I am not too smart. Maybe relatively bright in the "learns from books" way. But common sense? Not my thing.
Take, for example, the Allstate tagline as shown in this fairly serious commercial:
Anyone else under the impression he's talking to some guy named Stan? As in, "That's Allstate, Stan."
No? My husband looked at me like I was crazy (I guess understandably?) when I asked him ... mind you, after months of confusion about the point of this tagline ... if he knew who this Stan guy was. When he explained that the tagline is actually, "That's Allstate's Stand," it instantly made sense. So, of course, I provided a reply he hears pretty regularly: OOOOooooohhhhh. I get it.
In fact, I hate to admit it, but the whole Jessica Simpson Chicken of the Sea thing a few years ago didn't seem that far fetched to me. And although she plays the dumb blonde factor to an annoying degree, I could see myself pausing to consider the issue.
But maybe (at this is just me trying to make myself feel better), maybe my idiocy is mainly a hearing/name thing? Case in point: I'm southern. My very southern grandparents had specific ways of saying things. Until I was 25 ... okay, I'm exaggerating, I was probably 21 (a mere child, right?) ... I thought a certain piece of furniture that resides in most people's bedrooms had a name. A proper name.
That is, until I directed my mom to get something out of the "Chester Drawers."
"Out of the what?" she asked.
"The Chester drawers."
"The Chester drawers?" she confirmed, beginning to shake with impending laughter.
"Yeahhhh?" (Voice lilting up in unsure, hesitant confusion about her obvious attempts to stifle laughter.)
"Don't you mean the chest of drawers?"
Okay, so it's not a commonly used term. Most people just say dresser. But Chester? Seriously, I'm an idiot.
Of course, I'm older now. But I'm not so sure age matters when it comes to this kind of smarts. Sometimes it does help me keep my mouth shut. But not really. I'd have to know I'm being an idiot before I say something stupid.
So instead, I'll just embrace the ditz in me. After all, I'm always good for a laugh. And that works for me.
That's my stand, Stan.
Friday, February 22, 2008
Sunday, January 27, 2008
A Questioning Faith
I grew up going to church every Sunday. I knew the words to Jesus Loves Me by heart long before I started school, was confirmed when I was twelve, attended youth group every week, and went on countless church trips and retreats. I was brought up Christian, but even during those confirmation classes during junior high, I could never fully embrace the faith … though I stood before the congregation and said I did.
It’s not that I don’t believe there’s something more than the tangible things around us. It’s just that I’ve never been able to get beyond the irreconcilable gaps I perceive in the stories of the Bible. And it’s not that I look down upon those who believe … I actually still go to church with my husband, whose Catholic faith I find comforting, more for the ritualistic nature of the Mass than the actual belief system it presents.
I sometimes wonder if that’s wrong. Am I disrespecting others’ faith by standing in the church, singing the songs, going through the motions? If I am, I don’t mean to. That tradition of church on Sunday is something that comforts me, even if I don’t feel the divine comfort of God. Or maybe I do and just don’t know it … they say that “he” works in mysterious ways.
But I think that’s the core of my inability to just believe. I don’t feel the need to personify faith. I can’t quit thinking of Jesus as a zealot, one of those crazy folks you hear about whose followers drink the Kool-Aid to show their commitment. If Jesus were here today, would anyone pay attention? Or would they avert their eyes and hurry past him as he stood prophesying on a street corner?
Instead, I prefer to see “God” in all things. The sun warming my face, the wind pulling at my hair, the grass cold and soft under my feet. In the smile of a stranger, the soulful eyes of my dogs, the touch of my husband’s hand. Even in the hard things … the difficulties of everyday life, the struggle of finding my way, the pain of losing someone I love.
Which brings me to what has been making me think about this lately. My grandfather died this past year. He’d lived more than a decade longer than his beloved wife who we were all sure he couldn’t go on without. In that time, between the first diagnosis of my grandmother’s illness and his own end, I don’t think he understood why the God he believed in so much – the one who he revered his entire life – could put him through so much pain, could keep him from being with the one person he felt completed him.
But even in my lack of belief, when he did pass on, when I stood by his casket and closed my eyes in prayer, I understood. Whether God was in control or not … it doesn’t matter. I was comforted by the rituals of the Christian faith, but – more important – by knowing that not knowing is part of being human.
So I choose to believe that my grandfather has finally joined my grandmother, is by her side for eternity. He believed in where he was going, and so it is. Whether or not the eternity he found is the definition of heaven, or is simply the commingling of their bodies as he slowly joins her in the earth doesn’t matter.
And I choose to believe that the unknown knows. Knows when the time is right, even when we don’t. When my grandfather passed, I felt grief, yes. But I also felt relief – for him in finally resting beside my grandmother, but for me, as well. Because I had found the inner peace I needed to accept, an acceptance I wouldn’t have had even a few years before … one that would have been far from reachable if he had had his wish in those early years, when his own grief consumed him.
Now, as I think of Granddaddy, I’m simply comforted. He was able to experience much in those years he didn’t necessarily want. Seeing my brother and me each get married. Great grandchildren. New friendships and rekindled old ones. And I know he was thankful for those years.
But mostly, I am comforted that his heart has found its home again. That his faith has proved him right and he is with my grandmother somewhere, relishing in her presence and her love.
Does believing in his faith change my own? I don’t think it does. But in all my unknowing, I do know this: My heart is fuller because their two spirits fill it. In the end, isn’t that faith enough?
It’s not that I don’t believe there’s something more than the tangible things around us. It’s just that I’ve never been able to get beyond the irreconcilable gaps I perceive in the stories of the Bible. And it’s not that I look down upon those who believe … I actually still go to church with my husband, whose Catholic faith I find comforting, more for the ritualistic nature of the Mass than the actual belief system it presents.
I sometimes wonder if that’s wrong. Am I disrespecting others’ faith by standing in the church, singing the songs, going through the motions? If I am, I don’t mean to. That tradition of church on Sunday is something that comforts me, even if I don’t feel the divine comfort of God. Or maybe I do and just don’t know it … they say that “he” works in mysterious ways.
But I think that’s the core of my inability to just believe. I don’t feel the need to personify faith. I can’t quit thinking of Jesus as a zealot, one of those crazy folks you hear about whose followers drink the Kool-Aid to show their commitment. If Jesus were here today, would anyone pay attention? Or would they avert their eyes and hurry past him as he stood prophesying on a street corner?
Instead, I prefer to see “God” in all things. The sun warming my face, the wind pulling at my hair, the grass cold and soft under my feet. In the smile of a stranger, the soulful eyes of my dogs, the touch of my husband’s hand. Even in the hard things … the difficulties of everyday life, the struggle of finding my way, the pain of losing someone I love.
Which brings me to what has been making me think about this lately. My grandfather died this past year. He’d lived more than a decade longer than his beloved wife who we were all sure he couldn’t go on without. In that time, between the first diagnosis of my grandmother’s illness and his own end, I don’t think he understood why the God he believed in so much – the one who he revered his entire life – could put him through so much pain, could keep him from being with the one person he felt completed him.
But even in my lack of belief, when he did pass on, when I stood by his casket and closed my eyes in prayer, I understood. Whether God was in control or not … it doesn’t matter. I was comforted by the rituals of the Christian faith, but – more important – by knowing that not knowing is part of being human.
So I choose to believe that my grandfather has finally joined my grandmother, is by her side for eternity. He believed in where he was going, and so it is. Whether or not the eternity he found is the definition of heaven, or is simply the commingling of their bodies as he slowly joins her in the earth doesn’t matter.
And I choose to believe that the unknown knows. Knows when the time is right, even when we don’t. When my grandfather passed, I felt grief, yes. But I also felt relief – for him in finally resting beside my grandmother, but for me, as well. Because I had found the inner peace I needed to accept, an acceptance I wouldn’t have had even a few years before … one that would have been far from reachable if he had had his wish in those early years, when his own grief consumed him.
Now, as I think of Granddaddy, I’m simply comforted. He was able to experience much in those years he didn’t necessarily want. Seeing my brother and me each get married. Great grandchildren. New friendships and rekindled old ones. And I know he was thankful for those years.
But mostly, I am comforted that his heart has found its home again. That his faith has proved him right and he is with my grandmother somewhere, relishing in her presence and her love.
Does believing in his faith change my own? I don’t think it does. But in all my unknowing, I do know this: My heart is fuller because their two spirits fill it. In the end, isn’t that faith enough?
Saturday, January 26, 2008
Who Are You, Man from the Cleaning Crew?
Last night, as I left work at 7 ... yeah, on a Friday night ... I was thinking. I work for a decent-sized company and a cleaning crew comes through each night to empty the trash, vacuum, clean the bathrooms, etc. I've worked at this company quite a while and tend to work late on a regular basis.
Each night I'm there, this guy comes into my office to collect my trash. I say hi and hand him my trash can (scanning my desk to toss in the remants of breakfast, lunch and any other random stuff). He empties it and hands it back to me with a smile. I say thanks and have a good night, he sometimes mumbles a good night; more often, he just smiles.
Like others who have done this job over the years, he speaks limited English. Or I assume it's limited. He doesn't say much, and I've never engaged him in conversation. That's mainly because, in the past, I've been a little embarassed by trying to strike up a conversation with one of the cleaning crew, only to have them smile sheepishly and say "No English." I'm not sure why that embarasses me, but it does.
Anyway, I believe this guy is Eastern European, as are most of the other janitorial staff. My husband recently hired someone from that area who is a talented craftsman, which got me wondering about my nighttime cleaning guy. Who is he really? Has he always done this? Is he really a woodworker or an artist? In his home country, he may have been an engineer, a doctor, a professor. Is he just biding time until he gets his U.S. license? Is this what he imagined America to be? Is he wondering how soon he'll be able to move on? Or is a steady job, a home and safety all he was looking for when he came here?
As he walks through our offices at night, he has a window into our lives. He sees who's messy, who's neat. He sees personal momentos; photos of family and pets. He sees who's always gone home to be with those folks in the photos and who's still here, working late. In small ways, he knows us; the kind of jobs we have, an understanding of our habits, a clue as to what matters to us.
I know nothing about him but that he has kind eyes and an easy but somewhat nervous smile. And that he gathers my trash and sometimes laughs quietly when I keep adding to it even as he takes it away.
Maybe I'll try to change that. Maybe I'll ask him a question soon. Something as simple as "What's your name?"There's so much more to know.
Each night I'm there, this guy comes into my office to collect my trash. I say hi and hand him my trash can (scanning my desk to toss in the remants of breakfast, lunch and any other random stuff). He empties it and hands it back to me with a smile. I say thanks and have a good night, he sometimes mumbles a good night; more often, he just smiles.
Like others who have done this job over the years, he speaks limited English. Or I assume it's limited. He doesn't say much, and I've never engaged him in conversation. That's mainly because, in the past, I've been a little embarassed by trying to strike up a conversation with one of the cleaning crew, only to have them smile sheepishly and say "No English." I'm not sure why that embarasses me, but it does.
Anyway, I believe this guy is Eastern European, as are most of the other janitorial staff. My husband recently hired someone from that area who is a talented craftsman, which got me wondering about my nighttime cleaning guy. Who is he really? Has he always done this? Is he really a woodworker or an artist? In his home country, he may have been an engineer, a doctor, a professor. Is he just biding time until he gets his U.S. license? Is this what he imagined America to be? Is he wondering how soon he'll be able to move on? Or is a steady job, a home and safety all he was looking for when he came here?
As he walks through our offices at night, he has a window into our lives. He sees who's messy, who's neat. He sees personal momentos; photos of family and pets. He sees who's always gone home to be with those folks in the photos and who's still here, working late. In small ways, he knows us; the kind of jobs we have, an understanding of our habits, a clue as to what matters to us.
I know nothing about him but that he has kind eyes and an easy but somewhat nervous smile. And that he gathers my trash and sometimes laughs quietly when I keep adding to it even as he takes it away.
Maybe I'll try to change that. Maybe I'll ask him a question soon. Something as simple as "What's your name?"There's so much more to know.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)