Bethany Bassett

Sigh No More

Posted by: Bethany in Uncategorized 11 Comments

One of the first pieces of literature I ever memorized was a Bible verse familiar even to those who have never set foot in a fundamentalist Christian home: “God is love.” It’s a nice sentiment, and it probably sounded adorable in my toddler lisp, but I was already on my way to a very unhappy understanding of the verse’s meaning.

“God is love” meant that he was willing to defile himself by sifting through the filth of humanity and saving a worm like me.

“God is love” meant that he would inflict (or sanction) whatever pain necessary to insure my soul against hell.

“God is love” meant that he would play the gentleman and let people make “unbiased” decisions between Christianity and eternal suffering.

(Alternately, it meant that he had predestined me over less lucky humans for salvation. I experienced my fair share of Calvinism.)

“God is love” meant that he had paid my debt, so I was forever in his.

In practical terms, “God is love” translated into fear. God’s love was conditional, you see, and it wasn’t particularly affectionate to start with. When I was Baptist, any little mistake would put my salvation into question. (You couldn’t lose your salvation per se, but if you messed up… well, Jesus clearly wasn’t alive and well in your heart.) When I was Presbyterian, my soul was secure, but God didn’t love all of my friends and family enough to choose them. From my earliest memories, the unthinkable torment of hell—burning alive forever and ever and ever—dangled over my head and that of everyone I knew. And this was God’s love.

Which brings me here:

Maybe you’ve heard about this. Maybe you don’t care. Maybe you care so much that you’re brandishing every weapon in your arsenal against heresy. Or maybe you’re like me, wanting to weep for the hope of it all.

Even though “Love Wins” is not yet released, prominent theologians have already consigned the author to hell… simply for suggesting that perhaps God is not torturing the majority of his creation for eternity. A dear friend writes about the divide between real, aching hearts and those “who are more concerned with winning than with loving,” and I want to ask those people, those self-assured theologians and heretic-slayers, Why? Why would you rather follow a God who allows babies to be born knowing that nine out of ten will burn forever… who handpicks some for his utopian afterlife but not all, or who makes our fates dependent on accurate guesswork… who expects us to rejoice while billions die… whose love only concerns itself with right vs. wrong… Why would you rather follow that God than explore the hope that true love doesn’t require us to shut down our hearts?

I was terrified the first time I posted about hell; I expected anger, hatred, and Molotov cocktails (approximately the treatment Rob Bell’s been getting), but it was worth the risk. I couldn’t not share the spacious peace I had found outside of religious tradition. The idea that God actually could be love—kind, unconditional, crazy-about-us love—is worth spreading no matter the cost or the dissenters. In fact, it might be the first piece of truly good news some Christians have ever heard.

Play us out, Marcus:

8Mar

Six-Word Summaries

Posted by: Bethany in Uncategorized 9 Comments

Much work to do. Grateful. Busy.

Sick child at home getting sicker.

Laundry wrangled into submission. House not.

Mountain of email threatening to erupt.

Haven’t showered yet this morning afternoon.

Facebook? Blogs? What’s social networking again?

Inspiration knocking, waiting, giving up, leaving.

Care to share your six words?

4Mar

Now We Are Six

Posted by: Bethany in Uncategorized 4 Comments

The girls’ school called me this morning to pick up my newly minted six-year-old, caught in a rackety upsweep of fever. I was barely through the entryway before Natalie wrapped herself around me. “I want to go home,” she whispered, eyes drooping onto flushed cheeks. “Of course, kiddo; let’s get you home.”

Mothering hadn’t factored into my plans for the next few hours. I had just left work, and I had lesson plans to go over, an editing project to finish, and mountains of both laundry and correspondence to scale. I was also chewing on an upcoming writing deadline I’ve been hoping to meet, and the house needed disaster relief aid after yesterday’s birthday party in which glitter featured heavily. Just in case I had time left over (ha) and was wondering how to spend it, I could always put a little thought into birthday party #2 fast approaching on Sunday. Oh, and Natalie’s presents should probably be wrapped at some point, considering her special day is was yesterday. Also, if truth be admitted, I wasn’t feeling too hot myself and wouldn’t have turned down a nap.

However, tomato soup, fairy tales, and plenty of unrushed snuggle time were clearly called for. Natalie didn’t require any brain power or motivation from me, just the number one remedy used by mamas worldwide: love (give or take a cool hand to the forehead every three minutes). She is growing up so quickly, that girl—sugar and spice making way for vocabulary and art—and she has her own trajectory now outside of my arms. It’s incredible to have grown-up conversations with my wide-eyed baby, read long-winded books to her, give her scissors and a workspace and let her go to town, giggle over shared jokes… but I so miss the days of rocking her to sleep that my heart squeezes the breath from my lungs. So while I might not have planned to spend today burrowed under blankets and storybooks, I can think of worse ways to celebrate a girl whose years are rushing by faster than time itself.

Ti voglio bene, Natalina mia.

2Mar

Heigh-Ho, Heigh-Ho

Posted by: Bethany in Uncategorized 5 Comments

I’ve written before about my sad history with the workplace. I have a deep aversion to authority figures—an unfortunate side-effect of being micromanaged from birth—and I have a habit of taking jobs that require far more of me than they give back. Case in [multiple] point[s]: I once spent days putting together a portfolio of carefully researched reports only to find out that the job for which I was applying was unpaid. I also spent a few years editing for a company that turned out to be a scam. My last teaching job in the States lost us money. It’s not the most impressive track record, and my experience-fueled sense of logic tells me I should avoid job offers like the Black Death.

In fact, my return to the working world this week started almost by accident. At some point last year, a friend with whom I had collaborated on an editing project (also unpaid; why do I do this to myself?) recommended I call up her former employer and ask if they needed any new English teachers or translators. However, considering that

my friend hadn’t worked for the company since the ‘80s, and
polite, people-pleasing American gals don’t just call up businesses hoping to be hired, and
I wasn’t sure my immigration status would allow me to work,
the details of which I didn’t feel like looking it up because
I was hoping to write a novel with my oodles of spare time, and anyway,
jobs and I don’t have the best history together, so
I was very unlikely to get hired, and, even if they were to offer me a job,
I didn’t particularly want one,

I chose not to call.

Fast forward to a couple of weeks ago. A new company in town was looking for English teachers, and I started updating my CV just for kicks. As long as I was applying for a job, I figured I might as well try my friend’s suggestion too. The new company wanted to hire me. My friend’s former employer did not. Yet my gut told me that something was off about the job offer I did receive. Maybe my instincts have grown hypersensitive over the years of poor career choices, or maybe anyone with a smidgen of common sense would know not to accept a position that came with stipulations for age and gender. (That, I believe, is a tactic generally known as illegal.) At any rate, I turned down the job. Aside from the residual people-pleaser guilt, it felt good.

What felt even better, though, was hearing again from my friend’s company—the one that hadn’t had any openings for me. Would I like to come in for an interview? Would I like to attend an informal office orientation? Would I like to meet the other employees? Would I like to start Monday? Surprisingly… yes!

The job seems perfect for this stage of my life. I am now a part-time English tutor with hours that will allow me to be home with the girls after school and even give a little TLC to that erstwhile novel. The staff is friendly, the office is five minutes from home, and I can wear jeans. (My soul rejoices in distressed denim.) After my past work experiences, I never would have thought I’d feel so honored to return to employeedom… but I guess the right job was just an accident waiting to happen.

1Mar

Memory Aid

Posted by: Bethany in Uncategorized 4 Comments

To be honest, I don’t always remember that Dan is my best friend. I have no trouble remembering that we’re roommates, especially when the house is in need of an intervention. I’m pretty good about keeping in mind that he’s the father of my children, particularly at the end of a long day when said children are loudly voicing their displeasure over the institution of toothbrushing. I remember he’s the one who usually takes the trash out, who does school drop-off, who calls the phone company when our internet goes AWOL, who mixes the drinks, who brings home the steady paycheck… but sometimes, in the muddle of parenting and housekeeping and responsible-adulting, I forget that he’s also the one who can take me from crying to laughing in two seconds flat.

I suspect this is common symptom of long-term relationships—familiarity turning to invisibility, perspective glazing over as time blows past—but it still sucks. I often wish there were a magic spell that would allow me to wake up each morning with my sense of wonder firmly intact. A newlywed potion would work just as well… or any kind of mental caffeine to keep me constantly aware of the things I love about my husband and our coupleness. Any of you aspiring entrepreneurs want to take a crack at it?

Meanwhile, as we wait for relational LSD to go on the market, we’ll just have to make a steady habit of the next-best formula: babysitter + snowboards + lift tickets for two. I hadn’t thought we would be able to hit the slopes this year, so a belated Valentine’s getaway to the mountains last weekend was a delightful surprise. We laughed, we wiped out, we took full advantage of the off-trail opportunities, and Dan even got a chance to come to my rescue like a knight in shining snow gear. It was all very dignified, I assure you.

For a couple chronically short on time and vacation funds with two small children and a messy kitchen at home, a weekend snowboarding trip doesn’t make much sense… but for a couple chronically short on fun and relaxation with 7.5 years of marriage and a bajillion life changes under their belts, it not only makes sense—it makes remembering easy.

21Feb

Prompt Delay

Posted by: Bethany in Sunday Scribblings 7 Comments

Sunday Scribblings used to post writing prompts on Thursday so participants could have the whole weekend to wade in words and come up on Sunday clutching a fresh story. At least that’s how I saw it from my sporadic spot at the computer. But then Thursday turned into Friday and Friday to Saturday and Saturday to so late on Sunday that Italian calendars had already flipped to Monday… and nobody wants to read Sunday Scribblings on a Monday. However, when this week’s prompt nodded its tardy hello from my feed reader, I knew exactly what I wanted to post.

The prompt was food; the essay I had in mind was written two years ago and never published, though not for lack of trying. In fact, it won me my first honest-to-goodness rejection letter. “Thanks so much,” the magazine editor wrote, “but we don’t have a spot for this.” Cordial and blessedly succinct but rejection all the same. I’ve since realized that I employ two different ways of coping with rejection: one is to cry while plunging into a creative funk and the other is to repress while plunging into a creative funk. In this instance, I repressed. I buried the letter, typed “Rejected” at the top of my essay, and then got busy forgetting either one ever existed.

Today’s Sunday Scribblings’ prompt brought the essay back to mind though, and I decided hey, if it’s not good enough for publication, I can at least use it on my blog. No rejection letters this time, guaranteed. However, as I read over my concoction of words I had shoved to the back of the fridge two years ago, I realized it was good. Age hadn’t diluted any of its original flavor. It still brimmed with the succulence that had inspired me to submit it in the first place, and the corresponding rejection note felt as insignificant as a fly to be brushed away.

Which explains why I spent the girls’ naptime researching literary journals and why, instead of an essay on food, you now get a photograph of a dark-chocolate-salted-caramel cupcake waiting to be devoured by an overly sensitive writer.

I call it Food for Rethought.

15Feb

American Pi–Cookies

Posted by: Bethany in Uncategorized 5 Comments

The girls’ school has asked me to come in tomorrow morning and talk about where I’m from. Any details beyond this were vague, and I suspect it’s just a ploy by the teachers to get some homemade chocolate chip cookies. Fortunately for them, it’s working. Unfortunately for me, I have no idea what I’m going to say.

The United States really aren’t all that different from Italy. Americans drive on the same side of the road, eat with the same utensils, and wear the same clothing styles as Italians (with the possible exception of the tubithongotard which needs to die a swift death anyway). We speak a different language, but mandatory English classes start in preschool here, and the girls’ classmates sang a forty-two chorus version of “We Are the World” for their Christmas play; neither the English language nor Michael Jackson is new territory for them.

I’m oversimplifying, of course. There are plenty of cultural nuances to take into account—the ways people relate to each other, to food, to sports—the ways politics are run or rigged—the ways humor is understood—but I doubt a roomful of three-to-five-year-olds would appreciate a lecture on sarcasm vs. slapstick.

My leading idea at the moment is to walk in wearing a cowboy hat, say “Poop!”, wait for the riotous laughter to subside, and lead everyone in forty-three choruses of “We Are the World” while passing out cookies. I’d be an instant hit with the kids, but I’m not sure the teachers would be amused (different understanding of humor and all). Anyone have a suggestion not involving fashion lamentations, scatological humor, or bribery by cookies? Because I’ve totally got those covered.

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