this ain't no polly-anna talking here.....

Sometimes, I fear that I come across as some strong, brave woman, who has a sideline business of being "Polly-anna".  Not so.

We love to laugh at the antics and naughtiness of our grand daughters *after* they go home.  It gives us great hope that the human race will go on -- usually they are not naughty because they are being outright bad - although they can be - but mostly their naughtiness comes from the fact that because of their ages, they have received mixed-messages about right and wrong, and do not know how to process it all and what is exactly good and what is exactly correct behaviour.  It's easy to sort out being good when it is you and your dolly outside playing on the slide.  But when other *factors* come into play, such as boys or older kids making fun of your play, or just plain tormenting for the sake of tormenting, then the messages get mixed in a wee one's mind. 

And sometimes the frustration of trying to figure  it all out, leads to even more naughty behaviour, because just when you thought you were doing the right thing - WHAMMO - there is a stark reminder that you were not really getting it at all.  Ergo - you, my dear child, are going to TIME OUT!!! 

(I might be taking some -ahem- "creative license" here with this story because I cannot find the email describing it a couple of years ago, but I think it went something like this..) 

One of our grand daughters, who shall remain nameless, had one such day.   She had just about been undone by the fact that she had once again not thought properly when it came to her actions - and she was pretty sure she was correct.  She was not in the mood for further reasoning and just kind of started the long lonely walk of *discipline* and sent herself to time out.

She started to stomp up the steps, then stepped back down the steps and started to walk back up,  kicking each one, and as she kicked each one, she said a word very loudly.  Her mother, a bit curious, came to listen to the word coming out of her daughter's mouth - it sounded like "stick".  But she was not carrying a stick.  Then she leaned closer and thought she was saying "sit" each time she angrily kicked each step as she was going up.

That made a little sense - sometimes they had to "sit" on the steps while in time-out for being naughty.

But the little one kept climbing and kicking each step and yelling angrily "THIT", "THIT", "THIT"..... then it all kind of came into focus quickly what was being said, and a deep horror sank upon the mother.....

The mother quickly called the father to find out where this behavior had come from......  He said maybe *your folks*...(that's us in case you are not following the storyline too well here)....  She called her folks and her folks stated that "they never ever kicked the steps"...... Maybe it was the swimming instructor.  

It was a difficult situation - even though scoring brilliantly on tests and such, this little one was slow to speak, so what's a parent to do?  "I understand what you are saying, but don't ever say it again" -- so now maybe one of the whole six words to come out of her mouth all month long has been shot down as evil and bad.  I mean, we could quickly go back to sign language here but reason stated that cussing in sign language might be even more difficult to rebuff and correct.   

Or do you punish the whole episode - the kicking - the angry word - the possibility, shall we say - "rehashing" of saying and or doing something she had maybe seen former vestiges of??  (NOT pointing any fingers here folks - I believe there's a lot of German heritage to blame here in our background and when all goes wrong at times I am quick to point out the "german-ness" of the whole situation) so perhaps some old German DNA was popping out - coming from nowhere other than a good old DNA spike and needing that last bit of temperance to refine it....

But her Popop and I howled with laughter -- the child that had been coaxed and coaxed to "use words" had finally taken a stand when angry and "used words" - the irony was too rich and oh, so something out of the ordinary, that it was laugh your head off funny.  She just never acted like that. 

What did happen is that the young'un was sent to her room, and then her mommy came up and talked with her and hugged her and told her that there were better ways to take out your anger - like brandishing a baseball bat on a tower of laundry.  Or yelling in the woods until children's services came and picked you up.

But saying bad words and kicking each step as you go up was not one.

Scott and I asked for a re-enactment from the mommy the next time we were there - and howled again.  We wanted to pop some popcorn and watch it again and again.  Oh, it was bad-naughty.  (nervous note here - we never laugh at *naughty* when it can be heard by little ears.....)

But, I have to say this with the biggest lot of caution -  there was the slightest bit of pleasure that the wee one had some good old fashioned righteous indignation about her and when she had come to the end of her rope of being good in a backyard gone bad - she was just tired of it all and was *mad*.  

My backyard has gone all bad and I am tired of trying to be good while playing in it.  I am to the point of kicking the steps and saying a bad word each time I step up.  And I am angry enough and hurt enough and don't understand the right thing to do here sometimes - all adding up to a ball of frustration that makes me want to yell "THIT" and kick a step.  Then yell it again and again and kick again and again until I am worn out.

I don't feel good and I am amazed that Scott cannot read my mind on some things and pop up some good cure for my hurts every time.  He has been *amazing*, and yet during the anxiety and drug induced rage, I want more than might be rightfully mine. 

I don't like to be sick, and I certainly don't like to not be in control of helping my body heal itself of this.  "How can I raise my neutrophils?"  "There's really nothing you can do.  Go home, be in contact with no germs, sleep a lot and gain two pounds."

Sometimes my very own brain cannot connect words to my open mouth when hearing such things..... 

So you put me on steroids that take the worst Sergeant Major in the Army and plops him into my brain that apparently God thought a good idea to directly connect to my mouth -- (and it appears that there is no stop-gap between brain and mouth in this situation) and you give this mean old grizzled son-of-a-gun Sergeant Major a couple of days to ravage my brain, body and good sense - tormenting and torturing any recruits that are close by (read Scott) - and before Sergeant Major gets ready to leave the horrid scene of wreckage and challenge and battle behind him,  he straightens his broad brimmed hat, brushes off his uniform because this has not been pretty by any means and placing on the doorknob, as he closes the door, he puts on the "be back later" sign.... And I am left kicking the steps.  Each one and saying something naughty. 

It gets worse, the Sargent Major can appear 12 hours before the steroids are even pumped into the IV line.  I like planning.  I like taking the hill knowing exactly where each soldier is going to be and what they are expected to do.  I like precision.  I like good tactical work.  And it's all in my mind.  I have mixed messages about what is good and what is over-expectation.  It has caused a few long trips both in preparation and driving to Columbus.

Its all because I am so damned afraid of the blood count results.  I know my back yard.  I know there are a *lot* of people praying.  I also know my Bible and know Job.  Know the Roman brutality that was allowed by a God I love.  I know the "good" verses in Jeremiah, and Isaiah and Ezekiel and Nehemiah all had some pretty tough crap thrown their way on both sides of those verses.  So I love the promises, love the verses, but I know the whole story and know God just doesn't give me some simple platitudes, and then expect me to skip down the yellow brick road, falsely trusting the worst of me away.  There's some really awful stuff that happened to some really good people in the Bible that those verses reflect.  And I do not want to take them glibly.  Honestly, trustingly, hoping, but not glibly.

I get mixed messages, even though I know all that in my brain and in my heart and in my soul and in my spirit, but sometimes I just get overwhelmed and start the long walk of putting myself in time out.


I know I don't want to hurt my God or Savior.  I know I don't want to do what is bad because I am at the end of bad.  So the next best thing is to kick, and yell, and sit on my bed and talk to Him and try to work it out.  Work out the fear.  Work out the understanding - I mean this kind of shit doesn't get too many good down and dirty playground lessons on how to *really* deal with it - there's a lot of glossy ones on this, but not the real backyard type.  You kind of have to hash it out with your soul inside you and the God above you and cry and accept and rest.  And confess.  I always seem to be on the big end of confessing when the Sergant Major finally leaves for a while again.

I know that most of this is chemically induced.  But what about others that battle demons that are not of their making - how do they do it - and all I know is the Bible says we have a High Priest - One who stands before the throne of God and prays for us daily.  I don't think that means He is going to pat me on the head and say it's going to be all good.  I know Him a little too well for that.  (I am a cynic when it comes to glossy ads, if you have not already picked up on that)  I do think it means that while you have to watch evil horrible things happening either inside your body or outside your body, you have to reconcile evil and what it does and what you are supposed to do with it.

I'm not getting too many head pats, but a lot of love.  And most interesting to me now is the Passover story and what you are supposed to do with the whole thing -- for a week you have to get all the yeast out of your household - and I am over simplifying - there's more to it than this - but you are supposed to get all that leaven out - and give it a try - that stuff is EVERYWHERE!!  It is almost impossible to get all the yeast out of your house.

The idea is that the yeast represents the sin in your life.  It's an action that has a visual meaning.  And He really expected the ones reading this to do it.  So I'm like, if it was good enough of  a visual example for Moses and more so a good enough of a symbol to Jesus Christ Himself - who am I to cough and jump over to the next page... 

It is an interesting visual teaching method - you know like the ones that teachers knock themselves out daily to come up with to help children remember a lesson well.

You need to seek it all out, and get rid of it.  No matter what the cost.  No matter how much you love it.  No matter how deep it is in the nooks and crannies of your cupboards, or bed sheets or couch cushions or arm pits or breasts. All.of.it.  Ouch.

The irony of the idea playing around in my mind as I once again read Moses, is that this cancer is the same ideal on some plains.  I have to get rid of all of it, no matter what the cost, what the time, what the pain - I have to get rid of it all or it will consume me.   Just like my sin.

Just like the "leven-yeast" in some ways.  It's all very interesting and I am trying to sort out what is mixed messages and what is absolute truth so my back yard is pleasant again to play in......

I crave shalom in a world inside my body that is filled with chaos.  And I'm thinking about going to the pantry and starting the clean out and finding all the hidden leaven and sin and cancer.  Somehow in my brain, it got all tied up together.