Blog Archives - trish hermanson

Am I a Loser?

10/27/2017

The old voice has been shouting in my head again - “You’re a loser.”
It’s been screaming that all my life. When I was in grade school, it declared I was a loser because I couldn’t jump rope. As an adolescent, the score card changed, and I was a loser because my face was an acre of zits. In high school, the report card shifted again: the winners were the cheerleaders, those who had cars and boyfriends. I wouldn’t dare try out for cheerleading, my father drove me to school, and no one invited me to homecoming. “Loser!”
But I had a plan: I’d throw myself into getting good grades and into extracurricular activities. Then I’d be worth something and I’d like myself. By the end of high school, I’d won a college scholarship and had a string of activities after my name in the yearbook. As I studied the photos of myself scattered through the yearbook, I whispered, “I made it!” Then I closed the book and realized I’d have to start all over again in a new setting to convince the world I was somebody.
The standards kept flipping. As a career woman, I must be intelligent and attractive. As a mother, I must be a cheerful school volunteer (never mind I’d been up all night with vomiting kids). As a wife, I must be Betty Crocker and Better Homes and Gardens by day and a burning babe by night.
I tried grading on the curve, comparing myself with others. “I’m not as incompetent as So and So, after all.” But others still leaped higher and longer than I could, and my self esteem wilted.
Exhaustion!

PERFORMANCE
Throughout the years, another Voice has rippled through my head like a quiet stream, overflowing the negative noise when I listen to it. This Voice assures me that my value isn’t based on accomplishment. My worth is established by a permanent truth: I’m God’s loved child.
Relief!
This changes everything. I don’t have to compete for recognition. I’m already valued. Already significant.
So just as the German monk Martin Luther took up a hammer five hundred years ago and nailed declarations onto a door, I’m nailing proclamations onto the door of my heart. Edicts that I don’t have to run on any Performance Tread Mill that society slaps me onto. I’m saved from that. I’m free. And that’s good news.
Is there a score sheet hanging over you? The number of Facebook "likes" you get? The leanness of your body mass? The fatness of your bank account? Maybe it's time to pound some nails.

Will a $9 Billion Party Chase Away Our Blues?

10/20/2017

Welcome to our $9 billion party promising to lift us from the weariness of hurricanes and nuclear threats and a constipated Congress and wildfires. That’s how much the National Retail Federation projects we’ll dish out for Halloween this year, a record high. We’ll spend $3.4 billion for costumes; $2.7 billion for candy; $2.7 billion for decorations; and $0.4 billion for cards.

MONEY PIT
We’re more than ready to set aside our melancholy by donning a Wonder Woman or Spider-Man costume and pretend to right the wrongs of the world. But will dishing out dough lift us from our national malaise?
I don’t think so. Overspending may lead to even deeper depression. After all, the usual November and December spend-a-thons are just around the corner. Should I shove spending into high gear in October, crossing my fingers in hopes of a tax refund next April? I’ll pass.

CELEBRATE VIOLENCE?
Besides the issue of overspending, will Halloween celebrations deliver us from the world’s woes? Not when we focus on the morbid. A newspaper cartoon by Joe Heller this year nailed it. A mother looks up from watching television coverage of the Las Vegas shooting to see her kids in costumes as an angel, a robot, and a smiley face. She asks why they aren’t dressing as demented, violent characters. One child answers, “Reality.”
I’m with them. There’s enough macabre in the real world without honoring it. On TV I watched a young boy being made up with vampire makeup. I wondered what this did to the child’s psyche to be a star by wearing bruises and bloody gashes. Why would an adult make up a child like this? How can it be “just for fun?” (I doubt that a man I know will dress as the Grim Reaper when his son escaped the Las Vegas massacre but is left traumatized.)

WHAT DO WE NEED?
Then how can we lift our spirits? Here's what I propose: Hallow Lean-simple celebrations to draw close to each other. Laughing with friends. Bobbing apples. Carving pumpkins. Contemplating what we’re grateful for. Celebrating light, not darkness. Kindness, not violence. Beauty, not brutality.
When we lavish goodness upon each other and our culture, we’ll be true super heroes.
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The National Retail Federation projections are at https://nrf.com/resources/consumer-research-and-data/holiday-spending/halloween-headquarters

How Are Worms and Angels Alike?

10/13/2017

I rescued this fellow who had wriggled onto the asphalt after a rainstorm and was destined to dry up. He’s worth saving. After all, he’s a matchbox-size earth mover who prepares soil so it yields green grass and bumper crops.
     And he’s not alone. According to Amy Stewart in The Earth Moved, 5.2 million worms are in an acre of rich garden soil that is one foot deep. Wow - that’s a lot of assistance I didn’t even ask for.
     These guys, who are mostly invisible as they go about their duties, remind me of another corps of unnoticed helpers - angels. I don’t mean creatures like those obese cherubs on Valentine’s Day cards that look like they need a cellulite treatment. True angels are heaven’s army on call 24/7 to come to our aid. A SWAT team. Most of the time, I’m not even aware of them, just like worms.
     How amazing is this? Even though I’m a minor character on the world’s stage, the divine Director assigns worms to prepare good soil for me and angels to watch over me as I play out my role in life. He calls upon creatures from the heights of Heaven to the depths of the Earth to work behind the scenes on my behalf.
     Why do I ever worry?

Is Grief Good?

10/6/2017

I’m swamped with grief these days from hurricanes and the mass shooting. And then grief broke into my friend’s home, an uninvited guest that refuses to leave. It haunts her with the image of the young face that won’t be in the next family photo. For another friend, grief stole his wife of forty years. An unfathomable loss.
I’m awkward with those who sorrow. I make mistakes, just as others have made with me when I’ve been in anguish. Grief camped in my home awhile back. One friend announced, “God knew best.” Well meaning, but as cold as an ice storm. Another friend wrote, “I’m sending you a hug right now, and it’s a really good one.” That warmed my soul. So when I see my mourning friends, I won’t ask, “How are you doing?” (which puts them on the spot). I’ll throw my arms wide and whisper, “I’m glad to see you.” As they scale their mountain of shock, I pray that at the summit they’ll find Good Grief, a painful teacher who reminds us of the few things that really matter in life.
But it’s a long, hard climb.