It's Not Where You Look for Answers but Where You Find Them that Counts

It's not where you look for answers but where you find them that counts. This statement, if read to my students, would seem to contradict nearly everything I tell them about how to do research, what counts as credible, and why they can't use Wikipedia. Yet faith changes things. In this instance I am not talking about answers to questions but answers to prayers, so perhaps it would better to replace the word "answers" with "blessings." It's not where you look for blessings but where you find them that counts. That's better. I've found this to be true after weeks of praying and searching for help for my little sister. I did all of this work, asked all of these people for help, and yet it was someone to whom I'd only mentioned this problem in passing who presented me with a solution.

Let me start with another story to explain. I don't know who wrote this story or even who told it to me, but here is the story that first opened my eyes. There was once a man who lived in a deep valley. This man was a good Christian who went to church and prayed to God. Soon the man learned through weather reports that a vicious storm was coming, sure to flood the entire village. Everyone was advised to leave. As neighbors packed and panicked, the man said he was staying in his home because he was a good Christian and God would take care of him. Soon the storm came and the valley flooded, and the man went to the second story of his house. As he did so, rescue workers passed in a boat and urged him to come with them, but he said he was staying because he was a good Christian and God would take care of him. The valley continued to flood, forcing the man to the roof of his house. There, a helicopter passed and rescue workers called out, urging him to come with them. He gave the same response. Soon the valley flooded beyond the roof of his house and the man drowned. In Heaven, the man turned to God and expressed his disbelief stating, "I have served you well. Why would you let this happen to me?" God responded, "I warned you with reports. I tried to save you first with a boat and then with a helicopter. What more did you want?"

In many ways, I have been the man in the house. My little sister has experienced many problems recently that are not my place to put here, but I can describe my search for a solution. I felt my church was the best place to look, and so I began by calling a woman in charge of a ministry designed to help in similar situations. The woman's identity is not important. She has done so much for our church and helped in so many ways, but for whatever reason I did not hear back from her. I then turned to a pastor associated with our church. Again, his identity is not important, but he has played an important role in my path with this church. He heard my story and offered to help, but I did not hear back from him either. Finally I turned to a woman who I have often considered a friend, and I asked her for help. On this day I skipped the church service in order to reach this woman where I knew she would be. She offered to help, and I did not hear back from her either. Frustrated, I felt the best I could do in the moment was ask my Sunday School class to pray for my sister. In this way, God heard my prayers.

On this day, there was a notice in a church bulletin about a young girl who had problems like my sister's, who found help through a church-based program. One person in my Sunday School class, a woman I cannot thank enough, saw this notice and thought of my sister. She notified me that day, and with my classmate's help, my sister's story is beginning to change. Now when I pray for my sister, I also give thanks for this woman from my class, the bulletin from the church, and the mysterious ways in which God answers our prayers.

I asked a question, and I looked for answers. Instead of asking God for help and watching for His answer, I looked where I thought His answers would be, and as a result I almost missed the answer he provided. If it had not been for my Sunday School friend, there is a good chance I would have missed his answer altogether. I learned an important lesson through this experience, and I hope I remember to use this experience as I search for future answers (and blessings).

You Can't Even Count on Fluff

I admit it. I read fluffy literature. And I don't mean I read fluffy literature as in once a year or so I pick up a novel that will eventually have to be part of my secret collection of crap books that I won't admit to owning (including a few leftovers from my Sweet Valley High days). I mean I read fluffy literature on a regular basis. Does it have shopping, shoes, or Choos in the title? I probably read it. I read fluffy literature on a regular basis not only because the sheer lack of depth provides a welcome relief from the serious, quality literature I read for school, but also because I genuinely enjoy fluffy literature. I believe in year-round beach reads, and I keep them front and center on my bookshelves right next to the likes of James Baldwin and Ralph Ellison. However, I feel I have an oft-written understanding with these authors. I will pour what little money I have into their books, recommend them to other people, and continue to support their tried-and-trite stories in exchange for the small little formula that equals good fluff: a trendy outfit, a night with too many drinks, a handsome stranger, and a happy ending. Is that really too much to ask? Apparently so.

In recent months I have found myself inundated with previously loyal authors who have since failed to provide me with the key ingredient to fluffy literature: the happy ending. (WARNING: SPOILER ALERT. However, if it's any consolation, the books I am about to spoil are clearly not worth reading because they have messed up the balance of cheesy stories and satisfied readers.) I have been a loyal follower of Jennifer Weiner since the very beginning. I stood "In Her Shoes," kept her with me because she was "Good in Bed," endured "Little Earthquakes," and finally said "Goodnight, Nobody" for several years before she ruined our otherwise harmonious relationship in "Certain Girls." Here we see Connie Shapiro, a character first introduced in "Good in Bed," who has at long last found her suitable partner, a wonderful man who helps to raise her daughter from a previous relationship. Together they begin pursuing their own baby via a surrogate mother, only to have the husband die suddenly from a heart attack mere weeks before they discover they are expecting. That's right, he died. No warning, no foreboding, nothing. One day they are happily ever after, and the next day he's in the happily ever afterlife. Jennifer Weiner, we are through.

I consoled myself past this novel and continued my pursuit of modern day fairy tales only to find the balance of my literary universe disrupted again by Kate Jacobs. Now I will be the first to admit my expectations should not have been altogether too high when picking up a book with the assiduous title, "The Friday Night Knitting Club," but I still had hopes. Georgia Walker, an honorable woman who ran her own business while raising her daughter all by herself after her husband deserted her so early in their life together. Now that her daughter is approaching her teenager years, Georgia finds herself rejoined with her ex-husband. They rediscover their love and his reliability just as her business finds a new level of success accompanied by a growing circle of close friends. Then, of course, she discovers she has cancer. Two hundred pages and a few short months later, she, too, dies. One minute she's improving, the next minute she's fireplace fodder. Thank you, and good night. Kate Jacobs, our potential reader/author relationship perished alongside your main character. You may have gone on to rejoice in the growth and ambition of her young daughter, Dakota, but I'm not going to take my chances. Fool me once . . .

Most recently, and the book that prompted this blog, is Jill Mansell and her latest novel "Miranda's Big Mistake." The fluffiness should have been guaranteed in the novel. There is nothing about this title that indicates hidden depths, insightful glimpses into human nature, or newfound philosophies on navigating life and love in the 21st century. Instead, the title implies 60,000 words on the most riveting aspects of what is more than likely a bad haircut, a one night stand, and eventually finding Mr. Right in the form of a famous race car driver who finds love in a young hair stylist despite her low income and small social status. Upon winning his biggest race to date, Mr. Wonderful will come racing to her said, prepared to finally reach the culmination of their growing love . . . until, of course, he gets into a car accident with a semi on his way to her home and dies instantly (simmer down, Freud, I understand my predisposition to dislike this particular plot twist). Another love grows, and another bites the proverbial dust. And with this crappy twist, Ms. Mansell, please accept my sincerest invitation to join Ms. Jacobs and Ms. Weiner in my fireplace. Along with your main characters, may each of your books return. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

Now perhaps I am overly bitter about these books. Perhaps I should accept that even the fluffiest of novelists has a deep burning desire to be more than a featured spot on Target's "Recommended Beach Reads." I can understand that. However, as an avid reader with severely limited time and a dissertation that has yet to write itself, I do feel that in exchange for my $12.99 per book you could at least allow me the privilege of a title that indicates this shift in literary styles, perhaps a new genre, or at the very least a pseudonym that acknowledges you are not going to ride on the wings of your previously fluffy fables in order to sell your newfound devotion to heavy doses of reality. Is that really so much to ask for?

Parenting in Public: Part II, Restless in Restaurants

By now you, my four faithful followers, have doubtlessly read my diatribe on children in grocery stores and have decided either a) I am overly cynical about children and should not be allowed in public during daylight hours, or b) I am overly honest and have finally put into words what you have also thought during your grocery-shopping-to-the-soundtrack-of-shrieking-children experiences but hesitated to say out loud. With that, I am going to use my insider information to enlighten you on what actually happens when parents bring their children to restaurants. Let's begin with the obvious.

Imagine the scenario: you're settling down in a booth with your significant other. You've had a long, hard week, and all you can think of is how nice it is to finally relax with the person you love. You'll have interesting conversation, a good meal after which you won't have to clean up, and by the end of dinner you will feel so refreshed you'll be ready to enjoy the rest of your evening. As you lean back into your booth, you feel a thump against the back of your head. Assuming it must have been an accidental bump as the person behind you also gets settled, you let the incident go unnoticed. Till it happens again. And again. And again. Upon the fourth thump you realize that the thumping is not from some well-intentioned adult but from an overly boisterous and uncontrolled four year-old behind you who is using your head as the recipient of his makeshift drum stick. You wait a minute, confident that his parents will realize what he is doing and punish him appropriately. After several minutes, you turn around to ask for help only to realize his parents are enveloped in their own quiet, relaxing evening on the other side of the booth, completely unaware of and unconcerned with their son's latest antics. Over the next forty-five minutes that feels more like three hours, the young boy grows increasingly restless and appeases himself with shrieking, singing, and an ill-conceived but long-lasting one-sided food fight. At the end of this time, you finally accept that his parents have chosen your side of the booth as his babysitter/personal entertainer for the evening, and you leave the restaurant $45 poorer but with a stronger-than-ever headache that will surely survive the weekend despite your best defenses of Excedrin and Advil. That, my friends, is only Round One.

What hapless customers again fail to realize is that your experiences as a fellow customer/guest only make up a small part of the overall effect a child has on a restaurant. As a server, I saw the head-thumping child on more than one occasion. However, I also saw his parents distract him during the day by letting him drink straight from a bottle of steak sauce. I saw his mother pacify him by breast-feeding him, uncovered, while she continued her conversation (and, yes, I'm still talking about the four year-old). I saw his father change his diaper on the table where you have since eaten a meal, and I then found that same diaper four weeks later when I pulled the booth away from the wall to clean behind it. Rest assured that these were not the regular occurrences you fear them to be. We'll call these experiences Round Two. After all, how much trouble can one little boy really cause all by himself? Round Three introduces the next round of havoc-reaking when the tiny terror that is Snowflake brings his siblings.

Together, the siblings - or Snowflake, Precious, and TinyTyrant as I will now call them - bring us to a deeper level of hell in the restaurant world. It takes nine boys to make a softball team, but it only takes three to get a decent game of tag around the tables whilst the servers walk by balancing endless plates of hot food and trays of drinks sure to break if they fall. Yes, I saw this game. Yes, it happened more than once. Of course, many parents realize that unsupervised boys will cause such trouble, and no one wants to be associated with such embarrassment. The solution? The parents who request a booth on the opposite side of the restaurant from their own children. This was a weekly occurrence and a different family almost every time. Whereas Snowflake could only start a decent drum beat with the back of your head, Precious can accompany him with the silverware-to-plates instrument, and TinyTyrant will be right there with them and his oh-so-adorable solo. This, my friends, is Round 3, also known as the inner level of restaurant hell.

To be fair, these children do not account for all children I saw while working in a restaurant. There were plenty of children who were well-behaved, controlled, and even cute. There were also plenty of parents who were aware of their responsibilities to the patrons around them and more than happy to control their children as necessary. However, every time Tracey suggests we have a family dinner in a restaurant, these are not the children I remember. Likewise, no matter how well-behaved (read: trained) my own daughter is, I don't want to surround her with these children anymore than I want to risk her becoming one of them.

So there you have it. After seven years of working in public service positions, I came out of these jobs with almost no savings, very little resume padding, but just enough resentment toward my experiences to ensure my daughter never gets to go anywhere. In a world of paradoxical irony, I imagine someday Ellie will take her own children everywhere she goes, refuse to control their behavior for fear of damaging their fragile ideas of self-worth, and ultimately be the mother of the children I couldn't stand in the first place. And those kids will be my grandchildren.