What parents say

I was in the car with my parents last night, following my daughter K. I was sitting in the front seat with Mom driving, Dad's sitting in the back. Dad's hard of hearing and won't wear his hearing aid because he doesn't like the buzzing noise. So instead, he deals with people shouting to him.

Mom says to me, "Your daughters are precious jewels."
I reply, "Thanks, Mom."
Mom raises her voice to Dad in the back seat, "Did you hear that? I called M and K precious jewels."
Dad says, "WHAT?"
Mom shouts, "PRECIOUS JEWELS!"
Dad replies, "A precious jewel?"
Mom says, "OUR GRANDDAUGHTERS ARE!"
Dad says, "Oh, I thought you were going to buy jewelry. From TV. You know, like QVC." He turns to me, "You know, your mom buys all that stuff."

Oh goodness.

I hate being sick

Sometimes I feel like everything about being sick is abhorrent. I was diagnosed with walking pneumonia this weekend. Had two visits to the ER, one visit to urgent care, and about 100 texts/calls from my doctor sisters.

I could post about how this is the result of the fall, that being sick is not the way it should be and that's why we hate it, and my thoughts on the fact that God doesn't make us sick to keep us in line, as a punishment for something. I believe in all of that but I'm not going to write about it.

Instead, I'm going to complain.

1. I hate going to the dr's office and describing over and over your symptoms to each nurse and the doctor. Then you realize the person you just told your story to most likely only listened to (or understood) maybe half of it.
2. I hate taking medicine. Chewables? Gross, I may as well be eating stomach intestines.
3. I hate feeling like I want to (or need to) stay in one spot during the day.
4. I hate feeling weak like I need to be cared for.
5. I hate being behind on work or things I need to get done.
6. I hate the expenses that come from dr's visits and prescribed medicines.
7. I hate missing things, like your daughter speaking at church or your daughter playing volleyball. So I go anyway.

Okay, now the flip side.

1. I appreciate seeing everyone's concern...texts, calls, so many people care!
2. You're bringing me dinner? I didn't ask for it? Heck yeah!
3. Both of my daughters are super-nice to me, even more than normal.
4. Seeing my sisters get into medical mode as they help me just impresses upon me how professional and smart they really are.
5. I am not sick enough that I can't read. So I'm catching up on some reading.
6. I am watching season 4 of the Good Wife, which I didn't even realize was available!
7. Having time on Mondays to catch up with church business.
8. Mom and Dad came to visit and Mom made Indian food. Pretty cool.
9. Getting time to write on this blog during the daytime.
10. Maybe I need to realize that it's okay to not be so independent and be cared for.
11. License to take naps and not feel guilty. Enough said.

Phew. I had to get that off my chest. Which is still a little weak. Cough, cough.

This is How God Works

I had one of those moments of utter clarity and happiness this week.

My daughters were with me, and I made them a nice dinner of Salisbury Steaks and potatoes with a Caprese salad on the side. Most of the time, K and I have started eating in the den, relaxed, just watching TV. Not sure why, we just do. When M comes over, we actually eat in the dining room and talk.

That night at the dinner table, we discussed school, volleyball, and work. We talked about M's job and how she actually liked working in IT. We discussed K and how she did at the volleyball tournament. Then M said, "Mom, remember when we were younger, and I would tell you something, like a problem? And you always would bring in God to the discussion? I used to hate it when you did that!"

I laughed. "I DID do that, I know you got annoyed!"

M continued, "Now, I'm so glad you did that. I really am, Mom."

WHAT?! She was saying she was glad that I brought up God when she talked about dealing with life?

I couldn't believe it. I have been pondering that this week. Me? Raised in a non-Christian home, having had no Christian training on raising children other than reading Focus on the Family books and a book on discipline by Lisa Whelchel. Yes, I did that. I remember playing a few games that Focus on the Family cooked up...teaching about prizing your body and the "present" that M could offer one day. We played a game where she fell backwards in my arms to teach her about trusting, and who to trust. I doubt M remembers any of that. She does remember doing nightly devotionals and prayers. We did that for a couple of years. She told me last year she never really listened to any of it, and would just get mad because she just wanted to go to bed. K remembers that too. What I did with K was go through the first 15 questions of the kids' catechism while she was taking a bath at the age of 5. I'm not sure if she remembers any of that. Probably should have gone through all of the questions. Apparently, what really took was the fact that when we were discussing the craziness of life when they were teenagers, I brought the subject back to God.

Here's the thing: do you see the complete incongruity in me doing any of this? I declared myself a believer at 27, got divorced at 30, sent the kids through public schools, watched all manner of crazy TV and listened to all kinds of secular music. That is how I know God did the work. It wasn't me. It was God giving me the words, using me as a vessel, helping my children see Him all the more.

"Train up a child in the way he should go; even when he is old he will not depart from it." Proverbs 22:6. Apparently this is true even though you may not have been trained yourself.

M telling me that she was glad at what God did was such a huge blessing. Thanks, God.

My heritage: why it kind of doesn't matter and why it does

The Target parking lot is the most unlikely of places to have a life-questioning moment. Yet that's what happened last week.

I was happily walking towards the store, ready to get some cold medicine and chicken soup for my ailing daughter, when I caught the eye of a woman. An Indian woman. She smiled and stared at me.

"Hi! Are you Indian?"
"Yes," I replied.
"Where are you from?" she asked. Immediately, I knew she didn't mean, which neighborhood do you live in, here in Tuscaloosa.
"My parents are from Madras. I mean, Chennai." My usual standard response. The underlying meaning is, I'm not really from India, my parents are.
"Really? I'm Usha."
"Hi, I'm Prathima."
"How long have you lived here?" She was genuinely nice, though inquisitive. Not a surprise.
"Twenty years," I replied.
"Twenty years? I have never seen you at an Indian function." She was taken aback. I had never been to a function. That is what Indians call the parties. FUNCTIONS. Oh no, here we go. I started getting flustered. Should I tell her I went to a cultural event at the University about five years ago and watched some Indians dance? Nope, too far-reaching.
"Well, I'm a little anti-social." Did I really just say that? What words are coming out of my mouth?
"What do you do?" She didn't get that there was a real live woman of Indian descent that lived here in town without going to an Indian function.
"I'm a software developer. For a company downtown." Again, my usual standard non-answer.
"Are you Tamil?" She asked. Another form of categorizing the billion plus Indian people that are currently alive. Dialect.
"Yes." Oops. Wrong answer. I was a little out of my head. "I mean no, I'm Telegu."
"There are lots of Telegu people in town! And you don't go to the functions?" She asked, pleasantly.
I gave up. "I don't really speak the language. I can barely understand my parents when I go visit them." Again, what am I saying? "It was nice to meet you! I will try to find a function!" Empty promises.

Literally, I was confused for about an hour after I talked to her. Why don't I go to functions? I feel mostly comfortable at functions with my sisters and my parents. When I hear Telegu, I listen in closely and feel like it's home. I smile and nod, like I understand all of the specific terms. It's amazing how much you can infer from context. I do struggle with some social mores, because as a divorced woman, I don't know how that might be received. I feel like I should wear a scarlet letter "D" sometimes when I'm talking to Indians.

So here's the truth. My culture is a part of me. Even if I can't make a proper Indian meal easily, even though I need a translator to tell my grandmother what I'm saying, even though I don't wear saris every day, I am Indian. I have the blood, I have the clothes, and I get the culture. I know Indian parents are overbearing, I know that there are places in India that have latrines in the ground, I know that cows roam the streets and everyone's fine with it, I even remember what it's like to ride in a rickshaw.

But...I'm also full-blooded Southern American. I get the accent, I know that the south tends to be slower, heavier, but there are some really healthy people and also some fast-paced businesses here. We love football. We love meat-and-threes. We love the heritage, we love tailgating, we love hunting, we love down-home country people, we are also really smart, and we appreciate great music. I can go on.

I think that I represent what's great about this country. I'm part of the great American melting pot. Sort of part of this country, yet part of another. And it makes me who I am. And it led me, oddly enough, to be adopted into the best family I could ever be a part of: Jesus' family. Sometimes I feel like a woman without a country, but the truth is that I'm part of several countries and that makes me magnificently blessed.

Even if I haven't been to an Indian function in Tuscaloosa.