Rules and fools

There's been a lot of talk lately about rules and regulations.

On "The View," they've been talking about the rules of racial equality. In church, we've been talking about the rules of loss. At home, we've been talking about the rules of crossing the street. In email, with a friend, I've been talking about the rules of writing. With friends, I've talked about the rules of friendship. With women, I've talked about the rules of submission. And Progressive and I have been talking about state regulations regarding windshields.

Only one thing has proven mutual among all those issues: the rules will always be broken.

You can expect to have rules in life, but you can't expect people to follow them. People are human, and they make human mistakes. The most we can do, the best we can do, is be friends to each other when we break those rules.

Since the beginning of the year, I've felt like I've been moving toward something. A lot of things have happened that made me say, "There's gotta be a reason for this, so I guess I'll wait and see." Now I feel like I'm happening upon this peaceful sort of place that's all about live and let live.

I don't want to be anyone's moral compass. And I don't want anyone to be mine, unless you're my pastor.

Even my pastor gets questioned.

This Sunday his sermon, "Why are you weeping?", was all about why we shouldn't cry about loss. It was, of course, tied to Christ being risen and the celebration of Easter. I understood what he meant. I felt what he meant. It's a story I've heard several times, and it's a story I believe.

But even beyond Easter Sunday there's an unspoken push during loss, especially death, to "remember the good times," "go on with your life" and "be happy that they're in a better place."

And, let's be honest, when you lose someone, you don't want to hear that shit. Even if it's true. Even if it's the best thing. Because sometimes you don't want to remember someone or be happy that they're somewhere else, happy and well. You just want them with you. You just want to hug them, and there's no replacement for that.

There are many other rules we ignore in life too: Don't borrow money from friends, don't talk to strangers, don't date unavailable men, don't have unprotected sex, don't eat after 6 p.m., don't meddle in other people's business. Don't discriminate. Treat others as you would want to be treated. Love unconditionally.

We're all guilty of at least one. Or all. Because, sure, we know better. But sometimes we can't help ourselves. Sometimes we're sick or scared or stressed, or just lonely. And those things drive us to foolishness.

We know it's foolish. We don't need someone else to remind us it's foolish. We need someone to remind us they are our friend, they are there for us and they love us unconditionally.

Even though I'm all live and let live these days, it doesn't mean I don't have any fight left in me. I've been called outspoken, "hell with the lid off," "testy," "combative" and "confrontational." All charming compliments, I'm sure.

Hey, I come from a line of battered, broken women. Except for one--my grandmother Erla, who really was hell with the lid off.

When I was very small, I remember hiding in a closet as my great-grandmother got smacked by a man she married after her husband died. I was only 4, Cienna's age, but I refused to call him "Pap." I told him paps were nice people and that he was not a nice person. My great-grandmother knew it was true, but she was able to look past it somehow. She begged me never to tell my grandmother or mom what I saw. Of all secrets to keep, I kept that one. They were still together when she had a stroke in 1993. I remember sitting by her hospital bed, holding her hands, staring at them, tracing the lines with my eyes. Her hands always smelled like dish soap--back when dish soaps all smelled the same. Her hands looked so young, too young for one of them to not feel anything anymore. Too young for one of them to never be able to hold mine back. I kept tracing words on them, hoping she would feel it and wake up and play Scrabble with me. But she didn't. Just like she never hit him back.

She eventually woke up, and we used magnet letters and tiny notepads to communicate. She couldn't talk. She could just shake her head yes and no.

I begged my mom to let her live with us after her stroke. I couldn't live with the idea of her getting hit by him when she didn't have a voice--even if she never used it when she could have. But my mom said she needed better care than we could give her, and so she went to a nursing home.

She lived for four years after that, until I was a junior in high school, and I've often wondered if those were the four best years of her life. She was away from abuse. Nothing was expected of her. She wrote little, meaningful notes. "You are a strong girl." She wrote it when I was 16, and it's still in the jewelry box that she passed down to me.

When I got older, I took self-defense and used it to defend other women I loved, other women who couldn't seem to defend themselves. It came in handy for me once too. I may want the war in Iraq to be over, but I'm not a complete pacifist. I believe in hitting back, physically and emotionally. I'm sure for one of Cienna's young, teenage birthdays that she will get a gift of professional self-defense classes. Women are strong, and we have strong voices, and we should be able to use both.

But despite that strength, I'm a huge screwup at times. I've made a series of poor choices, even when I've tried my best. I've made many mistakes--some of which can never be taken back or fixed. And I've hurt people I loved the most.

In fact, some might say my children are all I've done right, and that the Easter Shot Hunt is my one redeeming quality.

It's not that I set out to fail at the rest. It's just that I asked what Jesus would do and decided to answer in the morning.

And there were many times I was in mouring that I found comfort in questioning Him.

So it's never been about having faith or abandoning it. Not knowing right from wrong. Or leaning toward the former in for better or worse. It's just that there's a little piece of all of us reaching for that apple, you know. And the most we can hope for is that someone is behind us when we lose our balance.

Friends don't have chains of command. They have each other. And they don't need a judge or jury. They just need a pardon.

So that's what you'll get from me in this newfound, peaceful place. Thank you for your inspiration, whether through your presence or your absence.