…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…
Monday, September 12, 2005
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
Saturday, July 30, 2005
progressing
How I'm managing to spend more time on my computer yet less time writing is beyond me-- somehow I've piddled away hours upon hours this week, but have a no more than a few tidbits of redeemable prose stashed away to show for it. The problem with blogging is that you start looking at other people's blogs, and then you can't stop... And if you can't stop, you don't ever get to writing, which is why you started the blog in the first place. Do I hear any other frustrated sighs?
I want to write. Ideas percolate in my head constantly--I rush to get them down on paper when time and space allows. Have you ever tried to dig a pen out from the bottom of your mom-sized purse which sits at the farthest corner from where you are strapped in and hurriedly scribble an idea down before your saturated brain wrings it out all over the floor while driving? On a 2X4 inch tablet? While driving a manual? I'm not a very good driver when I'm merely driving--it has become a bit of a hazard, I must say...
So these ideas make it from these barely decipherable scribbles collected in the bottom of my purse into my laptop and I save them in a file folder labeled "In Progress." It is next to the "Finished Works" folder. In my "Blog Ideas" alone, there is over 2500KB of space filled with outlines and snippits of meaningless drivel within my "In Progress" folder waiting to be wordsmithed, while a mere 1500KB of complete, finished, and posted works is saved. And the ratio in this folder is actually the best of all of them--poems in progress, essays in progress, childrens' stories in progress, articles in progress, books in progress. But I need to progress past being in progress.
They call to me all day, for days on end. I long for the few precious moments I have a few evenings a week to curl up with my laptop and shoo away the cats and return to these ideas and breathe life into them. It breathes life into ME. But these moments are, alas, few and far between at this stage in my life. I return to that which is necessary, and my "inner writer" peeks wistfully out of her window, yearning to come out and play.
It boils down to this: I do not want to merely be a scribbler of ideas. I want to be a writer. A writer of paragraphs and pages, not fragments and outlines. I want to complete thoughts and even entire trains of thought. I want to complete something. Some days, I achieve something close to this. Some days, I am "almost" a writer. Most days, though...
Well, most days, I am in progress.
I want to write. Ideas percolate in my head constantly--I rush to get them down on paper when time and space allows. Have you ever tried to dig a pen out from the bottom of your mom-sized purse which sits at the farthest corner from where you are strapped in and hurriedly scribble an idea down before your saturated brain wrings it out all over the floor while driving? On a 2X4 inch tablet? While driving a manual? I'm not a very good driver when I'm merely driving--it has become a bit of a hazard, I must say...
So these ideas make it from these barely decipherable scribbles collected in the bottom of my purse into my laptop and I save them in a file folder labeled "In Progress." It is next to the "Finished Works" folder. In my "Blog Ideas" alone, there is over 2500KB of space filled with outlines and snippits of meaningless drivel within my "In Progress" folder waiting to be wordsmithed, while a mere 1500KB of complete, finished, and posted works is saved. And the ratio in this folder is actually the best of all of them--poems in progress, essays in progress, childrens' stories in progress, articles in progress, books in progress. But I need to progress past being in progress.
They call to me all day, for days on end. I long for the few precious moments I have a few evenings a week to curl up with my laptop and shoo away the cats and return to these ideas and breathe life into them. It breathes life into ME. But these moments are, alas, few and far between at this stage in my life. I return to that which is necessary, and my "inner writer" peeks wistfully out of her window, yearning to come out and play.
It boils down to this: I do not want to merely be a scribbler of ideas. I want to be a writer. A writer of paragraphs and pages, not fragments and outlines. I want to complete thoughts and even entire trains of thought. I want to complete something. Some days, I achieve something close to this. Some days, I am "almost" a writer. Most days, though...
Well, most days, I am in progress.
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
morphing
Some days she is sixteen already. Her petite face appears thin and striking—all chin and cheekbones, lashes and lips. Her sandy-brown curls argue with being pulled against their free will into a ponytail on the back of her head, accentuating the aforementioned features. Some days, she is stunningly beautiful. The maturity blindsides me, causing me to catch my breath and to play with her longer, while there is still time to play. Some days, I can see her as she will be.
Some days she is two again. Her face is fleshy and full, round and ruddy. Piggy-tails punctuate her innocence—eyes wide and grin large. Some days, she is irresistibly impish. Her heart is on her sleeve and her baby-faced glances search my eyes for reassurance. I am quick to give it to her, lest she look for it elsewhere. Some days, I can see her as she was.
But most days, she is somewhere between the two—kind of like watching a “before” picture morph into an “after” picture and somewhere in the middle all the aspects of both are there and you think to yourself, “Boy, that looks weird.” Her shifting features catch me off guard, as do her shifting moods, interests, and allegiances. She is, to borrow a phrase, somewhere between the “now and the not yet,” and it can be, at times, unsettling.
I wonder what it is like for my parents, seeing my thirty-five-year-old face juxtaposed against that of my six-year-old “mini-me.” Is it as surreal for them to actively watch the passage of time in the face of their daughter as it is for me in mine? Or more so, to see it happen on two screens as opposed to my one?
Perhaps this is why I’m more of a snapshot girl—I long to capture a single moment. I want to isolate it, protect it. No morphing for me—I need to see things as they are in a given space and time. But to my dismay, life doesn’t work that way, and neither do children. The reality is that both are there—the babbling toddler prancing around in my shoes and the giggling teen preparing for the prom—and I can either shy from them, or embrace them before they shift yet again. And they will, indeed, shift again.
Some days, she is six.
Some days, she is ageless.
Some days she is two again. Her face is fleshy and full, round and ruddy. Piggy-tails punctuate her innocence—eyes wide and grin large. Some days, she is irresistibly impish. Her heart is on her sleeve and her baby-faced glances search my eyes for reassurance. I am quick to give it to her, lest she look for it elsewhere. Some days, I can see her as she was.
But most days, she is somewhere between the two—kind of like watching a “before” picture morph into an “after” picture and somewhere in the middle all the aspects of both are there and you think to yourself, “Boy, that looks weird.” Her shifting features catch me off guard, as do her shifting moods, interests, and allegiances. She is, to borrow a phrase, somewhere between the “now and the not yet,” and it can be, at times, unsettling.
I wonder what it is like for my parents, seeing my thirty-five-year-old face juxtaposed against that of my six-year-old “mini-me.” Is it as surreal for them to actively watch the passage of time in the face of their daughter as it is for me in mine? Or more so, to see it happen on two screens as opposed to my one?
Perhaps this is why I’m more of a snapshot girl—I long to capture a single moment. I want to isolate it, protect it. No morphing for me—I need to see things as they are in a given space and time. But to my dismay, life doesn’t work that way, and neither do children. The reality is that both are there—the babbling toddler prancing around in my shoes and the giggling teen preparing for the prom—and I can either shy from them, or embrace them before they shift yet again. And they will, indeed, shift again.
Some days, she is six.
Some days, she is ageless.
Monday, July 25, 2005
those who know me well will chuckle
I have a daily flippy-calendar thing that sits on our breakfast table. I'm not normally into these, but it was a gift and it is Timothy Botts, whom I LOVE, so we continue to flip through it. This particular one goes through the various names of God.
So, looking for an enouraging word, I flip over to today's name and devotional, which, of course, is for my birthday, and I nearly choke.
Today's name is "Refiner and Purifier."
It reads, "This description of God is found in a prophecy meant to deal with a complaining people who had forgotten God's faithfulness. Now, as then, God seeks saints who are willing to permit Him to refine their character as well as purify their lives." (Malachi 3:3)
Of course, July 24th was "Life-giving Spirit..."
Beth? Tammy? Karen? Cindy? Anyone rolling on the floor yet?
So, looking for an enouraging word, I flip over to today's name and devotional, which, of course, is for my birthday, and I nearly choke.
Today's name is "Refiner and Purifier."
It reads, "This description of God is found in a prophecy meant to deal with a complaining people who had forgotten God's faithfulness. Now, as then, God seeks saints who are willing to permit Him to refine their character as well as purify their lives." (Malachi 3:3)
Of course, July 24th was "Life-giving Spirit..."
Beth? Tammy? Karen? Cindy? Anyone rolling on the floor yet?
Sunday, July 24, 2005
on the eve of my 35th birthday...
...my husband surprised me with a party!
My husband is awesome.
My family is awesome.
My friends are awesome.
I am, among women, richly blessed.
Thank you, thank you, thank you...
my favorite present
(No offense to my other presents- I love them all as well!)
Her name is "Happiness." She is what I want my 36th year to look like.
not chuckling any more
So, instead of writing tonight, I spent four hours trying to figure out how to make my archives list the titles of my posts, and then link to the posts (rather than make people look through 40 posts to find what they want). Despite obediently following the blogger help directions (because I am an obedient girl, if nothing else), I continually could only get as far as showing the titles, but not linking to the posts.
As a sidebar, I highly recommend following their advice to save your code before you @#$% with it.
If my blog had one of those annoying little moodometers, mine would currently be flashing red and screaming, WARNING WARNING WARNING!!!!!
Has anyone else tried this? John? Dan? Help?
As a sidebar, I highly recommend following their advice to save your code before you @#$% with it.
If my blog had one of those annoying little moodometers, mine would currently be flashing red and screaming, WARNING WARNING WARNING!!!!!
Has anyone else tried this? John? Dan? Help?
Saturday, July 23, 2005
a little chuckle between God and I...
Had to laugh that this verse came up in my reading the very morning after I posted the "bearing fruit" poem...
Sow for yourselves righteousness,
reap the fruit of unfailing love,
and break up your unplowed ground;
for it is time to seek the LORD,
until he comes
and showers righteousness on you.
Hosea 10:12, NIV
Sow for yourselves righteousness,
reap the fruit of unfailing love,
and break up your unplowed ground;
for it is time to seek the LORD,
until he comes
and showers righteousness on you.
Hosea 10:12, NIV
Friday, July 22, 2005
bearing fruit
This began in writer's group as my response to the prompt for the evening...I think it's done, but I'm not sure...
Crusty, caked hands,
dirt under the fingernails—
“Man, I hate that”
I think to myself—
wondering how they’ll ever come clean.
Chastising myself for
forgetting my gloves, I plunge once
again into the soil—
dirty work, this is.
Turning and overturning,
plowing and tilling,
working the soil until it yields to
my hands—
dirty work, indeed.
Beside me,
packaged in tightly sealed packets,
lay the promises
of tomorrow,
awaiting life to be awakened
within each
tiny capsule of
hope.
I pour them out—
bushel baskets full of bounty
reduced in the palm of my hand—
and with great care
I resolutely
release them to
the earth.
Pressing and patting,
poking and prodding
I place each possibility
in its own
grave—
and I bury it
completely.
My task complete,
I contemplate
the fate
of each
miniscule
life-giving
life-awaiting
vessel.
Which of them
presses through the cold,
deep soil toward the sun
and which of them rots in
the damp
darkness
is no longer in my hands.
I have sown
my seed.
I have watered.
I have fertilized.
I have weeded and
tilled and
generally futzed
over it to no
end,
but I cannot make it grow.
Bushel baskets of potential
all within the hands of
the one
who causes the sun to shine
and the rain to fall
and the seed to crack open wide
and embrace life.
I wait
to see what
bears fruit.
Crusty, caked hands,
dirt under the fingernails—
“Man, I hate that”
I think to myself—
wondering how they’ll ever come clean.
Chastising myself for
forgetting my gloves, I plunge once
again into the soil—
dirty work, this is.
Turning and overturning,
plowing and tilling,
working the soil until it yields to
my hands—
dirty work, indeed.
Beside me,
packaged in tightly sealed packets,
lay the promises
of tomorrow,
awaiting life to be awakened
within each
tiny capsule of
hope.
I pour them out—
bushel baskets full of bounty
reduced in the palm of my hand—
and with great care
I resolutely
release them to
the earth.
Pressing and patting,
poking and prodding
I place each possibility
in its own
grave—
and I bury it
completely.
My task complete,
I contemplate
the fate
of each
miniscule
life-giving
life-awaiting
vessel.
Which of them
presses through the cold,
deep soil toward the sun
and which of them rots in
the damp
darkness
is no longer in my hands.
I have sown
my seed.
I have watered.
I have fertilized.
I have weeded and
tilled and
generally futzed
over it to no
end,
but I cannot make it grow.
Bushel baskets of potential
all within the hands of
the one
who causes the sun to shine
and the rain to fall
and the seed to crack open wide
and embrace life.
I wait
to see what
bears fruit.
check out a friend of mine
I finally found my long-lost friend Dean's blog. Dean and my hubby were roommates senior year, but I really found him first. Check out his site- he's a hoot!
www.deanabbott.com
Tell him Lorie sent you!
www.deanabbott.com
Tell him Lorie sent you!
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
I have nothing to say...
What is it within certain ones of us that causes us to feel as if we have nothing in all of creation to say that is of any consequence to anyone while others seem to think the entire world cares what miserable schlop they ate for breakfast, lunch and dinner, seven days a week?
I remember playing on a teeter-totter with my husband once while in college—isn’t much fun when you weigh twenty-five pounds more than the person on the other end (especially when it’s your boyfriend). One of you is stuck in the up position, the other, of course, in the down. There is very little in-between. You’ll note the word “once” in the sentence above—it was not an experience I cared to repeat.
This is how writing feels to me—no in-betweens. Again, I am stuck at the bottom with too much weight holding me down. It is a tension I didn’t like then, and I like it even less now…
Twenty-five pounds of doubt and criticism. Twenty-five pounds of “No one is ever going to read this—who cares what I have to say?” Twenty-five pounds of unbelief and fear. Twenty-five pounds of self-consciousness and rejectionaphobia.
So why the hell am I still sitting on this teeter-totter? Even my two-year-old son knows when it’s time to get off…
Is it a not knowing when to quit? Or is it finally acknowledging that I can’t?
Those of you who write as well understand the double meaning in the title of my blog. It is not merely that I am trying to replace one creative outlet with another so as to miss singing less. I am trying to find my voice as a writer—trying to determine what I have to say and whether or not it is worth saying. It is thrilling. It is terrifying. It is torturous.
Twenty-five pounds is a lot of weight to lose…
I remember playing on a teeter-totter with my husband once while in college—isn’t much fun when you weigh twenty-five pounds more than the person on the other end (especially when it’s your boyfriend). One of you is stuck in the up position, the other, of course, in the down. There is very little in-between. You’ll note the word “once” in the sentence above—it was not an experience I cared to repeat.
This is how writing feels to me—no in-betweens. Again, I am stuck at the bottom with too much weight holding me down. It is a tension I didn’t like then, and I like it even less now…
Twenty-five pounds of doubt and criticism. Twenty-five pounds of “No one is ever going to read this—who cares what I have to say?” Twenty-five pounds of unbelief and fear. Twenty-five pounds of self-consciousness and rejectionaphobia.
So why the hell am I still sitting on this teeter-totter? Even my two-year-old son knows when it’s time to get off…
Is it a not knowing when to quit? Or is it finally acknowledging that I can’t?
Those of you who write as well understand the double meaning in the title of my blog. It is not merely that I am trying to replace one creative outlet with another so as to miss singing less. I am trying to find my voice as a writer—trying to determine what I have to say and whether or not it is worth saying. It is thrilling. It is terrifying. It is torturous.
Twenty-five pounds is a lot of weight to lose…
I'll pull this out when she's sixteen...
"It's you and me, Momma," my daughter says. "It's the key to love..."
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
an offering
So here’s what I want you to do, God helping you: Take your everyday, ordinary life—your sleeping, eating, going-to-work, and walking-around life—and place it before God as an offering. Embracing what God does for you is the best thing you can do for him. Romans 12:1-2, The Message
…the diet… the weight loss… the inability to exercise for six weeks… the panic about gaining the weight back… the screaming, whining, fighting kids… the frustration of not having a bigger impact in my parenting… the urge to do things to my children that would have Children’s Services at my door if I put them in print… the lack of sleep… the splitting headaches… the fear of intimacy in my relationships… the fear of intimacy in my marriage… the tension between the desire to be fully known yet the fear of the same… the desire to write … the time to write… the actual writing, if and when it happens… the singing… the lack of singing… the lack of music… the worship… the quiet time… the not-so-quiet time… the desire to control it all…
It’s all yours.
Every morning
I lay out the pieces of my life
on your altar
and watch for fire to descend.
Psalm 5:3, The Message
…the diet… the weight loss… the inability to exercise for six weeks… the panic about gaining the weight back… the screaming, whining, fighting kids… the frustration of not having a bigger impact in my parenting… the urge to do things to my children that would have Children’s Services at my door if I put them in print… the lack of sleep… the splitting headaches… the fear of intimacy in my relationships… the fear of intimacy in my marriage… the tension between the desire to be fully known yet the fear of the same… the desire to write … the time to write… the actual writing, if and when it happens… the singing… the lack of singing… the lack of music… the worship… the quiet time… the not-so-quiet time… the desire to control it all…
It’s all yours.
Every morning
I lay out the pieces of my life
on your altar
and watch for fire to descend.
Psalm 5:3, The Message
minor miracles and major inconveniences
Slept on my stomach tonight for the first time since my surgery.
When I could sleep.
One excedrin migraine before bed can really @#&* up your night...
When I could sleep.
One excedrin migraine before bed can really @#&* up your night...
Monday, July 18, 2005
ugly monsters
A really hideous monster has been rearing its ugly head in the life of my normally good-natured daughter lately. About a month ago I began to hear it first gurgle and grunt within her. It now is bolder and louder, and says things like, “But that’s mine!” or “I was playing with that first!” or “He always wants what I have!” It speaks in ear-piercing, whiney tones resembling something along the line of a beginning violin, and its presence is often accompanied by tears and a great deal of melodramatic foot-stomping, eye-rolling, and a quite impressive turned-down pout. It is gravely concerned with fairness, complete equality, and getting its own way.
“What has possessed this child,” I think to myself incredulously. I consider it seriously for a moment, but then dismiss all thoughts of demon-possession as ridiculous. For the moment.
But this thing within her has reached a roar and charges on, unstoppable. No amount of threatening, lecturing, shaming, starving or isolating it brings the savage beast under control. No amount of talk about kindness, selflessness, or thoughtfulness deters its relentless focus on itself.
Again, I delude myself into asking, “What is going on here?” But it is merely denial.
The trouble is, I recognize this monster completely.
The trouble is, it looks a lot like ME.
I know what’s going on. I just don’t know how to deal with it. How do I teach my six-year-old a lesson about selfishness that I have not fully learned myself?
My children ask for a bite of food off my closely guarded plate and I snarl like a dog at its dish. My husband dares to have an agenda of his own one weekend and I throw a tantrum to rival my two-year-old son. My life, when I am honest, is carefully orchestrated to make sure I am safe, secure, comfortable, and cared for. It’s not pretty.
I get away with it because most people would not immediately recognize this about me. I give of my time, talents, and resources. I help out people in need. I try to please and bless other people when it is within my ability to do so. And I even suppress my whining and tantrums, for the most part. I just do them quietly, internally. Kind of like when people have seizures that you can’t see—inside I’m really throwing myself on the floor. So I do not appear, to those who don’t live with me, to be completely selfish and self-absorbed.
But I am.
I want to do what I want to do, when I want to do it. I want to have my own way. And I don’t want anyone else to play with my toys. (Or eat my food.)
Yes, I recognize this creature within my daughter, and I recognize where it comes from. It is her sin-nature, and she inherited it from me, and I did from my mother and she from hers. We were born with it, every one of us. And we spend our lives trying to overpower it.
So how do I help my daughter slay this beast that roars so loudly from within her delicate frame?
I slay my own.
I commit myself to the daily exercise of looking not only to my own interests, but also to the interests of others. I commit to better love her father so that she can better love her brother. I commit to study Christ, to seek to please Christ, to emulate Christ, and to teach her to do the same.
We will talk about it together. We will pray for one another. We will serve together. We will serve each other.
And so I will share my food and my time and even my toys and I will pray that along the line she will be learning to do the same. Not just because the whining and arguing is driving me to the point of becoming a homicidal maniac, but also because her heart depends on it.
There will be more monsters to fight.
We will both need to be ready.
Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit, but in humility consider others better than yourselves. Each of you should look not only to your own interests, but also to the interests of others. Your attitude should be the same as that of Christ Jesus…
Phil 2: 3-5
© 2005
“What has possessed this child,” I think to myself incredulously. I consider it seriously for a moment, but then dismiss all thoughts of demon-possession as ridiculous. For the moment.
But this thing within her has reached a roar and charges on, unstoppable. No amount of threatening, lecturing, shaming, starving or isolating it brings the savage beast under control. No amount of talk about kindness, selflessness, or thoughtfulness deters its relentless focus on itself.
Again, I delude myself into asking, “What is going on here?” But it is merely denial.
The trouble is, I recognize this monster completely.
The trouble is, it looks a lot like ME.
I know what’s going on. I just don’t know how to deal with it. How do I teach my six-year-old a lesson about selfishness that I have not fully learned myself?
My children ask for a bite of food off my closely guarded plate and I snarl like a dog at its dish. My husband dares to have an agenda of his own one weekend and I throw a tantrum to rival my two-year-old son. My life, when I am honest, is carefully orchestrated to make sure I am safe, secure, comfortable, and cared for. It’s not pretty.
I get away with it because most people would not immediately recognize this about me. I give of my time, talents, and resources. I help out people in need. I try to please and bless other people when it is within my ability to do so. And I even suppress my whining and tantrums, for the most part. I just do them quietly, internally. Kind of like when people have seizures that you can’t see—inside I’m really throwing myself on the floor. So I do not appear, to those who don’t live with me, to be completely selfish and self-absorbed.
But I am.
I want to do what I want to do, when I want to do it. I want to have my own way. And I don’t want anyone else to play with my toys. (Or eat my food.)
Yes, I recognize this creature within my daughter, and I recognize where it comes from. It is her sin-nature, and she inherited it from me, and I did from my mother and she from hers. We were born with it, every one of us. And we spend our lives trying to overpower it.
So how do I help my daughter slay this beast that roars so loudly from within her delicate frame?
I slay my own.
I commit myself to the daily exercise of looking not only to my own interests, but also to the interests of others. I commit to better love her father so that she can better love her brother. I commit to study Christ, to seek to please Christ, to emulate Christ, and to teach her to do the same.
We will talk about it together. We will pray for one another. We will serve together. We will serve each other.
And so I will share my food and my time and even my toys and I will pray that along the line she will be learning to do the same. Not just because the whining and arguing is driving me to the point of becoming a homicidal maniac, but also because her heart depends on it.
There will be more monsters to fight.
We will both need to be ready.
Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit, but in humility consider others better than yourselves. Each of you should look not only to your own interests, but also to the interests of others. Your attitude should be the same as that of Christ Jesus…
Phil 2: 3-5
© 2005
Sunday, July 17, 2005
wanting more...
Don't love the world's ways. Don't love the world's goods. Love of the world squeezes out love for the Father. Practically everything that goes on in the world--wanting your own way, wanting everything for yourself, wanting to appear important--has nothing to do with the Father. It just isolates you from him. The world and all its wanting, wanting, wanting is on the way out--but whoever does what God wants is set for eternity.
I John 2: 15-17 The Message
Lord, help me to want what YOU want me to want…
My cry is for more of YOU…
Why is everyone hungry for more? “More, more,” they say.
“More, more.”
I have God’s more-than-enough,
More joy in one ordinary day
Than they get in all their shopping sprees.
At day’s end I’m ready for sound sleep,
For you, God, have put my life back together.
Psalm 4, The Message
I John 2: 15-17 The Message
Lord, help me to want what YOU want me to want…
My cry is for more of YOU…
Why is everyone hungry for more? “More, more,” they say.
“More, more.”
I have God’s more-than-enough,
More joy in one ordinary day
Than they get in all their shopping sprees.
At day’s end I’m ready for sound sleep,
For you, God, have put my life back together.
Psalm 4, The Message
things i am NOT good at
(in response to a comment from a friend)
...sports of ANY kind... gardening... cooking... cleaning... dusting... keeping my car clean... keeping my car full of gas... higher math... physics... science... returning phone calls... giving people grace... pretending to be someone I'm not... losing weight... keeping it off... living with discipline... daily quiet time... walking and drinking at the same time... walking and doing ANYTHING else at the same time... driving and talking on the phone... dealing with pain... dealing with adversity... dealing with people who've hurt me... dealing with temper tantrums... quieting the self-conscious thoughts in my head... painting... playing the piano... or the guitar... playing pretend with my daughter... reading with her... balancing my time... reaching out past my walls when it's uncomfortable... reaching out past my walls when it's moderately comfortable... forgiving... forgetting... computer programming (despite my father's best efforts)... sewing (despite my mother's best efforts)... listening without distraction... listening without interrupting... patience... the rubix cube... pretending I'm not hurt or offended... humility... being in the background... being unnoticed... not being bossy... not being compulsive... ending lists...
...sports of ANY kind... gardening... cooking... cleaning... dusting... keeping my car clean... keeping my car full of gas... higher math... physics... science... returning phone calls... giving people grace... pretending to be someone I'm not... losing weight... keeping it off... living with discipline... daily quiet time... walking and drinking at the same time... walking and doing ANYTHING else at the same time... driving and talking on the phone... dealing with pain... dealing with adversity... dealing with people who've hurt me... dealing with temper tantrums... quieting the self-conscious thoughts in my head... painting... playing the piano... or the guitar... playing pretend with my daughter... reading with her... balancing my time... reaching out past my walls when it's uncomfortable... reaching out past my walls when it's moderately comfortable... forgiving... forgetting... computer programming (despite my father's best efforts)... sewing (despite my mother's best efforts)... listening without distraction... listening without interrupting... patience... the rubix cube... pretending I'm not hurt or offended... humility... being in the background... being unnoticed... not being bossy... not being compulsive... ending lists...
Saturday, July 16, 2005
more thoughts on mid-life
Been thinking more about my conversation with Cindy earlier today. We talked about discontent, disillusionment, disbelief. We talked about the fact that there is no going back. We talked about the fear we have in moving forward, given the tired bleakness we see in the faces of the fourty-something women dragging through life around us. We talked about grieving—all that is that shouldn’t have been, and all that should have been but isn’t. We talked about getting older…
But, see, here’s the thing. I’ll be thirty-five a week from Monday. It is what it is. I will never completely fit in with the hip twenty-somethings on staff because I’m TEN YEARS older than they are. Once I finally GOT that (albeit a few short months ago), I started to become okay with it. I’m not a young adult anymore. I won’t ever be again.
But here’s the other thing… I LIKE my life. I really do. I couldn’t say that even five years ago. Despite the lack of time, lack of freedom, lack of spontaneity, and lack of sanity, I am, if I am completely honest, living the life I always wanted. Is it perfect? No. Do I struggle with discontent? Yes. I see friends who are dating, friends who are traveling, friends who are doing what they want to do when they want to do it. I see friends who don't have tuition payments and ballet lessons to sit through and bedtimes to tie them down. And I struggle with jealousy big time.
But at the end of the day, I have a husband of almost thirteen years who still thinks I’m hot, and a son and a daughter who adore me, and I come back home to cheers and smiles and hugs every time I go away. I have a job I love and a home I love and a family I love and the time and resources to enjoy them. I know who I am and I know who I am not, and I have friends and family who love me anyway. I can live with turning thirty-five.
This is one of my favorite songs, ever. It’s not Bono, but it’s true. I thank the Lord that I am living my dream.
The Stuff that Dreams are Made Of
Take a look around you
change the direction
adjust the tuning
try a new translation
Don’t look at your man in the same old way
take a new picture
Just because you don’t see shooting stars
doesn’t mean it isn’t perfect
Can’t you see…
It’s the stuff that dreams are made of
It’s the slow and steady fire
It’s the stuff that dreams are made of
It’s your heart and soul’s desire
It’s the stuff that dreams are made of
So what’s this about your best friend?
She’s got a brand new shiny boy
and they’re moving out to Malibu
to play with all his pretty toys
And you feel closed in by the same four walls
the same old conversations
with the same old guy you’ve known for years
but use your imagination
and you will see…
It’s the stuff that dreams are made of
It’s the slow and steady fire
It’s the stuff that dreams are made of
It’s your heart and soul’s desire
It’s the stuff that dreams are made of
What if the prince on the horse in your fairytale
is right here is in disguise
And what if the stars you’ve been reaching so high for
are shining in his eyes
Don’t look at yourself in the same old way
take another picture
Shoot the stars off in your own backyard
don’t look any further
and you will see..
It’s the stuff that dreams are made of
It’s the slow and steady fire
It’s the stuff that dreams are made of
It’s your heart and soul’s desire
It’s the stuff that dreams are made of
It’s the sails against the sky
It’s the stuff that dreams are made of
It’s the reason we are alive
It’s the stuff that dreams are made of
Carly Simon
But, see, here’s the thing. I’ll be thirty-five a week from Monday. It is what it is. I will never completely fit in with the hip twenty-somethings on staff because I’m TEN YEARS older than they are. Once I finally GOT that (albeit a few short months ago), I started to become okay with it. I’m not a young adult anymore. I won’t ever be again.
But here’s the other thing… I LIKE my life. I really do. I couldn’t say that even five years ago. Despite the lack of time, lack of freedom, lack of spontaneity, and lack of sanity, I am, if I am completely honest, living the life I always wanted. Is it perfect? No. Do I struggle with discontent? Yes. I see friends who are dating, friends who are traveling, friends who are doing what they want to do when they want to do it. I see friends who don't have tuition payments and ballet lessons to sit through and bedtimes to tie them down. And I struggle with jealousy big time.
But at the end of the day, I have a husband of almost thirteen years who still thinks I’m hot, and a son and a daughter who adore me, and I come back home to cheers and smiles and hugs every time I go away. I have a job I love and a home I love and a family I love and the time and resources to enjoy them. I know who I am and I know who I am not, and I have friends and family who love me anyway. I can live with turning thirty-five.
This is one of my favorite songs, ever. It’s not Bono, but it’s true. I thank the Lord that I am living my dream.
The Stuff that Dreams are Made Of
Take a look around you
change the direction
adjust the tuning
try a new translation
Don’t look at your man in the same old way
take a new picture
Just because you don’t see shooting stars
doesn’t mean it isn’t perfect
Can’t you see…
It’s the stuff that dreams are made of
It’s the slow and steady fire
It’s the stuff that dreams are made of
It’s your heart and soul’s desire
It’s the stuff that dreams are made of
So what’s this about your best friend?
She’s got a brand new shiny boy
and they’re moving out to Malibu
to play with all his pretty toys
And you feel closed in by the same four walls
the same old conversations
with the same old guy you’ve known for years
but use your imagination
and you will see…
It’s the stuff that dreams are made of
It’s the slow and steady fire
It’s the stuff that dreams are made of
It’s your heart and soul’s desire
It’s the stuff that dreams are made of
What if the prince on the horse in your fairytale
is right here is in disguise
And what if the stars you’ve been reaching so high for
are shining in his eyes
Don’t look at yourself in the same old way
take another picture
Shoot the stars off in your own backyard
don’t look any further
and you will see..
It’s the stuff that dreams are made of
It’s the slow and steady fire
It’s the stuff that dreams are made of
It’s your heart and soul’s desire
It’s the stuff that dreams are made of
It’s the sails against the sky
It’s the stuff that dreams are made of
It’s the reason we are alive
It’s the stuff that dreams are made of
Carly Simon
for cindy...
I don’t care if people think I’m lame for posting a twenty year old song from the eighties. I’m not twenty-five any more. I’m not even thirty any more. And I’m not uncomfortable with that ANY MORE. Treasure these years, my friend. The best are yet to come…
This is what it's all about...
Turning Thirty
I’ve got a house down by the ocean
the rent is not too high
and I love to watch the ships come in
and hear the seagulls cry
And lately I’ve been taking stock
of all that I’ve been through
for tomorrow is my birthday,
feels funny, but it’s true
I’m turnin’ thirty
I’ve got a wife who really loves me
she makes my life so sweet
and a little baby daughter
who plays games around my feet
and my world is very different
from those lazy bachelor years
but if I had the chance to go back
I’d rather stay right here
turnin’ thirty
I’m turnin’ thirty
And I have friends who care about me
they’re the best I’ve ever had
and they always stood behind me
whenever times got bad
and I love to play my music
though the road can be a trial
but every time I walk on stage
it’s worth each dusty mile
turnin’ thirty
well, now, thirty ain’t like fifteen
and it’s not like twenty-five
my back’s a little stiff
and there’s some lines around my eyes
but I’ve still got my energy
and I got most of my hair
and I’m not to old to rock and roll
and I’m not really scared
of turnin’ thirty
Oh, the 80s look like tough times
the world is turning sour
so I’ll keep on serving Jesus
and await the final hour
And though I’ve often failed him
in these thirty rocky years
His mercy’s brought me this far
and His love has dried my tears
I’m turnin’ thirty
(I’ll treasure these years)
I’m turnin’ thirty
Randy Stonehill, © 1983, Word Music
This is what it's all about...
Turning Thirty
I’ve got a house down by the ocean
the rent is not too high
and I love to watch the ships come in
and hear the seagulls cry
And lately I’ve been taking stock
of all that I’ve been through
for tomorrow is my birthday,
feels funny, but it’s true
I’m turnin’ thirty
I’ve got a wife who really loves me
she makes my life so sweet
and a little baby daughter
who plays games around my feet
and my world is very different
from those lazy bachelor years
but if I had the chance to go back
I’d rather stay right here
turnin’ thirty
I’m turnin’ thirty
And I have friends who care about me
they’re the best I’ve ever had
and they always stood behind me
whenever times got bad
and I love to play my music
though the road can be a trial
but every time I walk on stage
it’s worth each dusty mile
turnin’ thirty
well, now, thirty ain’t like fifteen
and it’s not like twenty-five
my back’s a little stiff
and there’s some lines around my eyes
but I’ve still got my energy
and I got most of my hair
and I’m not to old to rock and roll
and I’m not really scared
of turnin’ thirty
Oh, the 80s look like tough times
the world is turning sour
so I’ll keep on serving Jesus
and await the final hour
And though I’ve often failed him
in these thirty rocky years
His mercy’s brought me this far
and His love has dried my tears
I’m turnin’ thirty
(I’ll treasure these years)
I’m turnin’ thirty
Randy Stonehill, © 1983, Word Music
Thursday, July 14, 2005
surgery and other unrealistic expectations
"So," I thought to myself, "it's only a one-inch incision and one or two stitches through the abdominal wall to pull everything back together...that can't possibly hurt that bad..."
Dont' know which hurts worse, my stomach, or the shock of how wrong I can continually be...
Dont' know which hurts worse, my stomach, or the shock of how wrong I can continually be...
Wednesday, July 13, 2005
Tuesday, July 12, 2005
"I Have Had Singing"
Stumbled upon the memory of a song we performed in Toledo... one of those songs that choked me up every time we sang it. It was my heart. There is no other way to say it. It was my heart set to music... "Here I lie. I have had treasure enough. I have had singing..." Tears fill my eyes just to hear it in my head, to feel it within me. I ache to have singing again...
I was reading my friend Dan's blog last night, and this comment about having his ability to drum restored after a serious injury to his elbow really resonated for me:
"And on the way home from church I realized that I express myself this way: When I speak I feel like I get out 20% of my true feelings. When I write I get out 50% of my true feelings across, when I photograph maybe 60% on a really good day, and when I drum I get 100% of my true feelings across."
Writing, for me, is a passion and an outlet, but it is still not singing. It clearly and capably conveys something of my heart, and more importantly, something of my Father's heart...but when my heart speaks the language of the Carmina Burana, or Handel's Messiah, or John Rutter's Gloria, well, there just aren't keystrokes for that. And all that is there goes unspoken.
Got the news last night that if concert attendance does not improve, the professional choir my husband currently sings in will be folding after their 2005 Christmas concert. I am doubly sad: sad for Tom that this outlet may also be lost for him. And sad that there may truly not be another opportunity to ever experience again the caliber of choral singing that we experienced in college and in our choir in Toledo. At least not here, not now. I grieve again tonight for that loss, and pray that the Lord will see fit to one day again "give us singing."
I was reading my friend Dan's blog last night, and this comment about having his ability to drum restored after a serious injury to his elbow really resonated for me:
"And on the way home from church I realized that I express myself this way: When I speak I feel like I get out 20% of my true feelings. When I write I get out 50% of my true feelings across, when I photograph maybe 60% on a really good day, and when I drum I get 100% of my true feelings across."
Writing, for me, is a passion and an outlet, but it is still not singing. It clearly and capably conveys something of my heart, and more importantly, something of my Father's heart...but when my heart speaks the language of the Carmina Burana, or Handel's Messiah, or John Rutter's Gloria, well, there just aren't keystrokes for that. And all that is there goes unspoken.
Got the news last night that if concert attendance does not improve, the professional choir my husband currently sings in will be folding after their 2005 Christmas concert. I am doubly sad: sad for Tom that this outlet may also be lost for him. And sad that there may truly not be another opportunity to ever experience again the caliber of choral singing that we experienced in college and in our choir in Toledo. At least not here, not now. I grieve again tonight for that loss, and pray that the Lord will see fit to one day again "give us singing."
Monday, July 11, 2005
lame excuses for not writing tonight...
...day seven or eight of the same !#@*! headache...work a twelve hour day tomorrow...it's already 11 PM and I'm just getting started...gave in to the granola this time..."Great, now I have guilt!"...the laptop is making my lap sweat...did I mention the !#@*! headache?... my perfectionistic streak isn't satisfied with what I'm currently working on...just looked at Dan's blog and got intimidated all over again...don't feel like toying with vulnerbility tonight...haven't seen my hubby all day...just wrote a piece for somebody ELSE'S site...the cat won't leave me alone...the other cat won't leave me alone...the hubby just smashed a light bulb all over the floor...I'm too busy creating excuses..."I'll try again tomorrow..."
"There is no try. There is only do."
Yoda
"There is no try. There is only do."
Yoda
Friday, July 08, 2005
this one's for my mom...
I promise I won't post 50.000 pictures of my kids. Really. But can ya blame me?
Thursday, July 07, 2005
the tyranny of what i want
Some days, there is just nothing profound to say. Saw eleven hours worth of clients with only one break. Don't want to go back in on Saturday. Wanted to eat everything in the house when I came home. Skipped my weight work-out because it was already 9:45 and hadn't eaten dinner yet. Freaking out internally about my weight and the upcoming surgery and what will happen when I can't exercise for six weeks. Trying not to obsess about food, weight, exercise, appearance, etc. Saw my kids for two hours this morning- both were in bed when I got home. Guilt, guilt, guilt. Tom works online across the room while I sit here with my laptop feeling the cool breeze float in through the front door. Mere yards between us, yet miles apart. I am tired. I am overwhelmed. And I want chocolate. Lots of it. Or cinnamon granola. Or ice cream. Or anything else that will quickly yet momentarily fill the void that is screaming within me.
When will this battle end?
Since Jesus went through everything you're going through and more, learn to think like him. Think of your sufferings as a weaning from that old sinful habit of always expecting to get your own way. Then you'll be able to live out your days free to pursue what God wants instead of being tyrannized by what you want. 1 Peter 4:1-2, The Message
When will this battle end?
Since Jesus went through everything you're going through and more, learn to think like him. Think of your sufferings as a weaning from that old sinful habit of always expecting to get your own way. Then you'll be able to live out your days free to pursue what God wants instead of being tyrannized by what you want. 1 Peter 4:1-2, The Message
Tuesday, July 05, 2005
flipping the switch
It was legend among Mrs. William’s kindergarten class—the moment when all the mysterious arrangements of letters on the page came together into words and God “flipped their switch.” Nobody knew the hour or the day when it would happen—you couldn’t flip your own switch, or control when it finally came on. But one by one, her classmates began to experience that current of energy running anew through their brains, powering a heart for reading.
Mrs. Williams warned them, as all good teachers do, that not everyone’s switch flips at the same time. But she assured them, as all good teachers also do, that everyone’s switch would get flipped. And so we waited for the legend to be carried on in our daughter.
And we waited, and we waited, and we waited… We stared at words on the page, confounding configurations of letters that confused the five-year-old mind. We uttered strange utterances and we stuttered and stammered, and still nothing happened. Letters on the page remained mysterious and mystical, and very few came together in ways that made any sense at all. But with patience and practice, she persisted.
One day, she was making up the story and stringing into it the few sight words she recognized among the pages into tales that sometimes went along with the pictures, and sometimes did not. The next day, she was reading.
Reading.
Not sounding out, not recognizing a few words here and there, but READING. Entire books at a time. I am in awe of the difference one day made in the life of my book-loving daughter. It is the stuff legends are made of.
There is nothing more miraculous than when God flips your child’s switch.
Mrs. Williams warned them, as all good teachers do, that not everyone’s switch flips at the same time. But she assured them, as all good teachers also do, that everyone’s switch would get flipped. And so we waited for the legend to be carried on in our daughter.
And we waited, and we waited, and we waited… We stared at words on the page, confounding configurations of letters that confused the five-year-old mind. We uttered strange utterances and we stuttered and stammered, and still nothing happened. Letters on the page remained mysterious and mystical, and very few came together in ways that made any sense at all. But with patience and practice, she persisted.
One day, she was making up the story and stringing into it the few sight words she recognized among the pages into tales that sometimes went along with the pictures, and sometimes did not. The next day, she was reading.
Reading.
Not sounding out, not recognizing a few words here and there, but READING. Entire books at a time. I am in awe of the difference one day made in the life of my book-loving daughter. It is the stuff legends are made of.
There is nothing more miraculous than when God flips your child’s switch.
Sunday, July 03, 2005
independence day and the sex-slave trade of six-year-old girls
For reasons I will never understand, I was born into this country. I did not have to struggle and scrape and pray and hope to come to America. I did not have to flee with grave fear for my life to get here. I did not have to leave it all—home, children, parents, siblings, belongings—to arrive at where I am today. My freedom cost me nothing. I gave nothing to get it. It is merely mine by birth. I was born into freedom. My daughter was born into freedom. Politics aside, I cannot deny the incredible and awestruck gratitude I have for those two facts.
Such gratitude convicts me, in our world of consumerism and super-sizing. I am shoulder-shruggingly ashamed of my constant struggle with discontent—my desire for a bigger house, brighter car, better stuff. I pray daily that I would receive the Lord’s eyes for the world around me and that I would stop comparing myself to the wrong people. I pray that I would have a global mindset that turns my world around. But I also secretly and quietly pray, I’ll admit, that it wouldn’t require too very much of me.
My daughter attends a fairly expensive Christian school—a decision we agreed upon long before her father and I were even married. We are thrilled with her school, but it is not without a few potential pitfalls. We experienced one of them right out of the gate in kindergarten. It involved the discrepancy in lifestyles among her friends and playmates.
My daughter is fairly gregarious and friendly, so she has been invited from time to time over to the homes of her classmates to play. This, in and of itself, was not a problem. The problem arose when she came home from play-dates exclaiming that some her friends lived in “castles.” And she was pretty darn close. At her young age, this doesn’t bother her. I pray that it won’t, ever. But I’m embarrassed to admit that it bothers ME. I have a HUGE struggle internally over this. Why doesn’t my daughter deserve that? Why do they get that and we don’t? Why does God seem to bless them and not us?
And so my daughter is asleep upstairs in her own bed in her own room in our own house, and I am complaining that things aren’t fair. Today she had three full meals and a few snacks to boot and even a chocolate peanut butter milkshake with the cool squirty-can whipped cream on top before bed. Our pantry is full, as is our refrigerator and freezer. We have so much stuff in our 1400 square foot home that we must regularly give stuff away to Goodwill to have room for the new. And with two sets of grandparents nearby, there is always a lot of new. She sleeps across the room from a bookcase filled with more books than we can possibly read in a month’s worth of bedtimes, next to her CD player with more CDs than she can play in a month’s worth of “chill out times.” In the fall, she will walk out my front door completely free, for the most part, from the threat of harm, get into my car, and she will go to school where she will learn freely (although not for free!) for the next twelve years all that she needs to know to put her on solid footing in our global market. She will learn about God freely, will worship freely, and will play freely. She will have a childhood, and will laugh and run and play. And yet I shake my fist at God and ask, “Why don’t we have what they have?”
And why DON’T I have what other people have? Why did I have the good fortune of living in America? Why was I given freedom of choice limited only by my financial resources, which, by global standards, is an incredible amount of wealth? Why do I have a roof over my head and the choice of how warm or cool I heat my home? Why am I not skin and bones, sending my children out to scavenge through dumpsters and trash heaps for our next meal? Why am I so fortunate that I do not have AIDS, or my daughter? Why don’t I live in a mud hut, dying and alone, worried about who will take care of my children? Why don’t I have to fear for my life as I watch thousands of friends, family and fellow countrymen be slaughtered in gruesome genocide? Why don’t I have to flee my home and homeland for my safety? Why am I not persecuted for my beliefs? For the color of my skin? For my gender?
I’m worried because I can’t afford to throw my six-year-old daughter a party at the Rec Center for her birthday and invite 50 of her closest friends, while there are six-year-old girls, all over this world, even within this country, being sold to grown men who know better to be tortured and raped repeatedly in order to pad some slime-ball’s pockets and enable him to get some his next fix. SOLD. I look at the innocence in my daughter’s eyes—the naïve joy on her face—and I shudder. Why are we so fortunate? Why is my daughter not one of them?
She was born free.
I will teach her to never, ever, take that for granted.
Hopefully, I will learn that lesson myself, along the way.
© 2005
Such gratitude convicts me, in our world of consumerism and super-sizing. I am shoulder-shruggingly ashamed of my constant struggle with discontent—my desire for a bigger house, brighter car, better stuff. I pray daily that I would receive the Lord’s eyes for the world around me and that I would stop comparing myself to the wrong people. I pray that I would have a global mindset that turns my world around. But I also secretly and quietly pray, I’ll admit, that it wouldn’t require too very much of me.
My daughter attends a fairly expensive Christian school—a decision we agreed upon long before her father and I were even married. We are thrilled with her school, but it is not without a few potential pitfalls. We experienced one of them right out of the gate in kindergarten. It involved the discrepancy in lifestyles among her friends and playmates.
My daughter is fairly gregarious and friendly, so she has been invited from time to time over to the homes of her classmates to play. This, in and of itself, was not a problem. The problem arose when she came home from play-dates exclaiming that some her friends lived in “castles.” And she was pretty darn close. At her young age, this doesn’t bother her. I pray that it won’t, ever. But I’m embarrassed to admit that it bothers ME. I have a HUGE struggle internally over this. Why doesn’t my daughter deserve that? Why do they get that and we don’t? Why does God seem to bless them and not us?
And so my daughter is asleep upstairs in her own bed in her own room in our own house, and I am complaining that things aren’t fair. Today she had three full meals and a few snacks to boot and even a chocolate peanut butter milkshake with the cool squirty-can whipped cream on top before bed. Our pantry is full, as is our refrigerator and freezer. We have so much stuff in our 1400 square foot home that we must regularly give stuff away to Goodwill to have room for the new. And with two sets of grandparents nearby, there is always a lot of new. She sleeps across the room from a bookcase filled with more books than we can possibly read in a month’s worth of bedtimes, next to her CD player with more CDs than she can play in a month’s worth of “chill out times.” In the fall, she will walk out my front door completely free, for the most part, from the threat of harm, get into my car, and she will go to school where she will learn freely (although not for free!) for the next twelve years all that she needs to know to put her on solid footing in our global market. She will learn about God freely, will worship freely, and will play freely. She will have a childhood, and will laugh and run and play. And yet I shake my fist at God and ask, “Why don’t we have what they have?”
And why DON’T I have what other people have? Why did I have the good fortune of living in America? Why was I given freedom of choice limited only by my financial resources, which, by global standards, is an incredible amount of wealth? Why do I have a roof over my head and the choice of how warm or cool I heat my home? Why am I not skin and bones, sending my children out to scavenge through dumpsters and trash heaps for our next meal? Why am I so fortunate that I do not have AIDS, or my daughter? Why don’t I live in a mud hut, dying and alone, worried about who will take care of my children? Why don’t I have to fear for my life as I watch thousands of friends, family and fellow countrymen be slaughtered in gruesome genocide? Why don’t I have to flee my home and homeland for my safety? Why am I not persecuted for my beliefs? For the color of my skin? For my gender?
I’m worried because I can’t afford to throw my six-year-old daughter a party at the Rec Center for her birthday and invite 50 of her closest friends, while there are six-year-old girls, all over this world, even within this country, being sold to grown men who know better to be tortured and raped repeatedly in order to pad some slime-ball’s pockets and enable him to get some his next fix. SOLD. I look at the innocence in my daughter’s eyes—the naïve joy on her face—and I shudder. Why are we so fortunate? Why is my daughter not one of them?
She was born free.
I will teach her to never, ever, take that for granted.
Hopefully, I will learn that lesson myself, along the way.
© 2005
Saturday, July 02, 2005
now I've done it...
So, I’m down at the gallery hop and run into some friends and I tell them I’m blogging.
Great. Now I’ve done it.
Now I have to keep at it because someone may actually read this. I wasn’t counting on that… Of course, you can remind me that the whole point of getting my fanny in gear and actually writing is the hope of someday being published, which would eventually mean (gasp!) that people would read what I’ve written. But there is still, despite this logic (you will find that disregarding logic is a common theme), a vulnerable and exposed feeling that just feels flat-out junior highish.
Yuck.
I am convinced, given what I have observed of people, that the vast majority of us live in some degree of constant tension between the desperate desire to be fully and completely known and the sheer, stark terror of the very same. I feel it daily, like the way your thighs quiver when you’ve been squatting for too long—the strain somewhere between clenching and releasing. I want to be authentic. I want to live my next 35 years without fear and inhibition and insecurity. I am too old for junior high.
I believe this tension exists because we were made to be fully known, but we screwed it up. The desire compels us relentlessly because we were created to be fully, completely, freeing-ly known. But that connection was severed, and what was the first thing that happened? We hid from God, from each other, and from ourselves. Just as it is intrinsically within our perfect nature to be known, it is hardwired into our fallen nature to be hidden. The two are by nature at odds with one another—and I expect will never be completely reconciled this side of heaven.
I read a quote once that made me cry—“If you want to have an exceptional child, you must be willing to have an exceptional child.[1]” I’ll discuss that at more length another time, but my point in bringing it up is that it logically follows that if you want to be fully known, you must be willing to be fully known. The overcoming of fear requires risk. It requires no longer wishing I was doing something, but actually doing it.
I’m going to DO it.
And tomorrow, I might even give another other person my link…
© 2005
[1] From The Highly Sensitive Child : Helping Our Children Thrive When the World Overwhelms Them, by Elaine Aron, © 2002.
Great. Now I’ve done it.
Now I have to keep at it because someone may actually read this. I wasn’t counting on that… Of course, you can remind me that the whole point of getting my fanny in gear and actually writing is the hope of someday being published, which would eventually mean (gasp!) that people would read what I’ve written. But there is still, despite this logic (you will find that disregarding logic is a common theme), a vulnerable and exposed feeling that just feels flat-out junior highish.
Yuck.
I am convinced, given what I have observed of people, that the vast majority of us live in some degree of constant tension between the desperate desire to be fully and completely known and the sheer, stark terror of the very same. I feel it daily, like the way your thighs quiver when you’ve been squatting for too long—the strain somewhere between clenching and releasing. I want to be authentic. I want to live my next 35 years without fear and inhibition and insecurity. I am too old for junior high.
I believe this tension exists because we were made to be fully known, but we screwed it up. The desire compels us relentlessly because we were created to be fully, completely, freeing-ly known. But that connection was severed, and what was the first thing that happened? We hid from God, from each other, and from ourselves. Just as it is intrinsically within our perfect nature to be known, it is hardwired into our fallen nature to be hidden. The two are by nature at odds with one another—and I expect will never be completely reconciled this side of heaven.
I read a quote once that made me cry—“If you want to have an exceptional child, you must be willing to have an exceptional child.[1]” I’ll discuss that at more length another time, but my point in bringing it up is that it logically follows that if you want to be fully known, you must be willing to be fully known. The overcoming of fear requires risk. It requires no longer wishing I was doing something, but actually doing it.
I’m going to DO it.
And tomorrow, I might even give another other person my link…
© 2005
[1] From The Highly Sensitive Child : Helping Our Children Thrive When the World Overwhelms Them, by Elaine Aron, © 2002.
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