We don't get what we deserve

Lori Borgman

We are a people concerned with getting what we deserve.

We deserve child care, health care, good schools, good jobs, easy commutes and a comfortable retirement.

We deserve smoke-free air, a strong stock market, happiness in our marriages and children who always remember our birthdays.

Lobbying groups and professional organizations around the country exist solely for the purpose of seeing that we get what we deserve. Well, that and to line their pockets in the process.

When you listen closely, you hear the many things we deserve sprinkled throughout conversations: We deserve our money’s worth. We deserve to be treated respectfully. We deserve good customer service.

With all that work at getting what we deserve, it’s no small wonder we also feel we deserve a vacation.

Kind-hearted as we are, we are not only concerned about getting what we deserve; we are concerned that others get what they deserve as well. Like the nutcase on the interstate blasting by at 90, zipping in and out of traffic, cutting off cars and tailgating. What a pleasure to see red and blue flashing lights and that Mr. Road Rage has been pulled over by an officer. He got what he deserved. Or as we like to say, he had it coming.

After a big awards show, or a sports tournament, we debate whether the winners deserved to win and whether the losers deserved to lose. We have a keen sense of deservedness.

Last week I deserved a mini-van. Ours is going to the body shop after being rear-ended. I told the claims agent that since one of their insured took our mini-van out, it seemed that we deserved a mini-van for a rental. She said, according to state law, all they were required to do was put us in a tuna fish can with wheels. Hmmpf.

We deserve the right to eat and not grow fat, the right to speak, the right to be heard and the right to have all of our questions promptly answered.

Recently, 12 American tourists on a B'nai B'rith trip to South America were killed when their bus fell down a mountainside. A reporter asked a rabbi if he questioned why God allowed such a bad thing to happen. The rabbi answered, I do not question God for the bad things that happen, just as I do not question God for the joyful things that happen. What a rare breed. A man who did not believe he deserved an answer.

It is no small irony that though we often live life pursuing what we may falsely or rightly believe we deserve, the holiest holiday on the Christian calendar celebrates not getting what we deserved.

We deserved something all right. Wrath. We richly deserved the penalty for sin, self-centeredness, arrogance, pride, greed, hard hearts, mean spiritedness and all the rest. But, the thing is, we didn’t get it.

Christ did.

He took what I deserved, every lash, every hit, every piercing. He took what I had coming. He paid the price I deserved to pay, was crucified, dead and buried, and on the third day rose again.

They say a good way to distinguish between grace and mercy is to remember that grace is getting what you didn't have coming, and mercy is not getting what you did have coming.

Easter is the celebration of mercy.

The next time I open my mouth about something I deserve, may God freeze my speech mid-air and bring to mind the joy and thanksgiving of not getting that which I deserved the most of all.

For the Lansing, Michigan Town Hall

Thanks for a wonderful time, ladies. What a fun event. Here is the piece as promised:

A letter from Mom

by Lori Borgman (copyright)

In the process of teaching, something almost mystical happens. Ask any teacher and he or she will verify this is true: The more you teach, the more you learn. It's sort of like a reverse osmosis. The teachers often become the students.I was thinking about the many things I've learned in the porcess of teaching my children and was amazed and how long and varied the list was. Then I thought perhaps I should take the opportunity to jot them a formal note of thanks:

Dear Kids,

I've been thinking about the many things I've learned in the process of parenting and teaching you and thought it was high time I said thanks.

As infants, you taught me flexibility. Had it not been for having babies, I would never have discovered that a woman can make it through a day on only three hours of sleep, half a pack of graham crackers, and a thirty second shower at 4 p.m.

As toddlers, you taught me the wonders of the human immune system. Your dirty faces, sticky hands, and runny noses were proof the human race could survive germ warfare. Spit and a Kleenex may not have earned the Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval, but you taught me the art of improvisation. I also learned I would not die handling locust shells and earthworms, and that the picnic was not over simply because someone slapped a frog down on the table next to the carrot sticks.

You taught me that a mother who can keep a car on the road when three kids are fighting like cats and dogs in the back seat is a woman who can focus. You also taught me I had the patience to do French braids and decorate a birthday cake with five hundred stars, squeezed one at a time from the tip of a frosting tube.

I learned empathy when you struggled in school, humility when you were the kid who drove the soccer ball downfield for the opposing team, and compassion when you had your leg in a cast three times in five years.

You taught me to sharpen my reflexes when you learned to ride a bike, and again when you learned to drive a car.

I learned to keep a sense of humor when you demanded a pony and I learned logic when you said, “Why make the bed if I’m just going to mess it up again in a few hours?”

You taught me about the speed of time as you announced I should never again buy socks with pictures on them because they were for babies, when you got your first job, and when you appeared for your first date radiating beauty in an elegant dress and upswept hair.

Without you, I never would have learned a million things to do with an empty cardboard refrigerator box, the joy of draping a bedspread over kitchen chairs, or felt my heart skip a beat as I walked through a parking lot and felt a growing adolescent still willing to slip a hand into mine.

Without you, I would not have learned the grace and art of fly fishing, the nuances of bird calls, or the names of the constellations. And without you, I would not have experienced the terror of whitewater rafting, the heart palpitations that come from playing basketball in roller blades, or the bone-chilling terror of picking up the phone and hearing “there’s been a little accident.”

True, I was often unwilling to learn, but that never stopped a one of you from teaching. They don’t teach these kinds of stress survival skills in school. If I had to learn them from someone, I’m glad it was from you.

Love, Mom

Lori Borgman is a newspaper columnist and author. Her books are available through amazon.com or by visiting http://www.loriborgman.com/.

Barking up the right tree

Lori Borgman

The GAP store is selling matching polos -- his, hers and the dog’s.

Your dachshund likes pink? You got it.

Your tubby terrier looks thinner in stripes? It’s yours.

We humans. What a bunch.

Paris, Britney and Madonna have long been using dogs as fashion accessories. They tote them in swanky dog purses that can run as high as $750.

The last pooch I saw peeking out of a purse was wearing a baby blue hoodie studded with rhinestones. Oh the humiliation of being a Chihuahua.

"Marley & Me: Life and Love With the World's Worst Dog," a book about a yellow Labrador by John Grogan, is top dog on two best-seller lists.

My sister-in-law has a framed picture of the family dog sitting on top of the entertainment center. When I asked why she didn’t have a picture of her two grown sons, she sighed said they routinely screen her cell phone calls. Dogs never screen their mothers’ calls. (Say so long to your spot on top of the entertainment center, boys.)

We try not to treat animals like humans, but . . . well, they’re just so dog-gone lovable.

The thing with having a dog is that it invariably leads to all that needless competition about whose dog is smarter. I say needless, because I had the smartest dog ever. My dog could talk.

When he wanted a treat he would scratch the cupboard door where the box of Milkbones was and bark, “Dog food!” It came out more like “Wog woo,” but only because he had difficulty with his d’s and f’s.

Now it seems my smart dog has been bested by my son’s smart dog. His dog has a page on Facebook. Facebook is a Web site where college students can post profile information, goofy photographs and random comments.

Apparently, if you’re a really smart dog you can maneuver through the username and password protocol and get your own space on Facebook

Meet Max. Facebook says he lives in Chicago and graduated from Ball State University with a major in biology.

Max is looking for “random play” and is interested in women. His relationship status is single and his political views are apathetic. His interests include, "sniffing trees, chasing squirrels, barking and marking his territory." Clubs and jobs include “watch dog.” His favorite music artists are Snoop Dogg and Bow Wow.

Max’s favorite TV shows are “Animal Cops,” “Dogs with Jobs” and “Wishbone.” His favorite movies are “Because of Winn Dixie,” “Homeward Bound,” “All Dogs Go to Heaven,” and “The Fox and the Hound.”

As for groups, Max belongs to Real Men Go Hunting (Women welcome), I Love Cuddling and Can't Get Enough Sleep. His favorite book is “Howilday Inn” and his favorite quote is, “I bark, therefore I am.”

Neither my husband nor I remember paying for Max to attend college. Oh well. If Max is smart enough to get on Facebook, surely he's smart enough to figure out how to pay off his student loans.