Helmuth Huebener and beyond

I fell asleep on the couch yesterday with BYU TV playing in the background for noise. I woke up to the last half hour or so of a documentary about Helmuth Huebener, a 17-year-old LDS boy from Hamburg, Germany who (with the help of two friends he enlisted at church) unsuccessfully resisted the Nazis during World War II. He was eventually caught, charged with treason, and became the youngest political prisoner to be executed (by decapitation, incidentally) by the Third Reich.

I went online when the program ended to see what information I could dig up, since I missed quite a bit while I napped. I enjoyed the section about Huebener on the (quite intriguing) site Conscious Angels, though I admit I skipped over much of the historical discussion to get to the real story.

I also found a page about Huebener on Times And Seasons, which, unlike the article above, discusses the matter from a Mormon perspective and raises many interesting questions. One of the fundamental principles of our religion, codified in the 12th article of faith, is that we believe in "obeying, honoring, and sustaining the law." So what are we to do when the law is not merely wrong or misguided, but evil? What are we to do when standing up to tyranny within our own government causes more temporal harm than good (the death of your family, for instance, with no change to the evil regime) -- is it right to sacrifice them for the sake of exercising your own conscience? Does the church encourage collaboration with unscrupulous governments?

Somewhere along the line, the comments in response to the article turn to questions about Latter-day Saints' (lack of) involvement in community service efforts. Why aren't more Mormons down at the homeless shelters and soup kitchens like, say, the Catholics? Why don't we as a church operate any soup kitchens, for that matter? Do we turn a blind eye to the evils of our own society, things like poverty and disease? On the one hand, I'm not sure that's fair; the Mormon church's assistance programs focus more on teaching a man to fish than giving him a plate of microwaved fish sticks. On the other hand, while the church does have an impressive humanitarian aid program (both for its members and for people of other or no faith), it's largely institutional -- by which I mean it requires little more from us than a check and an offering slip. I think we probably do fall down on the job of serving on the front lines in our communities, at least I have in the wards I've lived in.

Which, I suppose, is nobody's fault but my own. I don't need the bishop's or Relief Society's permission to volunteer for a cause that tugs at my heart strings; if I neglect to follow the Savior's command to feed the hungry and clothe the naked, it's on my own head.

Anyway. All tangential, but interesting things to contemplate on a Sunday afternoon (and now on into Monday and hopefully on beyond that...).


~RCH~

On a lighter (and more musical) note!

I have rediscovered the joy of community public radio -- or college radio, in this case. Down with the corporate suits who want to brainwash me with their homogeny! Give me something different; give me something fabulous!

Driving home from Walmart at 11:30 on a Saturday night, a half gallon of ice cream struggling not to melt next to me in the warm Texas air, I hear the lilting strains of Nouvelle Vague doing a cover of "This is Not a Love Song." It was a moment. [Becca, I think you in particular would like this one.]

Thanks to KTXT 88.1 FM, I've also recently been introduced to the melancholy loveliness of The Weeds and the oh-so danceable "I Left My Wallet in El Segundo" by (I think) Norman Cook.

It's been such a long time.... The last place I lived had only corporate stations, but I came of age listening to community public radio in Salt Lake City. In the era of grunge, KRCL 90.9FM led me in many directions at once, exposing me to folk and bluegrass and jazz and ska and punk and even -- one late night driving around with my best friend Becky -- the Eskimo Rubber Band choir (oooh, how I wish I could find a link for that one!).

The folk music is what seemed to stick, and I veered off into the land of singer/songwriters for the next several years. For old time's sake, here are a few of my favorites you should check out:

• Leonard Cohen
• Nanci Griffith
• Lyle Lovett
• the Nields
• Dar Williams

~RCH~

Aw, crap (and other thoughts).

I need a book on the developmental psychology of 2-year-olds, because things are getting out of hand around here. I am increasingly frustrated with what I'm sure is normal behavior on her part, and I'm increasingly frustrated that I don't know what to do in response.

My life was so much easier when I just had one child. I could channel all my energy toward her. (Of course, she wasn't 2 years old then, either!) When the baby came and I got so little sleep, I described the way I felt as tightrope walking on barbed wire. My nerves were frayed almost to the breaking point from being awake all night with the baby, and then again all day long with the toddler. I was stretched so thin I almost broke. I'm a little surprised I didn't.

It doesn't feel like that now; we've got quite a good rhythm down, actually, and aside from feeling constantly tired (in a way that's different from the sleep deprived exhaustion of the early days with two), I'm doing all right. Except that I'm so much angrier than I ought to be. If I was walking on barbed wire then, I'm wading unsuccessfully through minefields now -- and with each step, *BAM!* there goes another limb, there goes another outburst.

I'm a yeller now. I've always hated people who yell; they scare me. But when my older girl does something that sets off that trigger -- like this afternoon, when she ripped off her diaper, pooped on the living room carpet in several places, then stepped in it and walked all over the house, all while I was trying to fix dinner and get the three of us ready to go to a potluck in an hour -- something inside me insists that yelling is the only way to convey just how aaaaaaangry I feel.

First off, in my saner moments I worry that my behavior borders on abuse (if it does not, in fact, cross the line into emotional abuse). How did I become such a terrible mother? A terrible person! What kind of monster hurts a child on purpose? And beyond that, why do I even let myself get so angry? So she crapped on the floor: She's two; she's learning how her body works. We've toyed with the issue of potty-training a little already, so it's not even that surprising that she'd take her own diaper off. But I'm still angry. I'm so angry.

I've tried to talk to my DH about this and am met with lectures about time management. If I managed my time better (and if I used the computer less, lol!), my overall stress level would go down. Eh, maybe. Though his response irritates me, too, because it seems dismissive of the real issue. I don't know what I want from him, exactly, but I'm pretty sure it's not a schedule! Maybe it's just a hug. I don't know. Our disconnect is probably as much my fault as anyone's because I'm not tremendously articulate at communicating my feelings.

*Sigh!*

I wonder sometimes if I have delayed PPD. Or if I'm just, at my very core, a mean person.

In any case, I think if I knew a little more about child development and age-appropriate discipline, I'd have more tools at my disposal to act in the right way rather than to react out of stress and fatigue.


~RCH~

On the occasion of her 30th birthday

Kathryn, Kathryn, Kathryn.

It’s the very last minute, the 12th hour (literally, actually). I’ve been stalling: I’ve brainstormed and started and stopped and played around online and started over and moved from the computer to a notebook and changed pens and browsed through my CD collection for the perfect nostalgic music and written one line and crossed it out and—

How does anyone expect me to do this? How could I possibly distill 18 years of best friendship down to mere words? We met in junior high; we must have been about 12. I’ve known and loved Kathryn now for longer than I ever lived without her. So how can I squeeze more than half our lives — all that laughter, all those confidences, all the adventures and all the turmoil of growing up — into a few paragraphs that come close to saying what I mean?

What tone should I strike? I could certainly go the sentimental route; I love her madly and miss her terribly now that we don’t live near each other anymore. I’d love to be witty, to make her laugh the way we used to do until all hours of the morning. I could give a simple run-down of our association over the years, an inventory of experiences with their corresponding dates and historical context. I could do a roast; she’s always been far too easy to tease.

A sample of contemplated first lines:

Kathryn has trouble distinguishing onions from garlic but — lucky for us — that foible hasn’t hampered her ability to make pork chops any.

If there’s one thing Kathryn has taught me, it’s that rear-wheel drive isn’t terribly effective in the snow.

I felt like I held my breath for three solid months that summer Miriam was born and Kathryn had her kidney transplant.

There’s no one you can be stupid with like an old friend, I discovered one afternoon while trying to find the Great Salt Lake....

We struck out on our own in the summer of 2000, moved into a great little basement apartment, and quibbled over who got to be Laverne and who got to be Shirley.

But what to say, really? “You know you don’t have to make it perfect for me,” she’s always told me, knowing how I agonize over every little word I write. But I do have to make it perfect. For someone who’s influenced my life so profoundly by her friendship and example, it ought to be perfect. For someone who’s loved me unconditionally, whether I deserved it or not, it ought to be perfect. For someone so unfailingly generous to me and to everyone she meets, it ought to be perfect.

Is it enough just to say I love you? Because when you mix it all in, boil it all down, that's what it comes to: I love you, Kathryn. I couldn't ask for a better friend and can't imagine my life without you in it.

Here's to a happy milestone birthday, and many more returns of the day.


~RCH~

I reserve the right to be incomplete.

For what it's worth, if the previous entry seemed incomplete that's because it is. I had plenty more to say on the subject of motherhood -- I had it all written in my head, the most eloquent blog entry of all time -- but DH interrupted me midstream. When he and I finished talking, I couldn't remember where I intended to go with my ramblings, so I simply stopped. And added a few pictures. ;-)

In the old days, I would have scrapped everything and started over. But I can't afford that luxury anymore; I'm tired. If I don't allow what I've said to stand, however imperfect or unfinished, I'll never say anything at all. The whole point of this blog is to practice using my voice, so I reserve the right to be incomplete.


~RCH~

Here, let me get that booger for you.

Happy Mother's Day, all.

It has occurred to me that being a mom involves an incredible invasion of personal space for everyone concerned. Obviously, for those first 9 months you live The Invasion of the Body Snatchers -- but while you can't get too much more invasive than that, it doesn't stop with birth: You spend the next few years picking at your child's ears and nose; licking your thumb to wipe her face with that time-tested saliva-based cleanser; stopping her in mid-crawl (or dash) to peek down her pants, just in case your nose isn't working. And you continue to be fair game for her long after she's left the cozy little womb: You become a chew toy; a mountain to climb; a life-sized Barbie Shimmer & Glitz Styling Head. All I can speak to so far are the early years, but I've been slobbered on, peed on, and even pooped on more times than I'd like to acknowledge.

Still.

There's something to it, isn't there? This motherhood business.




~RCH~

As if I don't waste enough time online already...

...I've decided to try blogging. Because really, who doesn't like to talk about herself? Who doesn't like to pretend she has an endless audience of adoring fans? Mutter to yourself on the street and people think you're nuts; type to yourself and you're a literary genius. Not to denigrate the work of other bloggers -- I've really enjoyed reading my siblings', for instance -- but it would be silly to pretend that my starting one is anything more than simple, comfortable narcissism.

But hey, hooray for that! ;-)

Anyway, I think it'll be nice to use phrases other than the standard, "Don't eat your shoes --! Okay fine; if you insist, at least eat the top parts, not the germy bottoms!" which pass for conversation in a house with a wilfull toddler and a baby who's just learned to crawl.

...Unless I end up using this space to talk about them, lol, which is entirely possible. They are my world, in all the senses of that term....

Ah, well. Watch this space.


~RCH~



My siblings' blogs:
Cleverly Blogged
Ramblings of all Sorts
Inbetween the Lines