In which we ask the question: What Would Jesus Do?

Lately, I find myself doing impressions of Rachel Maddow, without really meaning to.

I'm not sure if this means that I'm getting more cynical, or perhaps less tolerant, or as my mother would probably point out, that I'm letting my brain get the best of my manners.

As everyone on the planet has heard by now, a group in New York wants to build an Islamic community center in lower Manhattan, near the former site of the World Trade Center. Folks have their panties firmly knotted over this issue, either vehemently for it or vehemently against it, and have extended the debate into utterly ridiculous conjecture over whether or not our President has Muslim leanings that we all should be concerned about.

To which I say, "Really? Really??? So nobody has a problem with the fact that we have a dildo shop, a couple adult book stores, a few nudie bars, three gambling salons, 17 salons that will provide a bikini wax on demand, and about three dozen pizza shops within two blocks of 'ground zero'. Oh, and about a dozen churches of various denominations, (including Catholic, which was the flavor of Christianity practiced by Timothy McVeigh). But if we put in a worship and community center for Muslims, suddenly, we're defiling the area??? REALLY??"

I made a comment elsewhere on the web today, that Al Qaeda is to Islam as the KKK is the Christianity. Hate is ugly, no matter who's spewing it. That includes the hate that we are hearing from those who so violently oppose this community center. There are those who would paint all Muslims as bad, because there were a few who chose to commit a truly heinous crime. But by the same token, the KKK purports to be a Christian organization, and those who do things like bomb women's clinics also purport to do so because of their Christian views. WE don't paint all Christians as terrorists. We don't ban Catholic churches within two blocks of the former federal building in Oklahoma City. Why not? Because we purport to be a "Christian" nation, and we "know" that not all Christians are terrorists. And never mind that terrorist groups are motivated by politics, money, and hate, none of which has very much to do with religion.

So I will suggest to all those who feel that a mosque within sight of the World Trade Center attacks is an affront to the dignity of the area: Let's follow our Christian guidance and ask ourselves,

What Would Jesus Do?

Do you think Jesus would march around with a poorly-spelled sign on His back? Or perhaps show up on Fox News and say that He is insulted that a group of people want to worship His father within sight of a building that was destroyed by people who have doubts that He was really the Messiah?

Here's a news flash: I think that the Muslim community feels as much pain about 9/11 as anyone else does; If one of your neighbors, or friends, or distant relatives (or even one of your close relatives) murders an innocent, do you not mourn the death and wish to make a gesture that helps to heal? If a community is injured, and seeks to rebuild itself, is this an affront to God? This community wants to convert an abandoned Burlington Coat Factory into a space where the beauty of their faith (and the Islamic faith is as beautiful as any I have seen, despite what the radicals would have you believe) can shine and help to foster healing and love and understanding.

We should embrace that, in my opinion.

If you stopped to ask yourself "what would Jesus do?", I think the answer is that Jesus would view this as an act of love and community and understanding..and perhaps contrition, and would greet it with love and understanding...and forgiveness. Can we imagine Jesus doing otherwise? No? Maybe we should give His way a try.

So long as we respond to those who are different with hate and suspicion, those who foster hate will win. And hate really does defile the memory of those we love.

Perspective 3 -- Living in my own personal episode of Glee

I had to go in for a sleep study last night -- I've been suffering from some pretty overwhelming fatigue, and Mr. Bean says I keep kicking him at night, so it made sense to check for things like apnea or restless leg syndrome.

As I was answering questions for the technologist, she stopped and looked at me. "I know you! We went to school together!"

I get this question all the time from people; I have one of those faces that reminds everyone of someone that they know. I am almost never someone from school. At least not their school. This time, however, it turns out we did go to school together; she graduated with my younger sister.

This made me cringe a little inside.

I try hard not to think about high school. I was as awkward, and frankly as obnoxious, as any character from Glee. I had a small circle of friends, and a significantly larger circle of detractors and tormentors. It wasn't as bad as middle school -- nothing is -- but it's still not a time I'm keen to return to.

Then she kept talking. "I'm sure you don't remember me. I hung around with Jim's younger sister, Heather. You were always with Jim and Dave and the rest of the cool theater kids and the swing choir and you were always on stage. I wanted to be just like you. I used to sit in the prop room and listen to you sing."

"Me? ME???? You're kidding, right?"

"No. You just always seemed so confident and you had so many friends."

The truth of the matter was that I was always in fear of the next taunt, of losing my lines, of Jenny, and Jean, and heaven-knows-who-else, who were always waiting for me to fail so they could move in and take my part. I was afraid that, at any time, Jim and Dave and the rest of the cool theater kids would decide that I wasn't cool enough for them anymore. This would happen periodically. I was always on the fringe of the really cool, talented kids group, for all that I used to pull down the lead roles in the musicals. So I compensated by never really engaging with anyone. I didn't remember this girl, apart from her being part of the cloud of friends who hung around with Heather. For all I knew, I might have treated her like dirt, in an attempt to assuage my own insecurity.

I swallowed hard. "Was I ever mean to you?. I was a total brat sometimes in high school."

"No; you were really nice to me. You always said thank you and you encouraged me to keep singing. Gawd, I mean it; you haven't aged at all since then. It's kinda scary."

"Well I'm not so sure about the aging thing, but I'm glad I wasn't mean to you. Because you seem like a really good person." I went on to tell her about what was going on with several of the kids she had graduated with; that Heather had opened a couple of very successful cafes here in town, that Tracy was living in Phoenix with my very cool brother-in-law, that Angie had lost more than 100 lbs and was an athletic trainer.

During this whole time, she was putting electrodes on my skin, in my hair, behind my ears. I felt like I was on The Machine from Princess Bride.

It was a fairly miserable night. I couldn't get used to the electrodes or the belts or the other devices she put on me. I also had an infrared camera and a microphone on me all night long, with her in the next room. So there I was, facing a night of subjecting someone who apparently didn't recognize what a total dweeb I was in high school to my snoring, my sleep talking and the nighttime functioning of my digestive system.

I had a sleep disorder alright: I didn't sleep. Not sure what they'll learn from this.

But I'm once again reminded that every experience can be different, depending on your perspective. I'm also reminded, yet again, that it is more important to be gracious than it is to be popular. And probably some hackneyed rot about making one's words sweet or something like that.

"I need applause to Live!"

Stuff that makes my day

There is nothing like walking into a meeting for a job you thought you were volunteering to do, and finding out that you're being paid to do it -- and handsomely at that.

I am still trying to get used to the idea that people are interested in what I know -- and even willing to compensate me for sharing that knowledge.

God's Own Cheese

I had to make a late run to the grocery store tonight -- the cat was out of food and I figured it was better to blow 30 minutes of potential sleep time now than to face an entire night of yowling.

As I exited the grocery store, I noticed a packge of Kraft Cheese on the hood of my car. Just sitting there. Fully wrapped. There was no one else around, so I figured it was my destiny to take home the cheese.

My husband noticed the cheese as I unpacked the grocery bag.

Him: Why'dya buy cheese? We just bought cheese.

Me: I didn't buy it.

Him: You stole cheese?

Me: No; God left me this cheese. It was on my car in the parking lot.

Him: Well, you're not going to EAT it, are you?

Me: Why shouldn't I?

Him: Because...well, I don't know! Maybe it's poisoned or something!

Me: You are a very weird man. Why would God leave me poisoned cheese?

Him: Why would ANYone leave cheese on your car? Unless, of course, they were trying to get you to eat the poisoned cheese!

Martin Luther King's I Have a Dream speech is playing the background.

Hubby comments: What an amazing speaker. Really, I think it was a loss to the nation.

Me: You know, I hear he wasn't shot.

Him: Really? So how did he die then?

Me: I hear he got some bad cheese.

Him: I hate you.

A confession.

I never meant for this to happen.

In fact, I had a grand plan to prevent exactly this outcome. I built my arguments; I created a strategy and a timeline. I walked into the situation ready to create the result I knew I so desperately wanted.

And yet, here I am.

I’m driving an SUV.

How did this happen?

I wanted to buy a Mini Cooper. Or a Volvo. Perhaps a mini Volvo? Something with great gas mileage and low emissions. Something that people would look at and say “Now there’s a great combination of proletariat hippie-chick values and style.”

Alas. I was undone by an 8-year-old Ford Taurus with 155,000 miles on it. And a husband who gets a pretty good discount on cars. And the snow. And the ice. And…and…oh! The shame of it all!

I was going to make the Taurus last until April. The Taurus, with its new thermostat in August, and its new transmission lines in September and its new hoses in November. The Taurus that blew a fuel line on Sunday. The Taurus had other ideas. And the Mini had a lead time of 3 months. And the Volvo was too much money.

And then my husband said, “Drive the Escape”

“I can’t drive that. It’s an SUV! The devil’s handiwork with traction control!”

“Humor me. Drive the Escape. You don’t have to like it.”

I drove the Escape. The Escape with the ‘stow and go’ seats. The Escape with the antilock breaks. And the ginormous sun roof. And the side mirrors that you could use to park a semi. The Escape with the heated seats.

It handily dealt with the snow and ice. It accelerated like a dream. And I could see! I could see all the other vehicles around me! I could see in 360 degrees! I once was blind, but now! Wow, that lady’s back seat is full of McDonald’s bags…. I could see! I…I…my resistance was failing me.

I rallied and held strong. “It’s still an SUV. It gets crappy gas mileage. It pollutes the environment.”

“It gets 30 miles to the gallon and it has the lowest emissions of any non-hybrid engine in the line-up.”

“Yeah…well. I’ll bet it’s expensive.”

“It’s $1,000 less than you paid for the Taurus, 8 years ago.”

“Well...well...

I guess it’s just barely an SUV. I mean, there are cars here that are a lot bigger than this, right? And...wow, is that a GPS?”

So I’m driving an SUV. But just a little one. Honest.

It’s blue. And I’m very cute in it, if I do say so myself.

Upping the ante

I think I have mentioned before that I'm being courted by a local company for what really *is* a pretty cool job.

And I think I've mentioned that there are some issues with it that are probably deal-breakers.

The first, of course, is that I have this potentially uber-cool job with this grant that I've been working on for the last year. I'm really dedicated to this program.

But really, I have no delusions that they wouldn't be able to find someone else to fulfill my role there.

The second, and real, issue has been that there's a lot of travel with this job, and I'm just not sure I want to be away from home that much. My family needs me.

Twice, I've told them I don't think I can take the job because of that -- regardless of the amount of money they're offering me.

And twice, they've said, "We understand. Look; just come back in for another discussion. No obligation. We just want to talk."

Today, when I went in, they upped the ante. "What if we gave you access to the corporate jet for your travel? Not for the overseas stuff, of course, but it would probably make something like 75% of your domestic travel just day trips. You won't have to stay overnight. What do you think?"

And they added another $10K to the salary.

And another 5000 shares of stock.

*gulp*

Corporate. Jet.

Holy crap. I can't even wrap my head around that. Me + Private jets = Does. Not. Compute.

I'm supposed to know if the other program funded this coming Friday. If it doesn't, it's going to be pretty darned hard to walk away from this.

Sweatin' the big stuff

Today was the culmination of one of the toughest and most stressful experiences of my life.

That's a lot to say, really.

For the last year, I've been working with a team of 26 researchers and medical doctors from across the nation on a project that could critically impact thousands of lives over the next decade. These folks are the best of the best in treating patients who don't have a lot of options, and the technologies they're developing could fundamentally change medicine.

The stakes are high -- both because we're committed emotionally to these patients, and because the funding levels over the next five years are staggering. For the winning team, the award could approach $100 Million.

I have dedicated the better part of 1000 hours of my life to this since January. Several (too many) nights without sleep. Endless (dear God; endless) conference calls. Herding cats. Reconciling budgets. Again. (No, really. One more time. Did you include patient care costs in the indirect rate?) Writing. Re-writing. Scrapping. Re-writing. Time lines. Milestones. More re-writes.

And then, a few weeks ago, we got the call to tell us that we were one of two teams of finalists. We learned we had 16 days to prepare a two hour presentation for a team of judges and reviewers. Slides. Text. Revised slides. Rehersals. God, that sucked! Revised slides. Revised text. WTF does that mean???

And then, last Thursday, the rest of the leadership team told me. They told me they wanted ME to present this.

Me? Why me? I'm not a doctor. I'm just the gal who sells stuff.

We want you to do it.

Me.

You wanted to run with the big dogs, Sister.

Crap.

Today, I was honored -- and terrified -- to represent this unbelievably distinguished and dedicated group of professionals. And for the first time in my life, I had a chance to represent something that could really change the world of medicine.

And I think I did OK. In fact, they told me I was "brilliant".

It's the proudest -- and most humbled -- I've ever felt in my life.

I am feeling beyond grateful for this opportunity. But I think I'd like to go home and bake some cookies now.