In many ways, I have felt my own faith heritage has been both a blessing and a curse. The church of my childhood and most of my adulthood unquestioningly and abundantly sends money wherever people are hurting or in need. However, the legalistic aspects of both of these systems of religious belief often left me feeling the methods and rituals were more important than the original purpose.

It has become a habit of mine to point out that what we see on Sunday morning has absolutely nothing to do with Jesus. Therefore, my feelings toward anything “church” have become very disconnected from my feelings about the human being that was Jesus of Nazareth.

And then I see a post like this one over at Trey Morgan’s website.

And this one.

And all I can say is this MUST be what Jesus and the apostles looked like. Forget the pretty windows. Forget the little trays of crackers and grape juice. Forget the warm bathtub waters of a baptistry. These people are feeding hungry, desperate human beings and doing everything in their power to heal them. Jesus did those very things.

These people get it.

If you read Trey’s website, you will notice that he has a paypal donation button on the right side of his page.

I am about to hit that button, because this is the image of Jesus I want the world to see. Not some halo enshrined angelic entity created by Michaelangelo. Not some White Knight wielding a flaming sword and cutting off heads.

This is the face of Jesus.

This is where I want my money to go.

Shocker, isn’t it?

The other thing I’ve had to learn is that others can be right even when their right is different from my right.

There is usually more than one right way……

…and the world doesn’t come to an end nor do heaven’s gates slam shut just because someone uses a different right way.

On my spiritual journey, I’ve had to do a lot of allowing: Allowing myself to change my mind about what I believe, allowing myself to realize (and…gasp….ADMIT) that maybe others were right 20 years ago when I thought they were completely wrong, allowing others to remain where they are and not attempt to pull them along on MY journey, allowing them to have an opinion that is different from mine and not attempt to convince them otherwise, and on and on it goes.

It hasn’t been easy, nor all that successful. It’s certainly not in my nature. It has required a lot of patience over the years from those I care about. I can be a real wench when I’m convinced I’m right.

I’ve done a lot of “beating over the head” in my 42 years of life.

I’m pretty sure I started that favorite pastime as soon as I could mutter my first words.

And as I sit back and recognize the many recent changes that have occurred in my ways of thinking, most without my really asking for them, I realize that there is a force in the universe that leads us where each of us needs to go, be, or do at a particular time in life.

Sorting through my mother-in-law’s papers has re-opened my eyes to this. She wielded a mighty pen in the name of traditional Catholicism, right to life legislation, seat belt privacy (there’s a contradiction if I ever saw one), and no sex education in schools. I find myself wavering between a tinge (okay, a LOT) of bitterness (my views are quite different in many ways), and respect for her passions…..allowing her to be what she needed (needs) to be and respecting her own version of rightness.

That same force that I believe opened my eyes to other perspectives  is the force that led me to walk away from a church rather than try to change it. The awareness in my head said very clearly that their ways are right for them and that while I might disagree, it’s not my job to change them. They are beautiful people who do many good things in this world. Leave them alone and let them be.

And so, I did. Sorta.

Yet I have much work left to do on that whole allowing thing. Too often I find myself criticizing their beliefs, methods, procedures, and more. It makes me wonder what’s still at work inside of me if I feel the need to be so defensive about my own beliefs and critical of theirs.

I guess when the time is right, I will be ALLOWED to figure it out.

How’s that allowing thing working for you?

Enjoy.

I didn’t realize just how upset they were…..

….Until I returned from picking up HorseGirl from cheerleading camp only to find my baby girl running up and down the barditch between our farm and the football field and acting like a lunatic. Then I saw them….the big beasts that had just busted through my pathetic attempt at a horse fence. They were enjoying the munchies available on the other side of the road…..visitor’s side concession stand.

I slammed on the breaks, hollered at HorseGirl to jump out and get her horses, backed up that minivan and jumped out with her.

HorseGirl hollered at my baby to go get halters. Meanwhile HorseGirl and I did everything in our power to keep the nutless wonders contained and calm. Belly scratching was working pretty well…until Buddy decided to move and my sandal clad foot decided to be under his 25 year old hoof.

Forgive me Father…I know not what I said, but I’m pretty sure it probably wouldn’t be suitable in church…..if I ever went.

Pretty sure my mom wouldn’t approve either.

Halters arrived, horses were under control, and HorseGirl led them both back to their jail…er…uh….pasture. A little feed, and our adventure was over….I thought.

A few minutes later, my hubby calls and asks if the horses are out. I told him, “Not anymore.” He said he was listening to the police talking about horses being out and trying to find them.

I looked out the window and saw no less than two cop cars driving by. HorseGirl was trying her best to hide until they drove away. I figured they were trying desperately to find the “loose” horses and in an attempt to relieve their desperate search, I walked out to give them the scoop.

The first police car had already driven off, but the second one, unmarked yet obviously a police package car (I know this from my years of being a sheriff’s daughter—valuable and important information for life), was still driving slowly. I waved. He rolled down his window. I didn’t recognize him. Strange– because I know almost everyone of any authority around here. It makes me feel important.

I gave him the whole ugly story, including the part about the agonizing pain on the top of my foot, then stuck my hand out towards him and introduced myself. He obviously needed to know me. Had he been bald and wrinkled, I might have been less forthcoming, but this older dude was still sporting a good amount of hair that was actually still on his head, plus he had a thick salt and pepper colored ‘stache on his top lip.

Since I consider myself quite a connoisseur of attractive older men, I had dubbed him worthy of knowing me. He reciprocated the introduction, handed me his card, and we parted ways.

Five minutes later as I looked at the name on the card, I had a serious dejavue moment.

Serious dejavue.

Flashback to 1980. I was about 12. We had a fun lady coach for junior high athletics. She always commented how her husband looked like Tom Selleck/Magnum, PI. He came to a few of our trackmeets, and most of us agreed. At the ripe old age of twelve, we all helped her admire the deliciousness that was her man.

Time passed. Thirty years to be exact. As the CSI photo enhancing computer in my head did its amazing aging work, I stood there realizing that I had just had a personal encounter with Magnum. Him. That man who was once the spouse of my coach.

Poor sucker.

Next time I see him, I have to tell him. HAVE TO. It’s a desperate obsession.

Am I weird or what? Do any of the rest of you remember this?

So yeah….crazy horses and a huge dose of dejavue. Turned out to be a good day, I’d say.

…and the paradox of contradiction so many of her passions hold.

It fascinates me that a woman who is so passionate about the right to life movement is also very anti-government regulation when it came to seatbelt laws. Even late into her seventies she would sit across the street from the local Planned Parenthood office with her right to life poster. She sent letters to every Catholic congressman scolding them for their Democrat views on abortion. And yet, a couple of days ago when I took her back to her house to pack a few more things, she gave me that look of disgust when I reached for the seatbelt to buckle her in.

It fascinates me that someone who was such an avid co-producer and preserver (with my f-i-l) of locally grown food was quite the cheerleader for the proposed nuclear waste dump site near our community. (Thank God we were deprived of that one.)

It’s both a fascinating and fortunate-for-me paradox that this beautiful lady who carried no less than eight babies, delivered six live births, and saw five of the most handsome men on the planet into adulthood is very outspoken against anything that resembles sex education in the schools.

And the one that strikes me as most ironic and yet which links us in so many ways…..

This amazingly passionate woman so fiercely believed in maintaining all of the traditional Catholic ways. She wrote letters to priests and bishops. She stood up strongly and with great conviction in the face of people who weren’t very nice to her, and eventually walked away from her church home because it didn’t seem right to continue participating in something that didn’t align with her conscience.

Then a few years later, she acquired me into her family: Staunch Church of Christ and anti-Catholic, right-to-lifer who prefers women have freedom of choice (no legislating morality for me), total seat belt advocate (hey, it’s a safety issue, not a morality issue), health educator who participated in teaching the sex ed classes at school, grateful user of non-hormone birth control methods (yes, I really did use something–if I hadn’t, there might be 15 instead of just four!), and the real kicker……

A daughter-in-law who ultimately left “The Church” because of it’s refusal to change at a rate with which I was comfortable. Or maybe it was because I changed and the church couldn’t, wouldn’t, or wasn’t supposed to keep up with me. Either way, it seems sort of funny that both of us walked away from a church, yet for reasons that are so polar opposite .

So many conversations have gone unspoken or unheard (if they were spoken) because it has always been easier to ignore the differences than to engage in a passionate hurtful debate. We have instead simply chosen to love (or sometimes tolerate) one another. Our common link is a gorgeous hunk of a man whom she birthed, I caught, and we both adore.

And for the record, I was, of course, ALWAYS right.

Don Rogers posted it over at his site, and I think he saw it on someone else’s blog site.

Intriguing………

My in-laws don’t belong in a place like that.

I guess it’s a good thing that this particular place has changed a lot over the years. Yes, there are still a few sites and sounds that an unprepared and even shallow person might not handle well, and yet there are many more sites of older people who still have lots of life left to live, who simply can’t handle all of the day to day chores of staying in and maintaining a household, and whose extended families aren’t equipped to handle the job for two households. For these people, I prefer to think of this as more of an assisted living situation. They have actually been set free from the prison that their house had become with its steps and chores and bathtubs and navigation obstacles and social isolation.

With them settling in fairly well comes the chore of cleaning out and sorting through decades of stuff. With that task comes even more emotional stress. It’s not like they are dead, yet we know they won’t be living at that house again. What do I throw out? How many people must I consult before getting rid of something? How do I distribute mementos? What if I hurt someone’s feelings?

I am paranoid that I’ll hurt someone’s feelings.

That solution has been easier than I thought it might be. Every family represented by one of the boys has their “stack”. In some cases the stacks are tubs. Anything that represents one of those boys or their families goes into their tub. If it is strictly representative of the in-laws, it goes in the in-laws tub for the boys to decide amongst themselves at some point. If it is plastic (almost without exception), it goes to the dumpster. I’m not dealing with plastic, and yes, I know I could have a garage sale or donate it or recycle it, but that stuff isn’t good for us anyway.

I am also sorting through decades worth of mail, most of which is saved Catholic newspapers, articles, donation requests, donation thank yous, and more. If my “faith” in religion hadn’t already been shot to what I perceive as a non-existent hell before, it is pretty much sitting in the middle of it now.

I found response and affirmation letters where my mother-in-law had dutifully sent a donation of God only knows how much to some place (where people have nothing to do but pray and clean and read church law) begging them to pray for the repose of her son’s soul.

It really pissed me off that religion terrorizes people into believing that their loved one might not be at peace and then extorts money from them to pray him into heaven.

Even worse is that they do it in the name of a spiritual man who taught against that kind of crap.

My own religion did that, minus the extortion thing. It just terrorized people while they were living into fearing they wouldn’t be quite good enough to get into heaven so that their final days were full of worry instead of excitement. It also terrorized families whose deceased children hadn’t been following (their version of) “The Way” into spending their entire lives dreading the judgment day when daughter Susie would go the way of the goats while hopefully mommy and daddy went with the sheep.

In all fairness to the convent sisters and monastery dudes their letters of response were quite sweet.

What the heck is repose of the soul anyway?

Oh yeah…I have the internet. According to NewAdvent.org, “[We define] likewise, that if the truly penitent die in the love of God, before they have made satisfaction by worthy fruits of penance for their sins of commission and omission, their souls are purified by purgatorial pains after death; and that for relief from these pains they are benefitted by the suffrages of the faithful in this life, that is, by Masses, prayers, and almsgiving, and by the other offices of piety usually performed by the faithful for one another according to the practice [instituta] of the Church” (ibid., n. 588)….”

In other words, your loved one is in a quasi-hell right now and you can shorten their stay in that bad place if you give the church money to perform a mass for him, and the more you give and the more masses we perform, the sooner he gets to get out of hell. So if you are really rich and donate lots of cash-ola, your evil Uncle can get to heaven fairly quickly, while this poor mama who is barely eeking by goes without many of life’s luxuries in hopes of someday getting her tragically-taken offspring into the pearly gates of heaven.

Don’t get me wrong. I think giving is a good thing. I know that by giving, we release something inside that allows more to flow into us. It’s that whole flowing river vs. stagnant Dead Sea thing. But seriously? Extortion of someone who is in deep emotional pain to financially benefit the church? Guess they need the money to pay off all the sex scandal victims.

So yeah….I enjoyed throwing most of that crap in the dumpster.

It’s been an emotional week.

It’s a pretty cool space.

In a way, tragedy brought us the first piece of the puzzle. My hubby’s younger brother had a dream to build a small golf course on part of the land. He did a fabulous job in so many ways. He poured his heart and soul into it. Then on Thanksgiving Day 2001….after being called up for duty in support of the 9/11 operations, at age 38, he went to bed and never woke up.

Seven years later, as my kids began to fall in love with animals….larger than are allowable or practical in our “citified” back yard….we began to discuss the possibilities of the almost-wide-open-space that remained unused, unenjoyed for so long.

And in a ceremony of tears and symbolic letting go of the past, our sister-in-law graciously handed it over to us. It was and continues to be Cox’s Acres.

And as we looked around Cox’s Acre’s, we dreamed of moving in a house so we could live on the almost 9 acres full time.

Then some of my truth-telling made that appear to be an unwise decision, so we shifted the focus a bit towards a reality we could believe.

And a few years later we bought a small two bedroom house near the property and next door to my hubby’s elderly parents….mostly to protect them from what could be.

And we considered the possibility of eventually living on the properties we’d come to see as our refuge…our summer retreat.

Then thought occurred to us that his parents were not likely to be able to stay in the house forever and if we built our own, there would eventually be an extra house on the property that would require upkeep. We began to discuss the possibility of postponing our dream until the inevitable time that no one wants to discuss.

It sucks to think of his parents not being there.

It sucks more to feel like a vulture just waiting for life to take its course.

Then, in the midst of my own personal change (career, income, etc.), it happened. The time came. Quite suddenly, it seemed. Another health setback. Another fall. Another scare of what could have happened. Much discussion of the advantages of living in a space where the beds help lift a person up, the hallways are clear, doorways wide, breakfast, lunch, and dinner served on schedule with someone else doing the cooking and the cleaning 24/7. Where weekly beauty shop time meets wheel chairs and silver streaks of aged wisdom. Where there is more to do than sit in front of a TV 16 hours a day watching the mind-numbing crap on Fox News.

Where there once was fear, there is acceptance, recognition of a safer environment, and possibilities for a few more happy years.

And there’s a house. A part of our dream. A bittersweet moment when the generations pass the torch and there is both sadness for what was before and anticipation of what lies ahead. I’m not sure yet how it will all work out, and yet things are shifting.

It’s definitely been a summer of bittersweet changes. Releasing the security of a long-held job, writing about and releasing my spiritual baggage, sending my oldest across the ocean and soon to another state for school, and now this. All tinged with sadness, yet all pointing toward the next great adventure.

It makes me wonder what lies in store for next week.

It’s time you know the truth.

I have a lot of truth to tell.

Middle-aged mommy truth.

You see, a little over a month ago I started jogging. I haven’t jogged since I was in my EARLY 20′s. There is a very good reason I haven’t jogged since that time.

I HATE running, jogging, or anything that resembles the aforementioned beast.  Loathe is another word that comes to mind.

Yeah….

You might be wondering why I would be doing something I loathe. It’s really quite simple.

I am determined to chase down and tackle the 20 year old who stole my body. I’m not worried about the jerk who stole my laptop, ipod, and air conditioner last month. I figure God will take care of that one for me, or he’ll eventually meet up with on of my pistol packin’ friends and regret his birthday. Meanwhile he gets to burn his brain cells out smoking something he bought with the money from hocking my stuff….something that my hubby probably tried back in the 70′s (and wishes he could enjoy again).

But the teenie bopper who stole my bod needs to be tackled, beaten, and forced to return the hot merchandise.

Therefore I must get in shape enough to chase her sorry thievin’ butt down and inflict the aforementioned punishment. If cattle rustlin’ is serious enough in Texas to warrant a good old fashioned hangin’, female goddess body snatching is surely worth at least as much.

And so I jog.

And with a 42 year old bladder that’s supported four oversized uteruses, it’s always an adventure.

Note to self: three glasses of iced tea consumed in the two hours prior to running is not the most intelligent thing to do with the aforementioned equipment.

It’s just not.

Matter of fact, I’m seriously considering a modification to my massage pay scale. Instead of payment in Jackson’s, I may want to require payment in Depends.

Or maybe I’ll just take tips in Depends. I kinda like those Jackson’s. The bill collectors probably prefer Jackson’s, too, unless they are female, 40+, and have recently taken up jogging.

Or maybe someone will just give me a tip that says, “Hey Genius…..don’t drink tea before you run.”

I really hope that little hard body jogger that kept passing me recognized the dark gray on my light gray shorts as a serious sweating problem.

That’s what it was…..sweat.

Yeah.

Sweat.

Because middle-aged mommy joggers …ahem….sweat….down there. A lot.

And that’s all I’ve got to say ’bout that.

http://teapartyjesus.tumblr.com/

How would I change or improve it? I would add my own collection of church doctrines and “Christian” comments to it. I wonder how people would feel about their belief codes if the image of Jesus was superimposed with many of the ideas that have run amuck in our churches today?

What are some examples that come to mind of religious ideas that might not look appropriate coming out of the mouth of Jesus?

1. We can’t do that. It’s never been done that way before. (That’s a gentle one to get us started.)

What else can you think of?