In Defense of the Good

Those who are trying to do good, don't need criticism from those who aren't. It is odd to think there would even be people in the world who are not trying to do good. But some will even ADMIT that they could care less about what happens to other people. And if someone says that, then they mean it. Because it takes a selfish person to say it aloud. There are probably some borderline people, too, who feel that but don't actually verbalize and commit this gross admittance aloud, so if someone does say it....then they must mean it.

My point is this. So many people have been criticized for telling stories and “not doing enough”. Invisible Children, Three Cups of Tea, Soles for Souls, even sweet Ishmael Beah, the child soldier who daringly shared his heart in his memoir A Long Way Gone, has been called a fraud because his map wasn't to scale and perhaps his recounting of his years as a child soldier don't exactly line up with where reported skirmishes were said to have happened. Really? Is it that hard to believe that a child, strung out on cocaine, who has been given a gun and placed in front of Rambo for hours on end might mess up a detail or two?

  People: look at the big picture – the real picture. Our society is deranged if we can hear these stories and turn around and criticize their work because, while we were sitting on our couch eating pizza, these story sharers were finding ways to make change.

I want to write a defense on their behalf.

I want to ask them how hard it was to get started. How they got going..and when did they hear their first criticisms? Did it affect them like it affects me? Advice for others? Why do you think people attack like this? How damaging is it really to your cause? When will you know to move on? When should we? Did it ever stop being about others and start being about you? Did you “Frankenstein” about it? What is the cost of selflessness?

All of these questions loom around every news coverage I hear trying to expose truth. In reality, they are only covering it. Quieting a long struggle and pulling away a mic from an already quiet voice.

This is the coward's response: to take away the ugly because we are uncomfortable with it. If we can just wake up and drink our Starbucks and jump into our day, then we are content. When a story is heartbreaking, it is sad and we can nod or pray. But when the empty worthless character becomes a hero though, the story changes. Ideally, it changes us. But, along with the inspiring nudge to be more, comes the guilt of having done less. So there is a faction that will dig for a way out without ever gaining courage. Hiding the picture, twisting the image and shifting the focus so that the hero is gone. Taking away Superman means it is okay to be satisfied with Clark Kent. After all, he is attractive and intelligent looking with those glasses. And when Superman is gone, we decide that we are okay. We don't even know there is a train falling off a cliff over there. So we can go back to work, make dinner, clean our homes, and rest our heads with self esteem and safety. It is a prettier picture. Because not knowing that Ishmael, or Elie Wiesel exist makes us safely ignorant of pain. And not knowing of Jason Russel or Greg Mortenson means that some problems are just too big to tackle ourselves. We can take our $200 and just pass go.  I argue that this is the uglier picture and it is a snapshot of ourselves.

Marjorie, Marian, and me

I came across a book of my grandmother

and am so glad I did
I must confess that at first I chuckled
in a 2012 superior, English teacher-
so not farm house wife- kind of way
The jacket cover crisp and in tact,
not like it has never been read,
rather, like it has been handled repeatedly with care.
It didn't crack open and desire to flop shut as if it sat on her shelf for years
No, it has rested, nicely, kept on an end table.
Always the book lover, I can remember Grandma's house and her books-
so many Bible study texts and prayer books.
I'm sure I even have a faint memory of it,
or at least of it's spine.
I don't remember a single novel, a single fiction tale
But I remember church books being everywhere.
I've inherited these books from her
and am only beginning to see their worth.
I still feel “not-ready” for many of them-
but I am seeing that some day each will be pulled from my shelf,
dusted and touched with tenderness
as I learn from her.

This particular book is green and flowery on front,

reminding me of the emblazoned golden wallpaper that dressed dear grandma's farmhouse walls.
I've Got to Talk to Somebody, God: A woman's conversations with God
I pulled this text for it's title matches my not so witty blog: “Conversations with God”
This morning I am looking for something to connect with me
and to see Grandma owned this book,
made me think that maybe she was quite like me.
-And she so strong and so able -

my curiosity grew.

I opened the the cover and eyed the author image

Ms. Marjorie Holmes-
Quite like my grandma I suppose.

And again

in my 2012 mind of a busy intellectual working mother

I belittled her writing style and prejudged her prose

as I read the back flap jacket cover:

Seven novels, column in the Washington Post

(jealousy)

teacher of University courses

(big twinge here)

Mother of four

(bitterness)

and then – as she summers in Virginia -

it says she “swims, canoes, and water skis”

I allow myself a thought about her figure in a bathing suit

to help me feel more qualified in any category,

but her photo is slimming and she probably succeeds in wearing that too.

How pretentious of me.

I hardly want to read this book because I am so tired of feeling all the things I am not.

Until I flip to the table of contents

and turn my thoughts from the lovely writer to my grandmother again.
And all my jealousy and incompetency washes away as I see
that I am she, I am Marjorie,
I am my grandma
and she was me.
And suddenly I want to hug these two women so tightly.
I want to be in their weekly Bible study

and I long to ask them for a casserole recipe...just so I can be near their confidence and togetherness and let all their graces wash over me

because I am certain that I could learn so much from them.

And it makes me want to run to Nebraska.

And I sigh, remembering that as a child,
this is where I always longed to be.

So simply written,
this little text will be lying on my end table and tucked into my purse for many days to come.

With prayers and thoughts and questions posed to God,

there is a prayer for everything.

“On Doing Dishes,” “On Ironing,” and one “On Making Beds”
Prayers for children, prayers for neighbors,

prayers for every need

My eyes lingered over words on husbands

and I sipped my coffee while I saw she knew me inside out-
My fears, my angers, and my loneliness.

And so it eased. All my tensions eased in thinking

Marian, Marjorie, and me,
there we sat,
a gathering of three.
And so my prayers were strengthened.
I'm moving this collection to my bed side shelf-
the prime time spot for books
Last summer it was St. Augustine who held this noble place
but this summer I am going to be brushing up on my Marjorie.
And now I confess all my judgments
and only feel affection, affection, affection
for this woman, this writer, this intellectual being.

And I wonder, where are you now?

Do you write still? Are you whole?
Do you live on that lake? How long since you've water skied?
Ms. Marjorie Holmes,
wherever you are,
you inspire me.

*Post script:  A google search told me that Ms. Holmes passed away at the age of 91 in 2002.  According to the L.A. Times, she had "a knack" for making God accessible to everyone.