Timothy 6:10 says, "The love of money is the root of all evil." (I've also seen it quoted as "all kinds of evil".) I don't wish to seem so imperious as to think that I can pre-empt the Scriptures, but I'm convinced that the love of money is actually secondary to the real downfall of the human race: sexuality.
I've lived a looong time. I have seen men--and yes, women--risk their happy homes, marriages, children, and careers in pursuit of the feel-good moments of their sexual desires. Everything from extra-marital affairs, pornography, kinky sexual encounters, with many and varied excuses from "I'm a sex addict" to "The devil made me do it". Really?
The truth is that infidelity in marriage is rampant, but we don't hear about the idiotic Joe Schmoes who cheat in life. What makes headlines are the people who put themselves up to the public as model citizens with squeaky clean backgrounds....until they get caught. Anyone who pretends that there are no skeletons in their closets are deluding themselves. Yet, knowing that they have skeletons, they launch into the public eye, anyway! When confronted with the facts, they first deny. Then when denying no longer works, they become humble and beg forgiveness for their "mistakes". Apparently--and I want to emphasize this--not a single one of them ever considered what would happen when the truth came out, as it always does, eventually. Not one ever believed that he/she would get caught. Are we just a stupid species??
I have watched an enormous number of people--politicians, religious moguls, and celebrities alike--fall into public ridicule due to sexual behavior they had been trying to hide. Ha! And the latest victim is one of the Duggars...as in "19 Kids and Counting". The eldest of their brood, Joshua. Understand that the Duggar family's only claim to fame is that they have a reality show on TLC because of the size of their family. They are uber-religiously conservative, and have semi-flaunted that on their show. Josh Duggar was the first to marry. He and his fiancee' decided to save their first kiss for their wedding day and were never unchaperoned during their courtship, just to make sure that purity was preserved. In fact, Josh used the the word "purity" quite a bit during those episodes on the show. Josh married Anna, then they proceeded to "be fruitful and multiply". They have child #4 in the hopper now. I doubt they've been married more than six years.
A couple of years ago, Josh left his hometown environs in Arkansas to move his family to a new job and location in Washington, DC. Nothing was really mentioned on the show about what kind of new job he had accepted. In AK, he ran a used car business. What he did in DC was a bit of a mystery. We watched as the whole Duggar clan moved them to their new home. All was well, or so it seemed.
And now, just a couple of days ago, a tabloid dug up and published some "dirt" about Josh...that back when he was 14 or 15 (sources vary) he was involved in sexually molesting (aggressively fondling the breasts and genitals) of five girls, some of which were his own sisters. No one explains how this was discovered, but the Duggar family's response was to send him off to some kind of work camp thereafter...considered "counseling". When he returned, his father took him to a State Policeman who was a personal friend, and the cop gave him a stern lecture but did not press charges. This was a year or more after the fact. (That particular cop is now in prison, serving 50 years for child pornography.) After the tabloid bust, Josh came out publicly with a confession, resigned his job, and the TLC program that had been a network anchor for years has been yanked from the air.
What job did Josh resign? Turns out, he was working as an executive director for the Family Research Council, which is a religious political lobbying group in support of anti-abortion and anti-gay marriage initiatives. And because it is religious in nature, he really had no other choice...which leads me to wonder why he would have accepted the position in the first place, considering his background. Did he think the truth would not come out?
The statute of limitations has run out on Josh's transgressions. (Good job, Daddy Jim Bob!) But now a young man who needs to support a soon-to-be family of six is out of a job. Personally, I'm not sure how much society should judge the behavior of a kid who was 14/15 when he got stupid, but I'm fairly certain that they will be ruthless because he had set himself up as an example of piety. It embarrasses me as a Christian. I'm sure other Christians will come to his defense--and even fund his life after this embarrassment. It says a lot about who we are as a society. A person who cheats on food stamp programs is considered lower than a Christian who got caught molesting children but repents. I get it. I hate it.
I try not to judge because there are skeletons in my own closet, but I have to tell you that I do get disappointed when I refuse to believe in rumors, only to find that the rumors are true. The Duggars have 19 kids. With those numbers, the odds are that some will be gay, some will have disabilities, and some will have aberrant tendencies. Maybe it really IS time for the program to go away before the truths come out. Some viewers will wring their hands in joy with every grain of dirt that can be dug up, unforgiving and condemning. Others will be happy with every baby that the family births and every crisis they overcome because they are Christian.
Personally, I don't care if they are alien sun-god worshippers. I just think it is time for Christians all over the world to stop putting themselves up as "chosen" and start presenting the reality of why Christ came into the world in the first place. If everyone did what they are supposed to do, there would be no Josh Duggars with public sins. But then, who would we have to talk about? Better him than us, right?
I just want it all to disappear!
Sunday, May 24, 2015
Wednesday, May 20, 2015
Our Genealogy Road Trip
I just returned home from yet another visit at my daughter's in northern Illinois. We packed a lot of activity into the 10-day visit, one of which was a road trip to Amboy, IL, where my father was born and raised, in north central Illinois--a few hours of driving, each way.
I've always been curious about Dad's beginnings because, when I was a child (7? 8? 9?) we had occasion to be in the Amboy area and drove by his old house. It stunned me. Even at that young age, I couldn't believe that my father grew up in that house because it wasn't a house. It was a falling-down raggedy shack! We never talked much about it, for whatever reason. I think I was reticent to bring it up because it was a very humble beginning for a man who had done so much in life. We all knew Dad grew up poor. I guess seeing that old shanty only served to prove to me just how very poor they were!
Over the past couple of years, my daughter (Megan) had done some genealogical digging and came up with an address for the old place. Thus, armed with that and a couple of pictures of the house (taken in June of 1935 when Dad would still have been in high school), four of us departed on a day trip just to see what we could find. (Road trippers were: Megan, me, Denis [my son-in-law] and Luda, Denis's mother.) We started out in rain showers, but then the sun came out and it turned into a lovely day.
We knew from Meg's research on Google Earth that there is a house at 136 West Provost Street. It didn't look at all like the house in the pictures, but we went anyway. I was troubled by the fact that the house in the pictures appeared to be a single story, yet Dad always said that when it was his bedtime, his mother would say, "Time to climb the golden stairs." (In fact, he used the same expression with us at bedtime.) Could the pictures be the actual house we were looking for? The caption below one of the pictures, in my mother's handwriting, said "Floyd's Home, Amboy". But the house on Google Earth was clearly two stories. What would we find at 136 Provost??
We pulled into what would have been a driveway. Meg and Denis went up to knock on the door. No one answered. And then a young lady holding a baby across the street stepped out of her house to say, "No one lives there." But...but...the lawn was mowed. We explained to her who we were and why we were there and asked if she thought the owners would mind if we just walked around outside and took pictures. She assured us that her husband was good friends with the old guy who owned the place and that there would be no problem. We went about the business of comparing the old pictures with the structure in front of us.
At first glance, it didn't look like the same house...but then we began to compare features on the two sides for which we had pictures...and they matched, even allowing for changes that could have been made over the 80 years since the pictures were taken. We had some problems reconciling the second story for part of the house. Upon closer inspection of the pictures, we found that the elevation of the pictures taken hid the roof of the second story. Bingo! We declared that the house in front of us was, indeed, the same house in the pictures--the house built in 1871--the shack in which my father (and so many other children and grandchildren in that family) grew up. Wow!
I wish I could say that the old house had been loved. In fact, it did have a fairly new roof, and part of the front had been sided in white. But the rest of the house was covered in rotting asphalt shingle siding...and the entire place seemed to just be one big storehouse for junk. (I shudder to think how many vermin can get in and out of that place!) The yard is maintained by someone who works at a John Deere dealership in Mendota close by. (And interestingly, one of his co-workers has the same last name as one of my father's sister's husbands.)
The husband of the neighbor lady showed up. He was quite a chatty fellow, and friendly. In all, we probably spent an hour there. I left the property feeling strange...like I'd been to some holy place, made so only because of the fact that my father rose out of that poverty to go on and make a name for himself in college and the military. I wanted to shout to anyone who would listen: MY FATHER PULLED HIMSELF OUT OF THIS MISERY TO BECOME SOMEBODY! I'm not sure anyone would care but family. Still, it mattered to me....and I think it mattered to Megan. I think she has new-found respect for Grandpa Covill.
When we departed the home place, we drove by the old high school where Dad played football. The building was erected in 1922. It is now being used as a middle school, but I am quite happy that it has been well-cared-for and looks great. We also stopped at the Depot Museum in hopes of finding pictures of my grandfather James Covill who worked for the Illinois Central Railroad, to no avail. In any case, it was interesting. Then we moved on for ice cream...a short trip to Streator, IL, to make a cemetery visit where my family is buried...another short trip to look at the farm of my maternal grandparents (sadly not looking good at all)...then home.
When we returned to Lindenhurst, Papa Sergei had supper ready for us. Just what the doctor ordered!!!
I'm so happy we took that trip. I'm not sure why. I just feel that something I thought I knew was validated. And I walked the ground that my daddy walked as a boy, not knowing that life could be any different than the environment in which he grew up. Proved that wrong, didn't you, Dad??!
I've always been curious about Dad's beginnings because, when I was a child (7? 8? 9?) we had occasion to be in the Amboy area and drove by his old house. It stunned me. Even at that young age, I couldn't believe that my father grew up in that house because it wasn't a house. It was a falling-down raggedy shack! We never talked much about it, for whatever reason. I think I was reticent to bring it up because it was a very humble beginning for a man who had done so much in life. We all knew Dad grew up poor. I guess seeing that old shanty only served to prove to me just how very poor they were!
Over the past couple of years, my daughter (Megan) had done some genealogical digging and came up with an address for the old place. Thus, armed with that and a couple of pictures of the house (taken in June of 1935 when Dad would still have been in high school), four of us departed on a day trip just to see what we could find. (Road trippers were: Megan, me, Denis [my son-in-law] and Luda, Denis's mother.) We started out in rain showers, but then the sun came out and it turned into a lovely day.
We knew from Meg's research on Google Earth that there is a house at 136 West Provost Street. It didn't look at all like the house in the pictures, but we went anyway. I was troubled by the fact that the house in the pictures appeared to be a single story, yet Dad always said that when it was his bedtime, his mother would say, "Time to climb the golden stairs." (In fact, he used the same expression with us at bedtime.) Could the pictures be the actual house we were looking for? The caption below one of the pictures, in my mother's handwriting, said "Floyd's Home, Amboy". But the house on Google Earth was clearly two stories. What would we find at 136 Provost??
We pulled into what would have been a driveway. Meg and Denis went up to knock on the door. No one answered. And then a young lady holding a baby across the street stepped out of her house to say, "No one lives there." But...but...the lawn was mowed. We explained to her who we were and why we were there and asked if she thought the owners would mind if we just walked around outside and took pictures. She assured us that her husband was good friends with the old guy who owned the place and that there would be no problem. We went about the business of comparing the old pictures with the structure in front of us.
At first glance, it didn't look like the same house...but then we began to compare features on the two sides for which we had pictures...and they matched, even allowing for changes that could have been made over the 80 years since the pictures were taken. We had some problems reconciling the second story for part of the house. Upon closer inspection of the pictures, we found that the elevation of the pictures taken hid the roof of the second story. Bingo! We declared that the house in front of us was, indeed, the same house in the pictures--the house built in 1871--the shack in which my father (and so many other children and grandchildren in that family) grew up. Wow!
I wish I could say that the old house had been loved. In fact, it did have a fairly new roof, and part of the front had been sided in white. But the rest of the house was covered in rotting asphalt shingle siding...and the entire place seemed to just be one big storehouse for junk. (I shudder to think how many vermin can get in and out of that place!) The yard is maintained by someone who works at a John Deere dealership in Mendota close by. (And interestingly, one of his co-workers has the same last name as one of my father's sister's husbands.)
The husband of the neighbor lady showed up. He was quite a chatty fellow, and friendly. In all, we probably spent an hour there. I left the property feeling strange...like I'd been to some holy place, made so only because of the fact that my father rose out of that poverty to go on and make a name for himself in college and the military. I wanted to shout to anyone who would listen: MY FATHER PULLED HIMSELF OUT OF THIS MISERY TO BECOME SOMEBODY! I'm not sure anyone would care but family. Still, it mattered to me....and I think it mattered to Megan. I think she has new-found respect for Grandpa Covill.
When we departed the home place, we drove by the old high school where Dad played football. The building was erected in 1922. It is now being used as a middle school, but I am quite happy that it has been well-cared-for and looks great. We also stopped at the Depot Museum in hopes of finding pictures of my grandfather James Covill who worked for the Illinois Central Railroad, to no avail. In any case, it was interesting. Then we moved on for ice cream...a short trip to Streator, IL, to make a cemetery visit where my family is buried...another short trip to look at the farm of my maternal grandparents (sadly not looking good at all)...then home.
When we returned to Lindenhurst, Papa Sergei had supper ready for us. Just what the doctor ordered!!!
I'm so happy we took that trip. I'm not sure why. I just feel that something I thought I knew was validated. And I walked the ground that my daddy walked as a boy, not knowing that life could be any different than the environment in which he grew up. Proved that wrong, didn't you, Dad??!
Tuesday, May 5, 2015
My Mom
As Mother's Day approaches, my thoughts go to my mom.
My mother wasn't a sweet-talking touchy-feely kind of woman. We didn't bake brownies together or hug endlessly, yet I always knew that she was behind me all the way. It was the way of the world back then. Children were expected to entertain themselves while the mother kept the home and the father brought home the bacon. I did...and they did. All was right with my world. I'm not pretending that we were an invincible family. Only that everyone knew their role and fulfilled it to the best of their ability.
My mother, like her mother before her, was a practical person. She never broke down in front of us kids. She never gave us a reason to be insecure.
Once, in junior high, I was faced with an assignment to create a to-scale model of a house. I had already seen some of the other kids' submissions and just knew I couldn't do it. At the last minute, I was in despair...giving up...ready to take an F in Unified Arts...but Mom understood that all I really needed was a cheerleader. She stopped everything in her life to be that cheerleader. I got it done by the deadline (barely), and didn't get a desired grade on it...but I didn't care about the grade. I got it done, thanks to Mom who literally just sat there with me while I worked, virtually holding my hand. It was all I needed.
Another time, during the summer between my junior and senior year of college, I was wanting to break up with a fiance' who was choking the life out of me. Mom didn't like the guy but never passed judgment. (I could just tell...as can we all when dealing with our parents.) One evening, I confessed to her that I had doubts. Her comment to me was, "Do you know what you want to do?" Yes...I want to break up. To which she responded, "Then you know what you HAVE to do." And that's all it took to give me the courage to do it!
There were a few times in life when I wanted a softer mother. Basically, if I was throwing up, I was scared and crying. Mom asked me why I was crying. I didn't know! Because I was scared? Scared of what? I was given lots of sympathetic attention but never sympathy for merely crying.
And when I became a mother--because we all eventually become our mothers, don't we?--I behaved as Mom did. I wanted my daughter to be self-confident and independent. I tried to make her strong, but I've often wondered if I missed the mark. I was compensating for her lack of a father. We had many good times and some really devastatingly bad ones. Sometimes, late at night when I should be sleeping, I am thinking about how much I wish I had hugged her more...told her that I loved her more...made her understand how very much she is my life. She is experiencing motherhood problems of her own now, and all I want to do is tell her that she is doing well and that, no matter her "sins", her children will bless her, as I do.
My sister told me recently in a crisis situation that she had missed opportunities to "be there" for her daughters due to many years of keeping her husband happy. I understood. I had also made efforts so that my husband wasn't inconvenienced by our daughter's needs. Wish I had those years to live over again!
Unfortunately, motherhood provides the guilt that, like the Hallmark ad, "keeps on giving". After I became a mother and was complaining to Mom about my lot in life, her response was, "What makes you think that you are any better than the rest of us mothers?"
And so it is. Happy Mother's Day!
My mother wasn't a sweet-talking touchy-feely kind of woman. We didn't bake brownies together or hug endlessly, yet I always knew that she was behind me all the way. It was the way of the world back then. Children were expected to entertain themselves while the mother kept the home and the father brought home the bacon. I did...and they did. All was right with my world. I'm not pretending that we were an invincible family. Only that everyone knew their role and fulfilled it to the best of their ability.
My mother, like her mother before her, was a practical person. She never broke down in front of us kids. She never gave us a reason to be insecure.
Once, in junior high, I was faced with an assignment to create a to-scale model of a house. I had already seen some of the other kids' submissions and just knew I couldn't do it. At the last minute, I was in despair...giving up...ready to take an F in Unified Arts...but Mom understood that all I really needed was a cheerleader. She stopped everything in her life to be that cheerleader. I got it done by the deadline (barely), and didn't get a desired grade on it...but I didn't care about the grade. I got it done, thanks to Mom who literally just sat there with me while I worked, virtually holding my hand. It was all I needed.
Another time, during the summer between my junior and senior year of college, I was wanting to break up with a fiance' who was choking the life out of me. Mom didn't like the guy but never passed judgment. (I could just tell...as can we all when dealing with our parents.) One evening, I confessed to her that I had doubts. Her comment to me was, "Do you know what you want to do?" Yes...I want to break up. To which she responded, "Then you know what you HAVE to do." And that's all it took to give me the courage to do it!
There were a few times in life when I wanted a softer mother. Basically, if I was throwing up, I was scared and crying. Mom asked me why I was crying. I didn't know! Because I was scared? Scared of what? I was given lots of sympathetic attention but never sympathy for merely crying.
And when I became a mother--because we all eventually become our mothers, don't we?--I behaved as Mom did. I wanted my daughter to be self-confident and independent. I tried to make her strong, but I've often wondered if I missed the mark. I was compensating for her lack of a father. We had many good times and some really devastatingly bad ones. Sometimes, late at night when I should be sleeping, I am thinking about how much I wish I had hugged her more...told her that I loved her more...made her understand how very much she is my life. She is experiencing motherhood problems of her own now, and all I want to do is tell her that she is doing well and that, no matter her "sins", her children will bless her, as I do.
My sister told me recently in a crisis situation that she had missed opportunities to "be there" for her daughters due to many years of keeping her husband happy. I understood. I had also made efforts so that my husband wasn't inconvenienced by our daughter's needs. Wish I had those years to live over again!
Unfortunately, motherhood provides the guilt that, like the Hallmark ad, "keeps on giving". After I became a mother and was complaining to Mom about my lot in life, her response was, "What makes you think that you are any better than the rest of us mothers?"
And so it is. Happy Mother's Day!
Monday, May 4, 2015
My Short (But Illustrious) Career in the Theater
My granddaughter (12-year-old 7th-grader) is performing in her very first play next weekend. I'll be going up to see it, of course...but in the process of thinking about her opening night jitters and excitement, memories of my own theatrical "career" come flooding in. Here are some of them. (I will omit things I have written about before.)
In my years as singer/performer, I did one big public solo (and several private ones for weddings and funerals), four musicals, and three plays. Anyone who knows anything about theater understands that there are superstitions...for instance, one never tells a performer "Good Luck"...because that is considered BAD luck. Instead, we wish each other, "Break a leg!" See what I mean?
My first big public solo was at my high school's spring concert my sophomore year. I had to audition for that in a school population of probably 3,400 students, so it was a big deal to get a solo spot. I had to provide my own accompanist (which my voice teacher provided--all we had to do was pay him), and the whole experience went well. I was told that the music director listened to my solo and commented, "Such breath control!" And I was very, very proud. My voice teacher was in the audience. Prior to the performance, she gave me a pin...a clover for luck. Thereafter, I wore it under my costumes. (Superstition!) I think I still have that pin.
Thereafter, I had many performances as a singer and actress. Opening night was always on a Friday after school. I had to be at school early in the evening for make-up, etc., and needed to eat something that would stick with me all night. Before the first performance, Mom offered me a plate of scrambled eggs...and it worked. I never got hungry during the whole long evening, so every performance after that, I ate scrambled eggs as my performance meal. My personal superstition.
Before any entrance on stage for any performance, I would isolate myself. I paced backstage, reviewing my lines and making sure that other people didn't break my concentration. The minute I got onstage, however, I was fine. I was on it, performing as whoever I was at the moment, and happy to be doing what I was doing. Interestingly, I missed one entrance cue because of that. One. I was prepping myself backstage but heard words coming from the other actors on stage that weren't in the script...and I realized that I'd messed up. We covered for it, and I'm not sure that the audience even knew!
At OP-RF HS, there was a sort of tradition that people close to the actors sent Western Union Telegrams to wish us the best. I wanted one of those! I talked about it enough that I think my boyfriend in Wisconsin sent one...or did I imagine that? Does Western Union even do telegrams anymore? It's a different world now.
I would love to share this stuff with Robin, but I'm not totally sure that she has been bitten by the bug yet. If I make a big deal about her play, will she just hear "blah, blah, blah"? She could very well decide not to do another play ever again. And you know what? That will be okay, too. This baby has come a LONG way since six months ago when her whole world changed. But just in case she wants to continue on her own short (but illustrious) career, I want to say:
BREAK A LEG, ROBBIE!
In my years as singer/performer, I did one big public solo (and several private ones for weddings and funerals), four musicals, and three plays. Anyone who knows anything about theater understands that there are superstitions...for instance, one never tells a performer "Good Luck"...because that is considered BAD luck. Instead, we wish each other, "Break a leg!" See what I mean?
My first big public solo was at my high school's spring concert my sophomore year. I had to audition for that in a school population of probably 3,400 students, so it was a big deal to get a solo spot. I had to provide my own accompanist (which my voice teacher provided--all we had to do was pay him), and the whole experience went well. I was told that the music director listened to my solo and commented, "Such breath control!" And I was very, very proud. My voice teacher was in the audience. Prior to the performance, she gave me a pin...a clover for luck. Thereafter, I wore it under my costumes. (Superstition!) I think I still have that pin.
Thereafter, I had many performances as a singer and actress. Opening night was always on a Friday after school. I had to be at school early in the evening for make-up, etc., and needed to eat something that would stick with me all night. Before the first performance, Mom offered me a plate of scrambled eggs...and it worked. I never got hungry during the whole long evening, so every performance after that, I ate scrambled eggs as my performance meal. My personal superstition.
Before any entrance on stage for any performance, I would isolate myself. I paced backstage, reviewing my lines and making sure that other people didn't break my concentration. The minute I got onstage, however, I was fine. I was on it, performing as whoever I was at the moment, and happy to be doing what I was doing. Interestingly, I missed one entrance cue because of that. One. I was prepping myself backstage but heard words coming from the other actors on stage that weren't in the script...and I realized that I'd messed up. We covered for it, and I'm not sure that the audience even knew!
At OP-RF HS, there was a sort of tradition that people close to the actors sent Western Union Telegrams to wish us the best. I wanted one of those! I talked about it enough that I think my boyfriend in Wisconsin sent one...or did I imagine that? Does Western Union even do telegrams anymore? It's a different world now.
I would love to share this stuff with Robin, but I'm not totally sure that she has been bitten by the bug yet. If I make a big deal about her play, will she just hear "blah, blah, blah"? She could very well decide not to do another play ever again. And you know what? That will be okay, too. This baby has come a LONG way since six months ago when her whole world changed. But just in case she wants to continue on her own short (but illustrious) career, I want to say:
BREAK A LEG, ROBBIE!
Saturday, May 2, 2015
To Everything There Is a Season....
I was having a phone conversation with my daughter the other day who was commenting that she was feeling some pressure from family members because they didn't feel that she was handling another family matter in their time and/or in their manner. She wasn't telling me about it for support or even for validation. She was simply thinking out loud, and I happened to be the person on the other end of the phone. Her explanation for the way she is taking care of the problem in question is that she has method to her madness and that she knows what she is doing, considering the circumstances. She is biding her time for the right opportunity. And I agreed with her.
In education, we call that the "teachable moment". That is the time when someone asks a question or makes a comment that is totally off-topic, but the teacher weighs the mood of the kids and the environmental situation to decide to stray from the curriculum long enough to deal with the questions; that maybe what can be learned in this instance could be more valuable than whatever the day's lesson entails because the students are engaged and receptive. And, of course, when the class period is over, the students feel victorious because they think that they distracted the teacher...though even the least-experienced teacher knows exactly what is going on!
I'm one of those people that requires time to think through things before I make major changes in life. Not even major changes, actually. (Sometimes just where to put a certain lamp!) I'm not the kind of person to make a quick decision only to be forced to live with the negative ramifications after. I like to get it right the first time. And this is a hard thing to do! I learned--the hard way, during and after my divorce--that the disconnect between intellect and emotions can be a powerful thing, and that one needs to listen to the brain more than the heart.
In some respects, I got lucky. I made some quick decisions that turned out well...and a couple that were disastrous...but my intuition later in life has turned out to be a better teacher than my emotions and/or intellect were earlier. In that respect, I feel quite wise. Not smart, maybe...but wise.
I'm delighted to report that my daughter is gaining some of that wisdom from experience, but not from me. She's going to be okay. I can die happy.
For those who want to jump in with knee-jerk reactions to things, I advise reading Ecclesiastes 3:
To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:
A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;
A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up;
A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance;
A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;
A time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away;
A time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;
A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace.
I especially like the "time to keep silence, and a time to speak" thing. The teachable moment, biblical style!
In education, we call that the "teachable moment". That is the time when someone asks a question or makes a comment that is totally off-topic, but the teacher weighs the mood of the kids and the environmental situation to decide to stray from the curriculum long enough to deal with the questions; that maybe what can be learned in this instance could be more valuable than whatever the day's lesson entails because the students are engaged and receptive. And, of course, when the class period is over, the students feel victorious because they think that they distracted the teacher...though even the least-experienced teacher knows exactly what is going on!
I'm one of those people that requires time to think through things before I make major changes in life. Not even major changes, actually. (Sometimes just where to put a certain lamp!) I'm not the kind of person to make a quick decision only to be forced to live with the negative ramifications after. I like to get it right the first time. And this is a hard thing to do! I learned--the hard way, during and after my divorce--that the disconnect between intellect and emotions can be a powerful thing, and that one needs to listen to the brain more than the heart.
In some respects, I got lucky. I made some quick decisions that turned out well...and a couple that were disastrous...but my intuition later in life has turned out to be a better teacher than my emotions and/or intellect were earlier. In that respect, I feel quite wise. Not smart, maybe...but wise.
I'm delighted to report that my daughter is gaining some of that wisdom from experience, but not from me. She's going to be okay. I can die happy.
For those who want to jump in with knee-jerk reactions to things, I advise reading Ecclesiastes 3:
To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:
A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;
A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up;
A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance;
A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;
A time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away;
A time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;
A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace.
I especially like the "time to keep silence, and a time to speak" thing. The teachable moment, biblical style!
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