I've always know there were words in me. They are not profound locutions who have yet to see the light of day; these idioms in my head are not newly minted messages. Rather, I have my own unique way of seeing life. It's like wearing a pair of glasses that changes not the world, but the way one perceives it. I suppose everyone has their set of customized specs. I have often felt a burning desire to record the images I see through my glasses.
How have I lived half a century and so seldom managed to orchestrate a meeting between my thoughts, my pen, and a piece of paper? Like Dr. Seuss's Cat in the Hat, I have Thing One and Thing Two dancing around my house. Ornery Thing One only wants to write about personal stuff. No fictitious tales for this nimble tail-wagger; only heartfelt, spill-your-guts stories hold any interest for him. If it is not honest and sharp as the blades of the Shun knives in my kitchen, Thing One finds something more entertaining to do, like cleaning the leaves out of the gutters. Thing Two must have come from a different litter. This diminutive sidekick is quite tenderhearted, never wanting to hurt those he cares about. He would never knowingly terrorize the household or dismantle the cupboards.
You can see the civil war these two Things have waged in my head: do I really want to lay out my thoughts for public consumption? And how can I write honestly about my early years without offending those I love who still live in the subculture of my childhood? I offer this disclaimer to all the Mennonite folks I love and care about: If you really believe it is the right way for you to live, my hat's off to you (sorry, like a naughty child, that one slipped out). And if you are a member because it's the way you grew up and it is as comfortable to you as old slippers, that is your business as well. I mean no disrespect, but I am taking the liberty to tell my story as seen through my glasses. In my life, I have chosen mostly to focus on the wonderful aspects of growing up in this exclusive community; however, there is a matching set of luggage circulating at baggage claim.
In my early years, mentally separating my faith from this subculture felt like someone had baked a cake with crushed almonds, then handed me a set of tweezers and asked me to sort out what was sweet and what was nuts (Oh dear, the naughty child again). I had a very tender conscience and never wanted to be disrespectful. I believed God's Word with all my heart, but wanted the freedom to live my life away from the imposition of the Mennonite rules and boundaries. Inappropriate guilt can be quite an effective means of crowd control. Those of us who have extricated ourselves from this subculture understand the complicated emotions involved. I never wanted to shake my fist in someone's face or slam the door as I left. Rather, I backed out slowly, trying to explain that though I was leaving this fold, I would never leave the Big Fold. "And I still care about you all", I whispered as the door softly closed. Leaving is a complex process that needs its own chapter.
With their middle aged maturity, Thing One and Thing Two have finally signed a treaty; hand-in-hand, they have promised to high step together to the beat of my drum. I am hoping to write honestly and kindly about something, perhaps about my life. This would not be complete without a shout-out to my youngest son. Derek was a high school senior last year. Weekly he would pester me at the dinner table: "Have you written today, Mom?" "Have you started writing yet? You know how you always told us kids to have the courage to try new things, to use our talents, that gifts should be unwrapped." Ok Derek, my pen is moving. (Who raised that annoying kid anyway?!) And by the way, I am counting on you to remember our pact. When I am old, like 110, and in a nursing home, you will come visit me. We will race walkers in the hall and you will let me win. I will be so happy, knowing that I am the athlete I was never allowed to be.