The Voluptuous Italian Woman (That Struggling Trust)

There's the opening scene from Fellini's classic film, 8 1/2, that comes to mind as the ideas of this blog begin to fester and swirl between my brain and my fingers.  The lead actor, Marcello Mastroianni (playing, essentially, the director himself), finds himself in some surreal traffic jam where the heads seem to be missing from the passengers of a crowded bus and voluptuous women (and voluptuous Italian women too) are but a seat away for us to ogle and fondle.  The car's interior begins to fill with suffocating smoke.  No one seems to be really noticing the man trapped inside of his car, writhing to escape.  They see it happening but are paralyzed to act.

Suddenly, he's floating above the cars.  Higher he soars, as if he's drifting towards heaven itself.  It's then we see Mastroianni below, sitting causally at the beach, tethering a line in the sky.  The line he's pulling is not a kite but the man himself.  Pulling, tugging, at himself from achieving the lofty goal of transcendence, of becoming one with God.

Then free fall.  It's one of the most disturbing openings in a catalog of great foreign films I've seen over the years.  I haven't seen the film since I was in college, and I see the scene now on some grainy youtube screen and I remember the feeling I had then.  Artistically, I had wanted to become a poet, a writer, some beatnik that toured colleges speaking from a microphone in dusty-floored townie bars, the guy that had the Great American Novel tucked away in the bottom drawer of his antique desk (isn't it always in the bottom drawer in those movies about writers?  Why can't it be sprawled on their desks in broken chapters?)  I related to the film as some craving lad who was seeing his window of opportunity shrink with every passing day in a class full of writers 10 years younger, saying everything so much more eloquently than my own.  Fellini was making an autobiography by way of farce.  While making his masterpiece, he becomes the leader of a circus.  Tethered by writer's block, creative differences, the lustful looks of (voluptuous Italian) women.

The priorities have changed since then.  Films have passed through my eyes that sometimes they run together.  I see films through a different lens, but I still feel like there's some part of me flying through the clouds, only to be yoked back by some force that wants to keep me submerged, marooned on some lonely Mediterranean beach.

Discussing this feeling with a friend tonight allowed me to place some of this feeling into perspective.  Two days prior I was sitting on this same table that I type this blog, reading the Bible, watching my kids read theirs, feeling adequate in the moment.  This is what grace feels like.  These are the blessings God provides you when you trust, when you're faithful, when you submit.

Then today happened.  The tethering guilt of some past sin pulls you back down to earth.  It's not anything new, just me in a different set of clothes.  A younger me, a more immature me.  The old me.

And a chain reaction begins that breaks the trust.  For the record, the trust is not in my belief or awareness of God's power or grace, but the trust that I lose on a daily basis.  That struggling trust.

There's many sayings I could quote now about being dead to my old self.  So why is it that we resurrect our old selves like a re-run of a favorite zombie film?  We know where heaven is, can point to it like some dog on the hunt, and yet we can't shake the coiling line of our own guilt.  I joked tonight that it must be a Catholic thing.  My upbringing on tortillas, Hail Mary's and a bleeding-foreheaded Jesus portraits evoked these feelings that went skin deep.

And that logic follows a linear path.  One sin will be multiplied upon you.  Eye for an eye.  Sin for sin upon you.

So simple things like the hum of a talkative room begin to itch more that normal.  Outlandish occurrences befall the room.  All around you are a swarm of kids, crying, running through the halls, emotionally diseased.  Your sin is so much a stain that it affects even the ones close to you.

Theologically, I firmly believe that one cannot lose his faith.  Then why do we (I) work so hard on wanting to lose it?  I spoke with a parent of one of my students today on this topic.  After a similar day of headaches, he said that he too was on the mountaintop the day before, only to fall back down an avalanche of circumstances.  "Overfed," he coined it.  Besides the awkward laughter of knowing that you simply cannot overfeed yourself on God's love between the two of us, he had somewhat of a point.  My trust failed me, not the sin.

I also hold firm to the notion that being mediocre is how the devil truly wins.  Being right below the proverbial "bar" like we're playing some game of monotonous limbo is what keeps us mediocre.  The devil doesn't have to shame us in front of a congregation.  He just wants us to not even want to participate for fear that we'll be caught with our zippers down.

Each day I pray there's a target on me, and most of the time I'm peering down the scope of my own rifle at my naive reflection.  I'm committed to climb this mountain, but damn if the avalanches, frostbite and jagged rocks that make me want to set up camp.  No need to trek further.

This past Sunday my son experimented with an emerald green can of spray paint.  He wrote, "Cruz was here," on the side outside backyard fence.  I didn't believe him, but when I saw it I wondered what he must have been thinking.  Later, he realized I had posted the incident on Facebook.  "I didn't want anyone to know about it," me muttered.  "Then don't use green spray paint!"

I spend so much time trying to make a splash that I forget that I'm already unique, loved, wanted.  The old beatnik dwelling inside fights his way onto blogs at times, sometimes in the fifth-grade level poems I model for kids in class.  The stardom is different, some pious Christian stardom.

And back to the dead to self.  I read more and more about waking my dead spirit.  I was dead and now I'm free.  This means the atrophied disease of my former self resides in my blood stream.  It's the struggle of all of us who challenge ourselves to want escape from that car that fills with smoke, awaiting the time when we fall asleep at the wheel.  Waiting for our us to drift off onto the county road into the abyss.

Bumper Stickers on a Coffin

There was a moment today when I actually raised my arms in exasperation at my repeated attempts to guide one of my students to redoing his HW he had done incorrectly.

"Why would I want you to FAIL?"

I'm sure having my arms up in the air and the tone of my voice really sent home the message that I cared.  Obviously, being in the moment sometimes delivers the opposite effect.

Like this past Thursday on Valentine's Eve, when I was mad with my wife for being out late with our son (isn't it all about routines?  We think our kids go to bed should equal some sort of merit badge) and the next morning I find a gift on my work tray.  Shamed!

Imagine Joshua, newly anointed the head cheese over the Isrealites as they entered their promised land.  I'm sure he had to been thinking, "Do I really have to lead these stiff-necked people?  I mean, come on Lord, they pretty much put Moses IN THE GRAVE."

Leadership is not always what it's cracked up to be.

This past Friday I went back to team building for my fifth graders.  We first rated 8 aspects of our life (mentioned in this great TED talk about "Hacking your Education"), like Health, Exercise, our Relationships and how we manage stress.  I challenged them to focus on one aspect of their lives that they could begin making an impact today.  And we also challenged ourselves to work on the aspects of our lives that would be the hardest to change.  Anytime I do these team building exercises, inevitably it requires me to make a self-evaluation of my own life.

What kind of leader am I?  What kind of leader do I want to be?  Better yet, what kind of leader is God calling me to be?

We place our concerns in front of the Lord's will.  I'm no exception. I take a parenting class mainly because I'd like to think that the imprint I'm making in my son and daughter's lives are making some kind of impact.  And that's another fallacy--my imprint.  God didn't allow us to have kids so that we could imprint them with our agendas, stresses, garbage and baggage.  We are all dysfunctional to a point.  My son has my temper but he has his mother's love.  My youngest daughter has my personality and her mother's sense of awareness.  Our eldest has even picked up our stress management tips for life (for example, we like to freak out!).

So tonight in parenting class we used Play-Doh to make an object that symbolizes our kids.  I tried making a trophy, because my son treats every activity as if it is his last.  In his world, participation trophies are for suckers.  First place is all that matters.  We then were told to ball up the Play-doh, squeeze it as hard as we could and observe.

What resided in our palm was the imprint of our life on them.  You could see the lines of our fingertips in the imperfect, malleable clay.  That's what we do as parents.  We twirls our girls in the air when they dress like a princess and we use words in situations that aren't always in balance.  I know that I've gotten more excited knowing Cruz wanted to play baseball than wanting to work on a Lego set.  It's those subtle cues that we take for granted.  Our kids misbehave and we wonder why they acted the way they did.  They choose a sport or activity we tried or accomplished back in our days and we rejoice.  Anything that doesn't fit that mold gets a hesitant, "Oh, yeah?" as if we are questioning their decisions.

But we are only the conduit of God's will.  We seek and place our identity in so many things, things we allow ourselves to get trapped in--by gender, religious affiliation, race, creed, sexual orientation, the neighborhood we live in.  None of that really matters in the end.  You think someone is going to put bumper stickers on my coffin, one for each of my interests and associations.  One for my church home, one for living in Texas, one for being a Buckeye, etc.  Imagine being a kid and having all that weight of expectation thrown upon you?

I've self-reflected enough on my own childhood.  That's been blogged about before.  I don't look back on those days too much anymore.  I've forgiven, or at least I've told myself that, but more importantly, I've begun to turn into a new facet which is more reliant on the future.  What legacy am I leaving for the kids?  What eternal practices will make the difference in their lives long after I'm gone?


Another point I picked up on in class are the several identities we carry throughout our everyday life.  We have our church friends, we act one way at work and we act differently in front of our families.  I'm guilty of this too.  Some of my Christian friends are just as nutty as I am.  We're constantly joking and being borderline inappropriate.  Laughter has always been my pipeline to God.  If I couldn't laugh every day, or if that joy of laughter were somehow taken away--that would be a personal hell.  At work I strive to carry the light into dark places.  I'm surrounded by Christian co-workers, but sometimes we're hustling from one project to the next that we rarely focus on anything but test results and discipline.  One could argue that God is absent from our schools because the very people he has instructed to lead--the Joshuas--have forsaken him for lesson plans.  We've convinced ourselves that busyness equals productivity, that "too much on our plates" is some new world badge of honor that wins you nothing.  Other times I feel stunted by the fact that I want to yell my love of Jesus to the rooftops but fear losing my job for being some zealous nut.  Will the students understand that the activity we will do on Friday will be centered on their self-identity, even when I can't even mention that their true identities have already been emblazoned on their hearts before they were even a thought?

I guess this is why I wear Christian themed t-shirts, and drive the van with the personalized license plates that sound out "De Colores."  I have officially placed my identity in outward Christian projections.  I do want others to identify me as such, but do I always have the confidence to do the same when I'm not dressed in my threads of conscious?

And all the while God is waving His arms in front of me like some Holy Spirit filled balloon man outside of a used car lot, saying, "But I don't want you to FAIL, but you keep doing the same thing!"

Or he taps us on the shoulder when we doubt as says something to us like, "Red Sea," in a manner that suggests why we even question his might.  "Did I mention manna, too?"  God is there giving us that I-told-you-look of a dear friend that loves you enough to tell you the truth.

Other times he reminds you that leaders come in all shapes in sizes.  They are the guys who are "twinning" with jr high students because he wore the same hoodie.  Or the text messages you get from complete strangers who want to know when the next offering of men's programming is going to start.  Or the hug from a friend and the conversation you have about your past week.  You've seen them not a few days before at church but you can't wait to hear your last name called from across the hallway in that in-joke, playful manner that you understand.

"Cor-doooo-va!"

It's time I start listening and return the call.

Essentially Airbrushed

For the record, I don't have it all together.  I'm not perfect.  I eat the wrong foods and my kids act up in the most embarrassing places.  But you probably didn't know it by looking at me, or most likely, from any of my Facebook posts in recent months.

I read a great blog the other day that at first caused me to think the link was meant for people like me.  I fell into the blog's trap though, and the sin of vanity.  But I am guilty of posting positive things for my "friends" to see.  Of the 900 or so people who I've friended on Facebook, and the 300 or so who follow me on Twitter, I don't have a close relationship with but a handful of them.  There's been studies that say the human brain cannot possibly carry more than 150 people for you to care about, and probably even remember the names of, much less 900.  Am I faking it when I tell people that I love Mondays and decry the inevitable declarations of TGIF whenever I hear them?  Am I being truthful when I post a selfie on Instagram or that perfect filtered picture of my daughter on her way to school in the morning?

The blog in question's thesis are the lies in omission we deliver to the public.  I watched a video this past weekend at a youth conference I attended with my junior and senior high kids from church that also challenged the notion of how we live these simple, disconnected versions of real lives through social media.  The thinking goes, we have allowed ourselves to think we are lonely, therefore we strive for friends, followers, likers and chatters that will make us feel connected even when connection is far from what we truly are.  The message was for the youth in the audience, but it might as well have been for me too.

We choose to post what we want to post.  We can essentially airbursh the pictures we post because they only show the truth we want others to see.  About 5 years ago I made a conscious choice to "go positive" on my social media accounts.  It's about as easy to do as walking past a buffet full of food and not wanting four plates.  Sometimes.

You see, all that positive energy and smiles are all attributed to God, even when they have been attributed to my own luck or own deeds.  A few weeks back a visiting pastor called it having a "Jesus smirk."  Why should the joy I've been given be kept in some unlit basement?  God calls us to be the "light".  The best way is to beam the smile I kept under lock and key for over 20 years.  

Perhaps I a making up for lost time.  I complained and grumped so much of my young adult life away (and ask my wife, I still complain plenty) that I felt I owed God.  Despite these best intentions, none of my positive energy, good deeds or offerings mean anything to Him.  He wants our heart, and my heart is sometimes wrapped in the acknowledgement of others.

You don't think I'll count the amount of readers of this blog?  Or that I have counted the number of likes a picture of my family receives?  Perhaps it's arbitrary scoreboarding, considering you don't have control of the numbers game on Facebook.  But social media is all about the love of self.  Instagram is our life in pictures, vine for those small seconds of what we want you to witness, Facebook to make you popular, twitter for the mindless thoughts and feeling of community, and snap chat for the risque pictures we don't want shared with the world.  It's all self congratulatory. 

If I was "real" on Facebook and post every detail of my life it would probably go something like this:

My son wont stop crying that he lost his iPod charger.  It's been 15 minutes and I'm already late for work.  He complained all last night to get his homework done.  8 back to back pages of math and spelling and reading every week.  Poor kid sits all day and does homework all night.  Don't these teachers have a life?  Wait until I email the superintendent.  

Why am I spending another snow day on the couch.  I did not work out, but I did not cave in to the unopened bag of Fritos in the cupboard.  I sent my kids to bed without a kiss, a prayer of having them brush their teeth.  I wish I could just look at nudie pictures of busty women and stay up until 2 am.

I'm totally not wanting to attend bible study tonight.  I didn't read and I have nothing nice to say after I yelled at some kid today at school.  I have a belly-full of fries I engulfed on my way from work that I didn't want to share or my family to know about.  Will anyone grade my stack of papers?  Will it be awful if I left my back yard gate open and the dog ran away?

I know there's a contingent of people who would undoubtedly "like" this life.  I have actually unfollowed friends for posting these types of posts.  Am I being unreal by choosing to turn my ears from the noise of their lives?  Should I be more of a Christian and give them some upbeat words of encouragement, or better yet, a super Christian by "praying" for them?  I've been told that Christians live in some bubble world to distance themselves from the sinful world around them.  Perhaps there's some truth to that.

I read recently about American journalists in Sochi who have met culture shock face to face.  The hotel rooms in the city are deplorable at best.  Brown running water, curtain rods broken, a lack of toilet paper and homes turned into a make-shift lobby.  Does it make our country look worse for complaining about the necessities we have taken for granted?  There has been lots of talk about how Sochi has scrubbed the streets clean of homeless and blatantly hack into computers and cell phones of tourists.  We expect every country to be like America wherever we go.  We are stunned at how other countries treat gays, women and children.  Sochi seems like a Russian version of China, where the smiling faces hide some ugly truths underneath.

The world would have us believe we have some choice in the matter.    Super Bowl commercials bring out the craving consumerism in us all, make us want their products when we don't even need them.  I have directv, which allows me over 400 channels of entertainment at my fingertips.  I've changed the channel during the Grammys but I willingly watch violent shows and simulated sex.  My life can be DVR-ed and fast forwarded at my whims.  

I don't know any way to be.  As a teacher, there are some things I can't post legally.  I don't complain about my student's parents or kids but my wife knows otherwise.  I don't always use my time wisely and my body is beginning to show the symptoms of my lifestyle.  There was actually a stretch of 3 or 4 days when I didn't post a thing because I knew I had that vitrol that wanted to spew on everyone who would listen.

And that's what free will is all about.  It's a choice.  A choice to live differently.  To make a mark.  To change the channel and edit out the distractions.  So I'm going to continue to edit the problems and own up to my mistakes.  That's my brokenness too, in that I want others to see.  It's a twisted form of fellowship all of us strive for in one way or another.  Mine is just louder than most.