Wednesday 10:37 a.m., English class

While I was sitting in English class on Wednesday, my professor said something that caught my attention. (If you knew my English teacher you'd know how momentous this was...)

She said, "Borges was an amazing writer. While very politically active with strong views on a variety of subjects, he was able to separate himself from his political views and ideals in order to write stories that were pure art- no agenda."

Wait a minute...

Can you separate yourself from your ideals and your passions in order to create "art"? Is art ever "unbiased" and completely untainted by the views of the artist? Is it possible to create art without conviction?

No.

Art cannot be created in a vacuum. Were you to remove passion, conviction, and even one's own political views, one would not be able to create. These things are your character. They support you and your existence. They are you.

I wandered further down this mental rabbit trail. (English is a rather long, dry class...) I believe that too many of us do separate ourselves from something that is crucially part of us. (Or perhaps something that should be crucially part of us...) We separate ourselves from God.

Don't gasp and look indignantly at your screen. You know it's true.

There is the God of the universe. Who saved you. Who loves you. Who died for you. Who lives for you. The God who listens to every prayer you cry and every thought you think. The God who feels your pain and plans your days.

Yet we, for the most part, cut Him out of our life, out of our gifts, out of our "art" more effortlessly than we cut out our political agendas and thoughts. Why are we so quick to forget the God of the universe, so quick to destroy His influence on our actions, plans, and thoughts, while we tenaciously hold to our self-constructed ideals?

Why doesn't God permeate every aspects of our lives the same way our stubborn, man-made convictions do?

How is it that we have trouble removing our agendas, but we never struggle to remove our God?

Why is He disconnected from daily pursuits and passions?

Why do we so easily cut out God?

Digital Fortune Cookies

I recently installed a little digital fortune cookie on my internet homepage. It looks so cute! Plus, you get the fortunes without feeling guilty about not eating the cookies. I don't like the cookies, but I do like the fortunes.

However, I've learned that digital fortunes are just like the ones that you'll find at your standard "Great Wall Buffet." They're wrong. Often boring. Sometimes bizarre. And not always necessarily a "fortune." For example:

A smile is your personal welcome mat. Does that even sound nice? Am I the only one that immediately thinks of someone wiping their feet on my lips? Not pleasant. And what's so "fortune-like" about that? It's just advice.

You have an ambitious nature and will make a name for yourself. Now, that's just not true. (Proof that digital fortune cookies don't know you any better than those from the buffet line at the "Great Wall.") I'm not ambitious at all... I wonder if the name I make will be good...

Luck is with you now. Act upon your instincts. Luck is not with me now! My sister drank almost all of my morning coffee, and Julie definitely spit-up all over me. Not so lucky. And I don't have instincts. Alex says that's the reason I can't play tennis.

Just to have it is enough. What is this "it" that I apparently have? I'm confused... And once again, not really a fortune.

A few hours of grace before the madness begins again. What? I'm going to class now. The madness has already started. I'm beginning to doubt the veracity of my digital cookies.

Your ability to juggle many tasks will take you far. Once again. Doesn't know me. I'm a horrible multi-tasker. I've just recently mastered the ability to tie my shoe and talk at the same time.

The world is always ready to receive talent with open arms. That's just blatantly untrue. I have a wonderful talent of gargling with pickle juice. No one has greeted me with open arms. So sad...

And my favorite:
A once in a lifetime adventure awaits you in the South Pacific islands.

Yaya! I've always wanted to go to Western Samoa! Bring it on. (I think my digital fortune cookies are lying to me...)

Julie-Bop!

I now (officially, according to all the powers that be) have a new little sister.

Whoo-hoo!!!

She has what I've always coveted- long eyelashes, straight hair, and (the crowning achievement) one dimple. Just one. That's perfect.

However, she also has some of the craziest eyebrows that you've ever seen. Her face (because of the funky brows) wears a perpetually worried look that is quite amusing. She hates the mornings, loves to eat, likes to dance "Chicka-bop" (I'll show you sometime...), and gets crazy excited at night. Basically she could be my twin.

My family invented this new game called "Julie tipping." I know it sounds awful, but she loves it. We sit her on the bed, and then take our index finger and point it at her, gradually moving it to her forehead at which point you are to apply pressure and push her over. She flops back on the bed and screams with laughter. Well, after doing this several times in a row, you reach the point where all you have to do is point at her- and she'll flop back of her own volition without you pushing her. And even then she just laughs and laughs and laughs. It's quite amusing to watch.

She's learned to give "kissies" when asked.

And "Dada" is her favorite person in the world.

She hates solid foods.

And cries out of fear when given toys. She hates them. All of them.

She never puts anything in her mouth, although when worried she'll rub her lips worriedly with her index finger.

She bangs her head when bored.

She likes to be held constantly.

There, I believe that's almost all the idiosyncrasies I've observed in the past 36 hours. I write about them so that I won't bore people to death TALKING about her. :)

Going to school is so BORING when there's a little "Julie-bop" at home. (She also goes by "Reuben," "Chicky," "Ju-Ju," "Jules," and "Ju-Ji," depending on her mood. The poor child will never learn her real name...)

I WANT TO GO HOME AND PLAY WITH MY LITTLE SISTER!!!

Bother school...

Stupid car, Stupid keys, Stupid me- Wonderful Savior

So. I thought I couldn't get any ditzier. I was pretty sure that my level of stupidity had reached an all-time high and was unable to grow any more.

I was wrong.

I locked my keys in my car. I actually consciously thought, "I will leave my keys here so that I don't forget them." Got out of my car. And locked it. Brilliant.

I'm supposed to be in class right now, but obviously I'm not. I'm stranded at home until my little brother comes to rescue me by breaking into my car. I refuse to call a locksmith. Why? Because I called one not a month ago. Yes, I did. Why? For the same reason. THE EXACT SAME REASON. In fact, the car is probably sitting in the same spot it was sitting last time I called the locksmith. Something in me revolts against paying $40 dollars (again!) for my own stupidity. So instead, Alex and I are going to perfect our skill of vandalism and car breaking and entering. It could come in handy someday when money is tight... (joking!)

But my coffee is brewed to perfection. I just had a heavenly bagel with cream cheese. (I love my cream cheese!) And my brother just called me to talk about feminism and feminists (which I am not.) All in all, it's been a good morning thus far.

When the sun came shining in through my windows this morning I was too busy to notice its light. I was dashing around, frantically trying to achieve straightness in my usually frizzy hair. What pants to wear? What did I do with my eyelash curler? Why on EARTH can't I find socks? These were my thoughts. Profound, no?

But the car keys (or lack there-of) forced me to stop. To slow down. To look outside. The sun is shining. The grass is green. It's beautiful. And then I remembered...

Two thousand years ago a man, ignored by the world and forgotten by his people carried a cross on his raw, beaten back up the road to a hill. And there, on that hill, his wrists were bashed to that cross's wooden beam with dull, thick nails. There, with blood and sweat dripping into his eyes he was hoisted above the crowd and left to draw agonizing breath after breath. For hours. The world went on. Men laughed, scorned, ignored, rejected, or hurried by that man on the tree. While the earth continued to spin, while trade was plied, sins committed, and life was lived by thousands, their Creator died. On a rough cross. Splinters digging into his back. His own Father's rejection. Complete and utter lonliness. Total physical pain. He suffered. And we ignored.

It's "Good Friday." Two thousand years ago our God died. For us.

What wondrous love is this...

"This is love, not that we loved God, but that He loved us, and sent his Son as an atoning sacrifice for our sins." (I John 4:10)

Forever and For Always

Kat pulled the blinds a little further apart and squinted out. Behind her the nurse coughed softly,

"You can open the shades, if you want, Mrs. Herschman."

"Oh, no," she smiled, "I don't think he likes it..." Judy (strange how all the nurses seemed to be named "Judy") nodded and slipped out of the room. Kat went back to her squinting. For three days she hadn't moved from the chair next to the hospital bed. Now, for some strange, odd reason she didn't want to turn around. It was safer to stare out the window.

Kat had always played it safe. Phil never had. He lived life like tomorrow was something he was guaranteed. He had done that when they started dating. Kat had fought it tooth and nail. Phil didn't care. She'd turn him down and he'd show up anyway. She'd say "no" and he'd act like she had just said "yes." She remembered one night he had borrowed his dad's Cadillac and taken her to Rudy's Rally, the drive-in restaurant. She had ordered a salad. Salads were safe date foods... you didn't want your boyfriend thinking that you were expensive or (worse still!) fat. Yes, a salad with low-fat dressing was safe. Philip had looked right at her and said,

"You don't like low-fat dressing." This was true. "Waiter! A large chocolate malt and cheese fries." And she hadn't eaten her salad that night.

She smiled. He was always doing that. Looking right through her facade and destroying it. Finding what she was scared of, finding what she wanted, and then reaching out and grabbing it for her.

The monitor behind her beeped. She turned around. Quickly. Strange how easily her eyes read the screen- it had become a habit. She walked over to the bedside. Sat down. Ken would be back soon. She remembered the day that Ken had been born. Philip had cried. He always stoutly protested any other record crying, but that day he never argued about.

"I'm a dad. I'm a dad! Look, honey! Wow. I'm a dad!" He had stood with her in the hospital three more times after that. And had pushed swings, tightened training wheels, spanked, kissed, built treehouses for, and taught all four how to drive a stick shift.

She picked up his fingers and entwined her in his. Those folds of skin that she had once seen on her grandma she now saw on her own hands. A thin, blue vein of Phil's pulsed under her thumb. She caught herself holding her breath, waiting for each pulse.

There had been that time when he had come home, gray, drawn, and collapsed in the faded easy chair. She didn't even ask. Sitting on the arm of the chair she held his hand. Felt his pulse. And prayed. Prayed that somewhere there would be a job for her brilliant, hardworking husband. Prayed that he would find it soon. Prayed that the electricity would not go off. Prayed she could find food for all four children. It had pulsed under her hand when her mother died, and all she could do was draw one breath after another. The dull throb in the hand that held hers kept her sane. Kept her from crying.

Automatically she reached forward and brushed a piece of hair off his forehead. Phil had always said that he would never go bald. And he hadn't. Not completely. She grinned when she thought about that first day when she had told him she saw a shine on the crown of his head. He had looked at her solemnly and said,

"Woman, there is no shine. Would you like to know why? Because on the day there starts to be shine you shall start to have wrinkles." From that day forth there was no mention of shine. Or wrinkles.

Forty-eight years. She had starched and mended his dress shirts, made his dinner, soothed his anger. For forty-eight years her life had been entertaining co-workers and employees at every Christmas party, cleaning the house, and making sure that his socks were put away in their color-coded positions. There had always been tacos on Friday, because he loved tacos. She had painted their bedroom blue, although she hated blue, because Phil liked that color. Forty-eight years of no onions in her baked beans (Phil didn't like onions) and calling him to make sure he didn't miss his dentist appointments. Forty-eight years of watching the "Charlie Brown Christmas" with the traditional carmel corn and commercial tickling breaks. Forty-eight years of waking up every Sunday morning to the buzz of his razor. Forty-eight years of pretending to laugh at his horrible jokes and corny puns. Forty-eight years of tears, laughter, and fights. She had spent forty-eight years telling him to never wear his brown belt with his black pants, and he had spent forty-eight years "forgetting."

For forty-eight years her life had been Phil. And his had been her, Kat. Hand-in-hand they had walked. Like friends. Constantly straining towards the same goal. She remembered the day before their wedding,

"Kat, I want to stand by you. With you. I want to grow with you, serve with you, share with you."

And he had.

The monitor beeped again, but her eyes still looked at Phil. He was so handsome. She had never stopped thinking that. Not ever. Even with the ventilator in...

"Mom?" She turned. "Mom, it's time. Are you ready?" She wanted to scream. Cry. Yell. But she didn't. She stood slowly. Nodded. Then turned to her husband.

"Phil, I'll love you- forever and for always. Forever and for always. Always."

Ken led her out of the room, closing the door softly.

The nurse and doctor entered, quietly. The nurse looked to the doctor. He nodded. Glanced at the wall clock and then his file,

"And we are suspending life support for a Mr. Philip Herschman at... 3:28 p.m."

3:34 p.m. the monitor stopped. Forever and for always.