Category: Daily Life

I think we get so rattled up about the wrong things.

Please understand me. It’s ok to agree, disagree, or have an opinion. In fact, dare I say, it’s ok to express that opinion — albeit we could all do a little better job of articulating such in a way that doesn’t disrespect someone.

But sometimes possessing that opinion rattles us… we have to burst… we get so anxious or worked up inside about the behavior of someone else, we can’t let it go.

I’d like to see us all — well, ok, at least me — I’d like to do a better job letting it go.

Years ago, we used to visit my mother-in-law maybe three, four times a year. It was never as much as we — or perhaps she — would have liked, but she never complained. She always seemed just grateful to be with us. We lived four hours away from one another.

As typical especially on those weekends, she showed her love and thankfulness to us in so many varied ways… an added touch, maybe a surprise gift, or just very intentional, sweet conversation, often lasting late into the evening, when all parties were so obviously tired but also so obviously enjoying one another.

In the mornings, she’d typically still rise earlier than the rest (I’m thinking she probably slept for two days straight after we left) and make a feast for breakfast. She’d fill the table with this succulent smorgasbord of breakfast food — eggs, bacon, sausage, bagels, toast, donuts, muffins and more. We never left breakfast hungry.

There was one morning in my initial years as a parent that I wasn’t quite as comfortable in my own skin. I couldn’t have told you that at the time; I didn’t know what I didn’t know, and I was determined to be good at this parenting gig, committed to providing my kids with the necessary physical, emotional, and spiritual guidance and foundation that would allow for them to flourish as they go forward. There are a lot of things to cover in that!

As the breakfast meal was winding down, with everyone more full than perhaps we should be but ready for the day ahead together, my mother-in-law stepped away, off to the adjacent pantry, and brought one more, small tasty item to the table — this time, with an obvious added glee.

“Cookies!” she announced.

She always loved those chocolate Pinwheels, those fudge and marshmallow, Nabisco treats; she had found a package at the nearby grocery and couldn’t wait to share them with my children.

A wise response would have been one of empathy and gratitude — thankful that my mother-in-law wanted to bless our kids by sharing her joy, sharing something fun with her extended family.

Want to know what my immature reaction was? Remember I’m a new parent, wanting to do this well. But I didn’t realize how indignant I could be.

I could not believe that my mother-in-law would want to ruin her grandchildren’s eating patterns — my kids’ — by giving them all that sugar for breakfast! How could she? What was she thinking?! Why would she try to sabotage my honorable attempts to raise these kids right?! She was related to them, too!



In other words, I took my mother-in-law’s loving attempt as a personal offense. I could not see it for what it was because I was so focused on me and what I believed and wanted to do. I got totally rattled up. And I justified an offense when there was none. Let me say that again: I justified an offense when there was none.

Oh, I wish I would have known then what I know now. I wish my mother-in-law was still here, blessing our entire extended family with her simple, gracious and gleeful acts of kindness.

And I wish I would have realized it was ok for each of us to eat those Pinwheels… maybe even two.

Respectfully…
AR

For the past three and half weeks, we’ve had the great privilege and pleasure of hearing multiple perspectives and passions from people I deeply respect. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: respect is more important than consensus. Respect implies that we are listening. Respect implies that we will consider an angle that is different than the one we’ve currently adopted. As a wise friend recently shared, two people can look at the same number and conclude two totally different things; both will believe with certainty they are entirely correct. One will say it’s a “6”; the other will say it’s a “9.” Note: the angle matters.

The angles shared via our annual Guest Writers Series prompted me to ponder anew…

With passions and perspectives not necessarily my own, I found myself thinking about sacrifice, salvation, and if and how I evaluate the cost of my own behavior…

I thought about climate change, adoption, and how much our children matter…

Also, I wrestled with the aching thought of those who go hungry each night…

I hugged my new puppy tighter… I found myself with increased gratitude for the community that surrounds me… and I was challenged anew to be more others focused, consistently offering grace to the holders of diverse opinion.

Let me camp there for a moment. I feel as if I must offer a bit of a personal apology, as God continues to grow and stretch me in refreshing, albeit not always immediately appreciated (by me) ways…

I don’t think I always offer consistent, generous grace.

Hear me on this. Sometimes I withhold it.

Sometimes my opinion is so deep or so engrained or so embedded in my soul and psyche, that I struggle to give the generous grace that accompanies respect. I forget that people look at “6” and “9” differently, even though their angle seems wholly accurate.

There was a moment during this brief semi-humble blogger’s respite, when I found myself justifying my lack of grace. Typically that lack of grace stems from my refusal to look at another as equally, wonderfully created by the great big God of the universe. I was humbled by that reality. That reality prompts the extension of grace.

And yet, I think we are selective withholders.

Don’t let me throw you under the bus along with me. I’ll focus on self…

For example (… and this is not the most popular thing to say…)… but both Hillary Clinton and Donald Trump were created by God, just like me. They deserve the same extensions of grace.

I get it… They don’t deserve it; or at least one of them doesn’t. But there. I did it again. I justified the withholding of grace. 

One of the beauties of our annual Guest Writers Series, is that we come face-to-face with the fact that there is so much more to learn. No, we don’t have it all figured out… and that might be the second most unpopular thing said this day.

But the beauty is that we’re all in this together. No better. No worse.

We are all, thus, in need of great grace… a grace, perhaps most visible on the Intramuralist via our commitment to respect.

Allow me a special shout out to our 10 guest writers. I so appreciate your offering and your prompts to think deeper, even when I didn’t share your passion or perspective. Thank you most, though, for modeling that grace.

Respectfully… and thankful to be back… I look forward to what’s next…
AR

[Today is post #10 in our annual, summer Guest Writer Series. Note that the opinions expressed may or may not be held by the Intramuralist.]

“It takes a village to raise a child.” — African proverb

Years ago following this African proverb was the norm for most families. I’m not sure exactly when the shift from this happened. However, currently our society operates in a completely opposite manner. What I mean is if you tell a child at the park or in your neighborhood who is doing wrong — like destroying property or bullying — you’d have a wildly mad parent at how dare you correct their darling delinquent. In attempt to be transparent, I want to be honest. Parenting is hard. In books and on TV, you see the myth of supermom displayed more than the realistic version of moms crying, screaming, being discouraged and full of self doubt… Moms who long to feel loved and appreciated.

It’s said that moms are cruel to each other and bullying is at an all time high. However, it’s not just an issue with children. Adults are ruthless at cyberbullying. I recently read an eye-opening blog, where the author said we must stop the blame and shame epidemic. We must rally around each other in times of struggle. We must stop thinking we know what’s best for someone else’s situation.

Let me circle my wagon back to the point I was trying to make…

When the village way of parenting was practiced, families lived close, you knew your neighbors, and could count on them as an extra set of eyes. Neighborhood watch was not only for crime but also for parenting help. When I was young — and out playing at a neighbor’s house or even on the street — and their parents gave me a corrective order, I did it. Now if that would happen, you’d mostly get a rude comment and a visit from angry parents. I understand families are more spread out and it’s harder to have those extra people in your life. But trust me; it’s so worth finding some extra adults to invest in your kids. Find some trusted friends and make them your village! Talk it over; find the support and encouragement you need.

Recently a fellow mom whom I’m friends with on social media messaged me. She saw on a page of one of her friends, calling out a group of boys for bullying and encouraging this mom’s daughter to commit suicide. The girl’s mom had my son listed. She sent me the post saying she knew I’d want to know… and I did.

I messaged the girl’s mom and respectfully asked her to send me proof. The proof she sent was nowhere near what she claimed; it was certainly rude of my son, but not anything more. I corrected my son, telling him foul language was not acceptable nor was being rude and unkind going to be tolerated. I insisted the mom remove his name and post an apology — which she did. I then messaged the mom who alerted me of the situation, thanking her for help and telling her the problem had been resolved. It takes a village.

We have a small, extended family, so we asked our friends to be Godparents to our boys — someone they could go to that we knew would give similar, wise advice, and persons our boys would always see as “someone in their corner.”

They are our “village.”

Find yours… it’s so worth it.

Respectfully…
AW

[Today is post #8 in our annual, summer Guest Writer Series. Note that the opinions expressed may or may not be held by the Intramuralist.]

Saturday was a big day for our dogs. Ed took them with him to run errands and stop at our favorite donut shop for donuts and coffee. Afterward, he took them to Miami Meadows Dog Park in Miami Township for a change of scene, and a chance to socialize with other dogs. I tagged along if I didn’t have too much to do on the home front.

We purchased a ramp to make it easier for Meg to get in and out of our SUV since she could no longer jump into it, and thus save Ed’s back from the strain of lifting her. She still weighed seventy-five pounds in her old age.

The dogs saw the ramp come out, knew why and where they were headed as if they had an internal calendar. Sam used it, too, and seemed to think it was a nifty apparatus for his amusement. He’d go up and down several times before settling down in the car with a fleece toy in his mouth to wait for the big outing.

Miami Meadows is two hundred acres with soccer fields, baseball and football fields, basketball courts, two shelters, picnic areas, walking trails, skate park, dog park, and a beautiful fishing lake. A major portion of the park has been declared a wetland reserved for wildlife.

The dog park itself is divided into two large fenced sections based on size, large or small, includes available fresh water, picnic tables, and an agility course. The doggie drinking fountain was one of Sam’s favorite amenities, and he spent a lot of time hanging out there. It was the bar scene for dogs, and suited his drinking problem to a tee.

During warm weather the dog park was frequently crowded with the same dogs and their people. After a while we began to recognize who went with whom, which group of people constituted a click, and which dogs we wished ours would avoid if possible. Unfortunately, it was impossible unless they were leashed, and that defeated the purpose of going to the dog park in the first place.

Meg enjoyed sniffing around, but was too old to put up with much nonsense from any dog. She was always cordial, but if another dog tried to roughhouse or chew on her she quickly asserted her Grand Dame status with an immediate ‘don’t mess with me’ snarl. She showed no teeth, but the offender got her message loud and clear and backed off. Usually a day late and a dollar short, Sam showed up to check on her and see what the problem was, but she had already taken care of it herself by that time. It was thoughtful of him to check on his old friend, though.

There was always the occasional squabble, some serious, but most over quickly, and Sam felt it was his duty to investigate and mediate most of them. Basically, he stuck his big snout in the other dogs’ business, and was lucky he didn’t lose it altogether. He had never been in a fight to our knowledge, and might have ended up on the short side of that stick in spite of his size. He was a lover, not a fighter.

Once all the excitement was over he returned to his socializing. And socialize he did.

Sam was a natural born social director. He had a gift. He took it upon himself to personally greet each new person and their dogs at the gate. He greeted the dogs in the normal dog fashion by sniffing their behinds, one by one, whether they liked it or not. If one or two didn’t, he accepted the rebuff with his usual aplomb, and happily trotted away completely unoffended to sniff the fence perimeter to see who else had been around.

The human Parkies, as I called us, stood around talking in groups. There were always quite a few groups, and we rarely spoke about anything other than our dogs or someone else’s dog, which was expected since that’s why we all were there. But Sam seemed to feel that, other than his family, the Parkies were in need of his attention or he was entitled to their adoration. We weren’t sure which.

He would stop whatever he had been doing, trot over to a newly formed group, and weave his way through it like he was navigating an agility obstacle course made up of human bodies. He’d halt in front of each person, smiling and wagging, stick his nose where it didn’t belong, and wait for the anticipated pat on the head. He stood there until each person stopped their conversation to focus on him and granted the expected adoration. Sometimes he even got a doggie treat. Then he moved on to the next and the next until he had greeted everyone in each individual group.

After doing this so often a few of the regulars started calling him ‘The Social Director’. When we entered the park we’d hear, “Here comes the Social Director”! Ed took it in stride, but I thought it was hysterically funny that anyone else had described his behavior the same way I saw it. He did look like he was making sure everyone was having a good time. He needed to pass around a tray full of drinks and snacks to complete the picture.

After repeated trips to the dog park, we realized that Sam had a habit of ‘looking for love in all the wrong places’. He really liked small dogs, and occasionally preferred males. In the Biblical sense. Not every visit, but we never knew when the urge would hit him. I guess he came out of the proverbial closet at the park.

His behavior, while not uncommon, was still embarrassing since he was neutered. There were a lot of children around at times, and they didn’t need to see it at a family park. They could go home and watch it on National Geographic.

Granted, living with Meg was like living with his great-grandmother, and she did not put up with amorous displays from any dog, even him. We thought that Sam would, or should, prefer females, and they would appreciate the attention from a handsome, strapping, big boy.

No. Sam honed in on some poor unsuspecting little dog, and stalked him around the park relentlessly until one of us intervened and redirected his thoughts, or the owner physically removed the nervous little dog. We knew Sam didn’t want to hurt it, just love it, but the nervous little dog and his owner wasn’t so sure. The poor little guy was so worn out from trying to escape from Sam, I was surprised he wasn’t standing at the gate whistling for his person to come and get him out of there.

Sam was such a love bug in so many ways, but I could have done without that one.

After an exhilarating morning of errands: shopping at Home Depot, the pharmacy, picking up donuts, and hanging out with Ed, Meg, and the Parkies, Sam was usually pooped when he got home. Apparently, being a social director and stalker took a lot out of him because he spent the next couple of hours crashed on his bed with his favorite fleece toy stuffed under his head.

Sam had a lot of nicknames: Wonder Boy, Sister Mary Sam, Goofball, Yellow Boy, Knucklehead, and my favorite, Knothead, but he never had a title. We added Social Director to his many monikers, and it was pretty cool because I personally didn’t know any other dog with an assigned title.

Being the bona fide dog park Social Director had its perks, and Sam loved every minute of it. He loved being with people and we enjoyed watching him do his thing. He had a way of making everyone smile simply by being around him.

We just had to keep that other issue under control, and stuff Sam back into the closet when he switched hats and set his sights on a little male dog.

With joy…
Linda
Except from Sam & Friends: A Collection of Recollections of Life with a Knothead
Permission by Linda Kiernan, July 2016

[Today is post #6 in our annual, summer Guest Writer Series. Note that the opinions expressed may or may not be held by the Intramuralist.]

I have been honored to be a guest blogger here at the Intramuralist for the past five years. My friendship with the actual Intramuralist has a pretty auspicious beginning. We met sitting in the outfield at our son’s baseball game. It goes without saying that baseball moms are a pretty special bunch. We endure hours of games and practices and learning what cups do, and why it is important to wear them. So our friendships are born out of that commonality. And at the age our boys were, the games weren’t always the most action packed so that left quite a bit of time for chatting and getting to know one another.

One particularly hot summer day, we were clustered together in the only spot of shade anywhere near the diamond. If memory serves, it was midway through the season. The air was thick with humidity and the sun was relentless. We all knew one another but not well enough to have a conversation about much more than the heat or if we packed enough water for the kids. Somehow we got on the topic of religion, and not just a friendly, “where do you go to a church?” but an actual discussion of faith, and God and beliefs. And not everyone in our group was on the same page. That conversation was real, and passionate and heated at times, and when the last out came, we all packed up our chairs and smiled and said our good byes and planned to see each other again at the next game. And that’s what we did. We pulled our chairs into a line, and continued to share in the fellowship that can only be known in the outfield of a little league game in July.

Believers, non-believers, proselytizers, and agnostics.

At the end of the season, our bond now road tested, our connections strengthened by time spent together, we gathered for a mom’s night out at a local establishment for food and drink and talk that was to have nothing to do about baseball. There are two things you aren’t supposed to talk about in polite company; religion had already been discussed so we moved on to politics. It was an election year; I can’t remember which one or who was running. I remember the discussion was intense. We talked from all sides about the issues we were most passionate about.

Democrats, Republicans, Independents, and a few who have given up on siding with anyone.

We had food and beers, and when the night was done. We hugged and the words, “Man, I’ll miss seeing you,” were thrown around along with promises to schedule at least monthly gatherings. And then that season was over.

I tell you this as a background for what is the heart of what I want to share. In my years of guest blogging, I have had two central themes, baseball and respect for opposing views. I don’t think it is any coincidence that both of those things are a part of my friendship with the Intramuralist. Our friendship was born on a baseball field, and from mostly opposing sides of those two deep conversations. Now, she will laugh and say that we aren’t necessarily opposing, that we are generally closer to each other’s beliefs than the labels of our current society would allow. So I’ll counter her hearty chuckle with this: from mere affiliation we are opposite of one another, but yet there’s no one I’d rather have those conversations with — even someone who is 100% in agreement with what I think and believe. For the important stuff, her take is the one that I find the most interesting. The one I seek out, in these times of Wall Building, Gun Control, email-gate, religious fundamentalists. The one I can count on to make me really think.

You see, there is so much we can learn from one another by simply having the discussion. And by discussion, I do not mean in the comments section of Facebook. I mean face to face, if possible. We have to resort to Facetime now that I live hundreds of miles away. But it works.

One of our last such discussions involved the heated vitriol that is rampant on social media lately. That evolved into a discussion of “unfriending.” The ultimate “gotcha” of our culture. And how sad that is. How empty a victory it is to simply click a button and rid yourself of having to engage with people who aren’t lock step with your beliefs.

To what end? And though Facebook and Twitter and all the others are very much our reality to most of us, the act of unfriending shows how far from the truth that actually is.

In REAL life you wouldn’t say to someone in the middle of a conversation, “I don’t agree with you so consider us no longer friends!” But yet still be in the same social or professional circles or heaven help you, family. There’s no button you can reach out and push and make people in your life disappear if they don’t agree with you. No, in person there are two options, engage in a debate or keep your opinions to yourself and make note not to bring the subject up again.

Unfriending someone isn’t the answer; it’s the problem. We live in a world of big issues, that require us to engage in conversations with all sides to solve them. Closing yourself off from that doesn’t make you part of the solution. It isolates you, amplifies the fear that someone else might have a different idea. Your “side” may not have all the right answers. Choosing to only have one opinion show up in your newsfeed skews your thoughts, and makes you less. It widens the divide.

I realize now how myopic my way of thinking would be if I had picked up my lawn chair and separated myself from that first difficult conversation. I consider how much my way of thinking changed when I realized the person I so enjoyed sitting with on those hot summer nights didn’t agree with my feelings about religion being a private thing. I think of how much I have learned about myself from hours of conversations about hard things with someone who passionately and often believes differently than I do.

And I thank God there was no option for unfriending back then.

Respectfully…
Jules

[Note: today begins our annual Guest Writer Series. Hence, the viewpoints expressed may or may not be held by the Intramuralist. Regardless, these guys are good and they are respectful. Enjoy! … starting with Guest Writer #1…]

It was an interesting observation. I was in a florist shop waiting in line to buy flowers for a new mom. At the front of the line was a customer who was eager to place his order. He has his wallet in hand, and from his demeanor, it was obvious that he was ordering flowers for someone special, someone very dear to him. He wanted to send the very best. He was not just sending flowers; he was sending a message.

With strong affirmation and for all of us to hear, he declared, “I want to order a dozen of your very best red roses!”

Then with a degree of hesitancy and apparent after thought, and in a less enthusiastic voice, he asked, “Ah… just how much does a dozen roses cost?”

The clerk replied, “That will be $60.00.”

With that information in mind, further deliberation, and a long pause, he said, “Well…ah…how much does a half dozen cost?”

Again, the clerk replied, “That would be $35.00.”

I watched the man shifting from one foot to the other and obviously in thought as he was evaluating the cost before finalizing his order for this special recipient. Then he said, “Gee, ya’ know, she really likes carnations… and they last so much longer… yes, let’s send her a half dozen carnations instead of the roses.”

As I observed this scenario I couldn’t help but ask myself some questions. Did he decide that she wasn’t worth that which cost the most? Did he decide that less would reflect his love just as much? Did she really like carnations, or was that just a rationalization to get out of ordering the roses he had originally intended when he came into the shop?

Life frequently presents us with scenarios which have lessons within them for us who are observing. I thought about how often we have intentions to give the most or what we deem the best initially, and then when we research the cost, we rationalize to see if we can give a little less, do a little less, or maybe substitute something else entirely. Yes, we still want the relationship, the message, and the desired response to our gift from the recipient, but maybe, just maybe, we can get by with giving just a little less. After all, why should cost matter? Isn’t it the thought that really counts? Well, maybe… but then how important is the relationship, be it physical, emotional, or spiritual? Does what we are willing to invest say something about its value, its importance to us?

So my question is when is substituting something less for the most a commentary on what we honestly value, on how much we really are willing to invest, be it money, time, or ourselves?

Hmmmm, I wonder.

Thanks Intramuralist…you invest from the heart!

Respectfully…
DWL