The Second Jerry

As any true Seinfeld fan will tell you, there's a Seinfeld episode for just about every situation one encounters in life. True to form, there's a Seinfeld episode for our flight to London.

The episode is Season 4, Episode 12: The Airport, in which Jerry and Elaine are trying to get back to New York, and there is only one seat left in first class. Jerry famously opines about how he can't let Elaine have that seat because he has flown first class and therefore knows what he what he would be missing should he not take it. Elaine, having never flown first class, won't be pained because she won't know what she's missing out on. Or so the logic goes. Jerry ends up sitting in first class where he hits it off with a supermodel and together they drink champagne and eat ice cream and have a grand old time. Elaine meanwhile, is crammed back in coach, miserable and uncomfortable with the guy beside her falling asleep on her shoulder and many other unfortunate occurrences.

This is a much discussed and recounted episode in the Thomas family, given that my father-in-law was a pilot for many years, and my mother-in-law was a flight attendant. They've had countless experiences flying for both work and personal trips, and they know the differences between first class and coach. Because of all this airline work, they also have stand-by flying privileges, meaning they can use empty seats to fly for free when there are seats available. And sometimes, just every now and then, these extra seats are in first class

Well, Sean flew stand-by to London and I booked a ticket in coach. At the last minute, Sean got upgraded to Business-First, and then the moment of truth came: Who would get that highly desirable seat? Or more accurately, that tremendously comfortable bed?? We had just a few minutes to decide, and it was agonizing. Should we just sit together in coach as planned? Should Sean take the seat because he's flown International First Class before and would know how much he was missing? Should I get the seat so I could have that once in a lifetime experience???

Sean let me have it. He said someone should enjoy it, and it should be me. I gathered up my stuff and hurried to the front of the plane, half-elated, but half-guilty about leaving my sweet husband back in coach. (The only way I managed to barely assuage my conscience was that he had a whole row to himself to stretch out and watch movies that would never interest me.) It was far into the flight before I realized that Sean is the second Jerry. Let me explain. The Bible calls Christ the new, or second, Adam because he came to earth and did what Adam could not do. (Namely living a righteous life in complete submission to the Father's will.) Now I'm definitely not comparing Sean to Christ right now, but I don't mind comparing him to a better version of Jerry Seinfeld. Sean, the new Jerry, did what the old Jerry could not do: he gave up the seat that he wanted out kindness for someone else. I suppose you could say that Jerry wasn't able to make that choice because he had never shaped his character through selfless acts to make such a decision, while Sean repeatedly denies himself for me and those he loves, and therefore able to do the generous deed. Anyway, I'm completely overdoing it with this analogy but I love Seinfeld and I love Sean, so just humor me.


Getting back to the flight, I settled into my seat, in a row with three business men, all more than double my age. I felt more than a bit out of place. But Sean had commissioned me to enjoy the full weight of the experience, to eat everything they brought me, and try not to sleep too much and miss out on the glory of it all. (Though perhaps being able to sleep in a completely flat bed IS the glory of it!)

Feeling the need to enjoy it completely for the both of us, I spent the next ten hours lounging in a chair/bed, watching free movies, refreshing my face with warm washcloths, drinking red wine, eating course after course of the most delicious food (there were lots of olives!), and feeling like the Queen of England.

Appetizer:
Mixed nuts served in a warm bowl
Melon and kalamata olives
Salad with fresh tomatoes, more olives!, croutons, and delicate shavings of asiago cheese

Dinner:
Beef tenderloin with asiago broth
Steamed asparagus
Potato gnocchi
Dinner roll
And red wine that I never once had to ask to be refilled. Practically the minute I took a sip they were there adding more to my glass.

After Dinner:
Cheese & crackers
Grapes
A delightful little glass of port

Dessert:
Ice cream sundae
Coffee

I explained the situation to my flight attendant, and she asked if I'd like to take an ice cream sundae and a glass of Scotch back to Sean. I don't know if I've ever felt happier, navigating the narrow dark aisle, bearing treats for Sean, and knowing how happy it would make him. We visited a little bit, and then it was back to living the high life for me. 

I laid my chair out flat, plopped my fat white pillow behind my head, and snuggled down under my fleece blanket to watch movies, and read, and sleep while our plane arched across the sky toward London and sunlight.

When we landed they said, "Welcome to London! We have a new royal baby--a little princess!" People on the plane started clapping and cheering, and I thought to myself, "This must be a dream!"

My mom told me that she was praying I'd be blown away by this trip. I would say that so far her prayers have been answered abundantly.

Timmy, the only bear in first class! 

Last Night in the Nursery

The night before a move (and trust me, we’ve had many of them) Sean and I usually lay in bed, feeling a bit melancholy and wistful in the darkness. One of us finally states what we’re both thinking: “Well, tonight is our last night in the nursery.” The line, of course, comes from Peter Pan, when Wendy is informed by her frustrated father that it will be her last night in the nursery with her brothers and tomorrow she will have to Grow Up. 

I can remember watching that movie as a child, and feeling the sharpness of that break. Tonight is comfort, and security, and familiarity—tomorrow is new, and unknown, and frightening. What I didn’t realize as a child was how often life involves leaving the nursery. I thought once was enough. You are a child, and then you Grow Up, and it’s over and done. The realization of my adult life is that you're never done growing up. We leap over a hurdle into a strange and new world. We learn to live in that world. We make it as cozy and as comfortable as we can, and often times hope we can stay in our protected little nest forever. And then, before you know it, it’s time for the next challenge! 

I’m tempted to resent all the change, and the disruption, and the circumstances that call me forward. But what I have to do is to try to push it all aside and bury down deep into the true things of life. The truth is that the purpose of life is not to be comfortable. (Thank God for that. Comfort, at the end of the day, is really such a small thing to live for.) The point of life is a journey home, and a journey requires movement. We must fare forward when our time comes. 

A quote that’s been helping me a lot lately comes from the painter, Georgia O’Keefe. She once remarked, “I've been absolutely terrified every moment of my life and I've never let it keep me from doing a single thing that I wanted to do.”

My instinct is usually to avoid the things that scare me, so I love this reminder that just because a thing is frightening doesn’t mean that’s a good reason not to do it. I also like the humanity of it. Fear is one of our most common experiences, but it’s something we often feel like we need to dismiss or ignore or hide away where no one can ever find out the truth about how terrified we are. It’s so much healthier to just admit the fear is there, but that it’s not the last word on who you are or what you're capable of. 

So yes, I’m scared to leave the nursery once more, and venture out into the great wide world. But fearful is not the only thing I am. I’m also brave, and adventurous, and loved, and super excited for this trip that we’ve worked so hard to make a reality. 

Tonight, the nursery. Tomorrow, we fly to London! 

When I Was a Pioneer:

Giuliana and I have spent the last year or so reading through the American Girl books. We've read Samantha, Molly, Caroline, and right now we're reading about Julie, a girl growing up in San Francisco during the 1970's. Among other things, Julie loves the Little House on the Prairie series by Laura Ingalls Wilder, and the books get mentioned frequently in her stories.

Last Thursday, library day for her class, Giuliana came home from school and plopped Little House on the Prairie down on the table in front of me. "It's real," she told me excitedly, "I found out today it's actually real." I stared at her blankly for a moment, thinking, "Of course it's real, why are you telling me something I already know?" And then I realized, it was news to her. She had thought Little House on the Prairie was something made up for an American Girl doll book. The brief thought of it gave me the chills. Thank God these books are real.

I picked up the book lovingly, wondering when the last time I held a Little House book in my hands for purposes other than moving from one home to another had been. (A year or two ago I listened to Little House on the Prairie on audiobook, and perceived it through the perspective of an adult for the first time--which lead me to the conclusion that Ma was super-human. I don't know how she did it.)

But to hold a book in your hands, to feel the texture of the pages, to know the curve of the font, to study the spare beauty of the black and white illustrations--well, that is another thing entirely. I swear I would recognize a page out of those books anywhere, so deeply are they cemented in my psyche. I know exactly what the pages of the Little House books feel like between my fingers.

As I held the book and began to flip reverently through the pages, waves of nostalgia flooded me, and I actually thought to myself wistfully, "I remember when I used to be a pioneer." It wasn't, "I remember when I read these books," or even, "I remember when I played Little House on the Prairie as a kid," (though I did both of those things copiously)...It was literally, "I remember when I was a pioneer." 

My parents read me the Little House books at bedtime until I was old enough to read them myself. I loved those books. I imbibed those books. I took them into me and believed them and acted them out for hours each day, in the wide open spaces of time that my sisters and I had to play pretend. In his phenomenal work The Deathly Hallows Lectures, John Granger talks about the "alchemy of storytelling" and the power it has of "blurring the distinction between the subject who is reading and the object hero being read about," and how "the transformation of the story character affects and transforms the [reader]." (p. 40) In other words, the magic of a story well-told is that it allows you to become the main character and grow from their experiences. 

By putting those books in my hands, my parents, in a sense, gave me the opportunity to be Laura Ingalls. I got to roam the prairies, live in log cabins and sod dug-outs, and learn to be brave and strong in the face of the great frontier and the great unknown. 

As I grew older, more stories would come: I read to tatters the Oregon Trail Diary of Hattie Campbell, from the Dear America series. I spent hours in front of the computer, virtually crossing the Oregon Trail, and when my computer time ran out, I'd put on my coonskin cap, hitch up our two stick horses to the covered wagon that I made out of blankets, pack up supplies, and head West with my sisters and baby dolls. 

This has got me thinking about the ways in which the stories we love as children shape our imaginations. These stories supply our beliefs and expectations of what life should and will be like, they provide us the material for our dreams, and they teach us what we are capable of. I'm finding myself very grateful for the pioneers who provided a living example of courage and the spirit of adventure, as well as grateful to the artists who captured their experiences in the form of story for the benefit of both children and adults. And I'm thankful to Laura Ingalls Wilder for making it possible for little girls to dream of crossing frontiers and discovering new lands. 

I now think it should've come as no surprise to my parents when I moved to California after high school. The writing had always been on the wall: my future lay in the West. That's what a person does, I had learned: one must strike out for a new land when the time comes. The hope and dream of the pioneer had been planted within me since those early bedtimes, when my parents took me across the prairies, page by page, every word pushing me farther westward. 

When the Wind Changes: A Reflection on Endings

In Disney’s beloved musical classic of eponymous title, Mary Poppins, perhaps the world’s most famous nanny, tells her charges (who want to know how long she’ll stay) that she’ll be leaving when the wind changes. When the wind changes. The words strike me as sad and wistful, yet piercingly true. Things on this side of heaven don’t last forever. In modern parlance, the words for me have become, “I’ll stay through taxes,” which is important to my boss who is a CPA. When tax season ends—these words strike me as far less poetical, but wistful, and sad, and true, nevertheless.

Yesterday at work a few of my tasks were assigned to someone else, and I wanted to protest, until I realized that this is part of leaving—and leaving is something I initiated, and something I must accept. My work will be portioned out over the next six weeks—to the housekeeper, the kids, the parents…perhaps a new nanny or personal assistant. This is part of leaving: becoming unnecessary.

As you can probably tell, I’m having a hard time with it.

Sean and I have begun to talk with our littlest housemates (the children of our friends, ages 4 and 2) about the fact that we’ll be moving, traveling, not living there anymore. When she saw a helicopter in the sky a few days ago, the four year old asked her mom, “Is that Sean and Carolyn?” It’s adorable, and it hurts like hell.

What makes it so hard is that we’re leaving things that we love. I’ve loved my job; I adore the kids I take care of; our housemates are dearer to us than we can say; our church community has been our rock for the past two years. I often wonder: How foolish are we to leave these things?

Two things have been helping me in this time of farewells and transition.

The first is a poem I found on the blog of a friend* of a friend….It reads:

The

world

is full

of good things.

You can't have them all.

Every glory comes at the cost

of another. Ours is the splendor of the lilies,

of grass and of dust. Revel in your bounded brilliance,

and the unending streams of light

you will never hold.

That there is

such good,

be

glad.

I actually hesitate to write after sharing this poem; its brevity aims straight at the heart of the matter and says what must be said perfectly: You can’t have them all—which, of course, is exactly what I want. I want my life in Southern California, I want to travel Europe with Sean and our family and friends, and I want to live a full life Northern California, too (not to mention the millions of other things I want on top of all that). I want it all, greedy human being that I am. 

The poem states the problem, yet also offers the solution to wanting it all: revel in your bounded brilliance. Limitations give shape and direction to our lives. They allow something with form and purpose to be created, rather than an ongoing blob of endless desire.

A long time ago, when I was going through a painful break-up, I read something by Amy Carmichael that would become in many ways a koan to lead me through life: In acceptance lieth peace. My most deeply peaceful moments have always come when I accept where I am, who I am, what has happened to me, etc. And so I am learning to accept my limitations with gratefulness rather than resentment.

Also, a very wise person recently told me that it’s okay to have seasons in life.  What a novel idea! The natural order is organized by seasons (albeit very mildly here in Los Angeles), why should our lives not be as well? I have great peace in being able to view the parts of my life as seasons that have purpose and beauty, but are not intended to last forever. There are things that last forever, thanks be to God, and I can stand on those as the seasons of my life progress, and I journey ever closer to the life of the world to come.

*Poem by Elena Johnston, whose poetry I highly recommend. 

Thoughts on The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich:

A week ago today I stayed up until 2 a.m. finishing William Shirer’s The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich. I was determined to not let the sun rise on February without finishing that book. I needed it to be over. You can really only spend so much time immersed in Nazi Germany without beginning to go a little crazy, or get at least a little depressed.

It was a huge personal accomplishment to finish this 1500 page tome. Growing up, it always sat on my dad’s bookshelf and intimidated the hell out of me with it’s dark, imposing presence and swastika-bearing cover. I was convinced I wasn’t brave enough to read it for so long that reading it became like a rite of passage, an act (however small) of courage. A little slap in the face of Hitler: You have no power over me.

What finally got me to read it (aside from the fact that Sean gave it to me for Christmas)? Well, it’s just a small tidbit, but I think it’s important. An acquaintance on Facebook posted one day that she had just finished reading it. This acquaintance planted the idea in my head that I could read it too. Two things about this are meaningful to me:

1. I had always thought of this book as a “man’s book”. The more I read history, the more I realize that in many ways it is a male dominated genre. That doesn’t necessarily bother me, I just don’t want to be excluded—or exclude myself from it—because I am a woman. The acquaintance who read this book and then posted about it, is someone who I consider to be infinitely sweet and kind and feminine, and yet: she read this book. That must mean I can too, I thought to myself. I can and will be a part of this world. Interestingly enough, I just read a fascinating article about, among other things, a woman trying to write in another male-dominated genre, and the effort and frustration that go into that. With regards to history, I can’t help but think of Adrienne Rich’s line, “Time is male.”  There is a lot to think about here, especially as I continue to devour history books.

2. Do you guys realize the hugeness of the fact that somebody else simply did something, wrote about it, and that was enough to plant the seed of belief in my mind that I could do it too? Now I know this is a very small example, but I think it illustrates a wildly important truth: what we do affects other people. It’s very basic, but we often seem to forget that we don’t operate in a vacuum. Even our smallest actions influence and affect the way other people inhabit the world, think about themselves, and dare to dream and act. Katherine Center says, “You have to be brave with your life so that others can be brave with theirs.” If that isn’t inspiring, I don’t know what is. It can be something as small as showing girls that it’s okay to love history—that they have a place here too.

As for the book itself, it was an incredibly well written, fascinating tale of evil and horror. Reading it felt like living inside a game of Risk/dystopian novel/Darwin and Nietzsche brought to life.

In the midst of all the atrocities and evils, there were two things whose presence surprised me as companions along the way, and gave me comfort as I journeyed through the Valley of the Shadow:

1. Humor

This may be controversial and offensive, but I do not mean it to be. Humor is not the only response to Hitler/Evil; nor is it always appropriate, but sometimes it can help. I found it made me braver and brought me comfort at times to laugh at the absurdity and insanity of Hitler and the Nazis. I couldn’t help but laugh at Hitler when he called himself the savior of Germany, or said he would long be remembered as the greatest ruler that Germany ever had. Sometimes people are so stupid/evil/insane that derogatory humor towards them is appropriate. (I’m thinking of Flannery O’Connor here, too). Laughter can give power. There’s a way in which Hitler was infinitely stronger than me, or any individual like me. He could have, and did, destroy millions of powerless people like me with barely a word—and yet, we retain the power to laugh at him. It’s not enough to completely defeat him, of course, but if humor can add even an ounce of bravery to our spirits or a feeling of defiance toward evil, then I think it matters.

Shirer illustrates this point, of humor as a weapon, throughout the text as he continually refers to Hitler as “the Austrian corporal” or “the Viennese tramp” or “the failed artist”. He calls Goering, “the fat Reich Marshall”. It has a way of bringing these monsters back down to earth and reminding the reader that however atrocious and horrific these men were, there’s a sense in which they were just men and not invincible.

Obviously, the world could not defeat Nazism through humor alone—men braver than I will ever be still had to storm the beaches of Normandy, and fight and die—but why not claim humor and laughter as a valuable armament in the all out war against it evil?

2. The Weakness of Evil

This is a strange concept in the face of the power that Hitler accrued and the damage that he inflicted. As I read through the book, I spent a lot of time becoming increasingly afraid of Hitler and, in a sense, feeling terrified and paralyzed by the Nazis’ might. And then something very interesting began to happen: the Third Reich began to fall apart. It started to gradually disintegrate. You know why? Because they were evil. Literally, their wickedness destroyed them—and it was like an epiphany for me: oh, that’s right! Evil destroys itself! Evil cannot survive, in the long run. It’s self-destructive! Did I learn nothing from Harry Potter?!?!?!

I had become so shortsighted for a while that I began to think that evil could actually win. And I know it’s nuanced—I know the Nazis really did win for a while, and rampaged and pillaged and murdered in ways that can never be recovered from in this life. I don’t want to make light of that. But I read once that in many ways the “punishment” for our sins is often just the natural consequence of our behavior. For instance, if I am rude or unloving to Sean, I’ll probably reap a time of disharmony in our marriage. If I am selfish with my money, I won’t get to experience the joy that comes from being generous and giving freely.

In the same way, Hitler experienced the natural consequences of his behavior. Vast armies rose up to end his wicked ways. He destroyed himself physically, becoming weak and ill and completely incapable of using his mind to think rationally. People will roll their eyes at the Harry Potter reference, I’m sure, but Voldemort sowed the seeds of his own destruction by destroying his soul and blinding himself to the truth. Hitler did the same. By his own evil he made it impossible for himself to survive. And that is something to take comfort in. Though evil may outlive us, it is not stronger or more sustainable than what it right and true and good.  

Anyway, those are my initial ramblings on this vast and overwhelming book. Make of them what you will, and correct me where I’m wrong.

Numbers

I wish that I didn’t have to write this. I wish I could just sit at home on this peaceful Tuesday evening in January, and watch Parks and Recreation and laugh at Amy Poehler’s brilliance. But 70 years ago today the Red Army liberated a place called Auschwitz, and so I have to write.

I’ve spent the past two months reading William Shirer’s 1500 page definitive history of Nazi Germany: The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich. It’s eerie to me that today I reached the chapter entitled The New Order, in which life in the Third Reich, life for the POW’s, the conquered peoples, and most of all the Jews is described in words that are too utterly horrific to bear. I have read a lot and I have never read anything so awful and evil and perverse in my life.

 History books are important, necessary, informative, and often wildly interesting. But there is something troubling about all their numbers. On page after page I read numbers that are overwhelming and incomprehensible to me:

“In Lithuania, alone, the map showed, 136,421 Jews had been slain.” (Shirer, 1254)

“Some 55,000 more Jews were exterminated in White Russia by July 1…” (Shirer, 1254)

“Mauthausen listed 35,318 deaths from January 1939 to April 1945…” (Shirer, 1259)

“Hoess himself in his affidavit gave an estimate of 2,500,000 victims executed and exterminated by gassing and burning…” (Shirer, 1267)

I don’t know what to do with numbers like this. They are too big. Too unfathomable. Too broad. What does it mean for six million people to be exterminated? What does it mean to massacre 30,000 people in a day, or gas 6,000 in an afternoon? How can I let the weight of these numbers into my heart? How can these numbers mean something to me?

Throughout the course of reading this book, I have had Elie Wiesel’s Night beside my bed, to remind me that the numbers are real—to remind me what the numbers mean. The numbers I read aren’t statistics or facts or information—they’re people. And to kill one person is a great evil. To lose one loved one brings almost unbearable pain.

Wiesel keeps me from getting lost in the numbers—because when my eyes begin to glaze over, I come back to his story:

“Men to the left! Women to the right!”

Eight words spoken quietly, indifferently, without emotion. Eight simple, short words. Yet that was the moment when I left my mother. There was no time to think, and I already felt my father’s hand press against mine: we were alone. In a fraction of a second I could see my mother, my sisters, move to the right. Tzipora was holding Mother’s hand. I saw them walking farther and farther away; Mother was stroking my sister’s blond hair, as if to protect her.” (Wiesel, 29)

These words make me cry. I cannot imagine six million, but I can imagine a family of six. I can feel that, and I can weep for them, and weep for what, God forgive me, I cannot comprehend.