Early X-mas Presents

Last night at dinner I exclaimed, for like the millionth time in the past two weeks, "I'm tired of hearing all this arguing!" Then, trying to ignore the echoes of my own mother's voice in my head, I added, "Do not open your mouths again unless you can say something nice to each other!"

To which my husband responded that we should all go around the table and say one kind thing about everyone else sitting there. Of course we had to give very specific guidelines so truthful, sincere comments would be made, but eventually we got some good answers going. After the first kid went, John said we should end with saying something nice about ourselves as well. When my turn came my first thought was to say just how great a writer I was, but then I realized that would be much nicer to hear from someone else; so I said, with a cocky smile and all the confidence I could muster, that I was very flexible and had great balance.

The last one to take a turn was John and he came through for me, stating (among other things) that I was such a good writer I would have an actual  book published some day. But here's the best part of this story: my ten year old son, who's not really known for bologna of any kind, said "You are a really good writer, Mom. In fact, your writing is better than a lot of the published books I've read." Yes, my fifth grader who reads books some twelfth graders can't handle, said he enjoyed my writing. And then, and then, he went on to quote a line from one of my articles he'd found left open onscreen awhile back. Now that probably says more about his brain power than my writing talent, but hearing my words come out of his mouth -- no other compliment tops that for me right now. Not one.

In other news, I wanted to tell everyone in the Knoxville/Oak Ridge area about a great guy who's coming to town, and his name is not Santa. No, good people of east Tennesee, Kentucky and those other bordering states, the man who will be in town this Sunday evening will not be flying with reindeer, but he may just have a rusty old bicycle on stage. That's right, Mr. Eric Peters, of Rabbit Room and Louisiana fame, is on tour, promoting his latest album Chrome, and he'll be playing at Christ Community Church, Dec. 6th at 6 pm. So, if you want Christmas to come a little early this year, please find a way to get to this concert. I'll be there, with as many friends as I can bring. It's going to be a great night! And if you're too far away, or have never heard of this guy, please go check him out. Truly, his music is worth a few clicks.

Bodies and Birthdays

**Author's Note: Like the title says, this post is about bodies. And I'm a woman. So if you are not female, you may not get it, or worse, you may be grossed out. Read at your own risk.

Twenty years ago today, I became a woman. How do I remember the exact day? Well, it was my birthday. That’s right, the day I turned twelve was the day Aunt Flo paid me her very first visit. And though I was glad to no longer be one of the few girls in my grade who had yet to begin menstruating, I wasn’t exactly turning cartwheels when the cramping started. I'd say that’s pretty much how the relationship has continued for me and Auntie these last twenty years. She shows up, not with the ring of a doorbell, but with a drip on the panties; she bears not treasures from her travels, but brings with her the gifts of life and pain. I show her to her room and provide all her necessary accommodations. Most months I am cordial, but very rarely do I remember to thank her.

I'm rather sure this is how most women feel about their periods. We reach for the Advil with one hand and whatever bit of chocolate we can find with the other – a mix of sweet and bitter. Each month, we either sigh in relief, or suck in regret the moment we see that first spot. And some months, I do both.

Since we’ve decided not to have any more children, I’m glad to not be pregnant. What I’m not happy about is the six or seven days of one more thing to think about: my body. Aunt Flo forces me to acknowledge that I actually have one, and that sometimes that body has needs. For approximately five to seven days, I am not allowed to run about without a thought for anything below my chin. Auntie slows me down and insists on having her say in my daily routine. She comes each month to remind me that I am not simply the image in my head, but am instead, very specifically bound to these one hundred and thirty-two corporeal pounds that live below it.

Janna, she gently says to me. You are not ONLY the ethereal vision of beauty and light you pretend to be twenty-one days a month; you are also body and you are also flesh.

But I have a hard time taking Auntie seriously. The rebellious teen in me would rather keep on ignoring this weighted being tying me to the earth. I usually roll my eyes when she begins talking, remembering the many ways my body has failed to live up to our Hollywood expectations. She patiently ignores my rudeness and continues to speak.

You do have rough, callused feet and pale, drumstick legs, Auntie agrees, but they’re filled with this AMAZING tissue, muscle and bone. Do you know how hard those legs work to carry you and your babies? Don’t you think they deserve to soak in a hot bath once in awhile? Couldn't you schedule yourself a little foot massage every now and then?

I don’t have time for all that, I think, as my mind wanders back to those early days of adolescence. I remember too well the quick legs of childhood, suddenly replaced by the clumsy hips of womanhood, and the way friendly glances changed to studious, critiquing gazes. Constant worry, about good smells and clear skin, sent all carefree thoughts running, and the merry-go-round of hormone driven emotion began to spin out of control.

Auntie sees right through my self loathing and mental flesh flogging.

Your bottom is slightly larger than your top, she concedes, but it works so WELL to connect those legs to your long, bony back. And speaking of backs, she continues, yours probably wouldn’t ache so much if you’d do some stretchin' and  exercisin' when you get up in the mornings.

Here’s where I start to get impatient. She thinks I don’t know what I need. Of course I do; I read the health magazines, I watch the news reports. It’s just that my body is so unpredictable. I can’t trust it to do what I want. The only way to protect what’s left of my hopes and dreams is a separation, clean and quick. Sever the real me, the one inside my head that is, from this deathly mass below.

Auntie moves closer, bores her brown eyes into me.

I know you think your fuzzy, freckled arms are a hair too short, and sure, there’s a few wiry grays mixed into that sassy brown hair, but your arms are STRONG child. And that brain inside your head, well it doesn’t always know EVERY thing, the way you act like it does.

Maybe it's the result of being brought up in various small church holes on a too-tight- Bible-belt. Maybe I’ve simply watched too many TV and movie characters over the years, living life fully clothed, rarely taking bathroom breaks. Maybe it's just me and I'm just weird, but I can’t quite believe the good things Auntie tells me. How can the woman I see in the mirror be a friend of mine? That reflection never smiles at me first.

Auntie clasps my chin with her right hand and turns my face toward her.

Your face and your neck, they look pretty good for now, and you can be extra glad those little breasts haven’t found their way down to your belly just yet.

“Just wait, won’t be long ‘til they do,” I start to say, but something in her tone stops me.

That womb inside you gave life to five souls, she reminds me. Five souls – now that is something to be proud of. So what if you never got to see two of them? You know as well as I do, there ain’t no life without no pain.

It’s not like you can magically erase all the physical disappointments I’ve faced these past twenty years. Even Auntie knows we can’t go back in time and magically inject self confidence into that twelve year old body. But on this my thirty-second* birthday, I do wonder if Aunt Flo might know a little something I don't. She has been around, if you know what I mean.

And the space those three blessings used to enter this world – it's still got space aplenty for the man you love. Truly, honey, you’ve got to realize there’s more to you, more to life, than just words, just thoughts.

Her wisdom begins to press through my patchy hedgerow; it steps foot in my front yard and begins walking the stone path to my hiding heart's door. How long can I ignore the ding-dong of the bell? Will I always fear visible-ness in my flesh tying threads?

How ‘bout if you stop dreading my monthly visits, Auntie asks knowingly, start looking forward to them instead. What if you took advantage of the pace I offer you? A week long retreat, once a month, for the hard working writer-mom who never gives herself a break? Sounds like a pretty GOOD idea to me.

It's then I realize it's time to start asking some questions myself. Is it possible my decisions to neglect and ignore my body directly affect me and my mood? Isn't it true that I feel much better when I'm getting enough rest and adequate exercise? What would happen if I began to pay attention to the various ways my hormones magnify the intensity of my emotions? Would I find some sort of traceable cycle I could use to minimize my tendency for going to extremes?

Yes, these are the very thoughts and words you should be listenin' to right now, darlin'. The truth is I won't always come around to give you some monthly perspective. Maybe twenty years from now, you'll look back and actually miss me.

Okay, so she's got me there. What's that notion about not knowin' what you got 'til it's gone?

“Alright,” I say, stepping away from the door to let her in. “How about coming with me to the kitchen for a cup of tea?"

Now that sounds just lovely, dear, just LOVELY.



*I first wrote this piece a year ago,and sent it out to a magazine. They said, "No thanks." I really should have tried a few more places, but I didn't. I did e-mail it to a friend who gave me some good feedback, but then I put it away and forgot about it. Picked it up again last month and decided to fill in a few of the holes I saw.

Weathervanes

A weathervane atop a house upon a hill caught my eye on the way home from church the other day. And I've just been thinking about how romantic they are (in the classical sense of the word). Eery and foreboding, or whimsical and sweet, they have the ability to lend character to an otherwise boring house.

So I found a couple of pictures I thought were cool and decided to share them with you. Filing them away for future reference in some creative pursuit. Perhaps.

Nothin' Nothin' Nothin' -- Nothin' At All

My friends at the Rabbit Room posted a new piece of mine yesterday, and ever since I saw it up there, I've been tempted to distance myself from it. I'm worried someone will misunderstand me and think I'm either adding to, or taking away from, the gospel. I'm also worried about the exact opposite reaction from someone struggling in hurt or depression who might think I was simply saying put on some happy music and get over it.

Or at the very least, I just want to take out the two lines about therapy and medication. Even though I know how helpful they have been for me and would not hesitate to recommend either to someone else, I don't like the idea of being labeled this way and wish I could somehow eliminate all the preconceived notions people have about mental health -- especially those in the faith community.

But the logical part of my brain tells me these concerns are a natural reaction to taking risks and being vulnerable. And the best part of my heart says freedom comes from truth, which is what I've tried to tell.

Stuff Janna Likes

A few weeks ago Jon Acuff talked about being a Preacher's Kid on his blog, Stuff Christians Like. Like most of his posts, it was pretty funny. He did note however, that he is a preacher's son and maybe should get insight from some preacher's daughters. Of course, I volunteered. Jon graciously accepted my offer and even more graciously gave me to the end of October to get the article to him. So I'm working on it . . . in my head. And in my head I realized something. It's been awhile since me, lighthearted, and writing have all gotten together. Like Anne Shirley, I prefer to make people cry. Still, laughter is good medicine and even I could use a dose every now and then. That's why I decided to stretch my humor muscles with this little exercise: a list of things I like which are not completely obvious, like sunsets and puppies. I limited myself to fifteen. Hope you like 'em!

1. Staying home in my PJs. All day long. Seriously, if you come over at 2 pm and I'm still wearing my red striped pajama pants, slippers and robe; do not assume I'm depressed. Chances are I woke up with some big thoughts and have been sitting at the computer most of the day, trying to work them out. On those days, I can't be bothered with pedestrian activites like eating or showering.
2. Pecan pie. I don't care if you say "pee-can" "pee-kahn" or "pi-kahn," like I do. Just agree with me that there is no better way to eat those nuts, and we can be friends.
3. Garnier Milk. Not for drinking, but for putting on your hair. This has to be the best hair styling product I've ever discovered -- way better than mousse or gel. Smooth, shiny and frizz-free!
4. Wheat Thins. My new favorite snack food. I can eat twice as many wheat thins as potato chips before I begin to feel guilty, and I sound much less dorky talking about a cracker with "wheat" in its title, as opposed to "in-a-biscuit."
5. Saying "dinner" when talking about Sunday's mid-day meal. The biggest meal of the day, regardless of when we eat it, is dinner. My kids are always correcting me, "You mean lunch, Mom?" "Listen, children. Lunch is a cold sandwich. If I've done some work in the kitchen, we're calling it dinner!"
6. Microwaved Frozen Burritos. Taste best when served with a generous helping of ketchup.
7. Heidi Klum. Not Project Runway. Not models and fashion designers. Just Heidi. From the tips of her black painted fingernails to the bottoms of her platform stilletos, the woman is über über, and I love her for it.

8. People who think I'm cool. This is the real reason I married my husband. John did not ask me out because of my stunning good looks. He was not attracted to my stellar intelligence or rapier like wit. Not even my upstanding moral character piqued his interest. No, the night John fell for me was the night I gave him a McDonald's toy (a Robin Hood fox, from the Disney movie) I'd hung onto for a couple of months. Hook, line and sinker, ladies and gentlemen; the man was never the same.

9. The Tanning Bed. I am thirty-two years old. I do not smoke. I do not abuse drugs. I have one drink, two or three times a year. This is my vice, people. Keep your self-tanners and your sunscreen, Vitamin D does my body good. I can not, I will not, no I won't recant.

10. Female Singer Songwriters. Of course I like a lot of male ones too, but they're not as easy to sing along with. That and I'm a closet feminist. Sorry, Mom.

11. Colons. Not the kind inside your body. And not the semi-kind. This kind: : They help me write.

12. My Les Mis (in London) T-shirt. It's thirteen years old, really soft, and baggy, without swallowing me whole. Plus it says Les Mis, and it's from London.

13. Reading things that are worth reading slowly. I'm a slow reader anyway, in fact, slow is probably my middle name. But I love words, and I do not understand, nor believe in speed reading. And skimming makes me feel like I'm forgetting something important, like my pants.

14. Small Groups. I currently belong to five of them. Well, it's not like they made me sign a membership card or anything. And in my defense, one is temporary and another is more of a Bible Study. Of course, you could make the argument that my blog and a couple of other sites I frequent are small groups of sorts -- that would probably raise my total to eight or nine. Oh well, what can I say? I'm big on community!

15. Being artsy fartsy with my husband. Concerts, plays, indie rock'n'roll and film festival winners are the usual modus operandi, but on our Chattanooga getaway we were lucky enough to visit a really cool art museum. Yes, we can be geeky and snobbish at the same time, and we like it that way. Even though our tastes are not always the same, (he digs abstract, while I prefer the impressionists) we both love sharing the experience and listening to each other's point of view.

So there's my list. Now I have to pretend I don't like procrastinating and get to work on that piece for JA. Be sure to come back and check it out. Better yet, leave me a comment telling me something you like. Then I can find out something that makes you really cool, besides the fact that you read my blog!

Love From Chattanooga (See You When We Return)

Hope for the Untrue

I've been performing a little experiment the past week or so: every time I get in my car to drive somewhere, I tune in to a Christian radio station. You may not know it, but this is not my typical behavior. Occasionally, I will listen to the radio if I can't find a CD I'm in the mood for, but I'm always scanning and more often than not, I end up on a secular station. Even then, the chances of me sticking with that station are very slim because there's never more than two good songs in a row. Radio is like prime time network TV, entertainment for the masses with little depth of sound and even less depth of meaning. You wanna know a secret? The best time I have listening to the radio is usually when I've got it on the oldies station.

But back to my experiment. I've been limiting myself to only the popular Christian radio stations here in Knoxville. I think there are three. I've been listening to see how many songs actually say Jesus' name. And the answer is probably less than five percent. Oh there's a lot of "God"s and "Lord"s, every now and then a few "Savior"s, but most often the singer simply says "You." Maybe this is not such a big deal, but part of me thinks it really is. I can't help thinking that the message I'm hearing in most of these songs is no different than what I might hear at a self-help seminar. The other thing I've noticed: I can hardly wait to get where I'm going so I can turn the radio off.

Jason Gray's new album Everything Sad is Coming Untrue, is looking for a place on Christian radio. Will it find a home? I'm not sure, but driving home from the park earlier today I heard, to my surprise and delight, "For the First Time Again" played on the station I was forcing myself to listen to. Soundwise, I think it was quite similar to the songs preceding it. But listening to the lyrics again here at home, and comparing them with those of another song I heard just before it, I'm finding way more difference than similarity. This is no doubt a good thing. And guess what? Jason says Jesus like six times in that one song.

In fact, five songs on the record contain the name Jesus. Naked and alone, no Christ following and no Lord preceding. Why is does this stand out to me? Because it speaks to me of real relationship with someone you call by name, without title and pretense. I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with the other words. They can and should be used. However, the daughter of a king, hopefully, will have moments with him where formality is not necessary. Lastly, the use of the name Jesus reminds me that I do need this specific person in my life, rather than just some vague being.

A couple more songs “Fade with our voices" and "More like Falling in Love" (which kinda screams SC-squared, but I'm old school and see that as a good thing) have a lot of radio potential based on their pop praise sound. Thankfully, these songs do not just sound good, but the words, if you pay attention, contain just the kind of challenging messages we listeners need to hear.

The next two songs on the record are: "Holding the Key" and "How I Ended Up Here." I see yet another layer of honesty here. Jason lays on truths we “amen” but secretly feel only apply to everyone else. Seriously, when's the last time you answered the question "How are you?" with something other than "Fine" or "Good?" Living in community means more than shaking hands with five people on Sunday morning, more than an evening Bible study in someone's home once a week. Like a poached egg versus one that‘s hard boiled, the difference is on the inside.

My favorite song from this album probably will not be played on the radio because there is no chorus. "The Golden Boy and The Prodigal" does not need a chorus. It is a poem brimming with honesty, not a refrain spewing vain repetition.

Although repetition can be a good thing. Like VOL's “Blister Soul (Reprise)” or Meredith Wilson’s “Goodnight My Someone,” “Everything Sad Is Coming Untrue (Part 2)” reveals a bit more heart than it’s speedier partner. But the original is the one we need at the beginning of the record. A warm-up before the real run.

The following song "Jesus [what? in the title of a song?!] Use Me I'm Yours" sounds to me like a Micheal Card tune. Maybe it’s the piano, or perhaps the sheer vulnerability, but it’s definitely a compliment. And the last compliment I have for Everything Sad Is Coming Untrue is that it does belong on Christian radio. Not because it fits neatly into the mold, but because it pushes against the plastic and raises the bar for listeners. And the bar should be high, enough that it stands above secular radio, in content as well as sound.