Taboo: Chapter Three

As I sit here on my couch on Christmas Eve, I find myself confused.

While I’m expected to be celebrating the birth of Jesus, the only thing running through my mind is a long list of unanswered questions.

My questions are not original. I’m not the first person to ever have thoughts that challenge mainstream Christianity. My struggles with God are common with yours, but your struggles aren’t the ones that occupy my brain. This is a customized battle. One that God and I have learned to know well. The script and dance steps are well rehearsed. The same questions and doubts are always brought into the ring, but at the end of the day I return to my post and forfeit. Relinquishing my need for answers due to frustration, tiredness and wariness. I have, however, discovered through this process that having too many questions hinders your ability to hear the answers.

I believe there is a difference between religion and spirituality.

I’m not in search of religion. Religion is easily obtainable. I have a religion. I go to church. I’ve maneuvered myself through all the appropriate ministries and have felt temporary fulfillment through them. Spirituality is something that grows way deeper than just memorizing John 3:16 and repeating it enough times until it makes sense. To me, it’s a more complex level of consciousness and connectedness to oneself and to God. I have been fascinated by spirituality for years, but it seems my analytical behavior prevents me from experiencing it fully.

My life is surrounded by people of all levels of belief. From die-hard Christianity to atheism. When I was about 10 my father decided that our family would stop going to church and thus turn against his strong southern Baptist upbringing. Growing up he would never explain to me his reasons because he believed that I needed to decide my own path and not be restricted to his. Although his intentions were good, giving me “free will” left me dangling, unsure and without direction. As an adult I’ve asked about his outlook on God, but he is still silent. He still will not explain what happened all those years ago. Since I’m no longer a child, I assume his reasons for not being forth coming has changed. I often wonder if he fears my judgment while the truth is no more than me wanting to get to know my father. Wanting to know how his questions compare to mine. Wanting to know if we have the same fears or if he has somehow figured it all out. Because of the tiny bit of information I have managed to squeeze out, I have categorized him as an agnostic.

I believe my father’s decision catapulted my spiritual search.

One would view this as positive. It’s caused me to be open minded, nonjudgmental, and tolerant of different belief systems. Although I tend to stand on shaky ground about many spiritual issues, there are two things I do believe: that God exists and that we will transition into a different life experience after we die.

I think a lot of times we tend to mentally put God in a small box and project humanistic thoughts and characteristics on him. I’m guilty of doing this during my personal battles with him. At times I feel I’m fighting with a handicap. That maybe I’m not supposed to know certain answers, but yet I still ask the same questions over and over again. Not unlike my father, God remains silent. Why did God give me an analytical personality if he has no intentions on humoring me with answers? Why did he give me the ability to love a man’s mind, body and soul but yet hasn’t provided someone to receive it?

People blame God for tragedies as well using him as a coping mechanism.

Some people say they survived cancer though the Word of God while others say they survived on their own strength and positive outlook. I want to know why. If someone claims to overcome cancer “by the grace of God” then doesn’t that imply that those who passed were not in his graces?

Tammy Faye Bakker is in the final stages of cancer. She is now in hospice and weighs 68lbs. During a phone interview on Larry King Live the other night, she said that she has faith that God will heal her. That God will rid her body of this cancer and she will then be able to use her testimony to show others the power of God. Even though Tammy Faye is a person who is easily made fun of, I believe she is sincere. That she believes what she believes. Although a bit quirky, I don’t view her as a con. But I’m not a fan of hers. I can’t get past the eyelashes and the too-bubbly personality. Nevertheless, if it is true that God expects us to have faith in him and spread his Word, then Tammy Faye has done way more than most of us. If she’s expecting herself to be healed… will she? If she dies, what is our answer? That she didn’t have enough faith? That faith doesn’t matter? That it was just her time to go? That there is no God? That God chose to decline the perfect opportunity to perform a miracle in front of millions of witnesses? If she does live, will you give the credit to science or to God?

On Christmas Day my family will sit around the dinner table, hold hands and say a prayer of thanks to God. Of course it will end in the customary “…to the nourishment of our bodies.” I have many things to be thankful for this Christmas. I have wonderful friends who I hold close to my heart and a family that is incredibly supportive.

But as I sit there at the table with my eyes closed, I’ll most likely be asking the question “Who are you exactly?”

Cosmic Conspiracy

I think I was born into the wrong family.

It’s nothing against my relatives. Really. They’re great. I love them. However, I just think that I was meant for something else. Something different than this.

I think when I was born, some papers got mixed up. Maybe a baby-switch scandal. Maybe I’m really adopted and no one’s told me. I guess looking exactly like my father proves these theories wrong.

Maybe the Fertility God’s decided to play a joke. Maybe they were bored one day floating around in the universe and thought this would be really funny. Bad joke, perhaps? Little did they know that I would eventually catch on. That I would discover their cosmic conspiracy.

I think I was meant to be Royalty.

I spent the afternoon at the day spa. Let me say that again: the DAY SPA. There I was being pampered and fussed over… and loving every minute of it. I soaked it up. I think I was meant to be incredibly wealthy, have servants, a masseuse, a chef and a driver. They would all be paid an insane amount of money to make me feel like the princess that I know I am. Of course I can’t forget the cabana boy. He’s very important to my overall well being.

I don’t consider myself a high maintenance gal. I don’t require attention 24/7 from the people in my life. I’m easy to please. But I feel that what I experienced today should be experienced on a regular basis. Like every week would be grrrrreat.

I felt this conviction even stronger when I got home.

When I got home from the day spa, I was all noodley and relaxed and had this calm euphoric feeling. I was looking forward to chillin’ out… maybe watch a little television… maybe take a nap. I was all about anything that wouldn’t exhort energy. I wanted to bask in my royalty-ness.

When I walked through my front door, my house was hot. Not cool. Hot. This is not good for a princess. Princesses require air conditioning. I don’t know anything about air conditioning, so I did what every unknowledgeable princess would do… I went outside and stood there staring at the unit. I guess I assumed that it would tell me what was wrong. Other things do. My printer tells me when it’s out of paper or ink. When my car is low on oil, a cute little light that says “low oil” blinks. When I’m low on gas, it even sings to me. This big metal thing-a-ma-jig in my backyard was saying notta.

This was bad news for the refreshed princess. Luckily I was able to contact my landlord. She said that she would try to get someone over. Try? I didn’t want to play my Royalty card to heavily, but I explained to her that it was FREAKIN HOT and that it would be swell if I could have some assistance. It was 95 degrees and I was inside my house sweating. A sweating princess is not a happy princess.

Long story short, a nice man came over and fixed it. He was very efficient. I bet he realized that he was dealing with a future queen.

I wish other people in my life were as observant.

Girl Power = More Power Than I Realized

I’m not really sure what "Girl Power" is exactly.

A friend of mine’s eight year old daughter likes me. I mean, really likes me. I took her to paint pottery on Saturday which only escalated her fondness for me. When my friend, the father of the reigning Miss Girl Power, inquired about her affection, she responded with the attitude that only an eight year old girl can have: “cuz she’s a girl.”

She’s all about the Girl Power. I don’t think I’ve ever known anyone who has liked me just because I’m a girl. I hope I have other characteristics that someone may consider first when deciding if they want to be my friend. I would like to think my wittiness or accepting personality would rank higher than just simply being a girl. I may not be the smartest fish in the bowl, but I hope that someone would admire my intelligence before persuing a friendship based solely on the fact that I’m a female.

She threatened my life the other day.

On Sunday morning Little Miss Girl Power’s father emailed me an invitation for an early dinner. Normally I jump at the chance to eat his culinary concoctions since they are incredibly delectable. Plus I’m growing tired of eating cereal for every meal. However on Sunday I had a scheduling issue. In my emailed response, I noted my conflict and waited for his reply. And waited. And waited.

Later in the afternoon I emailed him a second time with a sarcastic remark and within minutes I received an email saying “answer your freakin phone!” It seems that I had left my cell phone in my car the night before.

I fetch my phone and… there they were. Five missed calls from the president of Girl Power herself. Five very important voice mails that were impatiently waiting for my retrieval. How dare I not have my phone next to me at all times? How dare I miss even one phone call from her royal highness?

The first voice mail was sweet. She politely introduced herself by name and gently offered the invitation for dinner. The second voice mail was still sweet, but had a very slight hint of urgency. By the fifth voice mail… she was pissed and passed out all kinds of threats. With the sound of high irritation, she s-l-o-w-l-y reiterated her full name and the full name of her father just in case I was too stupid to realize the matter at hand. She then explained to me how I w-i-l-l be there for dinner. Will. And then she hung up. No closing salutations. No “I’d love to see you.” No “hope you can make it.” No “I hope you’re not dead.” Nothing. Just a click. I felt my ranking in the office of Girl Power rapidly declining.

Until Sunday I somehow managed to live 36 years with my life being threatened only once. Considering the places I’ve been and the things I’ve done, being threatened only once is a huge accomplishment. A triumph worthy of recognition. The first time was by a crazy man and now... it's by an eight year old girl.

Girl Power: Zero Tolerance.

I guess I didn’t realize that aggravating the social structure of Girl Power resulted in being reprimanded. I didn’t know that this multi-level organization required that I remain alert and on my toes in case my recruiter beckons me at any given second.

Like how all Girl Power members should, I quickly gathered my things and headed over to the castle. She was pleased. And that’s all that matters. She soon forgave me and we had a lovely conversation over dinner about how she enjoys chocolate covered ants much better than chocolate covered crickets.

Girl Power. It’s an eight year old's world and I’m slowly learning how to be worthy of it.

My dog smells like a corn dog.

And I’m not particularly sure why.

I walked into my bedroom earlier to grab my pair of Slipper Socks “with grippers” that I won at the company Christmas party last weekend. Ok, I didn’t really win them. Someone else did and decided I needed them more since they were a little girly. Plus they wouldn’t fit his big toe much less his feet. I had actually forgotten about them but remembered tonight when I noticed my toes turning blue due to my cold house. If I ever move, remind me to get an insulated house.

So there I was fetching my new blue socks. While I was trying to break the plastic tag thingy with my teeth, I noticed a smell. At first I wasn’t able to locate the source. I walked around… sniff… sniff… sniff. The smell was strangely familiar, yet out of place. Corn dogs? Do I smell corn dogs?

My mind raced through all the possibilities.

The only thing I “cooked” tonight was a pot of water for my hot chocolate. To my knowledge boiled water doesn’t have a corn dog smell. Plus, I don’t normally boil my water in my bedroom. I even stood under the air vent to see if it was the heater. Negative.

As I stood there in the middle of the room scratching my head pondering this weird corn-dog-smell-phenomenon, Pepper stood up, twirled in a few circles, rearranged her blanket and then settled back into her tight curled up position. I’ve watched her do this for nearly 16 years and it always makes me smile. Watching her do her thing. Watching her be a dog. Becoming a little sentimental, I knelt down to give the princess her daily quota of lovin. The kind where I cradle her head in my hands, rub our faces together and sprinkle her nose and squinted eyes with a million kisses.

Well, let’s just say I started to…

As our faces got closer, I realize immediately what it is that smells like corn dogs: Pepper. I would like to say for the record, I have never noticed her smelling like this. Consider me perplexed. Baffled. Corn dogs?

Do old dogs get a smell like old people? If so, is the scent normally comparable to fair food? When I wash her will this smell go away or have I now entered the next phase of doggie geriatrics? Is there an anti-corn-dog-odor pill that she can take for this?

Since it’s too cold tonight, tomorrow will be bath day. But wait… that means tonight I will be sleeping in the same room with a dog that smells like corn dogs.

I’m not really sure I can do that.

By Design

I’ve been exposed to the phrase “living your authentic self” through television, books and friends.

It wouldn’t be authentic of me to say that it didn’t confuse me. I guess I understand the idea, but the process is a little harder to grasp. It’s not easy to crawl out from under all the layers of self lies or the expectations placed by society. And from what I’ve experienced, “society” can mean as big as the world or as small as your own family. The size of the group does not determine the depth of damage.

We’re encouraged to dissect the labels that we place on ourselves. To go through them individually and determine if they help us or hurt us. To determine why they are there to begin with. Did we put them there or did someone else? Others may project their expectations onto us, but we’re guilty for naming them and allowing them to define us.

Like you, throughout my life I have experienced the pressure from other people’s expectations.

They expect me to be a certain way… good or bad. And I’m sure like you, I feel that I’ve been a constant disappointment. I don’t consider myself a people pleaser, but I do care how the people in my life feel about me. And often I place my own expectations onto them by assuming their feelings. Putting my misguided thoughts into their heads. And since it’s not always accurate, this creates a bad cycle of foolish behavior. I guess this means that owning the real me and giving back others the freedom of their own feelings will end the cycle and be a step towards becoming my authentic self.

Not sure how easy that is to do.

I am a person with dreams, goals, desires and needs, but at a young age I decided to rob myself. As a child I decided that it was better to take tiny baby steps instead of defining and focusing on what I truly want. Test the waters. Don’t make huge waves. Sneak in and if it feels wrong, sneak out. Go unnoticed. I told myself that when you enter with a bang, all eyes are on you and your mistakes are magnified. Exposed for all to judge, dissect and label. I thought remaining under the radar was the smart thing to do. It wasn’t.

I tend to be attracted to people who are daring. Spontaneous. Go getters. Not just in my love life, but in friends as well. They make me nervous, but it’s a good nervous. I’m drawn to their freedom. Their bravery. The way they do things without always having to mentally list the pros and cons. They don’t test the waters… they jump in. And often they’ll grab my hand before the big splash. Sometimes I’ll willingly jump with them, but I always hold my nose.

Maybe I’ve digressed from my “authentic self” topic. But then, maybe I haven’t.

There are all types of people. And just because someone is willing to take a chance and I’m not, doesn’t mean they have it all figured out. That they somehow hold the key to life long happiness that I’ve been searching for. I guess to live my own authentic life would be to accept the way I am. The way I’m built. The way I’m designed. To not view it as a weakness, but as my character. But then there’s always the argument of whether or not it was placed there at birth or if it was placed there by life experiences. Internalizing other people’s actions or words.

Why can’t we allow our positive experiences be our life compass? Why do we latch onto the negative? If someone allows the positive experiences be their guide, does that mean they automatically live an authentic life? If they are generally happy and love their life, does that mean they don’t have to walk through the hard stuff like the rest of us? At what point are you able to look in the mirror and know you are authentic? Maybe I’m too busy looking for the on switch and I just need to realize that it’s a life long process. An inconsistent process that can be constantly conflicting. For someone who aches for security, unpredictability isn’t good news.

Once again… I have more questions than answers.

However, I can authentically say that always having a list of questions is part of my character. I may not always ask them out loud in conversations, but they are always circling in my head. This blog just surfaces a small percentage of mine regarding this particular topic. If I keep going, a novel might break out. Maybe one day I’ll ask the right questions to the right person and learn all the hidden truths.

If so, be confident that I’ll be back here sharing the knowledge.

Dear Diary

As I routinely laid my day’s jewelry in my small antique bowl, my eyes moved upward noticing the row of books I had placed on the shelf a few years back. Books that range from biographies to Paris travel guides to Robert Frost poetry. Also in that collection are my old journals. Journals that I haven’t written in or read in years.

As a child I was obsessed with blank books. Unfilled journals. I was constantly buying them. I had this idea that one day I would fill them all with words. My words. Words that I would creatively orchestrate into a poem or a personal essay. To me, my written word was proof that I was here. That I existed.

I guess I’m still that way.

All throughout my childhood I often felt invisible. Skipped over. Not worth the effort. Looking back now, that contradicts how my life really was. My parents showed me unbelievable love. I was popular with my friends. I won awards and was fed compliments. But yet I somehow still felt undeserving.

I removed my journals from the shelf, sat on the couch and began thumbing through the pages. Reading my own words written by the younger me. Remembering how I felt as I wrote each entry. Sadness. Anger. Confusion. Not unlike the feelings that motivate the writings of this older me. It’s just more alarming when it comes from the mind of a 13 year old. Somehow when you’re older, being bitter is expected.

I notice some of the entries are quite powerful. After finishing a page, there are no questions left to ask. Feelings are clearly explained. I've discovered that my words were more raw and forthcoming as a child than they are as an adult.

There are also pages full of love and hope. Ideas for my future. Wants, needs, desires. Most of which make me smile since they are totally unrealistic. I wrote confessions of love for some stupid boy and then admitting hurt when the feelings weren’t reciprocated.

I have my grandmother’s diary from the early 1930’s. She mostly wrote about school and washing her hair. She mentioned a few times about being ill and staying in bed. After she died, I selfishly and sentimentally gathered several of her old things – her diary being one of them.

I’ve read through it many times and enjoy her innocence. I love knowing her at that age through her words. However after reading my own childhood journals… I wonder who will possess them after I’m gone. Who will be the one to thumb through my personal thoughts? My words reveal much more than my grandmother ever would have dreamed.

If as a child I viewed my journals as proof that I existed, then I must let them be exactly that. No need to hide how I felt. What I was. What I am.

I suspect this blog is a mere continuation of me proving that I exist.

Drunk Therapy ALWAYS Ends Badly

I went to a birthday party Saturday night at a friend’s house.

Great music. Good food. Since I only had a few beers, I remained in a sober state. A state that allowed me to view my friends as they… well… got drunk. Which is always such a joy and a prime opportunity for future black mailing.

It’s hilarious the things people will say or admit after a few cocktails. The truth always seems to surface. The bold questions somehow don’t seem so bold. And the answers seem to spill out so easily. Wives openly discuss how their husbands fall short of their expectations and husbands complain how they don’t have sex anymore. And then just a few minutes later, they’re dirty dancing together on the back deck.

I had an interesting conversation with two friends.

A conversation that was sprinkled throughout the night. One friend is a female and the other, a male. Both drunk and both of which I’ve known for 20 years. The conversation was about my lack of a man in my life. As I sat there in the hot seat, they darted questions towards me in hopes to solve my “problem” before the night’s end.

I soon began shooting back. Defending myself against statements like “You need to figure out what you’re doing wrong” and clichés like “It’ll happen when it’s supposed to.” For the record, these are not the best things to say. It’s like saying after someone dies: “At least they’re in a better place.” True or not, it just doesn’t help.

At some point during this therapy session with my two intoxicated friends, the bold questions started to emerge. My female friend stumbles towards my ear and whispers the slurred words, “Are you sure you’re not in love with him after all these years?” The “him” was referring to the third person in this conversation. One of my closest friends. A 20 year platonic friendship.

I take a step back…

“Are you serious?”

“It’s a logical question.”

“No. Nooooo. Noooooo.”

This then takes another comical turn. He, not knowing what she asked me, says…

“Did she ask you if you’re gay?”

“WHAT?”

“Is that what she asked you?”

”Are you now suggesting that not having a man means I’m gay???”

As humorous and waaaay off mark as this was, I quickly shut this therapy session down. Short of humping the next guy who walked by, I didn’t feel I could properly defend myself. I was backed into a corner and so I began waving my white flag.

I like drunk people.

If I never take another sip of an alcoholic beverage, I’m still hanging out with those who do. They provide humor to my life in a way that is impossible without tequila.

I must say the wobbly birthday girl held her ground very well. As I told her that night, she is the most graceful drunk I’ve ever seen. Who knows how many apple martinis she had, but she swaggered with eloquence and remained poised throughout the evening.

And I told her exactly how truly envious I am.

Why I Hate Christmas

For most of my life I’ve been called Scrooge when it comes to Christmas. I’m hoping to set the record straight and attempt to defend my already questionable reputation.

Christmas is great. It’s wonderful. Really. I swear.

You can smell cinnamon cider in the air. Children are gleefully playing in the snow. People are sharing their love through gift giving. Carolers are caroling. Sleigh bells are ringing. Blah Blah Blah… You get the drift, I’m sure.

No matter who you are, you have to agree that when its Christmas time the cheese factor is pretty high. People buy sweaters that have snowmen, santas or candy canes scattered all over them. They don’t buy just one… but they buy a crap load so they can wear them E.V.E.R.Y. freakin day. And apparently large Christmas tree earrings are a must when trying to pull off the appropriate Christmas attire. If YOU are one of these people, I mean no ill will towards you personally… just your insanely cheesy wardrobe. To me, Christmas makes the world appear as if the Clipart Fairy threw up all over it.

Christmas = Presents.

I love giving presents as well as receiving them. No doubt about it. But as a kid, I enjoyed sleeping more than I did Christmas morning. While normal children wake up with excitement billowing inside them, I was that odd kid who opted to sleep in. So every year on Christmas morning my excited older brother would run into my room, disrupt my peaceful slumber, and loudly announce that Santa had visited us during the night. It would almost take an act of congress to get me out of that warm bed. One year my most thoughtful brother received a Polaroid camera from Santa. Instead of the usual Christmas routine of forcing me out of bed, he took Polaroid’s of all my presents and brought them to my bedside. Sad story, but sweet guy.

There’s a fine line between cheese and non-cheese.

If I ever do cheese, the cheese has to be so obvious that it’s understood. Make sense? The cheese becomes the joke. This I’m okay with. Of course, if ever I had children, I’m sure my house would have been adorned with all the fake snow, yard art, and animated santas that money can buy. And I'm sure the poor things would have worn snowflake dresses and Rudolf ties. Not at the same time of course…

I’m now trying to accept the cheese within.

I’ve been given more grief about my Christmas attitude than I can shake two cinnamon sticks at. I’m not one to mold myself into what other’s expect of me, but I feel I am someone who is willing to adopt someone else’s outlook if it makes sense. I may be naturally stubborn, but not so much that I slam the door in your face if you don’t agree with my point of view.

All that to say, I’m trying to find that cheesy Christmas spirit that lurks deep, deep, deep inside me. That verrrrrry tiny place where the love of a snowman tie and a candy cane sweater struggles to survive. The incredibly small corner of my heart that is reserved only for big plastic yard art and red foil Christmas trees. Like I said, I’m trying.

Act your way into a feeling.

I’ve even listened to Christmas radio in hopes to magically absorb some of this holiday cheer. Not only in my car, but I – on extremely rare occasions – have listened to it in my office. This has freaked some of my coworkers out. They don’t know what’s going on and have grown concerned about me. I assure them that my name still is Becca and I have not been abducted by tiny-stupid-Christmas-elf-aliens. Just know that the day I show up in a Christmas sweater, I’ll have fallen way over the edge. At that point, I'll be beyond saving. Run. Save yourselves.

A little too late?

As I write this, I wonder now if Christmas was the right holiday to begin my new pro-cheese life. Maybe I should have started with Columbus Day or something. A holiday less visually celebrated in order to start off slow with little pressure. Maybe make it a goal to wish at least 12 people “Happy Columbus Day”. If the day seems to be going okay, I could hum “America the Beautiful” as if it came naturally. Then branch out the next year to Fourth of July - maybe sporting a red, white & blue attire for the day while passing out tiny flags. Adopting a new holiday each year is a good idea to me. Then by the time the King of Cheese holiday is to be incorporated into the list, I’ll be better prepared.

I should have come up with this brilliant idea before I started torturing myself. One person can only hear “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer” so many freakin times in their day before they fearl the men in white jackets coming to take them away.

Which reminds me of the lyrics of my life's theme song:

"They're coming to take me away, ha-haaa!! They're coming to take me away, ho-ho, hee-hee, ha-haaa"

The Letter

Forgiveness. What a crazy word.

I hear it thrown around all the time as if it is something easily obtainable. As if doing it is as easy as saying it.

“I forgive you.”

Like most things in my life, the more I think about it, the more confused I become. It’s difficult. It’s hard. It’s saying that I will no longer allow what you did to impact my life from this day on. I release you as my burden. But the truth is… it does still impact my life. It does still remain a burden.

I sometimes find it difficult to differentiate between forgiving and just not caring anymore. Knowing me and the way I operate, not caring about something is another form of avoidance. I avoid the pain by not caring and putting a pretty bow on it called forgiveness. True forgiveness would require me to take an extra step through the pain. A step that I would rather not endure if possible.

About ten years ago I was a juror in a murder trial.

Triple homicide. Three children were shot in the head while huddling in the corner on top of each other. As if protecting one another. I saw photos of their layered dead bodies surrounded by blood. Each photo taken from a different angle and distance. I heard the 911 tape of their mother screaming for help while the two murderers were trying to kill her. As I lived through each day of this trial, I heard and saw things that made me feel a level of emotion that I didn’t know existed. Those children. My God. Those sweet children. The mother survived the attack and as I watched her on the witness stand, I literally cried for her pain. I studied her eyes trying to comprehend what they had seen. Witnessed. The cold blooded murder of three of her four children.

The other jurors and I gave this murderer the death penalty. I was very pro capital punishment and walked away feeling like I had done my community a good service. I was mad knowing that this man had the option to appeal. My deep level of sadness and anger manifested itself into a need for bitter revenge. If someone had killed him right there in the court room… I felt it would be justified.

A few years later I was mindlessly flipping through the channels. I was halfway paying attention when I suddenly saw her face. The mother. I would recognize those eyes anywhere. One of the local stations was interviewing her about how she had forgiven these men who murdered her children. Forgiven them? But how? I saw graphic photos of what she experienced. I heard her screams. How can she forgive something – someone – so horrific?

I watched her eyes as I had done before. I listened to her words through my television. Her words were so honest and raw. Honorable. Moving. Poetic. I immediately gathered a piece of paper and pen and began writing her a letter expressing my respect. I admitted my confusion about her forgiveness, but my admiration of her decision. Within a few weeks I received a letter back from her. One that I did not expect to receive. One that spoke of peace. Of forgiveness. Of humanity. A letter that I will always hold on to and cherish.

Mary Hussian is an amazing woman.

She forgave the unforgivable. It took her several years, but she was finally able to find that place inside her. That peace. She no longer wanted the death penalty for this man that I had convicted in 1995. She fought for clemency, but failed. He died by lethal injection in 2003.

I’ve often wondered what it was inside her that clicked. What was it exactly that made her go from one extreme to the other? How did she forgive someone whose actions will impact her every day for the rest of her life? He killed her children execution style. How does one live through something so brutal and still manage to find peace? If forgiving someone requires an extra step through the pain, I don’t want to imagine that next level of her pain.

In comparison to hers, my life’s journeys have been quite mild. No matter how big my mountains are in front of me or behind me, Ms. Hussian is an example that forgiveness is possible. Doable. Even though I haven’t quite figured out her formula, I know that it exists.

Forgiveness.

The “Sunday School answer” says it’s for me and not them. However, this phrase doesn’t explain the process. It only explains the result. It doesn’t help me to understand how to turn “not caring anymore” into true forgiveness. It doesn’t explain that sometimes we need to forgive ourselves for not forgiving. Maybe this would release those pressures we place on ourselves and allow true honest healing.

I would love to have coffee with Ms. Hussian sometime. Forget the coffee… all I need is a hug.

The O'Becca Factor

Politics. Ugh. Why I’ve decided to write a political blog should be the eighth wonder of the world. I’ve touched on this subject before, but shied away from any particular issue. I do my best to avoid narrowing down my political opinions in writing because that will only result in exposing my utter ignorance.

So in order to not stray from tradition, I will attempt to be as vague and confusing as possible.

I’m not one to keep up with today’s headlines. Sure, every now and then I’ll catch the “top stories” at the top of the hour on CNN. I may watch Anderson Cooper every so often, but that’s mainly because I think he’s a cutie. Too skinny, but cute. One of my favorite shows is Larry King Live, but even I fast forward through most of the show.

I’m drawn to non-political stories. You know the kind… the little old lady who beats up a mugger. Or the dog who saves the life of a two year old. Or the teenager who throws her newly born baby into the dumpster. Or a highly successful pastor being caught with is pants down. Or how contaminated tomatoes are now being blamed for the most recent salmonella outbreak. Those stories, as inspirational, depressing or humorous as they may be, are what catch my attention.

I don’t watch war coverage.

I just can’t. For a couple of reasons. First, it depresses me. Second, it confuses me. I’m not up-to-date on all the players and so I tend to not know/understand what this game is all about. This is my fault. I totally take complete blame for my own ignorance, denial, uninterest... or whatever you want to call it. My excuse of avoidance can only defend me so far. This I realize.

And this makes me quite dangerous.

As I was sipping my second bout of coffee this morning with a friend at the neighborhood Starbucks patio freezing my ass off, I explained to him that reading about political issues now is like tuning into a movie an hour too late. Sure I can form an opinion on what little knowledge I have gathered, but that’s possibly a risky move since I don’t know what has happened before now. The information I receive from the media is filtered through their own political agenda and I find it quite difficult to trust. Candidates up for (re)election are only going to put their best foot forward and do whatever it takes to have me believe that they will make all the bad stuff go away.

Ignorance does not hinder my right to vote.

Should it? A couple of weeks before election day, should they hand out fee copies of updated “Politics for Dummies” books? Of course, I’m sure those would even be filtered depending on who’s shucking out the bucks.

Even though I probably know more about political issues than I’m letting on, it does scare me that uninformed people are voting for issues that may affect my life. There are people who go to the polls and shade in the first available oval because… well, because it’s the first one. Uninformed OCD people will have to perfectly shade in the first available oval all the way down the list. Or maybe they’ll shade in the first, then the second, then the third… until they run out and then start the whole cycle over again with the first. Granny will vote for anyone named “Robert” because that’s the name of her favorite grandson and anyone named Robert must be a good boy.

Oie Vey.

But I hesitantly admit… I can be just as damaging. I still don’t know who to vote for governor. I always default to the Democratic Party, but over the past few years I’ve decided that wasn’t a good idea. Defaulting can lead to bad uneducated decisions. But since I’ve missed the first hour of the movie, I guess can only do my best and apologize later.

And I’m going to completely avoid the topic of the fear of stupid people hacking into the electronic voting machines. If “they” can’t avoid people from manipulating the election results, how am I going to trust that they can prevent another tall building from crumbling down.

Red states. Blue states.

We live in America where statistics are used as often as they can. We love statistics. Red. Blue. Rural. Urban. Democrat. Republican. Americans tend to vote the way their families have. A kid growing up on a farm is probably going to vote Democrat because that’s what his family did. Same goes for a person voting Republican who grew up surrounded by the great resources of a big city. If your parents are Southern Baptist… you will be, too.

Gotta respect people who have learned to make their own decisions about politics, religion and life. Just because that’s the way your momma made the meatloaf doesn’t mean that it’s the best way. Side bar: My momma does make great meatloaf and I don’t even attempt to out do her.

Competition = Choices

I believe that all these different views are good. It creates competition which can – at times – be healthy. I wish we had more competition in life. Choices on electric companies, gas companies, schools, etc. I think it would bring quality up and prices down. But who am I... I’ve already admitted my lack of knowledge on the issues of today’s society.

I just went back and re-read what I’ve thus far typed.

If being vague and confusing and avoiding specific topics was my goal from the start, I believe I’ve achieved it. I will now put this blog out of it's misery and end it. I’ve been told I have the ability to write three pages about absolutely nothing. I can write you a short essay about the description and social importance of a mere thimble. And I’m sure it’s a talent that will amount to absolutely nothing.

There is no moral to this political blog. In order to have a moral, there would have been motivation from the beginning. It lacks insightfulness (a critique I received just this morning from my friend as we downed our hot coffee). If I were to attempt to summarize this jumbled mess, it would be to say that people need to vote. And if they don’t vote, let it be due to being uninformed on the issues and not because of laziness. Don’t vote for the fear of making the wrong choice and not because it’s out of your way.

Ok, I’m done with political blogs for now.