Greek and Roman gods

I have recently been playing Injustice: God's Among Us on my phone. A lot. It's really fun! I get to be a superhero or villain who fights and is awesome. Then I noticed that Marvel has a similar game, so I got it, too. Then I realized: Marvel and DC are kind of like the Greek and Roman gods: the names change and so do some details, but they are astonishingly similar character. For example:

• Iron Man vs. Batman: both billionaire, playboy philanthropists for their day jobs, but really they are amazing heroes who use awesome gadgets they invented to beat down the baddies and save the day. 
• Thor vs. Wonder Woman: Now, hear me out. Thor is the Norse god of thunder who is totally a fish out of water, doesn't quite understand the mortal world, but really wants to do the right thing and is maybe a little proud. (Who wouldn't be, have you seen his hair?) And he has battle armor that is totally not up to date fashion-wise (though very awesome). Wonder Woman is an Amazon who can be a fish out of water, doesn't always understand the mortal world (especially men...sheesh...), but really wants to do the right thing. Also, her wardrobe (though strangely Americana for an Amazonian princess) is also a little behind the times. And they both fly (granted, Thor uses his hammer for that), are super strong, and can take a major beating.
• Captain America vs. Superman: Both boyscouts. Both decked in major Americana. They both have a moral code that drives their co-heroes a little crazy sometimes. Both super strong. Granted: Superman is an alien and Captain America is a science project. But...still.
• Hawkeye vs. the Green Arrow: They both have an aim that would make Legolas and Katniss jealous. Need I say more?
• Quicksilver vs. The Flash: Yes, Quicksilver is usually a villain. But...supersupersupersuper inhuman speed. Just saying.
• Banshee vs. Black Canary: Vocal chords of doom. Just saying.

So, this has been my lighthearted thought of the week. I hope you enjoyed.

Photo sources:
Avengers
Justice League 

All Grown Up

I have been very jealous of children lately. The other day I was watching a little girl skip through the park singing to herself and chasing squirrels. It was the cutest thing ever. But it occurred to me that if I saw an adult doing the same thing, I would probably move myself to another part of the park because, clearly, this person is insane. And that makes me sad. Why does growing up have to mean leaving our imaginations and the sheer joy of being alive behind? Not to say that we should all run around singing and chasing squirrels, but why do we make fun of adults that are creative or enjoy playing pretend? Like people who cosplay (short of "costume play" for those who don't know)? Or those people who meet up in parks and dress up like knights and play with foam swords (LARPing? I think that's what it's called.)? Why is this looked down on? But, on the flip side, it's totally normal to paint yourself head-to-toe in a body paint and scream yourself hoarse cheering for you favorite sports team...
In my personal opinion, I think it's because life becomes so bleak when you become an adult. It's all bills, hard work, and falling into bed exhausted at the end of the day. Who has time to have fun? So, when we see someone who makes time to feel alive, we are jealous and a little bitter. So we all learn to call it childish and write them off to feel better about our own lives. But...I think that's sad. I think we should all find time to let our inner child out. Just for a moment to let the joy of being alive be all we worry about. I saw a great quote online years ago: "Maturity is knowing when it's okay to act like a child." And, if that's true, I hope that I am very mature.
Life is beautiful, and we're missing it.

Sunday Best

I had a thought yesterday morning as I was sitting in church and I looked around and saw all the different styles represented by the church body: why does the church traditionally put pressure on wearing "Sunday best?" My church is rather casual. Not sloppy, everyone looks presentable but jeans are a very common factor. My church is also in Eagle Rock which is a neighborhood of LA. I don't think I ever would have had these thoughts except that there are so many homeless people in LA. Part of our mission as the body of Christ is to reach the "least of these." But, I wonder, how can we do that when on Sundays as we gather and try to invite those people in we're always dressing as the "best of these?" I know, for myself, if I had only two shirts and one pair of pants I hadn't been able to clean for weeks I wouldn't want to enter into a community where everyone was in business dress. I would stick out like a very dirty, sore thumb!
Now, this isn't to be condemning of churches that do dress up and it's not to say that we shouldn't care about our appearance and go to church looking sloppy. But I do wonder, who are we trying to impress? Why do we need to trot out our best clothes and look perfectly groomed when we're trying to reach the people who can't afford a hairbrush and we're all just broken people anyway? We want to create a community that is open and welcoming to both the wealthy and the unshowered; the put together and the chronically depressed; the nuclear family and the harried single mother. How much stress would it relieve from that single mother if her kids could be in whatever they decided that day's fashion was and not children's business casual? How much more willing would she be to go and be welcomed into a church family that didn't judge on outward appearance?
By wearing our best, we create (consciously or not) a socioeconomic divide between the classes. I am not condemning a person's desire to wear cashmere or silk to church. If you have it, and you want to wear it to church, then go for it! I think church should be a beautiful patchwork of all the colors and classes that make up this broken mess we call humanity.

Here we go...

I have decided as a writing exercise to write one post about something that's on my mind every day. Today the thought is Hollywood and how we get mad at them for corrupting our minds and the minds of our children.

The upcoming debut of Fifty Shades of Grey is what's making me think about this. Personally, I think that movie is disgusting. I think it's ridiculous that people have been begging for a silver screen porn flick and I can't believe Hollywood was actually making it. But then it hit me: people have been begging for it. Hollywood isn't just full of artists and actors, it's full of business people. If there isn't a ton of money in it, they won't do it. So why are we so shocked at what they put out? We're the ones who buy what they create. "But," you may say, "I plan to boycott this movie and any like it." Good for you! Are your friends? Is your city? Is that mom down the street taking her kids to see an R-rated action flick? Are those kids going to grow up demanding more of what they loved as kids? Yes. Yes, they are. The only thing that is going to change what Hollywood produces is if their audience changes what they want to see.
Another point I'd like to make is that it's not Hollywood's job to monitor what you and your children watch. That's your job. It's Hollywood's job to create pictures that are pretty, move, and entertain. You can't tumble a pyramid by knocking off the top, you have to crack the foundation. And that's what we are, friends. We're the foundation of the pyramid that is the entertainment industry. When we as consumers stop downing trash and start demanding better things, then that's what we'll be given. Stop worrying about how the movie industry is corrupting the world, start worrying more about the world that is begging to be corrupted. Worry about the part of the cycle you can change.

His Smile

It popped into her head the moment she got the text. She could see the photograph in her mind before she even realized she was thinking. The unexpected news marched through her mind and across the face she wouldn't see again. But how could that be? He wasn't supposed to be gone. He had always been there: so unmovable and strong in her mind's eye. He had been there to help hold the wheel steady as she piloted the boat for the first time. To tug on her pigtails. To tease. The skin around his eyes would crinkle and his eyes would soften making her feel like the most special girl in the world.

She realized with a jolt that she was still standing at the foot of the stairs, phone in hand; the dreadful words still glowing in her tear blurred vision. The stairwell was almost silent, muffled giggles and scurrying feet betrayed the presence of her music fraternity sisters preparing for initiation on the other side of the door. Why now? Why tonight? With a shaky breath, she wiped away the tears leaking from her eyes. Her parents had told her to stay where she was. She could help anyway. Collecting her thoughts and building an emotional wall she prepared to return to the preparations. She just had to make it through the night, then she could process what had happened. She could be brave...she pushed the door open and walked back into the bustling room but didn't get very far before her painfully held back tears betrayed her. One of her sisters caught her in a fierce hug, and dragged her back into the stairwell to find out what was wrong. Taken off guard by her sister's actions, her wall broke like a dam and the sobbed explanation gushed out.

"My grandpa," she choked, "...the hospital...he collapsed...they don't think he made it." she shook as she lost the ability to speak. Her sister scurried away to find her a glass of water, only to be replaced by another who simply sat quietly and held her hand as she cried.

Finally convinced to leave the initiation by her concerned sisters, she was driven home. The house was still, except for her cat who scampered up to wind around her ankles as she dragged herself up the stairs. She wanted to see it. She knew she had it. That photograph. She dug through the assortment of school assignments and knick knacks on her desk that she had been meaning to organize for months until she found her photo album. She opened it and was taken aback to find that the picture she wanted was the first page - she had forgotten she put it there. He was smiling. It was a rare photographic occasion. She smiled back for a moment, then sank to the ground sobbing, clutching the photo to her chest. Holding tightly to her last reminder of his smile.

Her Anniversary

My mother broke every plate in the house that day. It was an important day: her 30^th wedding anniversary. She had set a lovely candlelit dinner for two and had worked all day to make dad’s favorite food just how he liked it. An hour before he would be home, she went upstairs to her room and took a shower. She did her hair and make-up in his favorite style. It was minimal: brown eye-liner and nude pink lipstick. Dad always told her that her face was too beautiful to cover in artificial shades. Her hair was twirled into a top knot, held in place by a silver flower she had worn on her wedding day. She tenderly picked up the dress she had laid out on the bed: his favorite black dress. He had bought the dress for her a couple years back. Mom had been in a slump and he wanted to prove to her that she was still his pretty little woman. The dress fit her like a glove and brought out the young woman he had married. Her preparations finished, she stood before the mirror and twirled. She smiled with the joy of a little girl as the skirt swirled softly around her knees. At exactly six o’clock, mom descended the stairs and sat at the table to await the arrival someone she knew would not arrive. Her husband would never come home again. 

I arrived home and hour later to find my mother on her knees in the middle of the kitchen floor surrounded by the shattered pieces of her blue wedding china. Her hair was falling out of the knot and hanging limply down around her shoulders. Her eyeliner stained her cheeks and the hem of her skirt was torn. She didn't move as I walked in, her red eyes seeing the past.

“I told him not to go, Katherine." She was so quiet I almost didn't hear her, "There was so much ice. I would have been fine without the cold medicine, but he was always so stubborn…” Her broke off as silent weeping stole her voice. Carefully I sat next to her and wrapped my arms around her shaking frame, pulling her away from the memories.

“I miss him, too, mom.”

Slow Down

When you glance at this page, you'll see a lot of words. Your first instinct is to skim and find the meat of what I've written. I'm not offended; I (Liz) do the same thing all the time. If it's more than a paragraph it's too many words. But - just for a minute - slow down with me. The world won't wait for you, I know...but you can afford a few minutes. It doesn't feel that way in the crazy, microwave-mentality generation we live in. In the time I take to type these words - and you take to read them - people will be born, will die, will find their fortune, or maybe even lose everything. But what is that to me? What does it matter if my nose is eternally to the grind stone, but I lose my passion? Lose what I love? I sell coffee for a living, but that isn't where I find joy.  I get really caught up in the day to day rush or life: my striving to provide for my tiny family. I want to be the best I can be at my job, therefore I am the queen of multitasking. (Okay...maybe not QUEEN...just the princess. *wink*) It's how I operate. I am good at my job and I do get satisfaction from a well run rush of coffee crazed people. (Don't be offended, coffee addict. I'm of of those crazies, too!) But, that satisfaction rings a little hollow. I navigate home through the traffic that is new to me, I feel like a pro. But I'm still just tired. I find some real satisfaction in making dinner. (Who knew I was a good cook?) Still, that shine of success doesn't last. I've ignored my real passion.

Sometimes, in the rush of life, I forget the joy of creating. But when I pause - when I stop to smell the roses in my own mind and pour out on paper the things I find among the petals...that's when I come alive. I rediscover the passion I drop when I get swept away in the rush of "success."

So, let me ask you: when was the last time you were really alive? When was the last time you created something? And how much longer before you pause and pick up your passion again? I promise, it's worth the time.

Photo credits:

Clock - via Photo Pin

Rose - via Photo Pin