Droids or ninjas?

      A couple of days ago my neighbor's son paraded around his front yard in his Halloween costume. His mother had added cotton balls to his Iron Man pajamas to bulk it out into a muscular superhero suit for him, and they picked up a cheap mask at Party City to complete the look. He was perplexed, however, because he was also strongly drawn to being Darth Vader. The deciding fact for him, of course-the muscles. Forget the menacing lure of a lightsaber, a cotton ball Hans and Franz "Pump You Up" physique was much more enticing to him.
        His consternation reminded me of Andrew's dilemma back when he was about 5 or 6. It was about 1997 or so, the year after the re-releases of the Star Wars trilogy, and he was part of the new generation of kids that got sucked into the Star Wars universe like I did. When it came time to pick out a Halloween costume that October, there was little doubt that he would go for a Star Wars character. We looked at several different costumes, from villains like Vader or a stormtrooper to Boba Fett to the hero side of the aisle, Han Solo or Luke Skywalker. The final decision was C3PO, based less on the droid's persnickety fussiness than on his gleaming gold head, the cool exposed wires in his abdomen, and his proper British accent.
     The problem with this choice was that ninjas had become all the rage over the past several years. Cool black ninja suits, throwing stars, swords and batons and nunchaku-these were seriously cool weapons. And for a 5 year old? To choose between channeling the best movie he had ever seen, for which he already had action figures, lightsabers, Happy Meal plastic junk toys, and trading cards, and dressing as a silent and stealthy warrior, was an excruciating decision. Andrew already had a huge problem with making purchasing decisions, the type that more than once caused him to run from one toy to another in a store until I gave him a timed countdown to make the final choice or risk getting nothing. (We all know how those end, the split last-second decision, the momentary jubilation, the agony of the car ride back home, the wail of "I should have gotten the other one instead" from the back seat).
      After an inordinate amount of time in the store, he decided on C3PO, based on the rationale that he could always be a ninja another year but that C3PO would not always be available, since it was just riding the surge after the re-releases of the Star Wars trilogy. Of course, on Halloween night, once dressed up, his other inclinations began to tug on him, and he bemoaned the fact that he had chosen a costume with no weapons of any sort. Alas! Why oh why had he not chosen Chewbacca with a cool bowcaster, or Vader with his lightsaber, or Han with a blaster? Oh, to have wasted an opportunity to show off martial prowess with some sort of weapon.
        Andrew, being inventive, soon remedied this situation. He plundered through his toys until he found a sword. It was the type that was probably sold with a Roman Centurion helmet, or possibly a Crusader armored helm. He stuck this in his belt, dragging behind him on the ground, and pronounced himself properly attired for trick-or-treating.
        I don't know how many people asked him about his costume, but his answer to all of them was the same "I'm C3PO." Pause five seconds. "With a sword". Totally and fearlessly unaware and unashamed of the incongruity of a futuristic robot being armed with a weapon more befitting a Norse god, he dragged that thing up and down the street, announcing his identity whether he was questioned about it or not. "C3PO."That  dramatic pause. "With a sword."
      The only drama came when an older lady answered her door and exclaimed over Andrew "Oh, I love your R2D2 costume." I remember having to stop him from pulling his sword out for some serious smiting of her based upon her (criminal) inability to distinguish between R2D2 and C3PO. He was incensed for the rest of the street to have been mistaken for being the other droid. That motivated him to announce loudly and clearly who he was before the door was even fully opened to him for the rest of the evening.
    So tonight I surely will be looking for kids wearing Iron Man costumes and  lightsabers dangling from their belts, for Princess Jasmine with vampire fangs, for all those kids who CAN'T get everything they need from just one identity. How can you NOT carry that awesome Captain America shield just because you are the Hulk? Kids have it right-you can be who you want to be.
     C3PO.
     With a sword.

In Praise of Grandmothers

    I am both a statistical anomaly and a lucky man. I lived until last November with a full set of grandmothers-actually, with a spare, representing maternal, paternal, and step- line. How many others are privileged enough to take daily lessons of wisdom, of love, and of sacrifice so far into life? 
    Although my grandfathers all passed away, the last one several years ago, I was left with three wonderful ladies who loved me, who taught me by example and by word not only how life used to be but how it might be and how it should be if I were only to set my path to get where I knew I needed and wanted to go. Who showed me how to treat other people with warmth and dignity, to discipline children with firmness but without anger, to be upfront and honest and gracious to everyone I meet. To love God and look for his face in every face I see.
     Well, I lived until last November this way, until Grandmother Harrington, my mom's mother, died after a slow decline into the shadowland of Alzheimer's. Although you might say that she began to die when she could no longer remember any of us, and it might be pretty close to the truth that her death came between her memory loss and her actual body finally fading away in her sleep, it is still an awfully final snap to get that call from your mom telling you that your grandmother is gone. She was the one with whom I spent the most time of all three, the one closest to the cookie-baking doting-on-grandkids stereotype. Even after I grew up and moved out on my own, I found every opportunity I could to visit her in the house that never changed, that represented all that was warm and comfortable and familiar about my childhood. It was a blow to finally realize that even though she was lost to me for years, the final note was played and nothing was left but memories.
       My cousin Todd is a kind, witty, and personable Baptist minister, and I assumed he would be doing her service. For some reason, my mom asked me to co-officiate with him, although my knowledge of preachin' and churchin' is limited to the Book of Common Prayer and my lack of any skill of extemporaneous prayer (that is, prayer that is unrehearsed and spontaneous, made up on the spot) terrorized me. Todd and I put our heads together during her visitation service prior to the funeral, and figured out how we would split the duties.
      I jotted down some notes of what I wanted to say, and sprinkled in some short phrases from the burial liturgy that meant a lot to me and would help me to express my feelings better. I knew that Todd would do a fine job of that smoothly-flowing spontaneous prayer that inspired pastors do so well, so I chose ideas based on her life and what I had learned from Grandmother.
     Here is the text of my eulogy:
 

   "         From the Book of Common Prayer

Grant, O Lord, to all who are bereaved the spirit of faith and
courage, that they may have strength to meet the days to
come with steadfastness and patience; not sorrowing as those
without hope, but in thankful remembrance of your great
goodness, and in the joyful expectation of eternal life with
those they love. And this we ask in the Name of Jesus Christ
our Savior. Amen.

            We are the luckiest of families, lucky to keep our mother, grandmother, great-grandmother until almost the age of 100, well into our own lives. Talk with your friends, your co-workers, your church families, and you will learn how blessed it is that Grandmother has been there for us for so much of our lives.

I am lucky to have lived with her for almost a year as a child. I am lucky to have spent so much time in her company and in all of your fellowship at her house for so many years.

          Her house was always like a time capsule. The Reader’s Digests that featured Humor in Uniform from the Vietnam War, the pictures that never changed, the furnishings that were never updated: to visit and fall into the slower rhythms of a calmer, more peaceful lifestyle. Where else as a kid could life revolve around talking around the table for an hour after the dishes were cleared, around snapping beans and peas; where else would a kid look forward to spring break all year long despite the worst selection of toys in the world? Really, a bucket of broken army men, plastic airplanes, and cracked golf balls? In a world changing from month to month, you could always count on Grandmother’s house to be eternal and unchanging, where the same old stories were told, where the pleasure of sitting around just talking and visiting were supreme over the television, where the menu was always your favorite meals of all times. Someone once asked me what my favorite food is, and the only answer that made sense to me is “ Whatever my Grandmother cooks.”

            Although we didn’t realize it at the time, she was teaching us every minute of every day we spent with her. The simple pleasures of company around the table, the value of fresh produce over canned, the importance of playing outside all day long before coming in at dinnertime. We learned the scandalous cheer of Roll Tide Roll Around the Bowl and Down the Hole from her, we learned that it was more important to cheer for the Tigers and the Braves no matter what and especially when they got whipped. We learned to sit in the living room in front of the TV and not pay any attention to it. I don’t think I can remember a single TV show I watched in her den, but I sure remember sitting and talking and stringing beans into a big metal bowl at my feet…

            We learned thrift-boy, did we learn thrift. Who else has seen her drop ice on the floor, pick it up, and wash it off so as not to waste it? Who else remembers going to Jack’s and fighting over who got which combo meal based upon which coupons were left? It was not even an option to buy something with no coupon…

            Maybe her last lessons were the most important. When she started to lose her memory and not recognize us, she taught us that who we are and what we have done is not as important as just belonging. Even though she did not know WHO I was, she knew that I was someone in the family,that I belonged to her, and she would smile when I came in. And I had to learn that that was the important thing…

            We owe a great debt to her for keeping us together after Granddaddy died. From him we got our sense of humor, our energy, our sense of fun. From Grandmother we learned the simple values of home and family and togetherness, to love one another and to enjoy each other’s company. Of comfort.

Eternal Lord, Heavenly Father, eternal rest grant unto her, and let light perpetual shine upon her. Amen"

     I miss Grandmother, some days more than others. There is not a Sunday when, during the Prayers of the People when we pray for "all who have died in the hope of the resurrection...let us pray to the Lord" that I do not whisper her name. I know that I will probably miss her with less of a sharp pain and more of a dull ache as time goes on, because that is the way of things and that is how God heals us, but for now I am comforted by the memories she left even though they come with a hard edge of bitter melancholy.

 May her soul, and the souls of all the departed,
through the mercy of God, rest in peace. Amen.

       

Still going to be the same world after the election

Stolen words from my friend Betty Bond express my thoughts perfectly:
 No matter who wins on election day, our nation’s problems, let alone the world’s, will not all be solved. Maybe whoever is elected president will be able to help the family up the street with the out-of-work husband and the sick wife. But there will be many times in the next four years where it is going to be up to me to help that family. The consequences of this election, or any election, do not absolve us from the command to love our neighbor as ourselves. Whoever is president (or senator or judge), we are still called to reach out to a hurting world.

I have friends on both the left and right of the political continuum, being center-left myself but agreeable to those of other ideas, and this election is really bringing out the nastiness in everyone. I'm beginning to experience a kind of outrage fatigue. After hearing (and fact-checking) numerous counts of Obama being a Kenyan Muslim who is secretly waging a war against Christian America and trying to bring down the economy in favor of a socialist dictatorship and others equally astonishing of Mitt Romney being an evil privileged magic-underwear clad cultist with a dancing horse and a desire to revoke women's right to vote, I am finding it harder and harder to even CARE any more. With only slight exaggeration, I say that my feelings are akin to the townspeople in the story of the little boy who cried wolf. I have been subjected to such horrid lies, rumor, and damned statistics by both sides that I find it hard to muster any outrage when it is needed.
Maybe the key, like Betty reminds me, is that after all the work of the election is done and we have a President for the next four years, that we go back to our normal lives, reach out to each other, help those who are hurting, comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable.
Maybe we should render unto Caesar that which is Caesar's and unto God that which is God's. And that which is God's is not only worship and praise (the 1st Great Commandment) but loving my fellow-man like unto myself (the 2nd). Maybe the solution is not with tax breaks or tax increases or laws or regulations, but with all of us going about the business or living and helping each other, of paying our bills and educating our children and doing the best we can.
I certainly am set to do my part.