Why I Love PattyCake

    PattyCake Productions is an independent studio that is filming and releasing content in episodic form.  Usually taking Disney characters (while being careful not to use their exact names) and creating parodies and original songs.  They have a show called "The Villain's Lair," which has its own album of songs available on Spotify.  

    So what is "The Villain's Lair"?  Glad you asked!  The creators have made a story line where most of the villains from classic Disney movies are collaborating together to reverse their timelines and re-write the endings to their own happy endings.  I'm a little fuzzy on the details of the plot; it's the songs that I can't get enough of.  

    Yes, PattyCake has written songs for these characters, and the actors and actresses all have spectacular talent and professional voices.  The songs themselves have that whimsical Disney feel, and definitely a Broadway spin on the style of lyrics, which is as pretty much "My Thing," as it gets.  

   "Disney villains?" you may protest.  "You--Cadenza of all people--nerding out over additional source material made about villains??"  

   In THIS case?  Yes.  This post is to explain why. 

   On principle, I am always very cautious about spin-offs from good stories.  Today, the "politically correct" has absolutely overrun Hollywood and the Arts.  I don't agree with the PC messaging, but even if I didn't, such a climate is stifling for actual creativity.  It's clear that people have lost faith in heroes, preferring conflicted "anti-heroes," who are more defined by their flaws than their struggle to overcome them.  The victim mindset is set up to be cool, which makes for wimpy, whiny main characters.  You're hard-pressed to find an honest-to-goodness villain these days.  They are usually written as misguided, misunderstood, or, you know, "traumatized."  What we're left with is a hodge-podge of sympathetic characters stuck in a struggle where you, the viewer, aren't sure who to root for.  When there's a cast of victims and no actual evil to win against, the writers are forced to make a convoluted plot in which everyone shares blame, everyone does horrible things, and everyone has a "reason," for what they did.  

   It's boring.  It's sloppy story writing.  And people like me are sick of it. 

   You cannot write a good story in such constraints.  People like to have stories where someone that they can relate to is set up against a daunting struggle and prevail.  You want to see those who started all the trouble get their comeuppance; it's satisfying!  You want to see the hero struggle and fail and grow in character.  You want to watch him (or her) win because of what they have learned that made them better than they were before.  

    The folks who are doing the writing of these stories must realize that they aren't resonating with folks.  They're being consumed, sure, but the lack of substance makes them outdated almost immediately after they are watched.  Writers are hard-pressed to keep churning out material, something that will make a lot of money fast.  So what do they do?  They go after rights to older, classic stories, and begin "remaking" them, always with politically-correct "messages," infused within them.  Fans get more "content" of already beloved characters on screen, and the producers rake in millions; everyone wins, right?  Wrong.  

   What they are doing is retconning the older stories, changing the characters with no understanding of, or else no respect for, the messages in the original story.

   Maybe Luke Skywalker wasn't such a great guy after all.  Maybe Captain Kirk was actually just an arrogant jerk.  What if the evil witch had some legitimate reasons for what she did?  What if the Good Guys were bumbling idiots all along?  Or what if our Heroes really had sinister motives for what they did?  What if they pretended to be good in the public eye, but on their own time they were petty and greedy?  

   By retroactively re-writing our heroes and villains, they are hollowing out good stories, and simply shoving their politically-correct "Messaging," down our throats, wearing caricatures of our beloved heroes like meat-suits.  

   I hate it.  Make your own politically-correct stories, and leave the good stories alone!  

   Which brings me back to PattyCake's "The Villain's Lair."   

   They don't attempt to pretend that the villains were right all along.  They don't change any of their characters.  What you are watching is the villains trying to work together to strike another blow against the heroes.  In their songs, each is represented truly in accordance to what we already knew of them in their movies.  They believe they are justified, of course, but the lyrics are written so that we can see how wrong they are.  It isn't propaganda in your face, it's a creative way to work within a story while still making something new from it.  That takes creativity, talent, and most of all, love for the original stories, and it's inspiring!  

   What I've come to see over the past few years is that there is a right way and a wrong way to make additional material from already-established stories.  Retelling a story in a modern setting can be done with excellence as long as the motive is to stay true to the original.  Here are two examples of that done well.

   There's a "Disney High School," story on Deviant Art drawn by a gal with the user name "Morloth."  She sets five Disney plots as characters within a high school.  Sure, the circumstances are different, but the characters are the same.  They're lovable, relatable, with the same charm and turn of phrase that they had in their movies.  The villains are still horrible and mean; bullies or turncoats or just plain petty.  The story is engaging, and the art is beautiful!  

    "The Lizzie Bennett Diaries," is a Youtube series with over one hundred episodes.  It's a modern retelling of "Pride and Prejudice."  I watch it every year, and each time I marvel at the painstaking attention to detail that the writers and actors put into this show.  It's hilarious, relatable, and beautifully heartwarming.  It rings true and authentic with its audience just as much as the original novel does.  

   Also there are more whimsical ways to expand on a universe.  "Robot Chicken," has done episodes of "retellings," of Star Wars episodes, mostly sketches which didn't actually happen, but are done very much in the spirit of the characters--or perhaps I should say an exaggerated version of them.  

   Obviously, it's Robot Chicken, and a lot of their material is raunchy and irreverent.  But at least with most of the Star Wars sketches, I see that they poke fun at the story in a playful way, not to tear it down or hollow it out. 

    One more example would be "Chanwills0" on Youtube, and all her Harry Potter content.  I do not agree with everything she says about Harry Potter, and certainly I do not support all her choices she makes as a person.  But she makes this charming alternate universe Hogwarts, where Dumbledore and Minerva and Severus are all best friends and play games making fun of other members of staff in their spare time.  Everyone is an exaggerated version of themselves, but absolutely recognizable.  The parodies are clever and play with unexplored plot holes and discrepancies in characters' actions.  But you can tell that even though she makes fun of certain things, she has a deep understanding and love for the series.  

   Is it weird to see Lizzie Bennett doing a Youtube show from her desk?  Maybe at first, but she's still the witty, thoughtful, and charming Elizabeth Bennett I first found in Jane Austen.  Is it jarring to see Minerva McGonagall with a huge eyes and lips filter?  You bet, at first.  But hearing her roasting Professor Umbridge is thing of beauty and a joy forever, and very much in the spirit of the original!  I feel like I'm getting to know these friends of mine even better than I did before.  I find it leaves categories in my mind for not only "Head Canon," but also just fun content that I can laugh at or enjoy.  The nonsense or gross things I don't have to accept, and I don't have to be mad about them.  It was just someone's wrong interpretation.  But when it's done right, I'm getting to share in a content creator's love for a story that I also love!

   I think that's what a lot of this boils down to: love.  Audiences can tell when the original story is being drawn from in love and appreciation. 

   In the case of "The Villain's Lair," I see love for the original stories and characters.  I see clever lyrics and delightful songs made which are new, and yet feel familiar, since they are from characters I already know.  Not to mention the actors are professionals, which just scratches that Broadway itch of mine.  I had to write a post about it because I want someone out there to share my appreciation for this independent creative production!

   PattyCake makes new content from established stories in keeping with the characters and stories that have stood the test of time.  That's why I love PattyCake.

 

~Cadenza      

The Schoolmaster’s Bride

   How do you write about happiness? 

   I’ve been needing to write this post for months, but no matter what I tried, it just didn’t seem right. In one sense, trying to write it almost feels like cheapening the experience; as if I was bottling it up to save it for later. Which is one of the main reasons I turned to writing all those years ago. I needed somewhere to express my thoughts and pour out my sorrows, and also a place where I could preserve my happy moments. Rather like making wine and hiding it away in the cellar to bring out when I needed some cheering up. For a long time that was my approach to writing, but now…things are different. 

   As counterintuitive as it sounds, happiness is difficult to write. When you tell a story, you’re getting a character from point A to point B. What does he or she want, why can’t they have it, what do they have to do to obtain it, and what is standing in their way? With hopefully some growth and setbacks and twists along the way. 

   But how do you write about happiness? That place where the conflict finally is resolved, the dragon is slain, the maiden rescued, and everyone parties and starts a life of peace afterward? It’s the best part of the story precisely because of all they had to suffer on the way to it. Nobody writes about living in happiness. Maybe because so few people can relate to it. 

   All the same, happy seasons only come around for a little while! It is right to rejoice in them! 

   That’s the third reason I had such trouble writing this. My happiness feels like a burden on others. Even talking about it too much feels like I’m gloating. 

   That’s how I used to be toward people who were having their day in the sun. I used to think that happy people were either immature or just plain annoying. When I saw people who were aglow with happiness, I resented them. It felt like they were being happy AT me. I never got to feel that happy; and that rubbed salt in my wound. It was easier to just snort, roll my eyes, and steer clear of them. Being this happy gives me an uneasy sense of being a burden on everyone around me. Or worse, the suspicion that everyone could be watching me to snicker when the bubble bursts.

   That’s the fourth reason I couldn’t decide how to write about it. My happiness frightened me. I’ve never been this happy, and it terrified me to think of losing it. I wasn’t going to write about it until I was absolutely certain all of this was real. 

   It is real, and it’s time to write about it. It’s a long story, and even longer when I tell it, but here’s what happened: 

   The Schoolmaster came back for me.  

   One snowy Friday in February he came to my office, startling me almost out of my wits. He said he had something to ask me, and would I meet him over coffee to discuss it?

   You have to keep in mind, we’ve stayed on cordial terms all these years. We still went to the same church, saw each other around every week. Still spoke occasionally, still chatted in a mutual friend group. I’d been noticing dramatic changes in him, and even a shift in his manner toward me, but I was determined to keep my heart a friend toward him unless he told me anything different to my face in plain English. 

   So he’s asking me to meet him one-on-one to discuss something important. That could only mean one thing, but I stuck to my mental terms.

   My eyebrows shot up and I skeptically asked him, “Really—?” (My tone being “I’m going to give you a chance to revise and walk back what you just said, because maybe you don’t realize what this implies.) 

   But he just smiled at me and replied, “Really.” In the calmest, surest, most composed voice I’ve ever heard him use. Confidence exuded from him; his stance, his voice, and his smile, with a wealth of meaning twinkling in his eyes. I’d never seen him like that before, in all the years I’ve known him. 

   “We have a lot to talk about.” He added. 

   Wow. Did we ever! 

   Unfortunately a family emergency caused him to fly out of state to take care of his parents. Then he got sick while he was there, resulting in a ten-day delay that I will never forget. We texted while he was gone, but I spent almost half of my waking moments in prayer, beseeching God for wisdom. 

   It wouldn’t be true to say I never got over him, because I did. I learned to let him go; several different times and in several different ways. I would have closure, and then I’d lose it. I lost respect for him, and then he earned it back. There were times when I sensed the tide was turning, only to find out I was completely wrong. Everything in our relationship changed many times, if only in my heart. Nothing ever stayed resolved in one way for long. The only constant, I think, was that I could never completely stop caring about him, praying for him, and wanting what was best for him. Which is basically what love boils down to. So you could say I loved him all along, but you can love a friend or a family member with sacrificial love, doing your best not to expect anything in return. 

   Well, he came back to town and asked me to dinner on a Monday night. I glanced at my calendar to see if that night was free and realized it was February 14th. 

   Oh, my! Nope, hadn’t made any plans for that night. So I accepted. 

   He took me out for a nice dinner, and when I gave him the floor, he told me all that God had been doing in his life over the past two years. How he clearly saw God’s direction in his life, and that he wanted me by his side as he walked in it. 

   Me! Not just a wife, or a suitable companion. He told me he always cared about me and respected me all these years. It just took God flipping some switch inside him to make him see me as more than a friend.

   He offered me time to consider it, and truth be told I had been planning to ask him for a few days to fast and pray before making a decision. 

   I know this will sound like I was over-eager or too hasty, but I didn’t need time to think it over. I still had some questions in my mind that couldn’t be addressed properly yet, but I felt this unexplainable clarity in my mind. (Probably because I had sought the Lord’s guidance over last 10 days more passionately than I’d ever done before!) I could sense that God was in this, and that whatever was in store, He wanted me to walk down this road. It’s impossible to explain, but it’s what happened. 

   So I told him yes. We started dating, and both of us have been amazed to see how God has been working in and through this. In June he got on one knee and asked me to marry him, and I said yes again. Counseling is going well, we’ve told each other our stories, and we’ve been talking openly and honestly about everything we can think of. We’re getting married on October 22nd, which is just a few weeks from now. 

   The Schoolmaster technically isn’t a Schoolmaster anymore, so I guess I’ll have to come up with something else to call him. But I’ll say this: he loves the Lord more than anyone or anything else. He’s compassionate and a man of humility. He treats me with honor and wants to lead me and the children we hope to have in the fear of the Lord. All the potential I once saw in him has blossomed into fullness, along with so much more than I could’ve dreamed. It is the Lord’s doing, and it is marvelous in my eyes. 

   So! How do you write about happiness? Well, let’s give it a whirl! 

   “This love is good, this love is bad,

   This love is alive, back from the grave.

   These hands had to let it go free, and

   This love came back to me.” 

   

   I feel like I’m living in fan-fiction these days. These sorts of things happen in books, or in movies, or to other people, but now it’s happening to me! For the longest time I didn’t know what to do with myself. You’d be shocked at how few songs there are in musicals that depict this kind of happiness. The songs are all staged in the conflict and the growth. I can only find bits and pieces from songs that actually express what I feel.  

   “I will never lose faith, I will never lose heart

   For you have restored my trust. 

   And I know you’re afraid, I’m as scared as you are

   But willing to be brave

   Brave enough for love.” 

   “Every word and every sentence 

   Doesn’t seem to make a difference

   Nothing can explain just what you mean to me.

   Every shape and all the colors

   All the love from all the lovers

   Never could express just what you mean to me.” 

   “So let’s begin again, try another way.

   Let’s begin again, there’s a better way. 

   Rule a line and start once more

   Learning from what’s gone before.

   Let’s begin again; let’s find a way to start again. 

   So can we get it right this time? Possibly.

   Another chance in sight, take things easily. 

   Is there time to care again?

   Time to hope and share again? 

   Is it all too late, too late to try it out again? 

   The starlight in the sky and the moonlight, 

   The firelight in your eyes, and the candlelight, 

   Every creature softly bless, 

   Touching each with tenderness. 

   Helping us to see, to see a better way ahead. 

   The snow upon the downs wraps things silently.

   Nothing mortal shows, let’s step carefully

   Make new tracks together, walk hand in hand, 

   And never run and hide.

   The paths that we must tread 

   Lie side by side.” 

  Do you remember that lament I wrote last year for the never-ending season of summer I was in? This year, the Harvest time has finally come! And in the Autumn time too! 

   As a matter of fact, this whole year I have been able to experience the seasons in harmony with what was going on in my life! We started a relationship in the snows of winter—the last Winter Ball of the year. As the snow melted and the spring came, it actually felt like a time of new beginnings, the start of a brand-new life—the promise of love actually held out to *me*! 

   This summer has still been hot and humid, naturally, but I didn’t mind. Our relationship was deepening, we were learning to trust each other. And now as Summer gives way to Autumn, my heart is full of joy. This year I am not left out of the festivities, nor am I floundering in the bywaters or stuck somewhere watching others enjoying where they are, and also looking eagerly forward to the next thing. 

   For the first time in my life I’m looking forward to the future. Do you have any idea how strange that is for me? All my life I’ve had trouble seeing ahead; afraid to look because either I didn’t know what I wanted or because I did, but couldn’t do anything to go towards it. 

   I’m not stuck anymore! My life finally has a direction that I’m fully joyful about! Some unmarried women have that and struggle to incorporate marriage into the direction of their lives, but for me, I longed first and foremost to be a wife and mother. Whatever interest or pursuit I attempted to take up, I always knew I’d drop it instantly for the chance to have the simple, difficult, hidden life of a homemaker. Hard to commit to a career if your passion simply isn’t there. 

   Now I think I understand some of those verses in the Psalms that say things like, “Make me glad for the days You have afflicted me,” or “Let the bones that You have broken rejoice.” 

   Or, “You have turned for me my mourning into dancing; You have loosed my sackcloth and girded me with gladness, that my soul may sing praise to You and not be silent. O Lord my God, I will give thanks to You forever.” 

   Or perhaps, yet a new meaning to the long-loved verse, “Weeping may endure for the night, but joy comes in the morning.” 

   “Delight yourself in the Lord, and He will give you the desires of your heart.” 

   It is right, it is fitting to rejoice at such a time. Suffering and hard times will come again, until all sorrows are healed. But when I look at what the Lord has done, it is right to thank Him—it is right to celebrate His goodness, His abundance, His provision. 

   There’s one thing I’ve learned that I didn’t exactly expect. Humans were made to be happy. 

   I used to have sorrow as my default emotion and state of mind. Not merely because I “didn’t have a boyfriend,” but because I longed to be fruitful, to have a home of my own, to be joined to a faithful man and raising children to love what is right. All the things that I wanted my life to be had, as the first step, a godly man who loved me: the very thing being withheld from me and which I could not seek out. 

   I used to think that maybe humans didn’t like being happy, really. Or that being happy only meant you were shallow or foolish. But now I am certain that we were made for happiness. Oh, I knew it theologically: we are created “to glorify God and enjoy Him forever.” Just not here or now, not yet. 

   This sounds like I am only happy when I have the blessing, but that’s not true. I sensed His presence, and His approval all last winter before this began. When I sought the Lord and drew near to Him—not for gifts, but for help, He met me there. He showed me that I was not barren if I was obeying and trusting Him. But see, after the gift has been given, the veil has been lifted a little; I can see that in all those years where I felt cast aside, He was working. I can *see* now what I was struggling to believe by faith! My faith has been confirmed, He was working, and He had in mind my good the whole time. He loves to be generous, and I can see that now, where before I was fighting to believe it. 

   As strange as happiness feels for me, I know that He intends my good. Even if He hadn’t chosen to bring us together, I would’ve found it out in glory. And someday all tears will be wiped away, and I will know fully just how much He loves me. Gifts should be celebrated. They are a taste of His grace, just an appetizer to whet my appetite for His bounty and love! 

—Cadenza 

Winter's Last Ball

    It's March--and it's snowing outside.  

   A snowstorm in March is almost unheard of, but here it is.  Spring had just begun to show; the daffodils appeared out of nowhere last Sunday morning.  The Bradford Pears were just starting to blossom.  But this evening, Nature is hosting one last Winter Ball.   

   One last swirling, silvery storm, transforming the earth into Faeryland.  Nature has donned her virginal satin, every branch woven into delicate lace.  Her shimmering veil dances in the wind.  

   Winter's last, lingering embrace enfolding me in its exquisite mantle.  His last soft kisses dropped upon my face and hair, as if pleading for me to remember him when he is gone.  For Winter loves all his children, though most people only think him harsh and grim.  

   There's a certain special silence in a snowy night.  It calls me to walk in it, and how can I refuse?  Obediently I bundle up, slip out of the warm house, and set off down the street.  

   Throwing back my hood, I cast my eyes upward into the cascading dance of the snowflakes.  The silence without seeps into my soul, with a deep peace stealing over my body.  

   I would not dare to utter my voice, but my heart is thrilling with song.  Unsung, but quivering and stirring far below, just like the sleeping earth beneath my feet.  

   "I am not barren!" my heart sings jubilantly within me.  "I never was!" 

   All along I was bearing the fruit of righteousness.  God sees me as a fruitful vine, with His Spirit abiding within me.  No, I was never barren.  It took me a long time to understand that, but now I finally do.  

   As I traverse into the storm, I keep my footsteps light.  This marvelous stillness must not be broken.  I gaze about me, drinking in all the beauty.  I find myself scanning the horizon, wondering if tonight I will finally get to see my friend again.  

   Ah, yes.  My friend the Guide who brought me home that extraordinary Christmas Eve six years ago when I lost my way.  I called him the Stranger then, but I've remembered him and his words nearly every day since, so I can hardly call him a Stranger.  I think of him as a "Guide," now, because I never did learn his name.  

   He told me we would meet again and we have, twice now.  He remains as mysterious as ever.  I don't know if he comes and goes as he pleases, or if he's under Orders, but whatever the case is, I never know when our paths will cross.  

   The first time was almost a year after we met in the Forest.  It was a normal Saturday, and I was driving on a road right here in town.  I rounded a bend, and he was standing on the sidewalk, smiling at me.  The wind was in his cloak, and his face shone with goodwill.  He must've known I was doing much better.  I waved frantically, and the next instant he was behind me.  I guess I wasn't supposed to speak to him then.  

   The last time was one horrible night nearly three years ago.  It was one of those dark nights of the soul, when the pain of injustice and twisted words made me scream aloud in tortured fury.  I wept all night long.  But that night I saw my friend the Guide again.  In the laundry room, if you can believe it.  Which I suppose sounds creepy, but it wasn't.  I don't think he's a regular person, but as to what he is, your guess is as good as mine.  I wasn't expecting him, but somehow I wasn't really surprised when I opened the door and saw him standing there.  He reasoned with me for a while, and that calmed me down a little. 

   I haven't seen him since, though I look for him all the time.  Sometimes I think I catch a glimpse of him in a crowd.  Sometimes I get a feeling like he's about to turn up, but he hasn't.  I suppose that's for the best, I mean, he's got to be under Orders.  

   I miss him, though.  It'd be nice to thank him properly.  And...I...wish I could tell him where I am now.  All that I've learned while walking on the Path.  I got lost when I was searching for my own way, but when I follow the King's path I am found.  

   Then again, I have an inkling that he knows where I am now and what's happened since.  Like I said, he's under Orders.  If he's supposed to know, he does.  I have to content myself with that.  

   But for this Winter night, I'm going to bask in its glory.  Right now, it's high time I go inside and get something hot to drink and nice to eat.  I'll put on my comfy clothes and soft slippers.  Maybe I'll curl up under the covers and read a book.  

   I need not stir early in the morning.  All is going to be very well.      

~Cadenza      

Of Course She's Broken

    In John Eldredge's "The Way of the Wild Heart," he makes this curious observation:  

   "I can't think of a young couple whom I've either married or become acquainted with early in their marriage where the young man did not find himself suddenly and often deeply in a battle for his wife.  And these are good people, quality young men and women who love God.  The great surprise is that she is broken.  Often her brokenness will remain hidden until she becomes engaged, or married, and then wham--it all comes out.  Why is that?  You'd think that now that she is safe, now that she knows she's loved, she would be in a better place.  But that's just it--now that she is safe and loved, her soul can quit pushing it all down.  Before she is pursued and wanted, she fears that she cannot be herself or no man will want her.  Now that she is loved, her heart comes forth and with it the sorrow of her life."

   John Eldredge, man.  He really gets it.

   Incidentally, I wonder when it'll be okay for the Church to start teaching on Biblical Masculinity and Femininity again.  I think everyone's squeamish to try it ever since the Purity Culture movement.  But today I'd like to zero in on the concept Eldredge was explaining: 
  

   "The great surprise is that she is broken."  

   I don't have any personal experience to relate here, but I've picked up on it in the culture.  I've seen this in young bucks, real or parodied, who commit to a girl and brag on her to their friends. 

   "Dude, I'm dating this girl, and she's like, awesome!  She's actually chill!  I know!  I couldn't believe it either, but she's like smart and chill!  There's no drama at all!"  

   And then the first time she cries in front of him he's completely taken aback.  Maybe she had a spat with her family, or her best friend blew her off, or she had a hard day at work, maybe someone close to her is in the hospital, or maybe just the quiet despair of everyday life that's been building on her shoulders for the past seven weeks just suddenly brims over at the tiniest provocation.  She starts crying, and the boy does not understand why.  He's wrong-footed and awkward and doesn't know how to respond.  

   I'm trying to see it from his perspective, too.  Guys don't connect the dots as quickly between our steps of reasoning, and hey, I understand the frustration of seeing a problem and not having the tools to solve it.  To them, I'm sure it sounds bizarre when we get mad at their attempts to fix what's wrong.  Communication on both sides is needed in such situations.  The lady will need to patiently explain her line of reasoning and/or more of the contributing factors that led to the waterworks.  The man will need to be patient and calm in the moment, offer comfort, and listen to her explanation in order to understand the "code," if you will, of her thinking process for future use. 

   That's just classic differences between men and women.  Troublesome, yes, but not uncommon.  It doesn't have to be insurmountable.

   But...all the same, I suspect that far too often once a woman shows that side of herself to a man, he feels a sort of grudge against her.  Whether he articulates it or not, I wonder if there isn't usually a sentiment on his part that boils down to: "I've been taken in"?  

   "What happened to the rational, level-headed, chill woman I thought she was?  Was she just lying to me the whole time?"  

   Or, as one man of my acquaintance infuriatingly put it, "All the crazy started coming out--and that's when I leave 'em!"  

   Of course she's broken.  

   How could she not be?    

   If she was lucky enough not to have suffered from a violent or passive father, she is having a terrible time trying to find a good man who will treat her as well as her father taught her to expect.   

   This world has lied to her with its ruthless propaganda and confusing, conflicting messages.  

   "You are strong and independent!  You shouldn't expect anyone to take care of you!  If you want that you are weak!" 

   "A woman can choose to be whatever she wants to be.  But just not a stay-at-home mom.  What are you, some kind of spineless slave?"  

   "You have to be sexy in order to keep a man interested."  

   "You can do it all!" 

   How about the ideals of femininity shown to us?  You need to be tall, have lustrous, perfect long hair, be slim as a model, have flawless skin, have the muscles and flexibility of a gymnast, expensive clothes, and have a cutting-edge career, or you aren’t worthy of love.

   Every woman in America is bombarded by these messages continually.  All the actresses in shows and movies appear flawless, incandescently beautiful.  In her heart she knows she can't compete.  

   That's only the culture, the outside.  Every woman has her own story, things she was told and believed as a little girl.  Each one has stories to tell of rejection, loneliness, and griefs that formed deep wounds on her heart.  All of us have our insecurities, those places of deep hurt that we guard jealously, terrified of them being used against us.  

   Feminists today are particularly good at that.  They hate the weaknesses and wounds that are within their hearts, so they do everything they can to smother and hide them.  It's their way of dealing with the suffering of life.  

   Men don’t have it any easier, either.  Today men are being told that masculinity is evil--anything that even smells of masculinity is therefore, (to use their term) "toxic."  

   “Men shouldn't be assertive--you sexist pig!” 

   “Men should never get the slightest bit angry--you potential rapist!” 

   “Men should never do anything risky--you idiot!” 

   “Men shouldn't be goal-oriented--you greedy, power-hungry control-freak!”

   “Men shouldn't like beer and sports--you ignorant, inbred hick!”  

   “Men shouldn't protect women--I don't NEED your help, you misogynistic freak!”

   “Men shouldn't be chivalrous!--you creep, all you want is to make me feel like I owe you something!  No thanks, pervert!”

   Men aren't allowed to be men.  Women aren't supposed to be women.  And again, that's only this culture we live in!  Who knows what each person's individual story is like?  Maybe he was beaten by his father, or maybe she was abused by hers.  Maybe his dad never spent time with him; maybe her father told her she was fat and stupid.  

   

   Or...what about people like me?  What about us girls--and boys--that were called by the Lord at a young age, who grew up in the church, choosing the things of the Lord over the values of the culture? 

   The truth is, nobody takes you very seriously if you grew up in a loving Christian home.  How do you share your testimony when there is no dramatic story to tell?  What’s worse, how do you share your testimony to unbelievers when most of your wounds were given at the hands of well-meaning Christians? People who loved you, just imperfectly. 

   I grew up thinking that I couldn't go to anyone for help when life overwhelmed me.  I saw wayward kids being disciplined, and decided they needed more attention than me.  When kids pulled stunts or flagrantly broke rules for whatever reason, all the adults rushed to help them.  I knew better than to do things like that, so I just…didn’t. 

   I grew up without friends, often discouraged, feeling lost and adrift.  I felt existential dread about time slipping away from me, and relentless guilt for not knowing what I was supposed to do with my life.  Since I was so used to smothering my dreams and desires, I had no vision or goals for my future.  And I couldn’t tell anyone about it, because I was supposed to have it figured out already!  It felt like asking for help once the deadline had already passed. 

   All through my childhood and teenage years I had recurring nightmares where killers relentlessly chased me and I could barely run.  I would try to scream, but my voice was gone.  I couldn’t fight, either; my limbs were too heavy.  Eventually my strength would give out, and just as they got me, my body would give a jolt that woke me up.  I’m convinced I had those dreams because I felt helpless and scared all the time.  Every waking moment I was plagued by an oversensitive conscience that wouldn't stop showing me my sin in every little word and action.  I couldn’t fight against that. Nor was there any rest, any comfort, or any rescue. 

   What about us church kids who grew up with everyone assuming we were fine?  We can't tell our stories without seeming ungrateful for all the blessings we were given.

   Don’t misunderstand me; I am deeply grateful for the legacy I have been given, and I desire to give back to those who invested in me. I did not try to do the right things to earn some kind of gold status with God. Neither did I obey to keep up appearances. I chose the Way of Wisdom because I loved God and wanted to obey Him. 

   I did not make wise decisions for an easy life or for rewards. I obeyed out of love…and out of fear that God found me as tiresome as I found myself. I just wanted to obey God and forsake my sins, of which I saw in great number every day. I was terrified that I would prove myself unfaithful to His love. 

   There is no escaping the tragedy of life. Even within the very path of Wisdom, protected in church, called to true repentance as a small child, you can still grow up frightened and starving for comfort. Everyone assumes you’re fine. Authorities rely on you to be a good example to others, and you don’t want to let them down. You don’t obey for praise and rewards, and yet you can’t quite squelch the desire to be praised by the authorities that you’re trying so hard to please. You see others being praised for repenting, and even as you rejoice with them, in the back of your mind you wish somebody would remember that you also work hard to do the right thing. 

   That may sound like the prodigal son’s older brother, but it isn’t. When you desperately desire to please your parents, your teachers, and your God, it is right to hope for displays of their approval. Say a child makes a handmade craft for his mom. We wouldn’t call him prideful if he’s hoping she’ll be surprised and delighted by it, would we? 

   The trouble is, most people don’t notice when things go right. They are usually distracted by preparing for the next thing to go wrong. Even the most well-intentioned Christian lets blessings go unthanked sometimes. It is our nature. 

   Now, if I had asked for approval in any way, that would have been prideful; “fishing for a compliment,” was what it was called in my home.  Even if they had praised me (after looking at me askance for calling attention to my virtue), the praise wouldn’t mean anything. Praise means little when it has to be prompted. 

   I don’t have children of my own, but I would warn every parent that you must praise children and reward them in ways that they will understand. I don’t mean bribery.  I mean telling them that you saw and that you were delighted by their choice. I mean enthusiastic words with no qualifiers attached, or hugs, or making time just for them.  Give comfort when they are discouraged, don’t just tell them to cheer up or toughen up.  Show some grace when they try at all, not just when they do it exactly the way you do it.  Whatever their love language is, learn how to speak it to them. Don’t just assume that your top love language will communicate it to them. 

   As it so happens, to this day I find it hard to ask for approval or even comfort.  My default setting is to look for what others need me to be, and try to be that for them.  After all, how do you ask for help when you know most people have it worse? How can you ask for comfort from the very ones who are always stretched to the limit  giving intense counsel to wayward folks in the church? 

   It turns out that I’m exceptionally good at hiding my weaknesses, burdens, and griefs from everyone around me. And I admit, I’m scared about what would happen if people knew that about me. What if they find out how broken and needy I am on the inside? 

   That’s why I’m incensed when boys are surprised when they discover that a girl is broken. 

   Of course she’s broken.

   Of course I’m broken. 

   How could I not be? 

~Cadenza

A Lament for Eternal Summer

   Traditionally Summer is the season of fulfillment, maturity, the height of the earth’s glory. But I have not found it so. 

   Summer is traditionally the season of romance. It was certainly designed to be so. The balmy evenings, the crickets’ serenade, the gleanings of the fireflies within the shadows of the trees. It’s the backdrop for romance. Just never for me. 

   They say Spring is new birth, Summer is fullness, Autumn is the melancholy of letting go, and Winter is Death…but I have not found it to be so. 

   The Year is backward, inside-out, and reversed for me. 

   Spring is the heartbreak of the year. Even as it promises new beginnings it usually takes something precious from me.

   Every spring, while the earth gives birth and rejoices, I am barren and alone. Each animal finds its mate, and the lads run after the lasses. But every year without fail, I am left out of the revels. 

   Each summer reigns in its pomp, scattering its promises of eternity and fulfillment, throwing open the gates to invite every eligible maiden to the ball, but no one asks me to dance. 

   Spring brings pain. Summers are lonely. 

   Autumn has always seemed to be a joyous deliverance. Its particular flavor of magic, its childlike mystery and wonder all seemed to be whispering to me that anything could happen. Change was in the wind, strange stirrings afoot. 

   Autumn is not melancholy. Autumn is joy and abundance. 

   It seems to me that I’ve been stuck in Summer for a long, long time. Weeding and tending my garden; keeping the soil loose and watered. I watch the fruit ripening on the vines, flushed with color. I guard them, I nurture them as they grow. But somehow, the fruit never comes off the vine. I never get to enjoy the fruit of my labors. 

   My heart is not barren. There is a harvest to be gathered in. I have aging wine laid away in reserves. 

   Every Autumn I prepare a feast. I set the table, I load it with all sorts of delicacies, and I set lighted candles at the windows. And every year only a stray guest or two trickles in, takes a few bites, and wanders off again. 

   When the Autumn comes, I yearn to be a part of it. It never seems to come inside of me, somehow. 

   I see now that I have always equated romantic love with fulfillment. Why wouldn’t I? Life is about family, is it not? And as an adult, it is only natural to want to start your own. 

   Even with all that is wrong in our culture, holidays are still built around the family. And the other holidays our culture has “made a thing,” are centered around romantic love. As the Wheel turns, each season and almost every month is propelled forward by the comings and goings of the Family.  What are you to do, then, when you are no longer a child in your family, and unable to start your own? 

   To be a single person is to be continually on the outside looking in. Everyone seems so happy, and you desperately want to be happy…so you try or pretend, or both at once. It’s exhausting and heartbreaking work. You give and give of yourself to keep the fruit from rotting on the vine, and yet you are never allowed to enjoy it yourself. 

   Every year I want to move forward, but I can’t. Love is never mutual. As much as I yearn to love and be loved, no one can awaken love in me. Or if it is offered, I cannot return it. Which is a riddle that baffles my mind as it maddens my senses and enrages my sore heart. 

   “Hope deferred makes the heart sick.” (Proverbs 13:12) 

   I am doomed every year, even every month, to watch people around me passing milestones; having their desires fulfilled. I’m always left behind, sweltering in my labors, imprisoned in this eternal state of summer. 

   Summer is not supposed to last forever. 

“Once you drop an anchor, a boat gets stuck.

And it would stay forever

Just floating on top. 

Watching life pass it by

Just floating on top.

Show me how to climb back on that wheel

I’ll be there, slick as a slingshot

Prepared to get off at the end

And share with someone my spot. 

You can’t have living without dying, 

So you can’t call this living what we’ve got. 

We just are

We just be 

No before 

No beyond

A rowboat anchored in the middle of a pond.” 

(“The Wheel,” from “Tuck Everlasting.”) 

~Cadenza

Nocturne

    Nocturne.  

   There's something uniquely beautiful about that word.  Nocturne.  It rolls off the tongue and leaves a mysterious fragrance in the air.  

   Nocturne (music): "A short composition of a romantic or dreamy character suggestive of night, typically for piano." 

   Have you ever listened to a nocturne by the composer Frederic Chopin?  There's something special about their lilting rhythm that depicts moonlight on water, or of trees sighing in a soft night breeze.  Usually they're in minor keys, which I suspect is what gives them that suggestion of night-time.  They're haunting melodies, but calming and gentle.  

   I intended to make this post about lullabies.  But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that my idea of lullabies was not what they strictly are.  I don't love too many of the lullabies I grew up with, just to be honest with you.  I never liked "Rock-a-Bye Baby," or "Hush Little Baby," all that much.  The lyrics are...weird.  And a little disturbing.  I have some good memories associated with them, but when I think of lullabies, very different sorts of things come to mind.  

   Lullabies are meant to have memorable, easy-to-sing melodies that stick in your mind.  They're written to be familiar.  Not too many crazy intervals; doesn't go too high or too low.  It's meant to be something that you hum slowly while holding a child.  Something you can rock back and forth or sway side-to-side in time with it.  My theory is that humming it can actually be more effective than singing it.  If you're holding a baby, they'll feel the vibrations of your humming through your body, and it helps soothe them. 

   Which of course are not the kinds of lullabies I like best.  I love choral lullabies, for instance, ones composed by Eric Whittacre.  The complex, changing chords, the almost indiscernible melody hidden within layers upon layers of harmony.  I find that more than soothing, I find it soul-expanding.  

   Eric Whittacre's "Seal Lullaby," is a sweet little lullaby, but it doesn't work too well with babies.  Believe me, I've tried.  But I like to listen to it when I'm in bed at night.  

   Another I love is "Sleep," also arranged by Eric Whittacre.  Or his haunting, "Water Night."  Recently I discovered a song called, "Earth Song," sung by a group called "Seraphic Fire."  All these work best with lots of voices singing harmonies, and a tired mama just doesn't have that available at 2:17 am with a fussy little one!  Hymns usually work better for that situation.  Or maybe Enya songs.  I once took care of a little one who liked me to sing "Into the West," from "The Return of the King," when I tucked her into bed each night.

   The only real reason I'm writing this post is simply to say that all the lullabies I like, instrumental or lyrical, classical, folk, or modern; they all have one thing in common.  They were all written primarily for beauty.

   In most kinds of music written today, there are many factors the composers are keeping in mind.  "Is it catchy?" is a big one.  On the radio, new songs catch our ear with an engaging "hook," that is, "a musical idea, or a short riff, passage, or phrase designed to catch the ear of the listener." 
 

   Take "Bad Romance," by Lady Gaga.  What you first hear on the radio is usually the part where the beat first drops: 

   "Rah-rah-ah-ah-ah-ah!  Rom-a-ro-mama!  Ga-ga-ooh-la-laa!  Want your bad romance!" 

    I can't believe I just typed that out.  But you're hearing it right now in your head, aren't you?  That's because it's the hook.  It's designed to catch your attention and be memorable.  And now that I've got that stuck in your head, I'm going to go back to my subject of lullabies, haha! 

   A choral lullaby, a rippling nocturne, or a dreamy movement in the middle of a symphony...the entire goal of the piece is to be beautiful.  It doesn't demand your attention, like a pop song does.  It just--lives.  It breathes, it sings.  It lifts you out of your troubles and sends you sailing out into calm waters.  There's something so refreshing, no, so healing to the human heart to be immersed in pure, unmitigated beauty.

   I can't help but feel that that is how the Night ought to be experienced.  Most children are afraid of the dark, or at least have a stretch of time when they are.  I know I certainly was.  In my mind, Darkness equaled Fear.  I had a vivid imagination, and whenever I had to walk in the dark, I kept expecting to see the glowing eyes of some demonic monster that would pounce on me and eat me.  

   I remember one night when I was about nine or ten, I got up in the middle of the night to get a drink of water.  I wasn't scared to go down the hall anymore, since my parents kept a night-light plugged in that let me see my way.  Also the picture of a strong guardian angel watching over a little boy in bed always made me feel a little better.  

   But this particular night, I saw a light on the stairs.  Usually I never looked down the stairs, but for some reason, this night I did.  I side-stepped to my left to glance down.  

   An icy chill made my body temperature drop two degrees.  I saw a white gleam of light near the bottom of the stairs, standing perfectly still.  I thought I could see a vague shape of a girl in a long nightgown looking off into the distance.  I was terrified that she'd turn around and look at me.  

   As with all my greatest terrors, I found myself frozen, voiceless, unable to move a finger.  I was old enough to think, "I cannot be seeing what I think I'm seeing.  This cannot be real.  I'm too old to think this is what I think it is."  But I didn't know what I was seeing, and that was just too uncanny.  

   I don't know how long I stood there before I realized what I was seeing.  It was the white light of streetlamp outside coming through our living room window and falling on the last three stairs to just about the right height to be mistaken for a shape.  

   A wave of relief swept over me, unfreezing me.  I blinked once or twice and wondered how I could have seen a form in it.  There were the lines from the windowpane in it.  Of course, the longer I looked at it, knowing what it was, the less it looked like anything else.  I shook myself with a shuddering sigh and went back to bed.  

   The next morning I tried to convey the horror I'd felt from the night before.  Maybe I was hoping for praise for figuring it out myself?  But in the light of common day it was a pitiful and unconvincing story.  My mother asked me blankly, "Do you believe in ghosts?"  and I felt so stupid that I never brought it up again.  

   I wish the little girl me could have experienced the Night the way I do now.  I love the glamorous trickery of moonlight, and the glinting stars in heaven are my friends.  Even when I can't see them on cloudy, windy nights, I don't mind.  It makes me want to run into it, letting the winds sweep me away.  Then the stormy ones!  The thunder that sounds like the voice of the Almighty, and the dangerous lashes of lightning across the skies, the pouring rain and the smell it releases from the earth.  And in the winter, who doesn't love a snowy night?  But, oh, the misty ones!  When the whole world is wrapped in a mysterious mantle, and all of Nature is transformed into the land of the Fae.  

   Psalm 88 is called the "Black Psalm," because of its particular bleakness.  Instead of ending in hopeful trust in the God of Israel, it ends with, "The darkness has become my intimate companion."  I think you have to walk through grief before you can make friends with the night.

   I just love Keith and Kristyn Getty's newest album, "Evensong."  It's a whole album of lullabies.  It's my go-to thing to listen to when my soul is in turmoil within me.  It just calms the storm in my heart and helps me be still.  They describe their work as an attempt to "sanctify the night."  I love that.  The idea that the Night can be washed clean of its fears, or at least looking forward to the day when it will be forevermore.  

 

~Cadenza          

Psalm 65

   This is the first balmy evening of summer.  The air is warm and heavy, occasionally stirred by a delicious, soundless breeze.  

    We all used bug spray tonight; its tangy smell permeated our Bible Study as we sat in our circle on the patio.  

   I drove home to the tune of a rippling piano and a joyous voice.  Whenever the voice went quiet I heard silvery cricket song coming from every direction.  Technically I was driving, but actually I was running on the air, running on the music...and I saw blurs of firefly lights across the darkness, like tiny shooting stars.  

   Well, hello Summer.  Nice to have you back. 

   We were studying Psalm 65 tonight, which I've read before.  But I've never seen it as an individual Psalm, if you know what I mean.  I'm familiar with the Psalms' terminology, and its refrains and themes.  But before tonight if you asked me what Psalm 65 was about, I wouldn't have had the foggiest idea.

   Psalm 65 is a sweet psalm of praise, one that is mostly about extolling God's abundant favor to men.  The first four verses establish that He is the God who hears us when we pray; that He is both willing and able to answer us.  We spent a good deal of time talking over these first verses, but I'm not going to attempt to retell all our discussion.

   No, what struck me tonight was in verses 8-13.  It's a poetic, glowing description of the world He has made and orders by His hand:

   "...You make the dawn and the sunset shout for joy.  

   You visit the earth and cause it to overflow; You greatly enrich it; the stream of God is full of water; You prepare their grain, for thus You provide the earth.

   You water its furrows abundantly, You settle its ridges, You soften it with showers, You bless its growth.

   You have crowned the year with Your bounty, and Your paths drip with fatness,

   The pastures of the wilderness drip, and the hills gird themselves with rejoicing,

   The meadows are clothed with flocks, and the valleys are covered with grain; They shout for joy, yes, they sing."  

 

   One of the personal ways my Father speaks to my heart is through His Creation.  Yet I was aware of a strange disconnect between myself and the friends around me.  I said nothing because their discussion was beautiful and useful; it was focused on God and His deeds, and why He Himself is far better to seek than the mere blessings from His hands.  

   I couldn't believe I'd never paid attention to those poetic verses before.  I could see each as a vibrant picture in my mind.  Just picturing the rain-washed fields, the golden waves of grain before the wind, the miracle of tiny green shoots pushing through the loose, rich soil--I could feel my heart swelling with admiration, and brimming over in delight.  

   Oh, it is a metaphor for God's spiritual blessings, no doubt.  But...God makes things grow, and that provides the food for our table.  It's more than a metaphor, it is part of our everyday life!

   I wanted to speak up, but what could I say?  Go off into a poetic rhapsody of my own about the marvel and mystery of nature?  That would hardly be helpful.  It might sound unhinged, or worse, that I was too preoccupied with nature to give God glory.  I just wanted to give God glory by showing them a new perspective on how He provides for us in His earth! 

   I started wondering why we are so disenchanted with this sort of imagery.  Why is it so very easy to dwell on the metaphor, or rather, one-half of the metaphor?  Surely something is lost when we can only dwell on one side of a metaphor. 

   The original audience would have been delighted at this imagery.  Grain meant life and food, and hope for next year.  They were tied to the land, they worked the land.  How do we experience food?  Well, we go to the store.  Maybe we are delighted by the piles of produce in their crates.  We see bread and cheese and milk and eggs sealed in plastic or styrofoam.  And we see these in displays of plastic and glass, in an indoor, air-conditioned, man-built building.  Ah...now it begins to make sense.  

   We experience the delight of hot water from our taps and shower heads.  We experience the delightful plunge of cold water in man-made swimming holes of tile and concrete, filled with clean (or at least clear) water.  

   We buy our clothes already made; flocks and shearing, spinning and weaving mean nothing to us.  When we experience the outdoors, it is the brief walk between our air-conditioned building, over concrete and asphalt to our air-conditioned cars.  Then we weave through traffic and dust on more asphalt roads past our decaying buildings and gaudy shops until we get to our own box.  Then we go inside and stare at our glowing screens.  

   We are cut off from the earth, from nature.  Of course I'm glad to have the comforts, sanitation, and mass production that people have worked to build...but all the same, it comes at a cost.  We may not think it in so many words, but we sort of take for granted that "the world," is only what we experience.  The creature comforts, the man-made pleasures.  Nature itself becomes only a jarring note in the familiar melody.  

   Ugh, it's too hot, it's too sticky, it's too *dirty!*  It's too cold, it's too wet, it's too windy, it's too bright, it's too dark.  It's too dangerous, it's too uncomfortable, it's too fill-in-the-blank.  Sound familiar?  

   The loss is great when we retreat from God's nature.  We lose touch with our bodies.  Our sense of adventure languishes within us; suppressed, but never gone.  In our increasingly digital age, we are losing interest in real skills, real tangible things that we can touch, taste, and smell, not just see and hear. 

   What's perhaps even worse is that we lose our hunger for beauty.  Nothing we humans invent can come close to a breathtaking sunset.  Let me tell you something: God is beautiful, and He only creates beautiful things.  God's creation is not primarily functional, it is primarily beautiful!  It's dangerous, to be sure; but so is God until you get to know Him. 

   As odd as it may sound--put down the phone for a bit.  Go walk in nature.  Breathe in the smell of the trees, the grass.  Listen to the creek and the songbirds.  Watch the clouds for a while and just think.  Close your eyes and quiet your heart.  Notice the beauty around you and let yourself be delighted by it.  It will be good for your soul, I promise.  Talk to God and ask Him to meet with you, to speak to your soul as you walk.  Who knows?  He loves to answer, and He wants to hear.  Anything could happen.

   I don't know exactly what my mission in life is, but I do know that wherever I go, part of it will always be re-enchanting people to the beauty and wonders all around us.                  

 

 ~Cadenza