Another Way @ Third Way Cafe (Third Way Media)

Quarrels, Kitchen Gadgets, and Underwear Kitsch

Thu, 23 May 2013 07:00:00 EST

Women who may be quite feminist or even who despise supporting commercial culture (Bed Bath and Beyond almost owns the market on bridal registries these days, doesn’t it?) willingly engage in an old practice. I’m talking about women gathering together (often older, mostly married) with younger “friends of the bride” and relatives to shower a bride-to-be with kitchen gadgets, slightly risqué underwear, and advice on surviving your first marital quarrel.

At a recent shower, one thread in written bits of advice for the bride was dealing with quarrels or spats.

Where does the tradition get its roots? Interestingly, according to Wikipedia, the practice stems from ancient dowry traditions. When the parents of a woman/girl were not wealthy enough to provide a dowry—a sum of money or gifts for the new household, like a cow—friends and relatives would step up. Or they provided help if the father was not in favor of the marriage and therefore refused to come up with the customary dowry.

I remember my mother talking about her and her friends saving things for a hope chest (sometimes literal, sometimes just a shelf or drawer for things, or a box): fancy embroidered pillowcases, sheets, fine china or silver pieces. In Mennonite circles, and before an engagement ring was common practice, some men bought a cedar chest for their bride-to-be to serve as a literal “hope chest” for storing these linens or special items before (and after) a wedding. I never had one as a bride but after 35-some years of marriage I now have a hope chest sitting in my bedroom, bequeathed to us by my husband’s aunt.

Traditional shower gifts were either for the bedroom or kitchen, emphasizing traditional roles. It seems to be more of a U.S. and Canadian thing, with some also throwing bridal showers in Australia, adopted from U.S. customs.

Originally showers were quite informal; a group of friends just arrived at the bride’s home with gifts, unannounced. Hence the popularity of surprise showers. One of the showers for our wedding was a surprise by church and office friends. My husband-to-be was in on the surprise.

Another older type of shower is a “pounding,” a particular kind of kitchen shower where guests bring pantry staples—a pound of flour, a pound of sugar, a pound of butter or shortening and so on. It helped lessen the impact of a first big grocery bill when establishing a new home or apartment. Today when kids have already been living independently from mom and dad’s well-stocked pantry, poundings are not needed as much. But my sister-in-law threw one for us.

Bachelorette or “hen” parties came into vogue after I got married so I’ve never been to one even though my daughters have been to many.

What I really enjoy at bridal showers, more than the pretty flowers, party favors, savories, and fancy tea cakes from a European-style bakery shop, is the custom of sharing advice and feeling camaraderie with others regarding how to get along with your husband. Now that may feel very old fashioned indeed because the advice and hints certainly should go both ways, but at a recent shower, one thread in written bits of advice for the bride was dealing with quarrels or spats.

Especially when there are multiple generations attending a shower, it is somehow comforting to hear women who’ve been married 20, 30, 40, 50 years and beyond who are stable, steady, pillars of the church and society, hint that they too have had some pretty heated quarrels over the years when they wondered if they had made a big mistake.

As I reflect back, it was our church community which gave us the most affirmation in moving ahead with our marriage. I felt that support in a very big way at the shower they held for us. My own family, as conservative as it was, wasn’t so sure about their Mennonite daughter marrying a Lutheran, among other things. Issues of our differences were actually weighing pretty heavily on my mind the night of our surprise shower. Somehow I took it as a sign and blessing that we were supposed to move ahead.

Thirty-seven years later, I’m glad we did. We’re for keeps.

For my free booklet with advice on marriage, “Seven C’s of Marriage” write to Melodie Davis, Another Way, Box 22, Harrisonburg, VA 22803 or melodied@mennomedia.org

Melodie Davis
MennoMedia
Other posts by Melodie Davis

Melodie Davis, writer and producer for MennoMedia, is married and the mother of three adult children. She is the author of Whatever Happened to Dinner? and eight other books. Her column, "Another Way", also appears in newspapers in the U.S. and Canada. She writes a blog, www.FindingHarmonyBlog.com.

Grace Abounds

Thu, 16 May 2013 07:00:00 EST

Can you think of examples or times when grace was extended to you—maybe by another person, by God, or times when you needed to give yourself some grace?

I came to wonder if you couldn’t take almost any story, add the word grace, and thereby have a story you could say was about grace.

A wonderful project fell into my lap earlier this year: compiling and editing a collection of stories that is now published called Fifty Shades of Grace: Stories of Inspiration and Promise, (Herald Press, April, 2013).

Unlike many other books I’ve been involved in, the idea for this one didn’t originate with me. I was away at my daughter’s home last December when a lunch-time discussion at the MennoMedia office where I work (which publishes Herald Press books) turned into a brainstorming session. The result was that the editorial director, Amy Gingerich, sent out a quick call for story submissions for a rush-to-press book offering a counterpoint to the popular but dark erotica of Fifty Shades of Grey by E. L. James.

If you don’t keep up with popular bestselling books (Fifty Shades of Grey has been the fastest selling paperback of all time, surpassing Harry Potter) you may not know what that book is about. Normally I don’t critique books I haven’t read; but I didn’t have to look far to find descriptions that told me it wasn’t for me. (And I do not condemn anyone else for reading it; I just finished a somewhat acclaimed fiction book that had language and morals represented that I will not share here.) Other literary criticism of the E. L. James books (now a trilogy) has been mixed to negative, according to Wikipedia.

The idea was to not just produce a knock-off book of a popular title, (there is at least one other book called Fifty Shades of Grace which is more of a devotional), but to maybe attract attention which would lead readers into finding stories of God’s grace and activity in our lives. The stories in this “Grace” collection, by mostly Mennonite or Anabaptist writers come from a wide variety of people. I also hasten to add that the story I submitted was already approved for the book by other manuscript reviewers when the project was handed to me because of overloaded editorial staff.

The stories have given me much to think about regarding the nature of grace. In editing the work, I came to wonder if you couldn’t take almost any story, add the word grace, and thereby have a story you could say was about grace. I say that not to critique our own book, or trivialize or cheapen God’s grace. Rather, I wonder if this marvelous word, grace, is more abundant in our lives and experiences than we sometimes realize.

The short stories are mesmerizing: a young mother tells of her heartbreak and finding grace after losing her premature infant daughter at only seven days of age; a man struggling for basic civil rights in the deep South of the '60s ends up badly beaten but eventually finds grace to forgive his tormentors; a mother finds a way to connect with her angry child on the cusp of puberty. All examples of grace? I think and hope so.

Is grace a synonym for forgiveness? I’m sure you can think of many definitions of grace (musical “grace” notes; the salutation “your grace” for royalty; the way a dancer moves; a reprieve, pardon, or immunity from punishment) but here we’re mainly dealing with the religious meaning: divine love bestowed freely on people, and how, as recipients of that divine love, we’re asked to extend it to others.

Donald B. Kraybill, lead author of Amish Grace: How Forgiveness Transcended Tragedy (Jossey-Boss Press, 2010) and many other books wrote a marvelous foreword for our Fifty Shades book. In the foreword he says the key to understanding how the Amish families were able to forgive so quickly after their daughters were murdered in the schoolhouse at Nickel Mines, Pennsylvania, in October of 2006 was the line in the Lord’s Prayer, “Forgive us as we forgive others.” Kraybill says, “In the Anabaptist Christian tradition, forgiveness has two dimensions. It is indeed a gift from God, but it expects that we will not hoard it, but indeed will pass it on to those who injure and harm us.”

Do we cheapen grace by tossing it around so frequently in a book like Fifty Shades of Grace, especially one playing off of a popular erotic title? I think of how the apostle Paul, in the New Testament book of Acts, preaching to crowds on Mars Hill in Athens referenced the idols and gods they worshiped as he addressed them to get their attention. I think of how Jesus himself did not mind associating with those in need of God’s grace in their lives. I hope and pray that the book will help people get a fresh glimpse of God’s grace in our lives today.

To read five sample stories from the book Fifty Shades of Grace, go to my blog, www.FindingHarmonyBlog.com and look for the series of posts on Fifty Shades of Grace. Or if you don’t go online, write to me and I can send you a brief excerpt by mail. Request from me at Another Way, Box 22, Harrisonburg, VA 22803.

Melodie Davis
MennoMedia
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It's All Right to Cry

Thu, 9 May 2013 07:00:00 EST

Emotions are a weird thing. Sometimes when you think you’re going to cry you don’t and then the next time you surprise yourself by crying, just out of the blue. Some people cry more as they get older (I think my father did, and maybe my husband does), but if anything, I feel like I cry less. Maybe 'cause I don’t have monthly cycles anymore. No more rollercoaster of emotions.

Music has always been one thing that can move me to tears.

When we were expecting a child, I was sure I would be all gushy-emotional after my first baby was born because I generally cried whenever someone had a baby on TV. Even if it was a sappy movie or ridiculous sitcom, bring out the baby, and bring out the tissue box.

So I was surprised when our firstborn finally made her appearance. I was elated, happy, moved, excited—but not especially teary. It was not the most difficult of labors (I had a rougher time with the second one) so that may have helped, but I also think it was because I had gotten out most of my tears ahead of time on that topic.

I may have shared before in this column that my pastor has told me that the way she copes with having to preach a eulogy for a dear departed church member is that as she practices her eulogy ahead of time, she often cries or gets emotional while rehearsing—and can perform most funerals or memorial services without breaking down. I think that’s a good thing, because it can make things even more difficult for the family and others if the pastor breaks down. It is not that she is unemotional—she can be—but she feels it helps to get her tears out ahead of time.

I wrote last month about my husband’s semi-serious accident in February. It was a big event for us and even as I watched him being hauled off on a stretcher into a waiting ambulance, and following behind the rescue squad to the hospital, I couldn’t cry. We did not know the extent of his injuries, I didn’t know how long he’d be off work, we didn’t have any idea how our expenses would be covered, but I just didn’t feel like crying. For one thing, he was alive and coherent, and I didn’t think it would help him if I broke down.

So I never did really cry about it. Until the other day.

Music has always been one thing that can move me to tears. Big surprise. I am not alone in that. There is something in music that touches our hearts and minds in beautiful ways and stirs out emotions we barely knew we had. Whether it is a worship service, funeral, baptism, or baby dedication or christening, it is often the music that gets to me. I’m not embarrassed about it; generally I feel crying is a good thing.

I was home alone recently and exercising to some music from our satellite TV music channels. “Halleluiah,” as sung by Jeff Buckley came on. An avalanche of emotions came rising up within me and I’m still not sure what that was all about. In the lyrics, Buckley talks about the “secret chord” that David (in the Bible) played that pleased the Lord and of course some of the lyrics are quite secular. But I have been immersed in reading the books of Samuel in the Old Testament, which tell the long long adventures of King Saul and King David. Of course we love and hate David at the same time for some of the stunts he pulled, including his affair with Bathsheba. But basically the song ends up lamenting (like any old country western tune) about a broken love relationship. So the song, while beautiful in tune, is emotional and painful in the end.

And that was when I lost it. I felt the trauma and stress of my husband’s accident had brought us closer, so I was thinking about that, and how he’s faithful to me and our relationship is not broken. And indeed we have so much to look forward to, so some happy tears were edging in there too.

And it felt good, but weird, to be crying now, so long after the fact. I think I was also crying for all of the tragedies (the Boston bombing had just happened) and other people I know who’ve died (natural causes) and no longer have things on earth to look forward to. So we miss and lament their loss.

I’m back to the beautiful, almost cliché (now) words of Thornton Wilder voiced by Emily who has returned from the dead to relive just one day of life in the play, Our Town: “Oh, earth, you're too wonderful for anybody to realize you.”

So if the wonder of life makes us cry occasionally, that’s a good thing; when the tragedies of life on earth also make us cry, that’s a good thing too: we still feel for others. And if anyone ever figures out all of the emotions we have as humans, let me know.

Comments? Stories? Send them to me at melodied@mennomedia.org or Another Way, Box 22, Harrisonburg, VA 22803 or share them on the Facebook page for Another Way Newspaper Column.

Melodie Davis
MennoMedia
Other posts by Melodie Davis

A Hopeful Mother's Day

Thu, 2 May 2013 07:00:00 EST

My three daughters and two sons-in-law had gathered at our house to celebrate my husband’s 59^th birthday back in March. We planned to get together with extended family for a dinner later that day, but this was Saturday morning and the girls wanted their dad to open his birthday gifts.

Grandma. I can barely bring myself to try on the word.

So he opened them and since this was the first he had seen two of his daughters after his February accident, he was a little emotional when he found the cash they had stashed in one of the packages. My oldest daughter filmed it but put her video camera away when he was done. It was a nice little moment.

Then our middle daughter, Tanya, started to say, “Jon and I have an announcement to make …” and my mind ran ahead because it could only mean one thing. “We’re expect …” and I don’t think I even let her finish her sentence before I was at least a foot off the floor, maybe more. A baby!!! Our first grandchild! It was a hope and a thought that I had barely left myself have, because I know that sometimes even couples who want to have children are unable.

It was probably a good thing my oldest had put her video camera away.

While I was probably the only one screaming, we were all kind of laughing and everyone was excited and joyous. Our youngest daughter who lives in their same city was especially happy because she would be nearby (the three of them live about five hours from us). The happy couple is expecting sometime in September. They showed us the obligatory ultrasound photo and sure enough, there was something GROWING in her tummy—okay, uterus. Too wonderful almost to get my head around it.

Grandma. I can barely bring myself to try on the word. Grandma belongs to someone old and faithful in prayer and sometimes downright silly and immature. Oh wait, I guess I’m all those things, depending on the situation. And I’m past needing to feel young and beautiful and all that—those who love me appreciate me the way I am, I’m pretty sure.

This child, Tanya, was born May 6, so I spent Mother’s Day 1983 in the hospital with her and still have the dining tray’s napkin for Mother’s Day (yes I’m sentimental). It was also graduation weekend at the local university; party-going revelers kept me from getting much-needed sleep (she gave me the longest labor). The hospital at that time was practically on top of the university. I do remember hearing loud kids outside. Ironically, she was the daughter who ended up graduating from that hometown university 22 years later on Mother’s Day weekend. Time flies.

It is fun, no GREAT to go through pregnancy again through the eyes and experiences of a daughter, hearing about her worries, her request to finally read my pregnancy devotional book, For the Next Nine Months: Meditations for Everyday of Pregnancy, about her jeans getting too snug, doctor visits, prenatal vitamins and things that have changed since we had our babies (and things that haven’t). She couldn’t imagine, for instance, having to figure out how to tell her husband (like I did) because Jon was there to see their very first home pregnancy test results.

Like me, Tanya wanted to make sure she told her boss and her colleagues at work before the news leaked very far. Then there is also the matter these days of planning your social media strategy: nothing could appear on Facebook etc. for some time while certain people were duly informed in person or by phone.

What fun. I catch myself clapping my hands to myself at odd moments, just so elated. We are so very grateful, thankful and full of prayers for the well-being of a first grandchild (and no, they don’t know the gender yet and are not sure they want to know ahead of time). All in due time.

We know there are still a lot of hurdles to cross. A child is a gift. Motherhood and fatherhood are gifts. I may be a grandmother after all! Thanks be to God. We hold this precious time of anticipation and waiting in our hearts.

For a free copy of one of my books on parenting, write for Working, Mothering and other “Minor” Dilemmas. Send to Another Way, Box 22, Harrisonburg, VA, 22803 or email melodied@mennomedia.org

Melodie Davis
MennoMedia
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Moonshadow*

Thu, 25 Apr 2013 07:00:00 EST

Editor’s note: Jodi Nisly Hertzler writes occasionally for Another Way. Jodi and her husband have three children and she works part time as a proofreader for MennoMedia and as a tutor for Eastern Mennonite School.

It’s not easy raising a daughter when I can’t take her through the grocery checkout line without exposing her to multiple images of swimsuit models and hateful gossip about celebrity weight gain and marriage breakups.

I’ve given birth three times. Some of the details have blurred together by now, but certain moments from each experience remain crystal clear in my mind. One of those—one of the most powerful—is when my daughter (our middle child) was first placed in my arms. Her eyes opened wide and stared straight into mine, and the first thought that popped into my exhausted mind was, “I know you.”

I did. I knew that child. When my boys were born, the same rush of love was there. The same excitement, the same relief, the same joy. But with my daughter, there was something different. That first moment of meeting her was . . . it’s hard to put that feeling into words, but it was as if I was looking back into myself. Into my soul.

That little sprite with large, dark eyes turns ten this spring. She’s an undeniably unique individual and very much herself. And her chocolate brown eyes definitely come from her father. But I still get flashes of familiarity—a sense of looking at another version of myself. Like when she misses whole conversations because her nose is in a book. And when she slowly nibbles at her favorite foods, making them last as long as possible. Once when she was two, we sat together on a sunny afternoon. As I rested my chin on her head, my long hair drifted over her curls, and I realized that it was the exact same color—same dark brown, same reddish highlights shining in the sun—I couldn’t tell where her hair stopped and mine began.

My daughter is a brilliant, beautiful, self-assured girl who innately understands that feminine doesn’t have to mean “girly.” She has long hair, but has to be reminded to brush it every morning. She wears sweatpants to church. She loves reading, music, softball, and playing outside. She has a gift for memorization and can spell better than I can. She has good friends and loves her brothers, even though their table manners drive her nuts. Math and science are her favorite subjects. She is, in my husband’s words, “a wiz-bang mathematical wunderkind with a gift for pretty.” I desperately hope she can retain all these wonderful characteristics as she navigates the ever-nearing teenage years (though a little tolerance for chewing noises would be nice).

But I have fears—fears about the pervasiveness among teenage girls of eating disorders, promiscuity, substance abuse, bullying, depression . . . It’s not easy raising a daughter when I can’t take her through the grocery checkout line without exposing her to multiple images of swimsuit models and hateful gossip about celebrity weight gain and marriage breakups. We go clothes shopping and struggle to find simple outfits that aren’t midriff-baring or tarted up with sequins or sparkling words like “naughty.” How many female cartoon superheroes sport realistic bodies and/or modest costumes? How many video games offer good strong heroines? (I was excited when my daughter bought a Legend of Zelda game, only to learn that Zelda is a princess who has to be saved by the male hero—Boo!)

We’re raising a daughter in a world where toy companies think little girls will only play with Legos if they’re pink and who dress dolls up in sneers and makeup and name them “Bratz” (who in the world thought that was a good idea?). It was a proud moment when my little girl pronounced those dolls ugly and preferred My Little Pony (which, okay, are pink and flowery and have treacle-sweet names like Pinky Pie and Flutter Shy, but at least they focus on friendships and happiness). I was even happier when pink pony houses were abandoned for journal writing and art projects.

When she was three, my daughter gazed in wonder at a woman in a sequined dress and high heels performing in a magic show. She leaned over to my husband and whispered, “Daddy, do you wish you’d married her?” Now no longer dazzled by glamor glitter, she instead distains shampoo commercials and asserts that women care too much about being “fancy.” “I never want to be fancy,” she told my brother. “Mom’s not fancy, either.” (Thanks, sweetheart.) A little balance would be good, but at this point in her life, I’m glad her outfit of choice is oversized T-shirts, sweatpants, and black converse sneakers. Will she keep that “who-cares” attitude when faced with the perils of high school locker rooms? When she looks at boys as potential dates rather than wallball opponents? When her priorities shift from Super Mario Bros. to makeup? I hope so. I pray so.

My little girl. So much me and so much not me. Enough like me that I understand her . . . sometimes too well. Enough unlike me that she’s a constant surprise and a bit of an enigma. The wonder and familiarity I felt when I first looked into her eyes? I don’t think it will ever go away.

(*Title refers to the song by Cat Stevens and my husband’s nickname for our mystical little girl.)

For a free bookmark “100 Great Ways to Praise Kids” write to Another Way, Box 22, Harrisonburg, VA, 22803 or email MelodieD@MennoMedia.org

Melodie Davis
MennoMedia
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Had It Not Been for Reading

Thu, 18 Apr 2013 07:00:00 EST

After my daughter, Michelle Sinclair, wrote her guest Another Way column in March on how reading can unlock the door to education and opportunity, one bookworm peeked out from the covers long enough to share her own story of how voracious reading influenced her life—and of those she eventually taught.

Alma grabbed an upper fourth grade level book and read the entire story to the principal and me; tears were running down our faces.

Shirley Whalen, from near Lake Tahoe, California, gave me permission to share her story and I hope you enjoy it. It is a bit of nostalgia but contains truths for any time, whether you are reading on papyrus, paper, Nook, Kindle, or tablet.

“Your comments are vastly encouraging. I was just like you, [Michelle] reading under the covers. I devoured all the books in the Van Wyck branch of the city library (Norfolk, Va.) where I took the trolly once a week, paying seven cents a trip. I used all family members’ library cards: you could check out six books per card. The librarian (when she had time) would ask me about the stories to prove I had read them all—24 books each week.

“I didn’t read the children’s books but launched right into Agatha Christie, Nigel Marsh, Ellery Queen, (nom-de-plume) Sebastian Tombs, the entirety of Bullfinch's Mythology, books on Egyptology (fascinating), as well as Dauphine De Maur and thousands of others. I finished the entirety of Van Wyck’s second floor, lugging them home in a paper bag every week.

“I was the ugly duckling: fat and with a vocabulary that astounded the teachers. They never failed to try to introduce new words into my vocabulary in keeping with high school vocabulary (which was boringly mundane and so beneath me). I read through the entire Compton’s Pictured Encyclopedia. My parents had very limited funds, we lived in the country on a farm, but managed to make 'time payments' for the entire 24 volumes. Encyclopedia Britannica was beyond our finances. But thankfully, my parents, who due to the depression of the 30s had to drop out of school at tenth grade, encouraged me to learn everything I could. God blessed me with wonderful parents who said, 'If you want to read the funnies, you have to learn to read.' By three years of age, I could and did.

“When I graduated from high school, I wanted to go to college to become an aeronautical engineer but my parents couldn’t afford it. So I found jobs everywhere I could on campus and in town and paid my way through seven years of college, then went back to college and earned my degree in education, planning to specialize in teaching mathematics and sciences.

“In my first year of teaching I was trying to teach 43 students from the ghettos (Norfolk Navy housing in ghettos—cinderblock crackerboxes with minimum furniture and too little money to feed the families). This led to my securing government funding of free breakfasts and lunches for the whole school. The school nurse bathed and deloused some of the students needing it, found donations of children’s clothing for those who came to school in filthy rags. Some had no shoes; others shared one set of clothes between several siblings.

“I was teaching second grade when I was sent a 12-year-old girl, my height, a non-verbal non-reader without a clue. I was told at end of school year to just pass her on to third grade as she was so tall and old.

“By the last day of school the principal came around to wish all the students a happy, safe summer. Alma went up to Mr. Eastwood and tugged on his sleeve. ‘Can I read for you?’ she asked.

“He, humoring her, said yes. She ran to where I kept a huge supply of books of higher grade levels. Alma grabbed an upper fourth grade level book and read the entire story to the principal and me; tears were running down our faces. Alma’s face lit up like the lights at Candlestick Stadium. Of course, we passed her on to a grade level more suitable for her abilities. I knew then I wanted to teach school more than study aeronautical engineering.

“Upon moving to the West Coast I expected a very advanced education environment. To my chagrin, it was so dumbed down that I was sickened. So I agreed to do substitute teaching. After a requisite 35 years, I took retirement (at basically no pension; this county did not pay into the teachers’ pension fund).

“Had it not been for learning to read and reading everything I could get my hands on, I would not have become the person I became.”

Shirley closed her essay, which was directed to Michelle as the writer, “Had you not been a hungry reader, you, too would not be where you are doing a good job inspiring [others].”

I agree. Thanks for your story, Shirley, and for Alma’s. May there be many more teachers, parents and kids reading well into the night, on the bus, on the metro, at a kid’s bedside. Those were some of the best moments of parenting.

What were your favorite books as a child? Share on my Another Way Newspaper Column Facebook page or write to me at melodied@mennomedia.org or Another Way, Box 22, Harrisonburg, VA 22803.

Melodie Davis
MennoMedia
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Pressure to Conform and Reveal More

Thu, 11 Apr 2013 07:00:00 EST

When you are young, female, insecure, and exposed to all of the messages in our culture and the media about how you should look, feel and be, just what you wear can be overwhelming.

“This marketing sends the message ‘the younger, the better,’ which harms young girls’ self-esteem and pressures them into engaging in risky sexual behavior before they are ready.”

That’s why my attention was drawn to an innovative program by a small church in Engadine, Michigan, Wildwood Mennonite, which conducted a series of eight workshops for teen girls over four months. Janice Wagner wrote about it in a regional paper, the Gospel Evangel (Nov.–Dec. 2012). They called the program “Modeling Modesty” and it covered such topics as what is modesty and why teens should care about it; does how kids talk matter?; what are the secrets of inner beauty; modesty in diet and actions; and more. As a wrap up activity (no pun intended) they had a “Modeling Modesty” fashion show, complete with a runway, which looked like a lot of fun.

I’m sharing the idea here in order to encourage others to think about how they can provide support, community, and help for teen girls. The planners invited local “experts” on things of interest to most teen girls, including a hairdresser, a dietitian, a counselor, and a physical education teacher (who talked about recreation and exercise). A manicurist led a session on doing nails. Throughout, the speakers and conversations looked at how to relate to the opposite sex, modesty, and what it means to live according to wholesome standards.

For the fashion show, the church was able to borrow merchandise from their local JC Penny and Maurice’s stores. “We used what we learned to create a wardrobe of clothing and accessories to model in the fashion show,” wrote Wagner. “A highlight of the program, both for the girls and the leaders, was spending a day putting together outfits that met both the personal styles of the girls and appropriate standards of modesty.” They even included an outfit from Goodwill in the fashion show to illustrate that you can dress nicely without big bucks, and sometimes find new, brand name clothing at Goodwill. Gift and Thrift Stores, sometimes associated with Ten Thousand Villages stores, are another source of “vintage” clothing that appeal to some teens.

I thought this idea was worth sharing. “Everyone in the congregation participated,” said Wagner, “some by praying from the beginning of the project, and especially during the final week. Some men constructed the fashion show runway in our sanctuary. Some women served as decorating and kitchen crew, making hors d’oeuvres to be served by younger girls, grades two to six.” Others promoted the show, helped with hair and make-up, and served as greeters, photographer and sound technicians.

All this sounds like a fair amount of work—especially for a small church of about 50 members. Girls invited their friends to attend. As Wagner reported, “It was important to have the involvement of the congregation to make it a success. It had big rewards in building community within our congregation and providing us with an opportunity to engage teens in thinking, and possibly rethinking their values, with the goal of forming beliefs centered on biblical principles.”

If those of us who are older are not willing to go out on a limb and help teens, especially girls, look at the clothing they wear with an eye to modesty, the standards will inch lower and lower (or higher if you are talking hemlines). My high school home economics teacher in north Florida had it right when she used to rail at us: “Y’all just don’t know what you are doing to those poor lil’ ole’ boys!” You may argue with who is at fault here, but today girls well know how they are affecting the opposite sex when they dress certain ways.

I almost lost my nerve to write this column when I received an email about a new product/marketing campaign by a well-known maker of pretty/sexy lingerie for girls and women. The campaign features an array of sexy underwear aimed at teen girls:

Green-and-white polka-dot hipsters reading, “Feeling Lucky?”
Lace-back cheeksters with the word “Wild” on the back
A lace trim thong with “Call Me” on the front

Says one mother, Diana, about these products: “As a mother of four, three of whom are daughters, I am appalled,” and she was leading a petition as an organized protest to the manufacturer. “Children are not sex objects; children are not things. Middle schoolers are not old enough to make responsible, safe decisions about sex. This marketing sends the message ‘the younger, the better,’ which harms young girls’ self-esteem and pressures them into engaging in risky sexual behavior before they are ready to make informed, consenting decisions about sex and their bodies.”

Diana’s daughters are the lucky ones here; the girls at Wildwood church are lucky they have adults who put themselves out there to host a fun program teaching about stuff most girls (not all) are interested in; I feel lucky that although our daughters sometimes wear things I don’t exactly approve of, they have taken the message of good sense and basic modesty to heart.

How do you deal with issues about dress with your teens, whether guys or girls? What kinds of messages do they send with their clothing—sometimes literally on T-shirts, or otherwise? Send your comments to me at melodied@mennomedia.org or Another Way, Box 22, Harrisonburg, VA 22803, or post at the Another Way Newspaper Column Facebook page.

Melodie Davis
MennoMedia
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Wake-Up Call

Thu, 4 Apr 2013 07:00:00 EST

Our lives are trying to return to “more normal” after a six-week upheaval. Most of us crave, and thrive best, on a certain amount of routine, even though it is nice to have occasional surprises. But not this kind.

He was drifting in and out of consciousness and the next time he called, I finally found out what road he was on. I assured him I’d be on my way.

On February 5 my husband was on his way home from his second night on a new night shift he volunteered for, to help his company out. They had been working 65–75 hours a week. He got off at 9:00 a.m. and called me, saying he felt surprisingly good. He had a 40-minute commute home, but he would do a few errands and grab some breakfast before he went home to sleep.

Then I got a call about 11:05 a.m. “I think I messed up,” said my husband. “I think I’ve had an accident.” He trailed off and hung up, I thought. I assumed it was a fender-bender in a parking lot and someone had come to talk to him about it. I went on with my work.

He called again at 11:07. “I had an accident,” he started.

I said, “I know, you told me. Are you alright?”

He mumbled he thought so before trailing off again. But this time he didn’t hang up and I started to hear background voices, and finally someone saying, “You have a very large bump on your forehead.”

It was then I realized something was pretty seriously wrong. The background voices continued for about three minutes and the phone disconnected again. He was drifting in and out of consciousness and the next time he called, I finally found out what road he was on. I assured him I’d be on my way.

Long story short, he had fallen asleep, hit a tree, was taken by rescue squad to the emergency room, had x-rays and CT scans, no major damage but lots of pulled, strained, and sore ligaments and muscles that would probably get worse before they got better. And eventually two large shiners around his eyes from where the airbags hit his glasses, but likely saving his life or serious injury. He was wearing a seatbelt. The gas-saving little Toyota Echo was easily totaled. He could barely climb into bed that night, get out of his chair, or get up from the toilet.

The good thing was he hit no one else, but falling asleep was still reckless driving—a misdemeanor in our state. When the officer sheepishly delivered the ticket to me sitting in the emergency room while Stuart was getting more x-rays, he assured me the ticket could most likely be reduced to improper driving (which it was).

Stuart was so so thankful he didn’t hit anyone and he has replayed the sequence leading up to the accident 50–60 times. If only he hadn’t stopped for breakfast, he might have not been so sleepy. If only he had pulled over to take a quick nap, like he had thought of doing. If only he had called me to keep himself awake. If only—well, if he had swerved left instead of right, he would have hit the woman who saw him drive off the road and (thank God) called 911. The rescue squad got there before he came to.

You can do “if-onlys” forever after a game-changing event like this but the bottom line is that we all drive when we are drowsy and it is as bad as driving drunk. Tests have shown that drowsy drivers pull some of the same stunts that intoxicated drivers do.

So drink caffeine, change drivers, or if you’re alone, pull over in a fast food parking lot or at a roadside rest area (unless it is night) to nap. When my children were young but able to quietly entertain themselves, I even napped at a rest area while on a 600-mile trip to my parents’ house.

We are both newly thankful for volunteer rescue squad workers, one of whom stumbled helping to carry my husband up out of the ditch on a stretcher, for which they had to walk up a ladder (which was laid up the ditch for footing). Ironically, I had just interviewed Ryan Kline, a 19-year-old young man for an article. Kline is pursuing a career in nursing after falling in love with medical work while volunteering as firefighter and rescue squad worker. My hat is off to all who willingly ride into the day or night, often risking their own limbs or even lives, helping out those of us who “have messed up.”

The take away? Anyone, anyone—even those who’ve been safe drivers for 30 to 40 years—can fall asleep at the wheel. It can happen to me or you. That was our wake-up call. I thank my husband for allowing me to share this story even at some embarrassment to himself. He always wants to help other persons so if it helps someone else avoid an accident, that is the point.

You can also thank a rescue squad or firefighter that you know, or send a note of thanks. And give generously to their fundraising events and drives.

Send your own story to me at Another Way, Box 22, Harrisonburg, VA 22803 or melodied@mennomedia.org or at www.thirdway.com.aw

Melodie Davis
MennoMedia
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Faith that Upsets Religion

Thu, 28 Mar 2013 07:00:00 EST

Jesus knew how to wreck a parade, you could say. Right after the “triumphal entry” in his honor that Christians now recall and joyously celebrate as Palm Sunday (the Sunday before Easter), Christ cracks a whip and throws out those who were ripping off the poor in the temple. (To imagine what that might have sounded like had there been a newscast of that day, see www.ThirdWay.com/rad under “Greatest Week in History.”)

Who is welcome at your church? Would Jesus be happy at your church, or a little upset?

Jesus’ birth upset King Herod 33 years earlier, and with good reason. Jesus wasn’t intent on taking over Herod’s throne, yet he was all about an upheaval of religion and launched a faith that still inspires persons to put their lives on the line in the name of Christ.

But that kind of Christianity or faith is upsetting to some. Sarah Kehrberg, writing in Mennonite World Review (Feb. 18, 2013) shared a bedtime conversation with her kids that went like this:

My daughters were snuggled into bed, and I was reading to them from Matthew. “If anyone slaps you on the right cheek, turn to them the other cheek also. And if anyone wants to sue you and take your shirt, hand over your coat as well.” My 7-year-old’s head popped up from the top bunk as she said in disbelief:

“What? Jesus is mean!” . . . This wasn’t the first time Jesus failed to make a good impression. After reading one of his many confrontations with the Pharisees, my other daughter said, “He is always yelling at people. He’s never happy.”

Sarah writes, “Jesus is direct and does not shy away from conflict. He often seems disappointed in people. If you’re an elementary-age kid, he probably doesn’t seem like the most approachable fellow.”

***

The nuances of understanding metaphor and literalness may have to come at a later time for our children. (For more on the Bible as an “R-rated book,” check out an article by Sarah Hinlicky Wilson in Christian Century, Feb. 25, 2013.) But certainly an adult reading of the Gospels shows a Jesus who ultimately took on the religious and political authorities and structure of the day—and seemed to lose.

How can we who follow Jesus do any less? It can mean sticking your neck out and expressing opinions that upset your friends and family; it can mean living far away from family in response to what you hear as God’s call to live faithfully; it can mean volunteering in a homeless shelter or clothes closet where you’re not sure if everyone there is actually “documented” but doing it anyway; it can mean staying put in a factory or office job and quietly offering alternate views on popular Christianity which sometimes sound like God will bless you monetarily if you commit yourself to God’s ways.

***

Who is welcome at your church? Would Jesus be happy at your church, or a little upset? Would he upend some tables sitting around the foyer? Would he speak up at the elder’s meeting about church members ripping off people in their business practices and renting hole-in-the-floor mobile homes? Or would he be sitting out on the steps with the homeless (which happens most often in our larger cities) and be asked to move on, buddy.

The pastor emeritus and founder of our church, Don Allen, was telling us about a storm on Friday, April 13, 1984, two days before Palm Sunday at his church in Washington, D.C., Capitol Presbyterian, the oldest existing Presbyterian Church in D.C. (built in the 1860s). Lightning struck a window frame and started a fire in the attic. Don Huff, a homeless man who was known at the church, saw the fire as he was walking by and called the fire department from the nearest pay phone (in the days when there were still pay phones). His quick action “probably saved the building” from burning to the ground, says the history section of the church’s website, http://capitolhillpreschurch150.org/history. I think Jesus would have been a friend of Don Huff (and I’m happy to say that these Presbyterians were too).

Yet we know that too many of us harbor prejudices, misconceptions and fear about people on the edges in our society. Whether people are undocumented, addicted to drugs, involved in prostitution, or victim to hearing strange voices, a faith that follows Jesus calls us to be there, in spite of our fears.

It is a faith that challenges me and I don’t always follow as fearlessly as I should.

For a free booklet spelling out what one stream of Christian faith is like, What Is an Anabaptist Christian?, write to me at melodied@mennomedia.org or Another Way, Box 22, Harrisonburg, VA 22803.

Melodie Davis
MennoMedia
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Fact and Fiction on Handel's "Messiah" - at Easter

Thu, 21 Mar 2013 07:00:00 EST

We usually sing and hear the Messiah at Christmas, but it is truly an Easter story in the end. I got to hear this masterpiece with my mom, two sisters, and two daughters last December performed by the Charlotte Symphony and the Oratorio Singers of Charlotte, North Carolina, but decided to write about it now, at Easter.

Nothing could keep me or the rest of the audience from practically leaping from our padded seats upon hearing the first strains of “Hallelujah!”

The story of how Handel came to compose such a masterpiece is marked by myth and apocryphal stories, including the fact (true) that he composed it in 24 days. That time frame frequently leads to the story (apparently not necessarily true) that Handel wrote the music in a “fervor of divine inspiration,” and that as he composed the "Hallelujah" chorus, “he saw all heaven before him,” the story goes. This is fueled in part by the fact (true) that at the end of his manuscript, he wrote the letters “SDG”—Soli Deo Gloria, Latin for “To God alone the glory.”

But, musicians and other artists are used to working fast and furiously on deadline. Whether it is divine inspiration or mortal’s fear of blowing a deadline might be contested. No sacrilege intended.

Adding to the legendary reputation is the story that when King George II first heard the Messiah, he apparently stood for the "Hallelujah" chorus which remains a tradition among most audiences to this day. As my daughter, artistic manager for the Charlotte Symphony pointed out, “It also just makes a really good place to stand up after sitting so long.” Wikipedia says, “There is no convincing evidence that the king was present, or that he attended any subsequent performance of Messiah; the first reference to the practice of standing appears in a letter dated 1756.” And I always thought it was a Queen Elizabeth who first stood!

Upon researching the background of Messiah further, I was surprised (but shouldn’t have been) to find it was another artist/author, Charles Jennens, who chose and edited the scriptural text. On their own, the lyrics convey the complete gospel story of Jesus’ life, ministry, death, and resurrection. While the text uses mostly King James English (as in the King James Version of the Bible), Jennens massaged it to work as a musical text. It is almost written as an opera. If the soloists are good, they deliver their offerings with intense operatic expression.

I was not disappointed at the performance in December. The alto soloist was a youngish Emily Marvosh, who performed a section from “The Passion of Christ” with such sorrow and depth one could feel the “smiters” hitting the back of Jesus with their whips, and taste the spit of those who desecrated the son of God. The text (taken from Isaiah 53:3 and 50:6) was written in our librettos as “He gave his back to the smiters, and his cheeks to them that plucked off the hair. He hid not his face from shame and spitting.” Marvosh uttered “spit-ting” and “plucked” with something akin to a mother’s heart breaking.

Handel, Jennens (lyricist), the soloists, choristers, and director held me nearly spellbound. The choral director, who commutes from Boston to direct the Oratorio Singers of Charlotte, waltzed his arms and hands with such feeling and majesty it enhanced the performance, drawing the audience in even more. Nothing could keep me or the rest of the audience from practically leaping from our padded seats upon hearing the first strains of “Hallelujah . . . for . . . the . . . Lord . . . God . . . omnipotent reigneth.”

Where do these well-known words, (now popular on YouTube through hundreds of flash mob choruses in malls or public spaces) actually come from? Why, none other than the mysterious, murky, difficult-to-understand last book of the Bible, Revelation. Jennens knew his Bible very well to skip from virgin birth to shepherds to how Jesus himself became known for “shepherding his flock,” to Psalms and laments and back to Revelation. What more majestic verses from Revelation could be found for the wrap of the "Hallelujah" chorus: “The kingdom of this world is become the kingdom of our Lord, and of his Christ; and he shall reign forever and ever. King of Kings, and Lord of Lords” (Revelation 19:15-16). The director’s arms and hands punctuated each word in those majestic lines. I was like, “let me die right now and go to heaven too.”

The final glorious section of Messiah comes next: an achingly beautiful soprano voice lilting, “I know that my Redeemer liveth, and that he shall stand at the latter day upon the earth. . . . For now is Christ risen from the dead.” And the chorus answers, “For as in Adam all die, even so in Christ shall all be made alive.”

And that is when my tears came that night: not at the long-anticipated opening strains of “Comfort ye, comfort ye,” but at the end where Handel and Jennens affirm every Christian’s belief that this mortal life is not the end. My mind swam with thoughts of all the dear departed loved ones of the last year or two. Too many, it seems, the older I get: Carroll, Sherry, John, Trudy, Jim, Laura, Jane, Ressie. They were beloved friends, relatives, and colleagues, many of them gone much too soon but now surely kicking up their heels in the heavens or “flying around eternity” as one of these dear ones said after his own wife had passed.

My heart, soul and mind were filled to bursting. Hallelujah! Whether the Easter story itself is fact or fiction is, for some, another matter to debate. For me, its fact I accept on faith. Amen.

For a free gospel of John including John’s version of the Easter story, write to Another Way, Box 22, Harrisonburg, Va., 22803 or email me at MelodieD@MennoMedia.org

Melodie Davis
MennoMedia
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