An Educational Outrage

When we stop teaching our children the atrocities of the past, we are robbing the future of the knowledge needed to make sure history is not repeated.


My sixteen-year-old and I had a very disturbing conversation last night. It all started with a video that my dad sent me. During which, a camera crew asked “random” Americans who Adolf Hitler was. A frighteningly large number of them had no clue. To be honest, I think the video was skewed to get the results the producer wanted. I have to believe that a higher percentage of Americans know of Hitler because of his crimes.


Out of curiosity, I asked both of my teen sons who Adolf Hitler was. To my relief, they both knew. But my eldest son knew far more than I even did. He gave a remarkably detailed rendition of Hitler’s life between World Wars I and II, even telling me how many times Hitler had tried to gain office before he became a dictator.


To say I was impressed in an understatement. I had an amazing history teacher (thank you, Mr. Jeffery!), and because he had a passion for history that carried over into his teaching style, I loved the class. When my eldest blew me away with his knowledge of Hitler I asked where he learned these things. It turns out that he learned some in history, but most of his knowledge came from his German language class


You see, his teacher was from Germany and the effects of Hitler on her country were personal. Because of this, she taught the kids not only about the language, but also about the dictator who had done so much damage to her people. Jewish and non-Jewish alike. She was an amazing, passionate teacher who actually educated her students. A rare and valuable breed.


So why am I disturbed by my conversation with my son? Well, after telling me how much he’d learned from this teacher, he informed me that she quit last year. Why? She was disgusted with the upcoming textbook and curriculum changes. It turns out that they’re no longer going to be teaching the Holocaust because they find it too offensive.


WHAT?!?! History is offensive. We are an imperfect people who have made countless mistakes. When we stop teaching our children the atrocities of the past, we are robbing the future of the knowledge needed to make sure history is not repeated. What can possibly be learned by sweeping the dirt from our past under the carpet? Are we so anxious for a repeat of our historic hate crimes?


Out of curiosity, my husband asked my eldest what he knew about slavery. At sixteen, the most he could tell us was that slavery was bad and was the reason for the revolutionary war. But what he couldn’t tell us spoke louder than what he could. He had no idea how the slavers had came in possession of the slaves. He couldn’t tell us basic information about slavery, but instead told us that the book they’d had him read talked about a slave owner who helped his slaves. He explained that they didn’t really teach a lot about slavery. I guess no one really wants to talk about topics that are connected to emotions.


Personally, I’m a little outraged. I encourage you to also be outraged by the atrocities committed in the past. So outraged, in fact, that you educate your children and grandchildren against repeating them.


Obviously the school system isn’t going to.

Ten Years with a DPS Rogue

Tomorrow marks ten years of something I honestly thought was impossible.

But despite my sordid history and my insistence on being independent and never relying on anyone for anything, Meltarrus Washington crept into my life. Oh he was a stealthy one, pretending to just “hang out” and challenge me in video games. I was on to him from the beginning, though and told him there’d be absolutely no relationship. Ever. He gave me that cocky half-smile of his and said some canned response like, “Yeah, but you’ve never met a guy like me before.” Yeah. Sure. Whatever.

Then he told me he’d beta tested the game I was playing so I decided to give him a shot (don’t judge me! I did it for the good of the guild). Besides, he had this great sense of humor and did some serious damage to keep the mobs off my healer (okay, yes I’m a nerd). And no matter how much I tried to deny it, that was just straight-up hot. Then he turned serious and before I knew it, he had dragged me into church (kicking and screaming) to start marriage counseling with Pastor James Boyd (henceforth known as Mel’s partner in crime). After a few months of these sessions, Pastor Boyd decided Mel and I were sane enough to be married (boy did we have him fooled!).

Mel and I worked at the same place and despite our denials our coworkers seemed a little suspicious that we were dating. Since telling them about the wedding would give us away, we didn’t invite them (I think we were trying to figure out how long we could go without telling them). Instead we had a very small ceremony and disappeared for a few days to LaPush, Washington (now known as werewolf country, but Mel was the only furry beast I saw while up there).

Those first couple of years weren’t easy. To be honest, there were times when I wanted to delete his character and vendor all his gear (not necessarily in that order). But I think during those marriage counseling sessions Mel and his partner in crime (yes Pastor Boyd I’m talking about you), worked some deal with God to turn me into a little less ice wielding wizard and a little more into the caring healer I liked to play. Both God and Mel continued to pour love and forgiveness into me and I got a respec – shifting my points from damage wielding to healing done.

Now, as I sit on the lanai at our rented condo on Kauai, I can’t help but feel blessed. I’m thankful to Mel – the high DPS (damage per second for those of you non-gamers) rogue who did enough damage to destroy the ice around my heart and to God – who never gave up on me and always forgave me for being stubborn, pigheaded and downright stupid.

I love you, Baby, and here’s to another ten years!

Death wishes and crooked mirrors

I hate myself and I want to die.

Which of us hasn’t felt that way once or twice? Monthly? Daily?

The truth is that 7 of every 10 girls feel they don’t measure up in some way including their looks, performance in school, and relationships. It’s amazing the amount of time we ladies spend on trying to improve our outer appearance—trying to conform to the world’s view of beauty. We are so busy focusing on our failure to measure up, that we forget to focus on God.

I’m definitely not exempting myself from this “we” I speak of. I’ve glared into multiple mirrors, hating the face and body I saw, wishing I could change … everything. But while studying for a girls-group discussion this weekend, I have discovered that my self-loathing is just another form of egotism. In my hang-ups with my appearance, I am just as self-centered as the most egotistical, conceited people. My appearance rules my activities and my life has became “all about me and my shortcomings.” For instance, I hate taking my boys swimming because I’m not comfortable with the way I look in a bathing suit. I’ve neglected displaying several family photos because I hate the way I look in them.

But my discomfort with myself doesn’t just affect my family. My self-image has an enormously destructive impact on my ministry. Even though I know God has called me to, I’m hesitant to speak in front of groups; afraid they might judge or dislike me. I sometimes hold back when I know a teen needs prayer, because I’m afraid that teen will reject me or think I’m weird.

Woah. Self-absorbed much, Manda?

The problem is that when I’m focusing on myself—be it egotistical or deprecatory—I’m not focused on God. How can I look up if I’m looking in the mirror? How can I be used by God if I’m busy wondering if these jeans make my butt look big?

Well, who cares? After all, it’s not about me.

That’s actually a very liberating realization. IT’S NOT ABOUT ME!

Our hunger for self-worth is a God-given hunger that only He can satisfy. We can disillusion ourselves for a while—believing we can satisfy that hunger with approval from friends or family, self-righteous achievements, or introspective evaluations. In reality, everyone—even ourselves—will let us down.

I’ve also learned that with every self-depreciating thought or comment, I’m insulting God’s handiwork. Psalm 139:13-14 tells us: For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother’s womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well.

I haven’t been very nice to God’s creation—me. And every minute I’ve spent degrading myself is a stolen moment from God’s will for my life. I’ve been complaining when I should have been serving. Ephesians 2:10 tells us: For we are God’s handiwork, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance for us to do.

God has a plan for our lives.

Come to think of it, the happiest, most fulfilled times of my life have been in service; serving my family, friends, strangers, and God. Helping others truly brings joy. Volunteering with the Living Hope youth group has been an incredible experience that is constantly blessing me with hope, love and increased faith. But of course it is. After all, when I’m busy looking up, I don’t have time to look in the mirror.

So, from now on, I’m applying the writing mantra I share with my friend Krista Darrach to the rest of my life as well. “It’s not about me.” Nor is it about the miserable feelings of inadequacy that focusing on me brings. Life is about utilizing the forever-dwindling moments I have left to serve God, my family and others. I now understand that only when I focus on God will my desire for self-worth will be fulfilled.

PS. I read this to Mel (my husband) and his response was, “I’ve only been telling you that forever.” 

The beginning of my day

Here's the situation:


My 8-5 gig occasionally requires me to attend board meetings. Such was the case today. As my boss and I pulled up to the venue, my boss began checking his email so I told him to keep at it and I'd go find out which room we were in then come back for him. Since this was our first meeting at a new location, my convention and education directors (Kim and Pam) asked me to evaluate the place and determine if it would be a viable option for some upcoming classes we were scheduling. 


In other words, be nosy ... sure, I can do that. 


So when I saw two signs, one with our company name pointing down toward the basement and the other sign pointing up toward the restaurant, I naturally went to the restaurant. Keep in mind that I was instructed to be nosy, after all, so I needed to size up the restaurant. 


When I entered the restaurant the first thing I saw were bathrooms - a very welcome sign after a venti latte, 32 ounces of water and a two-hour drive through Portland traffic. Besides, Kim and Pam would probably want me to check out the bathrooms as well. 


The bathrooms checked out fine, so I investigated the rest of the restaurant. It was clean enough but strangely vacant. I roamed around long enough to deem it acceptably clean and quaint, then went for the door. 


The door wouldn't open. I shook it, beat on it, and may have kicked it, but the stupid thing wouldn't budge. After another quick sweep of the restaurant, I confirmed that I was alone and dialed the office for help. The conversation went something like this:


Kim - "Hello?"
Me - "So ... funny story. We're here and well, I had to go to the bathroom. But only now I can't ... uh ... get out.
Kim - *SILENCE*
Me - "Like I'm locked in. I can't ... get out."
Kim - What? *hysterical laughter*
Me - *clears throat*
Kim - *more hysterical laughter*
Me - *crickets*
Kim - "You're serious?"
Me - "You guys told me to check it out! So I went upstairs instead of downstairs so I could check out restaurant and the door wasn't locked when I came in. But now it's locked." 
Kim - *chuckling under her breath* 
Me - "Kim! There is no one in here and I can't get out. I have to get downstairs for the board meeting."
Kim - "I'll call my contact and call you back." 


It took another ten minutes for Kim to convince her contact that despite the fact that the restaurant was closed, I was, indeed, locked inside. But the highlight of the adventure came when I strolled up to my boss' car (approximately 20 minutes after I left him to go "find the meeting room"). He rolled down the window and asked, "What happened, you get lost?" 


Me - "No. Actually I was locked in."


And that was the beginning of my day.

Fire

Children are passionate. If you don't believe me, ask one to describe his or her favorite video game or movie. They will go on and on, utilizing body motions and expressions, to make sure you understand the depth of their passion. 


Like little fires, burning bright and clean, roaring with excitement.


But children grow up. The circumstances and people around them quench that fire with "reality" and "acceptable behavior." Zest for faith, love and life gets suffocated into a perfectly boring, dull glow. Somewhere along the way, we fail to remember the importance of committing our whole selves to a cause or a belief. So we hang back with the other embers, sputtering out, forgetting what it feels like to be completely on fire. 


After all, it's safer to be mediocre. No one looks at you funny or talks about you behind your back. But I definitely wouldn't call it an existence. We spend our whole life quenching our inner fire for social acceptance, only to find out that a life without passion is a drab, destitute death. 


So in the words of the human torch, "Flame on!" Don't be afraid to let your light shine. 


Never be lacking in zeal, but keep your spiritual fervor, serving the Lord. - Romans 12:11 NIV

Bread Crumbs

As a writer, I often get discouraged.

I've only been writing for a little over two years, and in that time I have learned so much. But in no way do I feel like I know all there is to know. I've had amazing teachers, friends, writers, readers, etc. who have helped me along the way. The journey hasn't always been pleasant. At first it was quite difficult to pick apart my creations, deciphering the usable material from the unacceptable refuse. Hours upon hours of writing, followed by an endless circle of editing, can go beyond tiring, stretching into the realms of tedious and grueling.

And wow this is whiny.

But it's also real and raw - what's truly on my heart. Despite the fact that writing is difficult, time-consuming and often discouraging, I feel called to it. Sometimes plots and characters play so continuously in my brain that I'm afraid I'll go crazy if I don't write them down. So, I write. Then I edit. Then I send it to my blunt and honest friends who force me to edit some more. Usually after the editing comes wake up calls in the middle of the night that fill my head with ideas to further the plot or character development. Then those ideas need to be edited....

That's what it's really like to write. You find yourself balancing on a ledge with one hand on sanity, tip-toeing across sleep, as the wind gusts around you, taunting you with whispers that you don't know what you're doing and you'll never be good enough. Doubt. Ick.

But through it all, God is still amazing. As I venture down this path, He offers bread crumbs to lead me in the direction I need to go. Encouraging emails and messages pop up when I need them most. From least expected sources comes guidance and support, reinforcing motivations and goals. Reminding me that I'm part of something bigger and more important than myself and my stupid self-doubts. Slapping me with reality and prompting me to get my butt in gear.

Thank God for the bread crumbs.

EPIC FAIL

This weekend at Epikos, we were encouraged to be "joyful workers." As Pastor Sam challenged the congregation to be light in our workplaces – no matter how dark those workplaces may be – I decided, “I can do that!”

But I faced my first challenge before I got out of bed. It turns out that eating your body weight in banana laffy taffy can evoke some pretty bizarre dreams. The first one reminded me of something I'd forgotten to do at work. The second dream involved someone shooting at me while I hid behind a car door (Not attached to a car) making calls on my cell phone. I dialed 911, where an unconcerned operator put me on hold. With bullets whizzing by my head, I hung up and called back. A very polite police officer informed me that they’d be right over. After their coffee break.

Right. That was helpful. I spent the rest of the dream dodging some psychotic gunman while trying to find help.

Does anyone know if banana laffy taffy has been tested for hallucinogenic side effects?

Needless to say, I woke up feeling more tired than when I had went to sleep. When I poured myself out of the shower, I couldn’t help but notice how quiet my house was. Not a good quiet. A very bad quiet. An everyone's-asleep-and-gonna-be-late-for-school type quiet. I freaked (maybe a little too much), but the boys were all calm and collected. They got up slowly and moseyed around the kitchen like they had all the time in the world. 

The 15 year old missed the bus, so I drove him to school. Half way there, my gas light came on. Naturally. It was then that I remembered Sunday's brilliant plan to leave for work early so I could fill up my gas tank.

Brilliant, I tell ya!

After I dropped off child one, I got a call that the 13 year old had also missed the bus. (OF COURSE he did! He was roaming around the kitchen in his pajamas when I left) So, I rushed home to retrieve the truant child and there is a slight possibility that I lectured him the whole way to school. 

Be the light, right? I feel more like the woman in "The Exorcist". Let the head rotating and projectile vomiting commence! Lovely visual.

By the time I walked into work I'd beaten my head against my steering wheel so many times that I looked like I’d been on a three-day bender with AC/DC. I was ten minutes late and pulled in just in time to see someone take the parking spot I wanted.

The jerk! Why couldn't he see that I was clearly heading for that spot?

Oh, and first thing this morning we had a conference call. About budgets! Worse yet – budgets for a non-profit association in a down economy.
 
EPIC FAIL.

Tonight I'll go home and apologize to my children for showing them my "Tales from the Crypt" side. And then - what the heck - I’m a glutton for punishment so I’ll try to light this candle again tomorrow.

I hear there's a storm rollin' in so I may need some prayers ...

My momma always knew best, but as a parent . . . I'm afraid I’m just a poser.

Without fail, my momma had the perfect advice for any situation, be it boys, friends, school or life in general. She was amazingly tolerant and beyond patient, despite my insistence at blasting the song "Parents Just Don't Understand" from behind my bedroom door. I feel that she truly did try to understand and do her best to steer me in the right direction.

My only complaint is that she obviously didn’t pass these traits on to me.

The realization that I am not the wise lady that my momma is came to me as I was cooking pizza the other night. It was pepperoni, but acceptable as a meal since it was also covered in mushrooms (they are a vegetable, right?). My 13 year old son was “starving to death” and asked if he could eat a banana to hold him over. I, of course, told him he could wait for dinner.

He laughed at me.

“Seriously?” he asked. “You don’t want me to eat a piece of fruit because it might ruin my appetite for greasy pizza with almost no nutritional value?”

Somewhere in my mind it made sense, and I honestly didn’t understand his confusion over the matter. Nor did I appreciate his tone of voice. My momma, no doubt, would have enlightened him in a way that would have made both Yoda and Gandhi drop their jaws in awe, but the answer to his obviously trick question escaped me. But fear not, I managed to maintain my parental superiority by sticking my tongue out at him and walking away.

Remembering Why I Wrote Chronicles of the Broken

I recently read this agent blog http://confessionsofawanderingheart.blogspot.com/ that reminded me why I wrote Chronicles of the Broken, and why I think it’s so important to get it published. The blog is about the novel “Mockingjay” and violence in young adult books. It brings up a great point about teen readers, stating that, “They want to read about sex, drugs, and violence because that’s the world they live in right now.  Those are the topics that will move them and open up dialogue and allow them to think.  And I for one would rather give them Crank or Beautiful and allow them to realize they’re not alone or experience the contents behind the safety of the written word than send them into the world unprepared.”

I couldn’t agree more. Our children are exposed to so much these days. It’s almost impossible (and often dangerous) for them to keep their innocence for too long. It is popular to teach our children about protected sex, alternative lifestyles and, in some schools, erotic art. But if Christians try to share our point of view, we are immediately instructed to sit down and shut up.

Well, I’m tired of keeping my mouth shut (and my pen silent), so I’m writing a teen book series that will take average teens who are going through rough circumstances and show them God’s amazing grace. The goal is to do this in a way that keeps them interested, entertained and is not preachy or condemning. The novel is finally finished and I’ve recently started sending out queries.

The characters –

Amy Yong: Eccentric computer hacker, gamer and orphan, she’s done with real life and the niceties that accompany it. After inflicting a dose of well-earned revenge upon her creepy history teacher, she ends up with a failing grade and concerned grandparents.

Marcus Wilson: A one-time aspiring football jock turned angry hater-of-the-world when his eldest sister turns into a hypocrite, ends up pregnant and drops out of high school. Disappointed and furious, Marcus takes his anger to the field, and now his coach has ejected him until his attitude gets adjusted.

Andrew McAllen: A conceited rich kid with a diminishing respect for people and an uncanny ability to lie. Educated and self-confident, his very identity will be shattered when he witnesses what science and physics can’t explain.

Jessica Thomas: With a terminally ill mother, and a father who’s turned to alcohol in order to cope, this shy girl is wrapped in loneliness. So when senior heart-throb, RJ Winters busts through her cocoon with kind words and kisses she knows it’s too good to be true, but is too weak to resist RJ’s charm.

Trevor Buchanan: Dealing with a divorced mother on the prowl for fresh meat and an abusive older brother, Trevor finds his comfort in music. And when his well-meaning uncle ships him off to a church camp with a bunch of whack-jobs, Trevor is well outside his comfort zone, trying to find the truth in a world clouded by lies.

James Reynolds: The twenty-six-year-old pastor of an elderly congregation. Desperate for a change, he agrees to take on the challenge of his predecessor and hold the church’s first ever youth camp. Trusting in God (and his deacons) to bring him teenagers, James looks forward to fulfilling a prophesy.

Rachel Parkinson: After her husband announces that he needs a break, and with nowhere else to go, Rachel finds herself on the doorstep of her meddling mother and emotionally absent father. Seeking God’s help with her failing marriage, she ventures to the church of her childhood, where she finds her childhood tormentor behind the pulpit. Roped into helping James, Rachel is unsure how she can hold the pieces of her life together long enough to aid anyone.

If you would like to read more, the first several chapters can be found here.

The Rock, the Waves & the Fisherman

Try as I might to cling to the rock, sometimes I relax my grip and the waves of life jostle me loose and toss me around the sea. I don't even realize I’ve fallen until I’m gasping for air and purging salt water from my lungs. As the turbulent waters push me away from the rock, I struggle to remember why I've held on to it so tightly. I lean back, relaxing into a floating position. The waves rock me back and forth, becoming a watery cradle.

Just let go.

I close my eyes and allow myself to drift through a sea of oblivion, reassuring myself that it’s okay. I can feel bodies pressed in around me, and am relieved by the fact that I’m not alone. Everyone else is allowing the waves to carry them from the rock.

Why shouldn’t I? 

Why am I fighting what others so readily accept?
 
I open my eyes and confirm that they all appear serene and accepting. They do not worry about right and wrong, but are content to go with what feels good and makes them happy.

I could do that.

A strong undercurrent pulls at my feet, and more than anything I want to give in.

Give up. Become like everyone else.
 
I’ve always been an outsider, and cannot deny that the idea of belonging appeals to me.

A slight tug on my heart reminds me of the promise a Fisherman once told me - "Believe in me and I will set you free." The tug, acting as evidence that He has not given up on me, is enough to ignite a fire in my spirit. The lyrics to the song “Everything,” by Lifehouse replay in my mind.

“Find me here, and speak to me.
I want to feel you, I need to hear you.
You are the light, that’s leading me.
To the place, where I’ll find peace again.”

I repeat the words over and over; begging Him to find me, reminding myself that no matter how much easier it would be to give in to the waves, there is no peace in the water. The serenity the world offers to those who surrender to it is an illusion.

The Fisherman tugs again and my burden suddenly seems lighter.

Adrenaline floods my veins as I clench my teeth, angry that I was almost deceived.

I am an outcast, but never alone.

I began searching for the thin line that connects us, but the ocean is too murky. Treading water, I search for the rock but cannot find it. I belittle myself for my stupidity, disgusted that I would allow the waves to carry me out so far. I am clueless as to which direction to swim.

This is hopeless.

I weep. My soul cries out for aid. I am answered by the lyrics to “Crawl” by Superchick, as they begin softly, and then crescendo until they block out the sounds of everything around me.

“When everything I was is lost
I have forgot but you have not.
When I am lost you have not lost me.”

The last line echos through my entire body, comforting me like hot chocolate on a winter night. I feel another pull, stronger this time. Acting on faith, I plunge forward, determined to press on until I reach the rock. Fighting wave after wave, I persevere. My muscles are sore and despite the chill of the water, my entire body radiates heat from exertion, but I continue, knowing that I cannot afford to rest.

Each wave feels like an ice pick, chipping away at my resolve.

I cannot do this. 

Just as I begin to doubt, wondering if hope has cruelly made me imagine the steadfast Fisherman, the rock comes into view. I stretch out my arms, praying that I will be able to cross the distance before the waves finish me off. Fatigued, I kick one last time.

I feel the pull on my soul and close my eyes, relaxing as He reels me in like a fish on a hook.

I reach for Him with the faith of a child, knowing that He is different. Believing that He is life. He pulls me to him, shakes off the weight of the water, and sets me free.