Do What You Want, Man {Ranger Love}

In honor of Game 7 tonight, I felt like I should share a little Texas Ranger love.

Also I felt like I should quit blowing up twitter with all this nonsense.

Their camaraderie is the cherry on top of my baseball sundae.

(And the company with whom I take in a game is the cherry on top of that.)

(But 'cept for I'm gonna need to come up with a better analogy, because I don't like cherries that much. Like, at all).

And now some random pictures for your viewing pleasure:

(how'd this get in here?! ... fine, okay, they're a cute family and I know I don't have a chance. But still, gotta love a good family man)

(oh, this last one is for Emily)

Nothing like some good 'ole baseball bromance.

Time to get out there and do what you want, men.

We'll be willin' it to ya.

Bubble.

10 years ago I was an admittedly awkward but mostly carefree 7th grader.

My grades weren't fantastic, they weren't the worst.

I had a solid group of lunch friends, but few "spend-the-night" friends. I told my parents this didn't bother me because I enjoyed whatever time I got to spend with those friends and I didn't mind the occasional loneliness.

My biggest concern going into September 2001 was having just learned that my best friend-- the last of the "spend-the-night" ones-- was moving to Texas.

She and I had been in a season-- the typical one that elementary best friends go through as each meanders into adolescence-- where we kind of just needed a little space from each other. There was no ill will involved in this needed amount of distance, only a gradual realization that neither of us knew how to avoid or handle-- we were completely different. Even as we took breaks from seeing each other or used greater care with the depth of information shared, we knew we both cared deeply about each other and would emerge good, if not as similar as we thought, friends.

So on September 11, 2001, I was feeling guilty. Guilty that I'd been feeling the need for some time away from Allie and the insecurities she brought out in me and guilty that my conviction was being realized in such a huge, permanent way.

You know, they say be careful what you wish for.

I went from one moment just needing a little time, to the next moment trying to correct God-- "no not that much! I love her, she's my best friend!" I felt guilty because I at least got to keep my lunch friends and she was distraught over having to start completely over.

Her dad as the pastor of our nest egg of a church was all I'd really ever known. Her mom was my mom's best friend, and so my mom grieved. I'd grown increasingly close to her little sister, and was losing 2 friends, really.

On the morning of September 11th, I remember turning on the t.v. for the local news, per my usual morning routine, at 6:45 and getting lost in thoughts regarding my own personal bursted bubble. That was the last hour that burden would be defined as losing my 12 year old best friend to Texas.

The shrill hollers of Allie's mom running through our front door at about 8 a.m. were my first indication that I didn't know how heavy burden could be, nor did I know the true weight of grief.

Matt Lauer stood amongst some ancient ruins in some far off place when I heard someone come on and say that a plane hit the World Trade Center. In my naivety, believing that whatever was being said pertained to what I was seeing on the screen, my first thought was "well this place has been destroyed for years, anyway."

That's when Mrs. Alta Lynn came in screaming for everyone to gather around the t.v. I'd gone to complete the final steps of my morning routine once I gave up trying to figure out why I heard distressed broadcasts while Matt Lauer stood in a peaceful field somewhere. By the time I responded to Mrs. Alta Lynn's calls, they'd gotten live footage of the towers. I said out loud "Oh... that's the World Trade Center. What does it do?" The question lingered, void of answer.

We watched the second plane hit the south tower and the realization of terrorism strike Americans.

Suddenly, so much more was at stake than my own bubble.

I mourned as deeply as possible when you're thousands of miles away, sitting behind a screen and in the 7th grade. I was at a pretty impressionable age, and my worldview absolutely changed that day

I didn't have a new personal burden or profound grief beyond that with which I struggled while B.J., Robyn and Tom read off the school lunch menus before 7 a.m. on September 11. But I did realize how shallow that grief was in the scheme of things.

I certainly could not comprehend the depth of sadness, the devastating effect of trauma, the courage involved in placing one's self in harms way for others. But that day, I found out how much of that stuff-- sadness, devastation, trauma, courage-- is out there, how deep and heavy it can be.

10 years later and it still amazes me that people are willing to make those things a part of their daily lives. That people make livings out of encountering sorrow and bad guys and danger, in order that 12 year olds might have normal lives, with normal bubbles to be popped in normal ways.

So that 22 year olds and 42 year olds and 82 year olds can go to church and watch baseball and keep each other company at lunch and on couches, these people acquaint themselves with danger and pain.

They step outside of their own safety bubbles so we can keep ours.

That dedication, that service, that selflessness, that bravery--the entire response to 9-11 and the continued service of thousands of first responders-- makes me appreciate this bubble of life I've got and challenges me to make good use of it.

It's been bought with a price, after all.

(p.s.-- Allie, if you're reading, I love you.)

and because nothing says "I love you" like a Celine Dion video...

Two September Tuesdays

Well, the 9-11 10th Anniversary is less than one week away, and it's been on my mind a lot.

There was the shocking footage, the unfathomable chaos, and devastating stories. There weren't words adequate to describe America in those days, and the struggle for every individual American to decide what he or she felt towards that day in September was, for a time, a comforting commonality sweeping across the nation.

Like Diana's death, that day caught my young mind completely off guard (the nature of the event itself, of course, being unlike Diana's death in the scope of destruction). My historical curiosity piqued. Then a 7th grader, it was an exercise in removing myself from my own situation and learning the hurts, pains, hearts of other people. I wasn't simply removing myself from my own circumstance to attempt to fathom others' life at the time-- for the first time, I detached myself from the time period, as well. Many others did this, too, by considering what they would tell a future generation, making a point to remember details for posterity's sake. The absence of adequate words in the moment drew the attention of thousands to the future, when perhaps distance and time would afford us the perspective and absolution we desperately wished for as immediately as the first plane hit.

This mental distance from my own time and space offered the first real invitation I responded to with any amount of fervor to assess my life more objectively.

Enter Lisa Beamer.

The mention of her name elicits eye rolls from my family and friends because, it's true, I dove into learning her story and testimony in the year following 9-11. A lot of other people I don't know roll their eyes at the mention of her name for a completely different reason, believing hers to be a story of conservative propaganda, of taking advantage of an opportunity to profit from tragedy, of stealing the spotlight.

These accusations prompted Lisa to step out of the public eye once she'd gotten her story out there. For one, she had children to mother and a life with which to move forward. But also, she felt from the very start that she would only ever have but a moment in the scheme of things to speak up, believing God journeyed with her up until September 10th for such a time as September 11th. That time would inevitably pass, and her sensitivity to letting the Lord decide when to pull the plug kept her from being swallowed by the media attention or feeling compelled to give explanation for her life choices for years following her husbands death.

She never defended herself against personal attacks, because she was secure enough in knowing her heart, her intentions and her God.

She was an ordinary 32-year-old woman through which God had something to teach an ordinary 12-year-old girl.

Could he have chosen a different route for delivering the message? Sure. Lisa Beamer is no saint and, quite contrary to the belief of the eye-rolling folks who lived life around that 12 year old, I do not worship her.

There is an amount of patriotism that did get projected onto Todd and Lisa's story, which by consequence of my deep interest in her message, became a part of my persona. But truthfully, I didn't have a total devotion to all things America, or a love inherent for all things American. I had desperately begun an inquiry into what it meant to be American, and what it was about America that made it so.

More importantly, I began wondering what it truly meant to be in relationship with Christ. (And that quest will always be paramount to my interest in and love for America). In the aftermath of a day as humanizing, equalizing in terms of pointing to human fragility, what difference did it make to be Christian? We were all hurting, struggling, coming up with ways to emerge as unscathed as possible, and Christianity felt like just one of many ways that people were coping. What made it the best route? Why did I choose it for myself?

Across the country in a suburban home, a pregnant, grieving widow wrestled the same questions. No, her answers were not perfect, but she had the courage to deliver them as honestly as she knew how when the questions I posed privately to myself were asked of her very publicly by famous interviewers.

Her battle in the days following the attacks boiled down to one question-- do I believe God, or don't I?

As I began watching the specials on 9-11, I felt transported back to the time I stepped back from my own little life to answer that "simple" question, in light of recently learning how disappointing life could truly be. I looked on that time with great sentiment, like "oh yes, those were good months when my faith began becoming my own. It sure was good that Lisa spoke up back then."

I thought to do a simple google search to see if she, in all the 10 year anniversary hype, had any recent news coverage. I really had low hopes, as she's been retired from any public role for 8 years now.

Turns out, though, she felt compelled to speak to the Class of 2011. (read: me)

She felt compelled to speak in terms of the Rich Young Ruler.

10 years later, she still feels compelled to speak to dreamers who feel boxed in by ordinary.

And once again, God used Lisa Beamer to get a message across: He sees me. He knows my questions. He's not a God of good feeling sentiments. On the other end of the spectrum, He's not a God of rules and regulations.

The opportunities I yearn for, in which the contentedness and trust I currently hold will be tested, that I could know God as tried and true (that I could know my faith as better tried and true), will come.

At times I, paradoxically, fear those same opportunities.

And so the yearning (and simultaneous fear) are themselves a test to my contentedness and trust. He's being faithful, you see, while I'm waiting for Him to be faithful.

The thing about birthdays is that I really don't need the party. I mean, I love a good celebration and all, but a party about me gets stressful because I worry that everyone is having a good time. Usually I find that amount of worry worth it because most parties are about celebrating another person's life or a season in life and I enjoy doing what I can to urge people to enjoy those things. But it's awkward to have a party where I feel I should be encouraging people to enjoy me.

It's tricky though, because I like having a party. As in "Cooper, party of 15, your table is ready." I like having people together, sharing with each other. I like people feeling like they're in the company of truly listening ears. I like being that ear for people and I like having those ears.

I like words of affirmation. It's not about compliments. It's nice to hear "good job" once in a while. I used to think admitting that was selfish or needy attention-seeking. But hiding it is worse: it's pride, masked with false humility. So yes, I enjoy birthday gatherings with my family and friends where I am graciously reminded that I'm not failing at life. And then they are kind enough to offer examples of what they see me doing well.

Not because I don't have faults, but because once in a while a person needs to feel known.

Flaws in my life are glaringly obvious to me. As hard as they are to accept about ones self, I continue to ask the Lord to reveal my weaknesses, to provide wisdom enough to see those weaknesses in light of the strength of His redemption, and to bind myself with people who, though also flawed, can help balance it.

It is a lesson in grace to listen as people choose to affirm you when you know full well they've had plenty of experience with your faults.

Birthdays are for cherishing. And while the cherishing is in many ways undeserved, people still insist on taking at least one day to say your life means something.

I've had birthdays feeling so celebrated by people but still wondering if God saw. And if He saw me, what did He see? Could He, too, be so gracious as to affirm when He knows my faults best of all?

On this birthday, I understand just a little better.

It's not that He, in addition to the people on the facebook wall or stopping to chat at church or leaving me phone messages or sitting around the dinner table or cozied up on the couch at 3:30 a.m. could be so gracious.

It's that He especially is so gracious.

It's that He, even in the absence of those people's daily presence or encouragement, is so gracious.

It's that I can either believe He sees or I can believe He doesn't.

Then, once I choose to believe He sees, I can believe He operates with strict condemnation of weakness or with gracious redemption of weakness.

And then, I can choose be a condemner or a redeemer.

He brought me into the world on one Tuesday in September. He awoke in me a desire to see redemption in that world on another September Tuesday.

On my 22nd birthday, I praise the God Who presides over September Tuesdays.

Today I Remember

In May I joined a couple of classmates and cool folks in Jackson for a 50th anniversary commemoration of the 1961 Freedom Rides.

{Oh look! It's Charles, Lindsay and me with Joan Mulholland!)

But, as today is the 48th anniversary of the 1963 March on Washington for Jobs and Freedom, I will gladly leave reflections on the Freedom Rides themselves for future (well, and past) posts. I'll let the March get its due spotlight. It was, after all, a groundbreaking event.

I'll maintain, though, that while there were many singularly groundbreaking moments of the movement, no one moment stands alone.

(Anyone who tells you otherwise is just trying to sell you a book...I'm looking at you, Ray Arsenault, Eric Etheridge, Andy Lewis). (They've each admitted it, I'm not just taking cheap shots out of nowhere!)

{you, too, are now looking at Etheridge and Arsenault}

Even the March on Washington relied heavily on much precedent.

Especially the March on Washington relied on precedent, really. (The history major in me really wants to expound on this assertion, but I'm doing my best to keep it simple stupid [per the advice of the great Michael Scott}).

I went as far as to say that the 1927 Flood of the Mississippi River helped pave the way for the Civil Rights Movement Proper (largely considered as lasting 1955-1968) in my senior thesis, so I'm big on credit sharing.

The marketing people for all the MLK, Jr. specials around this time don't have the liberty of sharing credit, as they-- much like the authors mentioned above-- have persuasive theses to put out that must come across clear and concise if they have a chance at an audience.

I have no standard of the sort to keep up around here-- clear and concise flew out of the window forever ago. Just ask any one of my professors. Given the implied trade-off (re:audience), they might be the only people left to ask, and only because they were paid to stick around.

The advantage of lower standards, in this case, is the opportunity to celebrate someone other than King for the achievement that was the March on Washington. (Which is almost blasphemous for a girl that pledge allegiance to his dream every weekday of my elementary career).

Oh, yes, I'll let the March have the spotlight today. I won't make it share with the flood or the Freedom Rides or anything.

King? He's gonna have to share. I'm able to live with my blasphemous self only because I think if he was alive-- the responsibility of remembering his involvement in the CRM left a little less to the in-need-of-a-simple narrative media-- he'd be the first to offer a speech acknowledging the others who made his success possible.

This is not just the anniversary of the "I Have a Dream" speech, after all. (Though how do I love thee? Let me count the ways...)

Today I'm remembering-- in addition to King, Randolph, Lewis, Wilkins, Young-- James Farmer.

If that seems like a contrived effort on my part to find a common denominator between the Freedom Rides and the March to focus on, then

a. there might be a little truth behind your accusation

b. joke's on you.

It's entirely to James Farmer's credit that there is such a common denominator. He did all of the work involved in being linked so closely to two of the greatest Civil Rights initiatives.

All of that work and yet, unlike King, so little credit.

Why don't you hear about Farmer in discussions on the March? So glad you didn't ask asked.

In short, Farmer was out doing the work necessary for King's dream to become yours and my reality. (Not that King didn't put in his own elbow grease, and not that Farmer was the only one getting work done that day).

(That last parenthetical disclaimer is why I'll never sell books or television specials).

On August 28, 1963, James Farmer sat behind bars in Louisiana.

An unwavering believer in the nonviolence model of Mohandas Gandhi, Farmer was in Louisiana leading peaceful protests. There, state troopers went door to door hunting down Farmer. He only escaped the city of Plaquemine by the kindness of a funeral home director friend, who smuggled Farmer out of town in a hearse as the oft-described "larger than life," deep-voiced Civil Rights leader played dead in the back.

"I was meant to die that night," Farmer later said. "They were kicking open doors, beating up blacks in the streets, interrogating them with electric cattle prods."

Out of that town and away from the immediate danger of mob violence at dark (a mob led by no less than the state troopers), Farmer was soon arrested for disturbing the peace. It was not, given the Freedom Rides (this is a contrived insertion of the Freedom Rides) and decades of experience, his first charge for breach of peace.

He refused the insistent advice of friends and colleagues that he should bail out early, in order to appear at the March. On the principle of "jail, no bail," he stayed to watch the March behind bars.

Floyd McKissick, a Congress of Racial Equality colleague read Farmer's speech aloud at the March. The protests would not end, Farmer wrote, "until the dogs stop biting us in the South and the rats stop biting us in the North." It might have been less overt, but racism in the north was no less biting. The assertions surely lost something without Farmer's booming voice.

Ultimately, his decision to stick to his guns and hang on to his pride cost Farmer a lot of glory.

(Unless you consider a bust in the center of the University of Mary Washington Campus the pinnacle of glory, in which case, the man has it made. Still, I can hardly consider it a due memorial, considering that 70% of people who ask me where I went to school also ask me if I mean "Martha Washington.")

We use an expression a lot in our family when a member shortchanges another of due credit-- "gimme back the glory." The phrase is accompanied by a waiting, outstretched hand.

The problem as I see it is that there's not really any one person from whom Farmer supporters can request his glory be returned. I mean, can you really fault King supporters? Do you blame elementary textbooks for giving kids a simple rundown of the CRM that necessarily excludes hundreds of important leaders? I guess you could blame the way of the South in the 1960s, but that's (mostly) passed.

I'm not really sure who took the glory, thus it's hard to know who carries the responsibility of handing it back over.

But I do know that on this day I can begin to give James Leonard Farmer a bit of the glory he's due by remembering his sacrifice-- the burden he bore of continuing the work of the dream through a life that long outlasted King.

(source)

{Farmer's on the far right}

One day in our commemoration of the Freedom Rides (the day I was covered in buttons and making a fool of myself to get people to come to an event), I stopped to talk to Dr. O'Donnell and a guest, who'd worked years ago as a student aide to Farmer at UMW. I told that man that I felt a bit foolish, and that perhaps our remembrance of Farmer bordered on irreverent (you know, since we dress up his bust and pose for silly pictures and have a good giggle [learned that expression from Prince William... I told you I'd find a way to use it, Em!] with the thing).

He said not to sweat it, certain that Farmer would've liked the laughter.

So today I remember the man who made serious business his business. I remember the agitator, the rebel-rouser. The conscientious objector, the student and teacher of nonviolence. The professor who patiently spent his final years teaching at the small university where two college girls (and surely others) challenged the legitimacy of his recollections. "Do you think that ever really happened in this Christian nation," one posed casually to the other. The so-called Father of Affirmative Action. The Medal of Freedom recipient (certainly a more fitting dedication than UMW's humble bust). The part of the Big Four (or Six. You decide). The man with a thunderous voice and a roar of a laugh.

Today I remember the man who, in the end, would've liked the laughter.

If you click here, Deirdre will tell you more about "our" man, our collective ownership symbolized in the following picture by a bowl of buttons ;)