My Main Line moment

A few days ago I had reason to go to a doctor in Bryn Mawr.

My well-known dermatologist is friendly, chatty, direct, and mostly comforting. Pictures of dogs hang all over her offices, lending them a personal air. Unless you are another doctor (or ill, of course) you don't get to see her more than every 15-18 months.

But she's a darn good doctor, as are the doctors who share the practice. She's also quite the businesswoman, having created her own brand on the basis of her wonderful reputation.

As you go to the suite of offices that house the practice, you see, on the right, another door. That is my doctor's acclaimed version of a med-spa. While I confess that I've been to spas before (and even have a friend who botoxes regularly) I was both drawn and repelled by the idea of exploring the mysteries of this one. I mean, it seems a little cliched, doesn't it?

Catch me, I'm falling.

As soon as I walked in the door of the dermatologist suite, I noticed a big sign on the window, heralding a "once a year" party in which every service was twenty-percent off.

Ladies, how could I turn my back on a sale?

When I opened the door of the spa, having added a few sutures to my frame, I stopped for a moment, overwhelmed. A woman stood near the window, serving up sandwiches and fruit, cheeses and tea. Had I arrived late at some tea for the horsefarm set?

Apparently all the food was to underline the party theme - or maybe to tart it up. And speaking of tarts...the whole place was jammed with women. Tall women. Buxom women. Slender blondes with ponytails. Tiny brunettes.

Women in pantsuits!

Can you imagine?

I almost fled (ok, I've seen pantsuits before). But the greens and reds, the walls of semi-medical face and body unguents, the scented soaps and omni-present branding, were as compelling as they were pagan. The priestesses hid behind another door, attending their customers -- who knew what really went on?

Delectable as well as disturbing, the scene, reeking of discretionary cash in a time of want, rather like a Roman orgy.

I was seduced.

For a few moments, that is. Then it became claustrophobic.

I'm not unfamiliar with the customs of that land -- but returning made me aware of how badly I'd once wanted to learn the language and act as though I fit in.

I realized I couldn't game the hierarchy one night after a wonderful picnic with old friends. This swim club is so exclusive you don't even put it in your obituary, one of them told us. In Trollope's time, we might have passed for gentry. But not now.

Now I knew that I didn't belong -- and pretending that I did wasn't even fun anymore. Oh yes, I have my indulgences -- but being part of the Main Line lifestyle takes work. And I'm a slacker.

Progress? Arguable. I'm not going to tell you what I bought.

Who is YOUR King of Glory?

Can we get beyond pissed? Can we get beyond downtrodden? Can we acknowledge suffering without putting ourselves on the cross? Can we worship Jesus without wanting to place a crown on his head and keeping him safely away from the places where He might change our lives?

Who is this king of glory -- to you?

My latest HuffPost blog rant...

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/elizabeth-e-evans/redefining-glory_b_786576.html

This American Thanksgiving

In a culture that seems so polarized, we sometimes forget to honor the best parts of our democracy -- sometimes more vision than reality, but real, nonetheless.

Wishing you the blessing of family, friends, and faith on Thanksgiving.

And recalling the women, and the men, who have kept the vision before us, even at the lowest points in our nation's history. Thank you for the light you carried so that we might see more clearly.

http://articles.lancasteronline.com/local/4/314634

Canvass White, or the myth of the level playing field

Do you know much about the 19th century inventor, Canvass White?

Thought not.

I would not know anything about Mr. White, either, if I hadn't picked up a book by the exceptionally readable and curious Bill Bryson. Author of A Walk in the Woods and oh yes, A Short History of Nearly Everything, Bryson has just come out with a book on the history of the many household rooms and objects we most likely take for granted.

I'm loving At Home: A Short History of Private Life: if you like your history over easy with a little salt, run, don't walk to Barnes & Noble. Or Amazon. (We shall come back to these later).

Back to Canvass. When a number of very bright men decided to built the Erie Canal back in the day, they were a little stymied by the fact that none of them, says Bryson, had ever created a canal. In fact, none of the men assigned this job had ever seen a canal.

In an attempt to be helpful, young Canvass said he'd go over to England to study canals (as you know, for an island nation, England has many waterways.) For almost a year he walked up and down England, studying canals. In the course of his self-education, Canvass learned about a hydraulic cement created by one Reverend Mr. Parker (19th-century men of the cloth, with time on their hands, were fantastic at inventing things, but that's a whole other post).

After learning about hydraulic cement, Canvass White returned home, where he forumualted his own cement. This major step in modern technology, says Bryson, should have made White very wealthy.

But it did not -- instead, it made the manufacturers rich -- and the canal opened early, making lots of other people wealthy. White tried to claim his invention in the courts -- but the manufacturers had more power.

White, poor fellow, died in such a state of penury that his wife could barely afford, says Bryson, to bury him. "And that is probably the last time you will ever hear his name," he tells the reader.

Well, no. I hope we'll remember Canvass White because of his wonderful invention. But I also think he's an example of the fact that while we love to claim that America is a level playing field in which any boy or girl can grow up to be Bill Gates, or the President, that simply isn't the case.

The forces that work against the "little guy" are a lot more powerful than many of us like to admit -- creating a society in which wealth, and business monopolies, call the tune a lot of the time.

It is self-evident how much money can corrupt in Washington, and in our state capitols.

How much influence do the lobbyists of K Street have on our Senators and Congress? Why do corporations invest such huge amounts of money in electioneering?

But it's helpful to remember that we, too, fall into line very nicely when it is more convenient.

I don't go out of my way to shop at a small bookstore an hour away when I can shop offline at Barnes & Noble, or order my books on Amazon. It's much easier to go to the Mall and buy shoes at Macys than traveling to Wayne to a small independent seller. Gas is likely to be a few cents cheapers at the WaWa then the little gas station down the road -- so where do most of us go?

Why does any of this matter? Because we continue to subscribe to the myth that we live in a democracy in which anything is possible should we, rich or poor or middle-class, want to achieve it badly enough.

Sadly, that is less and less the case -- more often, it is the exception that proves the rule.

A toast to your memory, Canvass White.

Will and Grace

For those of us old enough to recall the horrible hearings on Clarence Thomas's nomination of almost two decades ago, the revelation by Ms. Hill that she had gotten a voicemail from Virginia Thomas a few weeks ago probably reawakened memories of a time in history we'd like to forget.

Frankly, I've held that nomination against Arlen Specter for almost 20 years -- but I've also wondered if Thomas would have been possible if the left hadn't gone after Robert Bork, judging him not on his scholarship but on the monster they created.

It's worth thinking about Bork, Thomas and Hill again in this poisonous environment -- and wondering if we aren't still in as dire need of grace as we were then -- and as reluctant to admit it.

Anyway, please read, ponder and comment--

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/elizabeth-e-evans/clarence-thomas-and-anita_b_773019.html#comments

Are your children believers? Or are they "almost Christian?"

So you go to church with your kids -- you weren't the type of parent to leave your kid and go out for doughnuts.

You say grace at meals -- even when you are in a chain restaurant.

You drive them to youth group, go to church suppers, even invite the pastor over for dinner.

But are you raising children who have been transformed by the Gospel?

Or are they, like the majority of Christian kids out there, victims of "moral therapuetic deism?"

Read about Kenda Creasy Dean's new book, the research that impelled her to write it -- and what you can do to help your kids...

http://articles.lancasteronline.com/local/4/304433

Meet the "bad" mothers

I admit that I don't always get to the front section of the Philadelphia Inquirer, our local media outlet of record, on Sundays. I've got a few other things going on, and by the time, I get home from church, my brain is often fried.

But yesterday I had time for a heating pad break to loosen up my wounded back before going out to rake the leaves (no, this doesn't make sense, but hang in there).

When I had finished reading this article, I felt sickened -- and deeply disturbed.

You see, I'm a fretting mom. I fret because I can't get my daughter to do her homework. I worry because my son seems overly responsible for his age. And heck, the kid doesn't practice his trumpet.

They turn up their noses sometimes at the vegetable-whole wheat pasta concotions I put on the table.

And often, I find myself tossing old vegetables or stiff cheese slices into the trash -- when I don't walk them guiltily out to the compost heap.

But I don't worry about what I can feed my kids.

I don't go without food for a day so my children can have hamburger and a bun (no sides) at night.

I don't wonder if my child will be brain-damaged because he or she doesn't get enough basic nutrients.

I don't consider suicide because, damn it, I can't feed the baby -- and I wonder what kind of mother would let her baby starve?

Most of us don't see this kind of poverty. Most of us would prefer to pretend it doesn't exist.

But it does -- often closer to us than we know.

Tax breaks won't feed poor children. The safety net, shredded already, is failing them. Lots of us are close enough to the poverty line not to have anything to spare for those whose need is just a bit more frightening.

And so I wonder -- for those of us who have so much, what makes a "good mother"?

Perhaps it is a mother or a father who cares about someone else's children, too -- and does something to reach out across the divide and say -- I want to help.

I don't know, for sure. But what I do believe is that it feels intolerable, at the moment, for me to sit idle while a mother thinks she might kill herself because she doesn't have food for her children.

And I'm going to try not to wait until the emotion passes before I do something.