"Lake Wobegon Days" and Saturday Nights with Garrison Keillor

Lake Wobegon Days is the only novel I've read where the main character is a town. The town of Lake Wobegon is technically fictional, yet all too real for those of us who grew up in, and thus grew to love, small town life. The book was charming because the town is charming. It was a montage of stories depicting the town's conception and infancy, it's growing maturity, and the new tidings offered by the four distinct seasons. There was no one plot that followed the book from beginning to end, just a host of quirky townspeople connect through the generations by their association to this one picturesque like hamlet on Lake Wobegon.

Garrison Keillor brings us tales from Lake Wobegon every Saturday evening. I purposefully set my clock by A Prairie Home Companion. At promptly 6 pm every Saturday I set down the book I'm reading or the papers I'm grading and turn on the kitchen radio, perennially tuned to our local NPR station. I know this sounds "so 1930s," but I can't help myself. It's a ritual more akin to my grandparents' generation. In our day of DVRs and Netflix, who sets their clocks by a show anymore? Much less a radio show! But I'm old fashioned and I like it. The delight of listening to Garrison live offsets any temptation I might have to venture out on a Saturday night. (Unless of course, it is to see him broadcast live at Wolf Trap - a recent treat that thrilled me beyond all explanation).

For two hours Garrison Keillor provides our evening's entertainment as we prepare, eat, and clean up dinner. The voice actors use their bygone art-form to satirize old-time radio shows. We've become quite attached to Guy Noir, the bungling private eye, and that lonely, guilt-inducing mother whose screeching voice makes us cringe and laugh simultaneously. I'm also rather entranced by the parodied advertisements for Bebopareebop Rhubarb Pie and Powdermilk biscuits, both of which sound delightful in their apparent disregard for the trending food movements outside Lake Wobegon. Neither of these items is fresh, local, or devoid of carbohydrates, but I feel like people in Lake Wobegon don't worry so much about carbohydrates. Whatever gets them through that long cold winter can't be that bad.

I don't have the slightest inkling of ever living in Minnesota. I'm not that hard-core. Yet, at this time of year I always find myself a little homesick for my own "Lake Wobegon." I can't stop missing a little town in Western New York where the winters are only marginally better than those in Minnesota and everybody knows everybody else's quirks. It's a place where people don't have perfectly manicured lawns devoid of dandelions, they don't freak out about ticks every time they go outdoors, and they don't find it necessary to refrigerate all the buildings during the summer.  One day perhaps we'll retire to that idyllic little place - if I can convince my husband to move so far from "civilization."  (Though I'm sure he'll bring his more "civilized" views toward dandelions with him.) In the meantime, we'll enjoy our quaint little Saturday night ritual for as long as Garrison Keillor has stories to tell.

"And that's the news from Lake Wobegon, where all the women are strong, all the men are good-looking, and all the children above-average." 
- Garrison Keillor

"Orphan Train" by Christina Baker Kline

Set in Minnesota and Maine in the 1930s and 2011, respectively, Orphan Train weaves together the stories of two orphans, living in the same town, two generations apart. When Molly, a seventeen year old foster kid, steals a book from the local library she finds herself doing community service in an elderly woman's attic. Day after day Molly, and the 90-year-old Vivian sift through boxes of Vivian's things, purportedly to clean them out. In reality, the attic holds a Pandora's box of memories, memories that are not thrown out or donated, but neatly folded, boxed, and labeled while stories are told.

Vivian tells Molly of her journey from Ireland to New York City, her life in the tenements and the tragic night when she became an orphan. She was packed on an orphan train bound for Minnesota. In Minnesota she is at first taken in by a couple who forces her to work as a seamstress in the family business and sleep on a cot in the closet. When the Depression sinks their business, Vivian, then called Dorothy, becomes a "mother's helper," little more than a slave of the Grotes who are a poor and shiftless family living outside of town with too many kids. Her only solace is school and her teacher Miss Larsen. Miss Larsen ultimately saves her from an abusive situation and finds her a kind and upstanding family to take her in. Her name is changed to Vivian and she is gainfully employed at the couple's general store. She gradually builds the business into a thriving enterprise.

As Vivian tells her stories of loss, heartbreak, and ultimately, second-chances, she is at the same time offering a second-chance to Molly. Molly in turn, uses the internet to help Vivian track down and reconnect with long-lost family. In the process this unlikely friendship between a 90 year old woman and a teenager sporting the Goth look becomes a serendipitous chance at redemption for the both of them.

What I enjoyed about this book was its wholesome, neatly packaged conclusion. Every once in awhile you need a book like that to remind you that there is good in the world, that the quest for unconditional love and "family" can be found - even when that family is unconventional or unrelated. There is nothing quite so hopeful as the story of an unloved waif, taken from the streets to a warm and clean home where goodness and compassion gradually build into love.

"The Circle" by Dave Eggers

The Circle is a hyperbolic, yet strikingly haunting cautionary tale of our society's rapid retreat of from privacy. The novel tells the story of an ambitious young woman named Mae who has just landed a job at a groundbreaking tech giant called The Circle. At first I thought the "the Circle" was meant to represent Google, but apparently The Circle is the next best thing. The Circle has taken over and filled the gaps. It has given all individuals one user account through which all social, business, and even domestic transactions occur. (Think Google+Amazon+Facebook+Twitter+LinkedIn+Pinterest+etc = The Circle.) The Circle is everywhere and its rise to preeminence makes it a happening place to work.

The problem is that The Circle is everywhere. Innovators at The Circle have created ingenious mechanisms to make every facet of life not only controlled by The Circle, but also public. Politicians go completely "transparent," meaning that they wear a camera around their neck at all times so that all their interactions are live-streamed and broadcast to the world. Their followers, or "watchers," can comment on their every move from the cookie they ate for breakfast to the approval granted in high-level committee hearings. These inexpensive cameras can be surreptitiously hung in homes, on street corners, and just about anywhere humans frequent. Thus, any crime, any instance of domestic abuse, any call for help can be immediately seen by millions and attended to almost immediately. Genealogy can be tracked back to the Middle Ages, dredging up family history best left in the past. Online identities are not concealed. Since everyone's Circle account is tied to their credit card real names always appear in comments and postings. While ridding the internet of anonymity has indeed made users more civil, what we find is a world where expectations for communication have drastically risen. Friends take offense at the slightest delay in "liking" a post, accepting a invitation, or signing a petition.

This is not some futuristic dystopia where the government is imposing strict surveillance on it's people (though it would be easy for the government to do this if it wanted to, since The Circle has all the information) No - this is a society in the not-to-distant future where individuals choose to give up their privacy. They choose to be constantly harangued by companies looking for product reviews, choose to publicize their every moment by posting videos and photos, choose to give up hours of sleep following others' lives and commenting on their day-to-day activities. This is not a cautionary tale against the NSA and drone surveillance. It's a cautionary tale warning us of the dangers inherent in our voluntary relinquishment of privacy.

The Circle's ethic centers around the belief that secrets are bad. 'Has anything good ever come from hidden knowledge?' The Circles creators, called the Wise Men, ask.   If people are not doing something shameful, why should they hide? The Wise Men believe that the concept of privacy was created to mask wrongdoing. Mae slowly falls into their clutches. Like most of the other young, innovative minds at The Circle, she cannot resist the pull of group-think. Total transparency, thus total accountability, is the goal. Privacy and solitude are viewed as shameful and suspect.

The Circle and its many followers certainly have their opponents. Yet these people are seen as backward, unenlightened and antisocial. Mae, in her first days at The Circle, proves to be an exceptional employee, but is chastised repeatedly for not being social enough online, and for not attending The Circle's plethora of evening and weekend functions. Mae, ever the people-pleaser, then embarks upon an exhausting array of online and offline activities. Working by day, managing her Zing feed (The Circle's version of Facebook/Twitter) and hopping between Circle social events in the evening, her schedule is so packed that she doesn't even have time to go home. Rather, she takes advantage of The Circles dormitories, offered free of charge and often stocked with food, clothing, and personal items consistent with the preferences gleaned from each inhabitant's online activity

It gets even creepier. Soon there is talk of mandating every U.S. citizen to have a Circle account and use that to mandate voting. Thinking optimistically, Mae and the Wise Men believe this will ensure full voter participation and allow for politicians to more closely represent the people - or even do away with the need for politicians altogether as society moves toward a direct democracy This is where the book "jumps the shark." Once the story line moves out of the realm of company policy and social conformity to rewriting the Constitution, it all becomes a little absurd.

Fortunately, the shark jumping didn't occur until near the end, so I would conclude by saying that overall Dave Egger's book was an enjoyable read and made valid points about how often we voluntarily put our security and privacy in jeopardy. I revel in the irony of it all. I chuckle to think about how our nation was in an uproar last summer with the Edward Snowden revelations, yet these same uproarious citizens give up a plethora of data and freedom every day through Gmail, Facebook and Twitter. How important is our privacy anyway? I understand the principle is enshrined in the First Amendment, and no one should be forced to give up their privacy. But just like Mae was not forced to attend Circle social functions and post about her every waking moment, the pressure to be a contributing part of her environment essentially drove her into the clutches of full transparency. While the "Wise Men" of the Circle contend that transparency makes us more honest and would argue that the watchful eyes of millions reduce crime and corruption, it also makes our lives infinitely more stressful. We are always putting ourselves out there to be judged, criticized, and yes, even applauded. In doing so we are constantly molding and remolding ourselves into the image of our watchers.  So not only does this foster homogeneity, but it put us dangerously into the clutches of others. Our constant quest for approval, for attention, for validation through the comments, the likes, and the shares, reveals our true insecurity. And if we are seeking security from the "likes" of our followers, we are on very tenacious footing.

While few would deny there are benefits to social media used prudently and in moderation, Eggers' book firmed my resolve to more consistently put the computer away, close out of Facebook, and seek more meaningful avenues of spending my time. How often does social media shift my focus away from the ones whose approval truly matters. There are only a handful of people on this earth whose opinions should really hold any weight. And really, the only "follower" who knows my every move and every thought is God. Ultimately, it's His approval that matters most. So why spend all this time trying to impress others? He already knows I'm not impressive. He created me to depend on Him; but he also gave me gifts and resources that I can use to serve Him and others. Sometimes those gifts do involve social media (i.e. blogging to hone my writing skills) but other times they require my mind and my heart to be totally offline and unplugged.

"Looking for Alaska" by John Green

I'll have to admit, Looking for Alaska was a bit of a letdown after The Fault in our Stars. The characters seemed pretentious and the plot was rather cliche. Though it was a stimulating read, I was, all things considered, rather unimpressed.

The story had the air of a A Separate Peace, The Chocolate War and Dead Poet's Society. The book is not only set in a boarding school, but all the standard conflicts are present. The rich kids maintaining the status quo always antagonize the purer, deeper outcasts whose revolutionary thinking makes them the protagonists. Likewise, this boarding school novel features pilfered cigarettes, alcohol, and an annoying preoccupation with challenging the seemingly inept authority figures. (Maybe I feel this way because I'm a teacher and I don't like those who challenge my authority.) As in other stories, the boarding school is a pressure cooker of external and internal conflicts that drive one particular student to suicide. The main characters grapple with this death in their own ways and ultimately seek answers to the great existential questions facing humanity.

Looking for Alaska is, at its core, a novel of teenage angst. The four main characters are intelligent, yet underprivileged outcasts. Their otherness gives them a keen disdain for the wealthier boarders who retreat to their luxury homes at the end of classes each Friday. Their social group really centers around Alaska, a rebellious, moody, and promiscuous femme fatale who seems to exude an aura of "mystery" - at least according to the hopelessly enamored boy narrating the story. Though Alaska and I share a lot of the same thoughts on male dominance and a similar abhorrence for patriarchy, that's about where the similarities end. To me, Alaska seems like an overly emotional attention-whore who is obsessed with with breaking the rules simply for the sake of breaking the rules. There is really nothing mysterious or alluring about her.

In addition to being underwhelmed by the title character, I also felt like too much of the so-called plot simply centered around their ridiculous pranks and flagrant violation of rules. The conflicts that arose were all conflicts the teens themselves created through their own stupidity or narcissism. Though the characters' drunken rants were peppered with all sorts of philosophical quandaries and a somewhat odd preoccupation with famous last words, I didn't find any of it particularly pithy. Essentially, these kids needed to grow up and stop taking themselves so seriously. (That was not one of the conclusions reached by the end of the book, if indeed conclusions were reached.) In short, I felt that by writing a book about people who take themselves too seriously, John Green gave those types of people the time of day that they didn't deserve.

"My Age of Anxiety: Fear, Hope, Dread, and the Search for Peace of Mind" by Scott Stossel

Imagine a personal memoir, crossed with a college textbook, crossed with a doctoral thesis. That is precisely what you get in My Age of Anxiety. It is a book you read to learn - and learn I did.

Anxiety, in all its forms, is no stranger to 21st century America. More people than you realize are on drugs for anxiety, depression, or both. In his book, Atlantic Monthly editor (and nephew of TV journalist John Stossel) takes us through his harrowing journey through many forms of therapy while wrestling with the pressures of life and navigating the enigma of his anxiety. Stossel has been plagued with phobias since his childhood. Emetophobia, or fear of vomiting, seem to be his most pressing battle, though many others invade his psyche and leave him chained to a series of often debilitating rituals. In addition to illuminating his readers on his own personal struggles, Stossel traces the history of mental illness, including the different theories that each generation has held towards "neuroses."  He tries to offer some explanation as to why this particular epidemic is sweeping our society. Is it really the drug companies manipulating us to buy their placebos? Or is there a chemical/biological component to anxiety and depression? Is it genetic? Or, as Freud would attest, does anxiety arise purely out of our upbringing (and our repressed sexuality)?

There is no easy answer because the brain is a bewildering realm. Many studies in recent years have shown the presence or absence of certain hormones and chemicals can leave one predisposed to anxiety. Yet, as the book seems to conclude, just because one is born with a "worry gene" does not mean that person will definitely have an anxiety disorder, just as having a genetic predisposition to breast cancer does not mean one will necessarily end up with the disease. Stossel delves into a host of studies covering everything from brain chemistry to parenting. Perhaps the most interesting tidbit I gleaned involved the neurotransmitter, Neuropeptide Y (NPY) a chemical that potentially creates resiliency to stress and regulates emotion. Those with higher levels of NPY tend to adapt better to stressful situations. For instance, a study of Navy Seal trainees, revealed that those who graduated from the program also had high levels of NPY. Those who did not make the cut generally had lower levels of NPY in their system. Similarly, studies of NPY have been shown to predict which veterans will end up getting PTSD after serving time on the battlefront. Those with lower levels of NPY are more shaken by war trauma while those with high levels of the neurotransmitter tend to have generally lower levels of empathy, engage in more sexual promiscuity, and are generally more aggressive. However, do not show up at the VA complaining of PTSD symptoms.

This of course led me on my own tangent of reflection. As a historian, I wonder if perhaps the rise in PTSD in the past century is in part a consequence of the wartime drafts and the modern benefits offered to servicemen.  Perhaps some men are just not biologically cut out to be the brave, battlefield warriors epitomized by traditional patriarchy. Some have lower levels of NPY, and arguably, make better husbands, but not great soldiers. However, did the wartime drafts of the 20th century force hundreds of thousands of passive young men into the field? Does the free college tuition, health care benefits, and other perks draw people into the military who would be better suited for a desk job?  Generals Patton and Marshall claimed that modern society was mollycoddling our young men by catering to their mental illnesses. But could it be that we have forced young men to kill people when they were biologically ill-suited for the job?

I also resonated with the studies that discussed how high serotonin levels correlated increased levels of extroversion. People that are brooding and depressive tend to have lower levels of serotonin and prefer to be alone or with smaller groups of people. While this does not always correlate to anxiety disorder, social alienation and anxiety/depression often go hand-in-hand because the same brain chemicals influence both tendencies. However, those same depressive or anxious introverts tend to rate higher on intelligence tests, and often achieve unique and creative feats. Studies have also shown that these mildly obsessive types make the best employees. Furthermore, the great artists and intellectuals of history have often been depressive or plagued by anxiety. Charles Darwin himself, whose theories help us understand how some of these traits have evolved, was plagued by such severe anxiety that after returning from his voyage on the Beagle he never left his home again. However, staying home allowed him to complete the Origin of Species. Many other greats had the same experience. Their phobias and introversion left them tied to the house, but allowed them the time and the peace that they needed to complete the great masterpieces of our age.

So if you wonder why I sit home knitting on Friday nights, and spend most evenings and weekends reading books and blogging about them, well, now you know. My brain doesn't simply doesn't have enough juice to party. Maybe one day all that staying home on weekends will add up to a literary masterpiece. For now though, I've got some pretty great homemade sweaters.

"Eleanor and Park" by Rainbow Rowell

You know you've hit on a good book when you go through mourning once it's over. That's precisely where I am right now. Eleanor and Park didn't end. It just stopped. The story is going on somewhere and I'm not there. And I miss them. I want to turn the page, but there is no page to turn. Yes, it's a little pathetic when you're invested so totally in a book that the characters have become so real to you, that once they're ripped out of your life you walk around feeling depressed and alone. Maybe there is something pathologically wrong with me. Maybe I need more human friends. 

Eleanor and Park is set in Omaha, Nebraska in the 1980s. I'm not sure exactly why the author chose this decade, but I have a feeling that she's is fictionalizing some of her own life. Either way, it is a story of teenage puppy love in the old days - the days of walkmans, cassette tapes, landline phones, and a host of other things I only vaguely remember. The story's narration alternates between Eleanor and Park. Thus, the reader got a sense of how each character felt about the other, and how disillusioned they were about their own shortcomings. 

The story is so peppered with sappy love scenes that I almost feel guilty about becoming so attached to it. Yet, what drew me in was not the romance, so much as the fact that it was a romance between two smart, dorky, somewhat naive, and very self-conscious kids. It also spoke a lot about attraction and it challenged our culture's stereotype of beauty. It gave me faith in humanity and it reaffirmed my belief that there really are good guys out there (besides my husband of course), guys who aren't attracted to Barbie dolls. 

The story opens with Eleanor getting on the bus. She's the new girl. She has big red hair, a stocky build, and atrocious clothing. She looks like a loser in every sense of the word. Nobody wants to offer her a seat, but when the bus driver yells at her, a grouchy Asian kid reluctantly moves over and lets her sit down. Before they even get to school the kids in the back of the bus have invented a litany of unflattering nicknames for her. It doesn't get much better during the school day. She's smart, so she does well in her classes and gains respect and sympathy from her teachers, but she doesn't exactly make any friends among her peers. It's gym class that turns out to be the bane of her high school existence. The school bus bullies are in her gym class and they make her life a living hell. To make matters worse, she's forced to wear a revealing and too-tight gym suit that does nothing to flatter her full figure. Eleanor is miserable. She is the butt of all the jokes and she just wishes she could be invisible. 

If school is bad, home is worse. The only time she can breathe easily is when her step-dad Richie is away at work or drinking his earnings at the local bar. She learns how to avoid him as much as possible; she also learns to sleep through the fights and the beatings going on in the next room. She tries, as best as a big redheaded teenager possibly can, to make herself invisible. 

As you can imagine, Eleanor is very insecure, very reluctant to trust, very slow to let anyone in. Thus, the relationship between her and her seatmate develops slowly. The grouchy Asian kid, Park, actually feels bad for treating her so rudely on the first day, yet not bad enough to talk to her. He's in several of her honors classes, and he watches her closely. He begins to see that she is truly unique. Their relationship begins as they read comics together. At first, she surreptitiously reads over Park's shoulder, but he soon catches on. He lets her borrow some. Then he shares his music with her. It is not long before she's coming over to his house, meeting his family, and officially recognized as "Park's girlfriend." 

Over the next few months their relationship grows from simple camaraderie to being "in love," to tentatively experimenting with physicality, and in the process dealing with their own insecurities. Eleanor thinks she fat. The bullies make fun of her for it and her step-dad makes rude comments about her appearance, but somehow Park sees none of this. He thinks her unruly hair and mismatched clothing makes her like "like art." Park however, thinks he's too effeminate, he believes that Asian men are not attractive to white girls. Both of them view themselves through the lens of what the cruelest voices in society have been telling them, yet both Eleanor and Park see the other as beautiful. Here's the best quote, this is the part where I absolutely came to adore Park: 

“I miss you, Eleanor. I want to be with you all the time. You’re the smartest girl I’ve ever met, and the funniest, and everything you do surprises me. And I wish I could say that those are the reasons I like you, because that would make me sound like a really evolved human being …‘But I think it’s got as much to do with your hair being red and your hands being soft … and the fact that you smell like homemade birthday cake” 

I love that these two off-beat kids are in love. I liked that the skinny, semi-emo Asian kid has the hots for a fat, sarcastic, redhead. They are an unconventional couple and that's why I appreciate them, which is also why I was so fond of this book. Eleanor's dysfunctional family added drama and a bit of suspense, and in the end led Park to make a very hard decision. I can't say I was always impressed with Eleanor's choices, but she was wholeheartedly endearing. I understood her and empathized with her. 

This book has made it onto many bestseller lists, including NPR's "Best Books of 2013" (my #1 source for reading material). Dreamworks is making Eleanor and Park into a movie because, as Holly Bario, president of production, told Entertainment Magazine, 

“Every girl who has read it says, ‘That was me in high school, or that was me in 7th grade...It reminded all of us of our own sort of awkwardness, or family dysfunction.”

When I read that quote I was incensed. That was ME in high school. It wasn't "every other girl;" every other girl was skinnier, prettier (or so I believed), and getting picked before me in gym class. I was always the last kid standing when other students chose teams, always the one without a partner, always the kid who got picked on or yelled at (or both) for doing the wrong thing with the ball.  In fact, this book revived bullying memories as far back as kindergarten. I remember getting on the bus and finding there were no seats. I remember the "big kids" picking on me, and I remember standing in the aisle during the bus ride to school (fortunately I lived close, so it was quick). But gym class was truly the worst. For thirteen years I spent at least three hours a week feeling like the most worthless person in the world. 

I'm thankful these experiences generally ended by 3:15. Unlike Eleanor, I don't know much about family dysfunction. I'm only an expert on social awkwardness. As a teacher, I totally gravitate toward the kids like Eleanor and Park. The clubs I sponsor all tend to attract the nerds. They are my people. I suppose the jocks  all feel a little bit insecure too. But to say that Eleanor represents every girl really denigrates the experience of those of us who were legitimately bullied, who were legitimately overweight...and are legitimately redheaded.  And no, I don't identify or empathize with Eleanor in every aspect.  I had absolutely no family dysfunction, but those who did have a valid claim on her too.  But please, Holly Bario, don't say that Eleanor represents every high school girl. She does not. Rainbow Rowell did not write this book to mirror the experiences of the popular kids. She wrote it for the outliers. 

When Dreamworks makes this movie, I sure hope they don't cast Eleanor as some average-sized girl. I do hope that the actress is noticeably overweight and yet still beautiful (also, she must be a redhead, a real redhead). First, I don't want an average-sized actress because all too often these regular girls (like Mindy Kaling) go around calling themselves fat. I guess, compared to most Hollywood actresses they are larger, but Mindy is a size 8. A size 8 is a perfectly reasonable size, and one that many of us average women work very hard to fit into. By branding themselves as "fat" these actresses belittle those of us who are healthy, fit, and moderately curvy. Secondly, I hope Eleanor is overweight because I want beauty to be represented on-screen in all its forms. There are many beautiful people who are larger than a size 8. I'm not trying to promote an unhealthy lifestyle, but I believe we need to re-brand attractiveness.  "Beauty" is not synonymous with "skinny." It is also not the only route to attraction. Oftentimes, one's intellect, humor, and personality makes them beautiful in the eyes of another, even if society doesn't see that. This is something that has taken me years to just begin to accept. It is a concept that Eleanor could not grasp, even as the book came to a close. However, I firmly believe that girls like Eleanor - and girls like me - need to see themselves as Park sees Eleanor. They need to see themselves as "art." 

Rotten Hot Dogs, The Sermon on the Mount and My Irrational Fear of Jogging Strollers

A couple of weeks ago my husband and I noticed a putrid stench emanating from our hall closet. We took everything out, looking for some sort of decomposing animal. We checked the bottom of our shoes and smelled our coats. Finally, we settled on the alleged culprit: my gym jacket (the jacket kept solely for wearing to the gym or while cooling down after my long runs). However, after washing the suspect and airing out the closet, we still could not get rid of the stench. Finally, my husband thought of the one place we hadn't checked: the pockets of our coats. There, in the pocket of my winter coat were Ziploc baggies containing rotten hot dogs.

Why, you may be wondering, would a person be carrying hot dogs in the pockets of her coat? Well, the answer is simple, especially for anyone who owns a slightly neurotic dog. The hot dogs are the key to positive behavioral training. You see, my little rescue dog Luna, is a bundle of worry. On our walks we try to use hot dogs enforce positive feelings whenever something "scary" arises - recycling bins, bikers, and most terrifying of all - other dogs. And yet, despite our continued efforts to socialize and practice positive reinforcement, Luna is still overcome with worry. 

Sometimes when I'm walking Luna I'm almost a little hurt by her fear. I know dogs don't think like people. I know I can't hold this against her, but after a year of walking every single day, doesn't she know that she can trust me to not let the other dogs hurt her? At this point I know which dogs are calm and friendly, which are a little too exuberant, and which ones we should probably stay away from. Whenever I try to get her to socialize with the nice ones it's like playing tug-of-war. We have made a couple of friends, but progress is slow. I wish she could understand that I would never let another dog hurt her. I would swoop in and take a bite before they got to her. I wish she could understand that all I want is her for to enjoy her walks without anxiety, to make some new friends, and not live in constant terror of getting beat up. She trusts me to give her food, water, and peanut butter sandwiches. I wish she would trust me with this. 

Then this morning I came to a passage of Matthew 6 that I've read many times. However, this time, a new thought struck me. I was reading the section of the Sermon on the Mount about worry. It is one of the brightly highlighted and oft-read passages of my Bible. It struck me that maybe, just maybe, God feels a bit like I do with Luna. Maybe He feels a little hurt, somewhat mildly offended that I don't trust Him with certain things. I hold on to worry and mull it over until I get depressed and overwhelmed with it. I probably do this because I know that getting over fears means confronting them. He wants to walk me through my fears, just like I want to walk Luna up to that nice pair of Boxers and let them become friends with her. (She wants nothing to do with them) Yet, handing our worries over to God and trusting them in His hands does not mean everything is always comfortable. That's part my issue. I know He'll make me uncomfortable, just like I'm going to make my little dog uncomfortable this summer. She is going to spend two whole weeks with her grandparents and her Crazy Aunt Daisy, an exuberant heifer of a Yellow Lab. 

So what exactly is MY worry? What irrational fear do I need to hand over to God? The answer: jogging strollers. Yep. Jogging strollers. They terrify me. 

It's not so much the stroller itself, or even what's in the stroller, but what the stroller represents. (Though the strollers' contents are pretty scary. Babies are a close second on my list of irrational fears: behind jogging strollers and above snakes...and of all the babies, the redheaded ones are the most terrifying. If you know my mother just ask her. She's had one of every breed and she'll tell you the redheads are the scariest.) You see, the jogging stroller represents an encumbered life. Jogging with a stroller just doesn't seem enjoyable. I know, I know, everyone says it's a GREAT workout. But here's the thing - I'm a distance runner, and running 10 miles is all the "great workout" that I need. I HATE feeling encumbered when I run. I don't even wear and iPod if I run anything under 6 miles. Also, let's be honest, I'm no Usain Bolt. I mean it takes me awhile to run a half marathon. What if the kid starts wailing at mile seven? What if I can't get it to stop? Will someone on the trail call Child Protective Services if I just turn up my iPod and let the kid scream all the way home? 

This doesn't even scratch the surface of all my worries that are associated with potentially having children. I'm usually able to keep them at bay, but something about strollers seems to unearth these anxieties so that whenever I see a mom with a jogging stroller I'm immediately overwhelmed by my laundry list of fears. (The other day I passed a woman with a double jogging stroller. I about died.) While I know that God promises He'll take care of me, and that He won't give me something I can't handle, I'm not entirely confident that He won't make me uncomfortable. What if he gives me a kid who is actually good at sports (necessitating my attendance at sporting events), or doesn't like to read, or doesn't like history - or worse - a kid who likes history so much that he or she decides to major in it! I could go on. If I were to list all of the things that scare me about children or life with children, this would achieve a Guinness World Record for the longest blog post in history. What's worse, I'm at the stage where everybody and their brother seems to be having babies. Facebook is full of all sorts of posts educating me on things I never even knew I should be worried about: Vaccines are a vast pharmaceutical conspiracy to cause autism!!! Cows milk will cause boys to grow breasts by age 4!!! Your child will probably be allergic to air and water!!! Your baby will poop all over your face several times a day!!! Nothing will ever be clean in your house ever again!!! Your kid is going to scream for three weeks straight and you won't get a wink of sleep!!! (And then in this same breath they say parenting is the most wonderful thing ever. I'll tell you this: Nothing is EVER wonderful when I have not slept. NOTHING.) 

So what's the moral of the story here? Basically, my dog and I are very similar. We both have people we need to learn to trust. We both have someone looking out for us, someone who has good things in store if only we can hand over our fear and go forth in faith. Just like Luna and Crazy Aunt Daisy would enjoy being friends, I also do want to be a parent. I think I would enjoy it; I might even be kind of good at it. I mean I like the idea of taking my kids hiking in the Grand Canyon, and baking Christmas cookies, and picking strawberries at our local CSA. I don't want to be a bitter, shriveled old woman. I want to have people I love coming home for Thanksgiving! I feel like kids must be worth it because I've never heard a parent say they regretted having kids. When God says children are a blessing that must be true. God doesn't lie.  But accepting that blessing means discomfort, it means learning to trust, it means perhaps learning to let go of some of my OCD tendencies. 

There is one very stark difference between my dog and I:  she's a dog and I'm a human. Which means I have rational capabilities. I have the ability to think through my worries in ways that she never will. This is a distinct advantage, but it also means that overcoming my fears it a lot harder than just eating hot dogs every time I'm confronted with a jogging stroller. Overcoming my fear of the jogging stroller lifestyle is going to take a lot more time and a lot more prayer.