How Can We Sing the Lord's Song in a Strange Land?

Some days it's pretty darn difficult being a Christian in America.

And it's not because it's verboten to talk about religion, or that you're one of ten righteous men surrounded by a sea of Soddom and Gomorites.

It's not because of persecution, either of the "throw you in jail kind" or the more subtle, but equally silencing, "raised eyebrow accompanied by a worldly smirk" kind.

No, I struggle with calling myself a Christian here in this In God We Trust country because of one group of people.

Other Christians.

At first, it was kind of refreshing to hear people broadcast their faith so publicly. Bumper stickers and t-shirts proclaim allegiances, open Bibles are read devoutly on the bus, and Barnes & Noble has a huge (and obviously profitable) section devoted to "Spirituality and Religion."

But the more I listened to the WWJDisms around me, the more uncomfortable I became. The more I heard people claim that the Lord was behind their particular brand of protectionism, the more I wondered how much this is One Nation Under God.

And the more I witnessed, wincing, Biblical justification for a most unholy war, the more I began to wish I could hide my light under a bush, oh yes. (Or take it away from a Bush, as the case may be, so he can no longer use words intended for peace to fuel his war-mongering. A "different tone" indeed.)

In truth, the monolith that is "Evangelical Christians"* reminds me of members of Oprah's Book Club. Each group takes mindless refuge in an outspoken leader who claims humility despite being tremendously powerful. Each group reads religiously the passages as directed by their spiritual advisor, and meets to discuss the accepted interpretations at set times in well-appointed buildings. And each group resembles God's sheep sometimes only in their willingness to trot stupidly behind their shepherd, wagging their tails behind them.

If these worshippers at the altar of Truth (as in "our truth is THE TRUTH and if you do not believe you will be cast unto the fires of hell" brand of Truth) were quietly pious, I would take no issue with them. They have the right to examine Scripture just as I do, and we are all convinced individually of our enlightened understanding.

But for some reason, the religious right has decided that this country is a Christian Nation, by God, and that public policy (and public servants) has to spring from, and enforce, the godly principles from which its glorious stars and stripes emerged and for which they represent the last line in the sand.

Except there's one problem. God is not a Republican from Texas.**

If He were, then I suppose He might be smiling down on the scared-yet-defiant-in-their-fear-of-The-Other hordes decrying the nation's downfall at the hands of The Gays, The Terrorists, The Illegal Immigrants, The Feminists, The Democrats, The French-Fry-Eating Traitors, and anyone else with the audacity to disagree with them.

But He is not (at least, his son sure wasn't). In fact, while God certainly works through political leaders (see also: Old Testament), He just as often works in spite of them (see also: Old Testament). His son had a decidedly apolitical, "take it or leave it" relationship with government.

However, you wouldn't know it if you looked at the weeks and months leading to the upcoming election.

No, it would seem that, for many Americans, the future of this country depends on whether its elected leaders are the right kind of Christians. (That they are, of course, Christians goes without saying. Rumours about Obama's being a Muslim continue to persist - and sway voters who believe them - because a president of another faith would be unthinkable and worse even than an atheist.)

Witness the choice of Sarah Palin as VP candidate. McCain chose her, over many, many (many, many, many...) other more qualified candidates in part because of her beliefs. Because he knew that her pro-life anti-abortion, anti-evolution, anti-gay, God-fearin' ways would attract the religious right who were wondering what had happened to their Republican party. Witness the story that just won't die about Obama's former pastor, Jeremiah Wright, and his hate-mongering - the suggestion being "if this is what Obama hears on Sundays, what will he do for us the other six days?"

To be fair, the folks on the other side aren't doing much better. Witness the YouTube video of Palin being blessed in her church, one component of which was requesting God's protection from witchcraft, and the howls of derision it engenders. Or the mistaken correlation between her being just not so smart when it comes to matters scientific and her being a Christian.

The problem here goes beyond Republican and Democrat. It finds its root in the misguided belief that America is a Christian nation and that this is something that must be protected. Christianity is a personal faith - at most, one can have a nation of Christians (or people who call themselves that), but never a Christian nation. It doesn't exist; there's nothing to be protected.

And so I cringe when the inevitable question of a candidate's religious beliefs comes up. I cringe because what passes for "Christian" in this nation is so, so far from what I read in the Bible and directly contradicts the life Jesus led. I cringe because the right's insistence that a candidate be molded in their image of God becomes a stand-in for what "Christians" believe and I'm lumped in with a group with which I have little in common other than that we all own a Bible. I cringe because the (often understandable) backlash at this type of Christian prevents the voices of other Christians from being heard.

And I miss Canada, where church and state are far apart and being a Christian is an oddity, and not either a mark of achievement or a liability.



* Yes, I am aware that the term has come to mean only a particular brand of Christianity, the fundamental religious right, and that there are many outside of that brand who might also fall into a broader definition of "Evangelical Christians" - and therein lies the problem.

** My thanks to Mary Doria Russell and her book The Sparrow - it's Jesuits in space with a moral.

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Cuteness Overload

School pics arrived on Friday:

Note: we let the kids choose their own background and pose. And yes, The Boy's hair is diagonal. It just grows that way.

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Picture Post

I haven't been stellar lately at posting pictures of the kids. Here you go - some typical times at the PM house: Playing DDR. I don't know why they're in swimsuits.

The Boy's favourite pastime - printing off Pokemon colouring pages from the Internet and then tracing them. I don't get the appeal, but a small part of BC's forests is barren because of it.

Their mutual obsession - Webkinz. (And yes, I know he's wearing only underwear. It's difficult to keep him clothed for some reason.)

On a bike ride by the lake.

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Dating Habits of Parents of Young Children: Infrequent, Cheap, and Bring Your Own Bags

There are lots of things I miss about Manitoba, but one of the ones I feel most often is the lack of quality (and often free!) childcare. With two sets of grandparents nearby, it was rare that we couldn't find someone crrrrrazy enough eager to mind our children for anywhere from two hours to two weeks. When we moved to Winnipeg, we were fortunate enough to add to that roster two fantastic teens from church who were much-beloved by our children (and even more beloved by us as they brought crafts!).

So one of the biggest shocks in terms of lifestyle change after we moved was the inability to make plans that didn't involve our children. It's a shame, really - Minneapolis is chock-full of the arts and great restaurants abound, but our experience of them has tended towards the Children's Museum/Noodles and Company end of the spectrum.

But we do have one wonderful babysitter whom the kids adore - the neighbour girl to my coworker who suggested her last year as a last-minute pinch-hitter for my work Christmas party.

We've asked her to babysit a number of times since then, but tonight was the first night we didn't have an actual event we need to attend. It was, in fact...A Date.

Yup, a real, honest-to-goodness date. A young cousin of mine once characterized an official date as having two equally important components: "going out to eat, and stuff."

So we did - we went out to eat to a new find - a nearby "French" cafe and bakery. It was awesome - the quiche was creamy, the salad dressing was homemade, and the pistachio creme brulee was all pistachio-ey. And they serve French beer - Kronenberg is great stuff. Kids eat free on Tuesdays and Thursdays, so chances are we'll be back.

Then we capped the evening off with our stuff: grocery shopping. Sigh. You know you're no longer young and cool when the highlight of your evening is ooo-ing and ah-ing over the ethnic food aisle, and the height of emotional intimacy in the evening comes via a passionate mutual outcry against Chicken in a Biskit. (Have you ever heard of this assault on common decency?! It's a cracker that contains actual chicken. Only in America.) Although we did find for-real Coke in a glass bottle from South America made with cane sugar, so it was very much worth the trip.

The clock struck 9:00, and we whisked our pumpkin home, The Husband to put away the groceries and me to drive the babysitter home. And now it's almost 10:00, which means it's past my bedtime.

Young and cool, indeed. But definitely worth it. We'll have to plan another such outing. May 2010 looks like it might work....

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An Open Letter to My Black Skirt

To my skirt:

No, not the black knee-length skirt with the flare. Not the black knee-length one with the slit up the back. Not the black knee-length one with pinstripes. No, not even the black knee-length denim one that I accidentally shrunk in the wash which now awaits the gaunt frame of someone recovering from a debilitating bout of Lyme Disease.

No, I address this to the plain Jane, just-below-the-knee, two small-but-saucy slits up the side, perfect skirt.

I wore you first to my thesis defense. Not only did you provide courage as I faced the committee (whose first question was "did you know you spelled 'university' wrong on the front page?"), but you also gave me a tantalizing glimpse into a future that was not all about diapers and sleepless nights. The first item of clothing purchased after the birth of The Girl, you reminded me that there was life after maternity jeans and that I could be a good mom, a smart woman and a fox, too.

Since that day, you've been my go-to item of clothing. Equally comfortable keeping company with flats or heels, bare legs or tights, you sailed effortlessly from season to season. You even saw me through my second pregnancy, somehow altering your shape to surround my burgeoning belly without any awkward pulling of fabric. Your only nod to the changes wrought by seven months of pregnancy was to raise your hemline ever-so-slightly - a sly, naughty wink at the vixen who merely lay dormant underneath the pregnancy weight and the tendency to waddle.

Second life came to you from that magical elixir of youth known otherwise as a bottle of Rit dye, and you emerged from your mid-life charcoal slump to once again lend your midnight smolder to my efforts to live Audrey Hepburn's immortal advice: you should always wear two colours, and one of them should always be black.

But alas, an extension of hours does not translate into immortality. Despite our best efforts, we have both broadened over the years, me with my posterial real estate and you with your seams that show signs of giving. And today, like a tired yet valiant horse who falters where he once firmly trod, your hem gave way.

Oh, you tried to hide your shame, resting on years of a sharply-creased hemline to keep appearances in order. But I knew as soon as my knee found purchase in the fold that you had begun that unravelling which leads only to the thrift store pile.

Dearest of dears, first and best black knee-length skirt of them all, I will no longer press you into service. Rest now, my darling, at the back of my closet, full with the knowledge of having done your duty faithfully and well, and that I remain

Stockingly yours,


PM

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I Went to Wisconsin and All I Got Was This Lousy Lyme Disease

EWWWWW! Guess what I found nestled cozily IN MY LEG this morning?!

Yup, I was minding my own business, trying to face the spectre that is Monday morning with a nice, hot shower, when I noticed that my leg hurt. Then I saw what looked like a big ol' scab.

Then I noticed it had legs.

Carefully finishing shaving my legs (one must keep one's priorities, of course), I dried off and ran to shake The Husband out of sleep. He bravely (if incoherently) pulled it off and I limped over to the computer to google "deer ticks" and "Lyme Disease".

So, of course, today has been one psychosomatic fever chill and mild paralysis attack after another. I've already worked out how I'll go on long term disability and figured out my work-from-bed schedule as I recuperate from a debilitating disease, so I think we're good to go.

Said tick bite actually came about in a fairly fun fashion. We went to Eau Claire, Wisconsin yesterday to visit a church that our current church started a few years ago. The entire junior Sunday School class plus parents went, which swelled their membership to double the size, I think.

Then we got to visit the homestead belonging to the pastoral couple for lunch. The Boy and The Girl had oodles of fun feeding corn and grass to the hens and the goats. I realized that goat cheese smells, oddly enough, of goats. Funny how I don't mind it in small doses.

So, a good time was had by all. Including the deer tick, who caught a ride home in my clothes and enjoyed the sweet taste of my blood before shuffling off this mortal coil.

Oh, and for some reason the tick was dead when I found it. So a) I have toxic blood or b) the disease it carried overwhelmed even its disease-ridden body. I'll keep you posted.

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The Card Leaped Out of My Hand and Swiped Itself, I Swear!

When I was in junior high, I desperately wanted a Grand Beach Club t-shirt. Remember? Those tie-dyed ones that were Chip 'n' Pepper knock-offs?

(I also wanted a hypercolor shirt, but even my questionable fashion sense recognized the undesirability of a shirt that changed colour wherever your body heat went up. This was junior high: my body heat was unpredictable and rather sweaty when unleashed by all those puberty hormones - why exactly I would want to advertise this pituitary craziness was beyond me.)

Having already exhausted my parent-presented clothing budget, I moped around complaining about how I didn't have enough to pay for one myself out of my babysitting earnings. I fretted to my mother, "you know, I just wish I had enough money so I could always have enough in the bank to buy something I wanted when I wanted it and not have to save up for it."

She burst out laughing and said, "honey, that's all everybody wants!"

And in that moment, it was as though a financial light bulb lit up. I realized that I wasn't alone in my wanting more than I could immediately afford. Perhaps even the proverbial Joneses didn't feel as though they had everything.

Since that day, I've become increasingly convinced that - the very rich and the very spiritual aside - people of all economic levels live with a constant sense of want. There's always something just a bit better than what they have, no matter if what they currently have is a Sapporo or a BMW. It's not necessarily a question of keeping up with those Joneses (who themselves are trying to keep up); sometimes it's a question of wanting more education, or a house, or a family vacation.

Given this sense of "if only I had [insert item here], things would be better," the current economic turmoil facing the world should not be surprising. For what could be more perfect than the ability to pay for today's pleasures with tomorrow's dollars? How fantastic, how carpe diem-ish, to be able to enjoy the gratification of desires for as long as possible?

Except that, if the never-ending thirst for more leads not to the hoped-for feeling of well-being but simply to the replacement of yesterday's want with a bigger and better coveted prize today, one ends up spending more and more of tomorrow's dollars. And if tomorrow's dollars don't materialize as planned, then one has a significant problem.

Don't get me wrong, I think credit is awesome. It's convenient, it allows me to pay bills once a month, and it is pretty much a necessity for modern life. Even my kids' daycare refuses any other form of payment.

That said, the benefits bring with them a huge responsibility. My parents rarely used their card, preferring to stick to cash and being able to "see" where the money went. I'll admit that I tend to overspend when I've got plastic in my hand, and that there are more Chipotle vegetarian bowls on the ol' Amex than I would probably have bought had I been restricted to paper money. I have to work to remind myself whenever I make that oh-so-easy "swipe 'n sign" at Target that my online account balance will be reduced by that number at some point.

Which is why I am becoming increasingly angry at the response to the current Wall Street woes. John McCain said in Wednesday's debate that Americans are "innocent victims of greed and excess on Wall Street and also in Washington, D.C." But he's not the only one casting the American public, drowning in debt, as unwitting pawns in a high-stakes, ultimately devastating game of chance played by the heavy-hitters in the financial markets.

The movie Maxed Out: Hard Times, Easy Credit and the Era of Predatory Lenders attempts to portray Americans as just that - prey. Prey who fall into the traps laid carefully by lenders eager to extend easy credit to the disadvantaged and then even more eager to spring the trap of high interest rates and high-pressure tactics to squeeze money from bankrupt accounts like blood from a stone. It argues that government, with its multi-billion dollar debt, has set an example of "Do not pay until...never" and encouraged excess in its citizens who have fallen for this version of the American Dream hook, line, and sinker.

Except that people aren't fish. They're not sheep. They're not prey. They're certainly not victims.

Covetous? Yes. Desirous? Yes. Prone to instant gratification? Yes. But victims? No.

Can I sympathize with someone whose bank said oh-so-convincingly, "yes, of course you can afford this house - just look at how prices have increased over the past years!" or someone who interpreted the plethora of credit card offers as an indication of their worthiness to use that credit? Sure. Do I recognize that few could have seen this coming, and that the statement "houses will always appreciate in value" hasn't ever been questioned before? Definitely.

But I resent this complete off-loading of responsibility onto Wall Street and the so-called "predatory lenders" although they certainly do bear some responsibility, and this downturn goes way beyond bankruptcies and foreclosures and heads into some pretty murky territory of selling debt.

Nevertheless, purchasing today what you can only afford (maybe) tomorrow is risky business. And undertaking those risks without really understanding the possible downfalls is not being a victim - it's being negligent.

You want your Grand Beach Club shirt and you don't have the money today? Go ahead and put it on the plastic. Just don't blame someone else when the babysitting job falls through.

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So What If I Had to Work Today? I Got Homemade Pie This Weekend!

Happy Turkey Day, everybody! I kind of forgot about it, actually, until my mom emailed me to tell me about the fantabulous dinner my family's having tonight. Without me. Sigh. We're having leftovers.

But I have zero complaints, given that those leftovers are from our also fantabulous weekend. Some dear Canadian friends came to stay awhile and it was awesome. There was bike riding and apple picking (see below) and kids playing and LegoLand-ing and IKEA-ing and DDR-ing.

And, my sweet friend made not one, but two pumpkin pies for us. Given that last year's ode to Thanksgiving was Sara Lee, this year's pies (the nutmeg! the cinnamon! the whipped cream!) sent me over the moon.

Being filled to the brim with post-company happiness, I definitely had an easier time being thankful today than I would have ordinarily while sitting at my desk on a business-as-usual kind of work day. So while y'all were taking your mettaschloppes, I was thinking of all the things for which I'm grateful:

1. A smooth transition to the new house/school. Hard to believe it's only been six weeks.

2. Our church. We went yesterday after a couple weeks off, and it was nice to go and feel like we belonged.

3. My job. Still stresses me out sometimes, but it definitely feels like I'm starting to find my footing. Plus, given the crazy economic times, I'm pumped to have a job.

4. The three that make up the other 3/4 of the Peitricia Mae clan. Super-dee-dooper kids and a loving, incredibly patient husband (not that living with me is anything but sunshine and lollipops) make for some very shiny days.

5. The fall colours. There is so much red down here and the trees are simply blazing away.

6. A beautiful weekend. It was 26 degrees here yesterday!

7. Garden of Eatin' tortilla chips. Best ever.

8. The peace that passeth understanding.

9. All the folks in Canada who love us and still miss us and disprove the ol' "out of sight, out of mind" nonsense.

10. The Jetta's seat warmers. May your hearts be as warm today as they make my fanny.

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It's 6:19; Do You Know Where Your Children Are?

I don't. Haven't the foggiest.

Well, really I do. I'm just kind of revelling in the fact that I can send my kids outside after school and not have to a) worry about where they are or b) come up with activities for them. Especially when TV/computer time is forbidden for the evening for someone who has bus behavior issues (you get one guess).

I'm so pleased about the neighbour situation at the new house. Other than the last week of our house on Warsaw when my usually-in-daycare brood discovered the next-next-door hooligans or that summer in Steinbach with the German bullies (including the kid who climbed up our deck to watch us eat our supper and declared that he was hungry and why couldn't we give him a hamburger), we've never really done the on-site playmate thing.

So strange for me, who grew up with not only a plethora of neighbours, but also a block where all the backyards faced a park to which we'd escape as soon as school was out and from which we'd not return except for supper or dusk.

Despite having the relatively lax supervision common in small towns a generation ago (or perhaps because of it), I tend to be a bit, oh, hover-ey when it comes to my own progeny. I was aghast the other day to discover that The Husband merely shoos them out the door in the morning, instead of walking them to the bus stop that is three houses down the street. Today The Boy was having a somewhat negative reaction to the consequences for his aforementioned transportation misdemeanours (about which he was totally forewarned - coming off and protesting that you were "medium" on the behavior spectrum does not count), and I made sure that he pouted in the gutter in front of our house where I could see him, and not at the neighbours.

But slowly, I'm relaxing my grip a bit. Each time I do, I do it with a bit of fear, but then relief as the kids not only manage, but flourish. I quake a bit to think about the games they're playing and the injuries they're (just barely) escaping, but I also know that the road to adulthood is travelled incrementally, and that denying them backyard hooliganism now will likely result in a rebellion of car-stealing proportions down the road.

Nevertheless, better go check on them. Seeing as how it's October 6 and they're out there in swimsuits - might be prudent to show the neighbours that there's some adult supervision going on here. Or maybe they'll just chalk it up to those crazy Canadians again.

(Update: The Boy just came racing in, sopping wet, yelling "sorry, Mom, I'm so so sorry but I broke a glass and I'm so so sorry." Off I go...)

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Well, Her Suit Was Really Pretty. Also.

On days when the ol' job gets a little bit crazy, I like to go for a quick walk down the street. Yesterday was just one such day, and it was Farmer's Market to boot, so I decided to stroll down Nicollet Mall and enjoy looking at all the fresh produce and pretty flowers.

Unfortunately, too mesmerized by the sights, I wasn't watching where I was going and looked up at exactly the wrong moment and made eye contact with the person I've been avoiding for weeks.

The eager voter registration volunteer.

I hate being asked the inevitable question: "Have you registered to vote?" I'm incapable of lying when asked a direct question, so I invariably mumble, "No." But I can't just keep walking. I absolutely must defend myself. I am not some apathetic 30-something who thinks her vote won't matter anyway, so why bother. So they look at me expectantly and I say with a sigh, "I can't vote. I'm not a U.S. citizen."

(And of course, I get back a look of confusion and outrage - how-is-it-that-you-are-here-as-you-are-clearly-employed-and-where-are-the-deportation-police-when-we-need-them - as they back away and nervously say, "well, heh heh, make sure you register when you become one," or "I guess that makes it difficult for you to vote....")

Except yesterday, the would-be-register's friend stepped forward and pulled me closer and said, "wait a minute."

"Has anyone ever told you that you look Just. Like. Sarah. Palin?!"

Which is kind of like saying to someone, "hey, your haircut makes you look just like Forrest Gump!" or "ooo, nice beehive, Peggy Hill."

Now I'll admit, I had my hair pulled back halfway and was rocking the sideswept bangs and rimless glasses, but, former beauty-queen notwithstanding, it wasn't my best moment yesterday. Although perhaps that means I also look like Tina Fey. Which would be okey-dokey by me as she is both smart and hot.

So anyway, the debate. I was actually more worried about Biden. That man is crrrrazy and his unpredictability had me very, very nervous. But Joe B came through - he was steady, reassuring, knowledgeable, and I had no fear that he wouldn't make an excellent Number One.

Palin, though. Well, I suppose it could have been worse. And in the whole "if you can't say anything nice" vein, I suppose I could say that it's the best I've ever heard her speak.

But I can't say the whole down-home-"G"-droppin'-winkin'-cutesy attitude endeared her towards me. Worse still was her maddening refusal to answer any question posed and substitution instead of the few talking points she was able to memorize.

What it really came down to for me was when both candidates were asked to detail a time when they changed an opinion or something they believed in (sorry, paraphrasing, too lazy to find a transcript).

Joe Biden recalled a time when he had judged someone prematurely and turned a former failing into a catalyst for personal growth.

Sarah Palin? "I've never compromised." (Again, paraphrasing.)

Realizing you were wrong is not a "compromise" and it's certainly not something to hide. It takes a lot of guts and real self-assurance to admit one's mistakes. Only arrogant fools truly believe that they have never (or, more tellingly still, have never been in a position where they should have) backed down.

And it is this arrogance and this refusal to acknowledge even the possibility that she could be wrong that scares me about her. America's reputation in this world is badly damaged, and it is exactly because of this arrogance. Her oozing superiority and sense of entitlement would be annoying in a tourist abroad; it would be potentially devastating if brought into delicate foreign relations.

So, as petty as it is, the best I can say is that I really liked her suit. I'll bet it would look good on me. Seeing as how I look like her and all.

(An aside: I'm very glad I wasn't playing a drinking game last night whereby I took a swig everytime she uttered the words "also" or "maverick." Or "Washington insider." Although maybe those words work better if one is halfway through a "Joe Six-Pack.")

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