My Little Brony

There is a chance I am accidentally-on-purpose raising my infant son to be a fan of My Little Pony.  Is it because I'm a raging feminist, hell-bent on smashing gender-norms?  Is it because I can't stand cartoons for little boys?  Is it because I am obsessed with pink and sparkly things?

No on all counts.

Except the pink and sparkly one.  I do like things that are pink and sparkly.

I guess, even before I get started, I should explain that I am NOT plopping my baby down in front of the television and walking away for hours on end.  We watch a little bit, though, mostly because it helps with his torticollis (he is supposed to do stretching and exercises to strengthen the neck muscles on his left side).  If I position him a certain way, and he is interested in something (be it the TV, the cats, or a toy), he'll force his head to turn in the correct direction.  So there, that's for all the parents out there who are scandalized that I would even begin to allow my baby to become part of the entertainment culture.

Moving on...

I am an adult, yes, and I like cartoons.  I always have.  But even I approached the latest incarnation of My Little Pony with hesitation.  I'd heard about bronies and I thought that whole thing was a little weird.  I was a fan of the franchise when I was a child, but it wasn't my favorite.  (That honor would have been a tie between Jem and the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, with She-Ra and the Ghostbusters following close behind.)  But, as I stated above, I like sparkly things, and I really enjoy Flash animation.  

So I got hooked.

Image from en.wikipedia.org.

It was easy to identify with Twilight Sparkle.  She's initially an introvert, a reader and scholar who prefers not to interact with people.  Hi, that's me kind of.  She's also a perfectionist and has a lot of potential.  Also kind of me-ish.  As the series progressed, I found my friends represented in the other main characters.  My friend Jaime, who I frequently mention on this blog, is like Pinkie Pie in that she is exceptionally outgoing, loves making people smile, and has boundless energy (even though she has FOUR rambunctious daughters).  My friend Emily has an element of Rarity to her; though I wouldn't call her vapid or vain, she's intensely creative, talented, and has a definite eye for design and fashion.  My friend Lindsay isn't as bashful as Fluttershy, but she is gentle, kind, sweet, soft-spoken and full of love for living things.  My sister Jules is the epitome of Applejack - a green-eyed, blond-haired country girl who doesn't mind getting dirty and who has the work ethic of, well, a Clydesdale.  My friend Jordan is a tough rebel-turned-good girl who is confident and strong-willed, but who would do anything for her friends.  I think that makes her Rainbow Dash.

Having said all that, why is it so important for my son to watch this show as he grows up?  Well...as much as I love the superhero cartoons, they don't talk a whole lot about second chances and redemption.  The thing I love most about MLP: Friendship is Magic is the element of forgiveness.  I love the way that the characters grow and learn, and their progress isn't erased as new storylines develop.  I love that, in multiple story arcs, the "bad guys" are given the chance to be heroes, to learn from their mistakes, and to make friends.  Sometimes they change, and sometimes they don't, but it's rare to see that kind of progressiveness in cartoons.  Regardless of the medium, what a beautiful lesson to teach children!  That we make bad choices and it's okay to try again.  That a friend's bad choices doesn't mean she is a bad person. That people can change when they want - or need - to.  That trust must be earned and valued.

And, that it's okay for that lesson to be wrapped up in a sparkly pink bow.

Even for boys.

Pinecone Promise

Despite my wonderful family surprising me with a new Kindle, I haven't really sat down with a can't-put-it-down book in a while.  This weekend, I did.  Possibly against my better judgment, I read A Stolen Life by Jaycee Dugard.

If you haven't read the book already, it might be because you know the story would disturb you; therefore, I am not sharing any explicit details of Ms. Dugard's captivity here.  If you have read it, then you can possibly understand the inexpressible sadness I feel for the theft of a young woman's freedom.

As you might expect, there was little in the book I - or anyone who has not experienced the terror of kidnapping - could relate to.  Page after page detailed Ms. Dugard's confusion about what was being done to her, concern for her mother, and the struggle to cling to the hope that she might someday be free.  That hope was juxtaposed with the understanding that the real world might be too much for her to handle, even if she did gain her freedom.  It is heart-rending to read - but exciting, knowing that she is, in fact, reclaiming her life even now!

Still, amid the chapters chronicling events that I had mercifully never had to endure, there were moments that felt as though they were stolen from my own ill-kept journals.  Ms. Dugard mentions keeping a diary that she dedicated to a kitten given to her when she was, I believe, twelve years old.  The words she chose and the way she expressed her love for that kitten brought tears to my eyes because I felt like I was reading my own thoughts, written by another - only this other was a child trapped by sexual predators.  Strangely, if you didn't know her back story, I don't believe you could imagine that Ms. Dugard was trapped at all.  Her words, her little doodles, her love letters to her pet seemed as though any compassionate, maturing child could have written them.  Maybe even me.

Further along in the book, Ms. Dugard records a list of some of her favorite musicians during a time that would be (though she did not know it) close to her release from hell.  I caught my breath and read the list a few more times.  These were songs that I liked.  Artists that I listened to on the radio, music I had downloaded from iTunes.  Suddenly, again, I felt close to this stranger.  Sure, they may well have simply been the popular songs that were getting airplay at the time...but to know that I was free to listen to them in my car, in my apartment, at a friend's house, at the gym...and this woman never was...well, that was sobering.

Also, in reading Ms. Dugard's impressions of her captor, I was appalled at what was done to her.  Yes, physically, yes emotionally, but this self-deluded religious fanatic almost stole from her the precious gift of hope.  As her brave story proves, there are times when hope is, quite literally, all we have left.  For those who believe in Christ, He is our hope, as are the promises God made through the Bible.  Even that hope was marred for Ms. Dugard, as her vile captor was a sexually sadsistic self-proclaimed prophet who perverted scripture even as he abused her.

I don't know what religious beliefs, if any, Ms. Dugard holds right now.  But there is a power beyond her own that is allowing her to take an impossibly brave step, and forgive the people who contributed to her suffering.  I am grateful, for whatever reason, that she is allowing herself to move on, establish a life for herself and her daughters, without the threat of bitterness to cloud her bright future.  Surely that kind of decision must be made with a great deal of love, support, compassion and understanding from a great many hearts, and I thank God that Ms. Dugard is now surrounded by those kinds of people.

When I look back on the difficulties of my childhood - and there were many - I can cover them all with the blanket of knowing that I was always - always - safe among friends.  In fact, I was always safe, even among "enemies", for those who I thought hated me never would have done to me what was done to this remarkable, beautiful and incredibly strong young woman.

May you be greatly blessed, and may every single second of your stolen life be returned you you a hundred-fold, Ms. Jaycee Dugard.

Ten Years Later

I was twenty years old; I was at Clarion University.  I was crossing the campus, headed from my dorm, Givan Hall, to class at the theater building, Marwick-Boyd.  I cut through the student center - probably because I was lazy - and saw on the television the image of a burning building.  The newscaster was saying that a plane had crashed into one of the Twin Towers.  I continued on my way to class, thinking it was a shame that such a mistake could happen.  Those are the distinct thoughts I remember having: "such a shame."

Once I reached the lobby of Marwick-Boyd, I could tell that they had all heard the news, too, and that something else had happened in the seven minutes that it took for me to walk from Gemmell to the Boyd.

Something about another plane.  Something about the Pentagon.  Something about people dying, and a terrorist attack.

It may have been the first time in our collective lives, but all the theater kids were silent as we gathered in the main office, sitting on the floor and barely breathing.  The story unfolded painfully, leaving our minds open to horrible possibilities and fears.  Jack, a native New Yorker, had gone completely ashen and didn't speak for most of the day.  Amy was crying.  Katie was crying.  I was anxious, and scared, and angry, and confused, and I was cold all over.

When I heard about the plane in Somerset County, I had to fight back tears.  My dad was a truck driver, and that area was where one of his routes was located.  I borrowed a cell phone from a friend (it is so hard to imagine a time without one; but it was, after all, ten years ago).  The first time I dialed my dad's number, I couldn't get through and I panicked.  I started to pray.  I tried again and he answered.  "Daddy," I cried, "Are you okay?"  

"Yes, sweetie, I'm fine."  

"Are you in Somerset?  I heard on the news - " 

"No, honey, I switched runs with another guy this morning."  

"Is he okay?!"  

"We haven't heard from him yet..."  A pause.  "Keep praying.  I don't know what's going on right now, but it's really bad stuff.  We gotta pray."

I did just that, leaving the rest of my peers and finding a quiet place in the building. I prayed.  I prayed in tongues, I prayed in English, I didn't even know what to pray.  I just kept praying "Please help."

Later, we learned that my dad's co-worker was perfectly fine, but he wasn't working too far from where the plane crashed.  Later, sitting the living room of a classmate, I wrote a poem about exactly what was happening.  What Bobby was saying as he sat in the chair across the room.  What Meghan looked like.  What I overheard on the news.  Words spilled out in a discordant song.  A symphony that sounded like fear.   A year later, I wrote another poem, calling it "Anniversary".  And now, nearly ten years later, I write this.

Those of us who saw the smoke billowing, heard the screams, saw the firefighters going in, kept seeing the image - repeated over and over and over - of the plane crashing into the Tower - cannot forget.  It is to my generation what the assassinations of Kennedy and King, Jr. were to our parents.  The 9-11 attacks were the same crime, in essence, as those murders, perpetrated by the same attackers - people full of hate, jealousy, and condemnation.

For years, when I heard a plane overhead, my heart stopped.  Even now, when I look in the sky and see a low-flying craft, I pause and hope everything is functioning properly within the plane - and the people aboard.

In the darkest places of my mind, I wonder...how could anyone, regardless of race, religion, or beliefs - find joy in such abject terror, death, and destruction?  Surely, the feeling of power alone must compensate for the guilt.  It must overshadow the responsibility for taking thousands of lives and leaving hundreds of thousands more dealing with heart-wrenching grief.  The idea of teaching Americans a lesson must have been more important than those American children having parents alive to raise them.

Although I don't believe any good was intended to come of the attacks, I believe that much did.  I believe that much more good came than the attackers would have wished.  I wish I could believe that, with the death of bin Laden, that even greater good would come, and that the killing, altogether, could stop.

I am not a pacifist.  Please know that.  Nor do I condemn any American for his or her role in the death of an internationally-wanted terrorist.  Our military did what it promised to do, and the people who died horrible deaths - and the families they left behind - have justice.

I want to believe that the celebrations in the streets, the flag-waving and the off-key anthems were for an American triumph, the accomplishment of a hard-won goal...and not for the death of one man.  I truly believe that we did what we had to.  It wasn't an issue of pride.  It hasn't been - at least not entirely - for some time.  It had become an issue of protection, of justice, of freedom.  And now, even with his death, it is still an issue of protection, justice and freedom.

Now, it's just a little less personal.

I have seen and heard many, many people quoting scripture regarding America's victory shout.  The one I see most frequently is about not taking joy in the death of an enemy: "Say to them, 'As surely as I live, declares the Sovereign LORD, I take no pleasure in the death of the wicked, but rather that they turn from their ways and live. Turn! Turn from your evil ways! Why will you die, people of Israel?" (Ezekiel 33:11)  I have also been seeing another verse from the same book: ""Do I take any pleasure in the death of the wicked? declares the Sovereign LORD. Rather, am I not pleased when they turn from their ways and live?" (Ezekiel 18:23)

People are using these quotes to state that we should not rejoice in a man's death.  I agree.  To a point.  The first quote is said directly to Israel, God's chosen people (not to Gentiles or pagans)...who were themselves even subject to his righteous anger for their own sin (read Numbers 25:1-9 if you don't believe me).  The second is God speaking, saying that he does not delight in wicked people dying; rather that he would greatly prefer their choosing his ways and living.  It does NOT say that the wicked will not die.

Do I delight in the death of this evil man?  No.  I cannot rejoice when anyone dies - not even if I think they deserve it.  Heck, I may be the only one in my family who still tends to balk at the death sentence.  Still...

Am I relieved and proud that our servicemen and women did their duty?  Am I grateful that at least his personal reign of terror is over?  Am I hoping that his death will bring about a time of healing, forgiveness and restoration for all the people - not just Americans - that he has attacked?  Am I praying that the eyes of his followers will be opened to the truth of his hate, cruelty, and wickedness?

Absolutely.

"My Mom Is..."

We frequently listen to K-LOVE, a Christian radio station relatively new to Pittsburgh.  This week, they were holding a contest.  Listeners called in and completed the sentence "My mother is..." and the winner was randomly selected to take her mom to lunch with Dr. Dobson and his daughter in Colorado!  I tried calling a few times, but never got through.

No matter.  A blog is longer-lasting than a few seconds' worth of radio fame, and my mom deserves better than a sound clip anyway.

My mom is a picture of God's grace and compassion.  Although she is not my biological mother, she is so much more to me than 'my dad's second wife'.   Deana and my father were married fifteen years ago.  It was an ugly thing at first, the way I saw it.  I was a sixteen-year-old girl who was both deeply angry at and deeply jealous of my father, who had initiated the divorce with my mother.  He was choosing to marry an attractive young woman with a very young child who was practically already calling my father "Daddy".  I hated it.  What was wrong with my mother?  What was wrong with my sister and me that my dad needed another one to spoil? 

Deana was, for her relatively young age, a very wise woman.  Never once did she try to take my mother's place; in fact, she never took on traditional 'motherly' role at all.  She never lectured or nagged - which was great...but unfortunately at the time her cooking was not as good as my mom's, so I guess things evened out (she has since greatly expanded her repertoire and I am now using some of her recipes to feed my own man).  I don't think Deana ever stopped praying for me.  She waited patiently for me to return her love as I was wrestling with teenage hormones, my parents' split, college decisions, loneliness, job possibilities, sibling rivalry, self-esteem issues, and God.  For a long time, I returned that love and compassion with listlessness, impatience, apathy and anger.  Even when I broke down and chose civility over neglect, poor Deana was still the odd man out.  I was Dad's firstborn and that was never going to change, so I was used to getting my way.  Jules was the baby, and had very different needs than her teenage step-sisters, so she often got what she wanted, too.  My dad was the only man in the household, so he took priority, too.  Only Deana was the one to wait her turn, the sacrifice, to hold her tongue.  What a lesson in humility!  Even during family arguments, Deana was the rational one, the one who never, ever lost her head (especially over the stupid things Dad and I tended to argue about).

As I went away to college, it was Deana who sent silly little letters and care packages.  Deana was the one who picked out birthday cards and Christmas gifts.  Deana was the one who continued to be the voice of patience and reason in an often temperamental household.  Deana was the one who spent hours on family photo albums, scrap-booking pictures of children from a life she'd never even played a part in.  Deana was the one who (with how many other faithful women, I will never know) prayed fervently for my future husband, and it was Deana who was among the first to recognize and accept Ross Godlove as that very man.  

It was Deana who stepped in as Mother of the Bride on my wedding day. 

For those of you who do not know, my own mother keeps a low profile.  She has a lot of physical ailments that keep her from social events - and from spending time with people at all.  I keep in touch with her regularly, but cell service is very sketchy where she lives (hint: it's not Pennsylvania).  When I received the RSVP card from her and there was an X next to "cannot attend", my heart just broke.  I knew it was coming, but to know that, without a doubt, my own mother would not be at my wedding was a very heavy burden to bear.  Even now, sometimes, when I think about it, my heart aches.

Deana had already been planning my bridal shower, which was a blast thanks to the amazing McCaffrey clan (who opened their home and their hearts on a very very cold December night).  When I told her about my mom, she simply hugged me.  She didn't offer anything but comfort, but I knew then and there that she'd be the one to light the unity candle on my wedding day...even if my own mother did show up.  I told her so.  She smiled, but said that if my mom was able to make it, she would absolutely defer to her.

I knew she wouldn't need to.

Several years before I met Ross, I received a beautiful prophecy from Cathy Lechner, a dear friend of the Moder family.  She spoke of the desires of my heart: marriage and a husband who would serve God willingly.  The small group of leaders cheered as I wept gratefully; this was something that everyone else desired for me, too, since they'd seen my unsuccessful relationships in the past.  Cathy laughed as she spoke more about the wedding itself and how our families would love each other and fit together "like peanut butter and jelly", as she put it.  Then Cathy turned to Deana and said, clear as day, "Her wedding will be a day of healing for you."

I didn't understand at the time, but a few weeks after my wedding, I realized that all Deana had ever wanted from me was to be loved and accepted.  I never needed to choose her over my mom, I never needed to defer to her ideas or opinions - in fact, we still disagree about shoe-styles, and about what tastes good on a fish sandwich.  What I needed was to treat her with respect and compassion, as she treated me.  When she got to stand in as my mom - when I began to introduce her as my mom - when I realized that she was the only "mom" of mine that Ross had met, I understood that the circumstances surrounding my wedding were a gift from God to my stepmother!  He allowed her that honored position because of all the love she'd poured out over my family.

Now, Ross and I call her "MomDee".  I had never actually called Deana "Mom" before.  I never wanted to dishonor my own mother.  And even now, I know that I am not.  I love my mother very much.  She has many traits that I admire and I pray that she recovers from her illness and fulfills the plans God has made for her.  In many ways, I do hope to be like my mother: tenacious, protective, selfless, hard-working.  In many ways, though, I want to be like my stepmother: wise, compassionate, good-hearted and patient.

I got the best of both worlds.  God split the Proverbs 31 woman into two souls, and both mentored and guided me to adulthood.

I love you, MomDee.  Thank you for marrying my dad and for being a picture of God's grace and compassion in my life, in the lives of countless Berean children, and in the life of my wonderful husband.

We're not ready to give you grand-kids just yet, but you'll be the first to hold them when they're born.