Deer ate my hostas ... venison for supper

DOING ART AS FAST AS I CAN

“The world doesn't make sense,
so why should I paint pictures that do?”
Pablo Picasso

This is Summer Camp?

My husband reads the Wall Street Journal in about an hour, most days. I peruse it in a nanosecond, most days. But when something catches my eye I settle in for some good content. Recently a blurb about a rite of passage, summer camp, caught my eye. "Parents scrutinize photos for clues." I read on.

According to this article, many camps nowadays have a photo gallery where parents can log-in to watch their kids. Some parents even tell their kids ahead of time to give signals such as a thumbs-up when photographers are hovering so they'll know their child is "alright."  And if little Suzie wasn’t chosen to be the captain of the kickball team or is wearing the flip-flops of someone else, parents can send "polite" emails to counselors in order to rectify such situations. Some parents set their alarms for the middle of the night to check the "updated gallery".

Surely this is a hoax. Have I been in some time warp and it’s really April and not August and the WSJ is making some not-funny joke about this beloved institution? This just sounds so wrong to me on so many levels! (The least of which is how utterly Orwellian it is!) Shouldn’t children know that at least somewhere on the planet their every move isn’t going to be scrutinized by someone? Wouldn’t summer camp be the perfect place to let a kid just be … a kid?

Attending GA Camp was the pinnacle of my summertime fun as a child. GA is Baptist-talk for "Girls Auxiliary." If you were a little girl Baptist you were a GA and went to GA camp. If you were a little boy Baptist, you were a "Royal Ambassador" and went to RA Camp. The camp I attended was located somewhere north of Greenville, SC, in an area lush and woodsy. It smelled green. At the time it didn't matter that woodsy meant tick-infested. Or that lush meant slippery moss. Or that green meant poison ivy. Nobody died.

Days spent at GA camp were simple and carefree. Upon arrival girls were assigned cabins and the most critical event of the week happened in the first 5 minutes - whether or not you landed a top bunk. After that it was a breeze. Revelry woke us up and taps put us to sleep. In between were hours of pure bliss. There was a happy routine of craft time, play time, skit time, slipping and sliding in-the-creek time with a good dose of chapel thrown in to satisfy all the Baptists back at home. Accommodations were crudely built cabins with slamming screen doors as the only ventilation. It was hot as hades and we loved it. The stuff our parents had packed for us mostly stayed packed. We could wear a favorite shirt and shorts "set" five days in a row and nobody cared. Topics of conversation were endless but always came back to boys. It was a week of living-in-the-moment with not a thought for anything or anyone other than the next skit or who might be called on to pray before the next meal. The last thing on our minds was what was happening back at home. We were free; supervised, yes; but in our little minds, we were free.

But now, according to the news article, those days are gone. Camps have sold out to the man, er ... the mama.

As I finished reading and was tsk, tsking about these helicopter parents, I popped over to Facebook to get other news from the not-so-esoteric side of the current events spectrum. There was a post by a friend. Nothing surprising there but she had posted a picture of her son who was away ... at camp! In the photograph he was shirtless and sitting on a rock; he looked fit and healthy. She said he looked like he missed his mama. I said if looks could kill that camp would’ve had a dead photographer on their hands.

Parenting trends come and go.

Social media touches us daily and for the most part, it's good, I think.

But summer camp!  Ah ... that's something better left untouched.

I Don't Want to Bother God

I don't want to bother God. I figure He has enough on his plate.

I generally ask God to be on the lookout for the safety and happiness of my sons, the joy and contentment of my husband and calm and peace for my aging parents. But rarely do I bother God about me, the possibility of personal growth and what I might want. I'm content just knowing the people closest to me are happy and well.

As for the rest of the world and its inhabitants, boy, does God have a lot to keep him busy. Why should I be one more voice adding to the pandemonium? The nuts in the Middle East alone would be enough for Him to tear his hair out. Of course, He was responsible for starting that whole ball of wax to begin with. I wonder if He ever imagined that those two brats born to Abraham would spin off countries that continue to despise each other 4000 years later.

And then there are victims of famine and poverty through no fault of their own other than having been born. And victims of malicious governments. And victims of natural disaster. And victims of disease and addiction. And victims of their own undoing. Not to mention people out there who are just truly evil.

With all the pain and suffering in the world I just hate to bother God about me. It seems selfish. After all, I'm doing just fine. I thank Him ceaselessly for family and job security and a thousand other things, but I don't feel right asking for anything - any thing or any situation that I think might make me happier. I'm pretty happy.

But it occurred to me that God might want me to ask him for stuff. Lord knows (ha!) I don't want anymore stuff. But I guess I mean stuff in the figurative sense. I have some gifts that probably need to be cultivated a little more. God given gifts. So if God has gifted me these gifts and I'm not totally sure on how to use these gifts, maybe I should bother God and ask him.

This notion I have of not bothering God, maybe, is not rational thinking. Or maybe it's too much thinking. This God who created the universe and the world and all its creatures has single-handedly handled time as we know it, and infinity before that. Maybe he can handle me and it wouldn't be an imposition.

Maybe it's wrong not to bother God. He's put us where we are for a limited length of time, for some reason. The first question in the children's catechism within the protestant denomination is, "What is the chief end of man?" The answer that's been stamped onto little brains can be regurgitated back with a roll of the eyes and in one long breath, "The chief end of man is to glorify God and enjoy him forever."

So, am I glorifying God by not bothering him?  Am I glorifying God by not asking him to help me out with those gifts he gave me? Do I really feel he has enough on his plate?

I guess I have underestimated God. I doubt he is enjoying that.

10 Day Challenge - A Look Back

I did it.
I challenged myself to pick a thing, anything ... just something, and do it for 10 days in a row.
I picked cake.

In the middle of my 10 day challenge my mother called. She has a pattern - if I haven't called her in 5 -7 business days she will call me.

"Just want to check in ... see how y'all are doing ... Daddy and I are fine ..."
Then, "What have you been up to?"
She knows I've been up to something because I haven't called her lately.

pause ... "I've been baking pound cakes "
silence ... then, "Ok ... why are you doing this?"

Rather than even begin to attempt to explain the search for my missing mojo to my 80 year old mother I tell her I'm taking them to shut-ins.

 ... pause ... she's thinking ...

"Well, Pat, I just think that is so nice!"

Suddenly its a-ok that I haven't called! I'm doing something worthy! 
The cloud of guilt I felt suddenly parted and there appeared not only sunshine but a great big rainbow!! I can hear her explaining to my daddy, "She hasn't "not called". She's been busy!"

She called again a couple of days later. "I just think it is so nice, Pat, that you are making those pound cakes for shut-ins."

Truth be told, I don't know many shut-ins. But I did bake pound cakes and I did give them away. I gave myself a challenge and I proved to be up to it.
And in the meantime it made my mother very happy.