Miracles

Please don’t misunderstand me. I want my Daddy to stick around for a very, very, long time. I want to make him a giant cake with a hundred and one candles. I want him to hold his great-grandchildren (someday far in the future), and stroke their tiny faces while whispering the same remark he has made when each of my daughters was born: “You forget what they mean by ‘baby-soft’”. When something needs fixed, I want to be able to call him and ask how to do it, and have him tell me he knows I can.

Those things are not going to happen. We all know it, and it hurts. When things hurt, we pray. I know that there are many people praying for a miracle for my Dad, and I am glad. I believe though, that the miracle is already waiting for him.

My Daddy’s body has been through a lot. Some of it was by choice, some not, but that really does not matter any more. As he fights for breath, now and again wincing with the pain he does not want us to see, I pray for healing, but not necessarily the miraculous eradication of the cancer in his lungs, although that is completely within God’s power. I am praying for the comforting of Dad’s spirit, the calming of the fear, the easing of the sorrow. Only God knows when and how the healing will come, but I trust that it will come.

Heaven holds the ultimate healing. That is a miracle in itself, and my greatest comfort.

Teetering on the Edge

I am, deep inside, an optimist–even an idealist. I have always wanted so desperately to believe in the best of human nature, that I have overlooked or made excuses for deceitful, manipulative actions. This tendency to whitewash has gotten me hurt pretty badly from time to time, and I occasionally wonder where I would be if I had developed a little more cynicism earlier in life.

That’s the edge upon which I teeter. To believe that people, in general, mean well and want to do the right thing, or to believe that I am the last idiot in the world who believes that.

I used to say that inside every cynic hides a wounded idealist. While the word “every” makes it too broad a statement, I still believe that it’s true for many of us. When we were told, as children, to remember the Golden Rule, we were not warned that there are a lot of people for whom rules are merely suggestions. When we were taught to “Love thy neighbor as thyself”, some of us did not hear the postscript that loving the person does not mean loving their behavior, so we let people treat us badly in the name of “love”, and we got hurt.

Confession time. I’m a liberal, and I live in Oklahoma. Of course, by the rest of the country’s standards, I’m pretty moderate, but in Oklahoma I’m a bleeding-heart, tree-hugging, Obama-supporting liberal. In Oklahoma, you understand, all three of those are pejoratives. This may have something to do with my cynicism.

I have been watching the political primary races in Oklahoma lately. I have read the soundbites, interviews and statements from the major players in the Governor’s race, and chosen the candidate that I think would make the best leader for our state. Today is the primary election, in which people like me will choose a candidate to hurl at the Republican juggernaut. I am considering walking the mile and a half to my polling place to cast my vote in the primary. All the while, though, there is a voice in the back of my head–that evil, cynical voice–saying that it does not matter who I vote for in the Democratic primary, because Oklahoma has become so knee-jerk right-wing that the Republican party could nominate a pot-bellied pig for Governor and it would win, hooves down.

I hate that voice, but even more, I hate the possibility that it’s right.

So, I will make myself go vote today, not because I truly believe that my vote will count, but because every time I listen to that voice, I lose a little hope, and I’m not quite ready to kick the idealist out of my head just yet.

If you don’t have anything nice to say…

That’s the problem, you know.  I used to shoot my mouth off so much worse than I do now (believe it or not). I have had to train myself to leave certain things unsaid.  So many many things.

Blogging is all about self-indulgence, and I try very hard to avoid that.  Every time I think “I ought to blog about…” I talk myself out of it. It’s always “no one wants to hear my ramblings about that” or “that’s so going to offend someone” or the big one “If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all”.  I spend so much time telling my kids not to be negative, to stop whining, and to look on the bright side of things.

Lately, though, I am very frustrated with things in my life, our country and the world in general, and almost every time I start talking about the things that matter to me, it feels like ranting or whining.

I suppose that if things eventually iron out a little smoother in my life, I will be able to express myself without being strident.  There’s also the possibility that I will throw the filter out the window and start pitching verbal fits before long as well.

Stay tuned to find out. (But don’t hold your breath.)

So much to say!

I am a talker.  I suppose it may be genetic, to some extent–hard-wired into my DNA.  Considering that my extended family includes a rather large number of preachers, teachers, radio professionals, and just plain chatty folks, I’d say there’s pretty good evidence in support of that theory.

Whatever the source, I can talk to almost anyone about almost anything.  I talk to strangers in the grocery line, other women at the sinks in public bathrooms, and anyone else who stands still near me long enough for me to say hello.  I talk to my family so much about politics that they often get that deer-in-the-headlights look when I get rolling.

I do not promise to be witty, clever, or politically correct in this blog.  This is my space for ranting, whining, and occasionally sharing what little wisdom I’ve acquired over 43 years of being me.  If you’re good with that, stay tuned for my next installment.  It’s likely to come soon, considering how difficult a time I have shutting up.