Why I Admire Amelia Earhart

 It's not the flying, though we wouldn't have ever known her if she had never flown.  And it's certainly not the fact that the media/government needed to promote her as a ray of hope during the Great Depression.   What struck me, and still does, about the story of Amelia Earhart was her determination to hold on to some sense of self through the journey.  She knew her love of flying was her own.  Even though her husband, and the government, and the world at large clung to her as a beacon of light in darkness, as some extension of their own desire to soar; she had the strength to focus on the thin line that separated her own fragile veins from theirs, and held on to the mystery of her own evolving identity. This is what separates heroes from the famous.

Laughing in Church

I always struggle with my faith.  What is really difficult for me to accept is that, even if churches emphasize the grace of God, everyone is still paying close attention to what you do and how you live.  There remains so much that is FORBIDDEN in the House of God. 

Every Wednesday, my mother's church still has Prayer Meeting, a custom that most churches have abandoned now, I think.  Nevertheless, about 75 or 100 people gather in the Fellowship Hall of Westminster Presbyterian to partake of a buffet dinner (typically spaghetti, or roast beef, or chicken pot pie) and receive the Word of God. 

I like the idea of receiving a meal at church.  It isn't until we get our physical needs met that we can attend to our spiritual needs.  Besides, there was so much eating in the Bible.  This evening, after finishing my salad and a plate of spaghetti and bread, followed by a lemon torte for dessert, I felt quite satisfied.  Warm.  Happy.  Ready to receive.

As the Assistant Pastor, Joel, took prayer requests, I noticed that he didn't really look very well, and decided to whisper this to my mother.  I turned to my right, where she sat next to me.  "Joel doesn't look like he feels very well," I whispered.  "What?" she replied.  "I said, Joel doesn't look like he feels very well," I repeated.  The look on my mother's face plainly stated that she had still failed to hear me.  Her lips were pursed.  Eyes piercing, searching.  But she knew it was no use repeating herself.  And I knew there was no sense in me repeating myself either.  I envisioned raising my voice to a normal, audible level.  And that's when I started laughing.  At first, it was just a snicker, but then it ballooned into a full fledged laugh, and it felt so great - to just laugh because something was funny.  It's so rare for me.  I always take life way too seriously. 

But, naturally, since we were in church, the reaction everyone else had was a bit punitive in tone; a bit dismissive of my behavior; a bit like a slap on the hand not only for me, but for themselves.  Because they
couldn't give themselves permission to laugh in church, they couldn't give me permission either.

Is this the grace of God poured out on us?  When we can't even laugh in church?  If there is any place on this Earth where laughing should be not only permitted, but encouraged, it is in church with fellow believers.  And I don't mean cynical laughter - laughter that goes out of its way to acknowledge the darkness.  I'm talking about laughter that comes from noticing your humanity in relation to others and embracing it.

The Train and the River

On the train yesterday a young girl, maybe 12, stood at the front and held tight to the silver pole with her left hand.  On her right arm she wore a cast colored with red and blue magic marker to look like the American flag.  She focused on keeping her balance.  A few feet away from her, everyone else in the car was seated.  Watching her.  Reading.  Sleeping.  Staring out the window.

Her two younger brothers sitting in the front row seats were dressed alike in plaid shorts and striped shirts. Off to the zoo.  The younger one flirted with me while sitting on his father's lap. Looked at me seductively. Dismissed their parental comments. He must've been 3 or so. Funny.

There is something about the train that is like the river. It delivers. It is generated from a source. It can rescue but will not hesitate to annhilate. Its final destination may be indifferent to the individual. It brings out the best, and worst, in people.

Today, on the train, a young kid offered me his seat. He was wearing a Redskins jersey and khaki shorts with his hair cut short. "Normal". I'd been careening my head around to see if there was an open seat and had found none. Then he sprung off the gold vinyl bench and told me I could sit down because he felt like standing. He must've been 16 or 17. Eighteen at the most.

I sat down and immediately started crying. Chivalry is not dead, even in the young.

A couple of minutes later I listened while two teenage girls (one of them wearing a flowing blue dress with black palm trees on it) studied for a vocabulary quiz. They were discussing the difference between "empathy" and "apathy".

It was only recently I realized that copperhead snakes swim in the Nolichucky River in East Tennessee, my home.

Even though I grew up not far from its winding, omnipotent current, I didn't want to admit that, like me, copperheads need to cool off now and then.

After years of basking in the sun and swimming in the river, I finally saw a copperhead last summer. It was coiled on the sandy beach like a useless, rusty hose suddenly sprung to life; its small head greeting the air, kissing it. My friend Debby asked me to hold onto her dog, Sammy.  "It's a copperhead,"  she said.

I don't remember what happened next except that, now, I live in Washington, DC.