Being Educated by "Educated"

I don't usually read bestsellers. At least, not while they are still on the bestseller list. The main reason is that I don't feel any need to jump on the bandwagon. The other big reason is that I don't think to put myself on the waitlist for soon-to-be-published hot titles, and once I notice the new book, the hold list is way long. So I don't bother.

But I have friends who recommend books. In fact, they're professionals when it comes to suggesting the next great read. How can I help but get excited? So I put myself on the list for Tara Westover's memoir, Educated. Homeschooled girl from strict religious family makes it big in academia, despite not having any formal instruction in history, science, or math. How did she break free to enter university? How did she manage to earn multiple degrees? How did she overcome her extremely isolated childhood?

When I listened, engrossed, I found the audiobook was more of a horror story. Over and over, I perched on the edge of my seat. "Run! Run from the house before the crazed ax murderer catches up with you! Get away from the giant metal-eating behemoth machine before it crushes you! Tell someone about your brother slamming your head into the wall!"

This is a story of abuse. So much abuse, for so many years. The breaking free was not so much about education, although that certainly was her ticket to a completely different world. As is so common for people who experience domestic violence, it seems impossible to sever the ties that bind them to their abusers. That is the horror of this story. And that is the reader's opportunity for education.

[The Beginning of] the Beginning of the Story

The whole "baby in the manger" thing has me thinking. What in the world are we supposed to do with an infant whose birth was heralded by angels, visited by sheep herders, lauded by wise travelers? It makes for a great story, except there's no closure at the end of our Christmas holiday. That Baby, no matter how special and holy, can't do anything. It's great that He came, but...

My dad used to travel for business, and he'd sometimes bring special gifts home. When he went to Alaska, he returned with photos and explanations of a large retaining wall for which his company had supplied the interlocking pieces. Oh, and jade necklaces for my mom and me. One of his early trips to the east side of the state, he witnessed tumbleweeds blowing across the highway. I was thrilled to take a real tumbleweed to school for show-and-tell! (Side note: I had to wrap it in newspaper so my classmates wouldn't guess what it was. Ha!) Looking back, I enjoyed the stories as much as the presents.

my completed moccasins were something like this

And then, on a jaunt to Arizona, he picked up a moccasin kit so I could stitch up my own slippers. No story, but something representative of the place. I loved the idea of having my own moccasins. But the kit, by itself, was only a beginning. It was what came after, the process of putting them together, that would make them useful. Only after that would I be able to wear them.

The baby in the manger is kind of like the moccasin kit. In order to really get something out of it -- Jesus, that is -- you have to involve yourself in a process. There's the first part of His story, understanding that His birth and His very existence is amazing. As an adult, He did things and told stories and taught lessons that should have our attention. But then... then there was the whole "end of story" part when He was killed -- but He could have gotten out of it. What? Yes, Jesus could have opted out, but He let them put Him to death as a religious criminal. And then, after He was proven to be dead, He was resurrected and reunited with His followers before returning to the right hand of God the Father. The point of all of this was to pay the penalties for all of our misdeeds, so that we could also be with Him forever.

So, celebrating the miraculous birth of the Baby is like opening that moccasin kit. It's exciting just to see this beginning, but there's much more to come if you carry it out to the end. Read and follow the instructions, as it were, to receive the real joy and fulfillment.

But as many as received Him, to them He gave the right to become children of God, even to those who believe in His name, who were born not of blood, nor of the will of the flesh, nor of the will of man, but of God.

Is There Such a Thing as "Codependent Anti-Humility"?

What's the opposite of humility? And by humility, I mean the good, genuine variety.

Humility means not thinking too highly of oneself, or not thinking too much of oneself.

Anti-humility can be typified by super-inflated ego, a person who thinks every good thing is attributable to them. It's easy to think of examples of this person, right?

What about a person who thinks every little bad thing (burnt toast, being late for an appointment, forgetting to buy milk on the way home from work) is his/her fault? In a way, this is also thinking "too much" or -- more precisely -- too often of oneself.

The person who thinks the world owes him continual thanks for his wonderfulness is deceived. But so is the one who lives in a perpetual state of apology. The toast was burnt? Maybe the old toaster is losing its timing. Late for an appointment? Maybe an accident tied up traffic. Forgot the milk? After a long day at work, it's no surprise that the only thing on your mind is getting HOME.

Humility, in light of emotional well-being, is a balance between the extremes of over-inflation and painful deflation. It's being okay with things as they are. Being okay with me, as I am.

My First Tattoo!

I am afraid to make up my mind. I'm a perfectionist.

These two statements form the foundation for my reluctance to get a tattoo. There may or may not be biblical reasons against permanent body markings, but I'm not going there. For me, it's my personal hang-ups. How could I choose something to place on my skin forever?

It would be impossible for me to choose a design, first of all. Should my tattoo be an image, or text? If an image, realistic or artistic? If text, what words and what kind of font?

Then there's the artist. Allowing someone to permanently  ink me would require my complete trust in that person's competence, artistry, and commitment.

Most serious of all is my tendency to dig at my own imperfections. One might call this obsession. When I write, I edit... and edit... and edit... until I choose to hit "send" and walk away. When I knit, I plan on making two or three dry runs at a project until I'm satisfied that it looks good enough to continue. When I draw, I compose geometric figures, because I cannot replicate the intricacies I see in my mind.

If I were to get a tattoo, I would obsess over it, learning every dot and line. Measuring, comparing, evaluating detail upon detail, until I realized the flaws. And the next logical step is to see only the flaws. I'm afraid I would hate the whole thing, just for the sake of one millimeter of ink.

On the other hand, random imperfection is the silent asset of the greatest artistry of all: God's creation. A mountain is beautiful thanks to the jaggedness of its ridges. Towering Douglas fir trees are not mirror images of one another. One bird has more red plumage than its siblings.

Yes, there's the whole body-image thing. Talk about hang-ups! But I am learning to accept myself as I am, not arguing with my Maker or trying to bargain with Him to remove this trait or those few inches. Either my physical being matters not a whit (because it's the spiritual stuff that endures), or the stuff that bugs me is allowed to help me to practice patience and graciousness.

          For Thou didst form my inward parts;
          Thou didst weave me in my mother's womb.
          I will give thanks to Thee, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made;
          Wonderful are Thy works,
          And my soul knows it very well. 

I have a pile of my mother's DNA, and a touch of my father's, but I have been crafted by the Master and it's all good.

Oh, and my tattoo? It's just a temp, a free henna opportunity that I get to smile over for a couple of weeks. See how it blends perfectly with my random freckles?

henna, drying

 

henna, top of wrist

Code Talker -- Book Review or Vicarious Experience?

My father volunteered in the Army during World War II, serving in the South Pacific. My mother was an Aerographer's Mate in the Navy and helped crack an enemy weather code. Those two sentences sum up almost everything I know about their experiences. I'm very grateful for their service, but wish I had a better understanding of what they did and what it was like.

Chester Nez grew up in the Checkerboard area of New Mexico, herding sheep and goats, living a pretty traditional Navajo life in the 1920's and 1930's. No electricity, no running water, sleeping under the stars while roaming with the grazing animals, he appreciated life and honored his elders. Then came boarding school.

Because it was deemed necessary for Navajo kids to learn English, Chester and his siblings ended up having to leave the sheep and goats and the secure familiarity of the hogan for the alien discomforts of live-in elementary and secondary schools. Nothing in his life seemed easy, but Chester held firmly to the values and beliefs taught by his father and grandmother. He learned to remember the small joys and look for beauty wherever it might be found.

During the beginning stages of WWII, it was realized that a super-sophisticated code might be created using the unwritten and little-known language of the Navajo nation. Chester and many other young men volunteered for a "special project" in the Marine Corps, and the Code Talkers were born.

Chester was involved in the battles of Guadalcanal, Guam, Peleiu, Bougainville, and Angaur. The conditions were awful and even horrific. The odds were often significantly against the US troops. Although most (if not all) of the other Marines got occasional R&R away from the front lines, the Code Talkers were an absolutely vital piece of our strategic success and could not be spared for even a few days' respite. Those hard times back on the Checkerboard, sleeping on the ground and going for days without fresh food or any comforts of home, made the Navajos able to be survivors.

I listened to this book as an audio, and the reader (David Colacci) became Chester Nez for me. His pronunciations of Navajo names and words, as well as his careful use of emotional voice, brought the story to life. Although it was difficult to hear accounts of the treatment of Native Americans of that time, I appreciated their resiliency of spirit and commitment to their family values. Survivors.

Code Talker -- the First and Only Memoir by One of the Original Code Talkers of WWII (link to library catalog)

I'm Late! Gotta Run! No Time to Write!

I'm too busy writing to spend time writing. The NaNo novel is coming along pretty well, although I've fallen behind. This blog has been neglected, as what time and energy I have must go into the new novel. On the bright side, there are only 12 days left. Gasp! What am I doing here, writing about real life, when I should be watching my character practice her shoplifting technique?! But no, she doesn't actually practice it. She can't help it. She doesn't mean to take things, you know. But my goodness how our hearts race when she does nab something.

One of the developing themes of the novel has to do with the distractions that color our perceptions. Each of us sees life through our own particular lenses, and we filter experiences through a unique grid. Hmmm... maybe that's why it can be difficult to match details of an event seen by several witnesses. They might have seen the same thing, but their interpretations and assumptions led them astray.

Maybe it's significant, then, when hundreds or thousands of people agree on the details. The first filter for truth ought to be something that has stood the test of time and cultures. Something that is proven both from within (no contradictions) and without (by other historical sources). It must be clear and understandable, even if it takes some study to grasp the finer points. It may have originally applied to a particular place and time, but must contain concepts that are universal and timeless.

But know this first of all, that no prophecy of scripture is a matter of one's own interpretation, for no prophecy was ever made by an act of human will, but men moved by the Holy Spirit spoke from God.