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Having grown up in the golden era of network television, my generation has collective memories centered around three to five primary channels of broadcast programming. We can sing to you what a conjunction is, tell you how to get to Sesame Street, whisper in your ear who shot JR, tell you the blues of a bill on Capitol Hill, and recite the ingredients of the Big Mac in rapid succession. While there were many programs that continue to be sentimental touchstones to my childhood, it is the commercials that come back the quickest, and at the oddest moments.

I must admit I have a warped nostalgia for the commercials of my youth. I can sing, in one breath, the entire Oreo cookie song, and do so pretty much every time I see one. My daughter asked me one day how I did something, and I told her it was an "ancient Chinese secret." She looked at me like I was speaking Chinese. And to this day, I cannot watch a sunset without hearing in my memory, "going, going, gone..." "Do it again, Daddy!" At a time when I was naive to the evils of advertising, commercials were fun ("No, silly, I'm talking to the toilet paper") and lighthearted, and I was easily and eagerly impressionable.

I don't feel that way any longer, now that a commercial has ruined my life.

Many of you are aware that, despite my childhood nostalgia, I do not watch much television at this point in my life. I wish I had not been watching this particular night, as well, as the images and ideas refuse to leave my mind and probably never will. This is why I don't watch television, I have reminded myself. But the damage has already been done.

For the life of me, I don't remember where I was when this occurred, nor do I remember what I was watching at the time. Someone was trying to get me to buy something, and then suddenly there was a woman in front of a mirror, gazing intently at her face. The woman raised one finger to each temple, and then very gently lifted up her cheeks. And then another woman. And then another. I cocked my head to one side. Another woman. My eyebrow went up. Another woman. I began to think about how I was going to get nonchalantly to the bathroom. Ten or fifteen women, all told, all around my age, examined themselves in the mirror in that 60-second, million-dollar spot. And then one more got up and excused herself to the bathroom.

Eyebrow still raised, lips pursed, I stood in front of the mirror, knowing I should just turn around and walk away. But like a dieter drawn to the buffet, I could not help myself. One arm lifted, then the other. I placed my fingers to my temples. I looked deep into my eyes. I lifted.

I gasped.

Today I turn 37. They tell me I will be at peace one day with the wrinkles across my forehead, the jowls around my mouth, the salt beginning to mix with my pepper--but not today. Today I am 37 in a world of 27 year olds, and I wish I'd started using the Mary Kay a whole HECK of a lot sooner.

And I wish to God I'd NEVER seen that commercial...

when God speaks to me, he uses music...

(like freedom in spring)

She's alone tonight with a bitter cup and
She's undone tonight, she's all used up
She's been staring down the demons who've been
screaming she's just another so and so
another so and so

You are golden, you are golden child
You are golden, don't let go
don't let go tonight

There's a fear that burns like trash inside
And your shame the curse that burns your eyes
You've been hiding in the bedroom hoping this isn't
how the story has to go
It's not the way it goes,
it's your book now

You are golden, you are golden child
You are golden, don't let go
don't let go tonight

You're a lonely soul in a land of broken hearts
Your far from home
is a perfect place to start

So this final verse is a contradiction and the more we learn,
the less we know
We've been talking about a feeling, we both know inside
but couldn't find the words
I couldn't write this verse. I've seldom been so sure
about anything before

You're golden, you are golden child
You are golden, don't let go
don't let go tonight

You are...
(This world is a dead man down
Every breath is a fading crown we wear like some
debilitated king...
The earth spins and the moon goes round
The green comes from the frozen ground and
everything will be made new again
like freedom in spring)
...golden
(like freedom in spring)
golden
(like freedom in spring)
golden

Music and Lyrics by Switchfoot

quiet time

It begins with the creaking click of the knob turning, slowly catching the internal mechanism, and then releasing with a soft, metallic echo. The door swings open, and a muffled thump-thump-thump approaches my bedside. A small, impish figure, armed with three stuffed animals and a rather large blanket, hoists itself up beside me and begins to ruin my quiet, restful morning.

“Momma, are you ready to get up now?” the treble voice asks. I look at the clock. 6:30 AM. No. I am not ready to get up yet. Not by a long shot. “Momma…” I roll over toward the voice, which comes out of a deceptively angelic-looking face, framed with soft, sun-kissed curls glowing like a golden halo. In my stupor, I am taken in. The tender moment, however, is fleeting. “Buddy,” I croak in my “it’s dark-thirty AM” voice, “Momma is still sleeping. You need to go back to bed.” “I want to be with you, Momma,” he insists, throwing his legs over mine and grabbing my arm to position around him under his neck.

As I know it is a lose-lose scenario, I choose, this time, to give him a chance. “Buddy, you MUST lay still and you MUST be quiet,” I warn him in the sternest voice I can muster at this hour. It is yet another exercise in futility. Legs on top of mine, legs underneath mine. The arm is in the right spot, the arm is in the wrong spot. “Momma,” he urges, “roll over this way.” Groaning, I roll the opposite direction, to no avail. Tiny legs fling themselves across my torso, shifting roughly every three seconds. Ire is building within my not-a-morning-person spirit. I breathe deeply and hope that ignoring him will deter him.

I hope in vain. “Momma, are you ready to get up now?” he asks again. “I’m ready to eat now. Momma… is sissy up yet? Momma… did Daddy go to work already? Momma… will you play with me? Momma…” In miraculous self-restraint, I calmly roll over and insist that he return to his bedroom. After a moment of protests, he retreats in a fit of whining, slamming both my door and his own along the way, which requires me to get out of bed to address. Finally, I am alone in my bed (oh, sweet mercy) and, smugly congratulating myself for not killing my son, begin to drift back to sleep.

BAM!!! BOOM!!! I awaken and push my door shut, turning the fan up to deal with both the rising heat and the rising noise. CRASH!!! Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump. I roll over, glancing again at the clock. Another hour of “sleep” has passed. SPILLLLLLL!!! Yammeryammeryammer. “Buddy, you’re too loud,” I warn. He quiets momentarily. Then comes the tape player blaring math facts to poorly written imitation-80’s rock music. BEAT-BEAT-BEAT-BEAT. The clock reads 7:50. I groan and finally, wearily, drag myself from bed.

He appears the minute my door opens. “Momma, are you getting up now? I’m ready to eat, Momma. Can we eat now?” I stumble to the bathroom. “Yes, Buddy, we can eat in a minute.” “I want Cheerios, Momma. With honey. Can I have honey?” “We’ll see, Buddy,” I mutter, making my way in to wake up my 8-year-old sleep-loving likeness. “Time to get up now, Sissy!!!!” He diverts his attention to her for a moment, and I begin to dress in my slow, I’m-not-awake-yet pace. BOUNCE!!! “Momma, can we eat NOW?!?!”

Making my way downstairs, he curls around my feet like the cat. “Can I have Cheerios? I want Cheerios. With honey. Can I have honey, Momma?” “Buddy, I got it, okay?” “Okay, Momma,” he chirps, off to clatter with his trains. I enter the kitchen, the cat now curling around my feet, yowling to be paid attention to. My daughter thumps down the stairs and the bickering begins. “That was my train, Sissy! I had it first!” I attempt to ignore it and begin preparing breakfast. Dishes clank against one another, tones harsh and startling to my ears. My irritation grows despite my best efforts.

"Come on guys, it’s ready.” Spoons clinking, Cheerios crunching, children chattering. I place my ingredients in the blender and brace myself. WHIRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!!! “Momma, are you making a smoothie?” “What do you think, Buddy?” “Can I have some smoothie? I want some smoothie!” I pour my breakfast—MY breakfast—and come to the table.

I pull my devotional reading out, shuffling through the pages to today’s date. I begin to read, hungry for a nourishing moment. “What are we going to do today, Momma? Are we going to aerobics today? What are we doing after aerobics? Are we going to a friend’s house today? I want to play with a friend today, Momma. Can I have my gummy vitamins, Momma? I haven’t had my vitamins yet…” It takes me ten minutes to read the three short paragraphs. The moment I shut the book and lay it down, it has already left me. “Momma, I want some more…”

Some more. Yes. I want some more, too. More sleep. More peace. More “Mommy-Time.” More quiet. I know it is a season, one like many others I will encounter. But it is a particularly noisy, relentless season, and I am one who is sensitive to the noise and the pressure. “They tell me there will come a time when it seems too quiet,” I say to my husband one night, as they are bickering in the stroller. “I can’t imagine...” “Don’t say that,” he gently admonishes me. “You know it will be here all too soon.”

Yes, I know this. I remind myself of it daily, trying to be comfortable with the tension between cherishing the now and anticipating the not-yet. There will come a day I will long for that little voice to wake me up and fill my day, but, at the moment, the day is filled to overflowing. I pray for moments of quiet, moments of inner peace, moments of grace. One comes, as the children exit the kitchen and flow out into the backyard. Moving into the living room, I pick my devotional up again, and soak up as much as those three minutes will allow. “Momma,” I hear all too soon. “Momma, I need you..."

This time, I am ready to rise. I close my eyes for a moment, lifting up a prayer for our day, for my children, for my heart. Then I get up, placing the book back on the kitchen table, and I follow the noise to its source. With a newfound calmness, I respond.

“Whatcha need, Buddy? I’m ready now…”

just five or six more...

The scale read 140.0 two weeks ago. Tonight it reads 148.0. I stare at the glowing number in despair, my heart sinking, though not with surprise. How could I possibly be surprised, when I knowingly binged all afternoon?

Today was the low point of a slowly-gaining-momentum roller coaster ride—emotions out of whack and appetite out of check and my weight as up and down as the track. I can hear the clack-clack-clack-clack of the cable as I begin another ascent—up to the height of my irrational fear—and for a moment I perch motionless at the top before careening down a slippery slope of trying to control my never-satiated need for more. I clutch the crash bar for dear life, knuckles white, cursing myself for getting on this ride, knowing full well I never could handle roller coasters.

When did I first find myself back in this car, belted and barred and unable to place my hands and feet on solid ground until the ride has come to a complete stop? Until recently, life had become a fairly mellow ride—more like the Matterhorn—round and round and round with its predictable ups and downs. Things were steady—eating healthy, exercising regularly—and then a small dip—a weekend barbeque or a wedding reception—then back to steady, steady, steady, dip, steady, steady, steady, dip. It felt reasonable. It felt healthy. It felt (dare I say?) normal.

It doesn’t feel that way any more. For whatever reason—my monthly cycle, side effects of a newly-tried-then-newly-discarded medication, depression, spiritual attack—nothing is steady now. Not today. Not this weekend. Not this week. Not ever again.

I am, of course, becoming dramatic. This is because drama is what I do. It is much more compelling to write that nothing will ever be okay again than it is to write that in another two weeks I will be back on track and the scale will read 140.0 again. And, truthfully, it FEELS like it will never be okay again. It FEELS like I am 240 lbs and doomed to stay there, or, worse, increase. It FEELS like I have changed nothing and made no gains against my formidable appetite. It FEELS like I am still the sad, pathetic, lacking-in-willpower creature that I FEEL I have always been. I have lost. The battle is over. The white flag is up. I surrender.

(Pause for dramatic effect) Sigh…

(In a hushed, subdued tone) I surrender. I am desperately, hopelessly hungry, and there is nothing—NOTHING—that satisfies. Not Oreos or beef brats or corn on the cob or sweet potato chips with dip. Not pizza or strawberry pie or nachos or cranberry oatmeal cookies. I eat one, I want another. I eat another, I want five or six more. My stomach says, “enough.” My waistband says, “enough.” My spirit says, “enough.” My insatiable appetite says, “more, more, MORE!!!”

I am not satisfied. It is not my stomach that growls, empty and discontent, but my heart. I am hungry for more than my pantry can ever hold. I surrender—not to my appetite, but to He whom I am hungry for.

Delight my soul in the richest of your fare, Lord (Isa 55:2). I beg of you—meet me here, at last.

more than a conqueror (a pantoum)

The white flag is raised—
tattered and torn, it whips back and forth in the wind.
I surrender…
there is no fight left in me.

My spirit is limp—
tattered and torn, it whips back and forth in the wind.
Weariness like a mountain weighs upon my shoulders.
There is no fight left in me.

I am overcome with despair.
My spirit is limp—
where is my hero now?
Weariness like a mountain weighs upon my shoulders.

“All-consuming-yet-never-satisfied-wants[1]” declare victory…
I am overcome with despair.
A conquering power brings the enemy to its knees[2]—
where is my hero now?

Two sets of hands reach for me—only one may claim me.
“All-consuming-yet-never-satisfied-wants” declare victory…
but faith will overcome.
A conquering power brings the enemy to its knees.

There is another who fights for me—
I surrender
to the one whose blood was shed in victory.
The white flag is raised.

___________________________________________
[1] Galatians 5:19-21, MSG
[2] 1 John 5:4, MSG

the first tastes of summer

Ahh... summer. Popsicles, watermelon, and corn on the cob. With any luck, they'll be room for some writing on my "plate," as well! One can always hope!

reva's daughter

The line, though well-rehearsed, never felt quite natural to me, no matter how many times I recited it over the course of the past week. Perhaps because it is a line I’ve not used much in recent years, perhaps because other lines have taken its place with the passage of time—for whatever the reason, though it always rolled easily off my tongue, it always sounded unfamiliar to my ear, as if I were introducing myself by another person’s name or speaking about myself in past tense. “Hi, I’m Lorie,” I would begin, smiling, my hand outstretched. “I’m Reva’s daughter.”

The response became downright comical after a while. “I knew you was Reva’s daughter,” each relative would reply, smiling back at me. “You look just like her.” “Yeah, I get that a lot,” I would chuckle in return. And I do—which is the funny part. Were we talking about my aunt and her daughter, this would not be nearly as amusing, because my cousin is the spitting image of her mother. But my mother and I—well, suffice it to say that even though she has gotten stopped more than once at the grocery store or the mall with, “You must be Lorie Kaufman’s mom—you look just like her,” we don’t really think we look much alike at all. But I played out my role, smiling, and nodding, all the while wondering what they saw that I did not.

And so it was that I found myself in this odd, bemused place—adult child of my mother, half in the present, half in the past—contemplating what it means to be Reva’s daughter, Jennie’s granddaughter, my husband’s wife, my daughter’s mother. Contemplating what it means to be so linked with another that this link becomes part of my identity. Contemplating what it means to bear the image or imprint of another. I’m not sure I’ve come to any conclusions, save this one:

As much as society tries to convince me that I am an “Army of One,” I cannot escape the fact that my smile is my mother’s, my eyes are my father’s, my outgoing nature is my granddad’s, and my I’m-gettin’-tired Kentucky drawl is my gram’s. The people I come from, the people I’ve united with, and the little people I’ve produced all contribute to the person I was, the person I am, and the person I am to become.

Though the only place I’m now known as Reva’s daughter is in the company of family, I do not cease to be that person once I return home, any more than I cease to be my daughter’s mother when I go to work or my husband’s wife when I leave for a weekend with the girls. And while we may not think we look much alike, I bear my mother’s image nonetheless, just as I do that of my father, and his mother, and so on. Mom’s interest in genealogy is not lost on me—we do not stand alone in a single point in time. I am not separate. I am a part of something beyond myself. I am a Rees. I am a Kaufman. I am an Endicott. I am a Hottle. I am a Baisden.

I am Reva’s daughter.

here she comes...

In memory of my Grandmother

Jennie Baisden Endicott

(The chapel at Community Hospice, Ashland, KY)

I am standing upon the seashore. A ship at my side spreads her white sails to the morning breeze and starts for the blue ocean. She is an object of beauty and strength. I stand and watch her until at length she hangs like a speck of white cloud just where the sea and sky come to mingle with each other.

Then someone at my side says: "There, she is gone!"

"Gone where?"

Gone from my sight. That is all. She is just as large in mast and hull and spar as she was when she left my side and she is just as able to bear her load of living freight to their destined port.

Her diminished size is in me, not in her. And just at the moment when someone at my side says: "There, she is gone!" there are other eyes watching her coming, and other voices ready to take up the glad shout: "Here she comes!"

And that is dying.

Anonymous

I have to admit, I was apprehensive. Six hours of partying with four eight-year-olds was ambitious, at best. Completely insane, at worst. Introducing my agenda to the mix? I wasn't sure what to expect.

Having done childcare for several years before getting a "real job" (meaning one in which I really worked, rather than played out side all day) and eventually going back to school, I knew enough to keep the agenda flexible and make sure I had several back-ups. Six hours is a long time to keep bored children entertained (meaning preventing them from tearing up the house). Should the main event not go over well, I had several back ups to turn to in a pinch before heading to dinner.

Truth be told, the real anxiety was over the main event, not the down time. I had suggested to my daughter that we could do a "spa party" and she was initially very enthusiastic about the idea. Facials, cucumbers, foot massages, manicures, make-overs--the works--and then dinner out to show it off. As the time got closer, however, I heard less and less about it. And as I began to really take a look at these young ladies at school and at church, I began to worry that they may not sustain interest either.

Between attending a church that describes itself as "casual" and a school that mandates uniforms, my daughter and her friends don't have much reason or occassion to really dress up. As a result, my daughter has largely grown, how shall I put it, well, CASUAL. The days of playing dress up have become fewer and farther between, and getting her to wear a skirt to church (as opposed to shorts--in MARCH) has become a hill I have decided I am not willing to die on. Factor in the dirt smudges on her cheeks and the stringy, I've-been-playing-hard hair, and the picture is not one of girliness.

So, would these girls get into a girlie party? Would their interest be sustained through soaking feet and painting nails and making jewelry and curling hair? Would there be an "after" picture with which to compare the "before?" And what would I do with them FOR SIX HOURS if there wasn't?

As usual, I fretted in vain. From the moment we slipped on the headbands, the girls were enthralled. Somewhere within each of these girls their innate desire to feel beautiful kicked in and they were completely willing to be pampered from beginning to end--and thrilled with the results. Goop on their faces, slime on their feet, and sticky stuff in their hair aside...

There are many things I pray for my daughter. While not among the most imperative, the hope that she looks in the mirror each day and smiles at what she sees is one that I will continue to lift up on her behalf. Is feeling pretty the most important thing in her world? No. Not by a long shot. But the gift of feeling good about who she is, BOTH inside and out, is one that will serve her well, and I will go to great lengths in my attempt to give it to her.

Even pampering four eight-year-old girls.

For SIX HOURS.

Here's how they turned out:

eight

The "after" picture from her Spa Party today.

Been too busy raising my kids to write about it...
...I keep telling myself that's the way it should be...
but I miss it! Hopefully more soon!

against the wind

The March wind blows through my still-damp hair, impeding my vision and tangling the curl beyond any possible repair. Impulsively I raise my hands to my face in yet another futile attempt to keep its tickling tendrils away from my mouth and nose, out of my irritated eyes, wishing I’d remembered something with which to tame its enthusiasm. I catch a glimpse of myself in a passing window pane—myself and my taken-on-a-life-of-its-own head of hair, dancing its own wild dance of joy while I swat and swing and shove it away in fit of frustration.

My hair has gotten out of control.

The March wind blows through my well-ordered days, scattering my schedule like scraps of paper, carrying away my best-laid plans in its cold, ghastly gusts. Impulsively I reach to grab it all, to pull every moment tight to my chest in yet another futile attempt to keep the ticking of time away from the sacred sanctuary I long to create within this spiraling space that is our family. I regard my face in the mirror—I am losing the battle against Time, wearing my weariness across my forehead, under my eyes, around my mouth, while he laughs raucously at my frantic flailing in his general direction.

My life has gotten out of control.

I regard them both, my curls and my calendar, attempting to determine what more may be cut away—an inch or two here, an activity or so there—but I am unable to discern what will best flatter my face or fit my family. I have been here before—I have trimmed away and I have let grow, sometimes even drastically, and yet here I am again with my clarity obscured by my bangs hanging in my eyes. Would that I could restrain time in the same manner I subdue my hair, placing it under my control with a simple twist of the wrist. To be able to braid together my work, my family, my talents and interests, and to not have them come immediately unraveled with the first innocent, carefree toss of my head. I do not desire to cut—I desire to tame. I don’t know if that is possible. I will find out in time.

The March wind blows through my spirit, ushering in a new season in its typical blustery way. Impulsively I brace myself for its changes with my usual mix of anxiety and anticipation—reminding myself that just as the blue skies eventually follow these months of gray, clarity usually comes after these times of confusion. As for today, it is finally sunny and blue, and so, pulling back my hair, I bundle up against its blasts and abandon my agenda to rustle around in the bottom of the coat closest in search of the kite.

When the wind is out of control, it’s time to let something fly.

the only constant is...

“My husband said I needed to hear the sermon this morning,” she tells me, explaining as she approaches why she is here, alone, at the 9:15 service. “It’s about change.” I cannot help but laugh, although it is not even remotely funny.

“Great,” I reply, half-hearted even in my sarcasm.

“Yeah,” she chuckles, “I think you’ll need it, too.”

She is right, of course, though not necessarily due to any great revelatory insight on her part (not that she’s not capable of such, mind you)—it is a widely known fact, among those with whom I am known, that I do not deal well with change. At all. Like my front-wheel-drive micro-van trying to get up my unplowed and thrice-frozen-over street, I do best when I keep in my deep little ruts. No one gets stuck, no one gets side-swiped, everyone is happy. It works for me. Until someone goes and plows the street.

Like, say, my friend.

Over six years ago we moved to this town, leaving behind on one hand my very dear parents but on the other a group of very hurtful and difficult friendships I was eager to be free of. God’s provision began with a small group of young moms who met twice a month at the church I’d begun attending with my husband, and it continued from there. That group was a life-saver for me in more ways than one, and out of that group grew two of the best friendships I’ve ever had. The friend beside me now is one of them. She will not be beside me for much longer.

Occasionally I’ll hear my mother-in-law refer to women she classifies in the “we were friends when our kids were little” category. I often found myself wondering what happened that those friendships shifted. While I don’t recall ever actually thinking the words, “that will never happen to us,” I know the thought was there, just the same. I would never have that category. It was as simple as that. Nothing would ever change.

But, alas, nothing in life is simple. So, what happened when their kids weren’t little anymore? Families moved, mothers who once stayed home went back to work, lives got crammed full with the kids and their activities—all these friendships that are life-lines for me, are they headed in the same direction? I pull over to let an on-coming vehicle through, swerving and fish-tailing as I go, then struggle to pull back into the middle of the road where the traversing is easier. How long will these ruts remain?

Nostalgia, our pastor reminds us, is an attempt to retrieve the irretrievable. I know this far too well as I am, by nature, one who is constantly looking longingly back over my shoulder. It is our attempt, he asserts, to deal with change apart from God. “The only way to know God as your security is to give up and surrender to his sovereignty.” Living this way, I suspect, is a little more like having four-wheel-drive—less ruts, more freedom of movement. The ability to maneuver through obstacles with power and agility. The ability to navigate life without my foot on the break in fear. The ability to embrace the open road, wherever it may lead.

The only constant is change. My friend understands this, and points me to the God who is both “the rocks and the rapids.” I cannot pick and choose where I will trust him and where I will not—it is an all-or-nothing proposition. Once again, he is doing a new thing. Once again, I must learn to trust him.

Once again, I must say good-bye.

snow day number five: a photo essay

brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr

a little bit of color

me and my bub

you shoulda seen when they went airborn!

worn out and ready for something warm!

an "ill-conceived" sentiment

For the past few wintery evenings, I have turned on the bed early and cozied up to a delightful book by Rachel Simon entitled Riding the Bus With My Sister. Ms. Simon, whose younger-by-eleven-months sister Beth is mildly mentally retarded, takes the reader on an enjoyable journey through both her childhood and her mid-life “coming of age,” both set around her relationship with her sister, whose sole focus in life is riding the public buses from morning until night around her Pennsylvania city. The year that Rachel commits to riding the buses with Beth is nothing short of life-changing—challenging, among other things, Rachel’s self-protective busyness and her concepts of mental retardation and self-determination. Other than a few conversations that felt overly-philosophical and forced, it was beautifully written and well worth reading.

That being said, I had one jaw-dropping, “I can’t believe she said that!” moment about half way through the book that greatly disturbed me. Rachel recounts reaching a point, once Beth is living on her own and becomes “involved” with someone, when her family must make a determination about birth control. After much deliberation, it is agreed that she would never remember to take the pill, couldn’t be trusted to use a diaphragm, couldn’t manage a condom, and would never agree to an IUD. It is at this point that Rachel remarks, as they are feeling the urgency of the situation, that “…the thought of Beth undergoing an abortion seems unbearable—not that she would anyway, as she is the one family member who objects to abortions.”

This is not the comment, just to be clear, that made me gasp. The fact that Ms. Simon does not object to abortions, while it says something to me about her politics and sense of morality, does not, unfortunately, shock me. It is entirely all too common in our “my rights and my needs above anyone else’s” and “there is no right or wrong, just what’s right for ME” culture. What caused me to wake my husband up came two pages later.

After determining as a family that a tubal ligation is the best option for Beth, Rachel accompanies her to the procedure. It appears she is not prepared for her own emotional response afterward. She writes:

Then, after I pull away, waving with a big, sunny smile, when I am too far down
the road to glimpse them in my rearview, I weep. It is a terrible act to
eliminate the possibility of children, to terminate a long march of futures.

This is the same woman who does not oppose the elimination and termination of a fetus? What am I missing here?

Now, I will grant you that some people may argue that what Rachel is really grieving here is the loss of Beth’s choice. Both abortion and conception are, after all, about “a choice, not a child,” correct? Given the articulate nature of the rest of her writing, however, I am not willing to entertain this argument. Her writing is very blunt and intentional. Had she meant that, I’m confident she would have written it as such.

I believe that what Rachel mourned in her rearview mirror was the loss of life in her sister’s womb. The problem with this is that Beth’s womb did not yet contain life—it merely contained the promise of life. I cannot, therefore, reconcile how she could mourn the loss of the promise or hope of life—the “possibility,” as she put it—yet could be perfectly okay with the actual loss of life within her sister’s womb. The contradiction was apparently not as blatant to Ms. Simon.

It is this type of ill-conceived sentiment that convinces me that many in our nation still have a conscience, but refuse to heed it. We know, in those moments of feeling, that there is something lost—that there is something amiss. We feel it in our gut, it washes down our cheeks, it bunches up in our throats, causing us to be unable to swallow. But so many are unable to untangle the web of feminist politics to see that what is amiss ARE the feminist politics, and therefore go on buying the rhetoric that you can have it all—sex without strings attached, choice without consequence, possibility without the true promise of life.

I, too, grieve for Beth, and for other women who have lost the choice to have children. But I grieve even more for the women who elevate the loss of choice over the loss of a child.

how i spent my weekend

A good time was had by all! (Now, I'm off to BED!)

sledding

(not) sledding

what part of "no" don't i understand?

He stood at the top of the hill, leaning against the guardrail with the nonchalant air of an adolescent, not even glancing my way as he spoke to me. “No, I don’t want to. Not today. Maybe next year.” His tone was clear and even—no trace of the soprano tremolo that usually indicated he was upset or wound up. I tried again.

“Come on, Buddy. Sit right here—try it just once.”

His voice was firm. Matter-of-fact, even. Not a voice I was used to hearing out of this child’s mouth. “No, I don’t want to. I just don’t want to. Maybe next year.” His words didn’t even register. I tried again, my friend joining me this time. “Come on, Buddy—just one time. You’ll like it.”

“No, I just don’t want to.” Were it not for my friend’s daughter inadvertently starting my down the hill alone, I would have probably continued to press the poor child further. It was then, as I sped down the hill at full speed on some orange flyer advertised to break several bones in one fateful trip, that I finally realized the idiocy of what I was doing.

I don’t like sledding.

Neither does my son.

So why was I trying to force us both to fly down this hill?

I teach my children to assert themselves, and then I don’t listen when they do. I tell them to listen to my “No,” then I railroad over theirs. What was I thinking?

I was thinking of my own fear, and of having lived a life paralyzed by it. I was thinking of the things I’d missed as a result, and the regrets that accompany them. I was thinking about my struggles as I’ve lived my life on the sidelines, watching my husband and my daughter soar and fly and climb and run while I stand by, both feet firmly on the ground. I was thinking about ME. Fortunately, my four-year-old was not. Secure enough to speak his mind, he let me know where he stood. He stood at the top of the hill, and he was very happy to keep it that way. When will I learn to listen to my children?

“Maybe next year,” he reminded me when I returned, his sister flying by behind us for the umpteenth time. I took his hand, and we headed for the snowplow pile he’d been eager to climb since we’d arrived. “Whenever you’re ready, Buddy. Whenever you’re ready.”

Maybe next year I’ll be ready, too.

mirror, mirror, on the wall...

It is the bane of my existence.

Its slim, graceful frame hangs above the sink, halfway imbedded into the wall, sleek and silvery against the muted gray of our bathroom. Having just slammed it shut, its mirrored surface now returns my furrowed brow, my likeness cursing in unison with my own mouth. The irony is that though the image looks like me—my eyes, my hair, my lips—my true reflection is actually found on the other side of the door.

Several times a day—especially lately, given how our lovely Midwestern winters affect the health of our household—I open the glass front, holding my breath, and tentatively reach within. Three shelves in height crammed with six levels of various remedies and elixirs, all precariously perched, disassembles at my slightest touch, sending multiple boxes and bottles and paraphernalia crashing into the porcelain sink below, usually when the children are sleeping. “Are you trying to wake the kids?” my husband calls, as I slam the medicine cabinet shut after three attempts to balance all that I know fit into it because it all came out of it. My usual reply is not fit for print.

Brightly colored band-aids, just out of my daughter’s reach so as to not run out of them in a week’s time. Beige colored band-aids, so that my husband does not have to go to work with Barbie on his boo-boos. Thermometers, tweezers, nail clippers and dental floss. Creams for itching, creams for burning, creams for bumps, and creams for bruises. Pills that make certain things run and pills that make other things stop running. Orange colored bottles, half-full, labeled “BE SURE TO TAKE ALL OF THIS MEDICATION.” Seven different types of pain relief, most of them legal. (That’s a joke.) Boxes of this, bottles of that, tubes of the other—the medicinal menagerie has gotten unmanageable.

It feels all too familiar.

If it’s not the cabinet, it’s the pantry. If it’s not the pantry, it’s the linen closet. If it’s not the linen closet, it’s the basement. Crap is falling on my head all over the place, and that’s just the external problems. If it’s not my marriage, it’s my parenting. If it’s not my parenting, it’s my weight. If it’s not my weight, it’s my relationship with God. Crap is filling my head all over the place, falling out at the wrong times in the wrong places with the wrong people, and I am constantly trying to cram it all back in and make it fit. Too much stuff, not enough space. This is my headache.

All I needed was a flippin’ ibuprofen.

Now, I need a tranquilizer.

one big happy...

four

Happy Birthday, Baby!

sitting on the couch while the cultural war rages on: why parents do not engage

As the mother of a daughter, there are several choices I’ve had to make that have been less than popular, and, at times, less than comfortable, in regard to how I allow my daughter to interact with our current culture. Such decisions have been made after a great deal of inner debate, and have been guided in part by insight from books I’ve read and discussed with others, such as Home Invasion by Rebecca Hagelin and Your Girl by Vicky Courtney. So when I came across Dean’s post about a hyper-sexualized middle school talent show a few weeks back, I began giving further thought as to why it seems so many other parents DON’T seem to be making similar choices.

Dean quotes from the original New York Times article about the highly provocative nature of the “talent” being displayed, then quotes another blogger who asks, “Why are parents giving up?” Dean responds that the answer is simple. “Many of these parents probably hold secret misgivings about what goes on in these productions, but silence them in an effort not to damage their child's acceptance in the achievement elite.” He concludes his post by saying, "Because those parents who might object to this kind of thing are silent, those who have the greatest tolerance for the sexualization of children continue to push the boundaries of acceptability. Combine this reality with the common belief that sexual mores inevitably become looser as time goes by and the belief that the highest calling one can have on one's life is to be a celebrity (which requires the early sacrifice of modesty) and you end up with talent shows like this one."

While I agree entirely that this is a legitimate factor, I disagree that it is as “simple” as this. I think there are many more reasons why even well-meaning, able-conscienced parents throw up their hands and allow their children to be swallowed whole by the culture. I will take a moment here to offer up just a few.

Rebecca Hagelin states, in the introduction to the afore mentioned book, “…too often, even good moms and dads, when confronted with the struggle—and believe me, it’s a struggle—simply give up. They shrug their shoulders and decide, 'I just don’t have the energy to argue. Everybody’s doing it, so what’s the harm in my child doing it too?' This syndrome has become the mantra of too many parents.” It takes energy to engage in the cultural war against our children and families. Many parents simply lack the energy or the motivation to stand up for what they know internally to be right and appropriate, because they think they are but one facing millions (or even just one other) and they are not up for the argument. They don’t want to be challenged or questioned, they don’t want to be given a hard time, they just want to sit on their couch and be comfortable. If every parent who had a conscience would take the time and energy to stand up for what they believe to be right and appropriate for their children, be it at the school talent show or with the entertainment industry or with their own child, we would see standards change. They would have to.

Furthermore, many parents not only lack energy and motivation, but conviction as well. It bothers them that their twelve year old is gyrating her pelvis on stage (or even just in the living room) with her abdomen exposed and the rest of her body barely covered, but they aren’t really sure why and they’re not bothered enough to really DO something about it. In a culture that lacks a moral compass, lines are not easily drawn. If a parent has not taken the time to draw these lines both for themselves and for their child, they are not equipped to respond to the uneasiness that arises within them in such situations. And they will likely not become passionate about it until the threat of pregnancy or STD is eminent, because those are the only lines they ARE clear about.

But the lines are not drawn come middle school, when the sign-ups begin for the talent show—they begin as early as life begins with the choices surrounding what their children will and will not be exposed to and how they will deal with such exposure. Rebecca Hagelin states, “…media companies who want your child to like their programming at, say, fourteen, start trying to captivate them at age four. The idea is to get the kids and the parents gradually numb to certain ideas that would normally offend their sensibilities—and they start, oh, so subtly and cleverly to do so.” Many parents have become numb to the culture because they are over-saturated by it. About ten years ago my husband and I partook in a little experiment and for all intents and purposes stopped watching TV all together. As the time has gone by, we find ourselves more and more appalled by what is on television, because we have not been regularly and systematically desensitized by the entertainment industry for the last decade. This makes us all the more vigilant about what we allow our children to be exposed to, because we have seen first hand how we can become numb to our consciences.

As previously mentioned, in the interest of time and space, these are but a few of the reasons I believe many parents simply “give up” in the battle against our culture. I believe many (myself included, at times) lack the energy, the motivation, the conviction, and the moral sensitivity necessary to enter into a war that will likely not be won in our lifetime. Combine these factors with a driving desire to be comfortable and not rock the boat, and the pervasive message that parents are no longer the experts when it comes to their own children, and you get entire armies of parents who sit, dazed and useless, on their couches while their children become casualties.

Although the war is daunting, I strongly believe battles can be won for our children in the day to day if we only take the time and the energy to say no to that which makes us uncomfortable. Our conscience is our God-given, internal alarm that tells us that something is not right. As parents we must learn to trust it and follow it, because if we do not exercise our conscience, it will weaken over time, and our children will pay the price.

ready or not...

“Momma, what’s sex?” My eyebrows shoot up involuntarily as my heart skips a beat. As she is turned away from me in the dark and using her “I’m feeling really self-conscious” voice, I’m not sure I’ve heard her correctly. I silently hope I haven’t.

“What did you say, Bub?”

“What is sex?” She turns toward me and I see her questioning almost-eight-year-old eyes in the half-light of her bedroom. I heard her correctly. I silently hope aliens will abduct one of us, rescuing me from having to answer her earnest yet uncomfortable question. They do not.

I take a deep breath.

Fortunately, I am not completely unprepared for this conversation—the lucky side effect of being a slightly neurotic parent who worries about too much about too many things and has too many books but too little time to read them. My bookshelves and nightstand all contain, smattered among the memoirs and novels and books on writing, titles like How and When to Talk to Your Kids About Sex or How to Talk to Your Child About Sex or Talking to Your Kids About Sex. (Books on the topic are prolific—alas, creative titles are not.) I’ve even read parts of some of them. And underlined in them. I’ve been a good student. I just didn’t think the final exam would come for, oh, about another year. Or two. Or five.

I silently wish I’d studied harder.

This is not our first conversation, which further complicates the situation. She has been asking questions, albeit infrequently, for about six months now, and I have been answering them in honest but veiled answers, explaining that more information will come as she is older. The groundwork has been laid. But she has been less and less pacified by my responses. She is wanting more. But is she ready?

“Where did you hear that word?” I begin with an indirect route, trying to determine how she’s heard the word used and by whom, who is saying what, what does she really know. As the conversation continues, it becomes clear she is getting some very erroneous information from some very confident but VERY misguided second graders. I am going to have to answer her directly. She needs honest, accurate answers. I silently hope for the Second Coming.

I don’t remember learning about sex for the first time, but there is much I do remember. Awkward conversations, questions directed toward friends who were more “experienced” though not necessarily more knowledgeable, avoided conversations, lessons learned about the hard way. Shame, embarrassment, and confusion were the threads that wove together my knowledge of sexuality. They do not pull out easily. It is not what I want for my daughter.

And so, as carefully and simply as I can, I explain “sex” to my precious, precocious almost-eight-year-old.

“That’s weird,” she giggles, wrinkling her nose. I wrinkle mine back. “Yeah, it is kinda weird, isn’t it?” We have a good giggle and then talk for while longer, allowing her to empty her overflowing bucket of questions. I kiss her good night, reminding her that second graders are not the authority on such matters. I leave her, hopefully, with thoughts of sleepovers and birthday parties.

I silently hope I have done the right thing, at the right time, in the right way.

sunny days

sweeping the clouds away on sanibel island

the kind of white stuff I prefer

Suffice it to say, I would rather be at the beach!

catching up

The tree is put away, the presents have all found places to live, we have been to Florida and back, and all the suitcases are finally empty. A few more loads of laundry, and life will finally return to "normal." (Or as normal as things can be with a spouse starting graduate school!) Hopefully, this will mean more WRITING.

In the meantime, my college friend Dean, inspired by having his first child, has had some great discussions going about several social issues that affect us as parents. Take a minute to browse through the past few weeks of posts, if you're so inclined. He has some good, intelligent points to make--feel free to make a few of your own!

merry christmas to all, and to all a good night!

my own pursuit of happyness

“This part of my story is called: Fear.”

It is 6:00 AM on a Saturday morning and I am wide-awake. Given that I am not usually wide awake until about 9:30, preferably 11:00, I am not sure what to do with myself, let alone the stirring in the pit of my stomach. I rummage around our hotel room for paper and a pen, fortunate to find two measly sheets by the phone, and slip back into my space in the middle of the king-sized bed next to my sleeping husband, pulling the heavy duvet back up over my chilled legs. He moans softly as I turn on the light by my bedside. I begin to write anyway.

It is the writing that has caused this stirring—this inability to enjoy my Saturday morning without children in a bed large enough to have its own zip code. No—perhaps it is the movie that has caused the stirring, but the stirring is about the writing. Whatever the exact source of this tension, I don’t like it—especially when I could be sleeping. Especially when I could remain comfortable. I don’t like to be stirred. Like the meals in my crockpot after a day left alone on low, too much of one thing is stuck to the bottom and too much of another has risen to the surface. Do I stir it all back into the soup, or do I start skimming off the top and avoiding the bottom?

What makes a man with a high school education, barely getting by in his sales job, think he can be a stock broker just because he could go through a math book in a week as a child? What makes a mother of two in the “heart of America” with a zoo membership and a microvan think she has anything to say that could be of relevance to anyone just because a few people told her she could write? Better yet, what makes one act on it, boldly pursuing his dream, while the other sits on the couch at the end of the day staring at her laptop, paralyzed by fear and the excuse of busyness and the mundanity of her life?

In a scene that I overlooked until this early-morning moment of epiphany, Will Smith’s character boldly pitches himself and his product to a CEO way out of his league in the CEO’s private box at a 49ers game and is shot down for his inexperience. The disappointment is clear in his eyes, in the shrug in his shoulders as he leaves later that day, bone density scanner in hand, and walks several blocks to take the bus back to his hotel room from which he is about to be evicted, rendering him homeless. What I first saw in this scene was the failure, the rejection, the disappointment. Then I saw the determination to keep going. But it wasn’t until this morning that I finally saw the big picture.

Will’s character, “Chris,” met that afternoon at the football game several young, up-and-coming businessmen eager to invest in the exploding 80’s market. His pursuit of the big fish had resulted in failure, but in the end it reeled him in a large enough net full of smaller fish to procure him the coveted 1 in 20 position at Dean Whitter, which began his climb to success and wealth. Small fish, big picture. He got it. I haven’t. Yet.

Fear of rejection and a lack of faith in the bigger picture. That is what grips my stomach this morning, robbing me of precious time spent sleeping in. That and the knowledge that I need to either act on it or stop torturing myself with just talking about it. I’m really not too busy to do this—I’m just too chicken. And so it seems, like it or not, God has reached down in his divine wisdom and stirred the pot—all the dreams stuck to the bottom and all the fears skimming the top all mixed back up in one big, delicious scoop. The decision is now mine—do I serve up a dish while it’s ready, or will I inevitably let it settle again?

girl's night out

My girlie and I, after The Nutcracker.

more orifice issues

My ear hurts, I hear from the front foyer. My ear hurts...it really hurts!!! He is crying, as he was most of the night. I cringe inwardly, knowing that I have a full day of clients ahead of me and I talk to my husband about taking him to the doctor's office. The details worked out, we go our separate ways with kisses and hugs and the drying of tears. Everything will be fine.

And yet there is a nagging... Two voices whisper in my ear. One is named guilt. It whispers things like, you should have caught this yesterday. How did you not see he had an ear infection? What kind of mom are you? I try my best to ignore it--after all, we've not had an ear infection in our home since my daughter got tubes over six and a half years ago. This is the first he has complained that his ear hurt. I could not have known. But you should have recognized it...

The second voice is named fear. It screams things like, what if you can't get him in to the doctor? What if his eardrum has ruptured? What if you have to take him to Urgent Care? To the Emergency Room? What if he misses his Christmas program on Thursday? Then, fear stops screaming and begins to whisper--icy cold breath on my neck that sends shivers down my spine. Thoughts I would never think on my own. Thoughts that make me crazy swirling around in my head until I know the answer and all is resolved.

Thoughts like, what if that little turkey stuck one of those tri-beads in his ear?!

it's all in my head

I’ve been sick so often since my youngest child was born that I’m beginning to have to grasp at straws in order to look for the bright side of this situation. My latest attempt involves likening my spiritual life to a sinus infection. In it’s most basic form, the theology goes something like this: I’ve got so much gunk in my head, I can’t think straight. Therefore, I feel like crap. It ain’t Augustine, but it works for me at the moment.

The Word indicates often that the thought life is the root of much of our trouble. That being the case, I seem to have developed a rather insidious strain that is particularly resistant to antibiotics, and it is wrecking havoc with my health. I no sooner clear up the symptoms than another infection rears its ugly head and I am down again. I worry—about my weight, about my finances, about my children, about my relationship with God. The germ enters my system and before I know it fear, discontent, and entitlement are racing full-blown through my bloodstream. I am sick.

I want to get better. But I am powerless. There was an old commercial for some food product that urged us to Eat all you want, we’ll make more! I’m convinced whatever creates snot in our heads works for the same product label. Blow all you want, we’ll make more! I take my thoughts captive as often as I blow my nose, discarded Kleenex and thought-particles all over the nightstand and floor, but my head is still full of both. No amount of striving brings change without a healing agent at work in my head.

Saline rinses, one person tells me. Oil of oregano capsules, says another. Echinacea, vitamin C, zinc lozenges, Airborne, mushrooms— I’ve tried them all. Nothing gets to the root of the infection. Bible reading plans, journaling, memorization, fasting, prayer—I’ve tried them all. Nothing gets to the root of the infection. I’ve got to try harder, I tell myself. The answer is out there somewhere, preferably in a conveniently-packaged pill form—that is the promise, is it not? Take this, you’ll feel better. But I’m not feeling better, and I’m sick and tired of being sick and tired.

Finally at the end of myself and my medicine chest, I invite the Holy Spirit to do what only He can—to heal my weary head. I implore Him to clear out all that is not of Him and restore right thinking, clear breathing, proper functioning, and overall health. Bring healing where my best efforts have failed. Enable me to breathe again. I’m tired of sitting on the couch with a box of Kleenex—I want to get on with my life and stop blowing my nose. I am ready, Lord. It’s time to clear my head.

a nose for trouble

It is quiet under the kitchen table—a point I don’t immediately notice because I am tying over 1,000,000 knots in a craft project with my daughter while my son repeatedly retrieves the tri-beads he has dropped onto the kitchen floor. While her craft project is progressing, his, on the other hand, has mostly resulted in several trips under the table to retrieve beads. I have stopped paying attention at this point, other than to occasionally encourage him to put another bead or two on his snowflake. Suddenly, however, the silence becomes glaring and all movement from below stops. “Buddy, whatcha doin’?” My son is never silent. I do not have a good feeling about this.

“Nothin’,” is his response, as he climbs back into his chair, hands empty, tentatively rubbing the bridge of his nose. Something is not right.

“Buddy, where is your bead?”

“I dunno,” he flat out lies, still rubbing his nose, his eyes three times their normal size. He is scared. So am I.

“Buddy, did you put that bead up your nose?”

“No,” he lies again, eyes even wider, as if mystified that I could have possibly known the location of the missing bead. He tries sticking his finger up his nose to retrieve the object that he insists isn’t there. I catch him just in time. Oh crap, I think to myself, as the realization sets in that I am probably bound for the emergency room.

“Buddy, let me see…”

I draw his freakishly-quiet body to me, his eyes growing wider by the moment and threatening to brim with tears, and tip back his head. Now I am really scared—I cannot see the bloomin’ bead at first glance, and I envision an entire evening and one hundred bucks both spent at the ER. I very unceremoniously turn him upside-down under the light and breathe a sigh of relief—I can see it. Now I just have to retrieve it.

I lead him up to the bathroom, still rubbing his nose with his wide-eyed gaze monitoring my own to determine when or if he will need to freak out. So far I have not, so neither has he. So far.

I grab the tweezers and pray hard that bead-extraction is one of my as-of-yet unknown talents. He rubs his nose again, still pondering these events and their outcome, as I flip him over on my lap and begin the procedure. Apparently it went in more easily than it came out, but with two gentle pulls and one or two frightened cries from my three-and-a-half year old, it came out, nonetheless. We are both dully relieved, and we have a nice long talk about never, ever, ever putting anything in our noses ever again. Ever. He appears convinced, at least for the moment.

I return to the kitchen and turn my thoughts toward dinner, feeling relieved and a little bit smug. I hearken for a moment back to my Girl Scout days, envisioning a bright, colorful “Bead Extraction” patch to add to my sash. Another notch in my Mom-belt. I have somehow arrived. I have removed my first tri-bead, saving my son from certain death and myself from a miserable evening at the hospital. I don my Super Mom apron and prepare now to make something spectacular for dinner, daring the beads that remain on the floor to “Go ahead, make my day.”

this one's for mom...

The answer to "How I Spent my Thanksgiving Weekend."

thanksgiving memories

(This piece began two years ago at our writer’s group—the prompt was to write about a favorite Thanksgiving memory from the 3rd person vantage point. This was my free-write, with a little editing, of course! Oh—and because my Mom and Dad will be sure to point it out, I’ve taken a little liberty with which cousin is which… writer’s perogative!)

It was a scene she remembered well—two little heads of hair, one curly, one straight, bobbing up and down the same creaky wooden steps. She looked across the room at her cousin with a knowing smile—the smile was returned with a confirming nod. It had been the two of them, some twenty-five years ago—bobbing up and down the steps, poking their heads through the cutout window on the landing that allowed a prime view of the preparations, eyeing the pies and the brownies with particular interest. It had been the two of them giggling, whispering, telling secrets and generally making the grown-ups worry and wonder. This year, it was their daughters…

She marveled at the resemblance as if seeing them again for the first time. No wonder her father often slipped and called her daughter by her own name. She wondered if her uncle did the same. “How surreal this must be for our parents,” she thought. It was surreal enough for her—as if she were looking back in time and observing her own childhood. She wished she could remember her own thoughts and plans and schemes—she wished for that precious insight into the mind of her daughter as she caught the gleam in her five-year-old eyes on her way through the living room for the fourth or fifth time. “Nothing,” her daughter responded sheepishly when asked what she was up to. None of them believed her.

Her father commented to her uncle about the scene looking familiar—apparently she was not the only one finding the unfolding events to be worthy of note. Somehow, that was reassuring to her. It felt good to know she was not alone in her fascination—nor in her feelings of affection. The curly-haired one bobbed by her yet again and she grabbed the wriggling child for a quick smooch on the top of the head before turning her loose once more, catching her father’s eye as she did. He smiled, and she smiled in return. “Brings back memories,” he said to his own curly-haired girl. “Indeed it does,” she replied with a sentimental smile. “Indeed it does.”

gains and losses

Some days, it is all I can do to not throw up. My muscles scream, my lungs implode, my head pounds with the driving bass. Driving me to move. Driving me to sweat. Driving me to “feel the burn.” Today is one of those days. I quiver and pant, wondering what the heck I was thinking, as I concentrate very hard on not vomiting in the middle of kick-boxing. Punch-punch-kick-lunge. Punch-punch-kick-lunge. Throwing up would throw off my rhythm, just when I’d finally gotten the hang of it. Finally.

I bounce and kick and jog and squat and all the time I’m thinking, “I’ve been doing this over a year now—when does it get easier?” The questions won’t stop—when will my legs stop begging for mercy a third of the way through the leg workout? When, for that matter, will I be able to complete the entire leg workout? When, if ever, will I not collapse into a puddle of molecular goo on the floor during the leg workout? And an even more important question—is it poor aerobic-etiquette to lie down on the floor and cry in the middle of the leg workout? They are questions for which there are no answers.

There are days—rare, but existent—when I don’t feel like I will die in aerobics class. Nausea-free days when I leave feeling like I’ve worked hard but I can still make it to my car without needing my three-year-old to carry me. There are even moments, rarer still, of victory over weakness. Heart-pumping, pulse-quickening, adrenaline-flowing moments. I am powerful. I am strong. I am Wonder Woman. I am She-Ra, Princess of Power. I am not going to throw up. It is short lived. Before long, I am a quivering puddle of goo again.

The cycle repeats itself ad nauseum. I feel stronger, I feel weaker. I increase the weights, I decrease them. I increase the reps, I decrease them. I increase the intensity moves, I decrease them. My weight comes down, my weight goes up. Nothing is constant. My strength. My endurance. My fitness level. My will power. No gains are permanent. I don’t like not permanent.

I like things that are done when you are done. Grad school, for instance. I graduated in 1998 and I still have my Master’s degrees. Once I completed the requirements, I was done. Once I was licensed, I was done. Once I was done, I was done. Sure, I have to do CEU’s, but I don’t have to redo the flippin’ degrees every year. I’m done. Exercise is never done. I want to get in shape and be done.

I want to come back after the three-week break and still be able to make it through class without collapsing. I want to make it though a workout all four weeks of the month, not just one, two if I’m lucky. I want my weight to level out and stay put. I want to invest my time and energy up front and then have it pay out consistent returns for the long haul. I want to get to a point where it’s easy. Where I’m coasting. Where I’m done.

I look around me at the other women in the room. Women in their 20’s. Their 30’s. 40’s. 50’s. Perhaps even older. Women in for the long haul. Women who get that this health and fitness thing is never done. I must be honest in questioning if I want to be one of those women. I have never been one of them before—this is a newfound persona, birthed out of the desire and need to lose weight. But therein lies the issue—it is always about losing the weight, never about maintaining. Health and fitness is about maintaining, and that has never been my strength.

When I step back from the dumbbells I can see I have made some gains that have not been lost. The ends of the weights say 8lbs and 5lbs now, not 3lbs. The bar reads 15, not 12. And my Monday class, which once threatened to kill me, has been conquered, thanks, in part, to the class that is yet to be slain. It isn’t easy. But perhaps, on a good day, it is easier. And with time and perseverance, it will slowly but surely become even more so. And, perhaps, that is the point. Some things are never done. But they can get easier with time.

I can only hope to God this aerobics class is one of them.

ouch

Most of us collapse at the first grip pf pain. We sit down at the door of God's purpose and enter a slow death through self-pity. And all the so-called Christian sympathy of others helps us to our deathbed. But God will not. He comes with the grip of the pierced hand of His Son, as if to say, "Enter inoto fellowship with Me; arise and shine." If God can accomplish His purposes in this world through a broken heart, then why not thank Him for breaking yours?

Oswald Chambers

My Utmost for His Highest

in lieu of writing...

...we have "lieut," instead!

jumping...

...for joy!

what i happened to work out to tonight... (coincidence?)

Follow me through the door to the great unknown
(something was telling me
that this would shape my destiny)
Take my hand, understand you are not alone
(shame on me if I oppose
the stirring of the Holy Ghost)

I heard a voice calling out to me
I have come to set your spirit free
And in me you are free indeed

I took a dive
(I took a love plunge
into your arms)
I took a dive
(I took a love plunge
into your arms)
I took a dive
(I jumped in
with all of my heart)
I took a dive

I'm breathing underwater
I'm sinking like a submarine
Your ocean's so much deeper than
anything I've ever dreamed...

Won't you come and take a dive with me
Won't you come and take a dive with me
Jump in with all your heart and
take a dive

("Dive," From DCTalk Supernatual)

summer memories: the deep end

More than five minutes left to go, and they are telling her to get out of the pool. Her confused look registers from clear across the aquatic complex, but she obeys, nonetheless. She stands on the cold tile, shivering and squirming, her questioning eyes following her instructors as they begin to walk toward the other end of the pool, the rest of her class in tow. My daughter follows them blindly as they lead her away from her three-and-a-half foot safety zone, take her around the corner, lead her to the rim of a twelve-foot-deep water-filled hole in the ground, stand her at the edge, and tell her to JUMP. She gapes at them with wide-eyed disbelief.

I recognize her anxious look—indeed, I feel it in the pit of my stomach, having grown up with a paralyzing fear of being in over my head. The shallow end is much more my style—I am infinitely more comfortable where my feet touch. My daughter lines up along the side of the pool, and I cringe inwardly, remembering my own first encounter with deep water. Get pushed off a diving board at swim lessons just once and you’ll learn not to trust. But that is my issue, not hers, so I smile encouragingly from my perch along the wall, and mask, yet again, my anxiety for my daughter. SHE trusts. Not fully, but enough to be brave. Enough to be obedient. I pray they won’t fail her.

Fourth or fifth in line, she has a few moments to contemplate her fate, her feet shifting back and forth, hands wiggling and wringing, as the questions flash across her face like the LED ticker in Time’s Square: will they catch me? Can I do it? What if I can’t? What will it be like? Do I HAVE to? The answers, unfortunately, will not come until after she takes the risk. Her turn arrives, and my heartbeat races as she approaches the edge. Her toes curl over the side of the pool in a final moment of hesitation—her arms stretching out in front of her nearly three times the length of her body in an attempt to cling to her instructor—and she half jumps, half falls into the water. Enough trust to jump, but not enough to do so with abandon. But she jumps, just the same. My daughter is in the deep end.

I am learning, albeit more slowly than my daughter, that so much of life is about just jumping in. High dive, low dive, running leap or barely falling off the side clutching our swim instructor—at least we’re in the water. But I can’t help but think there is more joy in the running-leaping-falling-diving kind of jumping than in the fearful-clingy-clutching kind. My daughter is getting it—learning what she is capable of, what she is comfortable with. She will learn to dive—of this I am certain. Me? I’m not so sure…

Having been caught, she makes her way to the side of the pool held by strong, trustworthy hands and searches for my face among the other mothers. She smiles—half victorious, half still uncertain—and I flash her a thumbs-up sign, once again in awe of this child that is so amazingly flesh of my flesh and yet so amazingly unlike me. Oh, to have the trust of a seven-year-old—to look into an immense stretch of deep water and only see the hands ready to catch me. To jump without hesitation, to obey without fear, to risk without answers. To embrace life, deep end and all, and jump in full force with a flying leap.

Oh, to have the faith that someone will catch me.

He reached down from on high and took hold of me;

he drew me out of deep waters. Psalm 18:16

hunger

…fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies with a large glass of milk… order in the midst of chaos… time… apple crisp, right out of the oven… heart-felt worship… connection with friends, with family, with God… chips and salsa… faith, hope, and love… but the greatest of these is more chips and salsa… time at the piano, at the computer, at the art table… creative outlet… mama mimi’s pizza… intimacy… play-time… touch… fresh-baked bread with real butter… a night out with my husband… freedom… relief… breakthrough… satisfaction… more chocolate chips cookies… warm brownie sundaes with nuts and caramel… apple pie a la mode… the last pack of school lunch cookies… the crumbs at the bottom of the potato chip bag… stale graham crackers out of the back of the pantry… anything I can get my hands on…

What am I hungry for?

Listen, listen to me, and eat what is good,

and your soul will delight in the richest of fare.
Isaiah 55:2

wishing my weekend weren't over...

on semipermeable membranes

It is 8:27 and I’ve just gotten off the phone. Again. I resume my place on the couch and the cat resumes his, nibbling on my elbow in his attempt to solicit affection. It is not working—affection is definitely not the response it evokes in me at this moment. In between the two first paragraphs I’ve already written and disposed of, my daughter has come out of her room not once but twice, complaining, tonight, of a hangnail. “My finger hurts…” she whimpers in a voice just loud enough to know she’s talking but not loud enough to hear her—her ploy to be beckoned to the edge of the staircase. I send her to her father, who is already upstairs, though I know it is me she really wants. But right now, to be quite honest, I don’t want to be wanted.

Tonight, I want to be left alone. I don’t want to be touched tonight—I don’t want to be climbed on, nibbled, elbowed, fondled, tickled, kicked, head-butted, or stepped on. I don’t want to be talked to tonight—I don’t want to hear about the neighbor’s cousin’s dog’s puppies or the problem you had with your bosses boss and the brilliant way you handled it or the trouble with the doojie-hoojie that hangs down under the thingamajig on the car and how it will affect the amount of rainfall in China. Tonight, I don’t want to be nice. I don’t want to smile and nod. I don’t want to pretend I’m interested. Tonight, I want to put my oxygen mask on and take a deep breath so that I can do it all again tomorrow for everyone else. Tonight, I want to be left alone.

I chose these things—indeed, I continue to choose them. I chose to be a wife, a mother, a cat-owner, a friend. I chose to be a counselor, a leader, a teacher, a mentor. These are things I invited into my life—consciously, willingly, freely. But having chosen them, does this mean I must choose them all at every moment? It does not, but you cannot tell me this—the compulsion to be all things to all people forms “yes” on my lips even while my insides scream “NO!”

“Mo-mmy… Mooo-mmmmmy…” I hear faintly from within my daughter’s room, having threatened her not to open the door again. Door. There is a good “boundary” word. Door. Gate. Window. Fence. Wall. Door. I have closed the door tonight. But it doesn’t stay closed…

In this world of “boundary” talk, I am a semipermeable membrane—allowing all that fits through the unclosable doors to pass through my sham of a barrier and enter my day-to-day living. In my spreading thin I have become too easily diffused—matter spreads, rationalization spreads, real need spreads—my membrane becomes thinner yet. Pressure is exerted from the outside and I allow passage once again. This is not always a bad thing. Not always.

But then there are nights like tonight—nights that have followed days that have followed weeks of meeting other people’s needs and neglecting my own. Our pastor once said that if you feel like you don’t have time for any more friends, you need more of Jesus in your life. This from a man you have to make an appointment three weeks out to talk to. Not that I don’t understand his point—I truly do. But perhaps if I were a man and my children were grown and I had an assistant who managed all my contact with the outer world, I could be as cavalier about the issue.

The truth is, I do need more of Jesus. I need him to fill me up so that when I pour myself out yet again there is reserve left for me to survive upon. I need him to teach me to love when I don’t feel loving, to forgive when I don’t feel forgiving, to listen when I don’t feel like listening. But I also need him to show me when to serve and when to withdraw into the solitude of the wilderness, to show me how to find and take those quiet times alone with the Father, to show me how to rest in the Lord and wait upon him. I need the Heavenly Flight Attendant to remind me that my mask goes on first.

So, if you call my house and get the machine—I may or may not be there. I am trying to learn, slowly, that it is okay to not answer the phone, to not go back up to my daughter’s room for the fourth time, to not have to meet every need presented to me. “The need is not the call,” another pastor used to remind me. Tonight, I listen to the call—and it is not the telephone. Tonight, I allow myself to meet my own needs.

the apple that didn't fall far from the tree

I'll write tonight. I promise. I promise MYSELF. I'm dying to finally get into a routine again...

In the meantime, here are a couple of cuties, taken this weekend!

pumpkin picking

what a turkey!

fun times at the fun run

Forgive me, but I have to play the Proud Momma for a moment. First place, second grade girls. 7:41. First girl across the finish line, grades K-3. The only two girls faster were 5th graders. Okay, I'm done now. This is taken at the finish line.

on trust

Perhaps it is because I am trying to do both that I found this quote compelling...

Writing a book, I've discovered, has much in common with resolving weight issues. You can proceed from the fear that unless you force yourself to do it, you won't. Or you can proceed from the belief that you want to do it, and will, but that doing it may sometimes look like not doing it. One way is as difficult as the other; both require perseverance and commitment. The way you choose depends on how you want to live. You can fear yourself or trust yourself.

From Breaking Free From Emotional Eating, by Geneen Roth

laid back

Maybe it’s the two jumbo mugs of caffeine I abused to get me through the afternoon. Maybe it’s the ten-hour days I’m pulling at work. Maybe it’s the accumulation of unfinished projects lurking in the house, the yard, the garage. Maybe it’s the added responsibility of being a room mother, cafeteria mom, assistant chef, and folder stuffer, not to mention spelling list checker, reading buddy, memory verse mentor, and research assistant. Whatever it is, it is rising like the water level during a hard, steady rain and threatening to drown me at any moment.

Lucky for me, I’m good at treading water.

It was a skill I learned in elementary school but perfected as a matter of survival during my four summers as a YMCA camp counselor. After seven or so hours at the park with ten first grade boys all over me like squirrels on a tree, I desperately needed the time in the pool as a respite. I had a firm rule that I was not to be touched in the pool (just ask my husband—I put him in timeout for dunking me one summer), but to further insure I would be left alone, I would position myself right smack-dab in the middle of the deep end and tread water for two hours. It was brilliant. I could keep an eye on everything I needed to, carry on adult conversations without being asked for the eleventh time for permission to go to the bathroom, and the kids could swim out and talk to me for as long as they could tread water themselves. Since the average first grader can tread water for only about two minutes tops, it worked like a charm. Treading water—that I can do.

But perhaps, now, I’ve been in the pool a little too long. What was meant to be a two-hour respite has become a way of life. I’m getting a little prune-y, and, honestly, a little worn out. My muscles are fatigued, and I’m beginning to struggle to stay just above the rising levels of anxiety and stress that threaten to shoot up my nose, causing me to choke and sputter like a child who’s inhaled at the bottom of the water slide, not that I have reason to know what that feels like. I feel tired, overwhelmed, a little panicky—maybe it’s just the caffeine. Maybe it’s the fact that I’ve never really been comfortable in the water…

I was never one of those kids who could lay back and relax in the pool—although I floated like a buoy (go figure), floating was uncomfortable to me. I didn’t like it. Too vulnerable. Too laissez faire. Too trusting. Despite my teacher’s best efforts to coax me, I would not remain in a float any longer than was necessary to prove I could accomplish it. The fear was too great. True to my nature, even in the pool I was more comfortable striving to be in control than allowing the water to do what it was created to do. I’d like to say I’ve changed. Unfortunately, most days, I cannot.

The irony is not lost on me that water, in dreams and visions, often symbolizes the Holy Spirit. The pool is full of that which can uphold me, and I’m flailing in the middle of the deep end, wearing myself out trying not to drown, looking more than a little silly in the process. This is my life, most days. But oh, for the ability to trust—to lie back, arms outstretched, and allow myself to be upheld. To hear the Instructor’s voice whisper Just relax—I’ve got you. I am not at ease. Maybe it’s the caffeine. Maybe it’s PMS.

Maybe it’s time to take a deep breath and dare to trust that the laws of nature really do apply to me and not just to a fortunate few. Maybe it’s time to plug my nose, and lay back and float a while.

a pellet gun would suffice...

So, my hubby and I were sitting out on the deck late one night this weekend, enjoying the cool, relaxed September evening and celebrating it with a fire in the chimnea, when a dark figure made an arc around our yard. Is that a cat? my hubsband asked. I squinted as it made its way through the shadows to my right. I'm not sure, I replied. Momentarily it disappeared from sight, reappearing seconds later at the foot of the steps just below me. Its masked features peered up at me in the firelight, and my husband and I groaned in unison.

Raccoon number five.

Anyone have a firearm we could borrow?

i'll leave the light on...

He walked through the front door, put down his bag, and turned off the lamp on the table next to him. I came behind him with his carry-on, and watched as he walked through the dining room into the kitchen, turning off the lamp over the piano as he went. I smiled a wry smile. You're officially home. How symbolic.

My husband left two weeks ago on an airplane bound for Zambia. His absence was most felt in the evenings--the kids asleep, the sky dark, and our bed empty. Knowing myself well, I did what I needed to do to make it through those 15 nights alone.

I left the lights on.

The two lamps my husband extinguished as he entered our home this morning had been burning since he left. Literally. In one fail swoop he announced to my spirit and all others in attendance that darkness was no longer a threat to me--he was home.

The light of my life was home.

take me out to the ball game

Rooting for the (former) home team!