The Relationship

It has been said that society is merely a mirror of the family and of interpersonal relationships. Never have I seen it more plainly displayed as I have in this past year.

It was about a year ago when I first noticed the collective sighs of schoolgirls enamored by a big man on campus (BMOC). Notes were passed back and forth discussing the merits of the BMOC, hoping and dreaming that he would fill the shoes of the consummate perfect boyfriend. His shiny, black corvette blinded many-a-girl with the hopes of riding side by side in such a noteworthy machine – though in fear of showing the true shallowness of her admiration, no girl openly admitted that the car had anything do to with her obsession. The BMOC, emboldened by the expectations, became bigger than life, strutted his stuff through the hallways of his school, as well as at rival schools. Along the way, he stopped and leaned against lockers, posing in seemingly intimate conversation with each set of eyelashes batted in his direction. Like a bad 1980s chick flick, those watching groaned as the star-struck girl forsook the homelier best friend in favor of “flash and dash,” otherwise known as, BMOC.

At least in the high school chick flick the girl comes to her senses, and realizes she’s been bamboozled by a shallow and self-centered boy who is just out to score. Unfortunately, the collective schoolgirl in our sad story does not. Wise friends and family, who have the wisdom of years to evaluate the BMOC realistically, advise her to break off the relationship. Instead, she sees herself as some sort of revolutionary thinker who perceives her BMOC in a way that the “unenlightened” cannot. So instead, she counts the days until their wedding.

“He loves me!” she argues to her parents. “He says it every day! He says that he has a plan to make us rich so that we don’t have to work the rest of our lives. He says our marriage is not going to be boring and conventional. He’s so brilliant, Mom!” To her parents’ protests that he has nothing except words to show for it, she can only reply that she is sure that he is not like the other guys her parents have known who have said these things and ended up being losers. On the contrary, this guy is the real thing.

She is not interested in examining his past to discover patterns revealing his true character. Though former girlfriends call regularly and creditors leave messages day and night, he assures her that things are different now. “I love YOU, sweetheart! Those girls mean nothing to me, and those charges were all a mistake that is being cleared up,” he insists. He charges a dozen roses to a credit card, and she forgives all.

Tired of protesting and arguing, the parents foot the bill for the wedding. When the question, “If anyone knows any reason why these two should not be married?” is asked, her parents bite their tongues and hold hands.

On the honeymoon, BMOC announces to his lovely bride that she will have to go to work to support them. She is shocked and befuddled, as this is a new idea, contrary to the previous guarantee of a life of ease after their marriage. “Let us summon a new spirit of commitment; of service and responsibility where each of us resolves to pitch in and work harder and look after not only ourselves, but each other,” he says. Stunned, she nods, and heads off to the kitchen to pour a bowl of cereal for dinner – the only food in the pantry. Each day she heads off to work as her BMOC cheers her on from the couch, remote in hand. “I’ve got a plan, babe, a great plan,” he assures her.

At the end of the first month of marriage she sits down to pay the bills, only to find out that every last cent is gone from their checking account. Confronted, BMOC argues that he needed it to invest in his grand scheme, and in the long run they will be richer. “Where is it invested?” she asks hopefully, still trusting her knight in shining armor.

He tells her that he has sent it to his cousin Vinnie, the one who had the used car dealership that was foreclosed last month. “Vinnie is going to reopen the dealership and we’re going be rich, babe!”

Need I continue? We know what is going to happen. Call Dr. Laura and ask her. Check the Bible. Ask Dr. Phil, or whoever you deem a relationship expert.

Though America’s relationship to the latest, most popular politician is played out constantly on the local and national levels, by all political parties, it has never been so marked as it has been this past year in the election of Obama. His rock star following has been unnerving and frightening. Like scared parents, leveler heads with a realistic view of history and the future begged and pleaded with the enamored masses. Like defeated parents we voted, lost by a small margin, and submitted ourselves to honoring Barak Obama as our Commander in Chief. Like parents of a child who has chosen badly we stand by, knowing that there is nothing we can do to rescue our child who now must pay the consequences of a poor choice. But unlike the parents in the story, we must bear the social and financial consequences of our child’s poor choice just as if it was our choice. This is part of being “one nation.”

People who are put on very high pedestals only have that much further to fall, and fall they will, for people are not golden statues to worship and trust as a savior from any perceived threat. Anyone who believes himself capable of providing for the physical, spiritual, emotional and social well-being of one person, let alone a nation, is either self-deceived or purposefully deceitful.

The wayward daughter in our story is about to discover a truth best summarized by Mark Twain: When I was fourteen years old, I was amazed at how unintelligent my father was. By the time I turned twenty-one, I was astounded how much he had learned in the last seven years.

May God have mercy on our country and raise up wise leaders who study history in fear of repeating its mistakes and in hopes of repeating its successes.

Half Written Blog Entries

I have had several people ask me when my next blog post was happening. I should take that as a compliment, but really, all I feel is guilt.

I find it so hard to distill my thoughts sometimes; my poor brain swings from corridor to corridor, blindly trying to find its way to some sort of brilliant conclusion... which never happens. Because there are very few brilliant conclusions in life. Especially when you’re trying to write in complete sentences. With proper grammar. And punctuation. And dazzling, creative mastery.

I seem to do much better at babbling endlessly about things like this. Instead of just writing the rest of the ten articles I have previously started, I prefer to talk about how I can’t seem to find the time and focus to finish them.

Since I started this, I have handled two phone calls from two people in crisis. I’ve had to rebuke and correct. I have turned off lights that were left on by wayward children. I am listening to the movie, Kit Kittredge: American Girl, in the background. My husband has called from a garbled cell phone to let me know he’s on his way home, and that the trip he was going to make to Sam’s Club isn’t happening. I have had to walk by countless piles that need to be un-piled, dirty dishes that need to be washed, a to-do list that is blaringly not checked off, and a home school table that needs to be cleaned and organized. Quite frankly, it’s amazing that I can write a coherent sentence, let alone a blog entry.

And that is about as far as I get. The Kit movie ends. The children descend. My husband walks through the door. I hit “save.” And the half written article is reduced to pixels, zeros, and ones. Until I open it again in two weeks, read through it, and decide it was a horrible idea to begin with.