It's all political

 Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep, If I shall die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take...  

Last post: July 3. Ah! Sorry, all, for the delayed posting. I'm still getting the hang of this attempted weekly writing thing. A lot has happened since my last post. My 23rd year expired, I got my first real sunburn of the summer, we (finally!) moved and to top it off Seeley ate an entire Popsicle stick.

Let me digress. Fourth of July was everything it could be on a day where work was not an option. Boyfriend, dog and I spent the day doing something outdoors (either hiking Blue Mountain or the dog park, I can't remember which) and then off to work I went. For dinner Boyfriend made the American classics: Brats and potato salad. Chips, watermelon and a beer completed the meal. When I finished work we scouted out our fireworks watching spot, and despite my earlier post, tears still sprang to my eyes. We got home and were planning on eating our Popsicles, but alas Boyfriend got yogurt bars that tasted like sawdust. What a bummer. As per usual, Boyfriend throws down on the ground said unfinished sawdust bar where two very eager pups awaited the drippings. One exceptionally agile pup, Miss Stupid Silly Seeley, swallows the entire sawdust bar - stick and all. I'm sure you can imagine my anger with Boyfriend. Much poop monitoring followed.

The next few days were a blur - trying to clean up for our move and our birthday. I had to work. It was no Trib fairy birthday. No one at work even knew it was my "special" day (I'm not the type to make a big deal about it anyway). I did get a delicious DQ ice cream cake. I love ice cream cakes.

That weekend was HOT. We spent Sunday floating. The boys wanted to stay on the river in the downtown area but I suggested we go home, get the dogs and head to Kelley Island where they can swim.

I knew disaster had struck when I walked into the house. It smelled foul. I found the source: three piles of dog shit. Not just dog shit. Diarrhea. Not just diarrhea. Pee from a butt hole. If this is too much for you, imagine it in actuality. In the biggest pile was the culprit: the sawdust stick. Fully intact and covered in pee-like shit. Poor Seeley.

Normally poop in the house gets a good beating, but that really hasn't happened since she was a puppy. She knows that outside is where she's supposed to relieve herself. She's a good dog. No one was mad at her for going in the house that time. We figured the issue was finally resolved and we could stop checking her poop every time for said stick. We continued our day and headed out to the island for more fun in the sun. It was fun for all.

That night was a nightmare. Thankfully, Seeley is a good dog. She woke me up practically on the hour every hour so she could go poop. It was more of the pee-like shit. Boyfriend and I decided to wait it out for the day because she wasn't going as often as she was at night. She ate her food like nothing was up, too, so I was slightly less worried. But then she started to act depressed. On night two I was scared. I did something I haven't done in a long time: I prayed.

Growing up I had a respectful appreciation for religion. I was baptized as a Lutheran, the ELCA sort. Sunday school was a requirement in my household, though actual church was a rare treat. Confirmation also was necessary. After that I could make my own choice on church. I picked it.

I mostly hated high school. I found solstice in a few things, and church was one of them. Most of my friends went to the same church. It was where I felt part of a group. I was good at church. It came naturally to me. Some might even say I'm a born leader.

Then I went to college. Immediately I sought out a church group. Most seemed too intense for me, but I did find one that seemed to work well. One week into my first year at UM and I was on a sailboat at Flathead Lake getting to know a group of students dedicated to God. From what I remember it was fun.

I spent much of my freshman year going to Wednesday night church. I made some good friends, some of whom I even still consider friends. Again, it was something I was good at doing. But something changed. It's hard to express it now, I've blocked a lot of the issues from my memory. I don't like getting hurt, but what I do remember is this: church group seemed more like a political struggle.

I realized something. It's all political. I always was good at church so I never had to worry about the politics of it all. When I eventually was on the wrong side of the political tracks I didn't like it so much. It gave me the idea to "leave" the church. HEAVEN FORBID, what a sinner I am.

Or am I? Even though I know He isn't sitting at the thrones of Heaven, I still prayed to Him every night. I just didn't offer my tidings or go to a service dedicated to His worship.

But I started feeling guilty about not going to church. Then my dad gave me this analogy:
"Churches are like Triple A, they're there for when you need them."

Oh. Duh. I needed church growing up. I needed the companionship and the belonging. When I was younger I didn't go to church to hear the pastor's sermon. I went to see my friends. As I grew up I found friends with different interests who, like me, don't need a church to love God. My God is in the wind, in the mountains, in the lakes and streams. It's in the clouds. It's freedom and harmony and love.

I stopped praying to Him at night. I can't pinpoint when it happened, but it did. I exercised my religion on hikes and on the river; star-gazing and love-making. My God surrounds me fully throughout the day, I figured, so I needn't pray to Him.

But then I did. I couldn't sleep. I was terrified. What if a stupid sawdust stick was going to kill my dog? I prayed to Him and asked that if she could just be OK for the night I would take her to the vet in the morning and would do anything to make her better.

At the vet the next day, Seeley got medicine and her "stools" have been hard as rocks since. She's happy and healthy, maybe a little too skinny, but definitely better. On the first night she slept through the whole night, or at least didn't wake me to go outside. Thank God.

Right? Does that make me a hypocrite? I don't think so. But I guess I don't know. I haven't prayed to Him since then. I'm not going to go to church to offer Him my tidings or to say "Blessed by to God." I'll never know, but I'm almost positive that had I not prayed that night Seeley still would be here today, hard poops and all. My faith is in my surroundings.

I don't need to prove it in a church. Or even for that matter, to Him at night. My God knows.

Jesus loves me this I know, for the Bible tells me so...

Bombs bursting in air

I used to love this time of year. The smell of the fireworks and constant twinkle in the skies. The barbecue running, the burned hot dogs and brats. Cakes and freezies and ice cream. Parades and water gun fights. Volleyball at Dawn and Bill's. The patriotism of it all.

In Minnesota is the Taste of Minnesota. It's a weekish-long festival in downtown St. Paul. There are food vendors and crafts stands, among other things. I think. I never actually went but one year an aunt bought me a necklace with my name engraved on a piece of rice inside a liquid-filled tube and she said it was from the Taste. So I'm sure that's what it is. Each night ends with a fantastic fireworks show played in accompaniment to AMERICAN music. My family would go watch the fireworks each year, making sure to have the radio on so we could hear the tunes. My favorite always was "God Bless the USA" by Lee Greenwood: "From the lakes of Minnesota, to the hills of Tennessee ..." Tears always came to my eyes. Fourth of July was made for me.

I just had to look up the name of it because I thought it was "Proud to be an American." I haven't heard that song in a long time. I haven't seen a great fireworks show in a long time, either. Last year I worked on the Fourth of July. We all went on the roof (shh, don't tell) and watched the show when our work nearly was finished. It was a good show. Big, pretty lights across the Missouri. I didn't feel any emotion toward it at all. That didn't surprise me. I hadn't felt attached to fireworks in many years ...

It was hot when I came for orientation in the summer. Like, really hot, July heat. I was holed up in Jesse Hall while my dad enjoyed the comforts of the Campus Inn. Orientation was like high school. It sucked. It didn't deter me from my dreams of loving this town. One night, my dad and I walked around campus. We couldn't figure out where it ended and residential housing began. We ended up at Big Dipper. I should have known then that I was in love.

As he and I were headed out of town on our last day, I was exhausted and elated. As we passed over the Higgins bridge I was admiring the Wilma Theatre and he said something like, "If this town doesn't make you a liberal I don't know what will." You should understand during high school I hadn't pledged allegiance to anyone, though it probably seemed like I was stepping up to the plate hitting right. I followed my dad. He can be quite persuasive.

I was in for a rude awakening when my entire family drove away in late August, not knowing when I'd see them next. As I look back I can't pinpoint exactly when and where I changed, but it happened in those first few days, I'd guess. Or maybe it was sometime in the first month. By the time I went back for Thanksgiving I had my nose pierced. By Christmas I must have had my first tattoo.

When I got back to Minnesota for summer 8 1/2 months later I was a shell of the person who was left in Missoula the August before. That first summer home was difficult. I had to relearn socially acceptable Minnesota things. I spent many days at Caribou (CARIBOU! ... swoon) with High School Friend, talking about the past year and our excitement toward heading back to our respective schools. I grieved the death of my grandpa, the man who I loved so fiercely and who would have loved the new person that I'd become. The I-35 bridge collapsed. I got drunk in River Falls with older cousin.

I don't remember fireworks. Or that time of the year, even. From then on, that time of the year wasn't filled with the anticipation of the multi-colored skies. I'm sure I still loved the food, though. (I mean, who are we kidding, barbecue? Yum.)

The other night Boyfriend and I were watching Game of Thrones. As I watched Tyrion Lannister lead the charge and rain fire down on Stannis Baratheon's sea of ships I realized something. Yes, it took me nearly 24 years to put two and two together. Fireworks symbolize "bombs bursting in air." How morbid.

I didn't mention anything to Boyfriend then, but yesterday as we were hiking up the Rattlesnake I asked him what he thought about it. I knew the gist of what his answer would be. And I've been thinking about what he said since then.

"We're a bloodthirsty country, and anyone who tells you we aren't is lying to you."

Don't get me wrong. I love America's freedom. But glorifying death is not something that appeals to me.

I work tomorrow night. While the rest of America is getting drunk I'll be writing headlines you'll read hungover the next morning: "Man blows hand off in tragic fireworks accident." And as much as I hope there will be little kids out there like me who think that Fourth of July is magical and beautiful, I hope they too someday realize the importance of the holiday and what it symbolizes.

Enjoy Independence Day, friends. Don't do anything stupid. If you're bored and would like to read something I'd like to discuss in a future post, read this Esquire article. Until next time.

And if anyone happens to have a freezie laying around that they want to throw my way I'd much appreciate it. I hear it's been pretty hot in Minnesota ...