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Three Things That Kept Christmas From Being Perfect

1. Food Poisoning. On Wednesday, we went out to dinner. Thursday, Christmas Eve, was bad.
2. No Internet. My web site and e-mail were down from Friday to Sunday. I couldn't keep up electronically.
3. A Cold. I awoke from my Christmas afternoon nap with the beginnings of a cold. Hopefully yesterday was the worst of it.

Other than those little things, our Christmas was spectacular. I hope yours was, too.

The Great Faith Debate

On last Thursday, September 17, which happens to have been my little brother's birthday, my two Keiths (husband and uncle), myself, and a couple of friends met up with about 7,000 more people at UCF Arena to watch The Great Faith Debate between atheist Christopher Hitchens, author of God Is Not Great: How Religion Poisons Everything, and Christian apologist Dinesh D'Souza, author of What's So Great About Christianity and What's So Great About America.

I have been a fan of D'Souza's since reading What's So Great About America many years ago in a book club. He made a compelling, logical argument to support his thesis and won me over, which maybe wasn't so difficult since I was already in the camp that believes America is great.

My familiarity with D'Souza's logical thinking made me very excited about the debate, which sought to pose three questions (What about God?; What about Christianity and other religions?; and What about science and reason?). It was a fairly lively debate, much of which you can easily find with a quick YouTube search.

D'Souza did not disappoint, stating clearly that he was making his arguments based on reason and not on Biblical revelation. Anyone who knows me will certainly know that I am a Christian and, therefore, inclined to automatically side with D'Souza. Likewise, anyone who knows me well will certainly know that I like to be intellectually challenged and am not afraid to look at two or more sides of an argument, regardless of whether I believe them or consider them to have any truth. So knowing very little about Hitchens except that he had written this book whose title alone makes me cringe, I approached this event assuming that Hitchens is (and, yes, he is) a very intelligent man and was looking forward to a logical argument to support his identification with atheism. I was disappointed. Aside from calling Isaac Newton a "raging crackpot," the most profound thing Hitchens said all night was that his primary belief system is that people should risk thinking for themselves and assume all responsibility and consequences for that risk. He believes that is the most important thing about being human.

Maybe the best part of the evening was meeting D'Souza and getting my books autographed. He was a bit surprised to see my copy of What's So Great About America, and now I have two more autographed books on my shelves.

When LOST Becomes Your (Okay, My) Life

Last night during LOST, when Eloise Hawking gave Daniel Faraday the fancy-wrapped box as a graduation present, I knew it was the journal he is always flipping through. I love journals; I knew.

But when he opened the box, I jumped from my chair and told Keith to pause the show. A brief rummage through my shelves of journals yielded this beauty and the ensuing photo opportunity.

Keith said, "Only in this house would we have that exact journal."

As of yet, my journal isn't filled with scientific scribblings and notations to find Desmond when my life starts zipping through space and time. It's not even filled with a loving inscription from a murderous mother. But it has so many possibilities, especially now that it feels it has a kindred spirit that contains all the answers to the island.

It's in the Air

How I know it's Spring:

• One of the planet's most intoxicating aromas--orange blossoms--makes me lose focus.
• Keith wants to spend all our time outside working in the yard.
• A nearby nesting pair of bald eagles eagerly awaits the moment when its two babies take flight.
• Birds everywhere--including two little bald eagles who are testing their wings--are playing in the wind.
• We are in the aftermath of the annual slaying of the crape myrtles.

Miscellany

• For their winter break from school, the nephews, chauffeured by Keith's brother, came to Florida for a few days. It rained the first day they were here, which allowed Eric and me to get in a few games of Scrabble with minimal complaining. Since Keith is in the midst of building a home media center computer, Ben and Joey were able to learn some marketable skills (see photo). On Saturday, I had the good sense to stay home while they all went to play paintball. I did, however, have the joy of washing the paintball gore from all their clothes. And finally, and since Aunt Rita has no desire to play Risk ever again, perhaps Joey will continue not to learn a valuable lesson: "When Aunt Rita says she won't play Risk unless you eat the dinner she cooked for you, she's serious."
• One of the highlights of our week is our Saturday night time with our church small group. We've been attending Avalon for not quite a year now but have made some dear dear friends. Nearly every Saturday we get together with a group to have a Bible study, discuss a book, and/or enjoy social time together. At first I thought I'd resent losing the freedom of our Saturday evening, but now I look forward to this time with friends.
• Monty was sick for most of last week. We don't know what, how, or why--just that we took turns a couple of nights sleeping on the couch to more easily let him in and out of the house. A few days of nothing but rice and chicken stock seem to have fixed him up, though.
• The other night, Keith and I were reading the book of Esther. After the king's wife embarrasses him in front of his buds, his advisors bring in all the virgins of the land so that he can choose a new wife. While all these virgins are being readied for the king, they are pampered and spa-treated and made over to make them more appealing to the king. Last night I told Keith that my mom and I would be playing today and intended to get a pedicure. He said, "So you're getting a beauty treatment like Esther." Further proof that the Bible does apply to every-day life.

Felicities

• Gathering with friends to celebrate the union of a young very-much-in-love couple as they became husband and wife.


• Having Keith home from his business trip.


• Being entertained by friends and family while Keith was out of town.


• Anticipating dinner and a play on my birthday in two weeks.


• Watching my husband and my dog cuddle on the sofa every night.


• Surviving the deep freeze with the plants I care most about intact.

Best of Luck, Johnny

This morning at about 6:30 a.m. Keith and I arrived at our polling location to participate in the democratic process. The doors opened promptly at 7 a.m., and we were on our way home by 7:45.

The election season has been particularly painful this year and full of more hate than usual. Even though I most definitely have an opinion about the candidates, I'll be happy when today is at an end and this election is behind us.

Felicities

Feeling that I am suffering from a very morose and listless Christmas, I thought I'd take just a few moments to focus on some of this season's bright spots.

• Looking at pictures of my dear, sweet Timber. He always made me smile in life, and he hasn't stopped.


• Watching a cute little beagle sleep, whether he is stretched out in a long sunbeam in the Florida warmth or curled up in a warm ball in a much colder Atlanta.


• Eating some yummy baked goods the neighbors brought to Keith's parents' house tonight. Graham crackers topped with toffee and pecans--yum!


• Seeing the look of delight in a friend's face when you give her the perfect gift, especially when you made the gift yourself.


• Reading a fast-paced book written by a truly talented writer.


• Seeing an unfamiliar word in a book, having the patience to look it up, and being rewarded by hearing the word in use the very next day.


• Knowing that because of Christ's birth, there is always reason to celebrate, even when the pain of loss is overwhelming.

From the Fun Facts File

In a movie I saw recently, a man was punching out of work. It made me think about the years I punched a clock.

My first job was at Cypress Gardens. The clock was in the guard gate at the southern employees' entrance. In high school, I worked there most weekends and after school; in college, they got me during summer and winter breaks.

I wasn't anything glamorous like a water skier or Southern Belle (though I am that anyway). I worked in the retail shops. My last summer there, I worked in the merchandising office doing all the paperwork to facilitate their transition to a more electronic inventory system. And one summer, somebody made me, along with one or two other people who could draw stick figures, work on a cart decorating parasols for little ten-year-old Southern Belle wannabes. Resident Artiste. With one fine tan.

Since my time there, the Gardens have changed ownership several times, the latest purchase happening just last week. Each new owner makes his own special additions to the park. In my time, the only rides there were of a kiddie nature to give the kids something to occupy a few minutes. Now, the whole place is roller coaster crazy. And there's an elaborate water park now, too.

Last year when we were in the process of moving back to Florida, Keith and I got an annual pass to the Gardens. One day we went to just soak up some sun and walk around the actual gardens part. I wanted to show Keith my favorite part of the Gardens--an enormous banyan tree that's been sinking roots for as long as I can remember. He was as fascinated by it as I am. I hope the new owner loves it, too.

A Thought on Character

This morning, I had to be across town for a 9 o'clock meeting. At that time of day, I was on the road with a significant number of my neighbors. Fortunately, to get there, I was not stuck on major thoroughfares; I take all surface streets to get there.

I had to wait several iterations for a particularly irritating light with no turn lane or signal. As I sat staring at the car in front of me, I noticed that the driver of this little blue Chevy good-gas-mileage car was bobbing and weaving and dancing in his seat. At first, since his hands were by his face, I thought he was having a vibrant speaker-phone conversation. Then, I realized he was playing a harmonica. Possibly to the accompaniment of the radio.

This struck me as a wonderfully quirky trait for a character in a book. A man who entertains himself in heavy traffic by becoming a member of his favorite bands. I spent the rest of my drive putting him in different settings and situations to see how that harmonica would fit in.

Felicities

My friend, Leslie, frequently makes lists of Simple Joys. I'm sure she won't mind if I borrow that idea.

• Watching a pair of foxes have the run of a local park at twilight.
• Having dinner with a friend we can't see often, because she lives in Connecticut.
• Lingering over lunches with girlfriends, new and old.
• Walking with my new peaPod.
• Hanging out with my college friends all weekend.
• Coming home after a weekend away and getting the full "I'm glad you're home" treatment from Monty.
• Remembering how beautiful Atlanta is.
• Driving through Atlanta with Keith and reminiscing over our early days together.
• Watching episodes from Season One of The Unit while eating nachos.

Worthy of Study

Tonight, Keith and I saw a one-man play, Frankenstein, The Modern Prometheus, at the Orlando-UCF Shakespeare Festival. On the way home we talked about some of the multiple themes of the story, including creation, responsibility, love, abandonment, and revenge. We also discussed the excellent acting and compared Frankenstein to the other one-man shows, Robinson Crusoe and The Island of Dr. Moreau, that we've seen there. (My favorite is still Moreau.)

As I strive to finish up my NaNo novel (less than 6,000 words left), I find myself more intent to analyze story arc in visual media than I usually am. What events--internal and external--drive a character forward to change and take action? What is the logical progression of response the character has to all kinds of stimuli? The intellectual and emotional turmoil of the Victor Frankenstein character alone is worthy of much study. (I've never read Frankenstein, but I do intend to make it a priority after seeing this adaptation.)

I would not characterize myself as a student of experimental fiction. However, I admire anyone who can write a piece of fiction that can twist my perceptions of reality and make me think about what I'm reading. While I dream of being able to bend rules of chronology and weave fascinating stories from the inside out, I am probably destined to write straight-forward front-to-back fiction. This play was a story inside a story within a story. Pretty tricky stuff for a one-man show. Captain Robert Walton's letters to his sister, Mary form the framework. When Walton meets Victor Frankenstein in the Arctic Circle, far from any civilization, Frankenstein relays his story to Walton. Buried in Frankenstein's story, within his encounter with his creation, we get the story the creature tells of its existence and struggle for acceptance. The whole thing was pulled off without being in any way clumsy.

Live theatre has always entertained me greatly. I'm happy to be at a point where I can be a student of its techniques and hopefully learn some lessons well enough to apply to my own work.

The Heart of a Shepherd

I have a confession to make. Too frequently I complain about church leadership. We choose to go to a large church, perhaps a little too large for our personal tastes. But the pastor has a true, palpable love for his people. And the worship services there are dynamic and adventurous and magnificent. On the flip side, I believe that the church may be so large that its purpose of shepherding the people may fall short at times.

Yesterday morning, however, I touched the heart of a true shepherd and experienced the awesome power of being a cherished member of the body of Christ.

Something happened in the church that hurt me very much. In fact, the matter was so inappropriate that Keith and I both composed lengthy and heated e-mails to the Senior Pastor and to our regional pastor. In the past few days, many conversations and meetings have taken place to address and discuss this issue. One of these meetings consisted of the pastoral staff of the church.

This morning, as usual on a Tuesday morning, I attended Bible study. The real treat was that one of the pastors of the church was speaking to illuminate us on some different trains of thought regarding end time events. After his talk, the women had many questions. Some gathered in small groups to discuss points. Some grabbed the pastor and asked him to explain key issues. One of the ladies at my table asked him to come to our table for a moment. At the table, he asked each woman her name and shook her hand.

"Barbara."

"Jill."

"Annie."

"Rita. Devlin."

We faced each other across at least one person, several chairs, and part of a table. My hand was already in his hand. His eyes opened very wide as he recognized my name. "Rita?"

I gave him a wry smile and said, "The Rita."

He came around the table and embraced me for a long, long time. In his embrace and his tears, I felt the pain that a man called to love and serve God's people feels when one of those people is wronged. Even if I never have personal interaction with him again, I will always love that pastor for his compassion. I hope he felt even a fraction of my gratitude to him.

When we ended our embrace and he turned back to the ladies at the table, he apologized briefly for neglecting them. One of the ladies said, "I'm just glad we could be a part of that."

In spite of what a difficult thing this has been, I am, too.

More on the Idea of Distance

Yesterday I started reading The Right to Write by Julia Cameron. In light of my last post about Looking into the Distance, I thought I would share this quote, which adds much more depth to this idea of Distance.

As a writer, I am always staring at distance, always looking at something moving toward me from a long way off, not only weather--the rain stalks across the plain on legs--but also people, events, and situations. I love staring into distance. I love squinting at the image of things yet to come. I love the process of watching them come into focus. That focus is writing.

Somebody Help Me!

This is kind of a stream of consciousness post and covers a lot of ground. Sorry, but life is like that.

I know that the objective of having a web site or a blog is to share with other people. However, most bloggers (the ones not on the blog social circuit--think MySpace or Xanga) expect that their readership is primarily friends or family, people they know, basically.

Do not be deceived.

Okay. That was a little dramatic. But I have been contacted twice by people I don't know who Googled "me" or something else and found me.

The first time you may remember that a Rita Devlin in New York contacted me, which caused me to scare myself with thoughts of what makes each of us our own unique Rita Devlin. (I'm doing it again.)

A couple of weeks ago, someone sent me an e-mail regarding a post I made after starting to read a Claire Messud book and realizing I'd read it before. She had a similar experience on an entirely different Messud book. I guess she had Googled Messud and found my post on that subject.

The point of that post had been that I record everything I read. I either write it down in a notebook or do a mini-review of it on my web site (and oftentimes both). However, I could find no notation anywhere of having read this Claire Messud book. Nowhere. And it bothered me.

Fast forward to now. Lynette and I are planning to attend a Christian writers conference next month. (Since this is my first writers conference, and I know very little about Christian fiction, and most of you know my exposure and how I've felt about it, I approach this conference with much trepidation.)

But back to the point: One of the faculty members at this conference is Lisa Samson, who wrote a little book called Songbird that one of my book clubs in Texas read. I read this book and distinctly remember not going to the meeting, because I had family in town, or something. And I distinctly remember talking to Leslie about how I needed to be at the meeting, because everyone but the two of us loved the book.

Being the goof I am, and full of bluster, yesterday I mentioned to Lynette that I hoped I didn't have to meet Lisa Samson, because I might have to tell her how much I disliked her book. That comment sent me on a scour of my web site to read my review of Songbird. It's not there. No record of my ever having read that book.

I feel like I'm in the Twilight Zone, and somehow my books are being taken from me. Somebody help me. It's a nightmare.

Love Thy Neighbor

Love thy neighbor. Love thy neighbor. Love thy neighbor.

So who is my neighbor? Is it the lady next door who came over today to find out why we were parked in front of her house, even though the two (yes, two) semi trucks had only finished unloading a short while before? Or are my neighbors the people I choose, such as Jack and Steph or, even closer to home, Greg and Tiffany?

Okay. So I know that my neighbor is the lady next door who really irritated me today. And, for your information, even though I was exhausted from all the day's work and terribly put-out by my new neighbor's rudeness, I was extremely polite to her and explained that the truck had not been gone long and that we apologized for the inconvenience and would promptly remove our vehicles. That's when she chose to state that she wanted to make sure we weren't going to make a habit of parking in front of her house.

For those of you who know me really well, you should be proud that I reiterated my apologies. Right before I closed the front door and went into a tirade about the inconsiderate neighbors. And how I hoped they didn't plan on throwing a party soon that would require guests to park in front of our house. And how I'd been diligently cleaning Timber's deposits out of their yard for the past two weeks, so maybe she should be a little nicer to me. And so forth. You get the idea, I'm sure. Only I should also mention that when I moved Mama's Mustang, I may have squealed a tire.

Then Keith wondered why people like us are so offended by people like that. Perhaps it's because we are so hospitable--always happily and eagerly opening our home up to friends and their friends and their friends' friends. Perhaps it's because we expect simple courtesies from people--the same neighborly considerations we would extend to them. Perhaps it's because we are Christians and naturally expect other people to be kind and loving. Perhaps it's because we had crummy neighbors in Texas and were hoping to have better ones here. For whatever reason, I was offended.

And now the hard work of loving my neighbor begins.

Is Writerly Integrity a Thing of the Past?

Right before we left Texas, the James Frey fictional memoir scandal broke. While I had about a million little things going on with the move, I had an obsession (and I confess that it still lingers) with the deception. It seems to me that Frey should have had the integrity and conviction to stand by his initial idea of publishing as fiction his two creative embellishments of the bad-boy life he wished he'd had.

Having written a memoir, I understand the pain and emotion and passion required to sit day after day and empty the vein of the past onto paper. On the flip side, as a reader (and I confess that I have not read Frey's books), I expect an unwritten contract to exist between the writer and myself. If a writer expects me to invest my money and time in reading his work, I expect not only his best work but also complete honesty.

While we're on the topic of writerly honesty, I would be remiss if I did not mention the recent Kaavya Viswanathan debacle. A nineteen-year-old sophomore at Harvard, Viswanathan received a $500,000 two-book deal. Since the release of How Opal Mehta Got Kissed, Got Wild and Got a Life, allegations of plagiarism have plagued Viswanathan. Plagiarism of at least five different books. Last I heard she had finally stopped denying the charges.

The consequences of her misstep? Aside from the obvious public humiliation, the book's publisher, Little, Brown, will not publish a revised, plagiarism-free version of Opal Mehta, nor will it publish the second book under contract. And the movie DreamWorks was planning to make--nixed.

So what exactly got me riled up today so that I felt it necessary to take my stand against this dishonesty? I ran across this blog by Jennifer Lauck's stepbrother dedicated to refuting what he claims are the lies in her memoirs, particularly Blackbird.

First, let me reiterate that I loved Blackbird. It was a riveting, unsentimental look back at a painful childhood. Second, let me add that if I were one of the members of Lauck's stepfamily, I'd be horribly ashamed of the way I treated that child, maybe ashamed enough to want to publicly defame her.

The question: Do I believe that the stepfamily was as bad as Lauck painted them? Probably yes. And maybe no. She was a child who was at least emotionally abused and abandoned. I would expect her to remember them as horrible, unloving people.

My judgment: Frey and Viswanathan fail the writerly integrity test. I'm going to hold fast to Lauck's integrity until I learn otherwise.

Where I Experience a Renewed Love of a Great City

Keith and I just returned from Atlanta, where I spent some time learning how to work with College offices as we plan our fifteenth--ack--reunion. As class vice president, I am part of the core team that organizes and implements this big event. As class vice president, I am also just a lackey who does what she's told and maybe has a good idea every once in a while.

We left Atlanta as a home in 1997. Since Keith's parents and other family, and my brother and sister-in-law, live in that great city, Keith and I do go back and visit often. Usually, we are both stricken by how the city is changing--and not often for the better. The hectic driving, the too-many people crammed into the space available for the city. It's a lifestyle we turned away from and have rarely missed. (Granted, when we first moved away, I was frequently homesick. But that passed quickly as my life took other directions.)

This past weekend, Keith and I both independently felt that old homesickness for Atlanta. Keith, who is not a baseball fan, got some kind of bug to go watch live Braves games. And as I drove through Decatur as I traveled to and from Agnes Scott College, I remembered the feelings and love I immediately had for the city as a seventeen-year-old girl visiting for the first time. I thought I'd live there forever. (Of course I do realize that all this gush of feeling may be a result of being in transition and virtually homeless right now.)

Do not be deceived, though. I did have some choice words about all the bad and disrespectful driving I encountered this weekend.

I'm Home

During the flight to Orlando today, we went through some bad weather that could not be flown over, under, or around. Turbulence and my tendency toward motion sickness don't go well together, but that's a story for another day. Because of the weather, we approached Florida in a roundabout way--from the Atlantic Ocean. As we approached the coast, the clouds began to thin, and I got my first glimpse of Florida. Then, it dawned on me that it was my first glimpse of Florida in more than 18 months--the longest time I have ever gone in my life without being home. And I confess, I cried.

They've Done It Now

This morning Keith sent me a link to an "article" on the website of The Guardian--for those of you who aren't familiar, think The New York Times for the United Kingdom. Well, the piece stuck in my craw, so I composed a letter to the editor. Since I'm fairly convinced that The Guardian will never allow my response the light of day, I am going to post it here. The original post is cited in my response, in case you are interested in reading the thing that got my ire up.

Polly Toynbee has allowed her past, more than her journalistic integrity, to speak in her article "Narnia represents everything that is most hateful about religion," which appeared online on Guardian Unlimited on Monday, December 5, 2005 (http://www.guardian.co.uk/religion/Story/0,2763,1657759,00.html). I can understand a non-Christian's aversion to the Christ story, but I believe that Ms. Toynbee has allowed her own skewed experiences with "religion" to invade her journalistic approach.

Statements such as, "Every one of those thorns, the nuns used to tell my mother, is hammered into Jesus's holy head every day that you don't eat your greens or say your prayers when you are told" and "I once heard the famous preacher Norman Vincent Peel [sic] in New York expound a sermon that reassured his wealthy congregation that they were made rich by God because they deserved it," indicate a limited exposure to everything that may be wonderful about religion.

While the insinuation at the conclusion of the piece is that Ms. Toynbee is an atheist, perhaps she and The Guardian should consider that 57% of people in Britain, even that most secular of states, do know (and some believe in) what Easter celebrates. Perhaps many of those people do readily recognize the venom in her tone when Ms. Toynbee writes, "Of all the elements of Christianity, the most repugnant is the notion of the Christ who took our sins upon himself and sacrificed his body in agony to save our souls. Did we ask him to?" And perhaps Ms. Toynbee and The Guardian should be more cautious lest they offend and alienate more readers.