wrong question

This morning I read an op-ed article by David Brooks in the New York Times about the alleged Penn State scandal; in it Brooks unearths the hypocrisy of the public's disgust. Brooks is a thoughtful writer, but he missed the mark on his conclusion. Here's the end of his op-ed piece:

But we’re not Puritans anymore. We live in a society oriented around our inner wonderfulness. So when something atrocious happens, people look for some artificial, outside force that must have caused it—like the culture of college football, or some other favorite bogey. People look for laws that can be changed so it never happens again. 

Commentators ruthlessly vilify all involved from the island of their own innocence. Everyone gets to proudly ask: “How could they have let this happen?”

The proper question is: How can we ourselves overcome our natural tendency to evade and self-deceive. That was the proper question after Abu Ghraib, Madoff, the Wall Street follies and a thousand other scandals. But it’s a question this society has a hard time asking because the most seductive evasion is the one that leads us to deny the underside of our own nature. 

While Brooks identifies the sins of vanity and pride, and even our total depravity--yay!--, he stops short with the wrong question: "How can we ourselves overcome our natural tendency to evade and self-deceive."

We ourselves can't do diddly squat.

A better query might read: How can we be rescued from our natural tendency to evade and self-deceive." Note the passive voice. I know it's a faux pas in English grammar circles, but it sure is fitting in theological ones. We need rescuing by the Savior.

I suppose it's a little greedy of me to expect a columnist to complete the thought. I should be thankful Brooks at least exposes our sin. His assessment of human nature reminds me of a sermon I listened to yesterday by Ligon Duncan from The Gospel Coalition website. In preaching about contentment, Duncan states, "You are more likely to seek real contentment and find it than someone who is content in his/her circumstances." Hopefully Brooks' article struck a cord of discontentment with his readers; then we will be a step closer to searching for the source of true peace.

shutter fancy

I took a photography course my senior year of undergrad. It was a black and white film photography class, and I was so intimidated by an art course and its art majors that I took it pass/fail--embarrassing, I know.

It turned out to be one of my favorite non-literature courses. I enjoyed the reprieve from pending deadlines; the calming dark room process; the never-ending search to find the best angle, the best lighting, the best timing. It was a way to push myself artistically, and I've been missing that particular outlet lately.

In the last month, I've had a few opportunities to rekindle my hobby. The most recent occurred last week as a trial for cutting portrait session costs from our budget and to personalize our boys’ photos. It also served as a challenge to successfully shoot a stalwart 2-year-old who barely sits through 1 Dr. Seuss book and a tipsy 5-month-old working on trunk control.

So after nap time I schlepped both boys to the backyard with my gear and snapped away. Here are a few highlights from our “session” (Note there are no pictures of them together; I need a little help from my beloved for that task):

 J.N. - 2 yrs., 3 mos.

C. A. - 5 1/2 mos.

autumn entry

I've been in denial that summer is coming to a close--a la the present progressive tense. This last week's unusually warm temperatures didn't help my seasonal confusion either. I think I've been a season behind since June and July were a blur of mid-night feedings and early morning wakings. According to my clock, it's the middle of August.

Meanwhile the leaves on our front trees are half fallen and all but our tomatoes, peas, broccoli, lettuce, and spinach are piled in the corner of our garden in a heap, awaiting the tiller. I don't have the heart to pull the spindly tomato plants yet, and the others are thriving in the cooler weather.

I fear by the time I admit summer is over, I will have completely missed autumn's warm colors and be stuck inside the gray winter. I think I'd like having a winter baby; I wouldn't protest missing February and March too much.

grief's presence

I am presently inept in the presence of Grief. I've had a few run-ins with her lately, and an awkward conversation fumbles back and forth full of starts, interruptions, and red-in-the-face restarts.

She is confident, beautiful, and powerful. Unsure of myself around her, I feel a cowardly inclination to fill the pauses and end up mutely devising appropriate platitudes. What I'd really like to do is create white noise, so the silences don't feel so dead, so cold...so final.

Grief lays me bare, cuts to my marrow. I want to blanket my depravity, but she seeks me out and exposes my hypocrisy. I don't want to be another Eliphaz, Bildad, or Zophar, so I walk alongside her, wondering if my clumsiness will smooth with practice.

cleaning house

Last Thursday my oldest was trying to lure me from my pile of laundry on the floor with a Dr. Seuss book when I spotted a small furry creature make a bolt from our cracked front storm door to the couch. I shrieked (I won't deny it) and called for backup: my beloved with a broom. He propped our front door open and poked the broom under the couch in the direction of our prepared exit. My son's finger pointed toward the door and his verbal "uh-oh" made me confident the mouse exited our home.

Or so I thought.

Except I kept finding mouse droppings behind the couch, then the love seat, by a vent, inside the stove drawer, and then along the back of our kitchen counter top! Tired of cleaning like a mad woman for fear the mouse was a harbinger of my slovenliness, it was time to step it up a notch. In addition to the poison packets (Not to worry, Mom; they were out of reach of little hands), we (read: my dear husband) strategically placed sticky traps behind the stove and love seat and went to sleep disgusted that our house was hospitable to a mouse.

One sleep later, no success, more mouse droppings in the stove drawer, disinfecting. Two more sticky traps under the stove in far superior locations, more cleaning, paranoia. One sleep later, still no success, questioning whether the mouse ventured elsewhere, frenzied cleaning. A little shuffle under the stove this afternoon, success at last.

Wish I were as fastidious about sin in my heart as I was about having a mouse in my house. Vacuuming, sweeping, and deep cleaning the sin out of my life? More like ignoring, hiding, and excuse-making for my heart's filth, the stuff I hide in the back of dark, stove drawers.

good fences make good neighbors

When we planted our garden this spring, the plot wove organically into our backyard. But the probability of little critters feasting and toddler feet trampling prompted a fence weeks after it was planted. Set apart from the lawn with its strategically placed wood stakes and galvanized steel grids, the encompassed garden soon assumed an ostentatious manner; the only society allowed were long-legged benefactors.


Currently the garden is thriving--and sprawling, thanks to the cucumber and butternut squash vines. Instead of insulating the garden bounty, the fence now acts as a defense for the commoner blades of grass, ensuring the lawn has equal access to the sun. On a less Marxist note, the fence also prevents the vines from wandering into the neighbor's yard.

relaxation woes

Cicadas roar. The birds dart around our deck, and the creek babbles lazily through our backyard. Relaxation should drift over me any second as I watch the sun dip below the horizon and take a sip of my half glass of red wine. I look at the wandering potato vine in the flower pot, thinking how next year I should plant one in a larger pot, so it has more room to grow.
Relax.

I try to glide into a calm feeling and lean my head back on the adirondack as I glance over at Olasky's The Tragedy of American Compassion on the small cedar end table.
When is that due again? I should probably get moving on that if I'm going to finish it by the due date...I was going to sew up that pink blanket this week, too. Maybe I'll do that tomorrow during nap time. Wait, I was planning to set aside nap time to catch up on my reading list.

The fog on my wine glass finally dissipates from the thick humidity, and I gather my hair in a ponytail, though it's not long enough and I don't have a holder. Uselessly, I loosen my grip and extend my arm for another sip as our air conditioning unit kicks on, breaking the silence.
I have to remember to drink a glass of water after I finish this--wouldn't want C.A. getting anything second hand during his "dream feed." I shouldn't get dehydrated either.

I wave off the fruit flies before I lift the glass to my mouth, and as the fermented drink washes over my tongue, I come face to face with a housefly--presumably drunk or dead--at the bottom of my glass.
So much for relaxing.