About That Strike

If you don't watch TV, I'm not impressed.

While some people honestly don' t desire to watch TV, other people will tell you with an air of pride that they don't have time for it. It's as if being too busy to watch TV is a prerequisite for being important.

Almost everybody knows about the recent Writer's Guild strike. Maybe you've even seen a picture of Eva Longoria serving the writers pizza (though I'd rather see a celebrity serving food to the hungry). As a result, many people have come out and said that they are glad for the strike because now people will do better things with their time.

Maybe it's just my broadcasting background, but I feel that just because I carve out an hour and a half a week to watch my two favorite television shows doesn't mean I'm wasting my time. And what about when I watch even more TV a week than that? Maybe I actually learn something from my HGTV real estate shows and specials on The History Channel.

Maybe I make time to watch TV because it's something I honestly enjoy. If I'm found shallow for watching a few programs, then oh well. Sure some people really do waste their time by watching numerous hours of television a day, but that doesn't mean that everyone who watches TV is giving in to laziness and gluttony. And maybe there is a lot of trash on TV, but that doesn't mean everyone who catches a show is watching that stuff. Besides, the strike isn't going to end the television viewing of over-zealous TV addicts. They're still going to catch the latest re-run or reality show.

So if you're looking to tell someone that you don't care about the writer's strike because you don't have time to watch TV, please don't brag to me.

Harnett County Thanksgiving

I never thought it could happen to me, and then it did: Thanksgiving in Erwin. Somewhere along the way of the last few years my relatives chose to leave the suburbs of D.C. for the pastures of Harnett County. Now my parents live in Lillington, my grandma in Angier, and my uncle's family in Erwin.

Life doesn't always make sense.

Last Thursday afternoon we pulled into the driveway of a quaint house on a quiet street. Could it be? Could Erwin actually look picturesque?

After dinner a few of us gathered on the front porch, while the rest watched football inside. We talked about my brother's upcoming wedding, the benefits of a simple life, and the way my Grandma can drive us crazy, even though we still love her.

As I gently swayed in my rocking chair, I thought about celebrities gathering around large banquet tables in extravagant houses. I felt like they were missing something.

Mom was right, I wouldn't be happy living in that neighborhood either. It was nice for a day, but the city beckons me come May. But I started to realize that Harnett County is more than tractors tying up traffic and redneck hunters shooting at fake deer. There are some interesting people here, and if I'm smart, I'll learn from them before my days in Harnett County are limited to the short visits home for more of these country holidays.

Christian Circles

I have always been critical of politics in the church. Maybe that's why I laughed when I saw the book, Roberts Rules of Orders for Dummies. There is a part of me that detests the rigid formality that often results in anger and splits. Yet, as I have been studying the Southern Baptist Convention (SBC) and the Baptist State Convention of North Carolina (BSCNC) in divinity school, I cannot help but be involved in church politics.

This weekend I took my youth to Fort Caswell, the BSCNC's retreat center at the beach, for a youth weekend. My cynicism came along too.

After all the judgement, crookedness, and political games in Southern Baptist Life, I found it hard to believe that BSCNC leaders were telling our youth to minister to and love those considered the lowest of the low by the world. It seems Convention leaders can't even love fellow Christians like that.

We preach one thing, and practice another when it comes to political strategies. The BSCNC is alientating itself from groups and schools because of its desire to take over. The BSCNC kicks churches out of its fellowship if there are two or more persons that report that a BSCNC-member church has homosexual members.

Focusing on the latter point, I believe homosexuality is a sin. I also believe stealing people's money is a sin, but Jesus welcomed a tax collector into his group of disciples anyway. This group was comprised of the twelve men Jesus was closest to during his three years of ministry leading up to his death and resurrection. The BSCNC can't even let a homosexual be a member of a church, but Jesus called a tax collector to be one of his closest friends. Both are what many have termed, "lifestyle sins."

Ok, I know, Jesus didn't call Matthew to continue in his dishonesty. My point is, he called him to be a disciple, a "member" of his closest group, while Matthew was still a tax collector. As Matthew was a part of this group, he learned how to be more like Jesus.

So why can't we follow the example of Jesus? Why can't homosexual Christians join the church as they are and become more like Jesus, just as the rest of us are striving to do? Some claim that homosexuality isn't a sin, but I believe it is, even if those struggling with that sin don't name it as such. Even so, I believe a homosexual can be a Christian because I believe we still struggle with sin after giving our lives to Christ. So why regulate what sins church members may and may not struggle with? Jesus clearly did not give us that example.

Romans 5:8 says, "But God demonstrates his own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us." (NIV) Christ died for us while we were still sinners, so why can't we accept Christians into our church who are still struggling with sin? Aren't all of us struggling with sin anyway?

But then I discovered my own hypocrisy. In all my finger pointing at the convention, I am failing to heed the second greatest commandment: love others as I love myself. No, I don't agree with all the theology and tactics of the SBC and BSCNC, but to view them as enemies is clearly not biblical either. There are names that come to mind of people whom I get angry with. These very people are still my brothers in Christ. All the theological viewpoints in the world couldn't change that fact.

I think there are still some great members of the Convention and I think there are great leaders at Caswell. If my kids are growing in Christ as a result of the work of the BSCNC, I'd be an idiot to keep them from it.

So my question now is, what are those of us who are moderate Baptists doing to love our fundamentalist brothers and sisters? Because if all we do is point fingers and judge them, we're kicking Christians out of our circles too.

The Crab Feast

I have realized the Maryland equivalent of a pig pickin': the crab feast.

Behold the little wooden mallets we use to crack open the crab shell. After a successful entry, we begin to pick apart the body for meat, being sure to avoid the parts that will make us sick. We eagerly eat the tiny pieces of meat that are the rewards of our work.

We dissect our food to eat it. This is not much better than the southern-style pig pickin' (note: I have learned it is not a "pig picking").

I have composed a haiku:

Small, wooden mallet,
Help me dissect this large crab.
Is the work worth it?

Krasinski, is it?

In my writing class we have been assigned to write our obituaries. I figured it would be as if we died now and we would have to sum up our real lives.

But no.

We can make up our lives and die when we're old. We could say we'd achieved all our goals.

That led me to a fantastic conclusion: I can pick my spouse!

In my obituary I will die as Rebecca Lee Krasinski, wife of actor John Krasinski, who plays Jim on "The Office."

I called my friend Mark to tell him this exciting news. He thought that last name sounded like the Unabomber.

That's no good.

So he looked it up. He said, "John's last name is Krasisnki, the Unabomber's last name is Kaczynski." Sound alike, huh?

I just found it hilarious that we had to differentiate between my "husband" and the Unabomber.

I Understand Some Things....

....but some things I don't.

For instance, I don't understand why 75% of the time I drink coffee, it slips out of the cup and onto my shirt. I don't understand why, in an age of increased safety measures such as bicycle helmets and car seats until a child is almost fully grown, there is a general acceptance of tennis shoes with wheels on them. I don't understand why I didn't stick to a simple topic, like my classmates, who chose things such as dress codes and local school issues, for my Ministry of Writing opinon paper, but instead thought it was a good idea to tackle government-funded HMOs.

But I do understand that I know some pretty cool people.

In the past month I have been up to Altoona, PA twice. While the circumstances weren't ideal, I did get a chance to meet some very cool family members (or re-meet since I apparently met most of them before my ability to form memories became a regular facet in my brain).

What is my dad's cousin's relationship to me? Is she my second cousin? Is she my great cousin? Is she my cousin twice removed with a tulip garden? Well, anyway, her name is Sharon, and regardless of what exact relation she is to me, she is rather spectacular.

I have heard about her for years, but I had never met her. I finally did, and she's hilarious! She also understands my passion for urban ministry and took me on a short walk around the block of her church's neighborhood during the dinner after my grandma's funeral. She could have been doing a million things, but she took time out to do that for me. She really took care of my grandma and has helped my family out in so many ways. Maybe one day I'll just show up on her doorstep for a visit.

Then there's another of my dad's cousins, Tim, and his wife Jenny. They do mission work in the Dominican Republic and they live just a couple of hours outside of Chicago! I can hardly beleive these amazing people were just a train ride away all last semester and I didn't even know it!

I re-met a lot of people who loved my grandma. Usually they would say, "You must be Bill's kids" because I was standing by my brother and he "looks just like [my] dad!" One lady tried to explain her relation to me by saying how she was related to someone else, but I didn't know who that someone else was, so I just smiled and received a hug.

So many people told me that they read my stories and poems. I was very suprised at this and tried to think about what they possibly could have read, because I want to read it too! Apparently my grandma had a plethora of my writing endeavors from over the years and gladly shared them.

When Sharon spoke at the funeral, she told all the grandchildren how proud Grandma had been of us. I really didn't know Grandma was that proud of us, but now I do. Sharon might have thought she was reminding us of something we already knew, but I discovered in a bright, new light more of how pround of all of us Grandma really was.

I'm really rather blessed to have such a great family. My dad has about a bazillion cousins (Grandma had 9 others brothers and sisters who had kids) and I couldn't list them all if I tried. Yet, it was rather neat to re-meet all these people who remembered me, even if I felt like I was seeing them for the first time. Plus I got to meet a good childhood friend of my dad's who helped my father coerce their children's Sunday School class into continually electing them as President and Vice-President, and letting any challengers "know how it was" in that class.

I got to see a family tree from Grandma's side of the family. Her parents were both born in 1882, so I was born 100 years- to the year- after my great-grandparents. You know what else? My grandma once told me her grandfather had been in the ministry. So I am going into the same vocation as my great, great grandpa.

I have long since been interested in my family history, now I really want to explore it. Maybe one of my ancestors buried a trunk with an obsene amount of money, even by today's standards, as a type of fund for their, great, great, great, great grandaughter to pay off her college loans. Yea, and maybe I'm related to the queen of England.

Details Please

I don't think of myself as poor, but when I can't afford the advertised price of a chicken biscuit combo at Bojangles, it sure seems that way.

The Bojangles in Lillington, NC usually lists prices for special meals on it's marquee sign. Right now a chicken fillet combo is $429. Last week I saw a meal deal that was $1599.

I don't know about you, but I can't afford that.

Or maybe they just can't afford decimals.

I've Heard Rules About No Shoes and No Shirt.....But No Pants?

I planned on blogging about other things, but I know a good blog story when I see one.

I gave my house key to a friend to watch the dogs while my family was away. I got the key back, but failed to put it on my keyring. I got home tonight about midnight. The front door was locked.

No problem. This had happened before. I went around to the side and dropped my things, including my laptop (which I tried super hard to lower to the ground as far as could be), over the fence. Then I started to climb.

I was wearing gaucho pants. For many who have seen "Never Been Kissed," you probably know that gaucho pants are very wide-legged pants that are almost like a skirt. Their particular fabric makes them very flowy.

Gaucho pants do not make good climbing pants. I got one leg over the fence and had a hard time getting the rest of the way over. But I had done this before. So I tried a new tactic. I kicked off my flip flops so my feet could more easily fit into the holes on the chainlink fence.

That was a bad idea. While my feet fit in more easily, I could not get a good grip. The fence would get me between the toes and it just plain hurt doing it that way. I decided to abandon my fence climb, but upon getting down I realized my gaucho pants were stuck in about two or three places.

So there I was, my body bent over the top of the fence. I was stuck. I pulled and maneuvered my pants off the chain link structure and got down. But I was still outside the fence. I got an idea. If I took my pants off they couldn't get stuck. Now, as a 10-year-old I was the only one I know of in my gym class who refused to do summersaults for fear of breaking my neck. Trust me, climbing this fence brought similar concerns. Yes, I pray when I climb fences, which is not often. All that to say, I could just imagine my family finding me the next morning in my underwear, wondering how on earth it all happened.

But still, I wanted to get inside. I went to the front door and rang the doorbell many times. No answer. Calling on my cellphone was a good idea. Too bad I locked it in my car and had dropped my keys over the fence with my things. We have no neighbor on one side of our house, so I did what any Frederick might do. I went around the house and took off my pants.

In the light of the moon I attempted to climb the fence in my underwear. I knew better than to drop my pants on the other side of the fence, so I held onto them with a firm bite. It didn't work. I had one flip flop that I had dropped outside the fence, but the climb hurt my other bare foot so much. So I put my pants back on and rang the doorbell more. No answer. I began to think my parents were trying to teach me a lesson.

Fine, I would try again. I had bent the fence on my first climbing attempt of the night(Heh...heh....dad, think of it as a memory maker), but I wanted to get in and if they weren't gonna answer the door I needed to find a way.

I went back to the side of the house and took my pants off again. By the light of the moon I again attempted to climb the fence in my underwear. I tried putting the flip flop on the wrong foot, because that was the one that took the most force when I tried to get the rest of my body over the fence. I couldn't do it, my bare foot hurt too bad.

I put my pants back on and weighed my options. I could put the flip flop on my right foot, get my leg over and transfer the shoe to my left. Or I could ring the doorbell. I opted for the latter. But as I was walking back to the front door I decided I should just knock on the bathroom window. I did, it set the dogs off, and got my mom to the front door.

"Sorry." I told my mom and slipped inside.

And that, my friends, is the story of the first time I took my pants off and tried to climb a fence.

Watch Out For That Grill

"Dad, I can't do it."

"Yes you can. Use your mirrors."

When learning to drive, my dad taught me to back up the car by backing up into camping spaces. I usually had to try multiple times to get in straight and looking back, I'm pretty sure no one else's dad took his child to the woods to learn to drive.

As I whipped out of my driveway in reverse the other day, I thought that maybe, just maybe dad's campground driver's ed was useful.

Oh the simplicity of back roads, a state park, and dad in the passenger's seat.

Hand in the Toy Machine and Other News of the Weird

You know those game machines that have the claw and you have to try and grab a stuffed animal after putting in your quarters? I know those very well. I got stuck in one.

It was at a mom and pop ice cream shop around the time I was 5. I wasn't going to steal, I was just curious if I could touch a toy, were I to shove my arm up through the little trap door.

Problem was, my arm didn't come back out. It wasn't until rescue personel came to help that I was free from that rather odd encounter.

Fast forward a bit. I went on an overnight field trip with my fifth grade class. I woke up with a blurry spot in my eye. Twas a tick, right where you might put some eyeliner. I still think I am missing an eyelash from where they had to lay me on the table and pull it off me.

Fast forward a little more. My brother was on a community baseball team and I loved to read. "Heads up!" They called and everyone cleared the bench. My nose in a book, I just slid over a couple feet. The ball landed right on my head.

At the emergency room the doctor asked me to count backwards from 100 to 1 by 7's. I got to 93 and was stumped.

If you want to fast forward even farther you can check out my very first blog site at http://rebeccalee782.livejournal.com/ and read about why the whole cast of Whinnie the Pooh has a mental condition or how I saw what could easily be explained as a possible pigeon murder. There are also entries about my travels around the country, but for a lot of them you have to go pretty far back.

I refuse to be dull.