We return this weekend to the place we met 17 years ago last month. To the place we became friends, fell in love, got engaged, and planned our life together. To the cafeteria where he waited many a morning for me not to show for breakfast. To the dark room where we had our first kiss. To the paths we walked, arm-in-arm or hand-in-hand, for four years. To the favorite picnic spots, leaf-fight spots, walking spots, frisbee spots, snuggling spots, talking spots, and making out spots. To the bench at Decker Hall where he bent down on one knee in an Indiana blizzard and asked me to be his wife.
Dorm rooms, dark rooms, choir rooms, practice rooms, class rooms, dressing rooms. We will visit them again. We will show them to our children, who will be too young to remember but a faint vision of luminaries lining the sidewalks. We will hear the choir sing, reminisce with old professors and directors, catch up with good friends. We will remember what it felt like to be young and in love.
We are going home.
Thursday, October 06, 2005
Wednesday, October 05, 2005
reasoning skills
(subtitled: Why I Hate Shopping at Target)
“I wan’ dat one,” he proclaims, pointing at one of the two options presented. “You want Percy?” I reply, extending my arm to offer him the one to which he pointed. Seemed like a logical course of action. Except that I’m not two-and-a-half.
“No! Don’ wan’ dat one! Don’ wan’ dat one! I wan’ dat one!” He points to an item on the rack. Reiterating his options, I place Percy and Toby in front of him again. “You can’t have that one, it’s too expensive. You can have Toby or Percy. Which one do you want?” Again the shelf. And again. I round the corner, hoping in my cute little naive way that removing the distractions will make the process easier.
“I wan’ Percy,” he states. Greatly relieved, I hand him the package. “NO! NO! NO! Don’ wan’ Percy!! Don’ wan’ Percy!!” His whiney voice is to my head as his kicking legs are to my stomach, flailing back and forth out of the shopping cart hitting the soft, tender flesh around my incision. So as to not completely lose it in a public forum, I push him another six inches out of range and hold the packages up again, tension growing and hope waning. I force a saccharine smile. “Which one, buddy?”
“I wan’ daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat one,” he whines, pointing back at the aisle, four feet away. An idea strikes me and I retreat, though not giving in, and find a third option within the same price range. Rookie mistake. Except I’m no longer a rookie. “No! Don’ wan’ dat one! Don’ wan’ dat one! I wan’ daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat one!” Toby, this time. And yet when offered to him, the response is the same, save the addition of tears.
There is no way out of this. If I put them all down and leave, we have a scene and I have wasted over an hour of torturous decision-making and bargain-finding. If I force a decision, or make one for him, we have a scene. If I stand here and faint from hunger while waiting for him to decide, we have a scene. No one wins. What seemed like a sweet way to bless my son has now turned ugly and I’m about to bless him right upside the head.
There are three important blunders we should never fall prey to: 1. Never get involved in a land war in Asia, 2. Never go in against a Sicilian when death is on the line, and 3. Never, and I mean NEVER, take a hungry child to Target.
I do not understand what I do. For what I want to do I do not do, but what I hate I do. Romans 7:15
“I wan’ dat one,” he proclaims, pointing at one of the two options presented. “You want Percy?” I reply, extending my arm to offer him the one to which he pointed. Seemed like a logical course of action. Except that I’m not two-and-a-half.
“No! Don’ wan’ dat one! Don’ wan’ dat one! I wan’ dat one!” He points to an item on the rack. Reiterating his options, I place Percy and Toby in front of him again. “You can’t have that one, it’s too expensive. You can have Toby or Percy. Which one do you want?” Again the shelf. And again. I round the corner, hoping in my cute little naive way that removing the distractions will make the process easier.
“I wan’ Percy,” he states. Greatly relieved, I hand him the package. “NO! NO! NO! Don’ wan’ Percy!! Don’ wan’ Percy!!” His whiney voice is to my head as his kicking legs are to my stomach, flailing back and forth out of the shopping cart hitting the soft, tender flesh around my incision. So as to not completely lose it in a public forum, I push him another six inches out of range and hold the packages up again, tension growing and hope waning. I force a saccharine smile. “Which one, buddy?”
“I wan’ daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat one,” he whines, pointing back at the aisle, four feet away. An idea strikes me and I retreat, though not giving in, and find a third option within the same price range. Rookie mistake. Except I’m no longer a rookie. “No! Don’ wan’ dat one! Don’ wan’ dat one! I wan’ daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat one!” Toby, this time. And yet when offered to him, the response is the same, save the addition of tears.
There is no way out of this. If I put them all down and leave, we have a scene and I have wasted over an hour of torturous decision-making and bargain-finding. If I force a decision, or make one for him, we have a scene. If I stand here and faint from hunger while waiting for him to decide, we have a scene. No one wins. What seemed like a sweet way to bless my son has now turned ugly and I’m about to bless him right upside the head.
There are three important blunders we should never fall prey to: 1. Never get involved in a land war in Asia, 2. Never go in against a Sicilian when death is on the line, and 3. Never, and I mean NEVER, take a hungry child to Target.
I do not understand what I do. For what I want to do I do not do, but what I hate I do. Romans 7:15
Monday, October 03, 2005
end of the tunnel
It was a true story, but it had a once-upon-a-time-in-a-land-far-far-away quality that distanced me from it in the telling. Not that its content was fairy tale material. No Prince Charming, no Fairy Godmother, no Happily-Ever-After. In truth, it was a sad story, as stories go, but, to my amazement, I simply was not sad to tell it.
My life’s work is stories, but not the writing of them. I enter stories, sit down in the middle of one with the main character and, like a 1980’s choose-your-own-ending paper-back, help her contemplate how her story will proceed from here. Fiction or fantasy, prose or poetry, description or dialogue—I hear a lot of stories. I participate in a lot of stories. I tell a lot of stories.
I told them the story of a girl, that day—a girl not at all unlike them. I could see it in their reddening, tear-rimmed eyes, in their nodding heads, their forward leaning torsos. I was telling their story, as well. They had experienced her dark nights, her never-dawning mornings, her days of February gray that lasted year long. They had heard the same well-meaning-poorly-thought-out advice, the holier-than-thou condemnations, the get-a-grip-and-stop-feeling-sorry-for-yourself-and-suck-it-up-and-pull-yourself-up-by-your-bootstraps sermons. They had felt the condemnation, the shame, the futility. They had battled the discouragement, the desperation, the despair. They had been there. They were there now.
They had come, that afternoon, to deal with their own depression. They were expectant, though of what, they were not certain. They teetered precariously between hope and hopelessness—hoping to hope. Daring to entertain the thought that there was more to life than this, that there was a way to get there, that there was something to hope for. And so I told them my story.
The details of my own depression are unremarkable save but one—I am not depressed any longer. The light my father swore to me was shining at the end of the long, dark, never-ending tunnel, once completely out of view and out of reach, now shines like the October sun in the blue fall sky. Like an old high school friend or a sibling who lives out of state or a distant aunt on my father’s mother’s side, the girl in my story is familiar to me, yet I do not know her any longer. It is my story, but it is no longer my life—merely my pre-story, giving the reader the background so as to understand the current plot more fully.
I told them the story of a girl who was once severely depressed, for a very, very long time. That girl is me, but I am no longer that girl. It was a fairy tale of sorts after all—happy endings happen, even in the absence of Fairy Godmothers. There is a Light that shines in the darkness, and it doesn’t glow at the end of a magic wand.
Hope for the hopeless. This is my story, this is my song…
My life’s work is stories, but not the writing of them. I enter stories, sit down in the middle of one with the main character and, like a 1980’s choose-your-own-ending paper-back, help her contemplate how her story will proceed from here. Fiction or fantasy, prose or poetry, description or dialogue—I hear a lot of stories. I participate in a lot of stories. I tell a lot of stories.
I told them the story of a girl, that day—a girl not at all unlike them. I could see it in their reddening, tear-rimmed eyes, in their nodding heads, their forward leaning torsos. I was telling their story, as well. They had experienced her dark nights, her never-dawning mornings, her days of February gray that lasted year long. They had heard the same well-meaning-poorly-thought-out advice, the holier-than-thou condemnations, the get-a-grip-and-stop-feeling-sorry-for-yourself-and-suck-it-up-and-pull-yourself-up-by-your-bootstraps sermons. They had felt the condemnation, the shame, the futility. They had battled the discouragement, the desperation, the despair. They had been there. They were there now.
They had come, that afternoon, to deal with their own depression. They were expectant, though of what, they were not certain. They teetered precariously between hope and hopelessness—hoping to hope. Daring to entertain the thought that there was more to life than this, that there was a way to get there, that there was something to hope for. And so I told them my story.
The details of my own depression are unremarkable save but one—I am not depressed any longer. The light my father swore to me was shining at the end of the long, dark, never-ending tunnel, once completely out of view and out of reach, now shines like the October sun in the blue fall sky. Like an old high school friend or a sibling who lives out of state or a distant aunt on my father’s mother’s side, the girl in my story is familiar to me, yet I do not know her any longer. It is my story, but it is no longer my life—merely my pre-story, giving the reader the background so as to understand the current plot more fully.
I told them the story of a girl who was once severely depressed, for a very, very long time. That girl is me, but I am no longer that girl. It was a fairy tale of sorts after all—happy endings happen, even in the absence of Fairy Godmothers. There is a Light that shines in the darkness, and it doesn’t glow at the end of a magic wand.
Hope for the hopeless. This is my story, this is my song…
Sunday, October 02, 2005
believing with childlike wonder
The artist who is a Christian, like any other Christian, is required to be in this world, but not of it. We are to be in this world as healers, as listeners, and as servants.
In art, we are once again able to do all the things we have forgotten; we are able to walk on water; we speak to the angels who call us; we move, unfettered, among the stars.
We write, we make music, we draw pictures, because we are listening for meaning, feeling for healing. And during the writing of the story, or the painting, or the composing or singing or playing, we are returned to that open creativity which was ours when we were children. We cannot be mature artists if we have lost the ability to believe which we had as children. An artist at work is in a condition of complete and total faith.
Madeleine L'Engle, from Madeleine L'Engle {Herself}: Reflections on a Writing Life
In art, we are once again able to do all the things we have forgotten; we are able to walk on water; we speak to the angels who call us; we move, unfettered, among the stars.
We write, we make music, we draw pictures, because we are listening for meaning, feeling for healing. And during the writing of the story, or the painting, or the composing or singing or playing, we are returned to that open creativity which was ours when we were children. We cannot be mature artists if we have lost the ability to believe which we had as children. An artist at work is in a condition of complete and total faith.
Madeleine L'Engle, from Madeleine L'Engle {Herself}: Reflections on a Writing Life
something to add to my resume
Got recruited to be a judge at the jazz slam tonight- was a blast! Some INCREDIBLE talent- made the judging difficult! If you ever get to go to one, I highly recommend it!
Friday, September 30, 2005
Thursday, September 29, 2005
that would be me
The form looked simple enough. Name, grade, homeroom number-- no problem. Type of medication--check. Dosage--check. Time of day to be administered--check. Today's date--got it. Parent's signature.
I freeze. I stare at it blankly. The panicked thought comes out of nowhere-- My mom is camping. She can't sign it. What am I going to do?
Then I chuckle, grinning sheepishly in my empty kitchen. Parent's signature. Duh.
I AM the parent.
Heaven help us all.
I freeze. I stare at it blankly. The panicked thought comes out of nowhere-- My mom is camping. She can't sign it. What am I going to do?
Then I chuckle, grinning sheepishly in my empty kitchen. Parent's signature. Duh.
I AM the parent.
Heaven help us all.
Wednesday, September 28, 2005
confessions of a slacker mom
Okay, so I stole the title. But it’s such a good one. And it is so how I feel tonight.
I have never known guilt like I’ve known in the last seven years. It is impossible to convey in mere words the sheer gut-wrenching, panic-producing, stomach-acid-creating, I’m-a-complete-failure-let-me-lay-prostrate-on-the-floor-and-and-slit-my-wrists feeling that comes over a woman the moment she first discovers she’s pregnant and doesn’t shake loose, so I’m told, until the day she dies. They slap a cute little nickname on it—Mommy Guilt—but there is nothing cute about it. It is all-consuming. And it will eat you alive if you let it.
Today was a typical example. The first grader was home with pink-eye, but the phrase “was home” is used very loosely in our household. “Staying home” from school today meant we went for our morning walk, went to the doctor, went to the pharmacy, ran into Grandma at the pharmacy, invited Grandma to join us for lunch with Poppa, went in Grandma’s van to meet Poppa so I could get something notarized at his office, had lunch together, and, finally, came home and “stayed home.” Until the grocery trip after dinner…
Of course, since we’d run around all morning, nothing had gotten done at home. Since I work part-time (more Mommy Guilt), this is a bigger deal than it sounds. Nothing picked up, no bills paid, no calls or emails returned, no projects worked on. Nothing. And after being gone 90% of the week last week, I’m still trying to catch up from the previous week’s picking up, bills, emails, and projects, to no avail. So, I get the toddler down for a nap, head for the office with my mental to-do list on overload, and the first thing I hear is, “Momma, will you play with me?”
My stomach sinks. Nothing triggers Mommy Guilt like the pleading tone of a child asking to be played with. Especially when you can’t stand playing with your children.
Gasp.
There, I said it. I hate playing with my daughter. AAAAAGHHH. Seeing it in print makes me want to run from the room screaming. Mothers aren’t supposed to say that. Still more Mommy Guilt. But it’s true.
There are many things I love doing with my children. I love to sit and talk with them. I love to sing to them. I love to go places with them and do activities with them. I love to read with them, play games with them, make music with them. I’m not a bad mom. I swear. (This is the first sign of Mommy Guilt—the compulsion to swear to people you are not a bad mom.) But, quite frankly, I do not enjoy playing pretend with my children. And it’s not just my children—I don’t enjoy playing pretend with other people’s children, either. I abhorred that part of babysitting—I don’t like to be told how to pretend. Makes me crazy. And this is what my daughter wants most from me.
This is what she asks for this afternoon. This is what she asks for several times, daily. And this is the one thing that I am loathe to give her. I would rather cross everything off my to-do list than play Barbie’s with my daughter. I hate that about myself. I hate the frustration that builds to a near-panicked frenzy when it becomes apparent that I cannot accomplish both my to-do list and my daughter’s. I resolve to myself that the next afternoon I’m home, I will play with her. Then the next afternoon I’m home, I make the same guilt-ridden resolution. But the issue never resolves.
I know in my heart there is much I do well as a mother. But I worry that if it is not what is important to her, it won’t matter in the long run. Will she remember that I would talk with her every night before bed, or will she remember that I rarely played Barbie’s with her? Will she remember me constantly telling her, “I love you,” or will she remember me constantly telling her, “Momma’s got to get her work done first?” Will she remember me writing her stories and playing cards and going to the zoo, or will she remember me at my computer?
Then there are the real questions. Will the effort I’ve put in be enough to sustain our relationship through the teenage years? Does she really know she is loved and valued? Do my actions show it more than my words? Will it be enough to keep her from dabbling in sex and substances and selling her soul to please other people? Have I done the best possible job I can? Will it pay off in the long run? She adores me now—will she when she’s older? And is it lame to pray for the strength to be able to play Barbie’s with your daughter?
There are no answers. Or, rather, the answers are out of my hands. The Lord taught me long ago that there is not a bit of it that is up to me, but, much like higher math, it is a lesson I still do not fully understand. So I just pray that, much like the homework, the equation somehow always manages to balance out in the end.
I am not a bad mom.
I am not a bad mom.
I have never known guilt like I’ve known in the last seven years. It is impossible to convey in mere words the sheer gut-wrenching, panic-producing, stomach-acid-creating, I’m-a-complete-failure-let-me-lay-prostrate-on-the-floor-and-and-slit-my-wrists feeling that comes over a woman the moment she first discovers she’s pregnant and doesn’t shake loose, so I’m told, until the day she dies. They slap a cute little nickname on it—Mommy Guilt—but there is nothing cute about it. It is all-consuming. And it will eat you alive if you let it.
Today was a typical example. The first grader was home with pink-eye, but the phrase “was home” is used very loosely in our household. “Staying home” from school today meant we went for our morning walk, went to the doctor, went to the pharmacy, ran into Grandma at the pharmacy, invited Grandma to join us for lunch with Poppa, went in Grandma’s van to meet Poppa so I could get something notarized at his office, had lunch together, and, finally, came home and “stayed home.” Until the grocery trip after dinner…
Of course, since we’d run around all morning, nothing had gotten done at home. Since I work part-time (more Mommy Guilt), this is a bigger deal than it sounds. Nothing picked up, no bills paid, no calls or emails returned, no projects worked on. Nothing. And after being gone 90% of the week last week, I’m still trying to catch up from the previous week’s picking up, bills, emails, and projects, to no avail. So, I get the toddler down for a nap, head for the office with my mental to-do list on overload, and the first thing I hear is, “Momma, will you play with me?”
My stomach sinks. Nothing triggers Mommy Guilt like the pleading tone of a child asking to be played with. Especially when you can’t stand playing with your children.
Gasp.
There, I said it. I hate playing with my daughter. AAAAAGHHH. Seeing it in print makes me want to run from the room screaming. Mothers aren’t supposed to say that. Still more Mommy Guilt. But it’s true.
There are many things I love doing with my children. I love to sit and talk with them. I love to sing to them. I love to go places with them and do activities with them. I love to read with them, play games with them, make music with them. I’m not a bad mom. I swear. (This is the first sign of Mommy Guilt—the compulsion to swear to people you are not a bad mom.) But, quite frankly, I do not enjoy playing pretend with my children. And it’s not just my children—I don’t enjoy playing pretend with other people’s children, either. I abhorred that part of babysitting—I don’t like to be told how to pretend. Makes me crazy. And this is what my daughter wants most from me.
This is what she asks for this afternoon. This is what she asks for several times, daily. And this is the one thing that I am loathe to give her. I would rather cross everything off my to-do list than play Barbie’s with my daughter. I hate that about myself. I hate the frustration that builds to a near-panicked frenzy when it becomes apparent that I cannot accomplish both my to-do list and my daughter’s. I resolve to myself that the next afternoon I’m home, I will play with her. Then the next afternoon I’m home, I make the same guilt-ridden resolution. But the issue never resolves.
I know in my heart there is much I do well as a mother. But I worry that if it is not what is important to her, it won’t matter in the long run. Will she remember that I would talk with her every night before bed, or will she remember that I rarely played Barbie’s with her? Will she remember me constantly telling her, “I love you,” or will she remember me constantly telling her, “Momma’s got to get her work done first?” Will she remember me writing her stories and playing cards and going to the zoo, or will she remember me at my computer?
Then there are the real questions. Will the effort I’ve put in be enough to sustain our relationship through the teenage years? Does she really know she is loved and valued? Do my actions show it more than my words? Will it be enough to keep her from dabbling in sex and substances and selling her soul to please other people? Have I done the best possible job I can? Will it pay off in the long run? She adores me now—will she when she’s older? And is it lame to pray for the strength to be able to play Barbie’s with your daughter?
There are no answers. Or, rather, the answers are out of my hands. The Lord taught me long ago that there is not a bit of it that is up to me, but, much like higher math, it is a lesson I still do not fully understand. So I just pray that, much like the homework, the equation somehow always manages to balance out in the end.
I am not a bad mom.
I am not a bad mom.
what's in a name?
I changed my name. I am no longer looking for my voice. I have found it. I like what the new title reflects—I am no longer aimlessly searching, but performing a piece in a free style. Hope you like it. If you don’t, don’t tell me. I’m much too insecure.
properly chastised, she returns to her writing...
Insecurity is like a boomerang. A yo-yo. Seventies clothing. You can toss it aside, but it always comes back to haunt you like a ghastly fashion nightmare.
I swing, if you haven’t noticed, between extremes. I can go, within any given point of time, from “Damn, that’s good!” to “This isn’t half bad…” to “Oh my God, I suck. College freshman in ghastly seventies clothing could do better than this. I’m never writing again!” I suppose it’s part of my charm. Or my neurosis. Or one in the same.
Honestly, though, at 35 I’m finally finding a middle ground. Most of the time. Most of the time, I read what I’ve written and think, that’s not too bad… My goal isn’t literary greatness. My goal is to write what’s on my heart, hopefully do it well, and if one, two, or maybe three people think, “I can really relate to that,” I will consider myself successful. It is a start. I have started well, and I am pleased with that. I will press on, trusting that I’m not the only mother in Cow Town who struggles with insecurity and mommy guilt and a morbid hatred of aerobics instructors.
I will try not to let it happen again. The boomerang, the yo-yo, the bell-bottoms—out with the trash this time. What goes around does not have to come around.
I swing, if you haven’t noticed, between extremes. I can go, within any given point of time, from “Damn, that’s good!” to “This isn’t half bad…” to “Oh my God, I suck. College freshman in ghastly seventies clothing could do better than this. I’m never writing again!” I suppose it’s part of my charm. Or my neurosis. Or one in the same.
Honestly, though, at 35 I’m finally finding a middle ground. Most of the time. Most of the time, I read what I’ve written and think, that’s not too bad… My goal isn’t literary greatness. My goal is to write what’s on my heart, hopefully do it well, and if one, two, or maybe three people think, “I can really relate to that,” I will consider myself successful. It is a start. I have started well, and I am pleased with that. I will press on, trusting that I’m not the only mother in Cow Town who struggles with insecurity and mommy guilt and a morbid hatred of aerobics instructors.
I will try not to let it happen again. The boomerang, the yo-yo, the bell-bottoms—out with the trash this time. What goes around does not have to come around.
Tuesday, September 27, 2005
apples to apples
I must learn to stop reading other people’s blogs.
Was going to write tonight. Thought I’d check some sites out first. One thing led to another and now I’m intimidated and depressed and disgusted and wondering why the heck I ever thought I could write. God, I hate it when I do that…
What is it about us that compels us to make unfavorable comparisons? Or, rather, what is it about ME?
If I’m writing about MY life in MY voice, why do I care what Belle the journalist in NYC is posting and that it’s a whole heck of a lot better than what I’ve posted? Or that she got 41 comments for one post? Or that her famously wonderous, fabulous, brand-new blog got featured somewhere or other? I’m not a journalist in NYC. I’m a mother of two in Cow Town. And yet, I do. Care, that is. And compare.
It gets me every time. I never did fully grasp the whole apples and oranges thing—they’re both fruit, after all.
So now I shrivel here in my insecurity, the words within me dying on the vine for lack of belief in them. I’ve got to quit doing this to myself…
Somebody stop me.
Was going to write tonight. Thought I’d check some sites out first. One thing led to another and now I’m intimidated and depressed and disgusted and wondering why the heck I ever thought I could write. God, I hate it when I do that…
What is it about us that compels us to make unfavorable comparisons? Or, rather, what is it about ME?
If I’m writing about MY life in MY voice, why do I care what Belle the journalist in NYC is posting and that it’s a whole heck of a lot better than what I’ve posted? Or that she got 41 comments for one post? Or that her famously wonderous, fabulous, brand-new blog got featured somewhere or other? I’m not a journalist in NYC. I’m a mother of two in Cow Town. And yet, I do. Care, that is. And compare.
It gets me every time. I never did fully grasp the whole apples and oranges thing—they’re both fruit, after all.
So now I shrivel here in my insecurity, the words within me dying on the vine for lack of belief in them. I’ve got to quit doing this to myself…
Somebody stop me.
Monday, September 26, 2005
Via Colori, 2005
One of my favorite things to do. Next year, I'm doing a square. Really. I'm not going to just TALK about it. I'm doing a square. Next year...
the difference between my husband and I
There is approximately one third of a piece of Kalua cheesecake in my house. With real whipped cream. From the Cheesecake Factory. It sits downstairs, barely protected behind the wooshing temperature seal of the refrigerator door, and it taunts me upon my weak-kneed return from aerobics.
The cheesecake entered my home on Saturday evening, a consolation gift for my husband for allowing me to accompany Beth on her impromptu, late night escape. Two large clouds of whipped cream dotted its dark, stormy landscape, and I was quite certain my Six Carb Original, sans whipped cream (sans anything, for that matter), was a February day in Ohio by comparison. Beneath the cumulus whipped cream lay three layers of rich, fatty goodness—first the light, fluffy coffee layer, creamy brown like hot chocolate, just the way I like my coffee. Then a lighter colored layer, thicker and creamier although unable to be properly identified, but certainly scrumptious just the same. Then, oh… Then, the chocolate and hazelnut crust… dark-dark-dark-rich-crumbly-fatty goodness. Perfection. I presented it to my wonderful husband with great pomp and circumstance upon my return, and awaited the opportunity to watch him relish this rich, fatty goodness and all the while proclaim what a wonderful wife I was for delivering it to him.
That is where the difference between us became apparent.
He didn’t eat it.
Really. He thanked me profusely, and promptly placed the cheesecake in the refrigerator, remarking that he just wasn’t very hungry at the moment. There was a full half-minute of mystified silence before, completely dumbfounded, I questioned what the heck hunger had to do with anything when there was a piece of Kalua cheesecake in the house. Did he not see the puffy clouds? The dark-dark-dark-rich-crumbly crust? The creamy brown perfect coffee layer? Not hungry?
(For the record, I am, at this exact moment, not hungry. But there is a piece of cheesecake in my fridge and if it were not for the fact that I just tortured myself again at aerobics this morning, it would not be in my fridge any longer. Are you catching my drift?)
Last night he powered down the computer and came to join me in bed, where I was happily reading and trying to pacify the 20 lb. cat who nibbles you until you pet him, and he began to eat his cheesecake. Next to me, in bed. I was not happily reading any longer. I was coveting my neighbor’s cheesecake.
He graciously offered me a bite and, pretending to be nonchalant, I accepted. I clamped my lips down around the fork, determined to pry every possible morsel from the utensil. I closed my eyes, and I sighed. It was all I dreamed it would be. I savored the texture, the flavor, the essence of it for but a moment, and then it was gone. Gone. I resolved that I would not ask for another bite, but that if he offered, I would, of course, accept. It would be rude not to. I began to pray that he would offer. Not really, but I did hope and wish. And he did. A second moment of heaven, followed by more dumbfounding perplexity.
Two thirds of the way finished, and he announced he was full and would save the rest for tomorrow. Today, where it now sits tormenting me from the floor below. “What?” he asked as I half glared, half gaped at him with widemouthed amazement. Five to six bites left, and he cannot convince his five-foot-eight, one hundred and fifteen pound frame to pack them in. More mind-boggling is that he could, but he chooses not to. It is beyond my comprehension. Where was I when that gene was passed out?!
Probably eating my cheesecake. Which, by the way, had approximately a 20-minute life span. My husband’s is at 39 hours and counting. Hours. I’ll let you figure the difference.
I’m going to go look at the cheesecake again.
The cheesecake entered my home on Saturday evening, a consolation gift for my husband for allowing me to accompany Beth on her impromptu, late night escape. Two large clouds of whipped cream dotted its dark, stormy landscape, and I was quite certain my Six Carb Original, sans whipped cream (sans anything, for that matter), was a February day in Ohio by comparison. Beneath the cumulus whipped cream lay three layers of rich, fatty goodness—first the light, fluffy coffee layer, creamy brown like hot chocolate, just the way I like my coffee. Then a lighter colored layer, thicker and creamier although unable to be properly identified, but certainly scrumptious just the same. Then, oh… Then, the chocolate and hazelnut crust… dark-dark-dark-rich-crumbly-fatty goodness. Perfection. I presented it to my wonderful husband with great pomp and circumstance upon my return, and awaited the opportunity to watch him relish this rich, fatty goodness and all the while proclaim what a wonderful wife I was for delivering it to him.
That is where the difference between us became apparent.
He didn’t eat it.
Really. He thanked me profusely, and promptly placed the cheesecake in the refrigerator, remarking that he just wasn’t very hungry at the moment. There was a full half-minute of mystified silence before, completely dumbfounded, I questioned what the heck hunger had to do with anything when there was a piece of Kalua cheesecake in the house. Did he not see the puffy clouds? The dark-dark-dark-rich-crumbly crust? The creamy brown perfect coffee layer? Not hungry?
(For the record, I am, at this exact moment, not hungry. But there is a piece of cheesecake in my fridge and if it were not for the fact that I just tortured myself again at aerobics this morning, it would not be in my fridge any longer. Are you catching my drift?)
Last night he powered down the computer and came to join me in bed, where I was happily reading and trying to pacify the 20 lb. cat who nibbles you until you pet him, and he began to eat his cheesecake. Next to me, in bed. I was not happily reading any longer. I was coveting my neighbor’s cheesecake.
He graciously offered me a bite and, pretending to be nonchalant, I accepted. I clamped my lips down around the fork, determined to pry every possible morsel from the utensil. I closed my eyes, and I sighed. It was all I dreamed it would be. I savored the texture, the flavor, the essence of it for but a moment, and then it was gone. Gone. I resolved that I would not ask for another bite, but that if he offered, I would, of course, accept. It would be rude not to. I began to pray that he would offer. Not really, but I did hope and wish. And he did. A second moment of heaven, followed by more dumbfounding perplexity.
Two thirds of the way finished, and he announced he was full and would save the rest for tomorrow. Today, where it now sits tormenting me from the floor below. “What?” he asked as I half glared, half gaped at him with widemouthed amazement. Five to six bites left, and he cannot convince his five-foot-eight, one hundred and fifteen pound frame to pack them in. More mind-boggling is that he could, but he chooses not to. It is beyond my comprehension. Where was I when that gene was passed out?!
Probably eating my cheesecake. Which, by the way, had approximately a 20-minute life span. My husband’s is at 39 hours and counting. Hours. I’ll let you figure the difference.
I’m going to go look at the cheesecake again.
Wednesday, September 21, 2005
no tired work
I'm spent. Three trainings led and one staff retreat attended since Saturday, one full day of clients and another training to lead yet to go before I rest. My eyelids have been heavy since 2:00 PM. My heart is stirring within me to write, but is being over-ridden by all other major systems. I will sleep. I will write, God willing, tomorrow. Or not. But for now, I must rest so as to be of worth to those for whom I am responsible before God.
Rest. It is wrong to force work. Rest until Life, Eternal Life, flowing through your veins and hearts and minds, bids you bestir yourselves, and work, glad work, will follow.
Tired work never tells.
God Calling
Rest. It is wrong to force work. Rest until Life, Eternal Life, flowing through your veins and hearts and minds, bids you bestir yourselves, and work, glad work, will follow.
Tired work never tells.
God Calling
Monday, September 19, 2005
What can I say? I'm a proud momma...
First place for first grade girls! Third place in her grade, overall! Not that I'm proud, or anything...
whom do I follow?
When you trust God, and a friend, there is a question whether it is God you trust or the friend; but when the friend has left you, and only God is near, no question remains. If you and I are walking together, and a dog follows us, who knows which is the dog’s master? But when you go off to the left and I turn to the right, all will see who owns the dog, by seeing whom he follows.
Charles Spurgeon
Charles Spurgeon
Sunday, September 18, 2005
in a nutshell
Hiking today at Blackhand Gorge, outside of Newark. No, I'd never heard of it either. This sums up our day!
Saturday, September 17, 2005
before the big race
I was too excited and forgot to take pictures at the finish line! (And all the pictures of the race itself are a bit of a blur!)
7:20
My daughter's time in her first big race!
15th place in the one-mile Fun Run at her school, out of over 100 K-3rd graders!
We find out on Monday where she placed within her grade- we think she might have been third, which equals a "trophy," but we're not sure. We keep emphasizing that it was a "Fun Run" and that she did her best time ever, and that is what is important. I hope she remembers that come Monday!
Can I just say that I cannot even run a mile?!?!? Amazing.
15th place in the one-mile Fun Run at her school, out of over 100 K-3rd graders!
We find out on Monday where she placed within her grade- we think she might have been third, which equals a "trophy," but we're not sure. We keep emphasizing that it was a "Fun Run" and that she did her best time ever, and that is what is important. I hope she remembers that come Monday!
Can I just say that I cannot even run a mile?!?!? Amazing.
Wednesday, September 14, 2005
time's up, session's over
I’ve come to the conclusion I don’t do real life well.
It’s something I’ve been thinking a lot about lately, but as I drove home from the ladies night half of my small group tonight, it really hit me. I don’t think I do relationships well.
My mom always told me I should be a teacher. When I began exploring the idea of counseling, she became even more persistent with the teaching suggestion, and would tag on to the immediate end of every comment something along the lines of “You’ll never be able to do counseling. You’ll take everything home with you.”
She was wrong. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve “taken something home” with me—the times when a client’s pain clung to me like second-hand smoke, unable to be escaped from until I’d properly showered. I remember the night a marriage literally ended right in my office and I missed my exit coming home. And my street. And my driveway. I remember the mother whose 18-month-old had been hit and killed by a car—I remember because my own daughter was 18 months old and after this precious woman would come and sob for her weekly hour I would go in the next room and sob as well. I remember the 23-year-old widow whose husband was diagnosed with cancer on their wedding day and I couldn’t sleep for several nights after each session. But these are the exceptions, not the rule.
I have always believed that was God’s grace. I have always believed I was able to not carry the weight of the world because I was walking in my calling and God was putting his grace on what I was doing. I still believe that to be true. But I think there is more to it than grace… and it’s not all from God.
We talked tonight about being open, vulnerable, real. We talked about being more intentional, making more time, pressing one another a little. We talked about how that happens, and about what happens when it doesn’t work like it’s supposed to. We talked about how vulnerable it is to put your stuff out there in the open and have someone walk away with a trite “I’ll be praying for you” while you stand there bleeding. We talked about sharing intimate, scary, painful things and then never hearing from the people we’d talked to. And that’s when it hit me.
I’ve done that to some of these women. If not all of them. I’ve sat with them in their pain, I’ve prayed with them, I’ve prayed for them, I’ve followed up with them from time to time, but I’ve never walked it out with a single one of them. Maybe not with anyone, ever. The realization devastated and confused me. And that’s when it really hit me.
I’ve always considered myself a caring person—and it’s not that I don’t care about the people who populate my life. I care for all of them deeply. Deanne. Laura. Penny. Faith. Terri. Marylee. Jane. Bonnie. Beth. Tammy. Karen. Cindy.
Josie. Jen. My family. My husband’s family. So why don’t I show them? Why don’t I show them more? I know that I care. But why don’t I care enough? It’s more than just busy-ness, although I give busy-ness its fair share of credit. It’s not just having young children, although that is a key factor as well. Laziness plays a role, as does fear and insecurity and even, to be honest, probably apathy. And that really sucks to say. But they are not “it” in their entirety. There is something more that holds me back—keeps me from sending a card, an email, making a call, going to my knees daily—something that keeps me from walking through the trenches with them.
And so I wonder, on my way home, how to find the balance. How to really care for people in real life—clients, friends, family, the world—enough to allow God to use me in their lives but not to the point that it completely overwhelms mine. And that’s when the realization comes, smacking me upside the head with a big ol’ THWACK. I’ve attempted to create that balance by living my life in one-hour sessions. Life, to me, apparently, IS therapy.
The client comes in once a week, our time is intense and I am fully present and caring and invested, and then they leave and I do the same for the next person. And the next, and the next, and the next. I think about them throughout the week. I pray for them. I think about their struggles and I seek wisdom in how to approach them and I pray for them some more. But I don’t call them or email them or send them pretty cards or call them up and ask them how it’s going, because that would be inappropriate. And that is all well and good.
Somehow, though, this has become my life, and I don’t know what to do with that, or if I even should.
Is it God’s grace that I do not carry every burden that is brought into my presence, or is it a laziness and lack of caring on my part? Is it wisdom, or fear? Is it good or bad? Or is it just what it is? I look for no answers from you—I know you don’t have them anyway. But the questions are out there, nonetheless. I don’t know how to do this real life thing. And it’s really messing with me.
But hey, my time is up—session’s over. We’ll talk about it again next week.
It’s something I’ve been thinking a lot about lately, but as I drove home from the ladies night half of my small group tonight, it really hit me. I don’t think I do relationships well.
My mom always told me I should be a teacher. When I began exploring the idea of counseling, she became even more persistent with the teaching suggestion, and would tag on to the immediate end of every comment something along the lines of “You’ll never be able to do counseling. You’ll take everything home with you.”
She was wrong. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve “taken something home” with me—the times when a client’s pain clung to me like second-hand smoke, unable to be escaped from until I’d properly showered. I remember the night a marriage literally ended right in my office and I missed my exit coming home. And my street. And my driveway. I remember the mother whose 18-month-old had been hit and killed by a car—I remember because my own daughter was 18 months old and after this precious woman would come and sob for her weekly hour I would go in the next room and sob as well. I remember the 23-year-old widow whose husband was diagnosed with cancer on their wedding day and I couldn’t sleep for several nights after each session. But these are the exceptions, not the rule.
I have always believed that was God’s grace. I have always believed I was able to not carry the weight of the world because I was walking in my calling and God was putting his grace on what I was doing. I still believe that to be true. But I think there is more to it than grace… and it’s not all from God.
We talked tonight about being open, vulnerable, real. We talked about being more intentional, making more time, pressing one another a little. We talked about how that happens, and about what happens when it doesn’t work like it’s supposed to. We talked about how vulnerable it is to put your stuff out there in the open and have someone walk away with a trite “I’ll be praying for you” while you stand there bleeding. We talked about sharing intimate, scary, painful things and then never hearing from the people we’d talked to. And that’s when it hit me.
I’ve done that to some of these women. If not all of them. I’ve sat with them in their pain, I’ve prayed with them, I’ve prayed for them, I’ve followed up with them from time to time, but I’ve never walked it out with a single one of them. Maybe not with anyone, ever. The realization devastated and confused me. And that’s when it really hit me.
I’ve always considered myself a caring person—and it’s not that I don’t care about the people who populate my life. I care for all of them deeply. Deanne. Laura. Penny. Faith. Terri. Marylee. Jane. Bonnie. Beth. Tammy. Karen. Cindy.
Josie. Jen. My family. My husband’s family. So why don’t I show them? Why don’t I show them more? I know that I care. But why don’t I care enough? It’s more than just busy-ness, although I give busy-ness its fair share of credit. It’s not just having young children, although that is a key factor as well. Laziness plays a role, as does fear and insecurity and even, to be honest, probably apathy. And that really sucks to say. But they are not “it” in their entirety. There is something more that holds me back—keeps me from sending a card, an email, making a call, going to my knees daily—something that keeps me from walking through the trenches with them.
And so I wonder, on my way home, how to find the balance. How to really care for people in real life—clients, friends, family, the world—enough to allow God to use me in their lives but not to the point that it completely overwhelms mine. And that’s when the realization comes, smacking me upside the head with a big ol’ THWACK. I’ve attempted to create that balance by living my life in one-hour sessions. Life, to me, apparently, IS therapy.
The client comes in once a week, our time is intense and I am fully present and caring and invested, and then they leave and I do the same for the next person. And the next, and the next, and the next. I think about them throughout the week. I pray for them. I think about their struggles and I seek wisdom in how to approach them and I pray for them some more. But I don’t call them or email them or send them pretty cards or call them up and ask them how it’s going, because that would be inappropriate. And that is all well and good.
Somehow, though, this has become my life, and I don’t know what to do with that, or if I even should.
Is it God’s grace that I do not carry every burden that is brought into my presence, or is it a laziness and lack of caring on my part? Is it wisdom, or fear? Is it good or bad? Or is it just what it is? I look for no answers from you—I know you don’t have them anyway. But the questions are out there, nonetheless. I don’t know how to do this real life thing. And it’s really messing with me.
But hey, my time is up—session’s over. We’ll talk about it again next week.
silver bowls
A few of you will know what this lyric means to me, and why it smacked my upside the head when I first heard it a day or two ago…
Empty hands held high
Such small sacrifice
If not joined with my life
I sing in vain tonight
Lifesong, Casting Crowns, © 2005
Empty hands held high
Such small sacrifice
If not joined with my life
I sing in vain tonight
Lifesong, Casting Crowns, © 2005
It feels as if my bowl is empty...
Monday, September 12, 2005
that which does not kill you...
…leaves you half-dead.
I began a new aerobics class today. Now, I’ve already mentioned that I’ve lost 65 pounds in the last one and a half years, so you have to assume that I’ve been exercising at least a little during that time, and to lose that large of an amount, probably more than just a little. And that is true. I walk an insane amount of miles at what I’ve been told is a “kick ass” pace, and I do a workout with hand weights at home. I figured I was up to this “intermediate” level class.
I was wrong. Alas, five to seven kick-ass walks a week and three nights of go-at-your-own-pace hand weights does not an aerobics-class-champion make.
I thought I was going to die.
Really. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
I should have known, from the moment I dropped my son off in childcare amidst all the muscle-showing racer-bra-wearing blond-ponytail-waving mothers that I was out of my element. But I did not heed my inner alarm and proceeded to class anyway, where I was instructed by similar women to drag out all the equipment I would need from the closet at the other end of the room. I’ve never been in a medieval dungeon, but I’m sure the torture devices had to be similar in nature. Hand weights, resistance bands, weighted body bars, step risers, and floor mats. All for a one-hour class. I guessed at what I needed, based on the amount of weight I was using at home, and created my own little space in a spot I hoped would be inconspicuous, should I need to pass out or fall to the floor in a heap.
Our instructor bounced in, and I hated her instantly. She was perfect. Blonde. Tan. The perfect body—probably about five-foot-ten and buff. Not an ounce of fat anywhere. Did I mention I hated her? So, in she bounced, clapping her hands and hopping about with a more enthusiasm than any one person should be allowed to generate, let alone subject others to. The woman did everything with a bounce or a hop. Every step, every movement, everything. I believe I mentioned I hated her.
And that was before she began to torture us.
There was no warm up. Not for me, at any rate. For the 15-20 women who looked as if they could teach the class, I’m sure it was an actual warm up. For the 5-10 of us who actually looked like we needed the class, we hit the ground running and our poor little hearts just never had the chance to catch up.
I have never known such pain in my life, outside of child-bearing, which did not, for the most part, require the use of the muscles in my legs that are now crying for mercy at every turn, bend, and lift. About a fifth of the way through, my legs began to burn. A fourth of the way through, they were quivering. A third of the way through, I abandoned all pride and walked past the entire class and declared my not-in-shapeness by trading my weights for a lighter set, so as to not collapse before we even got to the half-way point. When faced with the choice between shaming myself and dying, I decided shame was an option I was much more comfortable with, and, quite frankly, much more used to.
My only consolation was that I was not the only one who couldn’t keep up. The 40-year-old and the 50-year-old and the one that was 50 pounds overweight couldn’t either. It was a small comfort, but a comfort nonetheless. At least I was not alone.
I struggled through the best I could, trying to keep up whenever possible while also trying to not pass out or throw up. Finally, we got to the cool down, which really was a cool down, and I laid there on the floor, sweaty and panting and weak, and nearly cried. I hate working out. I hate it with a passion. I love sitting. Sitting and reading, sitting and writing, sitting. Walking and hiking are okay, but only if they include or culminate in sitting. Physical exertion is just not my thing.
At home, when I work out with the weights, I have to confess that I often do conclude my workout with tears—partially because the point at which I reach cool down coincides with a couple of songs on my Rita Springer CD that just really move me, but, to be honest, I really am crying because I hate what I’m doing and I know I have no choice and I hate that I have no choice. And I feel weak and spent and tired. Tired of the fight, tired of the pushing through, tired of the work out that is the life-long battle with my body. And so I cry. Usually. But not today.
Today, I pull my sweaty, quivering body up off the floor and go to pick up my son from childcare, who literally wants picked up. I try to explain to him that if Momma picks him up she will die, but he doesn’t understand. He throws himself on the floor, his mere 25 pounds mocking me, but considering I’ve just tortured myself, I refuse to take the bait. I coax his whiney body out to the car where my yogurt smoothie is waiting and I chug it down so that I can muster the wherewithal to drive home and remain conscious. And I wonder all the way back what the heck I’ve gotten myself into.
I went to the class willingly. I did this to myself. I’d say I don’t know what on earth I was thinking, but I really do. I was thinking about ten more pounds, about maintaining the monumental amount lost, about burning fat and building strength and all sorts of that horrible, torturous stuff they tell me is good for my body yet feels like crap. I know, in my intellect, that it is good to be strong, to be healthy, to be fit. I just wish it felt as good as sitting.
So, I suppose, in this case, that it is true—that which doesn’t kill me will make me stronger.
The problem is, I’m not entirely certain that it won’t kill me…
I began a new aerobics class today. Now, I’ve already mentioned that I’ve lost 65 pounds in the last one and a half years, so you have to assume that I’ve been exercising at least a little during that time, and to lose that large of an amount, probably more than just a little. And that is true. I walk an insane amount of miles at what I’ve been told is a “kick ass” pace, and I do a workout with hand weights at home. I figured I was up to this “intermediate” level class.
I was wrong. Alas, five to seven kick-ass walks a week and three nights of go-at-your-own-pace hand weights does not an aerobics-class-champion make.
I thought I was going to die.
Really. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
I should have known, from the moment I dropped my son off in childcare amidst all the muscle-showing racer-bra-wearing blond-ponytail-waving mothers that I was out of my element. But I did not heed my inner alarm and proceeded to class anyway, where I was instructed by similar women to drag out all the equipment I would need from the closet at the other end of the room. I’ve never been in a medieval dungeon, but I’m sure the torture devices had to be similar in nature. Hand weights, resistance bands, weighted body bars, step risers, and floor mats. All for a one-hour class. I guessed at what I needed, based on the amount of weight I was using at home, and created my own little space in a spot I hoped would be inconspicuous, should I need to pass out or fall to the floor in a heap.
Our instructor bounced in, and I hated her instantly. She was perfect. Blonde. Tan. The perfect body—probably about five-foot-ten and buff. Not an ounce of fat anywhere. Did I mention I hated her? So, in she bounced, clapping her hands and hopping about with a more enthusiasm than any one person should be allowed to generate, let alone subject others to. The woman did everything with a bounce or a hop. Every step, every movement, everything. I believe I mentioned I hated her.
And that was before she began to torture us.
There was no warm up. Not for me, at any rate. For the 15-20 women who looked as if they could teach the class, I’m sure it was an actual warm up. For the 5-10 of us who actually looked like we needed the class, we hit the ground running and our poor little hearts just never had the chance to catch up.
I have never known such pain in my life, outside of child-bearing, which did not, for the most part, require the use of the muscles in my legs that are now crying for mercy at every turn, bend, and lift. About a fifth of the way through, my legs began to burn. A fourth of the way through, they were quivering. A third of the way through, I abandoned all pride and walked past the entire class and declared my not-in-shapeness by trading my weights for a lighter set, so as to not collapse before we even got to the half-way point. When faced with the choice between shaming myself and dying, I decided shame was an option I was much more comfortable with, and, quite frankly, much more used to.
My only consolation was that I was not the only one who couldn’t keep up. The 40-year-old and the 50-year-old and the one that was 50 pounds overweight couldn’t either. It was a small comfort, but a comfort nonetheless. At least I was not alone.
I struggled through the best I could, trying to keep up whenever possible while also trying to not pass out or throw up. Finally, we got to the cool down, which really was a cool down, and I laid there on the floor, sweaty and panting and weak, and nearly cried. I hate working out. I hate it with a passion. I love sitting. Sitting and reading, sitting and writing, sitting. Walking and hiking are okay, but only if they include or culminate in sitting. Physical exertion is just not my thing.
At home, when I work out with the weights, I have to confess that I often do conclude my workout with tears—partially because the point at which I reach cool down coincides with a couple of songs on my Rita Springer CD that just really move me, but, to be honest, I really am crying because I hate what I’m doing and I know I have no choice and I hate that I have no choice. And I feel weak and spent and tired. Tired of the fight, tired of the pushing through, tired of the work out that is the life-long battle with my body. And so I cry. Usually. But not today.
Today, I pull my sweaty, quivering body up off the floor and go to pick up my son from childcare, who literally wants picked up. I try to explain to him that if Momma picks him up she will die, but he doesn’t understand. He throws himself on the floor, his mere 25 pounds mocking me, but considering I’ve just tortured myself, I refuse to take the bait. I coax his whiney body out to the car where my yogurt smoothie is waiting and I chug it down so that I can muster the wherewithal to drive home and remain conscious. And I wonder all the way back what the heck I’ve gotten myself into.
I went to the class willingly. I did this to myself. I’d say I don’t know what on earth I was thinking, but I really do. I was thinking about ten more pounds, about maintaining the monumental amount lost, about burning fat and building strength and all sorts of that horrible, torturous stuff they tell me is good for my body yet feels like crap. I know, in my intellect, that it is good to be strong, to be healthy, to be fit. I just wish it felt as good as sitting.
So, I suppose, in this case, that it is true—that which doesn’t kill me will make me stronger.
The problem is, I’m not entirely certain that it won’t kill me…
finally approaching a well-watered place
Bless our God, oh peoples!
Give him a thunderous welcome!
Didn’t he set us on the road to life?
Didn’t he keep us out of the ditch?
He trained us first,
passed us like silver through refining fires,
Brought us into hardscrabble country,
pushed us to our very limit,
Road-tested us inside and out,
took us to hell and back;
Finally he brought us
to this well-watered place.
Psalm 66, The Message
Give him a thunderous welcome!
Didn’t he set us on the road to life?
Didn’t he keep us out of the ditch?
He trained us first,
passed us like silver through refining fires,
Brought us into hardscrabble country,
pushed us to our very limit,
Road-tested us inside and out,
took us to hell and back;
Finally he brought us
to this well-watered place.
Psalm 66, The Message
Sunday, September 11, 2005
My daughter's quilt...
...is finally finished. She had the great idea of making her week at Grandma's this summer a "Quilt Camp." They had a great time and she took part in every bit of the process. Then my mother had the great idea of sending the unfinished project home with my daughter for ME to finish. I don't know what the heck she was thinking--the woman KNOWS me. I don't finish things well. She's asked my daughter EVERY week since then, "Does Momma have your quilt done yet?" I began resorting to high school tactics to get her off my back... "Almost," I would answer, as it sat in the bag, untouched. I didn't really lie... it was almost done.
So, at any rate, TWO MONTHS LATER, her first quilt is complete. She drew all the pictures herself, picked out all the fabrics, sewed it and tied it, and Momma (finally) basted the edges. At least, I think I basted the edges. I can't remember, for the life of me, what that two-hour-long tedious process is actually called in the quilting world. I sewed it all up good, at any rate!
If you're ever over, be sure to check it out! We did a great job!
Friendship Girls Overnight
Thirty first grade girls and their mothers, and a multitude of horses and various other smelly creatures... campfires and smores and hayrides and barn dances... bunk beds and sleeping bags and sleeping aids so as to actually SLEEP... friendships developed, both young and old alike.
A good time was had by all!
Friday, September 09, 2005
confessions
I haven’t watched a single bit of the news about the hurricane. I check the headlines when I check my email, but I have not been able to bring myself to sit, glued to the television, for hours on end. Between the obvious, heart-wrenching devastation and the nauseating political posturing, it is just more than I can bear to subject myself to.
When 9/11 happened, I was glued to the television, around the clock, for days, if not weeks. I can’t do it again. I sobbed for days—depression lingered for months. I don’t expect you to feel sorry for me. I lost nothing that day. But I felt it all, nonetheless.
Africa. India. China. Indonesia. South America. New Orleans. I avoid them, shamefully looking away, shielding my heart from the contagiousness of their suffering. Shielding my heart from feeling what they feel—from feeling, indeed, at all.
I’ve lived my life this way for far too long—partially a result of the fear of man that plagues me from time to time, whispering in my ear, again, that I am “too much.” The sensitivity I feel is too much for myself sometimes, let alone those who don’t understand it. But more directly it is a result of conditioning over time—a child whose hand has been burned is not quick to work at the stove again. Self-protection has taught me to turn down the dial on the emotional burner to “low” in an effort not to repeat injury. Movies, news, reality—all avoided in an effort to protect my heart and maintain the illusion that it is whole.
But the truth is, I really want my heart to be broken—for friends, for children, for the poor, the lost, the needy. For orphans in Africa and victims of the sex slave trade in Central America and refugees from all walks of life, including my own. For friends in hard marriages and friends without marriages and friends who just can’t get their heads above water. For clients and coworkers and co-laborers in Christ—I want to lay my heart before the Lord and ask, Here it is. Please break it as yours is broken.
But oh, the risk in that prayer. Can I really bear to have the heart of Christ for the world? I can hardly bear having the heart of Christ for my own children, let alone a big, miserable globe full of them, hearts broken, bodied broken, lives broken. Wounds that will not heal. I have not asked yet, I am ashamed to say. But you’ll know when I do.
Believe me, you’ll know when I do…
When 9/11 happened, I was glued to the television, around the clock, for days, if not weeks. I can’t do it again. I sobbed for days—depression lingered for months. I don’t expect you to feel sorry for me. I lost nothing that day. But I felt it all, nonetheless.
Africa. India. China. Indonesia. South America. New Orleans. I avoid them, shamefully looking away, shielding my heart from the contagiousness of their suffering. Shielding my heart from feeling what they feel—from feeling, indeed, at all.
I’ve lived my life this way for far too long—partially a result of the fear of man that plagues me from time to time, whispering in my ear, again, that I am “too much.” The sensitivity I feel is too much for myself sometimes, let alone those who don’t understand it. But more directly it is a result of conditioning over time—a child whose hand has been burned is not quick to work at the stove again. Self-protection has taught me to turn down the dial on the emotional burner to “low” in an effort not to repeat injury. Movies, news, reality—all avoided in an effort to protect my heart and maintain the illusion that it is whole.
But the truth is, I really want my heart to be broken—for friends, for children, for the poor, the lost, the needy. For orphans in Africa and victims of the sex slave trade in Central America and refugees from all walks of life, including my own. For friends in hard marriages and friends without marriages and friends who just can’t get their heads above water. For clients and coworkers and co-laborers in Christ—I want to lay my heart before the Lord and ask, Here it is. Please break it as yours is broken.
But oh, the risk in that prayer. Can I really bear to have the heart of Christ for the world? I can hardly bear having the heart of Christ for my own children, let alone a big, miserable globe full of them, hearts broken, bodied broken, lives broken. Wounds that will not heal. I have not asked yet, I am ashamed to say. But you’ll know when I do.
Believe me, you’ll know when I do…
Wednesday, September 07, 2005
broken hearts and wayward balloons
I thought it was tied to his wrist. At second glance, there was, indeed, still remnants of the ribbon tied securely in place, but somehow it had gotten severed getting him out of the carseat. The balloon was gone before I could do anything about it. Crap, I thought, this is just great. I decided to try a chipper approach, hoping to affect his response for the better. "Look, bud! There goes your balloon! It's going to fly away!" Chipper didn't work.
He looked at it, dumbfounded for a moment as it became smaller and smaller. The confusion on his face began to turn downward as the realization of what just happened sank in. "I want it to come back," he cried, tentatively at first. "I want it to come back!" As the full impact of the loss hit his two-and-a-half-year-old heart, he began to sob. "Get it, Momma! Get it!" If only I could.
I rubbed his heaving little back, feeling the full impact of his sorrow against my chest. I struggled not to tear up, all the while recognizing it is not rational for me to tear up about my son's lost balloon. But this is how motherhood is for me. Lost balloons and skinned knees and missed parties and hurtful words on the playground--I feel them all.
I try to tell myself that it is only natural that a child who felt things deeply would grow to be an adult who feels things just as deeply. Despite many years spent trying not to feel at all, I cannot deny who I am. I cannot deny that my heart breaks for broken hearts and wayward balloons, for invitations not received and parties canceled due to illness, for disappointments and unmet expectations and things just not being fair. Their hearts break, and mine breaks with them.
We watch the balloon until we can no longer find its blue against the clear September sky. I wipe his tears, and we go inside to put the groceries away, resolving to be sure the next balloon is still attached next time. This wound will heal. Thank you, Lord, that this wound will heal.
He looked at it, dumbfounded for a moment as it became smaller and smaller. The confusion on his face began to turn downward as the realization of what just happened sank in. "I want it to come back," he cried, tentatively at first. "I want it to come back!" As the full impact of the loss hit his two-and-a-half-year-old heart, he began to sob. "Get it, Momma! Get it!" If only I could.
I rubbed his heaving little back, feeling the full impact of his sorrow against my chest. I struggled not to tear up, all the while recognizing it is not rational for me to tear up about my son's lost balloon. But this is how motherhood is for me. Lost balloons and skinned knees and missed parties and hurtful words on the playground--I feel them all.
I try to tell myself that it is only natural that a child who felt things deeply would grow to be an adult who feels things just as deeply. Despite many years spent trying not to feel at all, I cannot deny who I am. I cannot deny that my heart breaks for broken hearts and wayward balloons, for invitations not received and parties canceled due to illness, for disappointments and unmet expectations and things just not being fair. Their hearts break, and mine breaks with them.
We watch the balloon until we can no longer find its blue against the clear September sky. I wipe his tears, and we go inside to put the groceries away, resolving to be sure the next balloon is still attached next time. This wound will heal. Thank you, Lord, that this wound will heal.
Tuesday, September 06, 2005
bad day at work
Some days, it is all I can do to not curl up next to a client on the couch and draw them into my lap like I do my daughter, stroking their hair and letting them cry until they are spent. Some days, it is all I can do not to go after their fathers, their mothers, their husbands, their wives, their boyfriends, their babysitters, their classmates and wring justice from them like a sponge. Some days, it is all I can do to look them in the eye and answer, “I don’t know why God allowed ______________ to happen to you/your husband/your father/your daughter, but it sure sucks.” Some days, it is all I can do not to go charging up to God’s front door and bang on it until it opens, demanding those answers myself.
Some days, it is all I can do not to hang up the towel and believe that I have nothing to offer these people. And so I sit with them in their pain and I cry out to God for the sins committed against them and I offer to them all that I have that is worth offering and they take it or they leave it. Grace. Forgiveness. Repentance. Peace. Acceptance. Salvation. God.
Some days, it is all I can do.
Some days, it is all I can do not to hang up the towel and believe that I have nothing to offer these people. And so I sit with them in their pain and I cry out to God for the sins committed against them and I offer to them all that I have that is worth offering and they take it or they leave it. Grace. Forgiveness. Repentance. Peace. Acceptance. Salvation. God.
Some days, it is all I can do.
Monday, September 05, 2005
as but in a mirror dimly...
I used to think truth was eternal, that one I knew, once I saw, it would be with me forever, a constant by which everything else could be measured. I know now that this isn't so, that most truths are inherently unretainable, that we have to work hard all our lives to remember the most basic things. Society is no help. It tells us again and again that we can most be ourselves by acting and looking like someone else, only to leave our original faces behind to turn into ghosts that will inevitably resent and haunt us. As I sat there in the cafe, it suddenly occurred to me that it is no mistake when sometimes in films and literature the dead know they are dead only after being offered that most irrefutable proof: they can no longer see themselves in the mirror.
Lucy Grealy, Autobiography of a Face
Lucy Grealy, Autobiography of a Face
20:20
My hubby ran his 5K today--first race he's run since HS. His goal was to break 21 minutes and finish in the top third. His time is above, and we think he actually made the top quarter. "I'm beat--but that was AWESOME!" he panted from beyond the finish line with a big ol' smile on his face. Way to go, babe.
Almost two hundred runners, only one person wins. But the funny thing is this-- for all I could tell, only about ten of them were running to WIN. The rest of them were running to run--running to beat not the guy in front of them, but to beat the voice inside themselves that said they couldn't do it. Ten-year-old girls, 60-year-old women, 75-year old men, all excited just to finish the race and possibly beat their own best time.
I will never run a 5K. I will never win the Noble Peace Prize for literature. I will never receive a Caldecott or a Newbury. For all I know, I may never even be published in my lifetime, or ever. There are many "prizes" in this world that will never be within my reach... but if I can beat the voice in my head that says You can't do it, I will have won all that is worth winning.
Do you not know that in a race all the runners run, but only one gets the prize? Run in such a way as to get the prize. 2 Cor 9:24
Almost two hundred runners, only one person wins. But the funny thing is this-- for all I could tell, only about ten of them were running to WIN. The rest of them were running to run--running to beat not the guy in front of them, but to beat the voice inside themselves that said they couldn't do it. Ten-year-old girls, 60-year-old women, 75-year old men, all excited just to finish the race and possibly beat their own best time.
I will never run a 5K. I will never win the Noble Peace Prize for literature. I will never receive a Caldecott or a Newbury. For all I know, I may never even be published in my lifetime, or ever. There are many "prizes" in this world that will never be within my reach... but if I can beat the voice in my head that says You can't do it, I will have won all that is worth winning.
Do you not know that in a race all the runners run, but only one gets the prize? Run in such a way as to get the prize. 2 Cor 9:24
Friday, September 02, 2005
walking
The pond is almost pretty in the morning light, steam sliding across its silvery surface. Somewhere near the middle, ripples reflect early morning rays—sunlight in its liquid form. The shocking-blue expanse of sky is wide and clear and bright—it is officially going to be a beautiful day.
Along the gray-gravel path, purple something-or-others line up next to white something-or-others next to yellow something-or-others, all against a backdrop comprised of at least six hues of rich, deep green. A blue swallowtail falteringly flutters by, a broken corner of its wing revealing the reason for its plight. We ooh and aah at the striking-ness of iridescent blue on black, and I coax it for but a moment onto my finger, before it falters away again.
The morning is, indeed, beautiful. Normally, such mornings bring great joy to me, especially now that they are growing more temperate again. But all I can think of, as my feet crunch-crunch-crunch in their steady pace along the path, is how much I still hate to do what I’m there to do.
I find no joy in exercise, particularly when done alone, and I must further confess that I think all of those who do are weird, sadistic freaks at the very least. I don’t get it. My husband is one of those freaks. He’s running a 5K on Labor Day. He runs for fun. I run if I’m being chased, say, by a bear or an attacker. Needless to say, fortunately, I don’t do much running.
I try not to think about walking, pressing my pace, pushing my son, prodding myself to go another lap around the pond. I catch a whiff of an almost-fall smell and I am momentarily distracted, caught up in warm autumn-glow thoughts of the upcoming change of seasons. I try not to think about the discomfort, the resistance, the sheer boredom of it all. I try to think, instead, of nearly 70 pounds lost and five more to go. It is enough to make me keep walking, but never enough to make me enjoy it.
I round a corner, entering the two-thirds of the trail that are blessedly embraced by cool, tender shade. The breeze caresses my sweat-streaked face, kindly and gently reviving me if but for a moment. I assure my son that we will NOT go around the pond again, all the while feeling a twinge of guilt for not wanting to.
We conclude our morning by feeding the inhabitants of the pond—whole wheat bread because Josie told us that white bread is bad for ducks, and we are fresh out of cracked corn. It is my son’s reward for doing absolutely nothing but enjoy the ride that my manpower provided, and for doing it quietly. He quickly develops a rhythm—charging me for the morsels I dole out sparingly as the ducks follow at his heels, hungry for the entire loaf. Then he turns, charging the water, and the ducks momentarily scatter, then quickly swarm the two-foot radius around his body where his throwing reach extends. The pattern continues until our hands are empty.
This back and forth—it is where I have lived with my weight, with food, with exercise. I vacillate between wanting to sit in the grass with them all gathered around me, eating out of my hand, saying “Can’t we all just coexist without fear and stampeding?” and longing to cast it all out into the middle of the pond where they can never snap at my toes again. I don’t want to exercise. I have to. For the rest of my life. My husband says, in his “well, DUH” kind of way, that we all do. I think he’s mocking me. I don’t want to accept his statement. I try to anyway. I long to like exercise, to not merely tolerate it or, worse, view it as torture.
Bread gone, the ducks retreat, muttering under their breath about the lack of cracked corn. I watch them go, my anxious thoughts leaving with them. Another day down, an undetermined number yet to go. I will take them one beautiful, bright-blue morning at a time, praying for the day I finally wake up and think, “I can’t wait to work out today.”
Along the gray-gravel path, purple something-or-others line up next to white something-or-others next to yellow something-or-others, all against a backdrop comprised of at least six hues of rich, deep green. A blue swallowtail falteringly flutters by, a broken corner of its wing revealing the reason for its plight. We ooh and aah at the striking-ness of iridescent blue on black, and I coax it for but a moment onto my finger, before it falters away again.
The morning is, indeed, beautiful. Normally, such mornings bring great joy to me, especially now that they are growing more temperate again. But all I can think of, as my feet crunch-crunch-crunch in their steady pace along the path, is how much I still hate to do what I’m there to do.
I find no joy in exercise, particularly when done alone, and I must further confess that I think all of those who do are weird, sadistic freaks at the very least. I don’t get it. My husband is one of those freaks. He’s running a 5K on Labor Day. He runs for fun. I run if I’m being chased, say, by a bear or an attacker. Needless to say, fortunately, I don’t do much running.
I try not to think about walking, pressing my pace, pushing my son, prodding myself to go another lap around the pond. I catch a whiff of an almost-fall smell and I am momentarily distracted, caught up in warm autumn-glow thoughts of the upcoming change of seasons. I try not to think about the discomfort, the resistance, the sheer boredom of it all. I try to think, instead, of nearly 70 pounds lost and five more to go. It is enough to make me keep walking, but never enough to make me enjoy it.
I round a corner, entering the two-thirds of the trail that are blessedly embraced by cool, tender shade. The breeze caresses my sweat-streaked face, kindly and gently reviving me if but for a moment. I assure my son that we will NOT go around the pond again, all the while feeling a twinge of guilt for not wanting to.
We conclude our morning by feeding the inhabitants of the pond—whole wheat bread because Josie told us that white bread is bad for ducks, and we are fresh out of cracked corn. It is my son’s reward for doing absolutely nothing but enjoy the ride that my manpower provided, and for doing it quietly. He quickly develops a rhythm—charging me for the morsels I dole out sparingly as the ducks follow at his heels, hungry for the entire loaf. Then he turns, charging the water, and the ducks momentarily scatter, then quickly swarm the two-foot radius around his body where his throwing reach extends. The pattern continues until our hands are empty.
This back and forth—it is where I have lived with my weight, with food, with exercise. I vacillate between wanting to sit in the grass with them all gathered around me, eating out of my hand, saying “Can’t we all just coexist without fear and stampeding?” and longing to cast it all out into the middle of the pond where they can never snap at my toes again. I don’t want to exercise. I have to. For the rest of my life. My husband says, in his “well, DUH” kind of way, that we all do. I think he’s mocking me. I don’t want to accept his statement. I try to anyway. I long to like exercise, to not merely tolerate it or, worse, view it as torture.
Bread gone, the ducks retreat, muttering under their breath about the lack of cracked corn. I watch them go, my anxious thoughts leaving with them. Another day down, an undetermined number yet to go. I will take them one beautiful, bright-blue morning at a time, praying for the day I finally wake up and think, “I can’t wait to work out today.”
Thursday, September 01, 2005
interesting question...
"Language supplies us with ways to express ever subtler levels of meaning, but does that imply language gives meaning, or robs us of it when we are at a loss to name things?"
Lucy Grealy, Autobiography of a Face
(Which, I might add, is an incredibly good read.)
Lucy Grealy, Autobiography of a Face
(Which, I might add, is an incredibly good read.)
Wednesday, August 31, 2005
at the playground with my son
Like a pinball, he bounces back and forth, velocity building then spending itself then building again. His short, fleshy legs can barely keep up with that which propels him. As he turns to run away from where I sit, I see they can barely keep up his pants as well.
“Be that one, Momma,” he orders, in his high, clipped, “I’m getting wound up” tone, pointing to the two-foot tall rocking-spring horse he apparently wants me to ride. “I’m goin’ faster!” he proclaims, convulsing ridiculously back and forth in his effort to bring his steed to a gallop. He grins at me madly. With orneriness in his wide, dark eyes, he then pronounces his desire for my horse, which he of course just commanded me to sit on. He charges at me, insisting I can take “his” horse. “I wanna be that one! Get off! Get off!” He comes at me yet again, no sooner than I sit down—“You be that one—I be this one.” Cajoling at least a half-hearted “please” out of him this time, I allow him, for at least the next half hour, to have complete control of his life. He exploits the opportunity to its fullest.
We switch again. “Ready, set, go! No! We’re not ready yet! Now! Let’s go NOW!” Back to my horse, over to the whale (two horses and a whale—what kind of stable is this?), now squeaking down the metal slide with his damp, sticky, non-skid body. We stop to remove an ant from his sandal, pausing to let it crawl around ticklishly on my index finger, flitting about as erratically as my toddler. Again I am relegated to a different post, only to have him immediately leave the one I just vacated to take off once more for the misplaced aquatic mammal.
We look so funny. Ants. Toddlers. Mothers. Bouncing around from thing to thing, space to space, activity to activity, our paths erratic and seemingly purposeless, attempting valiantly to assert what little control we can over the world around us.
God is so gracious to allow me to switch horses.
“Be that one, Momma,” he orders, in his high, clipped, “I’m getting wound up” tone, pointing to the two-foot tall rocking-spring horse he apparently wants me to ride. “I’m goin’ faster!” he proclaims, convulsing ridiculously back and forth in his effort to bring his steed to a gallop. He grins at me madly. With orneriness in his wide, dark eyes, he then pronounces his desire for my horse, which he of course just commanded me to sit on. He charges at me, insisting I can take “his” horse. “I wanna be that one! Get off! Get off!” He comes at me yet again, no sooner than I sit down—“You be that one—I be this one.” Cajoling at least a half-hearted “please” out of him this time, I allow him, for at least the next half hour, to have complete control of his life. He exploits the opportunity to its fullest.
We switch again. “Ready, set, go! No! We’re not ready yet! Now! Let’s go NOW!” Back to my horse, over to the whale (two horses and a whale—what kind of stable is this?), now squeaking down the metal slide with his damp, sticky, non-skid body. We stop to remove an ant from his sandal, pausing to let it crawl around ticklishly on my index finger, flitting about as erratically as my toddler. Again I am relegated to a different post, only to have him immediately leave the one I just vacated to take off once more for the misplaced aquatic mammal.
We look so funny. Ants. Toddlers. Mothers. Bouncing around from thing to thing, space to space, activity to activity, our paths erratic and seemingly purposeless, attempting valiantly to assert what little control we can over the world around us.
God is so gracious to allow me to switch horses.
playground survival tip #1
"If you want the boys to leave you alone, just act like you're going to kiss them!"
-My daughter, fifth day of school
-My daughter, fifth day of school
Monday, August 29, 2005
dress rehearsal is over
Opening day for the first full week of school. One half-day read-through, two dry run-throughs, a weekend long dark-out, and today they are off on their first year-long run, stage lights up. It is quiet backstage…
The cast has been assembled since July, but parts were not assigned until the players arrived. The Funny One, The Pretty One, The Loud One, and The Fast One were all cast by the end of the two-and-a-half day week. I’m waiting to get my playbill to determine how my daughter has been cast. There is anxiety in the waiting. There may not be another casting call this year—I hope the role suits her.
The Pretty One will be played this year by Madeleine. Golden-skinned with long, sandy hair and soft, heather-green, gold-ringed eyes, she has already smitten Kyle, The Funny One, who has pledged her his undying love by proclaiming to six or so children in hushed, dramatic tones on the playground that she is his “girlfriend.” He will have to take this up with Pak, who has already similarly pledged to marry her, as that could get complicated. The Tough One will by played by Alyssa, who the Director has placed next to my daughter in the classroom scene. I’m hoping this scene will be reblocked very soon. The Quiet One sits catty-cornered from my daughter, next to Taylor, The Rambunctious One. The one that ran over and picked my daughter up around the knees on the first day of school, nearly sending them both to the black-top in their freshly-pressed uniforms and squeaky-clean Mary Janes. The One That She Doesn’t Talk About sits catty-cornered in the other direction, making for an even six when you count The Funny One. (Who probably should not have been sat next to my daughter, The Giggling One.)
I suspect my daughter is in the running for The Fast One, or at least the alternate or understudy. After soundly beating Dominic—her race-running arch-rival—last year at field day not once but twice, she seems like a shoe-in for the role. It is one I would be much more comfortable with—so much better than The Talking One or The ADHD One, or The Difficult One, to name but a few that have crossed my mind. If I were directing, and I am reminded daily that I am NOT, I would cast her as The Enthusiastic One. Lots of jumping and woohoo-ing and smiling—but The Fast One would be okay.
The twelve-year-old cast as her Teacher appeared tentative of her role, but is growing more confident with each very, very long day. Her smile is infectious, and is especially cute when coupled with the deer-in-the-headlights look she wears from time to time. Warm and engaging, you can’t help but like her, once you get past the fact that a twelve-year-old is teaching your daughter’s most important year of school. But I’m assured that she is a very competent twelve-year-old, and I remind myself that everyone starts from the same place and we all had to have our first role to receive our second. I will try to let the Director do his job and I’ll do mine.
And so, I find myself a Stage Mom. Fifteen years removed from high school and college theater, and it is still, apparently, in my blood. I am uncertain what this role is supposed to look like, but so far, I mostly just hang out with the other Stage Moms and do things like go out for breakfast and volunteer in the cafeteria, trying to keep my mind on opening packages and wiping tables instead of the contents of my daughter’s lunch box or whether or not she’s bleeding yet on the playground. I hope the role will become clearer in time, and that I will have the opportunity to grow into it, making it more uniquely mine. I’ve never been one to be in the chorus or back stage—I’d love to work out a little cameo role here and there. Something short and sweet and a bit of a scene-stealer, if only to share the stage with my daughter for a scene or two.
Unfortunately, though, I’m still having difficulty taking direction. That will undoubtedly work against me. On her first full day, for example, my daughter asked to be dropped off out front. Dropped off, out front. After some quick thinking, I complied with her request, then, feigning calm, pulled around to the back of the building, parked my car, carted out my two-and-a-half-year-old, and stood wiping tears at the edge of the play-ground with all of the other first grade Stage Moms. I tried to do my part, to drop her off and go. But I don’t like my part. I don’t want to be Stage Mom. I want to be the Director. I want to call the shots and block the scenes and arrange the fresnels so that my daughter is always seen in the very best of lighting.
It’s funny, isn’t it? I used to want to be the leading lady. Now my daughter is center stage, and I’d be content if I could only direct.
The cast has been assembled since July, but parts were not assigned until the players arrived. The Funny One, The Pretty One, The Loud One, and The Fast One were all cast by the end of the two-and-a-half day week. I’m waiting to get my playbill to determine how my daughter has been cast. There is anxiety in the waiting. There may not be another casting call this year—I hope the role suits her.
The Pretty One will be played this year by Madeleine. Golden-skinned with long, sandy hair and soft, heather-green, gold-ringed eyes, she has already smitten Kyle, The Funny One, who has pledged her his undying love by proclaiming to six or so children in hushed, dramatic tones on the playground that she is his “girlfriend.” He will have to take this up with Pak, who has already similarly pledged to marry her, as that could get complicated. The Tough One will by played by Alyssa, who the Director has placed next to my daughter in the classroom scene. I’m hoping this scene will be reblocked very soon. The Quiet One sits catty-cornered from my daughter, next to Taylor, The Rambunctious One. The one that ran over and picked my daughter up around the knees on the first day of school, nearly sending them both to the black-top in their freshly-pressed uniforms and squeaky-clean Mary Janes. The One That She Doesn’t Talk About sits catty-cornered in the other direction, making for an even six when you count The Funny One. (Who probably should not have been sat next to my daughter, The Giggling One.)
I suspect my daughter is in the running for The Fast One, or at least the alternate or understudy. After soundly beating Dominic—her race-running arch-rival—last year at field day not once but twice, she seems like a shoe-in for the role. It is one I would be much more comfortable with—so much better than The Talking One or The ADHD One, or The Difficult One, to name but a few that have crossed my mind. If I were directing, and I am reminded daily that I am NOT, I would cast her as The Enthusiastic One. Lots of jumping and woohoo-ing and smiling—but The Fast One would be okay.
The twelve-year-old cast as her Teacher appeared tentative of her role, but is growing more confident with each very, very long day. Her smile is infectious, and is especially cute when coupled with the deer-in-the-headlights look she wears from time to time. Warm and engaging, you can’t help but like her, once you get past the fact that a twelve-year-old is teaching your daughter’s most important year of school. But I’m assured that she is a very competent twelve-year-old, and I remind myself that everyone starts from the same place and we all had to have our first role to receive our second. I will try to let the Director do his job and I’ll do mine.
And so, I find myself a Stage Mom. Fifteen years removed from high school and college theater, and it is still, apparently, in my blood. I am uncertain what this role is supposed to look like, but so far, I mostly just hang out with the other Stage Moms and do things like go out for breakfast and volunteer in the cafeteria, trying to keep my mind on opening packages and wiping tables instead of the contents of my daughter’s lunch box or whether or not she’s bleeding yet on the playground. I hope the role will become clearer in time, and that I will have the opportunity to grow into it, making it more uniquely mine. I’ve never been one to be in the chorus or back stage—I’d love to work out a little cameo role here and there. Something short and sweet and a bit of a scene-stealer, if only to share the stage with my daughter for a scene or two.
Unfortunately, though, I’m still having difficulty taking direction. That will undoubtedly work against me. On her first full day, for example, my daughter asked to be dropped off out front. Dropped off, out front. After some quick thinking, I complied with her request, then, feigning calm, pulled around to the back of the building, parked my car, carted out my two-and-a-half-year-old, and stood wiping tears at the edge of the play-ground with all of the other first grade Stage Moms. I tried to do my part, to drop her off and go. But I don’t like my part. I don’t want to be Stage Mom. I want to be the Director. I want to call the shots and block the scenes and arrange the fresnels so that my daughter is always seen in the very best of lighting.
It’s funny, isn’t it? I used to want to be the leading lady. Now my daughter is center stage, and I’d be content if I could only direct.
Sunday, August 28, 2005
weary
You may have noticed I’ve not been here for a few days. Then again, you may not have. I’ve noticed. I feel it somewhere in my chest, near my throat. Not quite the place where tears start to well up, but close. I am not quite right when I don’t get to write—I feel unsettled, as if everything is out of place. Or as if everything is IN place and it is actually I that is out of place.
This has been a week of misplaced things. I am pooped. My first child started first grade, which, I might add, makes six-and-a-half-year-old-girls EXTREMELY emotional. Oh my God, help me. This week she goes all day, every day. Bedtime will be early. Very early.
On top of that, our church has a quarterly worship service called Mosaic, which is put on by the Arts Ministry. We had one this Friday. Guess who coordinated it? If you guessed the-insane-woman-with-the-child-starting-first-grade-the-same-week, you were correct. The writer’s group I lead was featured, and it was a wonderful evening, although the preparations got a bit stressful. What was even more stressful was that, in addition to coordinating the evening, I worked on a project with my husband that put music and images to the Bearing Fruit poem I wrote. We’ve wanted to do something like this again for quite some time, but I have to be honest, as much as I adore my husband, I can kind of see why we don’t do it more often. Suffice it to say, it did not get started until Monday, and the service was on Friday. Pile on the fact that I worked extra hours this week (like as in 10 hours in one day, back to back), and you’re beginning to get a picture of my week. Finish it off with having to have a heart-breakingly difficult discussion tonight with some very good friends, and I’m pretty much done.
I’m a little fried. And a lot weary.
So I open up God Calling for August 25th, because I’m that far behind in my "daily" quiet time, and I read:
I will follow the Spirit…
I just hope He leaves me some time to write about it.
This has been a week of misplaced things. I am pooped. My first child started first grade, which, I might add, makes six-and-a-half-year-old-girls EXTREMELY emotional. Oh my God, help me. This week she goes all day, every day. Bedtime will be early. Very early.
On top of that, our church has a quarterly worship service called Mosaic, which is put on by the Arts Ministry. We had one this Friday. Guess who coordinated it? If you guessed the-insane-woman-with-the-child-starting-first-grade-the-same-week, you were correct. The writer’s group I lead was featured, and it was a wonderful evening, although the preparations got a bit stressful. What was even more stressful was that, in addition to coordinating the evening, I worked on a project with my husband that put music and images to the Bearing Fruit poem I wrote. We’ve wanted to do something like this again for quite some time, but I have to be honest, as much as I adore my husband, I can kind of see why we don’t do it more often. Suffice it to say, it did not get started until Monday, and the service was on Friday. Pile on the fact that I worked extra hours this week (like as in 10 hours in one day, back to back), and you’re beginning to get a picture of my week. Finish it off with having to have a heart-breakingly difficult discussion tonight with some very good friends, and I’m pretty much done.
I’m a little fried. And a lot weary.
So I open up God Calling for August 25th, because I’m that far behind in my "daily" quiet time, and I read:
A breath of desire and My spirit is there—to replenish and renew. Sometimes weariness and exhaustion are not signs of lack of spirit but of the guiding of the Spirit.
Many wonderful things would not have happened but for the physical weariness, the mind-weariness of My servants, which made the resting apart, the giving up of work, a necessity…
Though My Way may seem a narrow way it yet leads to Life, abundant Life. Follow it. It is not so narrow but that I can tread it beside you.
I will follow the Spirit…
I just hope He leaves me some time to write about it.
Wednesday, August 24, 2005
first day report card
I got a B+. Was fine until the bell rang and they all lined up... Only stayed an hour today--tomorrow is the BIG DAY!!!
Keira got an A. She was awesome! But she can't stop asking "What are you going to pack for my lunch, Momma?" Driving me NUTS!!!
Tomorrow morning, I drop her off, then go to breakfast with all the other pathetic, crying mothers of first-graders. Better be sure to take tissues...
Wish us both luck!
Monday, August 22, 2005
love letters
I made a noble goal that I would write my husband one love letter per month for the entire year this year. The purpose was two-fold, the first obviously being to give him lots of warm fuzzies and good feelings about himself and about me. Very noble, and very sweet. I’m such a good wife. And a good student. I learned in marriage and family therapy school that husbands need warm fuzzies. People end up in therapy if there is a shortage of warm fuzzies. So, I thought I’d better stock up. The second purpose was to give ME lots of warm fuzzies and good feelings, so as to spread the fuzziness around. Wouldn’t want us to end up in therapy. Again.
So, about the end of December of 2004 I went out and plunked down entirely too much money at some ridiculously large bookstore chain to buy each of us attractive little blank-books within which to chronicle our love for one another, because said love was not good enough for ordinary spiral-bound, cardboard-covered notebooks. We found places for them on our nightstands, a small feat within itself, and we began to chronicle the aforementioned love. Fuzziness abounded and we were very cute and sweet, secretly writing letters to one another and placing them on each other’s pillows before bed. Good feelings exuded from us both, and it was all just very precious.
My last entry is dated 03.29.05. Today is 08.22.05. In case your math isn’t real good, that equals “I suck.”
I don’t know what happened. I could lie and tell you the attractive little blank-book fell under the bed and was swallowed by a gigantic hair ball, which has actually been true once or twice, but you would see through my excuses and tell me to get my little fanny under the bed and dig it out. Which is fine except I’m afraid to crawl under my bed because it used to collapse sporadically and despite the fact that it has been fixed for over twenty years I still just don’t trust it. So you could tell me to send my spry six-and-a-half-year-old to her probable death under the bed, but the truth is that, once retrieved, the book would still be sitting in its same perfectly positioned place on the nightstand, unopened, and her heroics would have been in vain. Which is a shame. It really is a very attractive book.
What particularly rubs salt in the wound is that I’ve recently been sorting out some papers and setting aside letters we’ve written to one another to put in the large box I keep labeled “letters we’ve written to one another.” It is another very precious thing, and is bursting to the seams with old letters. Old letters. You would not believe the number of letters we used to write to one another. We had matching notebooks in college, spiral, I might add, that we would write to one another in and pass back and forth. Five-subject notebooks. Full. Apparently, blank-books were not a hot item in the late 1980’s.
Hundreds, literally, of letters. They read to me almost like fiction, now. We used to believe we were so different. Were we? We were so in love, so connected, so open. People would comment on our relationship—we weren’t the only ones who thought our love to be idyllic. We thought we were invulnerable, immune, inpenetratable. Three years of marriage therapy in the mid-1990’s shot that belief to hell. What happened? Were we really any different? Are we now?
I hate this. I hate that I suck. I hate not being who we were in college. I hate being a statistic. I hate that I have pride and resentment and unforgiveness and fear. I hate that I resist being vulnerable. I hate that time is a commodity that seems to balance constantly in the red. I hate that I procrastinate, that I seek my own comfort above all else, that I just don’t feel like it. I hate that I am paving the road to hell with this attractive little blank-book and all its good intentions.
And so, now what? A new goal? A redoubling of my efforts? More guilt and less fuzzies? Or more fuzzies and less guilt? It was such a good goal. I was going to be such a good wife. And the blank-books, well, I just can’t tell you how nice they look on our nightstands. It would be a shame to move them.
Being different. A very noble goal, would that I could attain it.
So, about the end of December of 2004 I went out and plunked down entirely too much money at some ridiculously large bookstore chain to buy each of us attractive little blank-books within which to chronicle our love for one another, because said love was not good enough for ordinary spiral-bound, cardboard-covered notebooks. We found places for them on our nightstands, a small feat within itself, and we began to chronicle the aforementioned love. Fuzziness abounded and we were very cute and sweet, secretly writing letters to one another and placing them on each other’s pillows before bed. Good feelings exuded from us both, and it was all just very precious.
My last entry is dated 03.29.05. Today is 08.22.05. In case your math isn’t real good, that equals “I suck.”
I don’t know what happened. I could lie and tell you the attractive little blank-book fell under the bed and was swallowed by a gigantic hair ball, which has actually been true once or twice, but you would see through my excuses and tell me to get my little fanny under the bed and dig it out. Which is fine except I’m afraid to crawl under my bed because it used to collapse sporadically and despite the fact that it has been fixed for over twenty years I still just don’t trust it. So you could tell me to send my spry six-and-a-half-year-old to her probable death under the bed, but the truth is that, once retrieved, the book would still be sitting in its same perfectly positioned place on the nightstand, unopened, and her heroics would have been in vain. Which is a shame. It really is a very attractive book.
What particularly rubs salt in the wound is that I’ve recently been sorting out some papers and setting aside letters we’ve written to one another to put in the large box I keep labeled “letters we’ve written to one another.” It is another very precious thing, and is bursting to the seams with old letters. Old letters. You would not believe the number of letters we used to write to one another. We had matching notebooks in college, spiral, I might add, that we would write to one another in and pass back and forth. Five-subject notebooks. Full. Apparently, blank-books were not a hot item in the late 1980’s.
Hundreds, literally, of letters. They read to me almost like fiction, now. We used to believe we were so different. Were we? We were so in love, so connected, so open. People would comment on our relationship—we weren’t the only ones who thought our love to be idyllic. We thought we were invulnerable, immune, inpenetratable. Three years of marriage therapy in the mid-1990’s shot that belief to hell. What happened? Were we really any different? Are we now?
I hate this. I hate that I suck. I hate not being who we were in college. I hate being a statistic. I hate that I have pride and resentment and unforgiveness and fear. I hate that I resist being vulnerable. I hate that time is a commodity that seems to balance constantly in the red. I hate that I procrastinate, that I seek my own comfort above all else, that I just don’t feel like it. I hate that I am paving the road to hell with this attractive little blank-book and all its good intentions.
And so, now what? A new goal? A redoubling of my efforts? More guilt and less fuzzies? Or more fuzzies and less guilt? It was such a good goal. I was going to be such a good wife. And the blank-books, well, I just can’t tell you how nice they look on our nightstands. It would be a shame to move them.
Being different. A very noble goal, would that I could attain it.
Saturday, August 20, 2005
tipping scales and flipping coins
"The central struggle of parenthood is to let our hopes for our children outweigh our fears."
Ellen Goodman, American journalist (1941- )
Four days until first grade, and my scale is tipping back and forth violently.
The matching Hello Kitty lunchbox and backpack now both bear her name and wait eagerly by the front door to fulfill their destiny. The school supplies wait less patiently in the plastic bag from within which they first entered my home over a week ago, urging me to likewise label them so that they may finally rendezvous with the backpack and proceed on to their final destination. The folder that contains as many questions as answers sits on the dining room table waiting for instructions to be read and forms to be filled out and commitments to be made. The first-grader-to-be is in her bed—which is an improvement from last night—playing quietly with her stuffed animals and deluding herself into thinking I can’t tell she is still awake at 10:30 PM. The mother of the first-grader-to-be wrestles with her emotions, trying to sort them out enough to put them into words, hoping that peace will come with full sentences and punctuation.
Hope versus fear—it is, indeed, my central struggle. Fear just seems to be naturally heavier—hope appears too light and airy to hold it’s own and tip the scale in its favor. More questions fill my mind than there is room to write or than you would ever care to hear without thinking me completely neurotic, should you miraculously not already. Will the teacher like her? I mean really like her? Will she appreciate her energy and enthusiasm? Will she encourage it or disapprove of it? Or worse yet, disdain it or squelch it? Will my daughter learn easily, or will school be a struggle for her? Will she maintain her joy for life and learning? Will they be quick to slap a life-altering label on her impulsive nature and energy-filled body? Will her classmates like her, or will relationships be difficult? Will she survive the playground, the locker room, the cafeteria? Will she learn the pain of rejection early? Can she handle the lesson? Can I?
Perhaps my fear is so intense because I am aware that the overwhelming love and pride I feel when I regard my daughter has been, in some ways, incredibly hard-earned. For nearly five years I struggled, as her mother, to not only accept her as she is but to embrace her as she is—the strong, passionate, creative, independent daughter I asked for and then was completely overwhelmed by. I adore my daughter. I always have, but now, I am able, for greater and greater periods of time, to enjoy her as well. This place was not arrived at easily—what if her teacher is not willing to make the journey? Or her classmates? Or their parents?
It occurs to me, in my wrestling, that my hopes and fears for my daughter are two sides of the same coin—there is, within her loud, dramatic, energetic package a child of immense promise and potential. Her capacity for joy, her zest for life, her passion and enthusiasm—they amaze me sometimes. Others may not be as enamored. I hope that people will see the good in her. I pray that people will see the good in her. I fear that many will not. And despite the fact that I would lay down my life to spare her the pain of that, there is not a darn thing I can do about it.
The mother of the first-grader-to-be wrestles with her emotions, wiping a tear from her cheek and preparing to shut down her computer for the evening. Nothing will be solved tonight. Four days to go, but at least the scale is balanced for now. Nothing more I can do but commit the outcome to the Lord who was a perfect plan for the soon-to-be-first-grader He loves even more than I do.
I wait for her teacher to flip the coin.
Ellen Goodman, American journalist (1941- )
Four days until first grade, and my scale is tipping back and forth violently.
The matching Hello Kitty lunchbox and backpack now both bear her name and wait eagerly by the front door to fulfill their destiny. The school supplies wait less patiently in the plastic bag from within which they first entered my home over a week ago, urging me to likewise label them so that they may finally rendezvous with the backpack and proceed on to their final destination. The folder that contains as many questions as answers sits on the dining room table waiting for instructions to be read and forms to be filled out and commitments to be made. The first-grader-to-be is in her bed—which is an improvement from last night—playing quietly with her stuffed animals and deluding herself into thinking I can’t tell she is still awake at 10:30 PM. The mother of the first-grader-to-be wrestles with her emotions, trying to sort them out enough to put them into words, hoping that peace will come with full sentences and punctuation.
Hope versus fear—it is, indeed, my central struggle. Fear just seems to be naturally heavier—hope appears too light and airy to hold it’s own and tip the scale in its favor. More questions fill my mind than there is room to write or than you would ever care to hear without thinking me completely neurotic, should you miraculously not already. Will the teacher like her? I mean really like her? Will she appreciate her energy and enthusiasm? Will she encourage it or disapprove of it? Or worse yet, disdain it or squelch it? Will my daughter learn easily, or will school be a struggle for her? Will she maintain her joy for life and learning? Will they be quick to slap a life-altering label on her impulsive nature and energy-filled body? Will her classmates like her, or will relationships be difficult? Will she survive the playground, the locker room, the cafeteria? Will she learn the pain of rejection early? Can she handle the lesson? Can I?
Perhaps my fear is so intense because I am aware that the overwhelming love and pride I feel when I regard my daughter has been, in some ways, incredibly hard-earned. For nearly five years I struggled, as her mother, to not only accept her as she is but to embrace her as she is—the strong, passionate, creative, independent daughter I asked for and then was completely overwhelmed by. I adore my daughter. I always have, but now, I am able, for greater and greater periods of time, to enjoy her as well. This place was not arrived at easily—what if her teacher is not willing to make the journey? Or her classmates? Or their parents?
It occurs to me, in my wrestling, that my hopes and fears for my daughter are two sides of the same coin—there is, within her loud, dramatic, energetic package a child of immense promise and potential. Her capacity for joy, her zest for life, her passion and enthusiasm—they amaze me sometimes. Others may not be as enamored. I hope that people will see the good in her. I pray that people will see the good in her. I fear that many will not. And despite the fact that I would lay down my life to spare her the pain of that, there is not a darn thing I can do about it.
The mother of the first-grader-to-be wrestles with her emotions, wiping a tear from her cheek and preparing to shut down her computer for the evening. Nothing will be solved tonight. Four days to go, but at least the scale is balanced for now. Nothing more I can do but commit the outcome to the Lord who was a perfect plan for the soon-to-be-first-grader He loves even more than I do.
I wait for her teacher to flip the coin.
get behind me, oreos
If Oreos are heavenly, then is the weight gain an attack of the devil that I can rebuke? No. It is a door I opened with a choice and I must close it with a choice.
From If...Then by Kathy Gabler, taken from SEEC magazine
From If...Then by Kathy Gabler, taken from SEEC magazine
Thursday, August 18, 2005
rejoicing in the way
From God Calling, August 18th
You know the difference between taking a glad, loving, joy-springing child with you along a way, when the child anticipates each direction, accepts naturally each decision as to each turning—and the child who resists, and, rebellious, has to be forced, even though in its quieter moments it may say, “Yes. I do want to go with you. I cannot be left alone, but I hate this way.”
It is not the way, but the loving rejoicing in the way and the guidance, that matters with my disciples.
God regularly shows me my heart through the actions of my children—my son, sprawled on the floor, kicking both feet in unison, tears of frustration and rebellion flowing down over the “NO! I don’t WANT to!” spewing from his lips. My daughter, questioning every command, every request, every directive. My son, again in tears, repeatedly throwing his body against the offensive door closed before him, sobbing, “I want! I want! I want!” My daughter, sighing, pouting, rolling her eyes, talking back to me in her whiney “But MOM!” tone, half obeying, half rebelling in her final response.
I am no different. I am just more quiet about it, tending to avoid the floor.
When will I finally become more mature than my children?
You know the difference between taking a glad, loving, joy-springing child with you along a way, when the child anticipates each direction, accepts naturally each decision as to each turning—and the child who resists, and, rebellious, has to be forced, even though in its quieter moments it may say, “Yes. I do want to go with you. I cannot be left alone, but I hate this way.”
It is not the way, but the loving rejoicing in the way and the guidance, that matters with my disciples.
God regularly shows me my heart through the actions of my children—my son, sprawled on the floor, kicking both feet in unison, tears of frustration and rebellion flowing down over the “NO! I don’t WANT to!” spewing from his lips. My daughter, questioning every command, every request, every directive. My son, again in tears, repeatedly throwing his body against the offensive door closed before him, sobbing, “I want! I want! I want!” My daughter, sighing, pouting, rolling her eyes, talking back to me in her whiney “But MOM!” tone, half obeying, half rebelling in her final response.
I am no different. I am just more quiet about it, tending to avoid the floor.
When will I finally become more mature than my children?
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
things that amaze me
The trust of a six-year-old when put at the edge of twelve feet of water for the first time ever and told to jump into the arms of a complete stranger waiting below.
The unrestrained excitement of a fourteen-month-old placed in front of a living picture window full of colorful marine life and a lady in an odd suit blowing bubbles and making the funny floaty-things go crazy.
The joyful tenacity of a two-and-a-half-year-old climbing on and off your lap and on and off your leg and on and off the ledge and on and off your foot at least 50 or 60 times in a ten-minute span.
The silent, seething irritation that grows as your two-and-a-half-year-old climbs on and off your lap and on and off your leg and on and off the ledge and on and off your foot at least 50 or 60 times in a ten-minute span.
The thrill, for young and old alike, of waving at everyone from the carousel and feeling as if the whole world is watching and waving and smiling back at you and you alone.
The simple joys of life—watching your daughter sink or swim, going to the zoo with Grandad, hearing your children make music, sharing moments with family—and the privilege of being granted them for yet another day.
Amazing.
The unrestrained excitement of a fourteen-month-old placed in front of a living picture window full of colorful marine life and a lady in an odd suit blowing bubbles and making the funny floaty-things go crazy.
The joyful tenacity of a two-and-a-half-year-old climbing on and off your lap and on and off your leg and on and off the ledge and on and off your foot at least 50 or 60 times in a ten-minute span.
The silent, seething irritation that grows as your two-and-a-half-year-old climbs on and off your lap and on and off your leg and on and off the ledge and on and off your foot at least 50 or 60 times in a ten-minute span.
The thrill, for young and old alike, of waving at everyone from the carousel and feeling as if the whole world is watching and waving and smiling back at you and you alone.
The simple joys of life—watching your daughter sink or swim, going to the zoo with Grandad, hearing your children make music, sharing moments with family—and the privilege of being granted them for yet another day.
Amazing.
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
cold and wet
This began as a response to our free-writing prompt at group last night, then I added a few paragraphs tonight… just playing around and thought I’d share it. The prompt was, “it weighed on her like…”
It weighed on her like fresh, wet snow—the kind that comes freakishly out of nowhere in the middle of October and completely shocks your system before allowing one more week or so of Indian summer to ease your internal thermometer into winter. She could feel the tension—her boughs bending under the weight, poised to snap back upward in rebellion should gravity (or warmth) finally relieve her of her load. Seasons all out of whack—weather running amuck—life in chaos. Where was the comfortable predictability of winter-spring-summer-fall? But nothing was comfortable now. Nothing was predictable. Like snow in October, life could dump on you whenever it darn well felt like it…
It was the shock of it more than anything—waking up to find herself six inches deep in cold, wet, slushy life. Not what she’d expected. Then again, little was as she’d expected. Life, seasons, weather—was there nothing she could count on anymore?
This was to be the autumn of her life. Golden twilight against crisp apple reds, jack-o-lantern oranges, goldenrod yellows—casting long shadows against the warm honey glow of the day’s final moments. A time of refreshing after a long, hot, laborious summer season, and a time for one last fling in the amber sun and the crisp breeze before winter charged through like the hounds of hell on the tail of Satan himself. She knew. She knew the snow was coming. Life in Ohio had a certain inevitability about it—the snow would be coming. But oh, for one more fair fall weekend…
Big thick flakes dropped one by one onto her branches, each one sticking, clumping together in their not-quite-cold-enough-but-not-quite-warm-enough state, adding their weight to her already bent over frame. If only she’d paid attention to the forecast. But seeing as she’d never trusted the weatherman before, the diagnosis would still have caught her completely off guard.
And what good are snow boots, really, when the prognosis is terminal?
Might as well lob a few snowballs at the sky and let her feet get good and cold and wet…
It weighed on her like fresh, wet snow—the kind that comes freakishly out of nowhere in the middle of October and completely shocks your system before allowing one more week or so of Indian summer to ease your internal thermometer into winter. She could feel the tension—her boughs bending under the weight, poised to snap back upward in rebellion should gravity (or warmth) finally relieve her of her load. Seasons all out of whack—weather running amuck—life in chaos. Where was the comfortable predictability of winter-spring-summer-fall? But nothing was comfortable now. Nothing was predictable. Like snow in October, life could dump on you whenever it darn well felt like it…
It was the shock of it more than anything—waking up to find herself six inches deep in cold, wet, slushy life. Not what she’d expected. Then again, little was as she’d expected. Life, seasons, weather—was there nothing she could count on anymore?
This was to be the autumn of her life. Golden twilight against crisp apple reds, jack-o-lantern oranges, goldenrod yellows—casting long shadows against the warm honey glow of the day’s final moments. A time of refreshing after a long, hot, laborious summer season, and a time for one last fling in the amber sun and the crisp breeze before winter charged through like the hounds of hell on the tail of Satan himself. She knew. She knew the snow was coming. Life in Ohio had a certain inevitability about it—the snow would be coming. But oh, for one more fair fall weekend…
Big thick flakes dropped one by one onto her branches, each one sticking, clumping together in their not-quite-cold-enough-but-not-quite-warm-enough state, adding their weight to her already bent over frame. If only she’d paid attention to the forecast. But seeing as she’d never trusted the weatherman before, the diagnosis would still have caught her completely off guard.
And what good are snow boots, really, when the prognosis is terminal?
Might as well lob a few snowballs at the sky and let her feet get good and cold and wet…
Sunday, August 14, 2005
looks like a good read
The Christian Imagination: The Practice of Faith in Literature and Writing, Edited by Leland Ryken
A collection of essays by some awesome Christian writers, including C.S. Lewis, J.R.R. Tolkien, Madeleine L'Engle, Flannery O'Connor, Annie Dillard, Frederick Buechner, and more! Saw it at our bookstore and HAD to have it--I'll let you know how it is!
A collection of essays by some awesome Christian writers, including C.S. Lewis, J.R.R. Tolkien, Madeleine L'Engle, Flannery O'Connor, Annie Dillard, Frederick Buechner, and more! Saw it at our bookstore and HAD to have it--I'll let you know how it is!
Saturday, August 13, 2005
more than fine
Switchfoot at the Ohio State Fair. Stood on my chair the entire time. It rocked.
Maybe it's because yesterday IS a wrinkle on my forehead. Maybe it's because I feel the tension between "who you are and who you could be." Maybe it's because when they first asked, "this is your life: are you who you wanna be?" it came at the first time in my life that I could honestly and resoundingly answer YES. Whatever the reason, I love this band. I have all four albums so far (fifth comes out a month from today), and there is not a song on them I don't LOVE.
I know I'm not in their typical demographic, although I was not the only thirty-something-mother-of-two there (the other one was with me), and I know some of my more musically elitist and snobby friends (I say that in love) will think their music is too mainstream. But they speak so much of what is on my heart that I swear I could write songs for them were I a lyricist (and not a thirty-something mother of two).
Maybe it's just angst. Maybe it's a passion for life too long ignored. Maybe it's that I know in my soul that we were meant to live for so much more...
Awesome show. If I can figure out how to email the pix from my new camera phone gizmo, I'll post one. Check the group out- they're awesome.
Maybe it's because yesterday IS a wrinkle on my forehead. Maybe it's because I feel the tension between "who you are and who you could be." Maybe it's because when they first asked, "this is your life: are you who you wanna be?" it came at the first time in my life that I could honestly and resoundingly answer YES. Whatever the reason, I love this band. I have all four albums so far (fifth comes out a month from today), and there is not a song on them I don't LOVE.
I know I'm not in their typical demographic, although I was not the only thirty-something-mother-of-two there (the other one was with me), and I know some of my more musically elitist and snobby friends (I say that in love) will think their music is too mainstream. But they speak so much of what is on my heart that I swear I could write songs for them were I a lyricist (and not a thirty-something mother of two).
Maybe it's just angst. Maybe it's a passion for life too long ignored. Maybe it's that I know in my soul that we were meant to live for so much more...
Awesome show. If I can figure out how to email the pix from my new camera phone gizmo, I'll post one. Check the group out- they're awesome.
Friday, August 12, 2005
what happens when two artists who love Jesus get married?
God comes in an amazing way.
A toast to Dan and Annie on their wedding night. The evening was beautiful.
May goodness and mercy follow you
all the days of your lives,
and may you dwell in the house of the Lord
forever.
A toast to Dan and Annie on their wedding night. The evening was beautiful.
May goodness and mercy follow you
all the days of your lives,
and may you dwell in the house of the Lord
forever.
Thursday, August 11, 2005
too much
I lived under his critical appraisal for years, unforgiven for the sins of my youth. The sixteen-year old caught in the clutches of adolescent angst and acclamation—with a spirit perhaps too sensitive and more-than-mildly melodramatic—is the girl he sees to this day. To him, I remain a junior in high school, nearly twenty years later. Change is not a reality of his gospel. Thankfully, he is not my savior.
Yet I tried for years to please him. I bit my tongue. I restrained myself. I held it in. I tuned it out. I gutted it up. I toned it down. I nearly exploded. I endured his rude comments. I tolerated his arrogant, holier-than-thou critiques. I ignored his rejection and exclusion. I smiled through clenched teeth and I played nice when I didn’t want to play nice. I tried to be the better man. I tried to talk to him about it. He told me he “loved” me, but he didn’t really like me. I tried to forgive him.
He thought I was too much. Too loud, too moody. Too enthusiastic, too flighty. Too sensitive, too dramatic. Too emotional, too excitable. Too assertive, too honest. I believed him.
I spent eight years of my adult life serving along side him in my former congregation. Eight years of increasing tension, hurt, and resentment. Eight years of trying to appease him, trying to work it out, trying to figure out what was wrong with ME. Eight years of trying to be less.
I did not succeed.
I left five years ago, to my great relief, and neither of us has ever looked back. Twenty years of friendship and my best efforts at being something I’m not could not keep alive that which was killing me. I wish I could say I was sorry. But truthfully, I wish I’d left much sooner.
Because I am not too much. I am, in all my imperfect and quirky effusiveness, just as God created me to be. Perhaps that is why the Captivating quote struck a chord for me—I was so very tired of living in the land of disapproving glances and sideways comments. I have refused to wear shame any longer—it is much too heavy for my current climate. But the coat still hangs in my closet…
I must get rid of it all together, and soon. Because, you see, I have a daughter. She, like me, is “too much.” I fear for her. Too loud. Too excited. Too energetic. Too passionate. Too sensitive. Too enthusiastic. She starts first grade two weeks from today. I want to wrap her little spirit in bubble wrap. A double layer. I fear for her. Did I say that already? I cannot underscore it enough. I fear for her.
I fear she will meet boys like this boy, girls like this boy, teachers like this boy. I fear her “too much” will be lost or stolen or hidden or buried—gone for good like the missing puzzle pieces or the box to her crayons or a third of Barbie’s shoes. “Where did the other half of my spirit go, Momma?” “I don’t know—did you look under your bed? Try the floor of your closet…”
Not succeeding at not being myself was the greatest failure I’ve ever achieved. But it was a failure not easily attained. I pray that I can teach my daughter to fail with greater ease—to shrug her shoulders at life and retort, “You know what, I LIKE me. So what if you don’t.” And to really mean it.
There are many things I hope to hand down to my daughter. Shame and insecurity will not be among them.
Yet I tried for years to please him. I bit my tongue. I restrained myself. I held it in. I tuned it out. I gutted it up. I toned it down. I nearly exploded. I endured his rude comments. I tolerated his arrogant, holier-than-thou critiques. I ignored his rejection and exclusion. I smiled through clenched teeth and I played nice when I didn’t want to play nice. I tried to be the better man. I tried to talk to him about it. He told me he “loved” me, but he didn’t really like me. I tried to forgive him.
He thought I was too much. Too loud, too moody. Too enthusiastic, too flighty. Too sensitive, too dramatic. Too emotional, too excitable. Too assertive, too honest. I believed him.
I spent eight years of my adult life serving along side him in my former congregation. Eight years of increasing tension, hurt, and resentment. Eight years of trying to appease him, trying to work it out, trying to figure out what was wrong with ME. Eight years of trying to be less.
I did not succeed.
I left five years ago, to my great relief, and neither of us has ever looked back. Twenty years of friendship and my best efforts at being something I’m not could not keep alive that which was killing me. I wish I could say I was sorry. But truthfully, I wish I’d left much sooner.
Because I am not too much. I am, in all my imperfect and quirky effusiveness, just as God created me to be. Perhaps that is why the Captivating quote struck a chord for me—I was so very tired of living in the land of disapproving glances and sideways comments. I have refused to wear shame any longer—it is much too heavy for my current climate. But the coat still hangs in my closet…
I must get rid of it all together, and soon. Because, you see, I have a daughter. She, like me, is “too much.” I fear for her. Too loud. Too excited. Too energetic. Too passionate. Too sensitive. Too enthusiastic. She starts first grade two weeks from today. I want to wrap her little spirit in bubble wrap. A double layer. I fear for her. Did I say that already? I cannot underscore it enough. I fear for her.
I fear she will meet boys like this boy, girls like this boy, teachers like this boy. I fear her “too much” will be lost or stolen or hidden or buried—gone for good like the missing puzzle pieces or the box to her crayons or a third of Barbie’s shoes. “Where did the other half of my spirit go, Momma?” “I don’t know—did you look under your bed? Try the floor of your closet…”
Not succeeding at not being myself was the greatest failure I’ve ever achieved. But it was a failure not easily attained. I pray that I can teach my daughter to fail with greater ease—to shrug her shoulders at life and retort, “You know what, I LIKE me. So what if you don’t.” And to really mean it.
There are many things I hope to hand down to my daughter. Shame and insecurity will not be among them.
piano lessons
Twenty years of piano lessons. Fifteen years since I’ve studied formally. And I’m still drawn to the piano. (And I still feel guilty for not practicing…)
Mrs. Hillix was the one constant adult in my life outside of my parents or family members—from her unique vantage point, she has watched me grow from a distracted little six-year-old to the parent of one. She nurtured my love of music as if she parented it herself, even when my love for singing began to eclipse my love for the piano. And she poured encouragement into my life in more ways than I could describe in one sitting, were I even able to put those ways into words. I am forever indebted to her.
My own distracted little six-year-old had her first piano lesson yesterday. “I already know how to play the piano,” she announced as she sat down, enthusiasm in her squeaky little voice. “Want to hear me make some music?” And out it flowed, through her tiny, grimy little fingers. Music. My child was making music. I could hardly contain myself.
“Two black ants,” she played on the black keys, her eyes lighting up to be told by “Miss Candy” that she’d just sight-read her first song. Such excitement packed in two little black keys. She carries the book around with her, and she’s practiced four times already in two days—she doesn’t get that from me. And next week, we begin duets.
I get to make music with my daughter.
I can’t wait to tell Mrs. Hillix.
Mrs. Hillix was the one constant adult in my life outside of my parents or family members—from her unique vantage point, she has watched me grow from a distracted little six-year-old to the parent of one. She nurtured my love of music as if she parented it herself, even when my love for singing began to eclipse my love for the piano. And she poured encouragement into my life in more ways than I could describe in one sitting, were I even able to put those ways into words. I am forever indebted to her.
My own distracted little six-year-old had her first piano lesson yesterday. “I already know how to play the piano,” she announced as she sat down, enthusiasm in her squeaky little voice. “Want to hear me make some music?” And out it flowed, through her tiny, grimy little fingers. Music. My child was making music. I could hardly contain myself.
“Two black ants,” she played on the black keys, her eyes lighting up to be told by “Miss Candy” that she’d just sight-read her first song. Such excitement packed in two little black keys. She carries the book around with her, and she’s practiced four times already in two days—she doesn’t get that from me. And next week, we begin duets.
I get to make music with my daughter.
I can’t wait to tell Mrs. Hillix.
Wednesday, August 10, 2005
I don't remember meeting this author...
...but somehow she knows me...
Unseen, Unsought, and Uncertain
I know I am not alone in this nagging sense of failing to measure up, a feeling of not being good enough as a woman. Every woman I've ever met feels it - something deeper than just the sense of failing at what she does. An underlying, gut feeling of failing at who she is. I am not enough, and, I am too much at the same time. Not pretty enough, not thin enough, not kind enough, not gracious enough, not disciplined enough. But too emotional, too needy, too sensitive, too strong, too opinionated, too messy. The result is Shame, the universal companion of women. It haunts us, nipping at our heels, feeding on our deepest fear that we will end up abandoned and alone.
From Captivating, by Stasi and John Eldridge, 2005
Unseen, Unsought, and Uncertain
I know I am not alone in this nagging sense of failing to measure up, a feeling of not being good enough as a woman. Every woman I've ever met feels it - something deeper than just the sense of failing at what she does. An underlying, gut feeling of failing at who she is. I am not enough, and, I am too much at the same time. Not pretty enough, not thin enough, not kind enough, not gracious enough, not disciplined enough. But too emotional, too needy, too sensitive, too strong, too opinionated, too messy. The result is Shame, the universal companion of women. It haunts us, nipping at our heels, feeding on our deepest fear that we will end up abandoned and alone.
From Captivating, by Stasi and John Eldridge, 2005
Monday, August 08, 2005
things that convict the snot out of me
Our World Vision magazine came today. All I can say is ouch.
...more than 29,000 children under the age of 5 die every single day, most of hunger and preventable diseases. They die for lack of medicine or doctors. They die suffering and neglected. They die from simple things like diarrhea, respiratory infections, and measles, and they die of diseases virtually unheard of in America: malaria, whooping cough, or Chagas...
What these children really die from is apathy and neglect. The developed world has the knowledge, medicines, and treatments, and enough money to save most of these children. What is lacking is the moral outrage to do something about it. [From The
President]
We sponsor a child from Haiti. Roselor was born the same day as my own daughter, who, to brag for just a moment on her tender little heart, prays for her unprompted EVERY DAY, sometimes many times. It convicts the snot out of me. Where is my head? Where is my heart? Why is it not broken for Roselor and the billions like her?
In case that does of conviction isn't enough for ya, here's another: Global Rich List. Guaranteed to make even ME stop whining about the size of my house and car.
quotes that make me want to throw books against the wall
When you ask Me to save you from the sea of poverty and difficulty you must trust wholly to Me. If you do not, and your prayer and faith are genuine, then I must first answer your prayer for help as a rescuer does that of a drowning man who is struggling to save himself.
He renders him still more helpless and powerless until he is wholly at the will and mercy of the rescuer. So understand My leading. Trust wholly. Trust completely.
Depend on Me.
Today’s reading from God Calling, in case you need something to throw, as well.
Sunday, August 07, 2005
measuring distance
Some nights, he sits at my feet, his work spread out around him on the floor. Some nights, he occupies the opposite corner of the couch, other nights, the office upstairs. Sometimes a rehearsal calls him away, sometimes the dishwasher, sometimes the children. Close enough to touch, to speak, to call, yet not close enough to connect. If the shortest distance between two points is a straight line, the road between us is often long and winding.
I look at him across the room, his features virtually unchanged in the seventeen years since we first met. One year away from having known one another as long as we hadn’t known one another. There are mere steps between us, yet we are miles apart. When did the once well-worn path between us become so drawn out and difficult to traverse? When did we start creating alternate routes?
It is not a distance marked with hostility—there is, for the most part, no enemy fire or rebel insurgency. No barbed wire, no gates barred and locked, no armed boarder patrol. Nothing there but orange barrels and detour signs, as far as the eye can see…
One barrel flashes pride, another faintly blinks ambivalence, the battery running low. Another flashes unforgiveness, another self-righteousness. Lack of trust. Self-protectiveness. Nursing of wounds. Justification. Laziness. Fear of vulnerability. Fear of intimacy. Fear of rejection. Fear.
Road closed.
He looks up at me, his eyes still the same soft heather-green that once made me, to borrow a phrase from a client, “all twitterpated.” They crinkle around the edges as he smiles at me—a new development in the last few years. Oh, for him to look at me that way all the time again. To get out the ATV and buckle up tight and off-road it the straight line between our two points, kicking up dust and leaving tracks that cause people to wonder what idiots drove through that field…
Lord, help me to measure distance as you would have me to. Repave the way, sweeping away the sea of orange and blacktopping the express lane between us.
Help us embrace the open road.
I look at him across the room, his features virtually unchanged in the seventeen years since we first met. One year away from having known one another as long as we hadn’t known one another. There are mere steps between us, yet we are miles apart. When did the once well-worn path between us become so drawn out and difficult to traverse? When did we start creating alternate routes?
It is not a distance marked with hostility—there is, for the most part, no enemy fire or rebel insurgency. No barbed wire, no gates barred and locked, no armed boarder patrol. Nothing there but orange barrels and detour signs, as far as the eye can see…
One barrel flashes pride, another faintly blinks ambivalence, the battery running low. Another flashes unforgiveness, another self-righteousness. Lack of trust. Self-protectiveness. Nursing of wounds. Justification. Laziness. Fear of vulnerability. Fear of intimacy. Fear of rejection. Fear.
Road closed.
He looks up at me, his eyes still the same soft heather-green that once made me, to borrow a phrase from a client, “all twitterpated.” They crinkle around the edges as he smiles at me—a new development in the last few years. Oh, for him to look at me that way all the time again. To get out the ATV and buckle up tight and off-road it the straight line between our two points, kicking up dust and leaving tracks that cause people to wonder what idiots drove through that field…
Lord, help me to measure distance as you would have me to. Repave the way, sweeping away the sea of orange and blacktopping the express lane between us.
Help us embrace the open road.
Thursday, August 04, 2005
sunflower
I put this picture on my desktop... it makes me happy. Hopefully it will still work in January!
Wednesday, August 03, 2005
gratitude
"Man proves his greatness by his power to see causes for thankfulness in his life."
From God Calling, compiled by A.J. Russell, July 31 reading
From God Calling, compiled by A.J. Russell, July 31 reading
Monday, August 01, 2005
living beyond myself
“This is the true joy of life: being used up for a purpose recognized by yourself as a mighty one. Being a force of nature rather than a feverish and selfish little clot of grievances, complaining that the world will not devote itself to making you happy.”
George Bernard Shaw
A fresh wind is blowing through my home. Maybe it is the breeze, finally allowed in through windows opened wide after weeks of stifling heat and humidity, causing the curtains to dance with their new-found freedom. Maybe it is the smell of green and the symphony of crickets drifting through that cause my heart to stir from its slumber—to yawn wide-mouthed with an expansive stretch and consider, for the first time since I don’t know when, getting up and getting dressed. I am awakened by the current. Stirred. Refreshed, even. Maybe it is a cool front moving through.
Maybe it is something more.
There is a peace that both stirs and settles—a passionate peace as Eugene Peterson refers to in The Message. It is new to me. Is this what contentment feels like? I must confess I have not been very intimate with contentment. Not yet. But I have introduced myself, and I hope he may stay with me sometime soon. “Nothing will steal your contentment like self-absorption.[1]” Perhaps that is why he and I are not better acquainted.
“Debilitating self-interest” I have unfortunately known much more intimately. At his bidding, I have thrown myself on the floor of life kicking and screaming to get my own way. I have believed that it was, indeed, all about me. I have disengaged from life when life would not devote itself to making me happy. I have bought full-price the lie that my faith entitles me to a get-out-of-suffering-free card. I have complained and whined and pouted and moped and, quite frankly, put my two-year-old to shame.
Yet somehow, things are shifting. In a world of MORE, I am finally moving toward less. Spending less. Eating less. Wanting less. Complaining less. More of you and less of me we sing sometimes in our worship. It is happening in my life.
Stirred, yet settled. I know enough to know this is not of my doing. Just as certainly as I cannot make the breeze blow through my window, I am incapable of such change on my own. God works within me with an all-surpassing power to will and to act according to his good purpose. (2 Cor 4:7, Phil 2:13) There is a greater power at work here. And for once, it is okay to want more.
A fresh wind is blowing through my home. The Holy Spirit has blown the windows open wide, coursing full-blown through my life—giving purpose where I am purposeless and giving power where I am powerless. Changing my heart. Using me up. Enabling me to live beyond myself.
A new front is, indeed, coming through.
[1] Beth Moore, Living Beyond Yourself, Introductory Audio Session, 2004
George Bernard Shaw
A fresh wind is blowing through my home. Maybe it is the breeze, finally allowed in through windows opened wide after weeks of stifling heat and humidity, causing the curtains to dance with their new-found freedom. Maybe it is the smell of green and the symphony of crickets drifting through that cause my heart to stir from its slumber—to yawn wide-mouthed with an expansive stretch and consider, for the first time since I don’t know when, getting up and getting dressed. I am awakened by the current. Stirred. Refreshed, even. Maybe it is a cool front moving through.
Maybe it is something more.
There is a peace that both stirs and settles—a passionate peace as Eugene Peterson refers to in The Message. It is new to me. Is this what contentment feels like? I must confess I have not been very intimate with contentment. Not yet. But I have introduced myself, and I hope he may stay with me sometime soon. “Nothing will steal your contentment like self-absorption.[1]” Perhaps that is why he and I are not better acquainted.
“Debilitating self-interest” I have unfortunately known much more intimately. At his bidding, I have thrown myself on the floor of life kicking and screaming to get my own way. I have believed that it was, indeed, all about me. I have disengaged from life when life would not devote itself to making me happy. I have bought full-price the lie that my faith entitles me to a get-out-of-suffering-free card. I have complained and whined and pouted and moped and, quite frankly, put my two-year-old to shame.
Yet somehow, things are shifting. In a world of MORE, I am finally moving toward less. Spending less. Eating less. Wanting less. Complaining less. More of you and less of me we sing sometimes in our worship. It is happening in my life.
Stirred, yet settled. I know enough to know this is not of my doing. Just as certainly as I cannot make the breeze blow through my window, I am incapable of such change on my own. God works within me with an all-surpassing power to will and to act according to his good purpose. (2 Cor 4:7, Phil 2:13) There is a greater power at work here. And for once, it is okay to want more.
A fresh wind is blowing through my home. The Holy Spirit has blown the windows open wide, coursing full-blown through my life—giving purpose where I am purposeless and giving power where I am powerless. Changing my heart. Using me up. Enabling me to live beyond myself.
A new front is, indeed, coming through.
[1] Beth Moore, Living Beyond Yourself, Introductory Audio Session, 2004
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