Back when I was working on the Friendly Evangelism posts, I spent some time talking about the process of deconversion, and compared the experience to a romantic breakup.
This is, I think, a pretty apt comparison; but it's not the only one I've seen. So, for the benefit of anyone who's interested in how former believers describe the process of losing their faith, here are a couple of parables that I found interesting.
Rechelle (of Rechelle Unplugged) offers The Parable of the Hole in the Curtain. "One day, the woman noticed a small tear in one of the curtains. Afraid of accidentally seeing what was on the other side of the window and condemning herself to hell, she decided to completely ignore the tear so that her eyes might not stray and she would not be condemned. But the tear got bigger. Soon it was a hole. She tried to stitch the hole together without looking at it, but she was so afraid that she might glance at what was on the other side of the window, that she did a terrible job of patching the curtain and only made the situation worse. The hole grew larger and soon other holes appeared."
Bruce Gerencser has written quite a bit about his deconversion (across several blogs, most recently Fallen From Grace); it's fair to say that the process has been the focus of most of his writing for the last several years. The parable that caught my eye (and the catalyst for this post) was The Danger of Being In a Box and Why It All Makes Sense When You Are in a Box and its follow-up What I Found When I Left The Box: "Every time I left the box I found new and wondrous things. Things I had never heard about before. Things I had never experienced. The box I was in for 5 decades was a box where the dimensions of the box were clearly defined. There was no guessing about the length, width, or depth of the box."
I've said before that I don't really think of myself as having "deconverted". I was an odd kid, and Christianity was just another item in the long list of things that didn't make much sense to me but seemed very important to everyone else. (Other items on that list included fashion, sports, and cars.) It wasn't a (sudden or gradual)realization that something that I used to believe was wrong; it was... how to say this? ...it was a matter of concluding that that feeling {that Christianity didn't make sense} wasn't just a failure to understand on my part, but a legitimate reaction to the belief itself.
As a result, I tend to think of my journey away from Christianity in Fairy Tale terms: I was the kid who wandered off the path to see what was in the woods, and found that I was more comfortable out exploring than I was just following a path that someone else had set. Turns out that the wolves and boggans and other forest-dwellers are actually pretty friendly hereabouts.
Anybody have any other good parables or metaphors to throw in here?
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
More Children's Music
Since I seem to be on a parenting theme this week, I thought I'd recommend some children's music for the parents in the audience:
Anybody have other suggestions for music or stories in this vein (so to speak)? Drop 'em into the comments.
Anybody have other suggestions for music or stories in this vein (so to speak)? Drop 'em into the comments.
Monday, June 6, 2011
Parenting is an exercise in endurance
Theagnosticswife asks:
It's not just you.
If there's one thing that parenting has taught us, it's how to know when it's time to cut our losses. Our house is very neat... right now. It's not as clean as we'd like, but it's very neat. That's because we had people over for Firstborn's (ongoing) birthday parties on Friday night, Sunday afternoon, and this morning. It's also because the messy stuff has been shoved into unlikely locations (like the back bedroom) and hidden behind closed doors. It's also because a significant portion of my week's vacation was devoted to cleaning, straightening, and fixing things.
(The rest of my vacation was devoted to bad horror flicks and being a pirate in an old PS2 video game.)
But give us a week or two, and we'll resume the slow surrender to entropy.
I stay up late - though I try not to stay up too late - because it's the only way I can get my own projects done. It's also the only way I can get reasonably uninterruped down-time. But it can become a vicious cycle, since a lot of the projects I'd like to work on during me-time (anything to do with writing, mainly) all-but-require me to be well rested. Otherwise, working on those projects becomes an exercise in frustration.
Trying to get everything done with kids in the house is the sort of balancing act that makes juggling chainsaws, while riding a unicycle, on a tightrope, with a lightshow blazing around you... look positively uncomplicated.
That’s true right? I know I’m not the only one who stays up too late, has cranky, loud children, cat vomit in the floor on occasion (seriously annoying) and wrinkled clothes(that spray de-wrinkler works great by the way.) Am I?
It's not just you.
If there's one thing that parenting has taught us, it's how to know when it's time to cut our losses. Our house is very neat... right now. It's not as clean as we'd like, but it's very neat. That's because we had people over for Firstborn's (ongoing) birthday parties on Friday night, Sunday afternoon, and this morning. It's also because the messy stuff has been shoved into unlikely locations (like the back bedroom) and hidden behind closed doors. It's also because a significant portion of my week's vacation was devoted to cleaning, straightening, and fixing things.
(The rest of my vacation was devoted to bad horror flicks and being a pirate in an old PS2 video game.)
But give us a week or two, and we'll resume the slow surrender to entropy.
I stay up late - though I try not to stay up too late - because it's the only way I can get my own projects done. It's also the only way I can get reasonably uninterruped down-time. But it can become a vicious cycle, since a lot of the projects I'd like to work on during me-time (anything to do with writing, mainly) all-but-require me to be well rested. Otherwise, working on those projects becomes an exercise in frustration.
Trying to get everything done with kids in the house is the sort of balancing act that makes juggling chainsaws, while riding a unicycle, on a tightrope, with a lightshow blazing around you... look positively uncomplicated.
Tech Support Tales: That One Guy
When my first marriage finally imploded, I decided that - among other things - it was time to find a way to make enough money that I could eventually retire. This is not as easy as it sounds, especially with an English degree.
So I moved back to Dallas, took a job as a plumber's assistant, and spent my free time studying computers until I could pick up a couple of Microsoft certifications. Then I started looking for work involving computers. As an entry-level person with a couple of certifications and no real experience, I wound up putting in some time - a year and a half, maybe two years - at The Company That Shall Not Be Named.
TCTSNBN was not a bad place to work. I called it that because it provided outsource technical support for other companies, and we were absolutely forbidden to identify ourselves as working for our actual employer. So people would call the tech support line for their computer (or printer, or scanner) manufacturer, and end up talking to us instead.
I was working on the contract for a PC manufacturer, which was perfect for my long-range plans. TCTSNBN gave us two weeks of training, then introduced us to working the floor (i.e. the cubicle farm) in a gradual, sit-with-someone-experienced process, designed to keep us from panicking and the customers from realizing just how green we really were. It didn't work perfectly, but it worked well.
After a while, I got moved to second-tier support - meaning that I got the calls that the newer techs couldn't solve, or the ones where the customer had asked to speak to a supervisor.
One of these was a fellow - an older man - who'd just bought a new computer from one of the retail chains. He'd taken it home, set it up, turned it on, and gotten an error. The first-level tech thought that he just needed to use the restore disk and reload the operating system, but the customer didn't want to do that.
So I start walking him back through things, and I listen to him describe the problem, and I agree: he really just needs to reload. It doesn't seem to be a hardware problem; it looks like the software just didn't install correctly at the factory. So I tell him this, and he says, basically: "You know, I could just take it back to the store, too."
"Sure," I tell him. "You can do that. But the computer itself seems to be fine, and if you'll just run this reload disk, I think it'll work just fine for you. And if it doesn't work, you can always take it back in the morning."
He thinks about that, and decides (only slightly grudgingly) that we might as well reload the disk. So we get it started, and while it's going, he asks: "So, are these good computers? I mean, are they well-made?"
There's a brief moment where, I think, he's waiting to see whether I'm going to Support Our Product, or whether I'm going to tell him something real.
"Beats me," I say. "Nobody ever calls me because their computer is working right."
And that cracked him up completely. It must have caught him out of left field - I don't think he'd ever imagined a tech support guy would actually come out and admit that. He actually put his friend on the phone and made me repeat it - and then wondered if there was a way to call me directly - say, on April Fool's Day. Because (and I agreed), the idea of someone calling tech support to tell us that his computer was working great struck him as really funny.
While we're on the subject... If you've ever wondered what it's like to work in technical support, let me introduce you to the Internet Helpdesk:
So I moved back to Dallas, took a job as a plumber's assistant, and spent my free time studying computers until I could pick up a couple of Microsoft certifications. Then I started looking for work involving computers. As an entry-level person with a couple of certifications and no real experience, I wound up putting in some time - a year and a half, maybe two years - at The Company That Shall Not Be Named.
TCTSNBN was not a bad place to work. I called it that because it provided outsource technical support for other companies, and we were absolutely forbidden to identify ourselves as working for our actual employer. So people would call the tech support line for their computer (or printer, or scanner) manufacturer, and end up talking to us instead.
I was working on the contract for a PC manufacturer, which was perfect for my long-range plans. TCTSNBN gave us two weeks of training, then introduced us to working the floor (i.e. the cubicle farm) in a gradual, sit-with-someone-experienced process, designed to keep us from panicking and the customers from realizing just how green we really were. It didn't work perfectly, but it worked well.
After a while, I got moved to second-tier support - meaning that I got the calls that the newer techs couldn't solve, or the ones where the customer had asked to speak to a supervisor.
One of these was a fellow - an older man - who'd just bought a new computer from one of the retail chains. He'd taken it home, set it up, turned it on, and gotten an error. The first-level tech thought that he just needed to use the restore disk and reload the operating system, but the customer didn't want to do that.
So I start walking him back through things, and I listen to him describe the problem, and I agree: he really just needs to reload. It doesn't seem to be a hardware problem; it looks like the software just didn't install correctly at the factory. So I tell him this, and he says, basically: "You know, I could just take it back to the store, too."
"Sure," I tell him. "You can do that. But the computer itself seems to be fine, and if you'll just run this reload disk, I think it'll work just fine for you. And if it doesn't work, you can always take it back in the morning."
He thinks about that, and decides (only slightly grudgingly) that we might as well reload the disk. So we get it started, and while it's going, he asks: "So, are these good computers? I mean, are they well-made?"
There's a brief moment where, I think, he's waiting to see whether I'm going to Support Our Product, or whether I'm going to tell him something real.
"Beats me," I say. "Nobody ever calls me because their computer is working right."
And that cracked him up completely. It must have caught him out of left field - I don't think he'd ever imagined a tech support guy would actually come out and admit that. He actually put his friend on the phone and made me repeat it - and then wondered if there was a way to call me directly - say, on April Fool's Day. Because (and I agreed), the idea of someone calling tech support to tell us that his computer was working great struck him as really funny.
While we're on the subject... If you've ever wondered what it's like to work in technical support, let me introduce you to the Internet Helpdesk:
Friday, June 3, 2011
Word World Goes Poof
A little while back, I did a post on the children's show World World, in which I explained - among other things - why I probably ought not to be allowed to watch children's programs. (If you're unfamiliar with Word World, take a moment and read that post - you'll need the background for what come next.)
I think Firstborn is the same way. His brain just... goes places.
A couple of weeks ago, he's riding in the car with his mother, and says - out of nowhere - "I think in Word World... if you took the letters for 'nothing' and put them together... they'd turn invisible."
Which, if you think about it, makes perfect sense - but I'm guessing there aren't many nigh-five-year-olds out there who are concerned with the existential ramifications of a world where everything that exists is composed of letters.
I think Firstborn is the same way. His brain just... goes places.
A couple of weeks ago, he's riding in the car with his mother, and says - out of nowhere - "I think in Word World... if you took the letters for 'nothing' and put them together... they'd turn invisible."
Which, if you think about it, makes perfect sense - but I'm guessing there aren't many nigh-five-year-olds out there who are concerned with the existential ramifications of a world where everything that exists is composed of letters.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
Firstborn makes with the funny
Okay, so... The night before last, I go into Firstborn's room. It's about ten p.m., well after his nominal bedtime, but he's building spaceships and monsters with his Trio blocks beside his nightlight. He sees me coming and springs up into his bed, where he curls up and lays still with his eyes squeezed shut. I'm sure if he thought he could snore convincingly, he'd have tried that, too.
Firstborn will be five in about a week.
So I sit down on the bed next to him, and I explain that it's really late, and that he needs to go to sleep so that he won't be grumpy tomorrow. I tell him that I'm really sure that if he'll just stay still and be quiet, he'll go right to sleep. I ask him if he can do that for me.
No reply. To his credit, he has the "still and quiet" part down cold. But I wait a moment and ask it again. "Can you do that for me? I know you're awake," I add. "I saw you jump into bed."
Nothing.
So, after a moment I reach down and put my thumb on his chin and use it to move his mouth. In a squeaky puppet voice, I say (for him), "Yes, Daddy, I can do that."
I am rewarded by a small grin in the darkness.
Last night, I went in to check on him and try to get him to lay still, and found that he was awfully stuffy. (So am I, actually. Allergy season is upon us like some horrific curse loosed from the tombs of the elder world.) So I got him some decongestant, and told him to give himself a few minutes to let it work. Then, if he'd be still and quiet, he'd probably go right to sleep, I said.
Fifteen minutes later I go back in there because I can still hear him playing. He once again leaps up into bed, and is sort of... well... I don't know if any professional gymnasts suffer from somnambulism, but if they do, their night-time floor routines might look something like this. I think he was trying to roll over and get his head on the pillow and his body in center of the bed (while still being "asleep"). So I picked him and tucked him into position.
"You sure do make this harder when you're pretending to be asleep," I tell him. He, of course, doesn't answer; so I continue: "You want a blanket, or a sleeping bag?"
He still doesn't answer. So after a moment I put my thumb on his chin and make the puppet voice again: "Blanket." And I start to pull a blanket over him.
At that moment a small hand moves down and puts its own thumb on his chin, and a small puppet-voice says: "Sleeping Bag."
It took me half a minute to get the sleeping bag into place. I couldn't stop giggling.
Firstborn will be five in about a week.
So I sit down on the bed next to him, and I explain that it's really late, and that he needs to go to sleep so that he won't be grumpy tomorrow. I tell him that I'm really sure that if he'll just stay still and be quiet, he'll go right to sleep. I ask him if he can do that for me.
No reply. To his credit, he has the "still and quiet" part down cold. But I wait a moment and ask it again. "Can you do that for me? I know you're awake," I add. "I saw you jump into bed."
Nothing.
So, after a moment I reach down and put my thumb on his chin and use it to move his mouth. In a squeaky puppet voice, I say (for him), "Yes, Daddy, I can do that."
I am rewarded by a small grin in the darkness.
Last night, I went in to check on him and try to get him to lay still, and found that he was awfully stuffy. (So am I, actually. Allergy season is upon us like some horrific curse loosed from the tombs of the elder world.) So I got him some decongestant, and told him to give himself a few minutes to let it work. Then, if he'd be still and quiet, he'd probably go right to sleep, I said.
Fifteen minutes later I go back in there because I can still hear him playing. He once again leaps up into bed, and is sort of... well... I don't know if any professional gymnasts suffer from somnambulism, but if they do, their night-time floor routines might look something like this. I think he was trying to roll over and get his head on the pillow and his body in center of the bed (while still being "asleep"). So I picked him and tucked him into position.
"You sure do make this harder when you're pretending to be asleep," I tell him. He, of course, doesn't answer; so I continue: "You want a blanket, or a sleeping bag?"
He still doesn't answer. So after a moment I put my thumb on his chin and make the puppet voice again: "Blanket." And I start to pull a blanket over him.
At that moment a small hand moves down and puts its own thumb on his chin, and a small puppet-voice says: "Sleeping Bag."
It took me half a minute to get the sleeping bag into place. I couldn't stop giggling.
Slow blogging...
Unsurprisingly, this hasn't turned out to be a good "settle in and get some writing done" week. It has, however, been a great week for cleaning up the detritus from the past couple of weeks, and it's been a really excellent week for spending time with my boys. And it has been relaxing, which was what I needed most, so I'm taking the win.
Meanwhile, just so you know I'm not neglecting you, I offer you Lil Cthulhu. Because chibi-Elder Gods make me happy. And really, it's such a touching children's story - everybody should share it with their kids.
Meanwhile, just so you know I'm not neglecting you, I offer you Lil Cthulhu. Because chibi-Elder Gods make me happy. And really, it's such a touching children's story - everybody should share it with their kids.
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