I was standing beside the breakfast table yesterday, taking a few moments to chat with my younger brothers before heading off to work, when Josiah, my pudgy-faced youngest brother, took it upon himself to offer a professional critique of my accessorizing:
Josiah: “Thea, those earrings that you have on look kind of like fish.”
Mom: “Yeah? But they’re definitely Christian fish.”
Me: “Yeah, Siah, I call these guys “Icky,” short for Ichthus, so they’re definitely Christian.”
Josiah pondered this thoughtfully for a moment, ruminating philosophically on a mouthful of toast. He blinked, stuck out his chin, and offered us this interesting bit of information:
“I have three goldfish. Two of them are Christians.”
Me: “Siah, that’s impossible. If you had fish, they’d be dead, fo shuah.”
Josiah: *horrified gasp* “How can you say that?!! You mean they’re lukewarm in the faith?!!”
The conversation went downhill from there...
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Overheard from the Kitchen Sink
As I was washing up a few dishes after supper last night, I overheard Josiah talking to Mom out in the porch:
"Wow, the dog had really bad breath tonight! Yuck! But don't worry--I knocked him out with mine."
Yeah, well, thanks, bro. I'm totally getting you a bottle of mouthwash for Christmas.
"Wow, the dog had really bad breath tonight! Yuck! But don't worry--I knocked him out with mine."
Yeah, well, thanks, bro. I'm totally getting you a bottle of mouthwash for Christmas.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Thursday morning, I was in a bit of a rush as I hurriedly rustled around the kitchen, throwing together a portable lunch to carry along to work.
Thea, I muttered to myself as I sawed off a slice of bread, you desperately need to work on this whole ‘scheduling-my-life’ thing...your scheduling, at this point, is pretty pathetic, as demonstrated by current time crunch...
I zipped over to the cupboard to find a plastic bag for the sandwich I had constructed. It wasn’t a work of art, by any stretch, but it would have to do. As I pulled the bag out of the cupboard, however, some writing on the front of it caught my eye. In big, black letters, scrawled boldly in permanent marker across the front, it read “Frankenstein’s Brain.”
I laughed.
There is only one explanation for this sort of thing at our house: Josiah.
Life would be so much less interesting without little brothers.
As I packed everything into the car and drove off into the sunrise, with my youngest brother’s fancy piece of artwork on the seat beside me, I was suddenly struck by a new side of the equation—one which I hadn’t really considered in the initial encounter.
My sandwich was, as far as I could tell, a simple combination of bread, cheese, and cold turkey. However, according to the bag, it was something entirely different. In fact, it was a bona fide specimen of cerebral tissue from the cranium of Frankenstein himself.
Such an incredible amount of power in labels! I mused, flicking my fingers thoughtfully against the steering wheel.
Just then, a massively overweight cat appeared on the right side of the road up ahead. He blinked intelligently at me, shook his whiskers slightly, and then hoisted his heavy self up out of the ditch with a prodigious effort.
You know, he’s kind of cute...for an obese critter. I cocked my head to match his, and grinned slightly.
I guess the grin scared him, because the next instant, that massively overweight cat was gallumping across the road right in front of my car as if he could feel the breath of Jack the Ripper on the fully erect hair that covered his ugly tail.
What a retarded animal! I found myself thinking, as I instinctively slammed on the brakes.
And then I laughed. “Speaking of the power in labels...there goes a case in point.”
Was the cat stupid? Possibly. But did my calling him stupid make him so? Most likely not. (And I don’t think he heard me, anyway.)
Did the magic marker on my bag transform my sandwich into Frankenstein’s brain? I’d like to think it didn’t...because I ate it.
But the bigger point that I was left to ponder during the next forty-five minutes of my drive was this:
As humans, we’re quick to slap labels on everything, and often, we construct neat categories into which we can put the people we meet.
“Oh,” someone will say knowingly, “I know why he’s like that! He’s from New York.” And we smile, and nod understandingly, because we all know how those New Yorkers are—they raise such strange breeds out on the East Coast!
“He’s Indian? And he’s a student? Ah, yes. Probably going for his doctorate. Those Indians are such a brilliant group!”
“She was the youngest child? Little wonder she’s spoiled. Probably explains the buck teeth, too.”
“Ah. A Methodist. Well, then, we really can’t be friends. I don’t work well with Methodists.”
“You’re reformed? And post-trib? You must be a Piperite!”
The list is truly endless, and the effects of labeling are as multitudinous as the labels themselves.
Too often, however, I fear that it is the act of categorizing itself which blinds us to the truly unique and significant aspects of the people who may cross our path. When I get hung up on the fact that my friend is of a different faith than I am, I allow a label to get in the way of relationship, and perhaps I rob both of us of the blessing that God intended for our friendship to bring. When I dismissively walk past the bum who is puffing on his filthy cigarette outside a rundown bicycle shop, I am missing the fact that here is a human being—a special creation made in the image of God—with deep emotional, spiritual, and physical needs.
As I parked the car and headed inside, my brain continued to turn over this concept of creative labeling.
“I need to give my labeling tendencies to God for revision,” I mumbled, twisting the key in the lock of the store’s front door.
After all, someone could look at me and think, ‘Wow, there goes a blonde...one who apparently eats Frankensteinian brains for lunch! That explains a lot.’
And they might be right. It probably does explain a lot. But it doesn’t explain everything. Because within every monster-brain consuming blonde, as well as every other individual on the planet, there is a uniquely designed human being created by an all-loving, all-powerful heavenly Father. And it’s that unique human being that we can’t afford to gloss over lightly.
The key clicked in the lock with a dull-sounding thud just then, and the door swung open. My day had begun. But as I crossed the threshold, and was greeted by the lovely smell of cinnamon, and lilacs, and newly-made paper, I offered up a silent prayer asking for the grace and wisdom to see the real person in each customer who would follow me through those doors.
And then I went to put Frankenstein’s brain in the refrigerator for safe keeping. Just because.
Thea, I muttered to myself as I sawed off a slice of bread, you desperately need to work on this whole ‘scheduling-my-life’ thing...your scheduling, at this point, is pretty pathetic, as demonstrated by current time crunch...
I zipped over to the cupboard to find a plastic bag for the sandwich I had constructed. It wasn’t a work of art, by any stretch, but it would have to do. As I pulled the bag out of the cupboard, however, some writing on the front of it caught my eye. In big, black letters, scrawled boldly in permanent marker across the front, it read “Frankenstein’s Brain.”
I laughed.
There is only one explanation for this sort of thing at our house: Josiah.
Life would be so much less interesting without little brothers.
As I packed everything into the car and drove off into the sunrise, with my youngest brother’s fancy piece of artwork on the seat beside me, I was suddenly struck by a new side of the equation—one which I hadn’t really considered in the initial encounter.
My sandwich was, as far as I could tell, a simple combination of bread, cheese, and cold turkey. However, according to the bag, it was something entirely different. In fact, it was a bona fide specimen of cerebral tissue from the cranium of Frankenstein himself.
Such an incredible amount of power in labels! I mused, flicking my fingers thoughtfully against the steering wheel.
Just then, a massively overweight cat appeared on the right side of the road up ahead. He blinked intelligently at me, shook his whiskers slightly, and then hoisted his heavy self up out of the ditch with a prodigious effort.
You know, he’s kind of cute...for an obese critter. I cocked my head to match his, and grinned slightly.
I guess the grin scared him, because the next instant, that massively overweight cat was gallumping across the road right in front of my car as if he could feel the breath of Jack the Ripper on the fully erect hair that covered his ugly tail.
What a retarded animal! I found myself thinking, as I instinctively slammed on the brakes.
And then I laughed. “Speaking of the power in labels...there goes a case in point.”
Was the cat stupid? Possibly. But did my calling him stupid make him so? Most likely not. (And I don’t think he heard me, anyway.)
Did the magic marker on my bag transform my sandwich into Frankenstein’s brain? I’d like to think it didn’t...because I ate it.
But the bigger point that I was left to ponder during the next forty-five minutes of my drive was this:
As humans, we’re quick to slap labels on everything, and often, we construct neat categories into which we can put the people we meet.
“Oh,” someone will say knowingly, “I know why he’s like that! He’s from New York.” And we smile, and nod understandingly, because we all know how those New Yorkers are—they raise such strange breeds out on the East Coast!
“He’s Indian? And he’s a student? Ah, yes. Probably going for his doctorate. Those Indians are such a brilliant group!”
“She was the youngest child? Little wonder she’s spoiled. Probably explains the buck teeth, too.”
“Ah. A Methodist. Well, then, we really can’t be friends. I don’t work well with Methodists.”
“You’re reformed? And post-trib? You must be a Piperite!”
The list is truly endless, and the effects of labeling are as multitudinous as the labels themselves.
Too often, however, I fear that it is the act of categorizing itself which blinds us to the truly unique and significant aspects of the people who may cross our path. When I get hung up on the fact that my friend is of a different faith than I am, I allow a label to get in the way of relationship, and perhaps I rob both of us of the blessing that God intended for our friendship to bring. When I dismissively walk past the bum who is puffing on his filthy cigarette outside a rundown bicycle shop, I am missing the fact that here is a human being—a special creation made in the image of God—with deep emotional, spiritual, and physical needs.
As I parked the car and headed inside, my brain continued to turn over this concept of creative labeling.
“I need to give my labeling tendencies to God for revision,” I mumbled, twisting the key in the lock of the store’s front door.
After all, someone could look at me and think, ‘Wow, there goes a blonde...one who apparently eats Frankensteinian brains for lunch! That explains a lot.’
And they might be right. It probably does explain a lot. But it doesn’t explain everything. Because within every monster-brain consuming blonde, as well as every other individual on the planet, there is a uniquely designed human being created by an all-loving, all-powerful heavenly Father. And it’s that unique human being that we can’t afford to gloss over lightly.
The key clicked in the lock with a dull-sounding thud just then, and the door swung open. My day had begun. But as I crossed the threshold, and was greeted by the lovely smell of cinnamon, and lilacs, and newly-made paper, I offered up a silent prayer asking for the grace and wisdom to see the real person in each customer who would follow me through those doors.
And then I went to put Frankenstein’s brain in the refrigerator for safe keeping. Just because.
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