Interestingly enough, I ordered this movie (netflix is my hero) because I misread another blog written by a friend of mine. In the body of the blog, he refers to this wonderful movie, Promises, and raves about it. I went to Netflix, looked for Promises and this came up. I didn't know anything about it except that I give credence to Chance's suggestions as he is a legitimate movie buff. After watching it last night, I couldn't believe this was one of Chance's favorite movies. It didn't seem to be a "Chance movie"...indeed, I was correct. While the body of the blog referes to Promises, the title refers to Eastern Promises.
Ah, that explains it. I neglected a key piece of information. Eastern Promises is a crime drama about the Russian Mafia. Promises is a documentary about the lives of children living within the Israeli-Palestinian conflict produced during the peaceful years of 1997-2000.
I'm glad I misread. Children are capable of explaining things in a very pure and superficial way at times. This makes it easy to understand, while at the same time experiencing the very real emotion (or lack thereof) that they deliver. While watching, I was struck by the simplicity of their answers to very complex situations. As a result of their youth, there was very little rationalization about the process and you are able to see the root of the conflict at its base-level. Two sets of people believe that God gave them the land in question. One set used to live there, one set lives there now. One group of people will do what they can to get it back, one group of people will do what they can to keep it. There is no compromise. There is no understanding further. They each look at the other with suspicion, and as I could best interpret, genuine hatred. Although, hatred through the eyes of a child is muted with not as much complication. It exists simple because it exists.
I think it left me with a deep sense of longing to do something as documentaries are wont to do. It also left me with the realization that there isn't much I can do. It seems that this is a problem that only God can fix as His "promise" is the center of the dispute. I mean, seriously, how do you rationalize over religion and the promises found within one?
Anyway, the word "complicated" was used a lot in the documentary. It certainly fits.
If you haven't seen this documentary, I would highly recommend it. Certainly, we are all aware of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, but this gives it from the perspective of the children living within it and in spite of it. It's a strange beast to watch a child with radical beliefs spewing out of his or her mouth. It's even stranger to watch hopelessness from children.
Let's all go to the movies
After some discussion the other night, Mason and I realize that it's been well over three years since he and I went to the movies together. Three whole years. One year, because it's not something we did much anyway. Two years, because we were pregnant and remodeling our house and worked on said house for an entire nine months preparing for the arrival of baby, then baby arrived. Three years, because we have now had that baby and she is so wonderful that we leave her as little as possible, and when we do (leave her), we try to further our minds through cultural experiences (ha!) or at least let loose and run about wildly when we are freeeee.
What made me think about this, is that I really want to go see No Country For Old Men. As lifelong fan of the Cohen Brothers I am desperate to see it. I understand that it is dark. I understand that the content is violent. I also understand that watching one of their movies is like reading a book. The movie isn't driven by plot alone or music or scenery...it's all of those things and you leave feeling as if you've actually been entertained. I can remember most of their movies piece by piece because they are memorable. I can watch them over and over because there is enough to find "new" with each viewing and the old is still not "old".
Of course, there are so many other things I could do with two free hours, that I might just wait until it comes to DVD.
What made me think about this, is that I really want to go see No Country For Old Men. As lifelong fan of the Cohen Brothers I am desperate to see it. I understand that it is dark. I understand that the content is violent. I also understand that watching one of their movies is like reading a book. The movie isn't driven by plot alone or music or scenery...it's all of those things and you leave feeling as if you've actually been entertained. I can remember most of their movies piece by piece because they are memorable. I can watch them over and over because there is enough to find "new" with each viewing and the old is still not "old".
Of course, there are so many other things I could do with two free hours, that I might just wait until it comes to DVD.
Mere Christianity
C.S. Lewis
"if you don’t love someone, act as if you do, and your feelings will catch up"
The Doctor Will See You Now
I don't feel like I can be the sick Lael that needs help when I go to church. I feel like I need to be the already healed Lael so no one judges me. I'm not blaming members of any church or anyone at all, it's just on overall perception that I bring to the table.
These days, I seem to be looking for support from sinners who have changed, but were/are still sinners. How did/do they do it, what prayers did/do they pray, bible studies did/do they attend, tricks did/do they use to get through the tough times, who did they turn to...you know...that type of thing. I cannot be supported by people who do not understand someone who has lived a less than perfect life; who does not understand someone who has demons and family issues and all sorts of sins that have collected for 31 years and continue to collect. I seem to be more complicated than everyone else is around me. I am the poster child for the need for salvation - ha! The problem is that I feel like I better put on my pretty, white, and clean Lael to parade around in front of people or else I'll be some kind of social pariah.
I've had some very real and bad things happen in my life as a child and adult. So bad they still make me cringe and hurt. I've made some extraordinarily bad decisions in my life, so bad that they still haunt me to this day. I've struggled with addiction in the past, and sometimes struggle not to return there. I've struggled with marriage problems. I have self-inflicted trouble and not self-inflicted trouble. I get really angry with God and find myself ten million miles away wondering "how" or "if" I even want to return to Him. I struggle with anger and frustration and handling it appropriately. But, surely, there are other Christians out there like this - even in my church, right? So why after two years do I not know them? Are they really all that good or am I'm just that person?
Truth is, I don't always need a sermon. Sometimes I need a place where people come clean and feel good about it - just so we could see that we all have a little blight. A place where you can openly admit that you stole a pack of gum or that your soul is so dark you think you're unsaveable. A place for some relief, to feel unconditional certainty that there is no judgement, that you are loved, but that you're not alone too. I feel the first three are handled in a decent manner, but that last one...that one I don't feel so much. Is this where the church is coming up short? Is this the crack in the wall that no one is paying attention to? Is this why so many people who grew up Christians don't return after they've made a few mistakes and lived a bit more than your average bear? To exagerate, but make, a point: If you've run around naked in a field with a bunch of other people at a festival high as a kite, do you really relate to the orthodontist sitting next to you who appears to have all of her ducks in a row? What if she did it too, but in an effort to looked "saved" never admits what she needed saved from. What would the church look like if we all walked in with our sins literally written across our chests? A bunch of needy people would take notice. A bunch of sick people would think they could get the same help as the other sick people who might be better now but still struggling in one way or another. There would be depth to the friendships beyond just taking a meal when needed or hanging out each Sunday. You would be sisters in sin and thus sisters in Christ (or brothers).
None of my friends that relate to me on a personal level are church-going Christians. Many aren't Christians at all. That's ok to me. I love them and will always love them. But they can't put that life into Christian context, which is really where I need to go. They can't help me tune into God through my troubles and learn how to let go of my own understanding of a situation. Basically, they help "me" figure out how to help "me". This is helpful at the time, but in the end, I think it's counter productive as I haven't learned how to reach out to God and then it happens again and I need help again and I don't go to God, I go to them. You get the picture?
Many of these friends used to go to church, but abandoned it long ago because they just don't feel like they fit in because they're too far removed from the people in there. They're afraid of the gasps if someone found out who they really are. They're even more afraid they'll have to be like everyone else in there.
Jesus came to heal the sick...we should maybe start acting grateful by acknowledging the "diseases" we are saved from.
These days, I seem to be looking for support from sinners who have changed, but were/are still sinners. How did/do they do it, what prayers did/do they pray, bible studies did/do they attend, tricks did/do they use to get through the tough times, who did they turn to...you know...that type of thing. I cannot be supported by people who do not understand someone who has lived a less than perfect life; who does not understand someone who has demons and family issues and all sorts of sins that have collected for 31 years and continue to collect. I seem to be more complicated than everyone else is around me. I am the poster child for the need for salvation - ha! The problem is that I feel like I better put on my pretty, white, and clean Lael to parade around in front of people or else I'll be some kind of social pariah.
I've had some very real and bad things happen in my life as a child and adult. So bad they still make me cringe and hurt. I've made some extraordinarily bad decisions in my life, so bad that they still haunt me to this day. I've struggled with addiction in the past, and sometimes struggle not to return there. I've struggled with marriage problems. I have self-inflicted trouble and not self-inflicted trouble. I get really angry with God and find myself ten million miles away wondering "how" or "if" I even want to return to Him. I struggle with anger and frustration and handling it appropriately. But, surely, there are other Christians out there like this - even in my church, right? So why after two years do I not know them? Are they really all that good or am I'm just that person?
Truth is, I don't always need a sermon. Sometimes I need a place where people come clean and feel good about it - just so we could see that we all have a little blight. A place where you can openly admit that you stole a pack of gum or that your soul is so dark you think you're unsaveable. A place for some relief, to feel unconditional certainty that there is no judgement, that you are loved, but that you're not alone too. I feel the first three are handled in a decent manner, but that last one...that one I don't feel so much. Is this where the church is coming up short? Is this the crack in the wall that no one is paying attention to? Is this why so many people who grew up Christians don't return after they've made a few mistakes and lived a bit more than your average bear? To exagerate, but make, a point: If you've run around naked in a field with a bunch of other people at a festival high as a kite, do you really relate to the orthodontist sitting next to you who appears to have all of her ducks in a row? What if she did it too, but in an effort to looked "saved" never admits what she needed saved from. What would the church look like if we all walked in with our sins literally written across our chests? A bunch of needy people would take notice. A bunch of sick people would think they could get the same help as the other sick people who might be better now but still struggling in one way or another. There would be depth to the friendships beyond just taking a meal when needed or hanging out each Sunday. You would be sisters in sin and thus sisters in Christ (or brothers).
None of my friends that relate to me on a personal level are church-going Christians. Many aren't Christians at all. That's ok to me. I love them and will always love them. But they can't put that life into Christian context, which is really where I need to go. They can't help me tune into God through my troubles and learn how to let go of my own understanding of a situation. Basically, they help "me" figure out how to help "me". This is helpful at the time, but in the end, I think it's counter productive as I haven't learned how to reach out to God and then it happens again and I need help again and I don't go to God, I go to them. You get the picture?
Many of these friends used to go to church, but abandoned it long ago because they just don't feel like they fit in because they're too far removed from the people in there. They're afraid of the gasps if someone found out who they really are. They're even more afraid they'll have to be like everyone else in there.
Jesus came to heal the sick...we should maybe start acting grateful by acknowledging the "diseases" we are saved from.
Fifty Dollars
If you had $1000 sitting in your checking account, you wouldn't really pay that much attention to how you spent $50 of it as long as your basic needs were met. Even if that meant that 90% of it went to bills and living expenses.
However, if someone gives you $50 gift certificate, it seems that one becomes savvy and shrewd in an effort to extend that $50 as far as it can go and only on the most worthy of things.
However, if someone gives you $50 gift certificate, it seems that one becomes savvy and shrewd in an effort to extend that $50 as far as it can go and only on the most worthy of things.
2:57 in the afternoon
I have a full-fledged case of blog envy. I anticipate reading other people's blogs and secretly wish I had thought of the subject first. It's sad, I know. I want mine to be entertaining, but have 17 unposted blogs because I get halfway through one and quit caring about the subject because I'm trying too hard to get it right. This one won't give you blog envy.
Many things going on right now in my life; many sad and ugly things, but many great and wonderful things too. I don't have the time or energy to give to any of them anymore.
I don't like the blogs where it's happy roses and sun-shiney thoughts for page after page.
I don't live there.
My world isn't so neatly tied up into witty euphemisms where I find the good in everything that has happened. Sometime it's shit and I just realize that it's shit and move on. I get particularly frustrated when I read the blogs where everything is neat and pretty and inspiring. I wonder what in the world is wrong with me that I am not these people. Should I be? I feel like I should be more lady-like, as if this type of thinking lends itself to being a lady. Ladies are neat and pretty and inspiring. I am not a lady by this definition. I struggle with the fact that I alternately care and don't care about this. I guess that's odd.
My Mimi was obsessed with being a lady and with my being a lady. She did her best to teach me all of the ways to be one from age 10 on up to my later years. Anyway, Mimi died on Tuesday (Fat Tuesday; also the worst storms to come through the south in 20 years and killed so many people). I loved her tremendously, but she never got comfortable with the fact that she alternately cared and didn't care about these things too. She beat herself up inside that she wasn't perfect and always put her best foot and face foward to make sure she wasn't letting anyone down (or letting anyone judge her for that matter).
She wouldn't have been happy with the indignity of dying. It was horrid to watch. We knew it could happen soon, but I found out in the middle of a meeting at work and promptly left to try and give my last respects. I faced an hour and half drive and the prospect of my beloved mother falling to pieces without me. It was a long drive. I had rationalized my way through Mimi's battle with illness and body fatigue and felt "it was the right thing". For some reason though, it just destroyed me when it was finally time and I was on my way. I cried all of the way to Montgomery, then pulled myself together at the hospital in the bathroom before I went into the room to where my mom, dad, papa, cousins, great aunts and uncles were.
....I wish I hadn't made it there in time.
I walked in and was ushered to her bed and I just looked at her stunned. Where was my Mimi? Who was this person? What was the thing in her mouth, on her hand, the fifteen things in her arm, her hair is wrong, the toes are wrong...who in the hell is this? This isn't my Mimi, what's wrong with you people? Mimi talks, A LOT, why won't she talk...if you're my Mimi then talk damnit! Talk incoherently, but talk. Why is everyone looking at me standing here. Seriously, what is going on?
What happens when you know death is coming and the hospital can't do anything further, is you watch your loved one die on a screen before you in a private room in the ICU with nurses coming in and looking down at the floor asking if you need anything. Curtains are drawn so no one can see in and so you won't see the smiling faces and laughing going on outside of your room. You ask the nurses to turn off the alarms on the machines because the machines know something isn't right. No one does anything except try to act like what's happening isn't happening. You tell fun stories about the person, you smile awkwardly at family you haven't seen in awhile. You tune out the gasping breaths of the person lying in the bed and the oxygen that is over her mouth. You pray that she won't have to go through this alone, that there is a God and that he will be there just like you've always believed (but sometimes doubt when you're alone). You make allowances for her short comings with God and say, "just remember, she loved you even in those dark times when she was seriously pissed with you...please don't abandon her when she's with you because she messed up here, please...please...pretty please with sugar on top".
The black screen is the background for the numbers that vary from moment to moment. The heart rate goes up and goes down, the oxygen in the blood goes up and down, the respirations go and down, and the blood pressure goes up and down. After hours of this, when the last ditch efforts of medicine given hours before have finally worn off, the numbers all drop in unison. Once they start to drop, they drop quickly - you know and the people in the room look around. Now everyone is praying for the same thing, "God, please don't let this hurt...promise us she won't hurt, please don't let this hurt us either". There is obviously no pain involved. There was no movement the entire time and there isn't any in the end except a noticeable last horrible gasp of air.
Then the person who has filled your memories for your whole life is gone. Even if you doubt it for a moment...the machines don't lie. You stare at them blankly. You can't feel a thing, nothing. She's still, which is no different than it was three hours before, except that the oxygen is off and it's uncomfortably quiet. It sinks in and in moments you're crying and comforting all at the same time.
A piece of me that I thought I had hidden very carefully in a spot that no hurt could find, is found. My heart pinches, my stomach cramps, my brow furrows and a piece of me that was my Mimi died at that same moment.
I wish I had been more of a lady.
Many things going on right now in my life; many sad and ugly things, but many great and wonderful things too. I don't have the time or energy to give to any of them anymore.
I don't like the blogs where it's happy roses and sun-shiney thoughts for page after page.
I don't live there.
My world isn't so neatly tied up into witty euphemisms where I find the good in everything that has happened. Sometime it's shit and I just realize that it's shit and move on. I get particularly frustrated when I read the blogs where everything is neat and pretty and inspiring. I wonder what in the world is wrong with me that I am not these people. Should I be? I feel like I should be more lady-like, as if this type of thinking lends itself to being a lady. Ladies are neat and pretty and inspiring. I am not a lady by this definition. I struggle with the fact that I alternately care and don't care about this. I guess that's odd.
My Mimi was obsessed with being a lady and with my being a lady. She did her best to teach me all of the ways to be one from age 10 on up to my later years. Anyway, Mimi died on Tuesday (Fat Tuesday; also the worst storms to come through the south in 20 years and killed so many people). I loved her tremendously, but she never got comfortable with the fact that she alternately cared and didn't care about these things too. She beat herself up inside that she wasn't perfect and always put her best foot and face foward to make sure she wasn't letting anyone down (or letting anyone judge her for that matter).
She wouldn't have been happy with the indignity of dying. It was horrid to watch. We knew it could happen soon, but I found out in the middle of a meeting at work and promptly left to try and give my last respects. I faced an hour and half drive and the prospect of my beloved mother falling to pieces without me. It was a long drive. I had rationalized my way through Mimi's battle with illness and body fatigue and felt "it was the right thing". For some reason though, it just destroyed me when it was finally time and I was on my way. I cried all of the way to Montgomery, then pulled myself together at the hospital in the bathroom before I went into the room to where my mom, dad, papa, cousins, great aunts and uncles were.
....I wish I hadn't made it there in time.
I walked in and was ushered to her bed and I just looked at her stunned. Where was my Mimi? Who was this person? What was the thing in her mouth, on her hand, the fifteen things in her arm, her hair is wrong, the toes are wrong...who in the hell is this? This isn't my Mimi, what's wrong with you people? Mimi talks, A LOT, why won't she talk...if you're my Mimi then talk damnit! Talk incoherently, but talk. Why is everyone looking at me standing here. Seriously, what is going on?
What happens when you know death is coming and the hospital can't do anything further, is you watch your loved one die on a screen before you in a private room in the ICU with nurses coming in and looking down at the floor asking if you need anything. Curtains are drawn so no one can see in and so you won't see the smiling faces and laughing going on outside of your room. You ask the nurses to turn off the alarms on the machines because the machines know something isn't right. No one does anything except try to act like what's happening isn't happening. You tell fun stories about the person, you smile awkwardly at family you haven't seen in awhile. You tune out the gasping breaths of the person lying in the bed and the oxygen that is over her mouth. You pray that she won't have to go through this alone, that there is a God and that he will be there just like you've always believed (but sometimes doubt when you're alone). You make allowances for her short comings with God and say, "just remember, she loved you even in those dark times when she was seriously pissed with you...please don't abandon her when she's with you because she messed up here, please...please...pretty please with sugar on top".
The black screen is the background for the numbers that vary from moment to moment. The heart rate goes up and goes down, the oxygen in the blood goes up and down, the respirations go and down, and the blood pressure goes up and down. After hours of this, when the last ditch efforts of medicine given hours before have finally worn off, the numbers all drop in unison. Once they start to drop, they drop quickly - you know and the people in the room look around. Now everyone is praying for the same thing, "God, please don't let this hurt...promise us she won't hurt, please don't let this hurt us either". There is obviously no pain involved. There was no movement the entire time and there isn't any in the end except a noticeable last horrible gasp of air.
Then the person who has filled your memories for your whole life is gone. Even if you doubt it for a moment...the machines don't lie. You stare at them blankly. You can't feel a thing, nothing. She's still, which is no different than it was three hours before, except that the oxygen is off and it's uncomfortably quiet. It sinks in and in moments you're crying and comforting all at the same time.
A piece of me that I thought I had hidden very carefully in a spot that no hurt could find, is found. My heart pinches, my stomach cramps, my brow furrows and a piece of me that was my Mimi died at that same moment.
I wish I had been more of a lady.
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