wanted to see in Bennington and I head for New Hampshire. The drive is breath-taking. Around every bend is something unexpected: a quaint town, a country church, a mountain stream, a panoramic view of valleys below. I’m driving too slowly in some areas, but I realize that the New Hampshire drivers really don’t mind. They just speed on by, seeming to take the double yellow line more as fair warning that visibility might not be good than as a hard and fast rule that this is a no-passing zone. Still, I have allowed too much time for my drive to Greenfield. And this isn’t Bennington. Greenfield, New Hampshire turns out to be a sleepy nowhere town with nothing to really look at or do to kill some time before I can check into the inn. I finally make my way to Greenfield State Park and find a lakeside beach there where I can read and pray and write in my journal.
Finally, it is time to check into the Greenfield Inn. The inn is more promising from the outside than the interior decorating lives up to. I think that my grandparents might like this place, and the owners are older here than at any of the other inns I stay at. The town is a lovely experience, however. I’m tired of driving, so for dinner I walk down to the all-in-one convenience store/deli/gas station—ever present, I discover, in small New England towns—and buy a sandwich, some chips, and a Coke. I eat on the large wrap-around porch of the inn, listen to the kids playing outside, do some more needlework and finally watch the sun set before heading to my room for the evening. There is complimentary sherry in my room so I treat myself to a small glass while I’m watching television. I have a shared hall bath this time, but there is only one other room of guests in the inn this night and they have a private bath so I don’t really have to share.
In the morning, I’m downstairs while the innkeepers are still getting the breakfast buffet set up. I fix a cup of tea and then, because I’m the only guest who shows up for breakfast, I’m treated to a served meal and the company of the innkeeper. We talk politics over more food than one person should be expected to eat.
I keep driving east to the Maine coast. I pick up Route 1 as quickly as I can since it has been described to me as similar to the Pacific Coast Highway. I have been greatly deceived. Route 1 is not a bad road, but I don’t see the ocean once so I’m disappointed. I get lost in Portland when Route 1 takes an unmarked right hand turn. Forty minutes later, I find the turn and I’m on my way again. I stop in Freeport to hit the LL Bean outlet. The trip is successful and I’m in and out of the store with a purchase in less than 10 minutes! I stop quickly at a street vendor and buy a Coke and a hot dog for the road. This turns out to be a big mistake. Mustard gooshes out the back of the hot dog all over my sweater and one of the two scant pairs of jeans I’ve brought.
I arrive in Boothbay Harbor at just the right time. I follow the directions up a steep hill and see the Welch House perched right at the top. One of the two innkeepers leads me around to the front of the house where my room is located. As we come around the corner, my breath is taken away. There before me is a stunning panoramic view of the town, the harbor, and the Atlantic. I wasn’t expecting this. This night is the best one of my vacation and I wish I had spent two nights here. My room is beautiful, with a canopy bed and another quilt. I take some pictures of the views from the inn and then head down to the town. This is the quintessential Maine town, what I have always imagined and will always remember. It is full of touristy shops and restaurants, but they are in old buildings that fit the image of a seaside town. Everything is quaint and just beautiful.
For dinner, I take the walking bridge across the short end of the harbor and head for the Lobsterman’s Co-op. The innkeeper has recommended this place to me. The charm of these innkeepers is that they seem to be able to size up their guests and recommend just the right thing for each one. This is the perfect place for me, although I don’t hear them recommend it to anyone else.
The co-op is just a couple of walk-up windows on a fishing pier with several rows of picnic tables. The lobsters are in tanks with big steamers next to them. I order the smallest lobster available, a Coke, and a bowl of clam chowder. The chowder is served up immediately and I pick a spot to sit and dig into the best chowder I have ever eaten. Finally, my number is called and I go to retrieve my lobster. I have to leave a $1 deposit for the nutcrackers I get. The lobster comes with little picks, a dish of butter, and hand wipes. I take a picture of the little guy before I crack his first claw. I think this gives away the fact that I’m a first-time lobster eater. A middle-aged woman several tables away comes over.
“I don’t mean to be nosy,” she says, “but is this your first time eating a lobster?” I admit that it is. She continues, “I always have a hard time getting it all cracked open. Would you like my husband to help you crack the lobster open and we can take a picture of you eating your lobster?” So sweet! Of course I agree.
They snap my picture. He gives me a few instructions on how to get all the meat out, but at the first crack of the tail and the remaining claw, the meat just slides right out. The lobster is delicious and I enjoy this new culinary experience while watching sights of this less-touristy part of the harbor.
After dinner, I head back to the inn and sit on one of the decks to write in my journal, drink a cup of tea, and watch the sunset. A schooner parades around the harbor below me and completes the picture. Finally, when night has settled in, I head to my room.
In the morning, I get up early. The breakfast area is right outside my room so I decide to be the first one out there so as not to be disturbed. The innkeepers don’t cook the breakfast here. They have a man and woman who come in and do that. They lay out a buffet, the most notable item of which is scones. They are delicate and light, made just right. A couple from Italy sits near me. The wife speaks no English and the husband is not much better. One of the cooks later tells us that a large percentage of Maine visitors are European. I take a long walk through the town again before I check out. I’m reluctant to leave this area.
I follow the advice of the cooks and make a detour to Ocean Point on my way back to Route 1. They tell me I’ll see the rocky coastline that everyone thinks of when they think of Maine. They are right. I get out several times and climb around on the rocks to take pictures. The ocean roars and splashes up over the rocks. I’m far enough away to not be in danger even from spray and the sea is calm, but the view is still spectacular. Near where I’ve parked my car, the water comes up to a sandy area. I take of my shoes and socks, just to see if it really is as cold as I’ve always been told. It is.
A little farther down I follow directions from my welcome packet at the Welch House to the Pemaquid Lighthouse. I haven’t seen a lighthouse yet and pick this one at random, but it’s a good choice. Walking up to it, a sign separates grass from rock, warning visitors that those who go out on the rocks do so at their own risk; but people are everywhere on the rocks and it looks safe enough. My pictures later do not do this sight justice. The rock has been worn away in long, deep chutes from years of water washing up and back. The striated patterns of the rock are revealed and you can follow the chutes almost down to the water if you dare. Watching the water crash into the rocks and then pour out through crevices makes me think how frightening and dangerous it would be to try to swim ashore here if your ship were sunk off this coast. Thankfully I’m on dry ground.
I head off for Bar Harbor. At the inn where I am scheduled to stay for two nights, I cannot locate the innkeeper. When I do at last find him, I am already a bit disgruntled and disappointed with my choice of lodging. My outlook doesn’t brighten after discovering that my room is cramped and cold, the shower in the shared bathroom is dirty, and there are no locks on any of the doors. The innkeeper’s one redeeming quality is a good knowledge of the island and a desire to see that his guests find the hidden sights. I leave the inn that afternoon and drive around the island, eventually ending up at the Jordan Pond House in Acadia National Park for dinner. The scenery at the restaurant is beautiful and serene: woods and a small pond, separated by a wide meadow where the deer come to graze at dusk. The food is good if pricey. One of the restaurant’s specialties is afternoon tea, but since I have arrived too late for that, I order a pot of tea with my dessert and linger at the table watching afternoon turn to early evening. Leaving the restaurant, I race partway up Cadillac Mountain and find a good view for the acclaimed sunset colors. Then I head back and go to bed early in hopes of being out of the dreaded inn as early as possible in the morning.
Next morning, I wake and shower, trying not to stand flat-footed in the shower stall, and then head to the country kitchen. Dirty dishes are piled on the countertop and in the sink and, to my chagrin as a lone traveler, breakfast is served family style at the large round table. I manage to eat a blueberry muffin and drink a cup of tea and then leave for my day of sightseeing. Most of my day is to be spent in Acadia National Park. I haven’t gotten up early enough for sunrise on Cadillac Mountain (those who do are the first in America to see the morning sun), but I head to Sand Beach. Located in a quiet little cove and boasting a serene atmosphere, Sand Beach is still just that—a sand beach. It owes its fame here to the fact that so much of the Maine coast is rocky, making it something of an anomaly. My next stop is Thunder Hole. I spend over an hour here waiting for the tide to come further in and make the site begin to “perform.” Unfortunately for the performance, I have visited the park on a day when the sea is too calm to produce any real splash and “thunder” here. Still, the larger waves that do roll in give a small foretaste of the sight and sound that must be here during rougher seas.
My next stop is where my unfortunate choice of innkeepers really pays off. He has directed all of his guests to the “beach of the magical, musical stones.” Not marked on any of the Acadia maps or mentioned in any of the guidebooks I’ve read, this beach is composed of thousands and thousands of small rocks that click together as you walk over them and create a virtual symphony of music as the waves roll them over and against one another. The sound is lovely anywhere on the beach, but to really enjoy it best you have to get so close to the water that you must keep a constant lookout to keep from getting wet. I spend several hours here, slowly moving back as the tide comes in further. Finally, with reluctance, I leave.
I see a sign for “Bubble Rock” and remember seeing it in a magazine before I left. It’s only a short hike, according to the trail sign, so I follow the trail markers along the path. Very soon, the path becomes steep and rocky. Rail ties have been embedded in the path to make a sort of staircase. With legs as short as mine, the climb quickly begins to burn in my muscles. Soon, however, I reach the top of the mountain where the views are indeed beautiful. Bubble Rock seems balanced precariously on an edge of this crest; however, the magazine article I read mentioned that hundreds of children have tried unsuccessfully over the years to dislodge it. The rock scrambling in this less traveled part of the park is fun and the hike back down to my car is much easier than the trek up. I’ve missed the last horse-drawn carriage ride through the park, but my tardiness saves me some money. Instead, I drive up Cadillac Mountain and eat a quick lunch. Tourists line every rock, so this isn’t a place to come to be alone with nature. The views are panoramic: Cadillac Mountain is the highest point on the eastern seaboard and the water below is strewn with small islands.
I feel like I’ve seen all the sites I wanted to in the park, so I drive down to the town of Bar Harbor hoping to catch a whale watching boat tour. When I finally find a parking space and walk back to the launching site, there is a harbor tour boat just getting ready to leave. I opt for that instead and it turns out to be a good choice. Our tour guides are Maine lobstermen and the boat is a lobster boat. We get a lecture on lobster fishing and watch as our guide pulls up several lobster traps. More than lobsters get caught in these traps, and we get to look at a crab and touch a sea cucumber, a starfish, and several other sea creatures. The destination of our trip is a group of rocks where harbor seals are sunning themselves. We cruise back and forth while all of us snap photographs of the seals. On our way back into the dock, our guide points out the nest of a bald eagle and the eagle mother sitting on a nearby branch. We are far away and her size is far more impressive to see than to read about.
One smart thing I’ve done during this day is to keep different types of clothing with me. I start with a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, over which I layer a flannel shirt and a sweatshirt. Later, during my hike to Bubble Rock, I leave the sweatshirt behind and eventually end up with the flannel shirt tied around my waist. For the boat tour, I dig a wool pullover sweater out of the trunk of my car and leave that on for the remainder of the afternoon and evening.
Back in town after the boat tour, I walk around to see what the shops have to offer. This is another disappointing town for me. The shops are like any you would find in a New Jersey seaside town and everything looks new and touristy. There is a good fudge and ice cream shop where I buy a chocolate-covered pretzel and some non-pareils to keep me company. A restaurant has been recommended to me and it looks like a place that would have good food; however, it’s not a spot for the single traveler. It’s at the end of a quiet street and appears very retiring. I opt instead for a sidewalk café in the middle of town where I eat seafood linguine and watch the passersby. After dinner, I drive back up Cadillac Mountain in hopes of seeing the sunset and delaying my return to the inn. The sun disappears in the mist only halfway to the horizon and I linger until the light fades before making my way back down.
Next morning, I eat breakfast and head out as early as possible. I have a long drive ahead of me anyway, so the early start is good. The morning is foggy and I miss seeing any sights on my drive through inland Maine. I end up in New Hampshire by mid-afternoon. I’m in the White Mountain region where scenic lookouts appear along the road every couple of miles. I don’t stop until I see the unmistakable sight of Mt. Washington, tallest peak in the eastern U.S. Here I stop by the side of the road and snap several pictures out of my window. Soon after, I reach my inn for the next two nights, the Jefferson Inn in Jefferson, New Hampshire. In stark contrast to the inn I have just left, this place is gracious, lovely, and well run. Jefferson is another nowhere town, but I love it. I head across the street to the deli/grocery/gas station and buy a Coke to enjoy on the porch of the inn. Later, for dinner I head into the next town and get a sub and fries at a pizza shop. Back at the inn, I head to my room. This is a room I can enjoy spending the evening in. The room is large and comfy with Shaker style décor. The poster bed has flannel sheets and a quilt covering and a rocking chair sits in the corner. I curl up in bed with a novel about Jefferson that is lying on the bedside table and read until I’m too sleepy to see.
Breakfast here is better than any other place I stay. The meal is served in a good-sized dining room at the back of the house with views of the wooded mountain stretching behind the inn and the innkeepers’ horses exploring their sloped pasture. A fruit platter is followed by pancakes, sausage, and asparagus quiche. I spend the entire hour chatting with a lovely couple from North Carolina who are seated at another table. They want to fix me up with their son who lives in the same Virginia town I do. When breakfast is done, I trade my clogs for hiking boots and head out for the day.
I drive to the Flume, a waterfall and stream nestled in a long narrow gorge and reminds me of wooded trails I walked with my parents years ago. The hike takes me about two hours since I meander along the paths and stop often to enjoy the scenery. There are two covered bridges along the path, and natural beauty is unabashedly everywhere. Chipmunks and squirrels play in the leaves and the sound of water is never far away. After the hike, I spot signs along the road for the Old Man in the Mountain and pull off where indicated. I expect to have a short hike to the spot where I can see this natural sculpture jutting from the rock at the top of a mountain, but I get out of my car and turn my head and discover the phenomenon before me. I must have been staring at it all along my drive, but only from this angle does the human profile become apparent. It is striking, and I regret not bringing my parents’ camera with the zoom lens or at least a pair of binoculars.
I arrive next at Mount Washington itself. I have read the brochures on the Mount Washington Cog Railway and decide I can’t miss this attraction. It’s the most expensive thing I’ll do on my vacation, but I know I’ll regret it if I don’t go. I get on the 1:00 train, but it’s a three hour round trip and well worth every penny I spend even on this foggy day. By the time we reach the summit of the mountain, the air is so heavy with fog that it is raining. The temperature at the top is low enough that occasionally a snowflake floats by with the rain. I scramble up the pile of rocks to the official summit just to say I’ve been there and then, too soon, the twenty minute stop at the top is over and we’re heading back down. On the way down, I sit next to a woman who has just hiked up the mountain with her husband, father, and seven-year-old daughter. I feel like a wimp having taken the railway both up and down.
There is no time for a nice dinner this evening as I am scheduled to go on a moose tour. I grab some fast food and head to the town of Gorham where the tour departs. The tour bus is a little late in arriving, but I do not mind. As I wait, I dream I live here, as I watch a high school soccer game on the field in the middle of town, a quaint church off to one side, a hill dappled with fall colors behind, and even a train that comes whistling through to complete the picturesque scene.
The moose tour guarantees a moose sighting or your money back, but the tour also provides some good history of the local area including information about the logging companies that built these towns. Our moose sighting doesn’t occur until the very end of the evening when we finally spot a cow in a bog just off the road. We all exit the bus to take pictures of her and she actually walks closer to us. She seems to want to cross the road but is confused by all of us standing there watching her. Finally, she walks back into the woods and we get back on the bus and head back to Gorham. The evening is a success and the town of Gorham keeps our tourist dollars for this trip.
Next morning, breakfast is another treat and I reluctantly leave to head toward Burlington, Vermont. The drive across the rest of New Hampshire and on across Vermont is lovely and I see so many places I’d like to stop and spend time exploring. I arrive in Burlington much earlier than I had anticipated and decide to check out the town first. This is good-sized town. It still retains an aura of New England charm, but it is no quaint little village. The air is a little nippy here along the shores of Lake Champlain, so I decide not to walk around anywhere. It’s still too early to go to the inn I’m scheduled for tonight, though; so instead, I see some outlet stores just off the highway and pull off to do some shopping. I find several good purchases and then head to the inn.
After a week of traveling, with both good and bad experiences, I want someplace quiet where I can be alone for the evening. Arriving at this inn, I discover that it is really just a room for rent. The bathroom is downstairs and at the other end of the house. The house itself is located on a busy corner with lots of traffic noise, and the owners have two granddaughters staying with them who are blaring the television. I lay down on the bed and indulge in some tears while I decide what to do. Finally, I decide. This is my last night. I can either stay and be miserable, or I can leave and drive home tonight. I opt for the latter course. The innkeeper is offended that I’m leaving, I can tell, but I pay my bill and hit the road. I call my parents from a McDonald’s and tell them not to wait up but to leave the door unlocked. It is 3:30 when I leave and I know it will be at least a nine hour drive. I stop once outside of Binghamton, New York for gas and some Nutter Butters and then drive straight through. By 12:30 am I am getting tired, but I know I’m almost home. I pull into my parents’ driveway at 1:00, dump my bags on the floor and sleep on the couch.
Sunday, May 07, 2006
Philip Roth on divorce
More divorce in literature. From a review in Slate of Roth's new book Everyman. A nod to the reviewer for mentioning one of my favorite writers, Thomas Hardy.
"Everyman opens at a northern New Jersey graveside, where Roth's hero—the Everyman of the title, who throughout remains unnamed—is being buried by the broken remnants of his several families. His one loving child, a daughter, gives a terse but heartfelt eulogy. His sons, 40-something but still children of divorce, drop dirt on the coffin, choked with resentment against a father they will forever regard as a deserter."
Friday, May 05, 2006
The history of marriage
From the Pew Research Center, comes this interesting chart of marital status over the last 100 years. Frankly, I found it surprising and fascinating. According to this chart, there were actually fewer (percentage-wise) adults living as divorced or never-marrieds in 2000 than there were in 1900. Yes, you read that right: fewer. My guess is that the lower percentage of those declaring their marital status solely as divorced now is due to second (or third or fourth or twenty-first) marriages. Folks are only declaring their current marital status, not any previous divorces that might have taken place. The stigma of divorce was much greater a hundred years ago (MUCH greater), making remarriage difficult for the divorced. The percentage of widows is higher in 2000, a nod to medical technology and better overall health. Married with spouse absent and separated are about the same. My great-great-grandmother fell into this category and would have been in the 1900 census. Great-great-grandpa ran off to another state and started a new family, abandoning his wife and children.
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
Tuesday, May 02, 2006
Hope from a teen
"Statistics can tell me I'm more prone to become pregnant, or live in poverty, or end up in prison. However, I choose which paths to take in life, and the results of others, with similar upbringings, do not need to affect my future."
Read the whole essay here.
Read the whole essay here.
The little foxes can ruin the vineyard
Gary Thomas on marriage:
"'It's the petty spiritual choices that we make that poisons what was once a very precious relationship and turns it into one that is marked by misery and frustration. We have lost the character to make a lifelong decision that requires sacrifice, generosity, service and the concept of putting the needs of a couple ahead of ourselves as an individual.'
"'They are ashamed they have acted in a petty, selfish manner rather than seeing marriage as a way to face up to what can help them grow. It's easier to run away and start over with someone else than it is to ask for forgiveness and courageously face it. '"
"'It's the petty spiritual choices that we make that poisons what was once a very precious relationship and turns it into one that is marked by misery and frustration. We have lost the character to make a lifelong decision that requires sacrifice, generosity, service and the concept of putting the needs of a couple ahead of ourselves as an individual.'
"'They are ashamed they have acted in a petty, selfish manner rather than seeing marriage as a way to face up to what can help them grow. It's easier to run away and start over with someone else than it is to ask for forgiveness and courageously face it. '"
Words from a grandfather
Martin Sheen on his son's divorce and his grandkids:
"'I asked all sides to stop for a minute, to have a cease fire, to heal the wounds and put the fires out and come together a little bit because what's really at stake are the future of these little kids, LOLA and SAM, so that's who we have to focus on right now.'
'It'll end and I have every confidence that both Charlie and Denise will become friends again,' Martin revealed. 'It'll take a while, they have to go through this, but I just hope that they both stop and consider what's at stake for the future of these children.'"
"'I asked all sides to stop for a minute, to have a cease fire, to heal the wounds and put the fires out and come together a little bit because what's really at stake are the future of these little kids, LOLA and SAM, so that's who we have to focus on right now.'
'It'll end and I have every confidence that both Charlie and Denise will become friends again,' Martin revealed. 'It'll take a while, they have to go through this, but I just hope that they both stop and consider what's at stake for the future of these children.'"
Monday, May 01, 2006
Kurt Russell on stepparenting
From Parade magazine:
"Russell and [Goldie] Hawn connected in 1983 while making Swing Shift. She had two children, Kate and Oliver (now 27 and 29), with her second husband, singer Bill Hudson. 'The children were very young. I told them, Just because I fell in love with your mom doesn't mean I've fallen in love with you. And just because I'm in your life doesn't mean you have to fall in love with me. We can be fair and honest to each other and see how we do.
"His voice gets husky as he adds, 'It wasn't very long before they got under my skin--in the best way. I felt very, very attached to Katie and Oliver. I had a strong need to be responsible for them. They decided to call me Pa.' Russell and Hawn then had a son together, Wyatt, now 19, and the family was truly cemented, ring or no ring."
"Russell and [Goldie] Hawn connected in 1983 while making Swing Shift. She had two children, Kate and Oliver (now 27 and 29), with her second husband, singer Bill Hudson. 'The children were very young. I told them, Just because I fell in love with your mom doesn't mean I've fallen in love with you. And just because I'm in your life doesn't mean you have to fall in love with me. We can be fair and honest to each other and see how we do.
"His voice gets husky as he adds, 'It wasn't very long before they got under my skin--in the best way. I felt very, very attached to Katie and Oliver. I had a strong need to be responsible for them. They decided to call me Pa.' Russell and Hawn then had a son together, Wyatt, now 19, and the family was truly cemented, ring or no ring."
Poets on divorce
"Although half of all American marriages end in divorce, poets are reluctant to write entire collections about it. John Updike addressed the topic obliquely in his 1977 collection Tossing and Turning, published the year he split with his first wife - and then remarried. At the time of her suicide in 1974, Anne Sexton had completed a new collection, 45 Mercy Street, a third of which touched on her recent divorce. 'I have killed our lives together,' she wrote hysterically in one poem, 'axed off each head.'
"Claudia Emerson's Late Wife is not so gory a glimpse into this grim rite of passage, but it is nothing if not complete. Winner of the 2006 Pulitzer Prize in poetry, the volume looks back on a relationship's demise, from the first serpent of doubt to the slow drift of spirits to the breakup and its final, bitter aftermath."
Read the rest of the Philadelphia Inquirer article here.
"Claudia Emerson's Late Wife is not so gory a glimpse into this grim rite of passage, but it is nothing if not complete. Winner of the 2006 Pulitzer Prize in poetry, the volume looks back on a relationship's demise, from the first serpent of doubt to the slow drift of spirits to the breakup and its final, bitter aftermath."
Read the rest of the Philadelphia Inquirer article here.
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
Reality and hope
From an interview with the Alison Clarke-Stewart and Cornelia Brentano, co-authors of Divorce: Causes and Consequences.
"That was one of the surprising things in the literature and also in our conversations with the students taking our class, that parents don't seem to realize how much their children are suffering."
"There's no totally painless way for children to experience their parents splitting up. But it can be over, and they can learn from it and they can recover."
"That was one of the surprising things in the literature and also in our conversations with the students taking our class, that parents don't seem to realize how much their children are suffering."
"There's no totally painless way for children to experience their parents splitting up. But it can be over, and they can learn from it and they can recover."
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
Be careful what you search for
From a very thoughtful article by my friend Lori:
"Many of us don’t allow our faith to challenge these deeply held assumptions. So we end up with a Christianity in which we are the center, in which the ultimate aim is not holiness but fulfillment. And perhaps we judge each other this way. If you are happy, then, therefore, you are blessed and God must be pleased with you.
We turn God into a fairy godmother who exists to grant our wishes. We devise extra-biblical formulas for having our prayers answered, our dreams fulfilled. We focus on the verses we like and ignore others.
Perhaps we generate the same plastic, high-strung happiness Disney offers. We’re looking for magic. And in the quest, we lose out on richer, truer things."
This is part of my beef with the whole "quick, get married!" message that is touted by the good folks at Boundless, among others. There's another infuriating article over there today. Apparently, now I'm not only a witch, I'm a victim of waning beauty. Then again, whose definition of beauty are we using here -- the world's or God's? According to God's definition, beauty doesn't fade. In fact, I'm willing to venture a guess that God's definition of beauty is the kind of beauty that actually grows with age.
Marriage is a great thing and I hope someday to experience it firsthand. If I don't, that's okay. I'm willing to trust that God has good things in store for me, even if those good things don't match up with your good things or even if they look from the outside like really bad things. This is the kind of Christianity I cut my teeth on: the Christianity of Jim and Elisabeth Eliot, of Chet Bitterman, of Amy Carmichael, and of Corrie Ten Boom. These were people who were willing to search, not for the outward trappings that we call blessing in western Christianity, but for the things that Scripture tells us to seek for and set our hearts on--things like wisdom and the kingdom of God and God Himself. These are the "richer, truer things" Lori refers to in her article. This is where I want my search to be focused. I want a faith and a God I would die for; it only seems fair, considering He died for me.
"Many of us don’t allow our faith to challenge these deeply held assumptions. So we end up with a Christianity in which we are the center, in which the ultimate aim is not holiness but fulfillment. And perhaps we judge each other this way. If you are happy, then, therefore, you are blessed and God must be pleased with you.
We turn God into a fairy godmother who exists to grant our wishes. We devise extra-biblical formulas for having our prayers answered, our dreams fulfilled. We focus on the verses we like and ignore others.
Perhaps we generate the same plastic, high-strung happiness Disney offers. We’re looking for magic. And in the quest, we lose out on richer, truer things."
This is part of my beef with the whole "quick, get married!" message that is touted by the good folks at Boundless, among others. There's another infuriating article over there today. Apparently, now I'm not only a witch, I'm a victim of waning beauty. Then again, whose definition of beauty are we using here -- the world's or God's? According to God's definition, beauty doesn't fade. In fact, I'm willing to venture a guess that God's definition of beauty is the kind of beauty that actually grows with age.
Marriage is a great thing and I hope someday to experience it firsthand. If I don't, that's okay. I'm willing to trust that God has good things in store for me, even if those good things don't match up with your good things or even if they look from the outside like really bad things. This is the kind of Christianity I cut my teeth on: the Christianity of Jim and Elisabeth Eliot, of Chet Bitterman, of Amy Carmichael, and of Corrie Ten Boom. These were people who were willing to search, not for the outward trappings that we call blessing in western Christianity, but for the things that Scripture tells us to seek for and set our hearts on--things like wisdom and the kingdom of God and God Himself. These are the "richer, truer things" Lori refers to in her article. This is where I want my search to be focused. I want a faith and a God I would die for; it only seems fair, considering He died for me.
Steven Curtis Chapman, a child of divorce affirming marriage
From a crazily long and rambling article about Steven Curtis Chapman: "Three years into [Steven and Mary Beth's] marriage, Steven’s parents divorced (Brasher cited). That devastated everyone, especially Steven. Right after that, Steven saw a Phoenix rise from the ashes of his parents’ marriage and become a song, and since then it has become one of the most loved songs in Gospel music history: ‘I Will Be Here’ (1989). He wrote it for his wife. Do people like it because it is a ‘tender ballad’ with loving lyrics? It is much more than that – it is a love promise, and all the sweeter because the loved one didn’t ask for it. What God has joined together, let me not put asunder.
The rest is (unbelievable Gospel music) history.
Steven’s fame adds on, his Christianity matures further, the problems persist. He tells Campus Life (2002, ChristianityToday.com/), ‘I’m a guy who isn’t perfect, who argues with his wife and kids, who doesn’t have all the answers.’ The songmaking continues, the discovering, the growing. To Prodigy chatters, Steven says, ‘It’s a process’ (Chat cited). To Joan, he says it’s ‘struggling redemptively’ (Brasher cited), and ‘For those who think marriage is too hard, that they can’t handle it, we are here to say, ‘God is faithful.’"
The rest is (unbelievable Gospel music) history.
Steven’s fame adds on, his Christianity matures further, the problems persist. He tells Campus Life (2002, ChristianityToday.com/), ‘I’m a guy who isn’t perfect, who argues with his wife and kids, who doesn’t have all the answers.’ The songmaking continues, the discovering, the growing. To Prodigy chatters, Steven says, ‘It’s a process’ (Chat cited). To Joan, he says it’s ‘struggling redemptively’ (Brasher cited), and ‘For those who think marriage is too hard, that they can’t handle it, we are here to say, ‘God is faithful.’"
Thursday, April 20, 2006
Author is optimistic
"Despite the scary statistics about children of divorce and their rates of depression and school troubles, he's a glass three-quarters-full kind of guy. When nearly 75 percent of kids end up doing quite well despite their parents' divorce, there must be something that keeps successful families thriving."
Hmm...well, maybe. But I'm a little reluctant to call it a day since this is a divorced parent speaking, not a kid. It's a little like a doctor saying a medical procedure he or she performs doesn't hurt.
Hmm...well, maybe. But I'm a little reluctant to call it a day since this is a divorced parent speaking, not a kid. It's a little like a doctor saying a medical procedure he or she performs doesn't hurt.
A church that gets it
Saw this in a posting today for a post-divorce retreat. This is a church that has its focus in the right place. Good for them.
"The goal is to help participants discover God is with them in their struggles and hope."
"The goal is to help participants discover God is with them in their struggles and hope."
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
The power and impotence of words
This is an interesting pop culture reference:
"Floyd fans can't help but feel like children of divorce, getting visits from both parents this year, both bearing special gifts."
I'm not sure how to take this, even after reading the full article. Are we being told that fans are doubly lucky or that, all thing considered, this is really the best anyone can hope for? "There, there, children; surely this makes up for the fact that we're no longer together."
Divorce and rape are words heavy with connotation and bitter associations, yet culturally we seem comfortable applying them to a variety of circumstrances that frankly make a mockery of the situations for which they are most plainly used. The split up of a rock band can hardly have the same traumatic impact as the dissolution of a marriage.
"Floyd fans can't help but feel like children of divorce, getting visits from both parents this year, both bearing special gifts."
I'm not sure how to take this, even after reading the full article. Are we being told that fans are doubly lucky or that, all thing considered, this is really the best anyone can hope for? "There, there, children; surely this makes up for the fact that we're no longer together."
Divorce and rape are words heavy with connotation and bitter associations, yet culturally we seem comfortable applying them to a variety of circumstrances that frankly make a mockery of the situations for which they are most plainly used. The split up of a rock band can hardly have the same traumatic impact as the dissolution of a marriage.
Monday, April 17, 2006
Why the cross matters
On Good Friday, we looked at God's omniscience, His total knowledge of our situations past, present and future. Some of us can accept that God knows it all. The trouble is we don't always think He cares. There is a tension here that we have to resolve. If God knows it all, why doesn't He spare us from pain. Archibald MacLeish's retelling of Job's story contains the haunting refrain: "If God is good He is not god, if God is god He is not good." In other words, either God can be loving or He can be powerful, but He can't be both. It's the age-old question of evil and we are all troubled by it. In the book When Bad Things Happen to Good People, Rabbi Kushner famously concluded that God is caring but simply helpless to intercede.
I think this is one of the reasons that Jesus took on the form of a man, lived a real human life, and suffered and died on the cross. The incarnation, God clothed in flesh, put the otherness of the Almighty on a collision course with the fleshy reality of mankind. Because He lived in our skin, Jesus has more than a remote sympathetic interest in our plight. He has true empathy, a compassion that comes from knowing our plight intimately.
What seems a paradox to us is simply the perfect convergence of God's character. Only God can perfectly balance love and power. We can't. And because we can't we have a difficult time understanding or accepting how God can do it.
David, the man after God's own heart, struggled with this too. The Psalms are full of his joyful proclamations of God's overwhelming love...and his pleading for the God he thinks has deserted him. In Psalm 62, however, David finds rest. In a poetic expression of emphasis, David asserts in this song: "One thing God has spoken, two things have I heard: that you, O God, are strong, and that you, O LORD, are loving."
Only in this carefully balanced and whole image of God's character can we learn to fully trust Him and rest in His promises.
I think this is one of the reasons that Jesus took on the form of a man, lived a real human life, and suffered and died on the cross. The incarnation, God clothed in flesh, put the otherness of the Almighty on a collision course with the fleshy reality of mankind. Because He lived in our skin, Jesus has more than a remote sympathetic interest in our plight. He has true empathy, a compassion that comes from knowing our plight intimately.
What seems a paradox to us is simply the perfect convergence of God's character. Only God can perfectly balance love and power. We can't. And because we can't we have a difficult time understanding or accepting how God can do it.
David, the man after God's own heart, struggled with this too. The Psalms are full of his joyful proclamations of God's overwhelming love...and his pleading for the God he thinks has deserted him. In Psalm 62, however, David finds rest. In a poetic expression of emphasis, David asserts in this song: "One thing God has spoken, two things have I heard: that you, O God, are strong, and that you, O LORD, are loving."
Only in this carefully balanced and whole image of God's character can we learn to fully trust Him and rest in His promises.
Sunday, April 16, 2006
Katrina and divorce
"'Families that were operating on an emotional string, well, that string has broken,' said Paulette Irons, a district court judge. 'All that's left is dissension...'
"Although some broken families have just been struggling for a new sense of stability, others have used the storm to try to beat the legal system, Irons said. She said she had seen noncustodial parents who had spirited away their children without notice, custodial parents who had moved without good cause, and parents who had tried to avoid payments of child support."
Read the whole article here.
"Although some broken families have just been struggling for a new sense of stability, others have used the storm to try to beat the legal system, Irons said. She said she had seen noncustodial parents who had spirited away their children without notice, custodial parents who had moved without good cause, and parents who had tried to avoid payments of child support."
Read the whole article here.
Friday, April 14, 2006
Good Friday remembrance
Today, we remember the sufferings of Christ. In the nonliturgical tradition in which I grew up, we went straight from Palm Sunday to Easter Sunday, straight from triumphal entry to triumph over death and the grave. Then a few years after college, I attended a Tenebrae service and learned to mourn the crucified Lord. Experiencing the pain of loss and disappointment magnifies the joy and hope and gladness of Easter morning. That's the feeling I try to recreate each year by watching Jesus Christ Superstar, which ends heartbreakingly with the death of Christ. Tonight, for the first time in several years I also attended a Tenebrae service. As my friends and I left the church with several hundred others, there was a hush, a reverential and somber silence that followed us to our cars and several blocks down the road after that.
The cross is painful and ugly, not good for polite conversation. And yet, Paul said that he was resolved to know nothing except Christ and Him crucified. There is something starkly real and necessary for us in the cross of Christ. Before He went to the cross, Jesus spent a tortured night in Gethsemane. In the Garden of Gethsemane, Jesus told His disciples that His soul was “exceedingly sorrowful, even to death.” On that night, Christ wept, pleaded with God, and sweat agonizing drops of blood. His sorrow was real, so real that we shy away from it. We don’t like to picture Jesus, prostrate and weeping. It’s uncomfortable and untidy. But God gives us this very vivid picture of our Lord to remind us that He knows the messy, unbeautiful reality of our sadness.
One of God's characteristics, part of who He is in His essence, is His omniscience. That's just a fancy word for "He knows everything." Everything that has ever happened to you and the people you love, everything going on in your life right now (yes, even that thing that you think no one knows about), every minute detail of your life and the lives of your children and their children and their children. He knows it all. He is familiar with your story. Nothing you tell Him takes Him by surprise. And because He Himself suffered and wept and pled with God and ultimately bowed His will in obedience to God the Father, Jesus gets your pain. He doesn't judge you or minimize you or think you should just get over it. He loves you too much to leave you in your sorry state, but He knows you're there and He offers a way out that He promises will not be too difficult to bear.
The cross is painful and ugly, not good for polite conversation. And yet, Paul said that he was resolved to know nothing except Christ and Him crucified. There is something starkly real and necessary for us in the cross of Christ. Before He went to the cross, Jesus spent a tortured night in Gethsemane. In the Garden of Gethsemane, Jesus told His disciples that His soul was “exceedingly sorrowful, even to death.” On that night, Christ wept, pleaded with God, and sweat agonizing drops of blood. His sorrow was real, so real that we shy away from it. We don’t like to picture Jesus, prostrate and weeping. It’s uncomfortable and untidy. But God gives us this very vivid picture of our Lord to remind us that He knows the messy, unbeautiful reality of our sadness.
One of God's characteristics, part of who He is in His essence, is His omniscience. That's just a fancy word for "He knows everything." Everything that has ever happened to you and the people you love, everything going on in your life right now (yes, even that thing that you think no one knows about), every minute detail of your life and the lives of your children and their children and their children. He knows it all. He is familiar with your story. Nothing you tell Him takes Him by surprise. And because He Himself suffered and wept and pled with God and ultimately bowed His will in obedience to God the Father, Jesus gets your pain. He doesn't judge you or minimize you or think you should just get over it. He loves you too much to leave you in your sorry state, but He knows you're there and He offers a way out that He promises will not be too difficult to bear.
Healing: What helps and what doesn't
from Mary DeMuth:
"In college, I was pretty messed up emotionally. Still scarred from things in my childhood, I was a walking trainwreck. I'd cry often--full force. Sobs defined me.I had friends who told me that 2 Corinthians 5:17 about everything being new in Christ was mine to claim, that grieving the past was unnecessary. After all, Jesus took it all on the cross anyway. For me to grieve so much meant I lacked faith, or didn't claim the promises He so freely offered.And yet, God brought me to a group of friends who believed differently. They believed God would heal the emotional scars. They believed He would do a work in my heart. So they prayed for me. A lot. They prayed me through college, so that I came out on the other end much more joyful, much more assured of myself, much more healed."
Read the whole post here...
"In college, I was pretty messed up emotionally. Still scarred from things in my childhood, I was a walking trainwreck. I'd cry often--full force. Sobs defined me.I had friends who told me that 2 Corinthians 5:17 about everything being new in Christ was mine to claim, that grieving the past was unnecessary. After all, Jesus took it all on the cross anyway. For me to grieve so much meant I lacked faith, or didn't claim the promises He so freely offered.And yet, God brought me to a group of friends who believed differently. They believed God would heal the emotional scars. They believed He would do a work in my heart. So they prayed for me. A lot. They prayed me through college, so that I came out on the other end much more joyful, much more assured of myself, much more healed."
Read the whole post here...
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
Joy comes in the morning
I've been wandering of late through a bit of a dry spell spiritually, feeling adrift and occasionally abandoned. If you live the Christian life long enough, such times will creep in on you. In one of my favorite stories of womanly wit, Martin Luther's wife Katie once appeared at the breakfast table in full mourning clothes and, when questioned, declared that God was dead. Her pious husband was horrified until she explained that his doleful demeanor day after day could be accounted for in no other way. "You have convinced me, Katie, dear," he said. "So if you ever see me again with a melancholy countenance, remind me that God is living, that he will live forever." Reminders are good. (And if you haven't seen the movie Luther, go see it! I plan to watch it this week as part of my annual Holy Week observation, which also includes watching Jesus Christ Superstar. Since the latter ends with the crucifixion, it's a Good Friday tradition for me. Luther is a new tradition, but it's a powerful reminder of the reasons for the Reformation and convicting if you wonder whether you'd have the nerve to die for what you say you believe.)
Some years ago, a friend gave me a devotional consisting of morning and evening readings of Scripture each organized around a central theme. Originally compiled by a father and husband who was leading his family's devotions, this little volume of Scripture drew me in the other night as I prayed to God for a boost out of the miry pit. Here's what I read:
O LORD, I am oppressed; undertake for me! [Is 38:14] Have mercy on me, O LORD, for I am weak. My soul also is greatly troubled. [Ps 6:2-3] Be not far from me, for trouble is near; for there is none to help. [Ps 22:11] For You cast me into the deep...all Your billows and Your waves passed over me. The waters surrounded me, even to my soul; the deep closed around me. [Jonah 2:3,5] When my heart is overwhelmed; lead me to the rock that is higher than I. [Ps 61:2] My soul clings to the dust; revive me according to Your word. [Ps 119:25] You have heard my voice; You drew near on the day I called on You, and said, "Do not fear!" [Lam 3:56-57] You are near, O LORD. [Ps 119:151] A very present help. [Ps 46:1] He gives power to the weak, and to those who have no might He increases strength. [Is 40:29] Indeed we count them blessed who endure. You have heard of the perseverance of Job and seen the end intended by the Lord--that the Lord is very compassionate and merciful. [James 5:11] The LORD has anointed Me...to comfort all who mourn...to give them...the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness. [Is 61:1-3] Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning. [Ps 30:5]
Some years ago, a friend gave me a devotional consisting of morning and evening readings of Scripture each organized around a central theme. Originally compiled by a father and husband who was leading his family's devotions, this little volume of Scripture drew me in the other night as I prayed to God for a boost out of the miry pit. Here's what I read:
O LORD, I am oppressed; undertake for me! [Is 38:14] Have mercy on me, O LORD, for I am weak. My soul also is greatly troubled. [Ps 6:2-3] Be not far from me, for trouble is near; for there is none to help. [Ps 22:11] For You cast me into the deep...all Your billows and Your waves passed over me. The waters surrounded me, even to my soul; the deep closed around me. [Jonah 2:3,5] When my heart is overwhelmed; lead me to the rock that is higher than I. [Ps 61:2] My soul clings to the dust; revive me according to Your word. [Ps 119:25] You have heard my voice; You drew near on the day I called on You, and said, "Do not fear!" [Lam 3:56-57] You are near, O LORD. [Ps 119:151] A very present help. [Ps 46:1] He gives power to the weak, and to those who have no might He increases strength. [Is 40:29] Indeed we count them blessed who endure. You have heard of the perseverance of Job and seen the end intended by the Lord--that the Lord is very compassionate and merciful. [James 5:11] The LORD has anointed Me...to comfort all who mourn...to give them...the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness. [Is 61:1-3] Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning. [Ps 30:5]
Defender of Marriage
This is perhaps best filed under the heading of old news, but I find it interesting that one of the early drafters of traditional marriage legislation is a child of divorce whose passion for strenthening the role and place of marriage in society is driven largely by his own experience. I ran across Matt Daniels' name in an old issue of The Atlantic Monthly this afternoon. A quick Google search tonight turned up a 2004 article from USA Today with this quote: "Repeatedly, Daniels returns to his childhood to explain his commitment to traditional marriage as the cradle for raising children. His bitter experiences made him commitment-shy for years. 'I had no role model' for being a husband and a dad, he says. It was 'an act of faith' for him to marry in 1995."
Saturday, April 08, 2006
Friday, April 07, 2006
Divorce envy
From Smashed: Story of a Drunken Girlhood by Koren Zailckas"Billie lives with her divorced mother, a position that fills me with envy. I know that is stupid, that I should be grateful that my parents are still happily wed, both of them tuned into my every ballet recital or parent-teacher conference like it's Super Bowl Sunday. And I am. But our nuclear nest also makes divorce look exotic, like the stuff that art is made of. After all, this is shortly after Newsweek declared, 'Grunge is what happens when children of divorce get their hands on guitars.' Divorce seems like a beautiful truth, a stark contrast to my own two-parent household, which at times feels stickier, more deceptive.
"What's more, divorce creates the possibility of independence, for which I am desperate. The dissolution means train rides and plane rides alone, en route to Mommy's house or Daddy's condo. And keys. I long for house keys; I want to wear them on a satin string around my neck. After school, I want to unlock the door to a quiet house and, consequently, a quiet mind...
"As much as I love Mrs. Jankoff, I know Billie spars with her, too. She fights with her mom the way I fight with my mom, but for opposite reasons. I want to be independent from my mom, and Billie wants to be dependent on hers. Billie loves my mother's involvement, while I love Mrs. Jankoff's detachment. We both have magnetic properties that attract us to each other's mothers, and repel us from our own. I want to drive my mother away from me by being deceptive; Billie tries to lure her mother home by proving she's trustworthy."
Favorite Quote of the Day
Taken from Forbes:
"I always wanted to be somebody, but I should have been more specific."
--Lily Tomlin & Jane Wagner
"I always wanted to be somebody, but I should have been more specific."
--Lily Tomlin & Jane Wagner
Thursday, April 06, 2006
On Catholics and divorce
from BREAKING VOWS: WHEN FAITHFUL CATHOLICS DIVORCE
"It's like the Church has let us go into the hands of a monster that is tearing our family apart, and the Church won't intervene," she said. "They just stand back and watch it happen. When I made my vows, I signed up for something different."
----------------------------------
"We live in a culture in which everything is disposable," said Gauthier, "including unborn children and spouses. This culture affects even the most faithful."
----------------------------------
marriage preparation gave him all the doctrinal answers but left him unprepared for the life that he would face.
----------------------------------
"You see the same phenomenon with medical students," said Father Brunetta. "As they study medicine, they begin to self-diagnose. Each new ache and pain is imagined to be an indication of the most virulent disease they know. Of course, precious few of them actually have spinal meningitis or pancreatic cancer. Normal aches and pains indicate life, not death."
In the same way, he said, "There are tensions and struggles and difficulties that are normal in the marriage—these are signs of health, not invalidity."
-----------------------------------
They expected marriage to be exalted, like the Book of Revelation, like the wedding feast of the Lamb. And when they find out that theirs is not like they imagined, and they are not prepared to grow together and work through normal difficulties in their marriage, they start looking for a way out.
---------------------------------
"What really put a knock on my faith was that I kept turning to the Church saying, 'Please help us! Please help us!' But the focus seems to be on the acceptance of individuals in the Church after divorce. It almost seems as if priests do not want to address this issue because they are afraid of offending," he said.
---------------------------------
A marriage was Satan's first target in the Garden of Eden
---------------------------------
"My eleven-year-old son has taken a knock in terms of what he believes about God," he told me. "We've taught him the Faith, but he thinks that sometimes God won't answer prayers, because he prayed and prayed that we'd get back together again. And that didn't happen."
"It's like the Church has let us go into the hands of a monster that is tearing our family apart, and the Church won't intervene," she said. "They just stand back and watch it happen. When I made my vows, I signed up for something different."
----------------------------------
"We live in a culture in which everything is disposable," said Gauthier, "including unborn children and spouses. This culture affects even the most faithful."
----------------------------------
marriage preparation gave him all the doctrinal answers but left him unprepared for the life that he would face.
----------------------------------
"You see the same phenomenon with medical students," said Father Brunetta. "As they study medicine, they begin to self-diagnose. Each new ache and pain is imagined to be an indication of the most virulent disease they know. Of course, precious few of them actually have spinal meningitis or pancreatic cancer. Normal aches and pains indicate life, not death."
In the same way, he said, "There are tensions and struggles and difficulties that are normal in the marriage—these are signs of health, not invalidity."
-----------------------------------
They expected marriage to be exalted, like the Book of Revelation, like the wedding feast of the Lamb. And when they find out that theirs is not like they imagined, and they are not prepared to grow together and work through normal difficulties in their marriage, they start looking for a way out.
---------------------------------
"What really put a knock on my faith was that I kept turning to the Church saying, 'Please help us! Please help us!' But the focus seems to be on the acceptance of individuals in the Church after divorce. It almost seems as if priests do not want to address this issue because they are afraid of offending," he said.
---------------------------------
A marriage was Satan's first target in the Garden of Eden
---------------------------------
"My eleven-year-old son has taken a knock in terms of what he believes about God," he told me. "We've taught him the Faith, but he thinks that sometimes God won't answer prayers, because he prayed and prayed that we'd get back together again. And that didn't happen."
The New Adventures of Rocky the Flying Squirrel
"How did he get there?""I'm sure he jumped over from the neighbor's deck."
I've seen actual flying squirrels, tiny little things that leap with abandon from tree to tree, arms and legs spread wide, extra web-like skin forming a hairy rodent parasail. Last year I saw what must have been hundreds of flying fish during a Caribbean cruise with friends. From the balcony of our cabin, we would watch them gain lift from the wake thrown off by the cruise ship and soar just above the water ten, twenty, thirty feet.
And then there's Rocky.
I switched the food in my backyard birdfeeder to a nut and fruit mix that the bluejays love. They've shown up, along with a chickadee and titmouse. The sparrows prefer the tiny seeds in the front yard feeder. But Sunday I turned from the sink to see an unexpected visitor. I missed seeing him arrive and leave that day. (I was upstairs heading for my camera when he got spooked by my mom and brother standing inches away through the glass, laughing at him, and scampered away.) I caught him the following day and scared him off. Tuesday, we had a battle of the wills--the poor squirrel didn't have a chance; I come from a long line of infamously strong-willed individuals. He hasn't been back since.
OK, so the picture is just so cute I had to post it, but I really have been waiting for a way to connect it with something of higher meaning. And then last night, I was glancing back over some notes I took while reading Luci Shaw's The Crime of Living Cautiously, and saw this one:
"Only those who risk going too far can possibly find out how far one can go." - T.S. Eliot
So, may you and I, like my uncautiously leaping squirrel friend, find just how far we can go, relying on the updrafts of God's grace, the sure footing of His truth, and the promised rewards that await us on the other side of Glory.
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