It's been a while since I've last written on here. My life looks a bit different now. My kids are all in school now, I'm "Mom" and not "Mommy" anymore and I actually squeeze in a coherent thought now and then. I eat salads and drink coffee on a regular basis and have traded play dates at the playground for concerts and the occasional trip to the local dive bar. I even did a mud run a few months ago, something I thought I'd never try! I dye my hair every four weeks to cover the grays, bought my first tube of wrinkle cream (stuff's not cheap!) and stopped shopping at the 99 cent store for make up. My house is semi-clean for the first time in years, I like sushi and I discovered Mumford and Sons. I'm still trying to like wine. In a nutshell, I've grown up a bit. But the lesssons I've learned the past few years go beyond 25 dollar jars of make up and goat cheese salads. I thought I'd share just a few of them with you:
1. Chocolate Cake is Good. In the book "The Pleasure Prescription" the author reminds us that food was made to be enjoyed. Yet, thanks to the booming "health care" industry, we've been told to count every calorie, gram of fat, carbohydrate and ounce of sodium in our diet. Blah, I say. I've done it all, and the only result I got was grumpy. My new conclusion is the age-old motto "Everything in moderation." Chocoalte cake is delicious. Which is why I savor every bite and even go back for seconds when possible these days. And no, the fat-free, reduced calorie chocolate cake does not taste the same. I want the real thing, thank you very much. And spending the next hour "working off" my cake on the treadmill turns my lovely indulgence into a boring mathematical equation. When my father in law was in hospice four years ago, dying from heart failure, the nurse pulled me aside to say, "Since he really doesn't have long, let him eat whatever he wants. If he wants chocolate cake three times a day, let him have it." My eyes grew wide as I replied, "Really? Are you sure?" So, must we wait for our deathbed to enjoy chocolate cake? I think not. The time to enjoy food is now.
2. Good Friends are Gold. I recently read that the average adult has only one close friend, someone to share their deepest sorrows and delights with. I find this truly heartbreaking. Have we gotten too busy to remember the most important element of life: relationships? Sure, we've got Facebook, Twitter and texting, but when was the last time we picked up the phone to make a call or sent and old fashioned "thinking about you" card? I'm happy to say I have many close friends, but I do not take a single one for granted. I know the loneliness factor all too well. I know what it's like to be the "new girl" in town and watch the other moms gab away in the school parking lot while you watch wistfully. I know what it's like to grow up painfully shy and spend junior high lunch hour in the bathroom because you've got no one to sit with. Doesn't matter how old we are; we all need friends. Acquaintances are nice, but they don't bring us soup when we've got a splitting migraine and can't get our kid off to school, they don't encourage us to get out on the dance floor and try the Cupid Shuffle, and they certainly don't call just to "check in and say hello." Perhaps we ought to try the old adage "If you want a friend, be one" more often.
3. Nothing Beats a Good Laugh. If there's one thing I do more of these days, it's laugh. In "The Pleasure Prescription" the author points out that we cannot know true joy unless we have known true hardship. Three years ago, I was tempted to throw myself under any large moving vehicle at a moment's notice. Translation: I was severely depressed. Considering my circumstances (major move, job change, loss of health, best friends divorced, death in the family) I had good reason to be, but I soon learned that staying that way forever probably wasnt the best idea. Still, how does one "snap out of it" when life gets tough? Why, they read the the Shopaholic series, of course. These books were one of the few bright spots in my life when I couldnt get out of bed during my illness. I laughed until I cried, until my husband nudged me in bed and said "Could you keep it down a little?" Did I mention it takes a lot for me to laugh out loud? But the more I practiced, the more I laughed. Then a little TV show called Modern Family came along, and again I found myself in stitches. (And wishing I'd been clever enough to write it myself!) Now days, I laugh all the time. I laugh at myself, I laugh with my friends, I laugh along with my kids as we watch Disney shows, and yes, occasionally, I laugh at other people (A browse on the People of Walmart website will do the trick..very mature, I know). Growing up, most adults I knew didnt laugh very much. I figured things must stop getting funny around age 20. I wasnt particularly looking forward to becoming an adult because, frankly, it seemed a bit boring. Quite the contrary, I've come to learn. Being an adult isn't boring..it's just that some adults are, er, boring. So if you're one of those boring ones and like to multi-task too, at least laugh for the mere reason that it burns calories, keeps your face in shape and is also good for your cardiovascular health.
4. The Grass Isn't Greener. I've checked, believe me. The grass may be greener on the outside, but the plants on the inside are probably all dead. A recent study shows that most people live by the "Twice as Much" principle, meaning they desire to make roughly twice as much money as they currently do. In the end, they wind up half as happy. The reason our national debt is at an all time high? We're still trying to keep up with the Joneses. (Who are the Joneses anyway? I'd really like to meet them and see if they're all that!) So what's the solution? Be thankful for what you have and get over it. I'm forever playing the "grass is greener" game. Her hair is shinier (she must go to a really fancy salon, so I'm going to have to add that into our budget), that husband seems more romantic, their house is bigger, their kids are more athletic, they take more trips than we do. Nothing will rub things in like a browse through friends' photos on Facebook. With posts like "Living a fabulous life!" and "Couldnt be having a better day!" we're somehow deluded into thinking that everyone's life must be better than ours. Little do we know that the so called romantic husband who picks up flowers for his wife at the store once a week also beats her to a pulp before bed time, and that the lady with the shiny hair is actually wearing a wig because she just finished chemo after a horrific battle with breast cancer. A lady who I assumed had tons of money because they were always taking lavish vacations and buying fancy things just confided in me that they couldnt make their mortgage last month. So we just never know. As my wise father often told me, "There will always be those folks who have it worse than you and those who have it better than you." Hmm, so true, Dad, so true.
5. Life Is Meant to be Lived. In the Pleasure Prescription, the author, a cancer survivor himself, talks about the time he spent with other cancer patients on his ward. These folks, he explains, were more concerned with the well being of others than they were for themselves. They took joy in little daily things, like the sun streaming through their window, a cool rag on their forehead and a special dessert when their stomach would allow it. The bottom line? They were just happy to be alive. Many books I've read over the past year sum up most church going folks with this paraphrased quote: "We are told that eternity is all that matters, so we walk around, sour pussed martyrs, saying "Oh well, at least I've got Heaven" in an Eyore tone. We study our Bibles to become more "studied" and yet we forget how to love our neighbor. We spend more time picketing political causes than enjoying sunsets, good music and our spouses. And we spend so much time in Bible studies and volunteering at the church that we forget to look outside our little world at the dying, broken, homeless population that needs a loving touch." Indeed, we've done all that and more. John Eldredge expands on this in his book "Desire" when he says, "We kill all the deepest desires in our heart and call it sanctification." Who put those desires in our heart anyways? Perhaps the creator of the universe? Is it any wonder many folks look in our world and want nothing to do with it? I was nearly there myself, ready to step outside those church doors forever. But something still draws me in, and that something is Jesus and the beautiful, wonderful, colorful and sometimes messy life he lays before us. Life is meant to be lived to the fullest. It's why we have good music, begonias, and yes, chocolate cake. Author Richard Dahlstrom explains a scenario in his fantastic book "O2" about visiting a family in Germany. The family sat at a long table, feasting on the finest of foods, laughing and encouraging him to participate. The grandmother poured herself one mug of German beer after another and seemed to be having the grandest time of all. He was just starting to judge her a bit when she stood up, pulled him into the other room and began to show him pictures of World War 2. "You know what got me through that horrific time?" she told him. "It was God." In that moment, he felt about four inches tall. This woman had known true hardship, and she had much to celebrate. She knew that life was indeed good, rich, beautiful even. And she celebrated it with a couple beers and some good food. All through the Bible, there is mention of lavish feasts, wine and good company. So why are still walking around with our tails between our legs and our heads down? It's really hard to see a good sunset or appreciate a stunning mountain peak with one's head hung. It's time we start looking up and start living again.
6. There Isn't Just One Box. From the time I was a kid, I felt different. My mother accused me of daydreaming and my teachers and peers accused me of being too shy (or snobby, as they perceived it) In truth, I was just a dreamer stuck behind a little metal school desk who would rather be writing stories and playing the piano than working up fractions and talking about the weather. It took me over 30 years to discover the crux of my problem: I was different. A personality test revealed that my kind makes up less than one percent of the population. In other words, 99 percent of the rest of the world wasn't going to "get" me. Amazingly, I wound up marrying a fellow INFP (Meyers Briggs test for those of you not familiar with those terms) and we've spent the last few years trying to help one another get on the best we can in life. Learning who I was explained so much: why I often felt bored in church, why I hated going to parties alone, why I detested small talk, why I was constantly scatter brained, why Steven Curtis Chapman sometimes made me cringe, and why I often ditched my housekeeping to run off to lunch with a close friend. Learning that I didnt fit in the "box" made me rethink this whole "box" thing. Who says what goes in the box anyways? Countless books, sermons, TV shows, movies and media images have flooded our minds over the years, swaying us to believe that beauty looks a certain way (tall, blond, thin!) that a good Christian looks a certain way (never drinks, attends three Bible studies a week, serves in the nursery!) and that success looks a certain way (big house! fancy car! cushy CEO job with private office and cushy leather chair and pretty secretary!) Isnt the beauty of life the fact that we're all different? Wouldnt it be a shame if everyone was a leader, if everyone desired to work as a nurse or if everyone wanted 2.2 kids and a dog and a white picket fence? Since when did life become so small? These days, we have to lump everything into categories. "Organic and non organic food." "Secular and non-secular music." "Environmentally friendly products and harmful to the environment products." And on and on we go. Surely God didnt set out for us to be so "small" minded when he created hundreds of different flowers, animals, trees and fruits in the garden. So I don't fit in the box. I'm okay with that. I like my odd shape. I'm a writer and a musician. I don't plan PTA meetings and events or have the cleanest house. But at last, I'm okay with that all.
So there you have it. I'm sure I could go on, but this is a start. In summary, eat more chocolate cake, laugh more, make time for your friends, live life, stop wanting someone else's life and stop trying to be someone you're not. Maybe I've saved you gobs on self help books (goodness knows I've read enough of those to last me a lifetime) Or maybe you stopped at the chocolate cake part (gosh, I hope you have, and I really hope you're enjoying every last bite!) Either way, have a good life. You only get one, so enjoy!
Sep 8, 2011
May 9, 2011
The Good Life
Since when did we stop being impressed with sunsets? I live in the foothills; from my house, on a good day, I can almost see the ocean. When the sun sets, it does a pretty good job around here. Most days, I pass it by, give it a polite nod as I head home, but the other day, I had to stop. And just stare. Because it literally choked the breath out of me. No words could have done it justice; to call it a painting of vibrant colors would have been an insult. It was literally...astounding. As I found my breath at last, I wondered how many others I had missed, my head hung as I absentminedly changed the radio station and grumbled at the guy in front of me. So I have to ask, when did we stop being impressed? "Oh yeah, another sunset. Been there, seen that." How about babies? When did we stop marveling at them, the tiny miracle, in a mother's womb one minute and taking a first gulp of life the next? "Yeah, they're pretty cute." That's what we say as we send off a congrats card and go back to checking our e mail. And then I have to wonder, when did we stop living life? The pulse is still there, but the heartbeat is fading as we give up our souls to the mundane. John Eldredge discusses this dilemma in his moving book "Desire." While visiting the Grand Tetons, God decided to put on a show for him and his family one night. Out of nowhere, elk, coyotes and moose crept out to say hello as his family watched under the star streaked sky. He describes it as a "living work of art" and adds, "We were all caught up in something bigger and more beautiful than we had ever known, suspended above the earth, free from all its laws, like a work of art." He then goes on to say this: "While talking with some friends about summer vacations, I recommended they visit the Tetons. 'Oh yeah, we've been there. Nice place', they said. Dismissal.....Then we try to get on with life. We feed the cat, pay the bills, watch the news, and head off to bed, so we can do it all again tomorrow." So again I have to ask, when did we stop living life?
In his great book Velvet Elvis, Rob Bell talks about being 16 and being at a U2 concert on the Joshua Tree tour. "When they started with the song, "Where the Streets Have No Name" I thought I was going to spontaneously combust with joy," he says. " This was real. This mattered. Whatever it was, I wanted more. " I've had those moments. Two weeks ago, while skiing in Utah (I say this as if I ski all the time, when really, I hadn't been in ten years and fell off the chair lift my first run up!) I had a moment. It had begun to snow and hail, and the resort closed down the lifts for an hour. Bummed, we retreated inside and grabbed a cup of coffee. When at last they re- opened, we jumped back on the lift and made our way up. My friends took one route, while I detoured off to another. As I came around a corner, I had to suck in my breath. I was skiing on fresh snow, never been touched before by another human being. Sacred, just born ground. Sounds silly, maybe, but it was just so beautiful and profound to me that as I weaved my way back and forth I almost cried. I had another moment yesterday. I came upon a new song while flipping through the radio stations, and I had to crank it up because it was just that good. I had chills. Later that day, I went home, Youtubed it and listened to it a dozen more times. Literally. I went to bed with it in my head and woke up with it in my head. It was just that good. My daughter came to me last night with her own version of chills. "Have you ever heard a song and you just could not stop thinking about it and you wanted to listen to it forever and ever?" she asked breathlessly. I told her that I did, that I'd had my own moment just hours before. She was caught up in her own, lost in a Disney song about girls who feel beautiful just as they are. For both of us, the pulse was just a little bit stronger. Have you had your moment lately?
What if those moments weren't just moments, but the way we lived our entire day, our entire life? I'm talking more than just "stop to smell the roses" but really living, breathing and taking everything in with awe and wonder? I believe in God, in a creator of everything good, but I know lots of people who don't believe in God. I must say, some of them are living life better than me. And by that, I don't mean fancier cars, more vacations, bigger houses. I mean, they know how to live a full 24 hours. They laugh more, they rave about a good wave when they surf, they sing the loudest at rock concerts, they get impressed by sushi . Their heartbeat is strong. But sometimes mine's not. I'm just limping along, barely breathing it in, hardly glancing up as my kids shout out "Look Mom! I did it all by myself for the first time!" And I have a hunch God is pretty bummed, because everything that is good is everywhere and I've deemed it just another ol day.
I have a friend who decided to take a picture of her kids every day for a year. Every day, no matter what, she carries her Nikon with her and snaps photos of random moments. A sleeping kid in a car seat with a half eaten ice cream cone stuck on his chest. Kids laughing in a bubble bath. A game of Frisbee out back. These aren't the big Kodak moments, the birthday parties, the weddings, the baby showers. This is life. And it's a good life. A great life.
So when did we stop whipping out the camera? When did we decide, "Nah, this isn't really worth capturing? Same ol, same ol here." I have a hunch. It was somewhere between our last college final and our last promotion at work. Somewhere between that last dirty diaper we changed and that last bill we paid. Lost along the road between soccer games and ballet class. That's when the camera got tucked away. That's when sunsets became predictable, fresh snow became a pain in the butt, babies became a dime a dozen. Even the well meaning stuff ate us up. We sat in church and someone told us, in so many words, that in order to love God more we had to enjoy life less. Quite the contrary, I would venture to argue.
I don't know much, but I do know God gave us taste buds. And two eyes and two ears. And a zillion different kinds of flowers to enjoy, when they could have all been tulips. He gave us the cocoa bean and the coffee bean, for crying out loud. (Hallelujah!) And music. We can't forget music. So I ask again, when did we stop living the good life and settle?
Rob Bell ends Velvet Elvis by sharing about a party he recently held. He called it "An Epic Celebration of All that is Good." There was no special occasion, but they got a DJ anyways and danced the night away, ate good food, hung out with the neighbors til the wee hours of the night. Sounds like a pretty good party. No presents, just lots of celebration. The good life.
Life doesnt always feel like the good life. Sometimes it stings. Sometimes it just plain sucks; it hurts. I know, because I know. Telling someone to enjoy a sunset when they've just lost a loved one doesnt feel right. But even then, something beautiful is near. A good cry. A suffocating hug from a dear friend. A home made lasagna created by someone who got on their knees for you last night. A God who cried along with you. It is there, it's always there.
And so somewhere, between the 405 and the 605, the third aisle of the grocery store and the stream of cars at the gas pump, we've got to find it again. Get out that camera. It's time to snap a picture of the good life.
In his great book Velvet Elvis, Rob Bell talks about being 16 and being at a U2 concert on the Joshua Tree tour. "When they started with the song, "Where the Streets Have No Name" I thought I was going to spontaneously combust with joy," he says. " This was real. This mattered. Whatever it was, I wanted more. " I've had those moments. Two weeks ago, while skiing in Utah (I say this as if I ski all the time, when really, I hadn't been in ten years and fell off the chair lift my first run up!) I had a moment. It had begun to snow and hail, and the resort closed down the lifts for an hour. Bummed, we retreated inside and grabbed a cup of coffee. When at last they re- opened, we jumped back on the lift and made our way up. My friends took one route, while I detoured off to another. As I came around a corner, I had to suck in my breath. I was skiing on fresh snow, never been touched before by another human being. Sacred, just born ground. Sounds silly, maybe, but it was just so beautiful and profound to me that as I weaved my way back and forth I almost cried. I had another moment yesterday. I came upon a new song while flipping through the radio stations, and I had to crank it up because it was just that good. I had chills. Later that day, I went home, Youtubed it and listened to it a dozen more times. Literally. I went to bed with it in my head and woke up with it in my head. It was just that good. My daughter came to me last night with her own version of chills. "Have you ever heard a song and you just could not stop thinking about it and you wanted to listen to it forever and ever?" she asked breathlessly. I told her that I did, that I'd had my own moment just hours before. She was caught up in her own, lost in a Disney song about girls who feel beautiful just as they are. For both of us, the pulse was just a little bit stronger. Have you had your moment lately?
What if those moments weren't just moments, but the way we lived our entire day, our entire life? I'm talking more than just "stop to smell the roses" but really living, breathing and taking everything in with awe and wonder? I believe in God, in a creator of everything good, but I know lots of people who don't believe in God. I must say, some of them are living life better than me. And by that, I don't mean fancier cars, more vacations, bigger houses. I mean, they know how to live a full 24 hours. They laugh more, they rave about a good wave when they surf, they sing the loudest at rock concerts, they get impressed by sushi . Their heartbeat is strong. But sometimes mine's not. I'm just limping along, barely breathing it in, hardly glancing up as my kids shout out "Look Mom! I did it all by myself for the first time!" And I have a hunch God is pretty bummed, because everything that is good is everywhere and I've deemed it just another ol day.
I have a friend who decided to take a picture of her kids every day for a year. Every day, no matter what, she carries her Nikon with her and snaps photos of random moments. A sleeping kid in a car seat with a half eaten ice cream cone stuck on his chest. Kids laughing in a bubble bath. A game of Frisbee out back. These aren't the big Kodak moments, the birthday parties, the weddings, the baby showers. This is life. And it's a good life. A great life.
So when did we stop whipping out the camera? When did we decide, "Nah, this isn't really worth capturing? Same ol, same ol here." I have a hunch. It was somewhere between our last college final and our last promotion at work. Somewhere between that last dirty diaper we changed and that last bill we paid. Lost along the road between soccer games and ballet class. That's when the camera got tucked away. That's when sunsets became predictable, fresh snow became a pain in the butt, babies became a dime a dozen. Even the well meaning stuff ate us up. We sat in church and someone told us, in so many words, that in order to love God more we had to enjoy life less. Quite the contrary, I would venture to argue.
I don't know much, but I do know God gave us taste buds. And two eyes and two ears. And a zillion different kinds of flowers to enjoy, when they could have all been tulips. He gave us the cocoa bean and the coffee bean, for crying out loud. (Hallelujah!) And music. We can't forget music. So I ask again, when did we stop living the good life and settle?
Rob Bell ends Velvet Elvis by sharing about a party he recently held. He called it "An Epic Celebration of All that is Good." There was no special occasion, but they got a DJ anyways and danced the night away, ate good food, hung out with the neighbors til the wee hours of the night. Sounds like a pretty good party. No presents, just lots of celebration. The good life.
Life doesnt always feel like the good life. Sometimes it stings. Sometimes it just plain sucks; it hurts. I know, because I know. Telling someone to enjoy a sunset when they've just lost a loved one doesnt feel right. But even then, something beautiful is near. A good cry. A suffocating hug from a dear friend. A home made lasagna created by someone who got on their knees for you last night. A God who cried along with you. It is there, it's always there.
And so somewhere, between the 405 and the 605, the third aisle of the grocery store and the stream of cars at the gas pump, we've got to find it again. Get out that camera. It's time to snap a picture of the good life.
Nov 17, 2010
Gypsy Church
I'm embarrassed to say it, but here goes. Since we've moved back to Orange County nearly three years ago, we've been to 8 different churches. Yes, 8. I will begin by emphasizing that there was absolutley nothing wrong with any of them. In each church, I have found kind, loving people, friendly faces, good teaching, great worship, nice kids' programs and even some pretty tasy donuts and coffee. But somehow, it wasn't enough. For me. Somehow, I left feeling worse, sadder, lonelier and more confused. I wish I was one of "them". I watch them high fiving, discussing the family barbecue last weekend, the upcoming Christmas program, the Lakers game. And I desperately want "in." And it's not that I couldn't be, if I tried. I consider myself a pretty friendly person and generally have no problem fitting in. So why, three years later, do I still feel like an outsider, that no matter where I go, I'll be stuck in the back pew, taking it in and leaving feeling like I can't breathe? I have an inkling of how I got here. Three years ago, things weren't so complicated. We loved our church, went every week, attended small group; I even played on the worship team. I loved every mintue of it. I found warmth, genuine- ness and depth. I found something real. But something happened after we moved back. My life sort of fell apart. I got sick. My husband lost his job. I watched as close friends' marriages dissolved and cried for them. I sat in the back of a Catholic church and wept for a 5 year old boy who lost his life due to cancer. I watched helplessly as someone dear to my heart fought mental illness. I heard one story after another from friends who grew up in church and for the first time don't know if they will go back. I got angry. I lost everything I knew to be true. But it didn't end there.Something else began to happen. My anger turned to searching, my searching to compassion. The homeless guy in front of the bagel shop might have a name now. The snippy room mom at school might have a husband who beats her when she gets home. The boy who acts out in class might do so because he hasn't seen his dad in a year. And suddenly, it's not enough. Its not enough to just sit back and watch, to throw a can of soup in a paper bag and call it feeding the hungry. Not enough to say "How you doing?" on Sunday morning when we don't really want to know the answer. And frankly, don't have time to do anything about it if we knew. Is this it? Is this where it ends? A feel good message, a couple songs we know by heart and can hum along to, and then we're out the door and off to lunch at the burger joint down the street. Surely, this can't be it. God, for me, hasn't changed. In fact, I'm more keen on him than ever. His love becomes real to me in new, simple ways. I don't always hear him, but I feel him. I might be starting to really know him. And I might be willing to believe he loves me just as I am. I drop out of Bible study for the third time and head to the library, where I pick up a handful of Christian books and dive in. Interestingly enough, it turns out I'm not alone. Preachers use words like "Jesus of Suburbia" to describe the safe Jesus we've created in our lives. I couldn't agree more. George Mueller reminds me that praying radically is not only okay, but encouraged. Corrie Ten Boom flies halfway across the world without knowing where she's going, but God meets her there. Brennan Manning reiterates that the gospel is simple; we are the ones who have made it complicated. Francis Chan says that crazy faith is the way to go, and I think he's on to something. Then I pick up a little book called "Quitting Church". A journalist spent the past few years interviewing people all over the nation and came to a conclusion: for some, church as it once was isn't enough anymore. But people are still searching, she says. In fact, it's the "good, faithful ones" who are leaving. Wanting more. But what? This leads me to the next phase of my journey, the one that scares me the most. Because it doesn't have a name. I dont know where I'm going next or what it entails, but I do know it will be good when I get there. Sitting with the homeless under a bridge in Texas breaking bread? Maybe. Hanging out with troubled teens who last night wondered if it might be easier not to live? I'm up for that. Having a cup of coffee with a friend whose husband has just walked out the door? That sounds pretty good too. But all this takes time; a broken heart doesnt always mend the same way. For me, it goes something like this: Growing up in the church, it was simple. Love God, love others. Then it became complicated. Now I want simple again. And I have a hunch I'm not the only one. So if you see me at your church on Sunday, please say hello. Invite me to lunch if you want; I have no grievances against the burger joint down the street. But if I'm not there, please don't wory about me or add me to your prayer chain with concern. I'm not a wayward soul. As my kind friend Karen points out, not all who wander are lost. I will find my way. And when I do, I'll slip off my shoes, park my gypsy wagon and stay a while.
May 2, 2010
Who I Am (Like it or not!)
A couple weeks ago, I went to see a woman comedian at a local church with some friends. I had no idea what to expect, but I was up for a girls' night out, and I'm always up for a good laugh, so I figured it would be fun. This woman was beyond hilarious. She spit out one (clean!) joke after another and had us laughing so hard I was sure my side was going to split. She even did a few dances on stage which only caused the audience to erupt in laughter again. As she slowed down and began to share her story, her more serious side came out. She shared how she had grown up in an especially conservative home and had always felt she had to live up to a certain standard that she felt she could never attain. She felt different in church, as she just wanted to break out of those ugly choir robes and start doing the Macarena up and down the aisles! She finally came to realize that God had made her the way she was for a purpose, and instead of trying to fit into a mold that didn't fit, she embraced herself as she was. She joked about being the antithesis of the Proverbs 31 woman, whom she found quite intimidating becuase the woman woke early, went to bed late, always kept her candle burning and gathered her food from afar. "That food, ladies, I'm sure, was take -out," she joked. As she came to a close, I felt tears prick my eyes, for I felt as though her story could have been mine.
I'm not a famous comedian, nor do I think I'm super witty, but I have always felt that God made me, well, a little different. Growing up, I never quite felt like I fit into the typical mold. My mother tried teaching me to sew, but it turned out terribly disastrous. I nearly flunked home Ec, which is nearly impossible to do. I got the worst grade in the class on an atrocious crocheted reindeer I sewed; the teacher did not find the Scotch tape I used to piece it together amusing. My mother tried numerous times to teach me to sew, but I had an aversion to reading directions, following directions, or doing anything with the word "directions" for that matter. I got upset that the scissors were too small and the pattern was too flimsy and nicked myself with the stupid needle a hundred times before I even got it threaded. I finally wound up with a pair of elastic waist pants for a genie costume I wore to a Halloween dance in junior high, but I had to hold them up all night as I made them way too lose. Needless to say, that was the end of the sewing for me. I've since found a wonderful Vietnamese dry cleaner that sews buttons and hems pants for next to nothing. They dont speak English, but I don't care. We are lifelong friends.
Next, my mother tried teaching me to bake, but that didnt go over particularly well either. I didnt much like using recipes and preferred to concoct my own "creations" in the kitchen. This often resulted in a huge mess of melted chocolate and various dry cereals stuck to the bottom of a mixing bowl that I never got around to washing out, but I didn't care. To this day, I rarely use a recipe and if I do, I feel compelled to change it up a bit. Just to be rebellious, I suppose. Sometimes, this works out, but other times, not so much. These are the days we have a lot of leftovers in the fridge.
And then there were the athletics. I never aspired to be a stare athlete, but I thought that perhaps trying some sport might be good for my self esteem. I should have known when I got picked last for kickball year after year in grade school that I wasnt meant to participate in anything that involved a ball. Or a bat. Or, well, you get the point. I tried tennis lessons, but didnt have much luck with them. A season of girls softball didnt prove to be any more successful. I was more interested in the cute boy sitting in the stands and the sour candy at the snack bar than I was in playing outfield. When high school rolled around, I worked up the guts to try out for cheerleading. That didnt work out so well either. I forgot the routine halfway through and proceeded to do a bunch of impressive looking kicks that obviously didnt wow the judges. The result was a pulled muscle and wounded pride. Those were the end of my athletic days. I didnt really mind, to be honest, but I really thought it would be cool to have a picture in the yearbook of me doing something. Yearbook club, chess club, drama club, surely, I could have picked something! Instead, when one flipped to my name at the back of the yearbook, there was only one sad little page number next to it. And if one turned to that page, they would see a sad mug of a girl with a bad perm who would be forgotten by most the day we graduated.
And then there was the music. I started piano lessons at age seven and (shocker!) I actually took quite well to playing. So well, in fact, my teacher insisted I would be a concert pianist in no time. But I didnt really want to be a concert pianist. I just wanted to make up my own songs and play in my living room for an invisible audience. But I did play, sometimes in front of hundreds of people while my heart thumped wildly in my chest and my face turned beet red. And one time, I did forget my song and walked off the stage with my head held high. But that didnt keep me from playing. I was born to play, and nothing would stop me.
Since the piano was going so well, my mom suggested I try the violin, but that wasn't such a great idea. My mother, who happened to be a violin teacher, painstakingly tried showing me over and over how to hold the instrument in my arms and stand in proper position. I then remembered why I'd never tried violin in the first place: it was too much work! Why stand till your feet ached when you could sit at a piano bench? It was a no brainer!
When band time rolled around in fifth grade, I opted for the drums. Why? I simply didnt want to have to blow into anything. Again, too much work. I wanted to save my lungs for more important things, like gossiping. So I took up the drums. The bass drum, to be exact. All was going well until the day the mallet slipped out of my hand and hit the drum teacher square in the forehead. He wasn't so pleased, to say the least. Many said drums were for boys, but I chose to disagree. Plus, we had all the fun in the back of the room. While the rest of the band members had to sit in stiff chairs and squeak out parade tunes, we could take turns sticking our gum to the cupboards in the back of the room and eat potato chips when no one was looking.
When I gradutated and got married, I figured all the pressures were gone. I didnt have to impress anyone with my skills, my sports, my abilities. Wrong! Now came a whole new set of expectations as I dove into motherhood and became a homemaker. Homemakers, I learned, are called just that for a reason. They make a home. They cook gourmet meals, they decorate Martha Stewart style, they host fancy parties, they dust on a weekly basis, they have clean toilets and perfectly folded laundry, and of course, they are crafty. For years, I tried to keep up. I threw the fancy parties, slaved away at dishes I could hardly pronounce, and tried keeping a clean house, all to no avail. Humbling to me was the day a woman came to visit my new baby and offered to mop my kitchen floor! Granted, there were sticky things wedged under the chairs that had been lying dormant for weeks now, but still! I was so embarrassed. And then there was my lack of, shall we say, crafting ability. I spent five years in MOPS, where I enjoyed wonderful speakers, a brunch and new friends. What I did NOT enjoy was the craft. Inevitibly, we'd have to make some stupid popsicle stick picture frame or, heaven forbid, something involving paint, and that always turned out disastrous. Most of my projects ended up in the garbage when I got home, or, if they were halfway decent, I'd claim my kindergartener made it and say "We are just so proud of him!" On one occasion, I was actually quite proud of my hand painted apron I'd created. But by the time I got it to the car, a huge gust of wind kicked up and blew the darned apron straight into my face. Paint everywhere. You get the picture. Another one for the trash.
For years, this went on. Me trying to be the Proverbs 31 woman, wondering why on earth God hadnt made me a morning person, wondering if I'd ever "get my act together" and have a clean, well organized house like my next door neighbor. I attended seminars on organization, but I fell asleep in the middle of them. To organize things, you had to be organized, and that just wasnt me. It's like being pregnant. You either are or you aren't. And I'm not.
And then there was the church thing. The super "good" church ladies prayed elegant prayers and made the best croissants for the brunches and volunteered at all the functions and said just the right thing at the right time. And then there was me, with my sincere but sort of embarrassing prayers, always sticking my foot in my mouth. As for the croissants? Mine were usually store bought, or if they were homemade, I'd usually forget an ingredient or two, and then wonder why a whole plate of them was left after the function. Always a day too late and a dollar too short, as my grandmother would say. I just couldnt get it "right."
But over these last two years (the most difficult of my life) I've learned to give myself grace. I've come to learn who I truly am, and I'm finally okay with that. Someone once said that growing up is about learning not just who you are, but who you arent. I finally understand who I'm not. I'm not a prim and proper gourmet Martha Stewart cook whose house could be pictured in Sunset magazine. I'm not a seamstress, I'm not a crafter, I'm not an athlete. For years, I've thought it would be cool to run a marathon, but I've finally resigned to this idea. For me, running is, well, pure torture. While others find it exhiliarating, I find it excruciating. I wonder why anyone would want to purposely inflict pain on themselves. I mean, I get it, the cute shoes, the medals, the adrenaline rush..I just cant do it. But guess what? I love to kickbox. I love lifting weights, I love walking, and I love sleeping (which I've deemed a new sport for all those new mommies out there!)
Other things I'm not? Super clean, super disciplined, super smart. But you know what? I'm okay with that. Why? Because I know who I am. I'm fun (at least I've been told that on occasion), I'm a writer, I'm a musician (even though I flunked violin and cant hold a tune to save my life!) I'm a good friend, I'm a decent mom, I'm a semi good cook (semi because the recipes only turn out good some of the time..but when they do, they're really good!) I'm deep but not super serious, I'm sarcastic and absent minded, I'm sensitive and compassionate. I dont need to be my mother, your mother, or anyone else's mother. I dont need to be Martha Stewart (who by the way I never wanted to be anyway!) and I'm not Beethoven or Serena Williams. I'm probably not the person you'd want heading up your bake sale or organizing your prayer meeting, but I do make a pretty mean potato casserole. If you come to my house, you might find things stuck the floor, the pillows might not be fluffed and the kids might be runing around half naked. But I can gurantee a good conversation and a nice shoulder to cry on.
I wish I'd figured this all out before, but alas, it's taken me 33 years to just sort of scratch the surface. Still, I must say, I feel more free than I have in my life. I'll never forget that comedian, for she helped me to see that we dont all have to fit into a nice, pretty box, that we dont have to be who "they" (whoever they is, anyway!) say we have to be. God's made us all different, all unique, and if I'm going to keep telling my kids that I'm going to have to start believing it too!
I'm not a famous comedian, nor do I think I'm super witty, but I have always felt that God made me, well, a little different. Growing up, I never quite felt like I fit into the typical mold. My mother tried teaching me to sew, but it turned out terribly disastrous. I nearly flunked home Ec, which is nearly impossible to do. I got the worst grade in the class on an atrocious crocheted reindeer I sewed; the teacher did not find the Scotch tape I used to piece it together amusing. My mother tried numerous times to teach me to sew, but I had an aversion to reading directions, following directions, or doing anything with the word "directions" for that matter. I got upset that the scissors were too small and the pattern was too flimsy and nicked myself with the stupid needle a hundred times before I even got it threaded. I finally wound up with a pair of elastic waist pants for a genie costume I wore to a Halloween dance in junior high, but I had to hold them up all night as I made them way too lose. Needless to say, that was the end of the sewing for me. I've since found a wonderful Vietnamese dry cleaner that sews buttons and hems pants for next to nothing. They dont speak English, but I don't care. We are lifelong friends.
Next, my mother tried teaching me to bake, but that didnt go over particularly well either. I didnt much like using recipes and preferred to concoct my own "creations" in the kitchen. This often resulted in a huge mess of melted chocolate and various dry cereals stuck to the bottom of a mixing bowl that I never got around to washing out, but I didn't care. To this day, I rarely use a recipe and if I do, I feel compelled to change it up a bit. Just to be rebellious, I suppose. Sometimes, this works out, but other times, not so much. These are the days we have a lot of leftovers in the fridge.
And then there were the athletics. I never aspired to be a stare athlete, but I thought that perhaps trying some sport might be good for my self esteem. I should have known when I got picked last for kickball year after year in grade school that I wasnt meant to participate in anything that involved a ball. Or a bat. Or, well, you get the point. I tried tennis lessons, but didnt have much luck with them. A season of girls softball didnt prove to be any more successful. I was more interested in the cute boy sitting in the stands and the sour candy at the snack bar than I was in playing outfield. When high school rolled around, I worked up the guts to try out for cheerleading. That didnt work out so well either. I forgot the routine halfway through and proceeded to do a bunch of impressive looking kicks that obviously didnt wow the judges. The result was a pulled muscle and wounded pride. Those were the end of my athletic days. I didnt really mind, to be honest, but I really thought it would be cool to have a picture in the yearbook of me doing something. Yearbook club, chess club, drama club, surely, I could have picked something! Instead, when one flipped to my name at the back of the yearbook, there was only one sad little page number next to it. And if one turned to that page, they would see a sad mug of a girl with a bad perm who would be forgotten by most the day we graduated.
And then there was the music. I started piano lessons at age seven and (shocker!) I actually took quite well to playing. So well, in fact, my teacher insisted I would be a concert pianist in no time. But I didnt really want to be a concert pianist. I just wanted to make up my own songs and play in my living room for an invisible audience. But I did play, sometimes in front of hundreds of people while my heart thumped wildly in my chest and my face turned beet red. And one time, I did forget my song and walked off the stage with my head held high. But that didnt keep me from playing. I was born to play, and nothing would stop me.
Since the piano was going so well, my mom suggested I try the violin, but that wasn't such a great idea. My mother, who happened to be a violin teacher, painstakingly tried showing me over and over how to hold the instrument in my arms and stand in proper position. I then remembered why I'd never tried violin in the first place: it was too much work! Why stand till your feet ached when you could sit at a piano bench? It was a no brainer!
When band time rolled around in fifth grade, I opted for the drums. Why? I simply didnt want to have to blow into anything. Again, too much work. I wanted to save my lungs for more important things, like gossiping. So I took up the drums. The bass drum, to be exact. All was going well until the day the mallet slipped out of my hand and hit the drum teacher square in the forehead. He wasn't so pleased, to say the least. Many said drums were for boys, but I chose to disagree. Plus, we had all the fun in the back of the room. While the rest of the band members had to sit in stiff chairs and squeak out parade tunes, we could take turns sticking our gum to the cupboards in the back of the room and eat potato chips when no one was looking.
When I gradutated and got married, I figured all the pressures were gone. I didnt have to impress anyone with my skills, my sports, my abilities. Wrong! Now came a whole new set of expectations as I dove into motherhood and became a homemaker. Homemakers, I learned, are called just that for a reason. They make a home. They cook gourmet meals, they decorate Martha Stewart style, they host fancy parties, they dust on a weekly basis, they have clean toilets and perfectly folded laundry, and of course, they are crafty. For years, I tried to keep up. I threw the fancy parties, slaved away at dishes I could hardly pronounce, and tried keeping a clean house, all to no avail. Humbling to me was the day a woman came to visit my new baby and offered to mop my kitchen floor! Granted, there were sticky things wedged under the chairs that had been lying dormant for weeks now, but still! I was so embarrassed. And then there was my lack of, shall we say, crafting ability. I spent five years in MOPS, where I enjoyed wonderful speakers, a brunch and new friends. What I did NOT enjoy was the craft. Inevitibly, we'd have to make some stupid popsicle stick picture frame or, heaven forbid, something involving paint, and that always turned out disastrous. Most of my projects ended up in the garbage when I got home, or, if they were halfway decent, I'd claim my kindergartener made it and say "We are just so proud of him!" On one occasion, I was actually quite proud of my hand painted apron I'd created. But by the time I got it to the car, a huge gust of wind kicked up and blew the darned apron straight into my face. Paint everywhere. You get the picture. Another one for the trash.
For years, this went on. Me trying to be the Proverbs 31 woman, wondering why on earth God hadnt made me a morning person, wondering if I'd ever "get my act together" and have a clean, well organized house like my next door neighbor. I attended seminars on organization, but I fell asleep in the middle of them. To organize things, you had to be organized, and that just wasnt me. It's like being pregnant. You either are or you aren't. And I'm not.
And then there was the church thing. The super "good" church ladies prayed elegant prayers and made the best croissants for the brunches and volunteered at all the functions and said just the right thing at the right time. And then there was me, with my sincere but sort of embarrassing prayers, always sticking my foot in my mouth. As for the croissants? Mine were usually store bought, or if they were homemade, I'd usually forget an ingredient or two, and then wonder why a whole plate of them was left after the function. Always a day too late and a dollar too short, as my grandmother would say. I just couldnt get it "right."
But over these last two years (the most difficult of my life) I've learned to give myself grace. I've come to learn who I truly am, and I'm finally okay with that. Someone once said that growing up is about learning not just who you are, but who you arent. I finally understand who I'm not. I'm not a prim and proper gourmet Martha Stewart cook whose house could be pictured in Sunset magazine. I'm not a seamstress, I'm not a crafter, I'm not an athlete. For years, I've thought it would be cool to run a marathon, but I've finally resigned to this idea. For me, running is, well, pure torture. While others find it exhiliarating, I find it excruciating. I wonder why anyone would want to purposely inflict pain on themselves. I mean, I get it, the cute shoes, the medals, the adrenaline rush..I just cant do it. But guess what? I love to kickbox. I love lifting weights, I love walking, and I love sleeping (which I've deemed a new sport for all those new mommies out there!)
Other things I'm not? Super clean, super disciplined, super smart. But you know what? I'm okay with that. Why? Because I know who I am. I'm fun (at least I've been told that on occasion), I'm a writer, I'm a musician (even though I flunked violin and cant hold a tune to save my life!) I'm a good friend, I'm a decent mom, I'm a semi good cook (semi because the recipes only turn out good some of the time..but when they do, they're really good!) I'm deep but not super serious, I'm sarcastic and absent minded, I'm sensitive and compassionate. I dont need to be my mother, your mother, or anyone else's mother. I dont need to be Martha Stewart (who by the way I never wanted to be anyway!) and I'm not Beethoven or Serena Williams. I'm probably not the person you'd want heading up your bake sale or organizing your prayer meeting, but I do make a pretty mean potato casserole. If you come to my house, you might find things stuck the floor, the pillows might not be fluffed and the kids might be runing around half naked. But I can gurantee a good conversation and a nice shoulder to cry on.
I wish I'd figured this all out before, but alas, it's taken me 33 years to just sort of scratch the surface. Still, I must say, I feel more free than I have in my life. I'll never forget that comedian, for she helped me to see that we dont all have to fit into a nice, pretty box, that we dont have to be who "they" (whoever they is, anyway!) say we have to be. God's made us all different, all unique, and if I'm going to keep telling my kids that I'm going to have to start believing it too!
Mar 6, 2010
Beware...Work in Progress!
Wow! I glanced at the last blog date and realized it has been over a year since I've posted on here! Where does the time go when you're uh, having fun?! I started this blog to share lighthearted stories about the adventures in mommyhood, but with the recent events in my life, I thought I'd expand my "genre" in hopes that you might be encouraged, or, perhaps, encourage ME! :)
In November of 2009, my husband was laid off from his job...one of the many victims of the terrible economic crisis in the U.S. A month away from completing his masters degree, my husband, who also holds a CPA license, never dreamed it would be his turn. Jobs had always come easily to him in the past..a bit too easily, to be honest. Boy, were we about to be humbled.
I found out about his job loss on my way home from a doctor's appointment, during which the doctor had informed me that my oldest son had broken his foot. This came on top of another medical crisis..my younger son had sliced his finger open with a knife three days earlier, cutting through a nerve and a tendon. He would need surgery the following week. Having struggled with my own set of health problems for the past two years, I felt I was literally at the cracking point. So, it may not come as a surprise to you that when my husband delivered the news (via cell phone..as I was pulling out of the doctors parking lot) that I laughed half the way home and then cried the rest of the way. My oldest son simply patted my arm and told me "God wants us to have joy in our trials, remember, Mom?" Pretty impressive coming from a 13 year old. I'm embarrassed to say I had a hard time swallowing his advice. Sure, I knew the verse (James 1) but joy seemed the farthest thing from my mind at the moment. Panic? Yes. Exhaustion? Check. But joy? Not so much.
Its' been four months since that day. My husband is still out of work, without one call back on the dozens of resumes he's sent out. To summarize, it's been a roller coaster ride. One day, I'm up, the next day, I'm down. Some days, it's all I can do to pull my body out of bed. I wish I could tell you that I have tremendous faith, but some days, it feels more like that little mustard seed. I want to see the end result.and I want to see it now! I'm a victim of the microwave society that wants everything fixed in a moment's time. Internet down for five minutes? Let's hope we don't have a heart attack! Three cars in front of us in the Taco Bell drive thru? A litle faster, please! We want to snap our fingers and solve the world's problems, including our own, but sometimes it's not quite as simple as that. You see, there's work to be done. Things God wants to show us. Lessons to be learned. Grace to be found. Joys to be shared. And none of that could be possible if we lived in a perfect world without trials. We want comfortable, but how does one grow when everything's peachy keen 24/7? Boy, if anyone needs work, it's me! Just like a house in the middle of a remodel, I'm a work in progress. Most remodels take longer than expected. The process is sometimes painful, agonizing and frustrating. But the results? Stunning. A few years ago, our friends remodeled their home, nearly doubling the square footage. You can imagine all the work that was involved. The project was expected to take six months but ended up taking two years! It was through much blood, sweat and tears that that house was finally complete. It is beautiful, let me tell you. Granite counters, cherry wood cabinets, an ornately carved front door that sets the stage for what's to come inside. But it wasn't always this way. Dust and nails littered the floor, light fixtures hung half finished from the ceiling, holes in the drywall made one wonder if the house might literally come crumbling down in the process. But in the end, our friends got the beautiful house of their dreams. Oh, the landscaping still has yet to be done. Weeds cover the front and back yard, an afterthought in the process. But the overall project is complete. And if you ask my friends, they'll say it was all worth it.
I like to think my life is something like that remodel. Years ago, I didnt think I needed a remodel. I thought I was just fine the way I was. Life was going along swimmingly, and I was content, comfortable. And that was just the problem, you see. I was comfortable. It was when the trials began to hit...my son's special needs, a health crisis, a devastating move, the loss of a dear friend, the foreclosure of our home, and most recently, a job loss, that that comfy little bubble began to crack. Everything I thought I was and everything I thought I knew was shaken to the core. Oh sure, I knew the verses. I knew the sermons. I knew the songs. I knew what to do, but did I really believe it? Did I really believe God was good, had a plan, cares about our every need, provides for the birds and provides for his kids? Sometimes, I wasn't so sure. I got angry at God, plain mad. One evening, I went out into my garage and threw things at the wall. Before you write me off as crazy, hear me out. It was one of the most exhiliarating things I've done in my life. I picked up everything on the ground that looked invaluable and threw it as hard as I could at the wall. Bam! Bam! Boy, it felt better than kickboxing at the gym! And then, after a few minutes, I took a deep breath, walked back inside and read a bedtime story to my daughter. I never did it again, but I sometimes think about that moment and laugh to myself. A remodel? I need a full demolition, I'm afraid! :)
The good news is, those dust and nails on the ground don't stay there forever. One by one, we pick them up, throw them away and start polishing that new floor. And little by little, we see glimpses of the road ahead, the one that points to hope. A hope that can only come from a God who cares, despite what we think or feel at the moment. Perhaps one of the most exciting things in this process has been to see how God has provided for our family. Sometimes it's in the big things, like a family member helping with our rent. And sometimes it's in the little things, like a free fast food coupon that comes in the mail, or a friend saying "Coffee's on me today." At Christmas time, two different anonymous friends sent sweet cards with money tucked inside. I was truly touched and so thankful for their generosity. My son's youth group paid his way to winter camp a few weeks ago, a huge blessing, as he certainly couldnt have gone without that help. A rebate check from Costco came just in time last week, providing groceries for the week. A group of wonderful strangers at a yard sale found my missing wallet and stuffed money inside and prayed for me (that's another story in itself!) Several companies have asked my husband to come and do contract work for them part time, which has equated to nearly a full time job! Just when we think the work might be drying up, more seems to come. The publishing company I write for has acquired more work the past few weeks, another answer to prayer! The bills are being paid...on time! Only God can take the credit for all that!
Our future hangs before us like a giant question mark. If work does not come eventually, do we pack up and move away? I've always been a planner to some degree. I like to glance at my calendar and know what's going on in three months, six months, even a year from now. But the last few years have shown me that, as the verse says, a man can try to plan his life, but it's God who determines his path. I like to believe I have some control over the situation, that if I only pray harder, trust more, something will soon turn up. I like to think that if I could just see that everything's going to be okay in four months, I could get through the next three.But I forget that's in the waiting that the work is being done. One by one, those old windows are being ripped out, replaced by beautiful, clear ones that shine from across the room. I dont want to be an old window. And if it takes getting dirty and dusty in the process of being replaced, so be it. And so we wait. And trust. And believe. Even when it feels like a mustard seed and a mountain.
The recent Haiti quake didn't just rattle a foreign, impoverished country. It rattled us all. Once again, we were reminded that we aren't in control, that in an instant, our world as we know it can come crashing down. We were reminded that only one thing remains constant, certain, the same. God doesn't waver. He doesn't change. He's still got it all figured out. Nothing is too hard for him. And even when we don't get it, and wind up in the garage throwing old plastic lunch boxes at the wall, he isn't shaken. He's the one sure thing.
In the meantime, I'm riding out the roller coaster, trusting, questioning, wondering, waiting, believing. Up, down, up, down. I joke to my husband that as long as both of us aren't down at the same time we'll be okay. So far, so good. I'm remembering my blessings and taking nothing for granted. Hot water, clothes on our back, a (mostly) running car, four healthy kids? Thank you, God. Simplifying's not such a bad thing either. Who knew a game of Connect Four on a Friday night could be so much fun? And, I admit, I've become rather obsessed with finding deals. The challenge of a bargain holds almost as much thrill as a grande nonfat White Chocolate Mocha from Starbucks, and that's saying a lot for a coffee snob like me! Clipping coupons from the Sunday paper is the highlight of my week. Literally. And if you pity me, please don't. I'd take a good yard sale over a Macy's sale any day of the week.
So, in a nutshell, that's my life. I'm a work in progress. You might not want to step inside my doors right now, becuase there's an awful big mess inside. But little by little, God's cleaning it up. Restoring, refinishing, remodeling. Don't you love those "re" words? They hold so much hope! And that, my friends, is what we must hold onto. Hope for tomorrow, hope for a new day, hope because we know that in the end, the finished product will be beautiful. And worth it.
In November of 2009, my husband was laid off from his job...one of the many victims of the terrible economic crisis in the U.S. A month away from completing his masters degree, my husband, who also holds a CPA license, never dreamed it would be his turn. Jobs had always come easily to him in the past..a bit too easily, to be honest. Boy, were we about to be humbled.
I found out about his job loss on my way home from a doctor's appointment, during which the doctor had informed me that my oldest son had broken his foot. This came on top of another medical crisis..my younger son had sliced his finger open with a knife three days earlier, cutting through a nerve and a tendon. He would need surgery the following week. Having struggled with my own set of health problems for the past two years, I felt I was literally at the cracking point. So, it may not come as a surprise to you that when my husband delivered the news (via cell phone..as I was pulling out of the doctors parking lot) that I laughed half the way home and then cried the rest of the way. My oldest son simply patted my arm and told me "God wants us to have joy in our trials, remember, Mom?" Pretty impressive coming from a 13 year old. I'm embarrassed to say I had a hard time swallowing his advice. Sure, I knew the verse (James 1) but joy seemed the farthest thing from my mind at the moment. Panic? Yes. Exhaustion? Check. But joy? Not so much.
Its' been four months since that day. My husband is still out of work, without one call back on the dozens of resumes he's sent out. To summarize, it's been a roller coaster ride. One day, I'm up, the next day, I'm down. Some days, it's all I can do to pull my body out of bed. I wish I could tell you that I have tremendous faith, but some days, it feels more like that little mustard seed. I want to see the end result.and I want to see it now! I'm a victim of the microwave society that wants everything fixed in a moment's time. Internet down for five minutes? Let's hope we don't have a heart attack! Three cars in front of us in the Taco Bell drive thru? A litle faster, please! We want to snap our fingers and solve the world's problems, including our own, but sometimes it's not quite as simple as that. You see, there's work to be done. Things God wants to show us. Lessons to be learned. Grace to be found. Joys to be shared. And none of that could be possible if we lived in a perfect world without trials. We want comfortable, but how does one grow when everything's peachy keen 24/7? Boy, if anyone needs work, it's me! Just like a house in the middle of a remodel, I'm a work in progress. Most remodels take longer than expected. The process is sometimes painful, agonizing and frustrating. But the results? Stunning. A few years ago, our friends remodeled their home, nearly doubling the square footage. You can imagine all the work that was involved. The project was expected to take six months but ended up taking two years! It was through much blood, sweat and tears that that house was finally complete. It is beautiful, let me tell you. Granite counters, cherry wood cabinets, an ornately carved front door that sets the stage for what's to come inside. But it wasn't always this way. Dust and nails littered the floor, light fixtures hung half finished from the ceiling, holes in the drywall made one wonder if the house might literally come crumbling down in the process. But in the end, our friends got the beautiful house of their dreams. Oh, the landscaping still has yet to be done. Weeds cover the front and back yard, an afterthought in the process. But the overall project is complete. And if you ask my friends, they'll say it was all worth it.
I like to think my life is something like that remodel. Years ago, I didnt think I needed a remodel. I thought I was just fine the way I was. Life was going along swimmingly, and I was content, comfortable. And that was just the problem, you see. I was comfortable. It was when the trials began to hit...my son's special needs, a health crisis, a devastating move, the loss of a dear friend, the foreclosure of our home, and most recently, a job loss, that that comfy little bubble began to crack. Everything I thought I was and everything I thought I knew was shaken to the core. Oh sure, I knew the verses. I knew the sermons. I knew the songs. I knew what to do, but did I really believe it? Did I really believe God was good, had a plan, cares about our every need, provides for the birds and provides for his kids? Sometimes, I wasn't so sure. I got angry at God, plain mad. One evening, I went out into my garage and threw things at the wall. Before you write me off as crazy, hear me out. It was one of the most exhiliarating things I've done in my life. I picked up everything on the ground that looked invaluable and threw it as hard as I could at the wall. Bam! Bam! Boy, it felt better than kickboxing at the gym! And then, after a few minutes, I took a deep breath, walked back inside and read a bedtime story to my daughter. I never did it again, but I sometimes think about that moment and laugh to myself. A remodel? I need a full demolition, I'm afraid! :)
The good news is, those dust and nails on the ground don't stay there forever. One by one, we pick them up, throw them away and start polishing that new floor. And little by little, we see glimpses of the road ahead, the one that points to hope. A hope that can only come from a God who cares, despite what we think or feel at the moment. Perhaps one of the most exciting things in this process has been to see how God has provided for our family. Sometimes it's in the big things, like a family member helping with our rent. And sometimes it's in the little things, like a free fast food coupon that comes in the mail, or a friend saying "Coffee's on me today." At Christmas time, two different anonymous friends sent sweet cards with money tucked inside. I was truly touched and so thankful for their generosity. My son's youth group paid his way to winter camp a few weeks ago, a huge blessing, as he certainly couldnt have gone without that help. A rebate check from Costco came just in time last week, providing groceries for the week. A group of wonderful strangers at a yard sale found my missing wallet and stuffed money inside and prayed for me (that's another story in itself!) Several companies have asked my husband to come and do contract work for them part time, which has equated to nearly a full time job! Just when we think the work might be drying up, more seems to come. The publishing company I write for has acquired more work the past few weeks, another answer to prayer! The bills are being paid...on time! Only God can take the credit for all that!
Our future hangs before us like a giant question mark. If work does not come eventually, do we pack up and move away? I've always been a planner to some degree. I like to glance at my calendar and know what's going on in three months, six months, even a year from now. But the last few years have shown me that, as the verse says, a man can try to plan his life, but it's God who determines his path. I like to believe I have some control over the situation, that if I only pray harder, trust more, something will soon turn up. I like to think that if I could just see that everything's going to be okay in four months, I could get through the next three.But I forget that's in the waiting that the work is being done. One by one, those old windows are being ripped out, replaced by beautiful, clear ones that shine from across the room. I dont want to be an old window. And if it takes getting dirty and dusty in the process of being replaced, so be it. And so we wait. And trust. And believe. Even when it feels like a mustard seed and a mountain.
The recent Haiti quake didn't just rattle a foreign, impoverished country. It rattled us all. Once again, we were reminded that we aren't in control, that in an instant, our world as we know it can come crashing down. We were reminded that only one thing remains constant, certain, the same. God doesn't waver. He doesn't change. He's still got it all figured out. Nothing is too hard for him. And even when we don't get it, and wind up in the garage throwing old plastic lunch boxes at the wall, he isn't shaken. He's the one sure thing.
In the meantime, I'm riding out the roller coaster, trusting, questioning, wondering, waiting, believing. Up, down, up, down. I joke to my husband that as long as both of us aren't down at the same time we'll be okay. So far, so good. I'm remembering my blessings and taking nothing for granted. Hot water, clothes on our back, a (mostly) running car, four healthy kids? Thank you, God. Simplifying's not such a bad thing either. Who knew a game of Connect Four on a Friday night could be so much fun? And, I admit, I've become rather obsessed with finding deals. The challenge of a bargain holds almost as much thrill as a grande nonfat White Chocolate Mocha from Starbucks, and that's saying a lot for a coffee snob like me! Clipping coupons from the Sunday paper is the highlight of my week. Literally. And if you pity me, please don't. I'd take a good yard sale over a Macy's sale any day of the week.
So, in a nutshell, that's my life. I'm a work in progress. You might not want to step inside my doors right now, becuase there's an awful big mess inside. But little by little, God's cleaning it up. Restoring, refinishing, remodeling. Don't you love those "re" words? They hold so much hope! And that, my friends, is what we must hold onto. Hope for tomorrow, hope for a new day, hope because we know that in the end, the finished product will be beautiful. And worth it.
Feb 14, 2009
Confessions of a Not So Perfect Mommy
1. I sometimes hide in the closet, the pantry or bathroom when things get a bit too hairy at my house. These seem to be the only places I am able to make and carry on phone calls as well. I sometimes bring a book in and stay a while, even if the pounding on the door gets louder and louder. I wish my house was bigger sometimes so there were more places to hide...
2. I am not very good at playing. Meaning, I don't particularly enjoy getting on the ground and zooming Matchbox cars around or dressing up Barbie in a prom gown. I know that I did it as a child, but it was somehow a lot more fun back then. I am, however, a great story reader, so that makes me feel a bit better about my mothering abilities.
3. I get super mad (inside of course) when my kids try to steal a sip of my precious four dollar Starbucks drink or sneak a bite of my Chipotle taco. I share everything with them, and have given up everything from my body to my bed to my sanity..can't a girl have one thing to herself once in a while without feeling guilty?
4. I sometimes let my kids watch too much TV, or play too many computer games. I know, terrible, but they've learned so much..it's practically like sending them to college for free!
5. I sometimes get resentful that I cannot blast my "mommy" music in the car and instead must subject myself to certain, um, tunes. Barney, thankful, has never been one of them, but if I hear "Them Bones" one more time I'm gonna....
6. I grit my teeth when I hear "Mom!!" when I've already tucked my kids into bed and then tucked myself into bed under my comfy covers. I do not want to trudge downstairs to get one more glass of water when I've already "expired." I do, however, sometimes fear that the cry wolf scenario might play out and I might ignore the cries and find someone tied up downstairs when I wake up. But so far, that hasn't happened...
7. I did mention I am a super good story reader, but I will now confess that I sometimes skip words in a story. Lots of words. Like, almost all of them. But now my six year old daughter can read, so I have to be more careful.
8. I never really liked breastfeeding. In fact, I didn't like a minute of it. I never understood the "bonding" everyone talked about. I just felt like a giant milking cow the whole time. My husband wasn't too keen on it either. But, I did it because it was good for them, and it seems to have paid off as they're pretty healthy. So it was worth it, I think...
9. I throw away the kids' Sunday School papers as soon as we get home. Unless, of course, it's a super cute Noah's Ark or a hand printed Valentine or something special. But honestly, what's a mother to do with a zillion coloring pages? Even Grandma's fridge is getting too full...
10. I am sometimes still in awe that God thought me fit to raise four beautiful kiddos. I feel so humbled sometimes when I think about all my shortcomings. This is where his amazing grace comes in, which I'm eternally thankful!
P.S. I love my kids to death. This, I must confess! :)
2. I am not very good at playing. Meaning, I don't particularly enjoy getting on the ground and zooming Matchbox cars around or dressing up Barbie in a prom gown. I know that I did it as a child, but it was somehow a lot more fun back then. I am, however, a great story reader, so that makes me feel a bit better about my mothering abilities.
3. I get super mad (inside of course) when my kids try to steal a sip of my precious four dollar Starbucks drink or sneak a bite of my Chipotle taco. I share everything with them, and have given up everything from my body to my bed to my sanity..can't a girl have one thing to herself once in a while without feeling guilty?
4. I sometimes let my kids watch too much TV, or play too many computer games. I know, terrible, but they've learned so much..it's practically like sending them to college for free!
5. I sometimes get resentful that I cannot blast my "mommy" music in the car and instead must subject myself to certain, um, tunes. Barney, thankful, has never been one of them, but if I hear "Them Bones" one more time I'm gonna....
6. I grit my teeth when I hear "Mom!!" when I've already tucked my kids into bed and then tucked myself into bed under my comfy covers. I do not want to trudge downstairs to get one more glass of water when I've already "expired." I do, however, sometimes fear that the cry wolf scenario might play out and I might ignore the cries and find someone tied up downstairs when I wake up. But so far, that hasn't happened...
7. I did mention I am a super good story reader, but I will now confess that I sometimes skip words in a story. Lots of words. Like, almost all of them. But now my six year old daughter can read, so I have to be more careful.
8. I never really liked breastfeeding. In fact, I didn't like a minute of it. I never understood the "bonding" everyone talked about. I just felt like a giant milking cow the whole time. My husband wasn't too keen on it either. But, I did it because it was good for them, and it seems to have paid off as they're pretty healthy. So it was worth it, I think...
9. I throw away the kids' Sunday School papers as soon as we get home. Unless, of course, it's a super cute Noah's Ark or a hand printed Valentine or something special. But honestly, what's a mother to do with a zillion coloring pages? Even Grandma's fridge is getting too full...
10. I am sometimes still in awe that God thought me fit to raise four beautiful kiddos. I feel so humbled sometimes when I think about all my shortcomings. This is where his amazing grace comes in, which I'm eternally thankful!
P.S. I love my kids to death. This, I must confess! :)
Oct 27, 2008
My Guilt Free Holiday Season
The holidays are just around the corner, and as the panic starts to rise inside of me at the thought of digging the Christmas decorations out of the dusty closet in the garage (I never did find the fall ones..is it too late for those?) I refuse to let the guilt get ahold of me this year. Therefore, before any of the madness even starts, I will make myself some guilt-free rules.
1. I will not beat myself up because I don't know how to make those cutesie little bows on top of packages, even though I was hired as a gift wrapper at a department store years ago and had an employee show me over and over how to make them. My presents may be simply wrapped (or gift bagged, for that matter!) but I will remember that it is the gift inside that matters, not the packaging.
2. I will not spend hours trying to get the perfect family photo to send out to friends and family (ie: the photo in which all six family members are matched to the tee, smiling, standing up straight, and arranged in front of the Fashion Island Christmas tree) If I have to use a family photo from the beach this summer in which we are all sandy and mussy-haired but accounted for, I will do so.
3. I will not fret about baking twelve dozen cookies for the annual cookie exhange this year. If I do muster the energy to bake myself into an oblivion, I will not feel bad if mine are not the prettiest on the table and/or if they are the bar kind you can cut into teeny little pieces.
4. I will not spend hours at the mall, Target, etc in search of the perfect gift for each person on my list. I will do my best, but if I have to resign to online and catalog shopping, so be it. And if the perfect gift cannot be found within reason, I will remind myself that the people on my list should love me just as I am, not for the gifts I might buy them.
5. I will not let it be the end of the world if I have to settle for an e-mailed Christmas card this year, as the thought of licking 75 envelopes, addressing them by hand and purchasing stamps seems a bit daunting. (Thank you, facebook, blogs and the like. You can all see my family at their finest on your computer and save it forever)
6. I will not worry if my house is not picture perfect when the family arrives, or if there are dust bunnies under the guest bed and crumbs on the floor. The most important thing is spending time with those we love, not impressing them, right??
7. I will not feel bad if we don't eat on our Christmas china or make hot cocoa in those adorable glass snowman mugs I have because I simply don't feel like doing four loads of dishes. Paper plates are a wonderful invention, and even come in festive colors. Though, if we eat on plain white, I won't bat an eye at it either.
8. I will not cry if we have to set up the fake Christmas tree instead of trekking up to the mountains or the Home Depot parking lot in search of a perfectly symmetrical pine tree. Fake trees can be decorated nicely these days, and some even come with a fresh pine scent. No fire hazard included.
9. I will not fret if I have to wear the same black dress I wore to the annual work Christmas party last year. I will remind myself that I am being economical and practical, that no one will really care what I wear anyway, and that I should be thankful it still fits after my dive into the fudge tin last Christmas.
10. I will not, under any circumstances, bear any guilt if I regift a present this year. (Don't worry, it won't be yours. )
1. I will not beat myself up because I don't know how to make those cutesie little bows on top of packages, even though I was hired as a gift wrapper at a department store years ago and had an employee show me over and over how to make them. My presents may be simply wrapped (or gift bagged, for that matter!) but I will remember that it is the gift inside that matters, not the packaging.
2. I will not spend hours trying to get the perfect family photo to send out to friends and family (ie: the photo in which all six family members are matched to the tee, smiling, standing up straight, and arranged in front of the Fashion Island Christmas tree) If I have to use a family photo from the beach this summer in which we are all sandy and mussy-haired but accounted for, I will do so.
3. I will not fret about baking twelve dozen cookies for the annual cookie exhange this year. If I do muster the energy to bake myself into an oblivion, I will not feel bad if mine are not the prettiest on the table and/or if they are the bar kind you can cut into teeny little pieces.
4. I will not spend hours at the mall, Target, etc in search of the perfect gift for each person on my list. I will do my best, but if I have to resign to online and catalog shopping, so be it. And if the perfect gift cannot be found within reason, I will remind myself that the people on my list should love me just as I am, not for the gifts I might buy them.
5. I will not let it be the end of the world if I have to settle for an e-mailed Christmas card this year, as the thought of licking 75 envelopes, addressing them by hand and purchasing stamps seems a bit daunting. (Thank you, facebook, blogs and the like. You can all see my family at their finest on your computer and save it forever)
6. I will not worry if my house is not picture perfect when the family arrives, or if there are dust bunnies under the guest bed and crumbs on the floor. The most important thing is spending time with those we love, not impressing them, right??
7. I will not feel bad if we don't eat on our Christmas china or make hot cocoa in those adorable glass snowman mugs I have because I simply don't feel like doing four loads of dishes. Paper plates are a wonderful invention, and even come in festive colors. Though, if we eat on plain white, I won't bat an eye at it either.
8. I will not cry if we have to set up the fake Christmas tree instead of trekking up to the mountains or the Home Depot parking lot in search of a perfectly symmetrical pine tree. Fake trees can be decorated nicely these days, and some even come with a fresh pine scent. No fire hazard included.
9. I will not fret if I have to wear the same black dress I wore to the annual work Christmas party last year. I will remind myself that I am being economical and practical, that no one will really care what I wear anyway, and that I should be thankful it still fits after my dive into the fudge tin last Christmas.
10. I will not, under any circumstances, bear any guilt if I regift a present this year. (Don't worry, it won't be yours. )
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