“Love Came Down,” Even in the Christmas Chaos

 

A friend just asked me why I haven’t written a blog post for a while. First, I told her how flattered I was she had noticed. Then I said, “Well, I guess it was Christmas.”

 

A couple of weeks before the big day I asked a fellow grandmother how she was doing this Christmas season. She admitted, “Every day I wake up and tell myself my goal for the day is just to survive.”

 

I can totally understand. Perhaps you remember my last post, “November Season.” In that mellow, calm, totally in-control essay I praised that pleasant time between Halloween and December. I even mentioned my efforts to get ahead on Christmas tasks, buying gifts and preparing cards. I was so in control.

 

Those were good days.

 

Then December hit. Our family went to Disneyland. I came home with fabulous memories and a back spasm so bad I couldn’t stand. Recovered from that, I gave a bridal shower, hosted a Christmas lunch, and played with my grandboys, here visiting their dad for the holidays. Then our family went to Zion National Park, watched the stars in the crisp dark night and hiked along the Virgin River. In the days that followed we took the grandchildren to the aquarium, and then to the planetarium. I had lunch with my darling sister and the traditional Book Club Christmas dinner with my darling friends. 

 

All at once, it was Christmas! I hosted our big family celebration, organized the church Christmas Eve devotional (for which I wrote the narration earlier in the month), and hosted Christmas Day dinner for those in the family who could come.

 

The day after Christmas I came down with a bad cold (which I think I totally earned), and I have spent the rest of December mostly lying down and coughing. 

 

But guess what? I never felt panicked as I have so often in the past (See "The Year I Ruined Christmas"). Well, not much anyway. I went through the month, the good times and the bad, with a generally positive attitude. I danced to Christmas music in my kitchen, I rejoiced in special times with my grandchildren, I smiled every time I saw my Christmas decorations. Once my back healed, I thought several times a day how wonderful it was not to be in pain. When I could only lie on the couch and cough, I thought how lucky it was I didn’t get sick earlier and how blessed I was to have this nice couch by the fire and Christmas tree. The chaos of Christmas was a joy.

 

Now I’m wondering why. I think it’s this. At the beginning of December, someone I follow on the internet suggested choosing a word for the month, then letting that word guide everything you do. It could be, for example, joy or peace or celebrate.  I decided on Love.

 

Every day I consciously tried to see everything that happened and everything I did through the lens of love. I bought and wrapped gifts for love, I hosted parties for love, I played with grandchildren for love. I didn’t always succeed, and often had to bring myself back to my goal. But Love triumphed overall. And this was a great Christmas-time because of it. I didn’t just survive. I grew in love and joy.

 

I found this poem by Christina Rossetti early in the month, and I used it as the focus of the Christmas Eve Program I wrote. Thinking of it helped with my goal to see love in everything that happened, everything people did around me, everything I did. For, as John the apostle taught, “God is love,” and “everyone that loveth is born of God, and knoweth God.” And Christmas is all about God.

 

That poem by Rossetti says it well:

 

Love came down at Christmas,
Love all lovely, love divine;
Love was born at Christmas,
Star and angels gave the sign.

 

What more can we do, than to give back our own sign of worshipful love?

 

Love shall be our token,
Love shall be yours and love be mine,
Love to God and to all men,
Love for plea and gift and sign.

 

And with this love, to God and to all men, here is my wish to you, my friends. May we find peace and happiness at Christmas time and for all the year to come.

 

 

 

Love Came Down

 

Love came down at Christmas,
Love all lovely, love divine;
Love was born at Christmas,
Star and angels gave the sign.

Worship we [our Savior],
Love incarnate, love divine;
Worship we our Jesus:
But wherewith for sacred sign?

Love shall be our token,
Love shall be yours and love be mine,
Love to God and to all men,
Love for plea and gift and sign.

 

Christina Rossetti

1895

 

 

 

November Season

 

 

When my daughter went to work the day after Halloween, she found an informal poll scrawled on the breakroom white board: Christmas Music After Halloween: For or Against?  She looked at it, and then added a new column—Thanksgiving songs.

 

November is in danger of getting lost. Now, don’t get me wrong. I love Christmas. I love Christmas more than any other holiday and Christmas music is my favorite. For all of you who love putting up your Christmas decorations right after Halloween, go for it!

 

But I have come to love November. It’s a break between the Halloween crazies and Christmas non-stop celebrations. Even nature slows down. The festive oranges and yellows fall to the ground, leaving a monochromatic, peaceful palette of neutrals. The temperatures drop, inducing time by the fire and sipping hot drinks.

 

November is a chance to breathe, pause, reflect. To enjoy a calendar that is not smack full of activities. October was filled with Halloween activities, which have somehow spread from a one-night childhood romp to a month filled with pumpkin patches, fairs, and costume parties. I’m not complaining, because it is a month of fun. But it’s nice to have a break. 

 

November is a time for walks in the cold-- but not so cold you don’t want to walk. You can meander along a river framed with golden trees and a vaulted by brilliant blue. You can stroll through your neighborhood, chatting with friends who are also outside, doing end-of-season outdoor chores. You can savor conversations with those you may not see so much in the future, when they will soon be forced inside by cold and snow.

 

And of course, in the US, November is a time to give thanks, to prepare for what may be the most peaceful holiday of them all. American Thanksgiving is simple: 1) Cook some good food, 2) gather with family and friends to eat it. Maybe watch a parade or some football, go for a walk, enjoy a movie, play some games. There is no (or at least not yet) bleed-out of ancillary activities—just the one day. 

 

So, November can be a time to pause and think about all the blessings in your life. My daughter’s family has a construction paper tree taped to the wall, and every day they add autumn-colored leaves with what they are thankful for. As the tree fills with leaves, their hearts fill with gratitude. I have been posting on social media my daily thanks—for family, friends, colorful leaves, a dance concert, rain, and blue skies. Our natural temperament is to mostly think about our wants, our lacks. It is heart-filling to look around and notice blessings.

 

November can also be a time to plan and prepare. My December calendar is packed. I know that there is a good chance I will have my traditional holiday meltdown at some point this Christmas. But this year I am trying to forestall that by working ahead a little. I’m making menus, buying gifts, doing some deep cleaning, getting the cards done, doing some advance party preparation. Somehow, when doing these things in November, they don’t seem so hard. In fact, it just seems even more peaceful, to be getting ahead on some things. I’m doing some preparation, but I’m not feeling frazzled by it.

 

Instead, I am savoring the spirit of November, the season for being cozy and calm. I am rejoicing in simple, daily joys. I feel peace.

 

But now, this week is Thanksgiving—and then, look out. The holidays will be upon us, in all their glorious non-stop celebration!

 

 

 

Worry Looks a lot Like Love, But It's Not

If you follow the news, there’s a lot to worry about these days: violent and deadly wars in both Israel/Palestine and in Ukraine, a deadly earthquake in Afghanistan, a hurricane in Mexico, a mass shooting in Maine—events so horrific a person can hardly comprehend the terror. And then there’s the added concerns of disfunction in the US Congress and dissatisfaction (terror?) with the likely nominees for President.  

 

But even not counting the global and national scale of worry—each of us probably has plenty of personal concerns keeping us awake at night. Work worries, financial worries, couple worries, children worries.  We’ve all got worries.

 

So we, you and I and everyone we know—we worry.

 

But really does it do any good?

 

Tamara Runia, a leader in my church, recently shared her father’s philosophy: “He'd learned from experience that worry feels a lot like love, but it's not the same.”

 

This struck me because I have regularly felt that love is the reason for my worry. I love my family, I love my country, I love the world and the earth. Since I love, of course I worry.

 

I am an expert worrier. When my 9-year-old daughter forgot to do her state report until the night before, I lay awake worrying she would flunk out of high school. (For the record, she was a straight-A student, graduated from university with honors, and raised three lovely children.) When my 14-year-old son was late getting back from band camp, I worried he was out carousing and on his way to Juvie. (For the record, the band bus was late, and he went on to get an MFA, become a prize-winning photographer, and a successful business owner.)

Sometimes I have joked: Yeah, I worry. And you can be grateful I do. It’s my worry that keeps this family going!”

So Sister Runia’s words stopped me. “Worry feels a lot like love, but it’s not the same.” 

 

Really?

 

I did a quick google search to confirm, and found this, in an article by Andrew Bernstein in Psychology Today:

 

“For my friend and millions like her, worry is a sign of love. It says that, even though I am okay, I am selfless enough to suffer vicariously for you. And isn't that the definition of love? Wouldn't it be uncaring not to feel terrible for others, given what some people have to deal with?

“At the risk of giving worriers everywhere nothing to do, the answer is no.”

I should have known. My dad used to say worry is like a rocking in a rocking chair; you feel like you are getting somewhere, but you never do. It’s useless.

Bernstein goes on to point out, 

When you worry about someone else, you teach them that things aren't going to be okay. . .  . You become someone who rejects life in the name of some imaginary future, and in that act of rejection, you teach misery. All of this, of course, is done innocently and with the best intentions, simply because you believe worry is love. But it isn't.

So, according to Bernstein--all that obsessing about the awful things going on in the world and worry about being on the brink of disaster, all that worry about your children or spouse or friend-- all that worry is only making everything worse. It may even contribute to the disasters you fear. 

By worrying, you are teaching those around you--and, worse yet, yourself--that things will get worse. There is nothing you can do. It’s awful.

So truly, worry will not help your kids. Worry will not help the world or the climate or Washington politics. And worse yet, worry makes things worse.

What does help? 

In Philippians 4, the apostle Paul suggests “by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your request be made known unto God” and then “think on” “whatsoever things are true, . . .just,. . . pure, lovely, of good report.” (Philippians 4:8)

As Mr. Rogers always said, look for the helpers. Focus on the good in the world. Have faith that good will prevail. And look for what you can do to help. 

Contribute to a charity helping war refugees or to a fund for the families of the mass shooting victims. Work for a cause that may limit world conflict or cut back on mass shootings.

And for your personal relationships—your children, your husband, and your friends--I like what Tamara Runia suggests:

Our job is not to teach someone who’s going through a rough patch that they are bad or disappointing. . . . let’s tell our loved ones in spoken and unspoken ways the messages they long to hear: “Our family feels whole and complete because you are in it.” “You will be loved for the rest of your life—no matter what.”

Jesus Christ, on the eve of his arrest and crucifixion, taught this truth, “In the world ye shall have tribulation.” Yes, bad things are going to happen, to you personally and to those around you.

And yet, he said, “Be of good cheer; I have overcome the world.”

As we face the horrible things happening in the world and perhaps in our own lives, we need to try not to worry. Because worry is not love. 

Love is faith and hope and good works. Love is good cheer. Love is the way we can look forward to a future of happiness, in our families and in the world.

 

The Eclipse and Driving Together

 

Last Saturday some of our family drove south to see the eclipse. It was total annular eclipse, just 100 miles or so away. We stood on a field in the little town of Richfield, Utah and marveled, watching through our certified eclipse glasses, as the moon slowly ate away the sun. 

 

Twilight fell, the air grew cold; we bundled the children under blankets and shivered as we watched. We felt the loss of the sun and I understood the primitive response. Though I knew the science of it all, and understood this cold darkness was temporary, a part of me wanted to beat drums, chant, or scream to scare away this dragon relentlessly swallowing our source of light and warmth. 

 

At last, only a thin glowing ring of light was left of our great golden sun. And then the moon moved on, and slowly light and warmth returned.

 

The eclipse was great. I’m a big fan of eclipse-viewing.  In 2017 our family traveled to Idaho to see a total eclipse—you can read my essay about that incredible experience here: https://bethslineuponline.blogspot.com/2017/  Next spring we plan to travel to Texas to see a total eclipse there. 

 

But what I want to write about today is the travel, what happened to our family as drove down to southern Utah to get the best view of the eclipse.

 

There were 7 of us—5 adults and 2 tiny children traveling in a 7-seater Yukon. Every space was taken, which meant some adults had to sit in the back seat with scrunched up leg room meant only for small children. Snacks and diaper bags, coloring books and jackets were tucked around our feet. Because we were with small children, there were whining and vomit and hours of listening to Cocomelon. 

 

There was traffic, though not as bad as expected. Still at times we crept at a frustratingly slow pace. Because we expected traffic, we left early, in the dark, on little sleep.  

 

And yet everyone, even the children, did their best to make the trip a pleasant one. 

 

Other families may have played games or listened to music. We, being who we are, talked about the state of cinema and streaming these days. We laughed about funny things that had happened to us. We shared the books we were reading and podcasts we were listening to. We took turns driving and we ate yummy snacks. We enjoyed the children and their sweet ways. 

 

Miraculously, nobody complained. No one argued. 

 

We did our best to help each other along our journey. When there were topics of discussion that could have led to disagreement, we didn’t. We chose not to go there. We listened to each other. We let some things go.

 

When we were creeping along in traffic, we didn’t complain or curse the driver who tried to cut in front of us. We settled down and enjoyed being together on the journey, knowing there was nothing we could do to go faster. We were patient.

 

When the two-year-old suddenly spewed vomit, with no warning, as little children can do, we all sprang into action to help—passing back tissues, dumping out the plastic box of snacks and handing it over to the adult nearest the baby. We spoke comfort and concern and no one mentioned the smell in that crowded car. We were a team, loving that baby and each other.

 

We are not always like this. We are human—and like everyone, we sometimes grate on each other, sometimes we are angry. Sometimes we are hurt. Sometimes unkind things are said.

 

But that day, stuck together in a crowded vehicle, we were able to think of one another’s needs, not just our own. We were each of us aware of our individual responsibility for the welfare of the group. We were able to limit our pride, hurt feelings, and discomfort so that everyone with us could be happy.

 

 It made me think. Every day on this earth, we are on a journey together. Traveling conditions are less than ideal. Progress may seem slow. There may be crises when we need to all pull together. We may disagree or feel hurt or not appreciated. 

 

We know our destination. We know others are facing the same problems we are. We can help each other enjoy the trip as we travel there.

 

Or we can-- not help. Sometimes on this journey, the light and warmth of love can be eclipsed by anger, fear, jealousy, hurt, greed, or any number of ultimately selfish emotions.

 

The eclipse of the sun ended as the moon inevitably continued on her path.

 

But the eclipse of love can only be ended through our own efforts: to de-emphasize our own discomfort and hurt, to think of others traveling with us, and work together to shine the life-giving love-warmth that allows us, each of us, to reach our heavenly home. 

Working Together Doing Really Hard Things

 

Recently our neighborhood came together to do something really hard.  

 

Our local park is bordered on one side by a steep hillside filled with wild growth and piles of tangled dead wood. 

All that dry brush could easily catch fire and spread to the adjoining neighborhood. Most of the hillside is privately owned by homes just above the hill, who are ultimately responsible for clearing out the dead brush, but the hillside is so very steep and the wild growth so dense that it is a daunting task. The Deputy Fire Marshall came to the City Neighborhood District Board requesting help getting the dry fire fuel cleared out of the hillside. 

 

When we looked closely at what this service project would entail—we were overwhelmed. The hillside is precipitously steep, just a few degrees from being a cliff, and it is densely covered with weed trees and vines. You can hardly work your shoulders through the impenetrable growth. Besides, how could we even access the hillside? From the top, the angle was so steep that footing would be dangerous. One homeowner told us when he ventured down the hill, he first tied a rope around his waist and secured it to a solid anchor. 

 

We had to access the hillside from the park below. But a sturdy 6-foot-high chain link fence, installed by the Parks Department, ran all along the border. How could we climb the fence and then pass the dead wood over the fence? Finally, one person suggested using adjustable ladders that could be positioned with one part on the park side and one part on the hillside so we effectively would have a stile. We had a plan. 

 

Cooperating with both the property owners and the city fire department, we began advertising for volunteers on Facebook community groups, in local churches, and with signs throughout the neighborhood. Soon we had more than 150 willing to help. A local restaurant even volunteered to provide breakfast for everyone.

 

Maybe this would work out after all, we thought, but I was still having sleepless nights thinking of all that could go wrong.

 

Then the day came. 

 

The volunteers who would oversee teams of workers came early and placed the donated adjustable ladders. People at the picnic pavilion were ready to check in the volunteers, having them sign waivers provided by the city. The fire department came: Deputy Fire Marshal Jeannie and her crew of young workers. The park-provided dumpsters were at the ready, as well as an industrial-sized chipper.

 

The volunteers streamed in. All ages, men and women alike, pitched in to help. There were people from nearby and people from farther away; people who knew each other and people who did not.

 

The hardiest climbed over the fence and pulled down the dead wood, pushing and cutting their way through the underbrush, reaching up the steep slope for dead branches and piles of dead brush, then pulling it down and hauling it to the fence. Big branches and dead logs were lifted as a team. When someone slipped on the steep slope, many hands reached out to steady them. 

 

Others stayed on the park side of the fence and received the branches and brush as they were passed over the fence, dragging them to the four dumpsters which soon proved inadequate. The Fire Department’s chipper could not keep up. Piles of dead brush grew. And grew.

 

For hours the volunteers worked and sweated. One guy got hit by a branch and downed. Others gathered around, helped him up, and he was fine. Another guy pinched his hand between the fence and a heavy branch—holding his bleeding hand with the other, he kept insisting, “it’s nothing” as his wife led him to the first aid station.

 

Workers proudly displayed curious discoveries appearing amid the brush, including a metal hubcap and a 6-foot section of chain link fence. 

 

My friend Tessa, 70 years old but fit, was helping with registration and then on the park side gathering branches. Before long she thought, “They need more help on the other side of the fence,” and over she went. When I saw her, she was stretched out flat against the steep slope reaching for some dead wood that was just above her head. I yelled, “Tessa, get over here! You can’t do that.” 

 

She ignored me, and rightly so, for obviously she could!

 

After three hours of work, the hill behind the fence was transformed, with clear space among the green. The fence was bordered by piles of dead brush, 6 feet high and more. The Deputy Fire Marshall said she had never seen a community project accomplish so much.

 

As we gathered in the pavilion to enjoy donated eggs, potatoes, and muffins, everyone was laughing and talking, sharing their adventures. Men and women covered from head to toe in dirt and sweat compared to see who was filthiest.  People who had been strangers became friends.

 

The hillside was safer from fire danger, but something more important had happened too.

 

As Tessa said, “It felt good to do something important together.”

 

In this modern age, we are seldom called upon to work together physically on something truly hard. The prehistoric cave people had to work together to hunt the mammoth; ancient peoples came together to protect their communities from enemies both human and natural; pioneers would help each other with barn raising and threshing. But now, everyone does their own thing; industrialization and specialization means that we seldom need to rely on our neighbors. 

 

Don’t get me wrong—I’m thankful for modern conveniences. Still though, when from time to time we get to really work together, to really depend on each other, something wonderful happens. The philosopher David Hume once observed: “It's when we start working together that the real healing takes place... it's when we start spilling our sweat, and not our blood.”

 

Our neighborhood had the chance to spill our sweat together, doing something both hard and important.  We are better for it. 

 

 

 

 

 

The Quiet Necessity of Nature

 The Quiet Necessity of Nature

 

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee;
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet's wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart's core.

--William Butler Yeats

 

 

“I will arise and go now and go to Innisfree,” John Yeats wrote in 1888, while immersed in busy London. He was walking down the street, heard the trickle of water from a fountain for sale in a shop window, and suddenly remembered an uninhabited island near his childhood home in Ireland. He wrote of a yearning to leave the bustling city and “live alone in the bee-loud glade,” “where peace comes dropping slow.”

 

I’ve been hearing Yeats poem in my heart for the past week, since I have just returned from spending time in our family cabin, deep in the green forests of western Washington. 

 

Only, in my heart I hear, “I will arise and go now, and go to Bracken Lane.”

 

Life at the cabin is slow. We wake to the light filtering through tall fir trees thick around us. There is no hurry to arise. We sleep a little longer. When we finally arise, we putter around fixing a little breakfast from whatever is in the fridge. Maybe eggs. Maybe banana bread the neighbor gave us the other day. 

 

We open the door and smell the Christmassy piney freshness, the clean purity of the air. We listen to the silence. 

 

Maybe then we walk down the overgrown path to the little creek. We sit on the old wooden bench my father-in-law built decades ago. We watch the water burble and gurgle over the black lava rock warn smooth by thousands of years of trickling in the summer and surging in the winter. There salamanders live in shallow rock pools and dragon flies dart along the water’s surface. We hear in memory our little children laughing there years ago, wading and playing.

 

Maybe we walk the other direction to overlook the big creek where the river rushes over the black rocks, where the neighbors have dammed up a little swimming hole, where the fish swim.

 

Then we might go for a drive along deserted roads that barely make a dent in the vast green forest. We might go to town, or to a mountain, or to the immense blue Columbia River, where windsurfers skip gaily over the white caps.

 

In the evening we have a bite to eat. Wash the two plates and two cups in the sink, admiring Grandma Lydia’s mismatched but cheerful Corelle dishes. 

 

After, in the evening light, we take a walk down the lane, past the neighbor’s pristine garden, fenced against the deer. Past the hygienic pen where three pigs live their best life under the trees--until autumn when they get to become pork chops and hams.

 

We continue down the empty road a piece—the road where it is kind of an event if a car passes by--to the bridge over Trout Creek. There we lean over the rails and admire the silver light sparkling on the water as it cascades through the great, thick forest. There are houses along the river, we think because of the mailboxes, but they are not visible in the tall trees, the thick vine maples, and the bracken.

 

Sometimes we meet a neighbor on the lane. We exchange pleasantries. We know the neighbors watch over our place when we aren’t there. But mostly folks who choose to live in the woods are private people. We don’t go knocking on their doors. 

 

After our walk, we pull out the Rumikub game, the same set with the same tiles we used to play with Grandpa Carl all those years ago. Paul and I play two games—I win one, he wins one. We are well matched. 

 

Then bed, lulled to sleep by the sweet sound of the river running outside our window and the breeze blowing sweetly through the fir trees.

 

Yeats says of his Innisfree, 

 

I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;

While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey.

I hear it in the deep heart’s core.

 

For me, when I am in the city, living in a pavement world, I smell the scent of fir trees, I hear the river flowing.

 

I hear it in the deep heart’s core. 

 

There is a need for the quiet of nature. Where are your retreats from the world? What peaceful place do you remember when life gets hectic? What is your Innisfree?

 

 

 

Sadly, This is Not the Barbie Movie We Expected

 

Last night I dressed in pink and joined a happy crowd to view the new Barbie movie. A friend had rented a theater which we filled with friends and family all dressed in Barbie fashion and excited for the experience. The women wore pink and sparkles and high heels. One of the men had a Ken t-shirt that gave him the perfect Ken abs. We squealed as the lights went down and the movie began. Thanks to some great marketing, we were all expecting a couple of hours of light entertainment, an homage to our beloved Barbie dolls, something to leave us smiling.

 

But strangely, the movie began in a barren grey wasteland, where morose little girls played gloomily with baby dolls. The voiceover explained that pretending to be mommy “wasn’t much fun; just ask your mother.” Then a giant Barbie appears on the scene, smiling cheerfully, and the little girls gleefully and violently smash all the babies.

 

I sat in the dark, my own smile frozen on my face. I wanted to like this movie. I loved my Barbie as a child. But I also love babies.  Somehow this is not what I expected. 

 

What I expected was a fun romp, maybe like that film Enchanted where the princess is transported from fairytale land to the real world and, through a series of hilarious experiences, eventually influences the real world for good because of her innocence, but also learns to truly love because true love is real. 

 

But no. This is not what we get in Barbie the Movie. 

 

Let me first say I liked the set design and costumes. The look of Barbieland is pink and plastic and perfect. The details are great:  Barbie showering without water because of course there is no plumbing in the plastic Barbie house; Barbie pouring pretend milk from the carton and pretend drinking; Barbie walking on the plastic water in the pool and driving the pink plastic convertible with no engine. I loved the way the dream houses lack walls, so all the Barbies can wave to each other from their bedrooms and the way the Barbie ambulance unfolds. This visual Barbie world was great.

 

But here is what I don’t like, and why I am going to suggest maybe you don’t want to take your little girl to this movie. The audience for this movie is not little girls who love their Barbie dolls. It is not even moms who remember loving their Barbie dolls. I don’t even know who the audience is--what comes to mind is angry, vengeful, disappointed feminists. 

 

First, that PG13 rating is earned. There is lots of sexually explicit jokes and language. 

 

Also, the plot has more holes than my Barbie’s lace dress. The whole premise hinges on the way the child playing with Barbie influences how Barbie acts in Barbie World. But that can’t be true, because, though children are all different, all the Barbies act the same. Later, Barbie goes to the real world where she accomplishes exactly nothing before heading back to Barbie Land, toting along two real people, also for no good reason. Barbie and Ken are arrested twice, but somehow are set free without any consequences. Throughout the movie, things happen, but rarely is there any credible motivation. The plot feels like it was a result of a drunken brainstorming session where people kept saying, “Wouldn’t it be funny if. . . .“ Then  they laughed uproariously at their own jokes and put them all in script whether they made sense in the story or not.

 

But my biggest beef with the movie is the didactic theme, which is beaten into us at every turn, from those smashed babies at the beginning to the very strange ending. Life is not about learning to work together with respect, self-sacrifice, and caring. Life is a war with the opposite sex, one you better fight ruthlessly if you want to come out on top. 

 

From the beginning, Barbie is smiling and cheerful, but totally selfish. All she cares about is having her best day ever, every day. Ken looks longingly at Barbie, hoping for some connection. He tries to impress her by running into the plastic surf, only to look ridiculous and get hurt, needing to be treated by the Barbie doctors in the pink plastic Barbie ambulance.

 

In Barbie Land, the Barbies run the world, and the Kens are only another accessory to the Barbies. The Barbies have dream houses, but nobody knows where the Kens live. After the party, all the Kens disappear, who knows where. 

 

When Barbie and Ken do arrive in the real world, someone asks Ken the time, and suddenly he realizes that men can be valued and respected. It’s OK to like guy things. 

 

Here’s where I was hoping that at last Barbie and Ken could team up—work together to solve their problem, each contributing their own talents and skills. But no. 

 

In this movie men—from the Kens to the Mattell CEO and Board to the poor husband of the real mom-- are always foolish and silly. The women are sarcastic, angry, depressed victims or cheerful but selfish overlords. 

 

The women trick the men. The men subjugate the women. The two genders are forever to be separate and unhappy. The ending seems to encourage the segregation of the sexes and the value of just being ordinary.

 

I wanted to like this movie. I really did. I tried. 

 

After watching the movie our whole crowd trooped out to the foyer for a group photo—all pink and smiling. Even afterward. We wanted to like the movie.

 

But no. If you believe that both women and men have value and deserve respect, if you believe that a man and woman can be happy together, if you believe that striving for understanding each other is a valuable pursuit—this movie is not for you.

 

And don’t take your children to this movie. The PG13 rating is real. The jokes are definitely adult. They may go over your child’s head, but the way men and women treat each other in this film will not. 

 

Sorry. 

 

 

Christian Living in a Secular World: A Response to Dreyer’s The Benedict Option

 

In high school, I was one of two students who belonged to my church, the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (the Mormons). Somehow that made a difference in how I interacted with others at my school. At church, I went to dances and parties every weekend, I had the lead in the church play, and I taught little children in Sunday School. At school, I was withdrawn, anxious, and often solitary. I felt very different from those who didn’t share my beliefs. I felt a need to separate myself, to somehow protect myself from them. In doing this, I missed out on friendships with many good people.

 

I’ve been thinking of my high school dual personality because I recently read the 2017 controversial best seller by Rod Dreher, The Benedict Option: A Strategy for Christians in a Post-Christian Nation.  In the book, Dreher maintains that as belief in Christian values becomes less and less common, the world will become an increasingly more difficult place for believing Christians. Dreher suggests a response based in part on the Benedictine monastic movement of the Middle Ages; he says Christians must retreat (figuratively and at times literally) from the world to strengthen and maintain Christian practices. 

 

As you can see from my high school experience, I can understand this desire to separate from a world that doesn’t understand my faith. In the 19^th century, members of our church were violently driven from place to place until, finally, Brigham Young led them a thousand miles to the desolate Great Salt Lake valley. This was a place no one else wanted. This was a place where they could live in peace, practice their religion, and grow in faith. They called it Zion. This was indeed a “Benedictine Option.”

 

We could not stay isolated forever though, nor did we want to. We spread back out into the world where we faced the challenges all believers face: How do you maintain your faith while living among those who often speak strongly against faith? 

 

Christians are sometimes tempted to water down their beliefs to fit in with the surrounding
culture. Instead, Dreyer suggests a return to what he calls “radical Christianity,” a faith that is not just a veneer but a way of life, something that controls your actions and thoughts every day. A faith that leads to sacrifice, to keeping all the Christian commandments, even the ones that are not seen as desirable in today’s world. This faithful life would be supported by daily practices of worship, study, and prayer both personally and as a family, and by nurturing a community of like-minded believers.

 

As members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, we find this daily worship and Christian practice an essential part of our faith. We pray frequently throughout the day, both individually and in our families. We study scripture daily, and we nurture our communities of faith. We follow the Christian teachings of love and sacrifice. We also follow the “Word of Wisdom,” a health code that includes abstaining from coffee, alcohol, and tobacco. We follow a strict law of chastity, meaning no sex outside of marriage. We give ten percent of our income to the church. We dedicate many hours a week to service. As Dreher points out, the sacrifices we make for our faith are blessings. They help us to live our priorities. They help us to sacrifice for Christ as He did for us. 

 

These sacrifices, though, are often misunderstood by others. In a world where doing what makes you feel good is seen as most important, making sacrifices to live the commandments of faith seems foolish, prudish, or even phobic. In the face of such attacks, many members of our church, and other Christian faiths, are simply walking away. 

But those of us who stay need to also be wary, and this is the danger of the “Benedict Option.” We must be careful not to let the “radical Christianity” we strive for become simply “radical rule-keeping.” And as we cherish our Christian community, we must be careful not to fall into the sin of the pharisees—believing that we are better than others because we follow “the law” and they don’t. 

 

David Brooks, the New York Times columnist points out this danger in his 2017 review of the book, saying Dreyer“answers secular purism with religious purism. By retreating to neat homogeneous monocultures, most separatists will end up doing what all self-segregationists do, fostering narrowness, prejudice and moral arrogance.” (David Brooks, “The Benedict Option,” New York Times, March 14, 2017 https://www.nytimes.com/2017/03/14/opinion/the-benedict-option.html)

 

How do we avoid this “moral arrogance”? Only by developing a true faith, a deep relationship with God and Jesus Christ. The relationship can only develop through personal prayer, study, and reflection. It can be strengthened in families and communities that support our faith, but we cannot truly live our faith unless we have a personal, deep connection with Christ ourselves.

 

That is what really defines a Christian. It is not an option. It is a way of life, a way of interacting with the world. Christ went out among all kinds of people—the sinners, the publicans, the Romans, and the Samaritans. He did not hide away from the influences of the world. He took his Light to all, teaching and modeling the way. 

 

My husband as a teenager also attended a high school with very few members of our faith. However, he chose a different path than I did, a more Christlike path. Rather than retreat in fear, he reached out in caring and acceptance. As a senior he was elected student body president (and as “Boy of the Year”), because everyone saw him as a friend. 

 

This is a much more Christian response to the problem of difference. 

 

As we try to follow Christ, we must also be willing to follow His path, to go into all the world, to serve, to teach, and to love. As we do this, we must be influenced not by the world around us, but by Christ and his loving commands. We must keep those commandments not in pride but in love. This is what members of my church, and all Christians, try to do. Often, we won’t succeed, but through Christ’s grace, we can become stronger and better. Sometimes we may be mocked for our faith, but so was Christ. Even in the face of increasing opposition, we can learn to keep Christ’s commandments faithfully, including the greatest one: “As I have loved you, love one another."

Drought, Prayers, and Miracles

 

 

This week the governor of Utah, Spencer Cox, proclaimed a “Day of Prayer and Thanksgiving,” because “by praying collaboratively and collectively and asking our higher powers for more snow and rain, Utah received record-breaking snowfall this winter season and ideal spring runoff circumstances.”

 

This may seem like a strange governmental act, in this secular age. 

To understand it, let’s look back. Two years ago, we were suffering from years of brutal drought, and Governor Cox made another proclamation, one for prayer and supplication. On June 3, 2021, he explained, “I’ve already asked all Utahns to conserve water by avoiding long showers, fixing leaky faucets, and planting water-wise landscapes. But I fear those efforts alone won’t be enough to protect us,” Governor Cox said. “We need more rain and we need it now. We need some divine intervention. That’s why I’m asking Utahns of all faiths to join me in a weekend of prayer.”

 

His proclamation specified: "By praying together and collectively asking God or whatever higher power you believe in for more rain, we may be able to escape the deadliest aspects of the continuing drought.

At the time, he was mocked. John Oliver on an HBO comedy show, “Last Week Tonight,” made fun of Cox and the entire state of Utah, laughingly stating what to him and most of the country was obvious, “You don’t pray your way out of a drought.”

But many of us believe prayer matters. 

CS Lewis, that most literate believer, wrote compelling of prayer—its necessity and its mystery.

He explained “prayer is not magic. Prayer is asking a higher being for help.” 

If it were magic, you would be able to say the same magic words and always get the same result. When Harry Potter waves his wand and says “Accio Broom,” the broom requested flies directly to him—every time. Prayer is not like that.

Indeed, in the year following Governor Cox’s request for prayer, our drought continued. We kept on praying, and, at the same time, we did all we could to conserve precious water in our desert landscape. We let our lawns turn brown. We took out the lawn altogether and spread rock in its place. We planted drought-tolerant species. We collected shower water in buckets and lugged it out to water the garden. Farmers tried novel methods for conserving water, including a strange sort of tower to grow alfalfa.

As the Great Salt Lake shrank and the mountain reservoirs began to look more like puddles, we did all we could to conserve water. And we also prayed.

Then, in the winter of 2022-23, it snowed. And snowed and snowed. Day after day. Snow on snow on snow. The Alta Ski Area, in the mountains above Salt Lake, received 903 inches of snow, 155 inches more than its previous record. Just to do the math for you, that is over 75 feet of snow. 

We kept praying, in gratitude after each snowstorm and in supplication for more. We shoveled our driveways. We bundled up to go anywhere. We laughed about the remarkable constancy of the snow.

There was great skiing, with the snow approaching the height of the ski lifts. There was powder snow you could ski through up to your waist. And we kept praying.

There were avalanches and blizzards and dangerous roads. In the mountain towns, snow was piled four feet deep on the roofs. Some roofs collapsed. And we kept praying for snow, and in gratitude for snow.

Sometimes we jokingly asked each other, “Which one of you is still praying for snow?”

But, really, we all were. Because we knew we needed it.

Then, spring arrived, and our prayers changed. When all that snow melted, where would the water go?

People talked about the spring of 1983, when the spring floods caused mud avalanches that literally buried a small mountain town, when the rivers couldn’t contain the melt and were routed down city streets.  

This spring we prayed for the weather to cooperate. If it warmed quickly, all that snow would come down the mountain at once, the rivers would top their banks and houses would be deluged. Now we prayed for a mild spring to control the speed of the melt. 

At the same time, we worked to be ready for floods. Neighbors labored together to fill thousands of sandbags and stacked them to direct possible flooding. City and county work crews cleared fallen branches and all debris from the rivers, so the water could run free. Citizens were encouraged to find the storm drains in their neighborhoods and clear them of all impediments. 

And we kept praying. 

As it turned out, the weather cooperated to limit the damage. This spring we had a day or two of warm weather and the snow melted. Then a week of cool weather, with little melting. Then some more warm, melting, days. Then cool weather to slow the melt. 

Even so, the melt was spectacular. The rivers were torrential, running at their highest levels, barely below their banks. A mountain road washed out and became a waterfall. Some homes along the Weber River were flooded. 

But compared to what could have happened, the melt came down in just about perfect order. I saw the head of Utah’s water agency interviewed on TV news, almost in tears for joy at this perfect scenario.

So now, miraculously, our lakes and reservoirs are almost all 100% full. Even the Great Salt Lake, the largest inland salt sea in the Western Hemisphere, which was so low we feared we would lose it altogether, has gained five incredibly significant feet. 

Our prayers were answered. Of course, it could have been a coincidence. It might have happened this way no matter what.

And, of course, we were not blessed with this answer because we are better than others. But we did ask. And I think it matters. 

So, this week we are praying our thanks to God for the miraculous winter and spring that has brought us the water we need so badly.

We are also enjoying the sunshine and warm weather. A long cold snowy winter really makes you appreciate the warm sun.

I am grateful to pull weeds in the sun, to play in the water with my grandchildren, and to lay in the warmth  of a hammock. 

And I am grateful for miracles, for answered prayers--for God.

 

 

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