What's in a name?

Upon making the decision to join the Burton family, I became curious as to just what sort of folks these Burtons, worldwide, are. Both of my grandmothers are very interested in genealogy; however, I'm pretty sure this blog entry has nothing to do with actual bloodlines.

There are apparently a lot of people in the world with the last name of Burton...enjoy a few pages from my new "family" album!









Tim Burton...the bizarrely creative genius behind such films as Edward Scissorhands, Beetle Juice, several Batman films, James and the Giant Peach, and the second Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Be sure to catch Johnny Depp in Tim's upcoming Sweeney Todd.

Dan Burton... Indiana's Republican US Representative (Vice Chairman of the Subcommittee on Asia and the Pacific). He's in his twelfth year in office, and reminds everyone to "Vote Hoosiers!"

Virginia Lee Burton...author and illustrator of Mike Mulligan and his Steam Shovel. This book was made famous by Ramona Quimby who enjoyed the loud sound effects of the steam shovel, whose name is Mary Anne.

Gary Burton... honored with a Grammy Award for his 1971 jazz album Alone at Last, which features his solo vibraphone concert recorded at the 1971 Montreux Jazz Festival. This is a vibraphone.

Burton-on-Trent might not be Stratford-on-Avon, but Burton is widely known as ‘the brewing capital of England.’ Please remember to drink responsibly...have a half a beer.

Burtons also make snowboards. I don't know anything about snowboarding, except that it looks cold and adventurous, and has a lingo completely foreign to me. I plan on working on my Stale Fish Grab or maybe a Nollie so I can really feel like part of the family and bust some phat air!

Lucy in the Sky

10 Facts and Commentary about Transparent Crystals of Tetrahedrally Bonded Carbon Atoms.

1. Diamonds are the hardest natural material on earth. They score a 10 on Mohs' scale of mineral hardness! In some ways, I have found our engagement to be the hardest (and simultaneously beautiful and sparkly) time of my life. If that Mohs' scale went all the way up to eleven, then I could measure it properly.

2. It takes a temperature of 1325°C and a pressure of 50,000 kg/cm2 to make diamond underground. That's like having the Eiffel Tower dropped on your foot, on a 2417 degree day in France.

3. Diamonds have been around for a long time. The first recorded description of a diamond is in a 296 BC Sanskrit text. I do not know the Sanskrit word for "diamond," so I will have to trust Panini on that.

4. Some people believe that diamonds have magical powers. The Romans believed that diamonds would protect them against poison and plague, or that diamonds could cure enchantment. There's two ways to think about that. Either it means that kisses don't do anything, but engagement rings have the power to turn frogs into princes...or it means that the impending reality of marriage "cures" any enchantment in young lovers' hearts.

5. Diamonds can be deadly. Catherine de Medici, the Queen of France in 1560, used to poison her rivals by spiking their drinks with diamond dust. On a side note, she also made a rule that women had to wear corsets, so she gets Two Thumbs Down.

6. A diamonds repels water but attracts fat. This must be why I like to eat bacon but don't like to wear a swimming suit.

7. Diamond is a good conductor of heat. When it is not in contact with a source of heat, a diamond always feels cold. Me too. Fortunately, my fiance is like a furnace.

8. Most diamonds radiate visible light when exposed to ultraviolet light. This means if you are Ross Gellar, you shouldn't wear too much bling on your improbable second date with the girl with the black light.

9. Marilyn Monroe's song about diamonds (sung by Nicole Kidman in Moulin Rouge) has a catchy title, but is actually about the glass ceiling, the stock market, budgeting and the aging process; it uses adjectives like liasonic and continental; and includes the tongue-twister "better bets if little pets get big baggettes." I can see why it's such a hit!

10. Diamonds are not actually this girl's best friend, but I'm blessed to wear an oh-so-sparkly transparent crystal of tetrahedrally bonded carbon atoms as a sign of a precious promise from the man I love.

Hard Times

Almost exactly a year ago, I sat transfixed in front of the TV, watching an ominous swirl of clouds approach the Gulf Coast. The wind blew, and the sky got dark, and then Katrina came. The nation watched the tragedy that swamped New Orleans and much of Mississippi with murky water and governmental ineptitude.

This morning, I saw a documentary update on the rebuilding process. Some people are managing to recreate a semblance of normalcy in Louisiana and Alabama, but many other families still live in FEMA trailers, crowded in with relatives, or remain "temporarily relocated" in Dallas and other cities across America.

I wonder what those people think about every day when they wake up. Do they hear the sound of rushing water and people screaming for help?

Do they mourn every moment for lost memories, photographs, friendships, opportunities, the familiarities of home?

Or are there more immediate struggles that eventually start to outweigh those enormous burdens?

Children starting another year of school need new shoes again, parents heading to the office or factory every morning still don't feel fulfilled by their work, the car which helped them escape the rising water is low on gas again. Couples continue to argue about money, or how to communicate more effectively, or where to spend Thanksgiving this year. Single people still wonder if they wouldn't be happier if they were in a relationship. Elderly people feel the everyday aches and pains of an aging body.

These difficulties have nothing to do with Katrina...it's just life. Is that an easier storm to weather?

How do you survive devastation? How do you survive at all?

There's a Reva Williams song that asks, "Why can't 'hard times' be tornadoes, or monsoons, or just an earthquake?/ It's the small things, not 'the big one' that tear us down, that make our hearts break."

Lord, I lay these small things at your feet. Forgive me for being selfish, for being stubborn and prideful, for forgetting what's important. I want to cling to your throne as the waters rise and subside, and not wander away even on sunny days.

Flying Dropkick Off The Top Rope

I'm not in the mood to read.

I grew up without a TV at home and spent the better part of my childhood curled up on the couch with Encyclopedia Brown, Caddie Woodlawn, and the Baby-sitters' Club.

I loved these books; they were about kids like me, kids with ambition, fear, parents, homework, friendships, and a little bit of spending money. The situations they found themselves in, I could identify with. Okay, so I didn't know anybody named Bugs Meany, but I knew that the noontime sun doesn't cast a shadow, so the banker must be lying about the robber's escape. And I never spent a whole silver dollar at the merchantile on rock candy and hair combs and harmonicas for some little Indian kids, but I did have a bonnet and a secret passageway back to the 1880's through the lilac bushes. And I baby-sat all the time, although thankfully not for Jackie Rodowsky, the Walking Disaster.

That's why I loved reading. Because I could imagine myself in the adventure, on the trail to Oregon. Those kids were my friends, or they would have been, if they would have known me. There was so much to learn from them about creatively overcoming adversity, giving to the less-fortunate, and winning at growing up. I owe those authors a lot.

I still love to read, just not today. Today, I want to watch television. Specifically, professional wrestling tapes from the late 80s. Yes, I am a reading teacher, and have preached many a sermon on the Evils of the Idiot Box, but I'm worn out from my first week in 6th grade, and I just want some WWF.

My uncle used to tape WWF, and we'd watch hours of SummerSlamVII at the farm. Jake the Snake, the Bushwhackers, the Ultimate Warrior, Hulk Hogan, Brutus "The Barber" Beefcake... we knew them all. One of my favorites was Shawn Michaels (either as a Rocker with Marty Jannetty, or when he was the Heartbreak Kid, but not when he was part of Degeneration X...don't worry.)

Here are the Rockers with a Twin Flying Dropkick against somebody in an unfortunate fuschia leotard.

Talk about suspension of disbelief.

I lost interest as professional wrestling became scarier...Kane, Triple H, Batista, Stone Cold Steve Austin, Shawn Michaels now...seem so serious in their intent to inflict pain on one another. Give me a little more face paint, more animals as sidekicks, more tank-top ripping, and a few less matches called "Hell in a Cage."

For a decade, WWF was a terrific combination of gymnastics, fashion, and ego all rolled into one thrilling clash of bulging biceps and acting ability. Sure it was fake, but it was so fun! I think I learned stuff, too, like teamwork and innovation (if your partner is getting double-teamed, don't just get in the ring, bring a steel chair!). I also learned determination and perseverance by watching the weariest wrestlers kick out of a Sleeper Hold, fractions of a second before the 3-count.

Okay. Enough talk, a little more action. Bring it on, Vince McMahon!

p.s. Apologies to my college literature professor. You did your best.

Dresses Without Pockets

"They just can't run down to the bureau at 3:05 a.m. and be married by 3:10. They have to give just a little thought to the process,"said Clark County Clerk Shirley Parraguirre.

Thanks, Shirley.

She's commenting on Las Vegas' new policy prohibiting 24-hour wedding chapels. County officials approved a new 8 a.m.-to-midnight schedule that will take effect next Wednesday.

And as a soon-to-be-married individual, I must applaud the efforts of Shirley's department.

If the rest of us have to wrestle with important decisions like whether or not to allow the groom's cake to be a red velvet armadillo with grey frosting, celebrities and others prone to making hasty decisions should have to think at least a little.

It's funny, or perhaps unfortunate, the amount of time, energy, and preparation that goes into planning a wedding. I'm a little frustrated with the whole process myself, and I am fully aware that we've only just begun (thanks, Carpenters).

I'd like to be thinking about potential ministry opportunities with my future husband, or how we're going to resolve the "he likes having a cat/she doesn't" issue, or if we should wait until he's done with grad school to start a family, or what ornaments to hang on our first Christmas tree, or how to actually live out scripture about spiritual leadership and Biblical submission, or how to combine responsibility, teamwork, sacrifice, friendship, provision, joy, honesty, commitment, passion, communication, forgiveness, hope, individuality, memories, respect, and a shared tube of toothpaste into a lifetime of marriage.

But what I've actually been thinking about is whether to a) carry a bouquet; b) have my sister-maid-of-honor carry a bouquet; c) both...but that means she has to hold both of them during the ceremony, which is awkward; or d) neither...but then what will we do with our hands since our dresses don't have pockets?

Seriously.

Since our ringagement back in June, I've been asked more questions about wedding plans than I ever thought possible. People don't want to know why I love this man, or how we're going to use our life together to glorify God. They just want to know if I have found a reasonably priced photographer. Which, as of today, I have not.

My wedding day is supposed to be the happiest day of my life. I guess I hope that it isn't. I think that day will be wonderful, but I hope the days and years keep getting better. After all, we've only just begun.

Go down to the office, Moses

This week, my 6th grade students are learning classroom expectations. Yesterday we discussed what to do if you finish your work early, how the sign-out sheet works to go to the bathroom (to save the teacher from writing out individual passes), where to turn in a completed assignment, and what time they are dismissed for lunch. All of these details are posted in various spots around the room.

What kinds of questions do you suppose I was asked today?

"I'm done with my work...what should I do?" "I need to go to the bathroom. Can you write me a pass?" "Where do I put my assignment when I'm finished?" "When's lunch?"

I answered the first few hours of questions, but eventually started just pointing a yardstick at the wall where all the guidelines were posted, or at the basket clearly labeled HOUR 4 LANGUAGE ARTS ASSIGNMENTS, or at the schedule posted next to the clock.

Oh, and also, "Do you have a boyfriend?" and "Do you always wear flip-flops to school?" to which I just smiled and nodded and continued explaining how to check out books from the library.

But these kids are not the only forgetful ones when it comes to rules and expectations.

This morning as I was driving to work, I heard a Go Fish song called "The Ten Commandment Boogie." It seemed like a catchy way to teach kids some of God's basic rules, although now at lunchtime, I can't remember any of the lyrics. I mean, I know what the Commandments are, or where to look them up if I needed them, but not the actual words to the song.

And I wondered if God ever got tired of me asking the same questions over and over and over. "Do you really exist?" "Do you really love me?" "Do you really hear me when I pray?" "Do you really have a plan for my life?" "Will you really speak to me?" "Do you mean it?"

Maybe God just sometimes wants to point a yardstick at my Bible and say, "Don't you remember? You know this information. Look it up. I told you yesterday. Please try to remember what I tell you. Believe me. It's for your own good."

May these verses from Psalm 119 be the true desire of my heart.

I seek you with all my heart; do not let me stray from your commands.
I have hidden your word in my heart that I might not sin against you.
Praise be to you, O LORD; teach me your decrees.
Open my eyes that I may see wonderful things in your law.

Tripping Over Each Other

" Step...together...step...together...step...together...step... "

In the books I used to read as a kid, the three-legged race was always the last event of every turn-of-the-century church picnic or county fair.

Freckled girls in gingham and barefoot boys in overalls were tied together at the ankle; their senses heightened by the competition, the unexpected physical contact, and the promise of a blueberry pie for the winners to share.

The pairs lined up at one edge of the field, poised and eager; the crowd gathered, happy and full of fried chicken.
Doc Somebody, who drove a fine matched team of bays even though he had a Model T in the garage, tottered out to the middle of the field and started the race with a feeble but enthusiastic wave of his hankerchief.

The racers lept forward, in the lurching gait of the three-legged, laughing and calling to eachother to "step" with the outside feet..."together" with the inside feet..."step" outside... "together" inside..."step...together...step..."

Some teams made progress at first, but invariably ended up dropping in laughing, tangled heaps of elbows and apron strings. This tumble was usually the catalyst for romance between the twiggy girl with droopy kneesocks and the shy neighbor boy whose cowlick refused to lay straight, even on Sundays.

Ah, young love. Ah, church picnics. Ah, droopy kneesocks.

In my life, however, three-legged races have never been a catalyst for romance. In fact, they have only resulted in rope burns, twisted ankles, and grass stains.

But maybe love itself is a three-legged race. A lurching attempt of two peope in the general direction of shared future happiness. And blueberry pie.

It's difficult to find a balance of how far to reach on one's own (with the outside leg), and then to determine how quickly to move the inside leg so that each person is supported fully. In a relationship, the tasks required of each individual separately can cause an unsettling tug on the shared center support. And likewise, if the inside legs move too quickly or too far forward, or even not far enough, the outside independent legs can buckle.

And there are so many possible complications in three-legged racing! If one person gets distracted by a bird, or an untied shoelace, or by the progress of another team, down you go!

I feel as though my own three-legged race has been a bit off-kilter lately, like we're stepping with different size strides, or not getting our feet pointed in exactly the same direction. We're still running, or at least tripping over each other in a forward direction, but our calls of "step...together...step..." are getting lost in the prairie wind.

So we decide to get up again, to listen more closely, to patiently match pace, to laugh about the grass stains, to forgive the unintentional mis-step, to keep our eyes focused on the finish line.

The crowd cheers us on.

The blueberry pie will taste so good.

Believe It

I already hate blogging.

I hate how the thoughts that occupy the space in my head refuse to be accurately translated to the space on this page.

I hate how often I hit the backspace button and watch twenty-seven minutes...or twenty-seven years...of thought disappear into the blankness.

I have quoted and deleted Jesus and Milton and Peppermint Patty. I have erased a million best-selling novels. My sister has a delightfully random blog, my fiance' has an intensely heartfelt blog, and I ?

Have a title.

Suspension of Disbelief.

It isn't much, but it took all year...

In 1817, Samuel Taylor Coleridge (of "Kubla Khan" fame) wrote "that [his] endeavours should be directed to persons and characters supernatural, or at least romantic, yet so as to transfer from our inward nature a human interest and a semblance of truth sufficient to procure for these shadows of imagination that willing suspension of disbelief for the moment, which constitutes poetic faith."

Which means...

In theatre or fiction, audience members and readers are asked for a "suspension of disbelief," accepting the limitations of a performance medium in exchange for entertainment. Suspension of disbelief makes song-and-dance musicals, sketch comedy, and hypothetical humor work. It's why Mystery Science Theatre is hilarious. It's why The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde is horrifying. It's why Tod and Copper make me cry.

Because I buy it. For the moment, I put poetic faith in Walt Disney, or Christopher Guest, or Shakespeare, and allow myself to delight in something that isn't actually technically possible.

Maybe this is how the guy in Mark 9 was feeling. His son was possessed by an evil spirit (wicked convulsions...foaming at the mouth...gnashing teeth...the usual). The man asked Jesus, "If you can do anything, take pity on us and help us." Jesus responds somewhat dryly, "'If you can?'" And then Jesus says, "Everything is possible for him who believes."

The man immediately exclaims (before Jesus does anything), "I do believe; help me overcome my disbelief!" He's ready to accept whatever Jesus can do for his son, no matter how impossible it seems.

And then Jesus makes it happen...cue the music...enter the miracle...admire the special effects... exit the evil spirit!

I do believe; suspend my disbelief, Lord. Help me overcome my doubt and my pride and be ready for whatever You choose to do in my life.

So that's what this blog is about. Suspension of disbelief. Entertainment and faith. Laughter and learning to surrender my life to Jesus Christ more each day.

Believe it.