Author Archives: Jane

Faster

Tuesday, September 9, 2003

Two weeks in a row, I’ve gone to Tuesday’s Children. It’s such a blessing to know these friends. Although I still haven’t written something to take for editing, it is an encouragement to hear other women talk about writing, sharing their struggles to write and offering their drafts for critiquing. It offers me hope.

Even now, at home, as I hope to write significant pieces, I walk away from the kitchen stove, a small voice following me. Jane, you needn’t response to each life event with an essay. Relax. Judy came to the meeting today with her idea for an article. Slow and deliberate. It struck a chord. I am wound up, a dog just released from her chain, barking and running everywhere, yet never arriving, and never saying anything worth the bark.

Jesus is the Master of moving with deliberation. Only three years to save the world, yet he had so much time. Time to pray. Time to speak at the well. Sitting on the Mount, he never hurried his sermon to the needy. Time to eat and collect the scraps. And time to retreat, to walk on water, to calm the storm, go to the other side of the lake, and land again alone with time to pray. Even as the people pressed in upon Him, lowered the sick for him to heal, and prompted His rage for their violation of God’s house of prayer…even during all that Jesus accomplished during His short ministry, never do I sense urgency, a quickened pace to get there fast, an impatient tone because He is interrupted on his way by the hand of a woman on the hem of his robe.

Slowly and deliberately, Christ set about to change the world, one person at a time, He shared the gift of life. Never did he despair that his message would die with him on the cross. Peter, do you love me? Feed my sheep. Calming the distress of the disciples, he assured them greater things still will you do.

Greater than Christ? And yet, as holy links in God’s chain, each apostle fulfilled his duty, slowly and deliberately, witnessing to the miracle of salvation they were privileged to share. Walking across the continent, lingering years in Ephesus, Corinth, Rome and beyond, they laid the foundation of faith for the disciples after them. One faithful witness at a time, down through the centuries, whether in a full life or one shortened by martyrdom, each person doing his part, a steady procession of witness moving forward and sharing the gospel, with deliberation, knowing that the inexhaustible supply of time belongs to God.

We aren’t called to be fast. We are called to be faithful.

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THE WRITER’S LIFE
TABLE OF CONTENTS

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Religious Right…By Any Other Name

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RELIGIOUS RIGHT

literalist
fundamentalist
religious fanatic
simple
ignorant
intolerant
judgmental
bigoted
proselytizers
right-wing extremists
vast right-wing conspiracy
religious zealot
right-wing zealot
twisted misfits
conservative
close-minded
narrow-minded
born-again Christians
exclusionary
hypocrites

…uuuuh…deep breath…keep going

divisive
mean-spirited
rigid
self-righteous
violent
potentially violent
terrorists
gay-bashers
ominous agenda
blind
punitive moralists
right-wing conspiracy
hopelessly ignorant
shibboleths
hard right
eccentric
Spiritual Svengali
perennial convert
artistic censor
ridiculous
hysterical

—uuuh…that’s right…there’s more…

tyrannical
puritanical
bleak acceptance of a dark mystery
superficial
weak-minded
self-mutilators
desert dropouts
extremist
hate group
hate monger
Godzilla of the Right
KKK
politics of the mean
anti-establishment barking
Pantheism
soldiers of the right
restless radicals
reckless
armed isolationists
sexual McCarthyism

…uuuhhhhh…almost finished…or…dead from exhaustion…

puritanical zealot

…THE END!…

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THE WRITER’S LIFE
TABLE OF CONTENTS

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I Will Write

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August 27, 2003

Out of failure comes insight.

It was a mistake yesterday not to sit and write.

It’s now obvious that I have come to confuse lots of tangential activities with the down and dirty duty to direct dialogue onto the page. Speaking is not writing. Nor thinking, reading, planning, rehearsing, nor note-taking. Most especially, research is not writing. Only the tiresome blank page as it accumulates words and fills to the bottom signifies success for the writer.

Annie Dillard takes walks in the meadow and imagines the landscape behind the wall of her forest studio. Anne Lamott inspects the mole on her back to make sure it is not cancerous again today. And Jane, if she wants to avoid writing, can do just about anything. But the best dodge of all is research. I can interview people, Transcribe interviews. Attend conferences. Print off web pages. And…file it all away for later…when I plan to write it into something important. When I have time.

My bag is full. I have 38 pages from the Reader’s Guide to Periodicals stuffed in there with web search printouts on NOW, the National Organization for Women and all its leaders. Two hours in the ASU library and half a day on the computer at home. I could write a book. Even if I can’t seem to write 300 words.

The clock struck 10:00 just a while ago. And if progress can be measured by learning from my mistakes, I’m progressing. I’m writing. One and a half hours to go. And even if I have to delete it all because it stinks to high heaven, I will write for two solid hours, each day, today, tomorrow, and on. Until I have a decent paragraph that some editor somewhere chooses to print. I will write.

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THE WRITER’S LIFE
TABLE OF CONTENTS

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Blocked Writer

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I’ve never experienced Writer’s Block, at least not as most writers explain it. I’ve actually experienced it in somewhat the reverse, Blocked Writer.

I sit down, ready to write, the words just ready to pull together into a …wait…the phone rings, the car is dead two miles away, rental car for husband, tow truck for car…

…back to writing, the ideas flow, word added to word, page builds upon page, to the climax, the phone rings, Justin is sick, the computer locks up…

…pick Justin up at school, a smell wafts down the hall, computer still locked, a good story dumped as computer crashes, the burner on the stove blows, the sprinkler system explodes, a river runs down the street, the doorbell rings….

Jill just stopped by, if I have time, her life is a mess, and she is still looking for work, while we’re standing in water running down the hallway, nothing but a broken hose on the washing machine, hours at the laundromat, phone calls and appointments with repairmen for the car, the sprinklers, the stove, the washing machine, the computer, and the sick kid.

Even if I haven’t sent out one story to one publisher to receive one rejection letter…the mailbox is always full. There are bills for water and telephone, taxes to be calculated, broker statements showing stocks going down, going up, going down, stock newsletters in a pile covered with dust. Who can believe it’s already 6:00 p.m., no dinner to cook, no milk, no bread, no butter or eggs, call out for pizza, vegetarian without cheese…hey, who took this call from the attorneys?

The court hearing is rescheduled…maybe…depends, hours to pour over documents that mean nothing to people who meant nothing when they signed them…

…time to write, time to write, write what, are you kidding, when do you think you’re going to have time to write, just organize, prioritize…

If you want it, make it, time to write…sell everything, the house, the sprinkler system, washing machine, phone, computer, husband, kids…then how are you going to order pizza, and without pizza, how are you going to write? Writer’s block? Yeah, I’ve heard of it.

I finally gave up. And when I did, God took over.

“Hey, you down there, Ms. Big-Shot-with-Lots-to-Say. It’s about time you gave up. I was aiming to explode your dishwasher next. But now that I’ve got your attention, here’s what I want to know. What’s so important that you’ve got to sit down and write it anyway?

“I’ve already said it all. Jesus. Remember? The Bible, remember? I’ve seen you reading My Word each morning. What problem in life can’t be settled by My Writing? What can you say that hasn’t already been said…by Me?

“Oh, I don’t mind if you write. I just wish you’d settle down a bit. Splashing words on paper might be fun, but don’t you think you’re taking it a little too seriously. I mean really, you keep saying it’s your ‘Gift.’ Just where did you get that idea, anyway? Gift, my girl, are you looking for a gift? Pinch yourself. Squeeze yourself until you hurt. Face your reflection. You’re the gift. You. Love’s the gift. I offer it to you, to your family, your friends. It has nothing to do with words, with writing. That’s just an occupation. It’s fluff. It’s stuff. Love is the gift, and you.

“If you never have time to write one word, it will be no great loss. There’s plenty of words where I come from. Besides, it’s all been written before, by Me. And who’s listening anyway? Now living, that’s another thing.

“Jane, you’re made for living. You’re made for loving. You’re made for expressing My Love. You don’t need to write for that. In fact, if you spend all your time writing, you might forget what you were made for. Just be, Jane. Be Love. That’s hard enough. If you want to write to earn money for pizza, that’s OK by me. But remember the real gift. If you don’t, I’ll stand in your way. I created words. I own Writers Block.

“I don’t want people to know you by reading. I want them to know you by watching. Be Love. Reflect My Love. That’s enough. And it doesn’t require words.”

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THE WRITER’S LIFE
TABLE OF CONTENTS

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Blink – and – Gone

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Tuesday, July 22, 2003

It was good to hear Donna Partow speak at Word of Grace. She is a hard-hitting John MacArthur, while I am more ready for a thoughtful, meditative Sister of Canaan. Nevertheless, she brought me before God and Christ in a personal way.

Like my time with my writers editing group earlier in the day, Donna made me realize how far distance and distraction have taken me away from total reliance on God’s goodness. Secular and business “duties” have interrupted my meager attempts to read the Bible, attend church, and pray. I keep excusing these lapses because I am trying “to do the work of God.” How much I need to remember that God does his own work, and to the extent that I am separated from Him, I will become less and less useful.

Vic and I have the Blue Top condo rented as of Thursday. On our way to the cabin in the mountains this weekend, we will be able to listen to the Carlton Sheets real estate investing CDs that I ordered while in Washington. I think both of us have previewed his information at least twice before. One more time seems to be in order.

This has been an expensive year for us thus far. We have traveled extensively, with one week in North Carolina, one week in Nashville, my week in D.C. for the NOW conference, and my trip with Jamie to Missouri. We’ve also financed traveling for Justin and Jamie.

Money has continued to flow out of the coffers: termite treatment for Blue Top, new curtains for the office, Dan’s final work on the Vernon house with the kitchen pantry, a new flower and vegetable bed in the front yard, two storage units, and extensive computer repairs that turned into a new computer overnight…all of these expenses have gobbled up every penny deposited and what our bank savings held on reserve. I had to move $2000 from savings just to pay the Sam’s Club bill, something I had hoped to avoid. Vic is right. We need to support our daily living expenses with the income we have. Until then, how can we even think of him retiring?

At least I am sitting at the computer for enough time to write a decent journal entry. How long has it been? Last night, editing Judy’s chapters for her book, I was reinvigorated by the writing process. The Writer’s Life, by Annie Dillard, read on the plane to D.C. evoked so many smiles of recognition. Is this where I’m supposed to be, in front of the computer again, spinning words?

What does it say about my writing, that I was willing to lose it all in the computer meltdown of the past few months? Words, laboriously collected and ordered on the page…hours, months, and years of wordsmithing work…all lost? In a puff of <delete> and <reformat>, the words blink dark…forever lost?

Maybe this is the final letting go God requires of me. If pride won’t allow me to let go of my words, perhaps I am not fit to write.

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THE WRITER’S LIFE
TABLE OF CONTENTS

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Eternity Passes Through You…

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ETERNITY PASSES THROUGH YOU…

…YOUR PRESENCE WILL BE FELT

By now, it is clear, parents don’t know everything. That’s why God made you…that’s why God needs you!

Years ago, before you were born, my grandmother, your great-grandmother Grandma Sue, told your Dad and me, “Your future is in your children.” Thank goodness Dad was paying attention. He mentioned her words to me again that very day, and I couldn’t figure out what they meant. I am a slow learner, for sure!

Today, Grandma Sue spends most of her time in a rocking chair coming from her childhood home, holding a cat in her lap, looking out at the goats playing in the pen on the hillside. Her eyes still manage to read large print Reader’s Digest. Thank goodness for computers with large fonts. God must have allowed the invention of computers for the eyesight of grandmothers and grandfathers. Her ears still manage to hear Lawrence Welk Sunday night on her public television station. None of this will give you a the smallest hint about the years of memories I have with Grandma.

Back then, she didn’t know everything either, but she taught me most of what I know today. She loved to play the piano by ear, and we begged to hear her sing about the bear who chased the preacher up a tree. Boy, how we laughed…and then asked her to play it again!

She entertained us in Tennessee for long summer visits, feeding my sister and me juicy fresh bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwiches, capped with fresh peach ice cream purchased just for us from the small town’s drugstore. She didn’t even tell on us to Mother, who had sent us to Grandma’s house with instructions to vacuum and wash dishes. We didn’t, and Grandma didn’t tell. She just shooed us outside to play, and of course, we didn’t argue.

She told us how mean goats can be. She had proof. When a young girl, the family goat had butted her from behind, making her fall and break her arm. She pointed on her arm to the scars bearing witness to the event. With some justification, she didn’t have much love for goats.

Grandma Sue told me how she had had the strength to nurse her elderly mother and an older uncle in their last years. She said, “I wouldn’t do it if I thought about myself. But when I think about my children, I hope that someone will be there to take care of them if they ever need it. That makes me strong to take care of older folks. They’re someone’s children.”

Grandma sent me a box filled with four-leaf clovers; I’ve never managed to find even one on my own. She spent months in Arizona, and my fondest memories include daily walks with Grandma Sue, Grammy, and our dog Santa, going all around Earl Lake picking up unusual sticks and rocks, pointing out lizards and snakes, and laughing at Santa who leap-frogged through the shallow water, pouncing after frogs and fish.

She was the mother of Grammy, my mother, who spent years building a low lava rock wall encircling the cabin driveway. Grammy filled my home when I was a child with live plants, philodendrons. She pushed dirt and plants into 5-gallon bottles just like ships in a bottle, a trick she a had learned from Grandma Sue. Grammy taught me how to cut up a chicken, the method I still use today, a neat trick she was taught by her mother’s family housekeeper as a wedding gift when she got married in 1950.

Grammy loved to read. She tried to learn to play the piano, taking lessons and practicing everyday. But she never really quite “got it.” She never could play the song about the preacher and the bear. But she more than made up for it with her MEAN cinnamon rolls. I would fight to get the sticky gooey one in the middle, and I never tired as an adult in later years of having her bring a pan of rolls when she visited me.

Grammy lectured me as a child, “If you don’t have something good to say about someone, don’t say anything.” It would make me so made, cutting me off just in the middle of a complaint about someone. Her mother, Grandma Sue, told me, “Everything you say should be the truth, but all the truth doesn’t need to be spoken.”

Grandma Sue considered my dad Jack, your grandpa, as her own son. When she downsided from a huge country home to a single-wide country trailer, he went through her trailer when she moved, nailing, hooking, and attaching all sorts of things. She brags about the method he created to hang her toilet paper more conveniently in the small space.

Daddy, my dad Jack, could be irritating in his efforts to be “particular” about how things were done, but he was always there to fix a radio, to find the perfect size screw for a repair, and to help your own father install a new water line at the apartments. Daddy, your Grandpa, loved collecting just about everything: beer cans, coins, stamps, insulators. I thought he was crazy when he said he was going to write a book about insulators. Who would want a book about them! More people than I realized. And the detailed drawings in his book benefited immensely from his “effort to be particular about how things were done.”

When Grammy was selling things after Granpa died, I gave her an incredulous look and pulled out a small abacus created from soldered wires and Indian beads. Grandpa had made that when he was a child. Later that day, in another box of ‘junk,’ I retrieved a pair of custom-cut and ink-spotted wooden dice he had made. Today, we live in the cabin he and Grammy build and rescued, carrying the fully furnished cabin in two separate sections on two trucks to a new hillside home site, thirty miles down the road, safe from certain demolition.

From your own fathers’s side of the family, you inherit the world: a grandfather who immigrated to the United States from Colombia when he was just about your own age today. In a different time, when Hispanic people tried to pretend to be light-skinned, your Nana would proudly proclaim, “I’m Mexican. What’s wrong with that?” In fact, she delighted in teasing neighbor children that they couldn’t eat her tacos unless they were Mexican. Only Mexicans ate tacos. With their mouths watering, the kids would look at her and say, “Rebecca, I’m a Mexican.” “Eat up!” she would tell them.

Nana told us how challenging life had been in Puerto Rico where even the Mexican culture clashed with Puerto Rican customs, but she always told about the challenges with laughs and smiles. I never heard her say a mean thing about anyone.

In our tool shed, we have the pick that she used to dig out clump after clump after clump of bamboo roots that had flourished in a special paradise just made for bamboo…over the septic tank leech line. She enjoyed telling us about birthing a calf in the kitchen and protecting your Dad when his brother Donnie chased him into the house, threatening to “tear him apart” for not watering the cows. And today, after the death of Nana, we are able to celebrate life with your grandfather who lives in his own papaya paradise down in Mexico, continuing the love of travel that brought him here to the United States sixty years ago.

In all of this, I see Justin as he builds tiny wire, wood and rubber band catapults and as he builds bows and arrows with paper clips that I must confiscate. I see the generosity of Jamie who is able to find the perfect gift for the person who has everything and who will spend all of her hard-earned money to get the best for someone else. I see both of you handling jobs in high school, at the time of life when I was only playing. I enjoy listening to you practice your Spanish. I marvel at your ability to unravel complicated puzzles, and I am proud that you are eager to contribute time to serve meals at city shelters. I feel honored that God allowed me to be your parent.

Most important of all, God teaches us that we are all brothers and sisters. Our future is in our children…and in our brothers, sisters, friends, neighbors, everyone we touch. You are not just mine. You belong to God, and through Him, to the world. He has special places to lead you, special talents to nurture in you, and special gifts to ask from you.

Just two years ago, I sat in the living room of Grandma Sue’s trailer and heard her talk as she has down over so many years about her early life. She started reciting poetry and encouraged me to pull out a book of poems on her shelf by Charles McWhorter. He is not a famous poet that the world will know. But he is part of you because he is a part of her. I have asked Uncle Jimmie and Aunt Brenda to make sure to save this book for me on the day that Grandma Sue dies and passes on. Inside the book, I found letters that Grandma explained to me as we talked, and these letters between a grandmother and a poet tell as much about Grandma Sue and Mr. McWhorter as anything else.

As we wake in the morning, God asks us to live to the fullest of each day that he gives to us when we wake in the morning. I hope you will always feel the special privilege God also gives us in letting eternity pass through us, adding to the honor and glory gifted to us by the people who have come before and our responsibility for passing these gifts faithfully forward to those who will follow.

I love you!

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

Charles C. McWhorter

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Bibliography

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NOTE TO READERS:
I completed PARENTS DON’T KNOW EVERYTHING for our two children in 1997. The books and writings listed in this Bibliography provided insights that informed my writing. Selected quotes from these sources have been included in the stories posted here. Others will be posted in future updates. Some are awaiting publisher’s permission before posting.

Nearly twenty years have passed since writing this book. The stories still reflect my parent’s heart. The Bibliography, if crafted today, would reflect my own personal and spiritual growth during that time.

This Bibliography provides access to the materials used when writing PARENTS DON’T KNOW EVERYTHING. However, it is not a recommended reading list. There is much of value here, and some make my personal Top Ten. But you, the reader, must use your own discernment.

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BIBLIOGRAPHY

Bakker, Jim, I Was Wrong, Nashville: Thomas Nelson Publishers, 1996.

Bombeck, Erma, “Real Success Is Not What We Do, But Who We Are,” The Arizona Republic.

Bortz, Walter M., M.D., We Live Too Short and Die Too Long, New York: Bantam Books, 1991.

Buscaglia, Leo, Love, Ballantine Books, 1972.

——–, Personhood, the Art of Being Fully Human, New York: Ballantine Books, 1978.

——–, The Way of the Bull, Charles B. Slack, Inc., publisher, Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1973.

Canfield, Jack and Mark Victor Hansen, Chicken Soup for the Soul, Deerfield Beach, Florida: Health Communications, Inc., 1993.

——–, A 2nd Helping of Chicken Soup for the Soul, Deerfield Beach, Florida: Health Communications, Inc., 1995.

Carnegie, Dale, How to Win Friends and Influence People, Simon and Schuster, 1936.

Chopra, Deepak, the Seven Spiritual Laws of Success: A Practical Guide to the Fulfillment of your Dreams, San Rafael, California: Amber-Allen Publishing: New World Library, 1994.

Close, Rev. James J., No One to Call Me Home, America’s New Orphans, Chicago, Mission of Our Lady of Mercy, Inc., 1990.

Covey, Stephen R. and A. Roger Merrill, First Things First, to Live, to Love, to Learn, to Leave a Legacy, New York: Simon and Schuster, 1994.

Dyer, Dr. Wayne W., Pulling Your Own Strings, New York: Funk & Wagnalls, 1978.

——–, Your Erroneous Zones, New York: Funk & Wagnalls, 1976.

Foley, Charles, In God’s Underground, Richard Wurmbrand, New York: Bantam Books, 1968.

Frankl, Viktor E., Man’s Search for Meaning, Revised, New York: Washington Square Press, 1984.

Fulghum, Robert, All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten, New York: Villard Books, 1989.

——–, It Was on Fire When I Lay Down on It, New York: Ivy Books, 1989.

Frost, S. E. Jr., Basic Teachings of the Great Philosophers, Revised Edition, New York: Doubleday & Company, Inc., 1962.

Fynn, Mister God, this is Anna, New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1974.

Gandhi, Mohandas K., Gandhi, an Autobiography, The Story of My Experiments with Truth, Boston: Beacon Press, 1957.

Gibran, Kahlil, The Prophet, New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1986.

In God’s Care, New York: HarperCollins Publishers, 1990.

The Holy Bible, New International Version, Zondervan Bible Publishers, 1988.

Jefferson, Citizen Jefferson: The Wit and Wisdom of an American Sage, compiled and edited by John P. Kaminski, Madison, Wisconsin: Madison House, 1994.

John-Roger & Peter McWilliams, Life 101, Everything We Wish We Had Learned About Life in School–But Didn’t, Los Angeles: Prelude Press, 1991.

Larson, Bruce, Where Will You Be When You Get Where You’re Going, Garden Grove, California: Crystal Cathedral Ministries, 1995.

McWilliams, Peter, Life 102: What do Do When Your Guru Sues You, Los Angeles: Prelude Press, 1994.

Michael, Robert T., Sex in America, Little Brown Publishing, 1994.

Mother Teresa, Mother Teresa, In My Own Words, compiled by Jose Luis Gonzalez-Balado, Liguori, Missouri: Liguori Publications, 1996.

——–, A Life for God: the Mother Teresa Reader, compiled by LaVonne Neff, Ann Arbor, Michigan: Servant Publications, 1995.

Oatman, Johnson, Jr., and Edwin O Excell, “Count Your Blessings,” The Hymnal for Worship and Celebration, Waco, Texas: Word Music, 1986.

Peale, Norman Vincent, The Positive Principle Today, How to Renew and Sustain the Power of Positive Thinking, Carmel, New York: Guideposts, 1976.

——–. The Power of Positive Thinking, New York: Prentice-Hall, 1952.

Pearsall, Paul, Ph.D., The Pleasure Prescription, Alameda, California: Hunter House Publishers, 1996.

Peck, M. Scott, M.D., The Road Less Traveled, New York: Simon and Schuster, 1978.

Petersen, Dr. J. Allan, Better Families, Family Concern, 16086 W. Ridge Tee Dr., Morrison, Colorado, 80465-2140, Vol. 21, No. 2, February, 1997.

Peterson, Karen S., “Turns Out We Are ‘Sexually Conventional,'” USA Today, Friday, October 7, 1994, pp. 1A-2A.

Powell, John, S. J. He Touched Me, My Pilgrimage of Prayer, Niles, Illinois: Argus Communications, 1974.

Schlink, M. Basilea, Realities of Faith, Minneapolis, Minnesota: Bethany House Publishers, 1983.

Schuller, Robert H., Be Happy, You Are Loved, New York: Thomas Nelson Publishers, 1986.

——–, Prayer: My Soul’s Adventure with God, Nashville: Thomas Nelson Publishers, 1995.

——–. Tough Minded Faith for Tender Hearted People, New York: Bantam Books, 1983.

Steinem, Gloria, Outrageous Acts and Everyday Rebellions, New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1983.

Ten Boom, Corrie, Corrie Ten Boom, Her Story: The Hiding Place, New York: Inspirational Press, 1995.

Tutu, Desmond, An African Prayer Book, New York: Walker and Company, 1995.

Twain, Mark, Report from Paradise, New York, Harper & Brothers Publishers, 1952.

Wiesell, Elie, Dawn, translated from the French by Frances Frenaye, Robson Books Ltd., London, 1960, 1961.

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

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SHORT STORY by Mommy: Yelling at Mrs. Washburn

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Tuesday, 6:30 a.m.

Today I just know I’m going to yell at Mrs. Washburn. Only once, if I can help it. I woke up with a headache, and I know I’ll forget myself sometime today when my head hurts, and I’ll yell at her. Well, not exactly yell….I’ll shoot my eyes at her, frown, stretch my voice real tight and fast, and I’ll snap, shoot a string of words at her with a glare, and I’ll go back to writing on my papers,…but I’ll be nice to her the rest of the day. I’ll only yell at her once.

Tuesday, 4:30 p.m.

I had a feeling it was going to be one of those days. I had a headache this morning, late to school, papers ungraded and plans half-finished. Randy walked noisily into the classroom, banging desks, walls, and students. After getting the first period organized, I was hurrying to catch-up with plans and papers during a break with my class at P.E.

Just then Mrs. Washburn, Melody, my friend, came in and asked me if she could borrow the science video. I feel kind of bad because I yelled at her, “I don’t have it! Chris has it. I don’t know where he put it!” I mean, I didn’t have time to go looking for it. We all wrote down who was using it and when. She was supposed to have that note. How was I supposed to get my work done? The kids were going to get out of P.E. in 15 minutes. She knew how busy I was. It wasn’t my fault Chris didn’t pass the video on.

I tried to find her at lunch to explain, but I had to meet kids in my room. After school she came to return the video, but when I looked up to say “Hi” she had already left the room. I guess she was busy.

Oh well, we’re good friends. She’ll understand. After all, I only yelled at her once. She’ll forget about it by tomorrow morning.

Wednesday, 4:00 p.m.

I wish I had caught Melody today. I just wanted to apologize. I can’t believe how the time has flown. I thought she might wait at her car and walk with me inside this morning, but I guess she didn’t see me. At our mailbox in the office, I said HI and stopped to wait for her to go together to our classrooms…but I guess she’s busy. She didn’t seem to see me. She looked busy all day long. That must be why she didn’t pop into my room like she usually does.

Oh well, I’ve been busy, too. She’s probably forgotten. Maybe I should forget it, too. After all, I only yelled at her once.

Thursday, 3:30 p.m.

Boy, the week has really gone quickly. I didn’t see Melody all day long. Except for once. Yeah, I passed her in the hall. I called to her, but she didn’t hear me. There’s so much going on.

Well, I’ve got to leave early. It’s really no big deal. After all, we’ve been friends for 5 years. She’ll understand.

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THINGS TO REMEMBER

Words have awesome power to build us up or tear us down emotionally. This is particularly true within the family. Many people can clearly remember words of praise parents spoke years ago. Others can remember negative, cutting words–with the whole scene etched in extraordinary detail on their minds. —Gary Smalley

Disagreements and quarrels in a relationship are inevitable, and they can be beneficial or deadly. If two people know how to resolve conflicts so that their relationship deepens and matures, they possess a magnificent skill. But if they don’t know how to deal effectively with their disagreements, their marriage may be systematically destroyed. More marriages fail because two people don’t know how to handle their differences than for any other reason. That’s why it’s so vital to know ahead of time that you and your spouse-to-be are skillful at managing problems. If you don’t know that, you’re taking a big risk in getting married. —Dr. Neil Warren

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This Is the Day the Lord Has Made…

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THIS IS THE DAY THE LORD HAS MADE…

…WHO INVITED THE WORMS?

Nobody likes me, everybody hates me,
I’m gonna eat some worms.
Big ones, fat ones, little tiny skinny ones.
I’m gonna eat some worms.

Nobody likes me, everybody hates me,
Guess I’ll go eat worms,
Long, thin slimy ones, short, fat juicy ones,
Fuzzy wuzzy teeny weeny worms.

This song was written just for me. Not only does everybody hate me, but I have problems. Lots of problems. The upholstery in the car is falling apart, the garden is dying, I burned the rice, taxes are due, the television is broken, I lost my favorite CD, I have mosquito bites and chigger bites on top of the mosquito biteS…should I go on? Naw, forget it. I’ll just eat worms.

Every once in a while, however, when I run out of worms, I do get a glimpse of my foolishness. One early morning, while walking around the neighborhood, I tried to remind myself that life wasn’t all bad. At least I had a house in a pretty neighborhood. At least the morning was cool and refreshing. The sun was out. At least I had two healthy legs for walking. “Hey,” I thought. “I wonder how long I can keep thinking of things to be grateful for. I can breathe. I can think. I live in the United States. I was raised by two loving parents. We had food in the refrigerator. I still have food in the refrigerator. Good food. If I want to go out to eat tonight, I can, I have the money. There are restaurants nearby. The streets are safe. No one will break into my house tonight to arrest my husband. My eyes work. My ears work…We work. We have jobs. We get paid for our jobs.” For one full hour, on my morning walk, I was overpowered by the steady stream of things I had to be thankful for. **

With all this thankfulness, you may be surprised that, whenever anyone asks me, “How’s your day?” I am still tempted to think of problems. It is so easy to stop being thankful.

This year Dad brought home a story by Zig Ziglar. Zig’s flight had been cancelled, causing him long delays at the airport. Some people in line were pounding the counter, shouting, voices tense, demanding new flights to get them back in the air. Others, accepted the delay calmly. Zig was asked, “Isn’t this delay terrible?” He responded, “Compared to what?” Compared to a warm bath, a good book, a glass of wine, and mellow music…being stranded in the airport was definitely a loser. Compared to being in an airplane crash…being stranded was just fine!

If I get off course, counting my troubles, I often find myself automatically asking myself, “Compared to what?” “Isn’t this heat terrible?…Compared to what?” “Isn’t it awful to pay $1000 for a new transmission? Compared to what?” Compared to having no money, no home, no food…$1000 for a new transmission is a blessing. And I just move the transmission from the troubles column to the blessings column.

Yet…sometimes, in spite of my best efforts to keep everything under the blessings column on my balance sheet, I find myself pressed against a problem that blinds me, takes control, and threatens to take me out. This past year has had its generous share of trials. One of the largest has been the death of my mother, your grandmother. You have watched your dad and me spiral downwards, talk each other out of the pits of dejection, seeking words of comfort and inspiration. Some days we succeed. Other days, we get out the can opener for the worms. What a year! Three families of our small church lost parents/spouses to cancer. Another father/brother/son was murdered. it is ever so tempting to slip into counting the trials…Isn’t it terrible to have to work with spiteful, hateful people? Compared to what?

Of course, by now, knowing that I am not perfect, you can predict that I forget my good fortune more than I should. Yes, my mind is on worms more than it should be…

Raw worms, buttered worms,

Salt and pepper, spicy WORMS,

You would think I’d tire of worms!!!

Your grandmother knew me just about as well as anyone. She taped several sayings around her home on picture frames, on the edge of counter tops, and under glass at her office desk. Maybe she knew I would find them as I went through her home following her death, as I struggled in making decisions on how to pass along her possessions. Little did she expect, I imagine, that these treasured sayings would be among her most valuable possessions, being my duty and honor to pass them along to you her grandchildren:

Instead of being thankful when their cups runneth over, too many people pray for a bigger cup. –unknown

Talking about your troubles is no good. Eighty percent of your friends don’t care, and the rest are glad. –Tommy Lasorda

This is the day the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it.
–Psalm 118: 24

**See Published Story: Blessed by Breakdowns by Jane Jimenez

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Count Your Blessings

Text: Johnson Oatman, Jr.
Music: Edwin O. Excell
Performed by Guy Penrod
Performed by Irish Choir
History of Song

When upon life’s billows you are tempest tossed,
When you are discouraged, thinking all is lost,
Count your many blessings, name them one by one,
And it will surprise you what the Lord hath done.

REFRAIN:
Count your blessings, name them one by one;
Count your blessings, see what God hath done;
Count your blessings, name them one by one;
Count your many blessings, see what God hath done.

Are you ever burdened with a load of care?
Does the cross seem heavy you are called to bear?
Count your many blessings, every doubt will fly,
And you will be singing as the days go by.

REFRAIN

When you look at others with their lands and gold,
Think that Christ has promised you His wealth untold;
Count your many blessings, money cannot buy
Your reward in heaven, nor your home on high.

REFRAIN

So, amid the conflict, whether great or small,
Do not be discouraged, God is over all;
Count your many blessings, angels will attend,
Help and comfort give you to your journey’s end.

REFRAIN

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Count Your Blessings…Name Them One By One

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4.__________________________________

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6.__________________________________

7.__________________________________

8.__________________________________

9.__________________________________

10.________________________________

…Don’t stop now…

11._____You’re just getting started…

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

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** See Blessed by Breakdowns, by Jane Jimenez, published in Marriage Partnership.

WHAT YOUR PARENTS WOULD TELL YOU ABOUT SEX…

…IF THEY COULD REMEMBER!

Sex is everywhere these days. The ads sell it. Talk show guests brag about it. Kids strut it. And parents avoid it…except to tell kids not to do it.

I don’t think you really want a close and personal talk with us about sex. It seems still to be an area where parents and kids need to maintain some privacy. Don’t let the title of this chapter scare you. I want my privacy, and I want to respect yours.

You already know our concern about AIDS. We have talked freely in the house about our fears. Because of AIDS, information is freely available about the technical aspects of sex. Perhaps because of our fears for you, we probably convey the message that we don’t want you to be sexually active. The pleasures of sex you will discover over the years. My fears for you are founded in the mistakes of my youth, fortunately for me, mistakes that never proved fatal.

Mistake number one. Don’t let people my age mislead you. Girls my age were having sex in high school. Not everyone. But I personally knew three girls who openly admitted to it while talking about their boyfriends. However, we lived in the era of whispers. Sex was there, but everyone whispered about ‘it.’

Mistake number two. In our efforts to promote the equality of ‘humans’ we worked our hardest to prove that we were all the same. Blacks were the same as whites. Girls were the same as boys. Hindus were the same as Christians…and on and on…the equality of the human spirit.

Mistake number three. It’s not the sexual act that is wrong, we shouted, it’s the sincerity of the relationship that matters.

And I spent my first year of college putting those mistakes into action.

I went to college sexually naive, due to mistake number one. I am glad to live in a new climate of open discussion of sex. Dumb Is Better is only true if you are Jim Carrey. For the rest of us, dumber is stupider. When everyone is busy whispering about sex, you miss 90 percent of what is said and mistake 8 percent of what you do hear. Of the remaining 2 percent, half (at least) of the sexual discussion was false or misleading. How’s your math? When adults put down your generation as sexually promiscuous, we aren’t really able to say that we can go back to the ‘good old days.’

I went to college to prove that I could be just like a guy, mistake number two. One of the phrases of the 60’s you will hear us ‘older types’ repeat with a smile is, “One of my best friends is _____.” Fill in the blank. For whites, it was often, “I don’t believe in prejudice. One of my best friends is black.” Or…”Some of my best friends are guys.” “I have several good friends who are gay. They’re just like us, regular people.” We were big into ignoring differences. Finally, today we are comfortably acknowledging differences and appreciating the variety they give to life. In the ‘good old days’ we acted like differences caused prejudice.

Mistake number three was clouded vision. I liked my college friends because they were sincere. They weren’t impressed by money, clothes, cars, hair styles…we discussed values, ethics, philosophy. And today I STILL love my college friends for the same reason. But sincerity does not cure all evils. It is not the Pinesol of life that washes away the need for judgment, that eliminates the need to distinguish the rotten apple and give it the heave ho before it ruins the rest.

My mistakes follow like a laundry list.

My sorority pledge roommate arranged a September double date with two frat boys, real cute frat boys. We went to a drive-in movie. Now Ruth and I were about as far apart on the sincerity scale as possible. We ended up as roomies because they put all the sorority pledges together as roommates in the “normal” dorms, figuring that we had all pledged, would share sorority life together, and move out to sorority houses at the same time. They didn’t count on me. My sorority pledge week is another story, but the final line of it is that Ruth was in one of the top two bitchin’ sororities, and I wasn’t in any sorority. She was constantly worrying about the color of her socks, who she was going out with tonight, and when her Kansas boyfriend would call. My date that night was from one of the top two bitchin’ frats, and I think I was supposed to feel appreciative of that, as well as the date.

The four of us were in the car busy laughing, talking, and watching the movie, and I thought that was the point of the evening. The cute, bitchin’ boys had been thoughtful enough to bring their own Cokes. And a small bottle of clear something or other. Now, I had never had a sip of liquor before college. I was in college to be open-minded, and it wouldn’t hurt to try a drink. We laughed, talked, and watched the movie, as I sipped on my Coke. Before I hit the bottom of the glass, my eyes got droopy, the movie looked blurry, and it was hard to hold my head up. Everyone was still laughing, except me. I was concentrating on talking right and staying awake…and laughing appropriately, if I could. I did understand enough to turn down a second Coke. By the end of the movie, my head had cleared, and we headed back to the frat house.

Not wanting to embarrass my roommate for bringing a prude along, I went into the frat house where Ruth and her reeeeeeealy cute date disappeared, and I was left with my date. No, I didn’t want another drink, yeh, let’s talk, sure you can rub my shoulders, no I don’t think a back rub under my jumper will be that much better, I think I’m ready to go back to the dorm now. Ruth didn’t show up until the following morning. Her Kansas boyfriend called that night, I think. I woke in the morning under the sharp glare of the 10:00 a.m. sun with a throbbing head, a sour stomach, and cotton in my mouth. I took a drink of water and an aspirin and went back to bed, vowing never to feel that way in the morning again. I haven’t.

I don’t know how much vodka or gin was in the Coke that night, but my later years have assured me that it was more than a ‘good guy’ should ever offer a ‘good girl.’ I just didn’t know that kind of thing could happen.

Do you think I learned my lesson? Read on.

Ruth and I quickly learned that we should never share dating or much of anything else. So I went out on my own. One October night, bumping into an old high school friend that I trusted, I ended up accompanying her group to a party and meeting a guy friend of hers that seemed really nice. He invited me out on a date, and I thought it might be fun. The evening must have been nice, whatever we did. On our way home he asked if I wanted to see the view from Camelback mountain. Now, stupid is as stupid does. I said ‘yes’ because I wanted to see the view. Never mind that Camelback Mountain was a notorious smooching hangout for high school kids. If we ended up kissing a bit, well, I was busy being open-minded, and he seemed like such a nice person.

He actually was a nice guy, because during Christmas vacation he called to talk with me at my parent’s house and to apologize once again profusely for thinking I was one of “those kind of girls” and wanting to know if I would be willing to go out again now that he knew a good night kiss would be all that I was interested in.

November-January was filled with a serious boyfriend, Frank Whatshisname. No insult is intended, for I doubt he will remember my last name, my first name, or much else about me.

Somewhere in there, there was a sincere boy from northern Arizona who had come to college in the big city. He liked telling me about the big saint Bernard dog he missed back home, and I remember laughing and teasing late at night on the lawn outside of Grady Gammage auditorium. I think he was cute, but I know he was nice.

In March, dateless, Jeannie and I decided to go out and have some girl fun. Late that Friday evening we put on our high boots and velvet hot pants, and we went walking around the Tempe campus. Cars would honk, actually guys in cars would honk. Well, actually, guys started slowing down in their cars, pulling up to the curb, and stalling our walk for a real ‘conversation.’ Maybe this had to do with Jeannie’s 36-26-36 figure, low-cut frilly blouse, pre-hippie fluffed hair, and unbelievable female walk. I was definitely out of my league. Little did the guys know that we were only silly college girls and that Jeannie was the true, straight-laced Catholic girl out for a tiny bit of fun.

That particular evening should have made me wary of a fix-up date Jeannie arranged for me with a “really cute guy.” As she and I stood in the dinner line at the dorm, I asked her what he was like. Where had she met him? What did he like to do? “Oh, he’s so cute, and he lives in this neat townhouse that his parents own.” When he called to arrange to pick me up, he asked me to bring my swimsuit because there was a pool at the townhouse. Stupid is as stupid does. I took my swimsuit. Swimming sounded fun.

Swimming and kissing wasn’t fun. Getting out of the pool, later, even in clothes, kissing wasn’t fun. “Don’t you like to kiss,” he asked. “I like short dates,” I replied. Jeannie was right. He was cute.

In April, I met your dad. He was not a mistake. He was cute!

Your dad probably saved my life. There’s only so many “stupid is as stupid doeses” in a person’s life before you run into danger. Along the way, the “mistakes” of my era also helped to save me.

Yes, sex was whispered and women were held back. Sex was looked upon as special: good and bad special. Sex was especially bad if you were a girl before marriage. Boys were just boys. I don’t appreciate that attitude. Sex was especially bad if you got pregnant…before or (without) marriage. Children of unwed parents were “illegitimate,” as if to say they were “mistakes” who didn’t belong…unless they were adopted by married parents. I don’t appreciate any of these old attitudes either. I am glad for the sexual revolution that opened the door to information and healthy acceptance of sex.

But the good part of all of the above is that sex was special. It belonged to special people at special times in special places for special reasons. Maybe it shouldn’t have been so special, but it doesn’t belong in the gutter. I see sexual exploitation in the popular out-for-everyone-to-see culture that is vulgar, not because it is sex, but because it violates the dignity of individual people. I hear sexual lyrics in music and see them translated into MTV videos that turn me off, not because I feel I’m a prude, but because they suggest sexual truths that don’t exist. “If it feels good, do it.” Well, “it” does feel good. But the little word “it” includes a lot more than “sex.” Some people are trying to sell us on the idea that “it” equals the physical “sex” they have been able to describe so graphically. Ask yourself why they are doing this.

The second mistake I made was in thinking that everyone shared my naive attitudes. For some people, and at some times in our lives, sex is purely physical. If he wanted to see the view from Camelback or swim at night, then “I could dig it.” But boys are not the same as girls. We can want the same jobs, the same opportunities, the same access to money, credit, fame, glory…but we are not the same. In general, men have a different physical drive and a different need for sex than women.

Now, I know you both. You are good at finding the exceptions. But don’t let the exceptions eclipse the general rule. Unfortunately, science is showing that boys (and girls) are reaching sexual maturity at earlier ages today just as we are pushing boys and girls to delay family (sexual consequences) and marriage until educational goals and social maturity have been realized. There is a window of ages 14 – 22? when you are “wired” for sex and are being asked to “defer” sex, and boys do have more “wires.”

I didn’t expect that sexual needs would transform simple dates into elaborate rituals moving toward the sexual moment. I thought everyone (boys included) was waiting, just like me. In the Good Old Days the parents, culture, television, radio, and music were telling kids they should wait, even if it didn’t always happen. Today, there is a whole world out there telling you that you don’t need to wait, forget it, “it” feels good, don’t be a prude, there’s nothing wrong with healthy physical sex, why wait. Ask yourself why they are telling you this.

My third mistake was in not understanding sex, what it was, what it belonged to, and what sex with sincerity implied. I now feel that this mistake wasn’t my fault. I believe it is the fate of youth and inexperience. Maybe that’s why history made up so many rules connected with sex and why fathers were handed shotguns to enforce those rules. (Do you know what a shotgun marriage is?) History seems to show that you first have sex and then you learn what it means.

Fortunately, you live in a time when sex is not equal to marriage. Unfortunately, you also live in a time when sex is not equal to marriage. With the sexual revolution of the 60s we wanted to liberate sex from the mechanical act that comes the day you get married, and we wanted to attach sex to sincerity. Sex was supposed to be a sincere act between two “connected” and “caring” people. Marriage does not guarantee good intent, good follow through, or sincerity. That was the goal of marriage originally, but we see so many examples of its failure to do that. My greatest fear for you is that your culture is destroying the intent, destroying the sincerity, that transforms the physical sex into the magical sex.

Rather than tell you what sex means to me, I urge you to ask yourself what it means to all the people peppering the afternoon talk shows. It means liberation, independence, babies, maturity, immaturity, happiness, unhappiness, control, submission, illness, AIDS, fulfillment…it seems to “mean” what the person who is talking “means.” If doing it is as good as your culture is telling you it is, why are there so many unhappy and unfulfilled people available for Rikki Lake to exploit? I cry inside to see the types of boy-girl relationships we are generating with today’s teens. I look at the string of people sitting in chairs on the stage and I start to wring my hands, “What is the world coming to these days?” Then Phil-Rikki-Sally-Jenny will give the microphone to a member of the audience, and I will breath a sigh of relief.

Listen to the people in the audience. Listen to their questions, hear their advice. Young and old alike, they sound like they are back in the 60’s. Sex gives fulfillment if you are a fulfilled person first. Sex is pleasurable if you find pleasure in life first. Sex is enhanced with sincerity, if you are a sincere person with another sincere person, first. Sex is physically safe if you live a healthful informed life first. Sex will give you a joyful family and wonderful children, if you seek the joyful and wonderful marriage first.

Sex will give physical pleasure first, before all of the above, if you choose it, but what about the rest? Day after day, Rikki’s guests describe lives that started with sex…and then what…they are on stage describing misery, after misery:

I got pregnant, and he didn’t hang around.
I got pregnant, and we’re living with his parents.
I thought he loved me, but he won’t get married.
We really love each other, but he can’t quit seeing his old girlfriend.
We really love each other, but his old girlfriend keeps after him. I think they’re having sex.
We were planning to get married, but we broke up. Now I have AIDS.
We had too much to drink, and we ended up in bed. Now I’m pregnant.
I really love him, but he won’t marry me.
I really love him, but he won’t stop dating other girls
I’m sleeping with him, but I’m not sure if he’s sleeping with other girls.
Yes, we use condoms…most of the time.

Listen to their stories…and listen to the audience. I didn’t have Oprah when I was growing up in the 60s, but then we didn’t need her as much, either. We had rules. We didn’t have to think. We just knew the rules. I didn’t have to think about each date carefully because I was safe in a time when rules were in place and people, by in large, followed the rules.

The rules and your dad saved me, stupid-is-as-stupid-does ME. Women were still on a pedestal, and it was against the rules to pull a woman off the pedestal. If she wanted to climb down by herself, that was OK. But respect was a RULE back in the 60’s, and when your date said NO, it was bad manners, against the rules, look out for the shotgun, if you ignored her. So, mommy could be stupid time after time, and my dates would bring me home safely time after time.

Your dad saved me, just as the rules started to evaporate for all time, saved me by loving and respecting me sincerely. He sincerely loves and respects me 25 years later. We, he and I, have a pact that we always want a marriage based on sincerity, and I am not afraid that he might leave. He has permission to leave, but I hope he never does. I am glad we are not in the 60’s when he would have had to follow rules and stay with me forever, love or no love. I am glad we are in the 90’s when he is staying because he loves me. I am glad he loves me first, before the sex.

My fears for you? There are no rules today. You have no choice. You must think, think hard, and think for yourself. Daddy is only there for me. You will have to find your own Daddy or Mommy from the many people you meet.

Many people in your lives, many 90s movies and television shows will remind you that “you make the rules.” Sex feels good, if it feels good, do it. I can still see the MTV video of 6 young people playing cards around a table, boys shirts off sweaty chests and pants partially zipped, girls in tight shiny dresses down to their crotches, all gyrating, bumping and pumping at each other, putting cards onto the table, and ?singing? I keep wondering, were they really playing cards? If so, how could they concentrate? I wonder, were they having sex? Together as 6? While playing cards? While singing? Who is making this stuff?

You will have many people discouraging you from waiting for sex that is right for you. They will tell you, now is the time, why wait, everyone is doing it, what’s wrong with you…and ask yourself why are they tell me that?

Are they producing movies and videos that we buy so that they can buy big houses and cars with our money?

Are they ‘friends’ who want you to join in on their own escapades to avoid being alone or on their own?

Is it a boy (a nice boy, a cute boy) who has hot wires?

Is it a girl or boy you just met that seems sincere?

And ask yourself, what happens when the sex is over? Where will the hot, sincere boy/girl be?

Where will the hot, sincere boy/girl be if I get pregnant or get AIDS?

They “loved” me (or at least liked me a lot) enough to have sex
…I wonder if they will love me
…tomorrow
…next week
…next year
…if I am bed-ridden for 6 months
…if I have to move to Alaska
…you can make up your own ifs…

For most of these questions, as with much of life, time will tell. You know they will be there for you in the hospital next year when next year rolls around and they are standing next to your hospital bed. There is no shortcut to sincerity. It requires patience, yes, even waiting. No parents will be there for you in the car, in the swimming pool, in the bedroom, to shake a finger. Unlike your lucky mom, you live in a time when date rape, sex clubs and lists, and casual teen sex exist. Women have been pulled from the pedestal with a resounding thud.

Your mom could be stupid. You can’t.

I love you, but my love can’t protect you. You must love yourself above all. You must love yourself, whether you have a date tonight or a steady boyfriend. You must love yourself enough to question the promised “love” of a cute boy who is pressuring you into something you don’t feel good about. You must love yourself enough to know that you can keep your sexual distance from a girl without being less of a man. If you don’t love yourself that much, don’t expect another person to save you with their love. Your love comes first! Love for yourself and your well-being. Then comes love, then comes marriage, then comes Jamie/Justin with a baby carriage.

I love you both. Forever!

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Return to: TABLE OF CONTENTS

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PLAN AHEAD

The time to look for a fire escape is before the building catches on fire. Likewise, young people* need to set limits for sexual activity before they go out on a date, even before any relationship begins. If teens wait to set standards until their hormones are aroused, they’ll probably blow it. Encourage teens to share those standards with their dates. When the other person knows the standards, it’s not quite so easy to forget. (*and old people)

Josh McDowell, quoted in BETTER FAMILIES, Dr. J. Allan Petersen, February, 1997

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TURNS OUT WE ARE ‘SEXUALLY CONVENTIONAL’

USA TODAY
by Karen S. Peterson
Friday, October 7, 1994, pp. 1A-2A.
Reporting on: Sex in America, Robert T. Michael, Little Brown Publishing
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Despite popular images of swinging singles and steamy bedhopping, plain old married sex is the best sex of all.

And forget about every night. We don’t have sex that often, and that’s just fine with us, thank you. We’re pretty satisfied with the sex we have.

That’s the good news for the mainstream from the National Health and Social Life Survey, a random sample study of 3,432 ages 18-59, to be released Monday. It’s being touted as the most comprehensive U.S. sex survey ever.

It is also a study Congress turned its back on. Following attacks by conservatives, the government refused funding. In 1991, the University of Chicago-based research team found private money and went ahead anyway.

Ironically, many findings about committed sex will please the wary. About 87% of marrieds are “very” or “extremely” pleased physically with their sex lives; 85% are emotionally satisfied. Among live-ins–partners who live together but aren’t married–84% are physically pleased; 76% emotionally.

The least satisfied are those commonly thought to have the hottest sex; those who are not married, not living with anyone, and who have had at least two sex partners in the last 12 months.

Many of the mountains of statistics translate to “good news for relationships,” says University of Chicago sociologist Edward Laumann, one of the five study authors.

The statistics on infidelity–make that fidelity–show 80% of women and 65% to 85% of men of every age have never cheated on their spouses. Researcher John Gagnon, a sociologist with the State University of New York, Stony Brook, calls the statistic “one of our most important findings. It suggests the way in which marriage is one of the country’s dominant institutions.”

About findings that the best sex takes place in marriage, Beverly LeHaye of the conservative group Concerned Women for America, says, “We’ve been saying that for years, but we had nothing as extensive as this coming out to give it credence.”

The survey supports a long-held tenet of sociology: we meet and marry people quite like ourselves, those in our socioeconomic class, similar in “age, education, ethnicity, religion, and educational background,” Laumann says. In part, that facilitates choosing someone who likes the same sexual practices we do.

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TABLE OF CONTENTS