It's almost Christmas. Again. I feel as if the older my children get the faster time goes by. Was it really a whole year ago we decorated a Christmas tree with the same ornaments? Seems like a month at best.
Did I say the older my children get the faster time goes by? Same old story. Parents have been saying that for... ever. I remember when my kids were small and people would say to me, "Enjoy them, it goes by so quickly." I'd roll the invisible eyes in my mind and wonder why they said that so often. Didn't they know how long days at home with dirty diapers and runny noses could be?
Well, here I am. It is going by quickly. Just as they said it would. My oldest is 16. Yesterday I listened to her sing and play piano at our school's Christmas Chapel. She was so poised. So talented with things I didn't teach her. So... herself. Independent.
I sat and watched her with a mixture of amazement and nostalgia. What happened to that little girl? She's all grown up. I know, I sound just like those "older" parents who used to say the same thing over and over again... It goes by so quickly... so quickly... so quickly. I get it now.
This morning I got up early. I began paging through some family journals. I fixated on my daughter's journals. I started it when I was pregnant with that first little gift from God.
After she was born came: Dear Hannah...
January 1, 1998
Dear Hannah Mae,
...You are nearly 10 weeks old... we had quite a Christmas... next year I'm sure you'll be running around with all the other kids...
Wednesday, August 5, 1998
Dear Hannah Mae,
You won't believe the changes since I last wrote! You now have almost four teeth.
March 18, Saturday
Hannah Mae! You are getting so big. Yesterday we took down your crib and you started sleeping in your "big girl bed."
9-25-01
"I'm gonna get a tissue because I'm gonna wipe the wain out of my eyes." Those, my Hannah, were your words just now. You were sent to your room for not listening. Life is tragic.
1-8-02
Today, Hannah, I told you that you were a gift from God to me. You asked, "Did I have a bow on my head? Was I all wrapped up with tape?"
June 18, 2002
Dear Hannah,
Yesterday after church... you prayed, "Jesus, please come into my heart..."
11-8-02
Hannah's first piano lesson (you can read, too!!).
Oct. 21
Dear Hannah,
Soon you will be six years old.
3-23-03
Hannah,
Tomorrow your daddy leaves to serve in a war...
6-28-03
Hannah,
This morning you said you are going to be a "healthy" farmer and an animal doctor when you grow up. You said, "I'll get up early in the morning to feed the animals, cut the chickens' heads off, and go to the animal doctors."
October 2005
Hannah Mae,
You had your ears pierced about seven weeks ago.
June 2007
First time at camp! You stayed over night for five nights. You loved it!
Dec. 5, 2008
Hannah,
If I had to say what defined the year 2008 for you, it would have to be the song "Fur Elise."
August 3, 2010
...you landed your first babysitting job...
March 21, 2011
...speaking of "cute," you are really into straightening your hair lately. Daddy finds it odd. He said all his life he has only seen girls curling their hair...
Monday, Sept. 5, 2011
Dear sweet Hannah,
School starts tomorrow and I can hardly believe that summer is over.
Tuesday, Sept. 4, 2012
First day of school at Lake Region Christian School. You are so excited...
Saturday, July 20, 2013
Hello driving girl!
Sunday, October 27, 2013
Dear Sweet 16,
Today is your birthday. At this time of the morning, 16 years ago, I was holding you... I really don't know where the time has gone.
It's almost Christmas. My dear Hannah has been busy with her music, school, wrapping gifts for her friends. When I look at her I see a beautiful, young (almost) woman. She's in the kitchen right now talking with her dad about homemade facial scrubs while he pours coffee.
If I close my eyes I can almost imagine she's three again and that little voice and those little arms are reaching up to her daddy. He picks her up and gives her a squeeze. She loves him so. He always was her favorite. And I really don't mind. I think it makes me love her more.
Today I think I'll write in her journal:
Saturday, December 21, 2013
Dear Hannah,
Christmas break begins today. Two whole weeks off. I know this time will go by so quickly... let's enjoy it.
Love,
Mom
Saturday, December 21, 2013
Monday, December 16, 2013
Who Will Be Linus for Christmas?
One of my favorite Christmas programs is "A Charlie Brown Christmas." I simply LOVE the Peanuts characters. In my opinion, Charles Schultz was a genius. With his characters, he depicts the variety of personalities we find in humans.
Charlie Brown: The one who always expects the worst. Down in the dumps, glass half empty, nobody likes me, victim mentality person.
Lucy: The one who takes advantage of the weaker man. Puts others down to boost her own self-importance. Bossy. Rude. Ruthless.
Schroeder: The "too wrapped up in my own world" to pay attention or bother with whatever is going on around me sort of person.
Peppermint Patty: Bossy, like Lucy, but in a nicer sort of way. Very self-assured, but not necessarily with a humble spirit. A bit arrogant.
Marcy: The epitome of idol worshiper. Whatever Peppermint Patty says is golden. Follower.
Sally: Lazy beanbag with the television on sort of person. Usually blames others (Charlie Brown) for her own failures. Just can't take personal responsibility for her mistakes!
Pigpen: Well...
Snoopy: A dog. But not really. He's an outdoor pet who fancies himself more human than some of the humans. My dog is a lot like him.
There are others, as well as...
Linus: Yes, then there is Linus. Sure, he has a security blanket. Who doesn't (figuratively speaking)? Linus is a tell it like it is, no nonsense, real sort of fellow. No cheap shots. No bitterness. No neediness. Just, well, himself. Rather refreshing, I'd say. I like to think of Linus as the sort of guy you'd want around in good times and in bad times. Stable. Really, the blanket is just a representation of what we hold on to in order to help make ourselves feel comfortable. Get over it. Go ahead, try and tell me you don't have a security blanket. I wouldn't believe you.
Anyway, I got to thinking about the Peanuts characters and the Christmas season and wondering who I am most like during this time of year. In the program they are all running around focusing on the commercialism of Christmas. And Charlie Brown is depressed. It all seems so empty. So busy. So meaningless.
Then, Charlie Brown, at the end of his rope, cries out, "Isn't there anyone who knows what Christmas is all about?"
Linus steps up to the plate. Matter-of-fact Linus say, "Sure, Charlie Brown, I can tell you what Christmas is all about."
Then, he goes into his narration of the Christmas story, according to Luke:
Then, he turns to Charlie Brown and says, "That's what Christmas is all about, Charlie Brown."
The entire atmosphere changes. Schroeder plays piano serenely in the background while Charlie Brown walks off with his pathetic Christmas tree. Suddenly, the air is full of meaning.
Charlie Brown says, "Linus is right, I won't let all this commercialism ruin my Christmas..."
You know the rest. If you don't, get the movie.
Every year I watch it. Every year I love it all over again. And I wonder, who will be Linus for Christmas this year? Will it be me? Will it be you?
Saturday, December 7, 2013
First Snowshoeing Outing
I had my first outing on snowshoes the other night. It was challenging. Strenuous. Laborious. Brutal. Painful. I think I am finally recovered and ready to tackle the trails again.
The thing is, I don't get much exercise when it isn't winter. Nothing that pushes me to the edge of my athletic ability, anyway. One would think I'd learn and do some conditioning during the autumn months. Tout au contraire.
Nevertheless, I love snowshoeing enough to suffer through the first few exhausting outings in order to enjoy a winter full of wonderland in the woods, snow, peace and quite with the company of others on the trail and the woodland creatures.
I went out with a group that was grooming mountain bike trails with their snowshoes. Yes, we groom the trails so the fat-tire bikes can go out and enjoy a ride through the frigid woods. We "stomp" down the snow. It is a bit more than your typical, relaxed excursion on snowshoes. A bit more? It's hard work.
The others with me, I think, were in better shape. They mountain bike all summer. I wondered during the most trying periods of that first stomp if they had thoughts similar to mine. Maybe. Probably not. I have termed my experience:
Evolution of My First Stomp
1. It snows.
2. I get a notice on facebook about a stomp.
3. Excited, I get dressed in multiple layers. It's cold out there!
4. The stomp begins. Hey, I feel pretty good. This is great!
5. Into the woods in the dark with headlamps on. Pretty cool!
6. Feeling exhilarated from the cold air and rush of energy, I feel quite chatty. Laughing and talking with others.
7. Oh, the first hill. Are they really going to keep up this aggressive pace?
8. Maybe so much talking isn't such a good idea. Must reserve energy.
9. Onset of fatigue. And, it's getting a bit hot. Maybe so many layers was a bad idea.
10. Hand sweat so mittens come off. Why did I bring these ski poles?
11. Ugh. Another hill.
12. Stop (briefly) and enjoy the quiet of the woods at night. Beautiful. Serene. Restful. Moving on.
13. At what seems like the end of a trail, the leader turns onto yet another trail in need of stomping. Are these people crazy? My legs are getting numb, and not from the cold.
14. I wonder what my family is doing at home. Eating pizza by the warm fireplace in our family room?
15. More hills. Up and down are now equally strenuous. I want my mommy!
16. If I just drop in a snowbank will they carry me out? Contemplating. Calculating.
17. Leader says the road is just up ahead.
18. Twenty minutes later and no road. Is this the end? Did I tell my husband I love him today? Did I hug my children? Who will feed my dog?
19. Clocking in at about 1 hour 15 minutes of continual stomping. Legs no longer work correctly. Simply stumbling along. Stumbling in snowshoes. It really is true, my life is flashing before my eyes.
20. Wait, is that the road? Merciful road. I love pavement! Just ahead. My car. Don't let them see me weeping with joy. It's over. We did it!
21. Saying goodbye. Snowshoes off. Hugs. Shaky legs. Start the car. Driving home.
22. I can't wait to go again.
The thing is, I don't get much exercise when it isn't winter. Nothing that pushes me to the edge of my athletic ability, anyway. One would think I'd learn and do some conditioning during the autumn months. Tout au contraire.
Nevertheless, I love snowshoeing enough to suffer through the first few exhausting outings in order to enjoy a winter full of wonderland in the woods, snow, peace and quite with the company of others on the trail and the woodland creatures.
I went out with a group that was grooming mountain bike trails with their snowshoes. Yes, we groom the trails so the fat-tire bikes can go out and enjoy a ride through the frigid woods. We "stomp" down the snow. It is a bit more than your typical, relaxed excursion on snowshoes. A bit more? It's hard work.
The others with me, I think, were in better shape. They mountain bike all summer. I wondered during the most trying periods of that first stomp if they had thoughts similar to mine. Maybe. Probably not. I have termed my experience:
Evolution of My First Stomp
1. It snows.
2. I get a notice on facebook about a stomp.
3. Excited, I get dressed in multiple layers. It's cold out there!
4. The stomp begins. Hey, I feel pretty good. This is great!
5. Into the woods in the dark with headlamps on. Pretty cool!
6. Feeling exhilarated from the cold air and rush of energy, I feel quite chatty. Laughing and talking with others.
7. Oh, the first hill. Are they really going to keep up this aggressive pace?
8. Maybe so much talking isn't such a good idea. Must reserve energy.
9. Onset of fatigue. And, it's getting a bit hot. Maybe so many layers was a bad idea.
10. Hand sweat so mittens come off. Why did I bring these ski poles?
11. Ugh. Another hill.
12. Stop (briefly) and enjoy the quiet of the woods at night. Beautiful. Serene. Restful. Moving on.
13. At what seems like the end of a trail, the leader turns onto yet another trail in need of stomping. Are these people crazy? My legs are getting numb, and not from the cold.
14. I wonder what my family is doing at home. Eating pizza by the warm fireplace in our family room?
15. More hills. Up and down are now equally strenuous. I want my mommy!
16. If I just drop in a snowbank will they carry me out? Contemplating. Calculating.
17. Leader says the road is just up ahead.
18. Twenty minutes later and no road. Is this the end? Did I tell my husband I love him today? Did I hug my children? Who will feed my dog?
19. Clocking in at about 1 hour 15 minutes of continual stomping. Legs no longer work correctly. Simply stumbling along. Stumbling in snowshoes. It really is true, my life is flashing before my eyes.
20. Wait, is that the road? Merciful road. I love pavement! Just ahead. My car. Don't let them see me weeping with joy. It's over. We did it!
21. Saying goodbye. Snowshoes off. Hugs. Shaky legs. Start the car. Driving home.
22. I can't wait to go again.
Friday, November 29, 2013
The Flip Side
I'm up at 4:30 a.m. this morning. And I don't even have to work.
It's the day after Thanksgiving and I was hoping to sleep in, but here I am. Awake. Brewing coffee. Writing. I need to look at the flip side of this. You know, put it into perspective. Set aside how life affects me (can I?) and look at the big picture.
It's not in my nature to look at the big picture. I tend to look first at the small details, the small results, the space in my view and within my reach. It's not necessarily a bad thing. Others have the tendency to look at the big and neglect the small. Neglect what is right there, within reach. They run off and miss things. The trick no matter which type we are, I think, is to look at the flip side from time to time. It helps keep perspective.
For me it helps me step away from me and how this life, these events, these trials, affect me.
This morning (just before 4:30 a.m.), my husband's pager went off. Not for his 60-plus-hour-a-week job as the local postmaster. For his volunteer job as a local firefighter. There was smoke in a structure somewhere and when he heard the call for "all available" he popped out of bed and was gone in a flash. As I tried to drift back to sleep I immediately looked at the small. Me in bed alone. Me without an early morning hug from the one I love most in this world. Sigh. I couldn't get back to sleep.
Then, as time passed and I began contemplating coffee, another thought occurred to me. It was the fire. I wondered if it was a business. A home? The picture in my mind expanded and I looked at the flip side. The bigger side of this situation. Opposite of me alone in bed.
My husband losing much-needed sleep on yet another night. Gone.
My loss? Someone's gain.
If I were the one with the fire I'd want men like my husband. I'd want obnoxious pagers to wake a family early. I'd want people who haven't had their morning coffee, let alone adequate sleep, to get out of bed to come fight my fire.
Sleeping one minute and getting in a fire truck the next. Sleeping one minute and putting on a gas mask the next. Sleeping one minute and unrolling a giant hose the next. Not even thinking. Being part of the big picture, just jumping in as if they belong there.
Maybe a business will be saved. Maybe someone's precious photo albums in a home will be salvaged. Maybe lives will be spared. Please. At least the lives.
It's after 5:00 a.m. now. On my side, I am sitting in my warm living room with a cup of coffee. My dog on the couch. My kids sleeping in their beds. My house quiet and smoke-free.
On the flip side, my husband is out somewhere in the dark fighting a fire. Someone's business or home filled with smoke. Someone hoping. Someone praying.
I smile to think of him as part of the big picture. He always seems to be. It leaves me alone at times within my small picture, but I'm okay with that. I'll keep the coffee hot and make some toast.
Soon, I hope, he will be back on this side of life, where sleep is a luxury he can't always afford to take. After all, there are others out there. Others living on the flip side. He sees that. He sees that before he is needed. He's ready. He goes. I'm glad for that. I'm glad for people like him.
Another reason to be thankful. And it isn't even Thanksgiving anymore. Imagine.
It's the day after Thanksgiving and I was hoping to sleep in, but here I am. Awake. Brewing coffee. Writing. I need to look at the flip side of this. You know, put it into perspective. Set aside how life affects me (can I?) and look at the big picture.
It's not in my nature to look at the big picture. I tend to look first at the small details, the small results, the space in my view and within my reach. It's not necessarily a bad thing. Others have the tendency to look at the big and neglect the small. Neglect what is right there, within reach. They run off and miss things. The trick no matter which type we are, I think, is to look at the flip side from time to time. It helps keep perspective.
For me it helps me step away from me and how this life, these events, these trials, affect me.
This morning (just before 4:30 a.m.), my husband's pager went off. Not for his 60-plus-hour-a-week job as the local postmaster. For his volunteer job as a local firefighter. There was smoke in a structure somewhere and when he heard the call for "all available" he popped out of bed and was gone in a flash. As I tried to drift back to sleep I immediately looked at the small. Me in bed alone. Me without an early morning hug from the one I love most in this world. Sigh. I couldn't get back to sleep.
Then, as time passed and I began contemplating coffee, another thought occurred to me. It was the fire. I wondered if it was a business. A home? The picture in my mind expanded and I looked at the flip side. The bigger side of this situation. Opposite of me alone in bed.
My husband losing much-needed sleep on yet another night. Gone.
My loss? Someone's gain.
If I were the one with the fire I'd want men like my husband. I'd want obnoxious pagers to wake a family early. I'd want people who haven't had their morning coffee, let alone adequate sleep, to get out of bed to come fight my fire.
Sleeping one minute and getting in a fire truck the next. Sleeping one minute and putting on a gas mask the next. Sleeping one minute and unrolling a giant hose the next. Not even thinking. Being part of the big picture, just jumping in as if they belong there.
Maybe a business will be saved. Maybe someone's precious photo albums in a home will be salvaged. Maybe lives will be spared. Please. At least the lives.
It's after 5:00 a.m. now. On my side, I am sitting in my warm living room with a cup of coffee. My dog on the couch. My kids sleeping in their beds. My house quiet and smoke-free.
On the flip side, my husband is out somewhere in the dark fighting a fire. Someone's business or home filled with smoke. Someone hoping. Someone praying.
I smile to think of him as part of the big picture. He always seems to be. It leaves me alone at times within my small picture, but I'm okay with that. I'll keep the coffee hot and make some toast.
Soon, I hope, he will be back on this side of life, where sleep is a luxury he can't always afford to take. After all, there are others out there. Others living on the flip side. He sees that. He sees that before he is needed. He's ready. He goes. I'm glad for that. I'm glad for people like him.
Another reason to be thankful. And it isn't even Thanksgiving anymore. Imagine.
Sunday, November 17, 2013
Who I Am
A few years ago I heard a man on the radio say, "Who you are at home is who you are."
Ooof. Sort of like a punch to the gut.
I think all of us could honestly say that our best and our worst comes out at home. It's the worst that bothers me. The truth is, I can be pretty yucky sometimes. Just ask my family.
Perhaps I'm harder on myself than anyone else is, but I often feel as if I could be doing so much better. Only human? Sure. Nevertheless, the feeling is there and sometimes it takes up too much room in my brain, like this morning as I sat reading the Bible. I thought, "I could be doing so much better."
Then something happened.
My thoughts shifted from my role in my human family to my status in God's family. A follower of Jesus Christ. A believer that my sins have been washed away by the blood he shed on the cross. For me. For you. And I remembered this truth (it trumps who I am at home): Who I am in Christ is who I am.
The truth is we could all be doing so much better. The problem is it will never be perfect and it will never be sufficient and we will never be able to meet everyone's needs. Maybe that's when the "yucky" me comes out at home. When I'm so tired of trying via my own, limited abilities.
Frustrated.
Irritated.
Why try?
Yuck.
So here's the deal. Today I know that who I am, who I really am, is wrapped up, saturated, buried, drowned, and embedded in Jesus Christ.
He is the One who gets to tell me who I am.
He is the One my family needs. My kids need him, my husband needs him, I need him. Today I will love these people according to who Jesus is, not who I am, and remember that who I am in Christ is who I am.
And Jesus has always been more than enough for everyone.
"I have been crucified with Christ and I no longer live, but Christ lives in me. The life I live in the body, I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave himself for me" (NIV, Galatians 2:20).
Ooof. Sort of like a punch to the gut.
I think all of us could honestly say that our best and our worst comes out at home. It's the worst that bothers me. The truth is, I can be pretty yucky sometimes. Just ask my family.
Perhaps I'm harder on myself than anyone else is, but I often feel as if I could be doing so much better. Only human? Sure. Nevertheless, the feeling is there and sometimes it takes up too much room in my brain, like this morning as I sat reading the Bible. I thought, "I could be doing so much better."
Then something happened.
My thoughts shifted from my role in my human family to my status in God's family. A follower of Jesus Christ. A believer that my sins have been washed away by the blood he shed on the cross. For me. For you. And I remembered this truth (it trumps who I am at home): Who I am in Christ is who I am.
The truth is we could all be doing so much better. The problem is it will never be perfect and it will never be sufficient and we will never be able to meet everyone's needs. Maybe that's when the "yucky" me comes out at home. When I'm so tired of trying via my own, limited abilities.
Frustrated.
Irritated.
Why try?
Yuck.
So here's the deal. Today I know that who I am, who I really am, is wrapped up, saturated, buried, drowned, and embedded in Jesus Christ.
He is the One who gets to tell me who I am.
He is the One my family needs. My kids need him, my husband needs him, I need him. Today I will love these people according to who Jesus is, not who I am, and remember that who I am in Christ is who I am.
And Jesus has always been more than enough for everyone.
"I have been crucified with Christ and I no longer live, but Christ lives in me. The life I live in the body, I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave himself for me" (NIV, Galatians 2:20).
Sunday, November 10, 2013
Right Place, Right Time
I've never figured out how to plan the spontaneous moments that make life more interesting. That's not easy for me, an obsessive planner. But my best moments, greatest opportunities, and most fun adventures are usually spontaneous. That is how I met my husband, how I have landed the majority of jobs I've had (the best ones, anyway), and how I was able to capture this beautiful 8-point buck with my camera on rifle opener.
Ironically, my husband was out of town hunting. I decided to run some errands and just happened to have my camera with. Mind you, if I bring my camera with on an intentional wildlife hunt, I typically don't see anything. The camera was just in my bag.
I was driving past a lake when I saw this handsome fellow cross the road. I pulled over to watch him and shot a couple pictures of him. Funny. I had just seen a few hunters leaving the area. This big buck walked around a bit, even closer to my car, and stared at me for some time. Did he know I was a friend? Did he know I didn't have a rifle? I almost felt guilt over the fact that I quite enjoy venison in my chili. No need to share this information, though. I didn't want to spoil this moment. This spontaneous moment. This unplanned and completely unexpected moment.
Back at home I set to making a mental to-do list. Pick up the stuff on the living room floor. Do the dishes. Cook supper. Put away some laundry. Call my husband and see if he shot a deer. Plans. Calculated. Written down. Check-marked. Boring.
Was my unscheduled deer sighting a glimpse of how other half lives? (If we humans are truly divided in equal portions.) You know the ones. Fly by the seat of their pants. Throw caution to the wind. Live for the moment and all that mumbo-jumbo.
Am I missing something here in my notebook, organizer, scheduled existence? Am I missing majestic bucks, flocks of who knows what, and non-stop excitement?
Maybe. Then again, maybe not. I'd like to think that my rare, unplanned excursions that sometimes result in capturing an amazing picture during an amazing experience is more appreciated because it is not commonplace to me. How will I ever find out? I stopped trying to be someone other than me a long time ago. It's much better this way. Boring? Perhaps. But better nonetheless.
Ironically, my husband was out of town hunting. I decided to run some errands and just happened to have my camera with. Mind you, if I bring my camera with on an intentional wildlife hunt, I typically don't see anything. The camera was just in my bag.
I was driving past a lake when I saw this handsome fellow cross the road. I pulled over to watch him and shot a couple pictures of him. Funny. I had just seen a few hunters leaving the area. This big buck walked around a bit, even closer to my car, and stared at me for some time. Did he know I was a friend? Did he know I didn't have a rifle? I almost felt guilt over the fact that I quite enjoy venison in my chili. No need to share this information, though. I didn't want to spoil this moment. This spontaneous moment. This unplanned and completely unexpected moment.
Back at home I set to making a mental to-do list. Pick up the stuff on the living room floor. Do the dishes. Cook supper. Put away some laundry. Call my husband and see if he shot a deer. Plans. Calculated. Written down. Check-marked. Boring.
Was my unscheduled deer sighting a glimpse of how other half lives? (If we humans are truly divided in equal portions.) You know the ones. Fly by the seat of their pants. Throw caution to the wind. Live for the moment and all that mumbo-jumbo.
Am I missing something here in my notebook, organizer, scheduled existence? Am I missing majestic bucks, flocks of who knows what, and non-stop excitement?
Maybe. Then again, maybe not. I'd like to think that my rare, unplanned excursions that sometimes result in capturing an amazing picture during an amazing experience is more appreciated because it is not commonplace to me. How will I ever find out? I stopped trying to be someone other than me a long time ago. It's much better this way. Boring? Perhaps. But better nonetheless.
Sunday, November 3, 2013
The Real Me
Moving has been a big part of my life. I moved five time growing up (sometimes far away...) and six times in 23 years of marriage (sometimes far away...). Some things about moving are exciting. I love a new house, new land to explore, new places to go. I suppose my choices were to embrace moving or hate it. I chose to go along with it and give moving a hug.
What I don't love is leaving friends. I'm dreadfully uncomfortable around people who don't know the real me. I try too hard. I say stupid things. I botch things up. I rush into friendships. I can look like a real idiot. It's rather painful.
The truth is, getting to know people takes a long time. Especially in a non-moving community. You know, where people grew up there, mom and dad live there, best friend since first grade still lives there. It sort of makes you feel like, well, an outsider.
I remember having a best friend next door when I was in third grade. Three years of everything together. She ate ketchup on her scrambled eggs. Her brother was in love with my sister. Her nostrils flared when she laughed. She hated her curly hair. You know these things about a best friend.
Then we moved. Again. My friend and I sat in her basement and cried buckets of tears. I've been saying goodbye to people ever since. I don't cry over it much anymore.
Yesterday I took an annual shopping trip with two old friends. They live in my last town (about three hours away by car) and we have been shopping together for eight years. Even though I moved away from them five years ago, we are still great friends.
Here's my favorite thing about being with them: they know the real me. At least a lot of me. I love that. I will go so far as to say I need that.
We went out to eat Friday night and stayed in a hotel room together. We ate and ate and laughed a lot. We shopped all day Saturday. We shopped and shopped and then sat on a bench with overpriced coffee and had our annual counseling session.
Then we said goodbye. It wasn't hard because I 've said goodbye to them so many times it has become unemotional. It's okay.
What I love most about meeting with them is the real me comes out. I am not afraid to share with them my hurts, my fears, my hopes, or even the things that would make others raise their judgey eyebrows. These friends know a lot about me. They still love me. Amazing.
And I know a lot about them. Some of the things would make judgey eyebrows go up, but not mine. I want to know the real them. I want to know the things that make them laugh and cry and the things that make them ashamed to be, well, human. The real them. I think I do. And every year I find out more. It's wonderful.
I think wanting to be known and loved is common to all people. Maybe I am keenly aware of it because I have had to get to know people over and over and over again each time I put my doll or my yearbook or my wedding dress or my dishes into another cardboard box.
I don't know if I'll move again. I sort of hope not and I sort of hope so. In my current town, I haven't yet made the sort of friendships that would nurture an annual shopping trip. And maybe that's okay. In fact, I know it's okay because unfamiliarity, discomfort, and loneliness have nudged me closer to a friend that stays with me no matter where I go.
He was there even when I didn't know it.
He has known every move before it was even an idea.
He watched me pack my tea sets and my sweaters.
He stayed close as I said goodbye to another friend. Another school. Another neighbor. Another house.
He moves with me. And best of all, Jesus knows the real me. The total me. The deepest parts of me that nobody knows. And he still loves me. Amazing.
What I don't love is leaving friends. I'm dreadfully uncomfortable around people who don't know the real me. I try too hard. I say stupid things. I botch things up. I rush into friendships. I can look like a real idiot. It's rather painful.
The truth is, getting to know people takes a long time. Especially in a non-moving community. You know, where people grew up there, mom and dad live there, best friend since first grade still lives there. It sort of makes you feel like, well, an outsider.
I remember having a best friend next door when I was in third grade. Three years of everything together. She ate ketchup on her scrambled eggs. Her brother was in love with my sister. Her nostrils flared when she laughed. She hated her curly hair. You know these things about a best friend.
Then we moved. Again. My friend and I sat in her basement and cried buckets of tears. I've been saying goodbye to people ever since. I don't cry over it much anymore.
Yesterday I took an annual shopping trip with two old friends. They live in my last town (about three hours away by car) and we have been shopping together for eight years. Even though I moved away from them five years ago, we are still great friends.
Here's my favorite thing about being with them: they know the real me. At least a lot of me. I love that. I will go so far as to say I need that.
We went out to eat Friday night and stayed in a hotel room together. We ate and ate and laughed a lot. We shopped all day Saturday. We shopped and shopped and then sat on a bench with overpriced coffee and had our annual counseling session.
Then we said goodbye. It wasn't hard because I 've said goodbye to them so many times it has become unemotional. It's okay.
What I love most about meeting with them is the real me comes out. I am not afraid to share with them my hurts, my fears, my hopes, or even the things that would make others raise their judgey eyebrows. These friends know a lot about me. They still love me. Amazing.
And I know a lot about them. Some of the things would make judgey eyebrows go up, but not mine. I want to know the real them. I want to know the things that make them laugh and cry and the things that make them ashamed to be, well, human. The real them. I think I do. And every year I find out more. It's wonderful.
I think wanting to be known and loved is common to all people. Maybe I am keenly aware of it because I have had to get to know people over and over and over again each time I put my doll or my yearbook or my wedding dress or my dishes into another cardboard box.
I don't know if I'll move again. I sort of hope not and I sort of hope so. In my current town, I haven't yet made the sort of friendships that would nurture an annual shopping trip. And maybe that's okay. In fact, I know it's okay because unfamiliarity, discomfort, and loneliness have nudged me closer to a friend that stays with me no matter where I go.
He was there even when I didn't know it.
He has known every move before it was even an idea.
He watched me pack my tea sets and my sweaters.
He stayed close as I said goodbye to another friend. Another school. Another neighbor. Another house.
He moves with me. And best of all, Jesus knows the real me. The total me. The deepest parts of me that nobody knows. And he still loves me. Amazing.
Thursday, October 24, 2013
Growing Away
My son is getting taller. I think he's outgrown me. But It's not the growing taller that troubles me, it's the growing away.
This morning I dropped him off at school early. He had to catch a bus with the rest of his soccer team. Tournaments. Out of town. Without me. Without his dad. Without his sister. There was a time, long ago, that this kid wouldn't go anywhere without one of us. Times have changed.
This morning he had to get something out of his locker in the school so I went inside and waited to say goodbye. I know he's only gone for three days, but he still seems like such a kid. A tall kid.
He walked toward the door, ahead of me, leaving. I said, "If you don't hug me goodbye here I'll follow you to the bus." He turned and hugged me. Then, he left.
When he was a baby, I was the one to see his first smile. After that he smiled a lot.
He said "da-da" before "ma-ma." It still seems a little unjust to me, given I was the one home with him all day.
I remember when he was two he told me he wanted to be a fire truck when he grew up. And the day before he turned four he caught his first fish. I cooked it for breakfast on his birthday and he ate the whole thing by himself with a proud smile on his face. Those were busy days. Busy, happy days.
Then came going to camp, playing baseball, and bird hunting with his dad. I'm not sure how the time has gone so fast and when this kid of mine became so independent. Getting on a bus and going away somewhere without me. Imagine.
I watched that bus this morning while it was dark outside and I remembered how much my son wanted to ride on a bus when he was little. We homeschooled back then and the thought of being on a bus was fascinating to him. He felt as if he was missing out on something.
At the same time I felt as if I had found something. Time. Time with my kids. Time to know them. Time to teach them. To learn from them. To watch them grow up. I guess I just didn't think it would happen so fast.
I can remember my own growing away. Wanting to be out of the house. Out with my friends. Having fun. Feeling grown up. It makes me smile. It makes me happy that my kids are normal. Growing. Going. Living life and exploring this world.
I just wish I could have that little boy back for just one day. Even for one morning. Or one breakfast. I'd fry him a fish and enjoy his little boy smile as he ate it.
This morning I dropped him off at school early. He had to catch a bus with the rest of his soccer team. Tournaments. Out of town. Without me. Without his dad. Without his sister. There was a time, long ago, that this kid wouldn't go anywhere without one of us. Times have changed.
This morning he had to get something out of his locker in the school so I went inside and waited to say goodbye. I know he's only gone for three days, but he still seems like such a kid. A tall kid.
He walked toward the door, ahead of me, leaving. I said, "If you don't hug me goodbye here I'll follow you to the bus." He turned and hugged me. Then, he left.
When he was a baby, I was the one to see his first smile. After that he smiled a lot.
He said "da-da" before "ma-ma." It still seems a little unjust to me, given I was the one home with him all day.
I remember when he was two he told me he wanted to be a fire truck when he grew up. And the day before he turned four he caught his first fish. I cooked it for breakfast on his birthday and he ate the whole thing by himself with a proud smile on his face. Those were busy days. Busy, happy days.
Then came going to camp, playing baseball, and bird hunting with his dad. I'm not sure how the time has gone so fast and when this kid of mine became so independent. Getting on a bus and going away somewhere without me. Imagine.
I watched that bus this morning while it was dark outside and I remembered how much my son wanted to ride on a bus when he was little. We homeschooled back then and the thought of being on a bus was fascinating to him. He felt as if he was missing out on something.
At the same time I felt as if I had found something. Time. Time with my kids. Time to know them. Time to teach them. To learn from them. To watch them grow up. I guess I just didn't think it would happen so fast.
I can remember my own growing away. Wanting to be out of the house. Out with my friends. Having fun. Feeling grown up. It makes me smile. It makes me happy that my kids are normal. Growing. Going. Living life and exploring this world.
I just wish I could have that little boy back for just one day. Even for one morning. Or one breakfast. I'd fry him a fish and enjoy his little boy smile as he ate it.
Sunday, October 13, 2013
The First Day of Christmas
I think we beat the stores to Christmas this year. Yes, we celebrated Christmas on Friday night, October 11. It was lovely. Played the soundtrack from "Elf," opened gifts, ate lots and lots of food, and had a great time of gathering together.
Sound a bit early? Sure, but we have some wonderful friends from the Dassel, Minnesota area, (our previous home), who come up every fall and spend a weekend with us. Since we do not see them during the holiday season, we have Christmas. I love it.
This year I received a Whatchamacallit candy bar, a Lindt chocolate bar, a huge bag of Nacho Cheese Doritos, and a few other tidbits. Junk food is a treat for me and my friends know it. They spoil me at Christmastime.
My favorite gift, however, was the fellowship of friends. It seems during this busy time for my family, we don't have enough time to visit friends and just have fun. Laugh. Joke. Eat. Fun.
One of the reasons I love this extra-early Christmas celebration is because we avoid the hectic, the rush, the cramming in of celebrations, the stress of getting the shopping done, and everything else we cram in between Thanksgiving and Christmas Day.
It's also enjoyable to shop for Christmas gifts betwixt the Halloween decorations. I feel somehow gratified to defy the commercialism that comes with any widely celebrated event by shopping for Christmas amid hollowed-out plastic pumpkin buckets and fuzzy bats hanging from elastic strings.
Don't get me wrong. I do love the actual Christmastime of year. The snow, the decorations, the caroling and the excitement of children. But my October Christmas celebration gives me a head start on reminding myself what the holiday is about anyway. It's a celebration of love. A holy day of recognizing God's greatest gift to the world: His Son. It is an everyday celebration. A January through December celebration.
I know Christmas Day is a bit off yet, but this year, I'm not going to spread out my celebrating, my festivities and my fun. I'm shopping for the "real" Christmas Day celebration the first weekend of November with some friends. Maybe that will be gratifying also, to shop amid the pilgrim hats and turkey decals.
At any rate, I love the October celebration of Christmas. For those of you on my shopping list, don't be surprised if I deliver a bright, red package in early November with a greeting of "Merry Christmas!"
Sound a bit early? Sure, but we have some wonderful friends from the Dassel, Minnesota area, (our previous home), who come up every fall and spend a weekend with us. Since we do not see them during the holiday season, we have Christmas. I love it.
This year I received a Whatchamacallit candy bar, a Lindt chocolate bar, a huge bag of Nacho Cheese Doritos, and a few other tidbits. Junk food is a treat for me and my friends know it. They spoil me at Christmastime.
My favorite gift, however, was the fellowship of friends. It seems during this busy time for my family, we don't have enough time to visit friends and just have fun. Laugh. Joke. Eat. Fun.
One of the reasons I love this extra-early Christmas celebration is because we avoid the hectic, the rush, the cramming in of celebrations, the stress of getting the shopping done, and everything else we cram in between Thanksgiving and Christmas Day.
It's also enjoyable to shop for Christmas gifts betwixt the Halloween decorations. I feel somehow gratified to defy the commercialism that comes with any widely celebrated event by shopping for Christmas amid hollowed-out plastic pumpkin buckets and fuzzy bats hanging from elastic strings.
Don't get me wrong. I do love the actual Christmastime of year. The snow, the decorations, the caroling and the excitement of children. But my October Christmas celebration gives me a head start on reminding myself what the holiday is about anyway. It's a celebration of love. A holy day of recognizing God's greatest gift to the world: His Son. It is an everyday celebration. A January through December celebration.
I know Christmas Day is a bit off yet, but this year, I'm not going to spread out my celebrating, my festivities and my fun. I'm shopping for the "real" Christmas Day celebration the first weekend of November with some friends. Maybe that will be gratifying also, to shop amid the pilgrim hats and turkey decals.
At any rate, I love the October celebration of Christmas. For those of you on my shopping list, don't be surprised if I deliver a bright, red package in early November with a greeting of "Merry Christmas!"
Saturday, September 28, 2013
A Wonderful Gift
It isn't my birthday. It isn't Christmas. I haven't done anything special to deserve a gift, but I received one anyway. I found out yesterday on my way home from work.
It started Thursday night. My dad called me. He and my mom live about an hour away, by car. He asked if I wanted some strawberry plants (he was thinning his patch). What? Of course I want strawberry plants. I love strawberries.
The problem was my schedule. That, and I was sick. Ugh.
I work at my kids' school. We leave each morning at 6:50 a.m. and don't get home until 5:30 or 6 p.m. Soccer, piano, etc., after school. Add to that my work at a local resort two nights a week and a very, as you can well imagine, messy house. Did I mention being sick?
How would I ever find the time and energy to plant 40-50 strawberry plants? When would I go help my dad dig them up? Clean out a garden spot for them? I'm sure you can well imagine what my answer to my dad was.
"Yes."
Am I crazy? Maybe. But... the strawberries I will have next summer.
Yesterday on my way home from work I was talking with my daughter. We were going over what needed to get done over the weekend. I won't bore you with my list. It might seem like an attempt to gain pity. At any rate, the list was concluded with... "Oh, yeah, and plant 50 strawberry plants."
I decided to call my dad. With rain in the weekend forecast we would have to play the strawberry exchange by ear. Would he dig them and meet me halfway to my house? Would I need to drive there and help dig? Would I need to borrow his small tiller to turn the soil in my garden? I was up for whatever he suggested. He was, after all, giving me free strawberry plants.
My dad answered and I went right into the strawberry inquisition.
Then, the gift arrived. It wasn't wrapped. It didn't come in a bag. It wasn't in my hands (yet). It was what my dad said. What my dad did.
He told me that while I was at work he drove to my house. Then, he proceeded to clean out a garden spot for the 40 plus strawberry plants he had laboriously dug out of his garden and lovingly placed into mine (after he had tilled the garden).
Have you ever felt like laughing, crying, jumping, dancing, and squealing all at the same time? I did at that moment. I was, however, driving, so I controlled myself.
What a gift.
It cost my dad time.
It cost my dad work.
It cost my dad gasoline.
It cost my dad.
It cost me... nothing.
That's what gifts should cost for the recipient. Nothing. Zero. Zilch.
In fact, it will be a gift that keeps on giving. Fresh strawberries. I can almost taste them now.
That's the kind of gifts God gives us. Free. Ever bearing. Sweet. Red. The color of strawberries and the color of blood. I did nothing to deserve the gift of sacrifice that Jesus made for me on the cross, either. But there it is. Available. For me. Free. A gift. Just like the strawberries.
Thank you, Dad. Thank you, Jesus. I accept. Thank you.
It started Thursday night. My dad called me. He and my mom live about an hour away, by car. He asked if I wanted some strawberry plants (he was thinning his patch). What? Of course I want strawberry plants. I love strawberries.
The problem was my schedule. That, and I was sick. Ugh.
I work at my kids' school. We leave each morning at 6:50 a.m. and don't get home until 5:30 or 6 p.m. Soccer, piano, etc., after school. Add to that my work at a local resort two nights a week and a very, as you can well imagine, messy house. Did I mention being sick?
How would I ever find the time and energy to plant 40-50 strawberry plants? When would I go help my dad dig them up? Clean out a garden spot for them? I'm sure you can well imagine what my answer to my dad was.
"Yes."
Am I crazy? Maybe. But... the strawberries I will have next summer.
Yesterday on my way home from work I was talking with my daughter. We were going over what needed to get done over the weekend. I won't bore you with my list. It might seem like an attempt to gain pity. At any rate, the list was concluded with... "Oh, yeah, and plant 50 strawberry plants."
I decided to call my dad. With rain in the weekend forecast we would have to play the strawberry exchange by ear. Would he dig them and meet me halfway to my house? Would I need to drive there and help dig? Would I need to borrow his small tiller to turn the soil in my garden? I was up for whatever he suggested. He was, after all, giving me free strawberry plants.
My dad answered and I went right into the strawberry inquisition.
Then, the gift arrived. It wasn't wrapped. It didn't come in a bag. It wasn't in my hands (yet). It was what my dad said. What my dad did.
He told me that while I was at work he drove to my house. Then, he proceeded to clean out a garden spot for the 40 plus strawberry plants he had laboriously dug out of his garden and lovingly placed into mine (after he had tilled the garden).
Have you ever felt like laughing, crying, jumping, dancing, and squealing all at the same time? I did at that moment. I was, however, driving, so I controlled myself.
What a gift.
It cost my dad time.
It cost my dad work.
It cost my dad gasoline.
It cost my dad.
It cost me... nothing.
That's what gifts should cost for the recipient. Nothing. Zero. Zilch.
In fact, it will be a gift that keeps on giving. Fresh strawberries. I can almost taste them now.
That's the kind of gifts God gives us. Free. Ever bearing. Sweet. Red. The color of strawberries and the color of blood. I did nothing to deserve the gift of sacrifice that Jesus made for me on the cross, either. But there it is. Available. For me. Free. A gift. Just like the strawberries.
Thank you, Dad. Thank you, Jesus. I accept. Thank you.
Monday, September 23, 2013
Religion vs. Jesus: Which Would You Rather Have?
RELIGION
|
JESUS
|
Law-driven
|
Love-driven
|
Behavior-
driven
|
Relationship-driven
|
Never enough
|
100%
FREE
|
We sacrifice
|
He
sacrificed
|
We work
|
We
rest
|
Slave
to sin
|
Slave
to righteousness
|
Guilty
|
Grace
|
Shame
|
Forgiveness
|
Self-will
Driven
|
Holy
Spirit driven
|
We try
to obey
|
He
enables
us
to obey
|
We search for the
right path
|
He
leads us on a path of righteousness
|
We keep
on trying
|
Jesus
said,
“It is finished.”
|
All your
work leads
to death
|
Faith
in Jesus Christ leads to eternal life
|
Which would you rather have?
Tuesday, September 10, 2013
Me and My Little Problems
I started a new job recently. It’s been a tough learning
curve. I'm tired. My family is so busy. Sometimes we don't even eat meals together. Not only that, a little black cloud has been following me around.
Cut my finger.
Ouch.
Car battery died at the mall.
Help!
Left my wallet in a public bathroom.
No!
Waking up extra early.
Yawn.
Hardly see my hubby these days.
Busy.
Head aches.
Back aches.
Brain aches.
Do you ever have those days, those weeks, where you feel as
if you are being pecked on the ankles by a pack of chickens and you just can’t
seem to get out of the coop?
Well, that is my past two weeks. Poor me. Oh, poor me.
Pretty pathetic, huh?
Today I heard that our president is considering an attack
(small, as they say, but an attack nonetheless) across the globe. It made me put my little
problems into perspective. I can just imagine how much that frightened mother
on the other side would change problems with me in a second. Not
even needing to think.
Bombing and firing.
Terror.
Empty streets.
Frightening.
Escaping to the countryside.
Help! A real need
for help!
Children crying.
Please, no!
Church burning.
Sob.
People dying.
Noooooooooooooo!
No more!
Heart aches.
Heart aches.
Heart aches.
Monday, September 2, 2013
Unknown History of Someone's Hands
The other day I went with my daughter to the Alzheimer's Unit at a senior living complex. She plays piano there for the residents on occasion as they eat lunch.
As I sat and listen my attention was captured by an elderly gentleman. He had finished eating and was just sitting, in his wheelchair, staring blankly. As I began to wonder about his life, he moved to take off the over-sized bib he was wearing. The process took at least 10 minutes.
Perhaps 10 minutes doesn't seem like a long time, but it is for a such a small task as removing a bib.
First he pulled a corner of the cloth up to wipe his mouth.
Slowly, he reached back to undo the Velcro behind his neck. It was painstakingly laborious for him.
With unsteady, shaking fingers he brought the bib to his lap and began to fold it.
As he folded in a methodical and strained manner, I noticed the music coming from the piano. My daughter was playing a Beethoven song. Moonlight Sonata. Melancholy. Almost haunting, yet lovely.
The music seemed to speak to the condition that had become this man's life. And I wondered at his hands. I wondered at all they had done before the painful removal of a bib.
Perhaps those hands had preformed surgery at one time. The steady, precise skills of a doctor.
Maybe they built cabinets. A carpenter connected with wood through the patient movement of a chisel and a block plane.
Or maybe those hands played music. A violin. A guitar, piano. Maybe they played Moonlight Sonata. Maybe the song was played for someone the man loved, as Beethoven had written and played it for someone he loved.
After the bib was carefully placed on the table, the man resumed sitting still, staring. He seemed to have nothing to do and nowhere to go.
My daughter began playing another song. The man sat. I wondered if he was listening to the music. Thinking about something? How could I know.
He folded his hands in his lap. As quiet as the whisper of his life and what his hands had once been doing. Working. Playing. Reaching around someone he loved. Wiping a tear from the face of his child. Brushing his dog. Writing a letter to his mother. Cooking. Raking. Waving. Praying. Playing a piano.
But now quiet. Still.
As I sat and listen my attention was captured by an elderly gentleman. He had finished eating and was just sitting, in his wheelchair, staring blankly. As I began to wonder about his life, he moved to take off the over-sized bib he was wearing. The process took at least 10 minutes.
Perhaps 10 minutes doesn't seem like a long time, but it is for a such a small task as removing a bib.
First he pulled a corner of the cloth up to wipe his mouth.
Slowly, he reached back to undo the Velcro behind his neck. It was painstakingly laborious for him.
With unsteady, shaking fingers he brought the bib to his lap and began to fold it.
As he folded in a methodical and strained manner, I noticed the music coming from the piano. My daughter was playing a Beethoven song. Moonlight Sonata. Melancholy. Almost haunting, yet lovely.
The music seemed to speak to the condition that had become this man's life. And I wondered at his hands. I wondered at all they had done before the painful removal of a bib.
Perhaps those hands had preformed surgery at one time. The steady, precise skills of a doctor.
Maybe they built cabinets. A carpenter connected with wood through the patient movement of a chisel and a block plane.
Or maybe those hands played music. A violin. A guitar, piano. Maybe they played Moonlight Sonata. Maybe the song was played for someone the man loved, as Beethoven had written and played it for someone he loved.
After the bib was carefully placed on the table, the man resumed sitting still, staring. He seemed to have nothing to do and nowhere to go.
My daughter began playing another song. The man sat. I wondered if he was listening to the music. Thinking about something? How could I know.
He folded his hands in his lap. As quiet as the whisper of his life and what his hands had once been doing. Working. Playing. Reaching around someone he loved. Wiping a tear from the face of his child. Brushing his dog. Writing a letter to his mother. Cooking. Raking. Waving. Praying. Playing a piano.
But now quiet. Still.
Tuesday, August 27, 2013
Walking Away from my Safety Zone
Yesterday at work my boss shared a devotion on the missionary journeys of Paul. There were many lessons to be had that struck a chord with me, but one in particular stayed with me all day, through the night, and remains this morning.
On Paul's first missionary journey, John Mark, who was with Paul and Barnabas, left and returned to Jerusalem. Later, he wants to rejoin the group, but Paul says "No." Perhaps Paul didn't want a quitter on the team. Knowing the treacherous terrain, the potential for danger, even death, and the huge undertaking of the journey, Paul needed a reliable man.
As it turns out, Barnabas goes with John Mark and Silas teams up with Paul. Two missionary teams. Two directions and more man power to spread the gospel of Jesus Christ.
My boss and the group discussed the possibility that God intended there to be these two groups. I can see that. But is it possible, also, that John Mark stepped out of God's will when he left? I don't know. What I do know is God's plans always go through. God doesn't need our compliance to accomplish His goals, He will use a willing servant and His work will be done.
What has been on my mind is the possibility that John Mark made a mistake. Maybe even a huge mistake. Perhaps he was being led by the flesh when he left and not by the Holy Spirit. The thing is, the Bible doesn't tell us.
What I get from that scenario, and what remains in my mind and brings me great comfort is this:
When we step outside of God's will, he doesn't throw us to the curb. He doesn't say "Oh, you screwed up and now you are of no use to me."
Did God know John Mark would depart? Certainly. He knows our very words before they are even on our tongue. Yikes! That both comforts and frightens me.
As I look back over my life as a Christian, I see a lot more John Mark than Paul. I see a lot more leaving and seeking the comfort of the familiar. I'm not being hard on myself, just honest. God knows all about it, why should I pretend?
I also see how God has always welcomed me back into His will, back to work and back into the blessing of fellowship with Him. He is never finished with me. My biggest mistakes (and there are many) are never too big for His mercy and grace.
Mercy and grace. God has it in an eternal, magnificent supply. It could never be contained. Boy do I need it. I seek it, I long for it and I am even greedy for it. Me: a flawed, abandoning, comfort-seeking child of a perfect, staying, powerful God.
Today, I seek to walk in the will of God. Likely, my journey will not be dangerous or as uncertain as the missionary journeys of Paul. Nevertheless, I will seek to walk away from my safety zone on earth and into the only true safety zone of the Father's arms. In my life of familiar things, I am less safe than in the arms of a Father that may lead me to places I would never go on my own.
On Paul's first missionary journey, John Mark, who was with Paul and Barnabas, left and returned to Jerusalem. Later, he wants to rejoin the group, but Paul says "No." Perhaps Paul didn't want a quitter on the team. Knowing the treacherous terrain, the potential for danger, even death, and the huge undertaking of the journey, Paul needed a reliable man.
As it turns out, Barnabas goes with John Mark and Silas teams up with Paul. Two missionary teams. Two directions and more man power to spread the gospel of Jesus Christ.
My boss and the group discussed the possibility that God intended there to be these two groups. I can see that. But is it possible, also, that John Mark stepped out of God's will when he left? I don't know. What I do know is God's plans always go through. God doesn't need our compliance to accomplish His goals, He will use a willing servant and His work will be done.
What has been on my mind is the possibility that John Mark made a mistake. Maybe even a huge mistake. Perhaps he was being led by the flesh when he left and not by the Holy Spirit. The thing is, the Bible doesn't tell us.
What I get from that scenario, and what remains in my mind and brings me great comfort is this:
When we step outside of God's will, he doesn't throw us to the curb. He doesn't say "Oh, you screwed up and now you are of no use to me."
Did God know John Mark would depart? Certainly. He knows our very words before they are even on our tongue. Yikes! That both comforts and frightens me.
As I look back over my life as a Christian, I see a lot more John Mark than Paul. I see a lot more leaving and seeking the comfort of the familiar. I'm not being hard on myself, just honest. God knows all about it, why should I pretend?
I also see how God has always welcomed me back into His will, back to work and back into the blessing of fellowship with Him. He is never finished with me. My biggest mistakes (and there are many) are never too big for His mercy and grace.
Mercy and grace. God has it in an eternal, magnificent supply. It could never be contained. Boy do I need it. I seek it, I long for it and I am even greedy for it. Me: a flawed, abandoning, comfort-seeking child of a perfect, staying, powerful God.
Today, I seek to walk in the will of God. Likely, my journey will not be dangerous or as uncertain as the missionary journeys of Paul. Nevertheless, I will seek to walk away from my safety zone on earth and into the only true safety zone of the Father's arms. In my life of familiar things, I am less safe than in the arms of a Father that may lead me to places I would never go on my own.
Tuesday, August 13, 2013
The Simple Things in Life
The simple things in life are still free. I think
they hold the most value. A smile, a hug, a warm sunny day, wild flowers… In a
busy world that never seems to stop, I look to nature and find inspiration to
slow down and enjoy this wonderful world. The other day on a walk I stopped to
admire the flowers on the side of the road. Most of them were daisies.
While daisies are a common flower here in the U.S.
they originated in Europe and other faraway places. The Shasta Daisies we see
in ditches and fields are actually a hybrid created by a horticulturist in
California over 100 years ago. Thank you, Luther Burbank.
I love daisies for their simple beauty and long
life. Plus, I don’t have to grow them myself. While I enjoy being in the
garden, the truth is I didn't inherit my family’s green thumb. My favorite
plants are the ones that grow on their own.
The word daisy means “day’s eye.” They received that
name because they are open during the daytime and closed at night. The center
is like a bright, round sunshine surrounded by a bonnet of petals. While Shasta
Daisies come in a variety of colors, the white petals are what we see outside,
growing wild.
It is said that daisies have no negative meaning.
All of the words and phrases associated with this flower are positive,
uplifting, encouraging. While I love a wide variety of flowers, daisies have
always been my favorite. I had them in my wedding, my children brought them to
me as love-gifts on warm summer days, and I pick them and press them in a
flower press my father-in-law made for me 20 years ago.
I think I love daisies so much because they
represent a deep longing for what I want in life. Simplicity. Longevity.
Happiness. Peace and purity. They are a cheery reminder to enjoy the beauty of
all things living and remember the simple things in life are the best things in
life.
Sunday, August 4, 2013
Almost Home from Camp
Hannah is home from piano camp. Well, she’s almost home. She
left pieces of herself behind in the practice room, in the dorm, with her
professors, with her new friends.
It is a gradual leaving that is occurring in my home, with
my oldest. She is teetering on 16 with two years of high school left. And as
her passions in life carry her to places with people who share common interests,
parts of her stay behind with them, waiting for her to return. Waiting for the
day she can join them and immerse herself into the life she loves, for more
than just a week of camp. A life where the piano is her home and her family
members are professors, musicians, an audience.
During the car ride home, she told me all about her week of
music. Nothing but music all day long. She told me about music classes that her
dad and brother and I would hate… long and boring… Nothing but music all day
long. Then she said:
“But I loved it!”
There was so much passion in her voice that I felt another
little piece of her slip out the car window and float back to the world she
left behind.
For now she is home. In her own bedroom. With her old, out
of tune piano. With her chores and her babysitting jobs and her small, private
high school awaiting her return.
But someday she’ll be reunited with the missing pieces of
her. She will go off and study music. All day. Every day. She will love it.
Then, she will leave pieces of herself here, in my home,
with me. But today she is home from camp. Almost.
Tuesday, July 30, 2013
Just Wait Until You Have Kids...
Kids.
There are some things about them that are universal. One is
they don’t understand the sacrifice it takes to be a parent. How could they?
I remember my mother saying, “When you have kids of your own
you’ll understand…” I thought that was just something parents said to make kids
stop asking, needing, wanting, doing, begging, taking, whining.
Now I know better. It is really a cry to be understood; a
longing to make these small (and not so small) people in our homes sympathize
with our plight. Good luck.
Parents.
There are some universal things about us, too. We say things
that our parents said, namely the things that drove us crazy when we were kids.
“Just wait until your father gets home.”
“Quit slamming the screen door!”
“If your friends jumped off a cliff would you, too?”
“Quit crying, or…”
“If you do that your eyes will stay that way.”
“Eat it, it’s good for you.”
“When you have your own house I’m going to wipe jelly on
your walls!”
“Just wait until you have kids of your own!”
I actually remember thinking how ridiculous some of my
parents’ statements were. Then, one by one, they found their way into my mouth
and came out just when my own children were learning the ancient skill of eye
rolling.
At one point I made a rule that no child under my care was
allowed to roll his or her eyes. Especially when I made one of the parental
statements mentioned above. Eye rolling
is equivalent to having the last word. And, when I make a parents-only
statement, I want it to be the last word.
I remember my dad telling one of my brothers that he didn't
want to hear one more peep out of him. I walked down our long hallway upstairs
with my brother as he whispered, “peep…peep…” only loud enough for me to hear.
It was hard to stifle my giggles.
Looking back I see my brother’s rebellious attempt at having
the last word. I wonder if he used the “not one more peep” statement when he
was raising his own children. Likely, yes.
As my kids get older I find ways to tame my tongue. Not that
I shouldn't verbally correct them, but I find that too many words sometimes
diminish effect. And the parents-only statements lose their effect after about the
first use.
The longer I talk the less “they” seem to listen. I am
finding with the teenagers under my roof that they have some clever one-liners
of their own. I’m trying to listen. Trying to remember. Trying to understand.
While they have yet to experience parenthood, I have the benefit of having
experienced adolescence already. And while I will not condone bad behavior, I
must remember. I must have patience. I must have mercy.
As my kids (slowly) learn to become adults, I am still learning to be
a parent with each new stage that arrives. It's just too bad I don’t have more
than two, I could have gotten this thing down by number three. Maybe.
Tuesday, July 23, 2013
The Price of Procrastination
Once someone called me "Johnny-on-the-spot." I'm not sure if it was meant as a compliment, considering the context I heard it in. Nevertheless, I do have a reputation for not letting the grass grow under my feet. It can be obsessive. And it isn't always beneficial. Ask my family.
While I abhor procrastination, I must confess I dabble in it, especially when it comes to my gardens. My thumbs are skin-colored, if you know what I mean. I enjoy the garden, but it doesn't seem to return my affection.
Still, I garden. And the meager produce that comes out of it is enjoyed by my family. Don't get me wrong, I'm not blaming the garden for it's stingy offering. I take full credit. I do just enough to get by. I'm sure we all have areas in our lives where we do just enough to get by. Mine is the garden.
Like I said, we do enjoy whatever produce comes out of the garden. This week it is beans. Pretty, aren't they?
What you see is the price of procrastination. Two nights ago I visited my garden and noticed that there was about a meal's worth of green beans ready to be picked. They were long and green and lovely. Something else must have distracted me on my way to the house to get a bowl for picking because I didn't return to the garden that night. But I went tonight and picked the beans... half eaten!
Bunnies.
Cute, furry, cuddly, greedy, vicious bunnies.
I know it was the rabbits that rudely gnawed off half my beans because I have seen an abundance of them in the yard lately. And to think I was sad today when my son told me he threw a rock and barely missed a rabbit's head. I was horrified to think he may have hit it. Now, not so much.
Again, I must take full credit for the condition of what was to be a fresh addition to a family meal. Had I picked those beans as soon as I knew they were ready, the rabbits would not have gotten the chance to munch on them. They could have at least finished their meal. Bad manners!
Earlier, as I picked what was left of the beans, I noticed some lettuce that is ready to be harvested. I didn't take the time to pick it because I had a couple of other things I wanted to do. Read a book. Walk the dog. Sort some laundry? Anything but the lettuce. Perhaps I'll go out first thing in the morning to pick the greens. Right at the crack of dawn. When the rooster crows. While the dew is still on the grass. Maybe this time I'll beat the bunnies.
While I abhor procrastination, I must confess I dabble in it, especially when it comes to my gardens. My thumbs are skin-colored, if you know what I mean. I enjoy the garden, but it doesn't seem to return my affection.
Still, I garden. And the meager produce that comes out of it is enjoyed by my family. Don't get me wrong, I'm not blaming the garden for it's stingy offering. I take full credit. I do just enough to get by. I'm sure we all have areas in our lives where we do just enough to get by. Mine is the garden.
Like I said, we do enjoy whatever produce comes out of the garden. This week it is beans. Pretty, aren't they?
What you see is the price of procrastination. Two nights ago I visited my garden and noticed that there was about a meal's worth of green beans ready to be picked. They were long and green and lovely. Something else must have distracted me on my way to the house to get a bowl for picking because I didn't return to the garden that night. But I went tonight and picked the beans... half eaten!
Bunnies.
Cute, furry, cuddly, greedy, vicious bunnies.
I know it was the rabbits that rudely gnawed off half my beans because I have seen an abundance of them in the yard lately. And to think I was sad today when my son told me he threw a rock and barely missed a rabbit's head. I was horrified to think he may have hit it. Now, not so much.
Again, I must take full credit for the condition of what was to be a fresh addition to a family meal. Had I picked those beans as soon as I knew they were ready, the rabbits would not have gotten the chance to munch on them. They could have at least finished their meal. Bad manners!
Earlier, as I picked what was left of the beans, I noticed some lettuce that is ready to be harvested. I didn't take the time to pick it because I had a couple of other things I wanted to do. Read a book. Walk the dog. Sort some laundry? Anything but the lettuce. Perhaps I'll go out first thing in the morning to pick the greens. Right at the crack of dawn. When the rooster crows. While the dew is still on the grass. Maybe this time I'll beat the bunnies.
Wednesday, July 17, 2013
Waiter, I'll Have Some Crow...
The older I get the more I do things that I once said, "I'll never..." about. A.K.A. eating crow. You know the flavor: a plate full of "I'll never..." swallowed down with a little pride. Hopefully it is served with a side dish of humility and an extra helping of "shut the pie-hole."
I don't know what it is that causes me to make a decision long before the situation ever arises. I remember when I was pregnant for my daughter (first child) I said I would never take any medication during labor and the doctors would not be allowed to use any unnatural devices to get the baby out. After a 30 hour labor I logged in some morphine an epidural and one extraction device that looked like a plunger. Of course my first meal after giving birth was crow. I'm pretty sure I had it a la mode.
I could go on to reveal other vain "I'll never..." statements that resulted in what seems to be one of my favorite meals. I am in the process of raising children. That alone should bring the I nevers to a screeching halt. When will I learn?
This week I ate another plate of crow. I wasn't even hungry. But I ate it anyway.
Our 1.5 year old lab swallowed some rocks. Anyone who has ever had a labrador retriever or seen the movie "Marley and Me" knows that labs are capable of some pretty outrageous things. Rocks! And it wasn't her first time.
Last winter it was discovered that she ate some batteries. My husband administered hydrogen peroxide to induce vomiting. Two batteries and five rocks were ejected from Nancy Drew's belly. What?
Well, the rocks she swallowed this week did not come up. She needed surgery. My husband and I did not have the astronomical amount of money surgery would cost in our budget. But... Nancy Drew. We love her!
Years ago we had marveled at the amount of money people had poured into dogs for surgeries that cost hundreds, sometimes thousands, of dollars. Us? Never!
Well, when our beloved Nancy Drew was sick, rocks lodged in her small intestine, facing certain death or surgery and possible death, we had to take a look at the menu. There were only two selections.
1. Do nothing and watch her die
2. Get the surgery done and hopefully, extend her life
We chose number two and had the surgery done. In other words, I ordered crow. This time, however, it tasted pretty good. In fact, it was sweet. Nancy Drew pulled through the surgery. Sure we have a long recovery ahead of us and triple the work of caring for this dog. But she's alive. And she's so very, very sweet.
Nancy Drew eats rocks. I eat crow. What a pair we make!
I don't know what it is that causes me to make a decision long before the situation ever arises. I remember when I was pregnant for my daughter (first child) I said I would never take any medication during labor and the doctors would not be allowed to use any unnatural devices to get the baby out. After a 30 hour labor I logged in some morphine an epidural and one extraction device that looked like a plunger. Of course my first meal after giving birth was crow. I'm pretty sure I had it a la mode.
I could go on to reveal other vain "I'll never..." statements that resulted in what seems to be one of my favorite meals. I am in the process of raising children. That alone should bring the I nevers to a screeching halt. When will I learn?
This week I ate another plate of crow. I wasn't even hungry. But I ate it anyway.
Our 1.5 year old lab swallowed some rocks. Anyone who has ever had a labrador retriever or seen the movie "Marley and Me" knows that labs are capable of some pretty outrageous things. Rocks! And it wasn't her first time.
Last winter it was discovered that she ate some batteries. My husband administered hydrogen peroxide to induce vomiting. Two batteries and five rocks were ejected from Nancy Drew's belly. What?
Well, the rocks she swallowed this week did not come up. She needed surgery. My husband and I did not have the astronomical amount of money surgery would cost in our budget. But... Nancy Drew. We love her!
Years ago we had marveled at the amount of money people had poured into dogs for surgeries that cost hundreds, sometimes thousands, of dollars. Us? Never!
Well, when our beloved Nancy Drew was sick, rocks lodged in her small intestine, facing certain death or surgery and possible death, we had to take a look at the menu. There were only two selections.
1. Do nothing and watch her die
2. Get the surgery done and hopefully, extend her life
We chose number two and had the surgery done. In other words, I ordered crow. This time, however, it tasted pretty good. In fact, it was sweet. Nancy Drew pulled through the surgery. Sure we have a long recovery ahead of us and triple the work of caring for this dog. But she's alive. And she's so very, very sweet.
Nancy Drew eats rocks. I eat crow. What a pair we make!
Wednesday, July 10, 2013
Seeing Past the Sacrifice
The other day I was thinking about a job I'm doing to earn a little cash for various family extras: camp for the kids, driver's ed, camping trip... While the job isn't particularly what I aspire to spend my time doing, it is temporary and will provide the funds for out-of-budget expenses. For a brief moment, I was tempted to complain about the job. Not my cup of tea, exactly. Hard. Strenuous. Tiring.
My pity party was stopped short by a man on the radio who was talking about seeing past the sacrifice. I missed most of the program, but caught enough to make me think. Sure this job is a sacrifice. But it is also a temporary gig. A means to provide something. Just a job.
It occurred to me that my mounting problem was focusing on the sacrifice itself, not the reason for it. When I focus on the sacrifice, I become unhappy. A daunting task, however, should never be the focus. That is a breeding pool for self pity, resentment, discontent.
The focus ought to be on the result, or reason, for the sacrifice. Do I want my kids to experience camp? Yes, I do. Will it be nice to have another driver in the house? Yes, it will. Is the planned camping trip important for my family? Yes, it is.
The results of the sacrifice are worthwhile. They may not be necessarily needful, but worthwhile nonetheless.
I think about another, greater sacrifice that carried a much more weighty result. An eternal result, in fact. It involves a cross and a willing subject. Jesus. When I think about the sacrifice he was willing to make on behalf of mankind, my own small, mostly simple sacrifices seem so easy. So piece of cake. So walk in the park.
Do I really have the audacity to complain in light of what someone else, namely God, has done for me? Something needful. Necessarily needful.
I wonder how different things would be if Jesus had just focused on the cross and what he had to endure. While he acknowledged the cross, even grieved it, he remained focused on one thing: the reason for his sacrifice. It was me. It was you. He saw past the sacrifice. He saw salvation.
It helps me to remember that. It helps me to take my focus off the sacrifices I make for my family. We all make them. We all do things that we would rather not. Why? Because it is necessary to get the desired result. If the sacrifice isn't going to benefit anyone, why even do it?
Today I go to the job again. I consider the alternative. No camp, no driver's ed, no trip. Yes, the sacrifice is worth it. I chose it. I will not complain. Neither will I focus my energy on the sacrifice. Before I know it I'll be sitting around a campfire with my family. Making S'mores. Laughing. Talking. Relaxing. Enjoying.
My pity party was stopped short by a man on the radio who was talking about seeing past the sacrifice. I missed most of the program, but caught enough to make me think. Sure this job is a sacrifice. But it is also a temporary gig. A means to provide something. Just a job.
It occurred to me that my mounting problem was focusing on the sacrifice itself, not the reason for it. When I focus on the sacrifice, I become unhappy. A daunting task, however, should never be the focus. That is a breeding pool for self pity, resentment, discontent.
The focus ought to be on the result, or reason, for the sacrifice. Do I want my kids to experience camp? Yes, I do. Will it be nice to have another driver in the house? Yes, it will. Is the planned camping trip important for my family? Yes, it is.
The results of the sacrifice are worthwhile. They may not be necessarily needful, but worthwhile nonetheless.
I think about another, greater sacrifice that carried a much more weighty result. An eternal result, in fact. It involves a cross and a willing subject. Jesus. When I think about the sacrifice he was willing to make on behalf of mankind, my own small, mostly simple sacrifices seem so easy. So piece of cake. So walk in the park.
Do I really have the audacity to complain in light of what someone else, namely God, has done for me? Something needful. Necessarily needful.
I wonder how different things would be if Jesus had just focused on the cross and what he had to endure. While he acknowledged the cross, even grieved it, he remained focused on one thing: the reason for his sacrifice. It was me. It was you. He saw past the sacrifice. He saw salvation.
It helps me to remember that. It helps me to take my focus off the sacrifices I make for my family. We all make them. We all do things that we would rather not. Why? Because it is necessary to get the desired result. If the sacrifice isn't going to benefit anyone, why even do it?
Today I go to the job again. I consider the alternative. No camp, no driver's ed, no trip. Yes, the sacrifice is worth it. I chose it. I will not complain. Neither will I focus my energy on the sacrifice. Before I know it I'll be sitting around a campfire with my family. Making S'mores. Laughing. Talking. Relaxing. Enjoying.
Thursday, July 4, 2013
Only One Free Freedom
Today on this Fourth of July I think about freedom. Mostly,
I think about the fact that I haven’t really done anything to earn the freedom
I’ve been given. We in America all know the saying “Freedom isn’t free.” And
even though it feels free to me, I know different. Others have paid the price,
beginning with those thirteen colonies that fought for America back in 1776. It
has been the few fighting for the many ever since.
We enjoy freedoms in America that many people in this world
can’t even comprehend.
Freedom of speech is one. We can say whatever we want. There
are countries that practice strict censorship and some that punish its citizens
for saying the wrong thing. Oppressive.
Freedom of the press is held dear in America. As a journalist
I am free to write what I want. Of course facts are of utmost importance and my
publisher has the right to reject my work. And, I am not involved in any sort
of investigative or whistle-blowing coverage that some news writers are so I
feel pretty safe. But in some countries, journalists have been injured,
imprisoned, even murdered for what they have written. Criminal.
As hard as it is for me to comprehend, children fall under
the category of freedom. It seems unreal to me, but the control of how many
children a couple has does exist. While we largely consider children a blessing
in America, there are those who consider children a burden on society. Sad.
We are free to assemble: hold meetings, get together and
discuss… whatever! It is so common in America that I have a hard time even
imagining that some people on this globe do not have the right to gather
together for whatever reason they want. Unbelievable!
I could go on and on. The right to bear arms. The freedom to
travel wherever I want in my country. The right to get an education, join a
political party, own private property.
When I think about it, I am privileged indeed.
There is one freedom, however, that I hold most dear. It is
not a freedom that can be taken away from me no matter where I live. It can be
had by anyone in any country and at any time. It is the freedom to believe in a
living God.
While some may disagree with my faith, and there are
countries that don’t allow deviation from its prescribed religion, faith in
Jesus Christ is a freedom that can never be taken away from anyone. It was not
earned by any colony or any political group, a soldier or any other individual
on earth. It is a free gift to all no matter what his or her “prescribed”
religion is. It has no barriers based on gender, ethnic background or location
on this planet.
It is the only freedom that is free to mankind. And it is the most
beautiful freedom of all. It can never be taken away. Never be revoked. Never
be voted on. Never be quieted. Never be lost.
Friday, June 28, 2013
Time Heals Nothing
There are a lot of things that sound good. But just because something sounds good doesn't mean it is true. I think when I was younger I used to buy a lot of empty philosophy for that very reason. It sounded good.
Not long ago I heard something on the radio that serves as a great example of a good sounding statement that simply isn't true. The saying is: Time heals all wounds. You've heard it before. I've heard it. I never gave it much thought and probably believed it on some level. Until I heard the speaker say:
"Time heals nothing. Forgiveness heals everything."
Kabam! Right between the eyes.
When he followed up the common saying (which is probably a common belief) with the forgiveness statement, it did something amazing. It made me think about that statement's flaws. Of course I can only apply this to my own life, but deep down I think we humans have very much in common. So my best guess is that other people will identify with the same things that made me realize that this trite statement just can't be true.
Reasons I find "Time heals all wounds" to be a flawed philosophy:
1. Some things that hurt me in the past, the distant past, can still hurt me today. Wound. Not healed.
2. If you asked me about certain people in my life, I might feel the hair on the back of my neck stand up. Wound. Not healed.
3. I treat some situations in this world like the plague. I stay away. Far away. Wound. Not healed.
Need I go on? I'm sure you can come up with examples of wounds that time hasn't healed. Time is not a heart surgeon. Time is not a mediator. Time is not an eraser.
Now, forgiveness on the other hand. That is another story altogether.
I'm not talking about the shallow version of human forgiveness.
Sorry.
I'm sorry.
It's okay (not).
Zip. Snap. Done.
That is a sure recipe for stuffing down the offense, the anger, the hurt. And guess what? Time will not heal it.
Time will just make it simmer down deep until some situation, some person, some hormonal imbalance makes that superficial "it's okay" pop a lid and the emotions come back flooding every cell in your body as if the event just happened today. Only it happened ten years ago.
No, we need the kind of forgiveness that God thought up. The kind that says yes you offended me. You did wrong. You can't make up for it. But I forgive you. I am going to say that your action was wrong. I'm going to admit that it hurt. It was wrong and replacing with another wrong won't fix it and can't fix it. It is done and can't be taken back. But you are human. Flawed. And I forgive you because life and love are bigger than a grudge. Bigger than waiting for all eternity for someone to make up for something they did when they simply will not or don't know how to or humanly cannot!
Forgiveness: To cancel a debt.
Forgiveness: To pardon somebody.
Life hurts sometimes. But lets stop glossing it over with trite statements like "Time heals all wounds." The guy on the radio is right. Forgiveness heals. Real forgiveness. Honesty, feeling the hurt instead of stuffing it down.
ENCOURAGEMENT: Vent. Get mad. Talk. Cry. Sob. But forgive. Forgive. It will heal the wound.
When he followed up the common saying (which is probably a common belief) with the forgiveness statement, it did something amazing. It made me think about that statement's flaws. Of course I can only apply this to my own life, but deep down I think we humans have very much in common. So my best guess is that other people will identify with the same things that made me realize that this trite statement just can't be true.
Reasons I find "Time heals all wounds" to be a flawed philosophy:
1. Some things that hurt me in the past, the distant past, can still hurt me today. Wound. Not healed.
2. If you asked me about certain people in my life, I might feel the hair on the back of my neck stand up. Wound. Not healed.
3. I treat some situations in this world like the plague. I stay away. Far away. Wound. Not healed.
Need I go on? I'm sure you can come up with examples of wounds that time hasn't healed. Time is not a heart surgeon. Time is not a mediator. Time is not an eraser.
Now, forgiveness on the other hand. That is another story altogether.
I'm not talking about the shallow version of human forgiveness.
Sorry.
I'm sorry.
It's okay (not).
Zip. Snap. Done.
That is a sure recipe for stuffing down the offense, the anger, the hurt. And guess what? Time will not heal it.
Time will just make it simmer down deep until some situation, some person, some hormonal imbalance makes that superficial "it's okay" pop a lid and the emotions come back flooding every cell in your body as if the event just happened today. Only it happened ten years ago.
No, we need the kind of forgiveness that God thought up. The kind that says yes you offended me. You did wrong. You can't make up for it. But I forgive you. I am going to say that your action was wrong. I'm going to admit that it hurt. It was wrong and replacing with another wrong won't fix it and can't fix it. It is done and can't be taken back. But you are human. Flawed. And I forgive you because life and love are bigger than a grudge. Bigger than waiting for all eternity for someone to make up for something they did when they simply will not or don't know how to or humanly cannot!
Forgiveness: To cancel a debt.
Forgiveness: To pardon somebody.
Life hurts sometimes. But lets stop glossing it over with trite statements like "Time heals all wounds." The guy on the radio is right. Forgiveness heals. Real forgiveness. Honesty, feeling the hurt instead of stuffing it down.
ENCOURAGEMENT: Vent. Get mad. Talk. Cry. Sob. But forgive. Forgive. It will heal the wound.
Wednesday, June 19, 2013
Fish Tacos and Cherry Pie
Fish tacos and cherry pie. That is what we ate for my son's 14th birthday tonight.
He smiled at me for the first time on July 20, 1999. Such a good baby. So happy. In spite of an illness (healed), near smoke inhalation (spared), a broken foot (healed), and falling down stairs twice (recovered once and caught another time), the baby and toddler years were filled with smiles and making us laugh.
Four made up for the terrible twos that never came. Preschool years were filled with trying to break a naughty streak without breaking a spirit. Standing at the top of the stairs yelling, "I'm gonna be nice now," and learning not to throw rocks at a sister (and other girls) were the norm. In between were trips to the cabin and the ocean, learning to fish and daddy being called up for another war.
Next came the elementary age when losing teeth and asking all sorts of questions were daily events.
"Will you ever get blind?" was one inquisition.
Another: "What if blood squirted out of my eyes?"
A black lab named Sally became a good friend. There was also best buddy Austin, just like a brother. And school and LEGOS and hating girls.
John was nine years old when we moved north. Heartbroken.
Since then five years have flown by amid school books and trying to find a niche. At first Jeff and I made great attempts at finding a passion for our son. Baseball, wrestling, Civil Air Patrol... Then, when we weren't paying attention, his feet landed on the ground kicking a soccer ball with a camera in one hand and The Hobbit in the other. Who knew? Growing up happens when we aren't looking.
I'll never forget sitting at the kitchen table one winter night in 2012 while John's dog was dying. She wasn't quite six years old. Boy did we cry. We still see some of her puppies. We still miss her. Life can really hurt sometimes.
Less than a year ago we switched from homeschool to private school. A big change that proved to be a good change and I don't know who was more nervous. While John embraced new teachers and new friends, I remembered days at home with math lessons and writing poems and eating lunch in a boat.
Today John had to work. Mowing lawn and cutting weeds at the neighbor's house. Working on a birthday is a sure sign of growing up.
I read through the journal I've been keeping for him since I was pregnant. Last year he had fish tacos too, but not cherry pie. It was chocolate cake. I suppose some things will always stay the same, while other things change.
While my boy will grow and expand his world and someday go away to a place where I can't see him each morning, or hear him talking with his sister late into the night, one thing will remain the same. Always. He will always be my son. He will always belong to me first. And maybe he will always eat fish tacos on his birthday.
He smiled at me for the first time on July 20, 1999. Such a good baby. So happy. In spite of an illness (healed), near smoke inhalation (spared), a broken foot (healed), and falling down stairs twice (recovered once and caught another time), the baby and toddler years were filled with smiles and making us laugh.
Four made up for the terrible twos that never came. Preschool years were filled with trying to break a naughty streak without breaking a spirit. Standing at the top of the stairs yelling, "I'm gonna be nice now," and learning not to throw rocks at a sister (and other girls) were the norm. In between were trips to the cabin and the ocean, learning to fish and daddy being called up for another war.
Next came the elementary age when losing teeth and asking all sorts of questions were daily events.
"Will you ever get blind?" was one inquisition.
Another: "What if blood squirted out of my eyes?"
A black lab named Sally became a good friend. There was also best buddy Austin, just like a brother. And school and LEGOS and hating girls.
John was nine years old when we moved north. Heartbroken.
Since then five years have flown by amid school books and trying to find a niche. At first Jeff and I made great attempts at finding a passion for our son. Baseball, wrestling, Civil Air Patrol... Then, when we weren't paying attention, his feet landed on the ground kicking a soccer ball with a camera in one hand and The Hobbit in the other. Who knew? Growing up happens when we aren't looking.
I'll never forget sitting at the kitchen table one winter night in 2012 while John's dog was dying. She wasn't quite six years old. Boy did we cry. We still see some of her puppies. We still miss her. Life can really hurt sometimes.
Less than a year ago we switched from homeschool to private school. A big change that proved to be a good change and I don't know who was more nervous. While John embraced new teachers and new friends, I remembered days at home with math lessons and writing poems and eating lunch in a boat.
Today John had to work. Mowing lawn and cutting weeds at the neighbor's house. Working on a birthday is a sure sign of growing up.
I read through the journal I've been keeping for him since I was pregnant. Last year he had fish tacos too, but not cherry pie. It was chocolate cake. I suppose some things will always stay the same, while other things change.
While my boy will grow and expand his world and someday go away to a place where I can't see him each morning, or hear him talking with his sister late into the night, one thing will remain the same. Always. He will always be my son. He will always belong to me first. And maybe he will always eat fish tacos on his birthday.
Saturday, June 15, 2013
Wanting Heaven
Sometimes I
try too hard to make things just right. I want everything in my home to run
smoothly. I work hard to keep my family on track. Make sure everyone is eating
just right. Intercept harsh words. Iron out all the wrinkles. Neat. Clean.
Orderly. Nice. Encouraging. Unity. Home. Family. Work. People. I want perfect!
The problem
is, when I go into perfection mode, I begin to get anxious. Didn't I just read
something about not letting my heart be troubled? But sometimes I go there. I
work hard to create a perfect world around me inside my home, outside my home.
I try to control things, and then:
I worry.
The result?
I make oodles of mistakes and generally get more and more frustrated with life.
I exhaust
myself.
I reach the
end of my rope.
I run out of
resources.
I cry.
I let go.
I stop
thinking.
I stop
controlling.
I stop
worrying.
I give
control back to where it belongs: the hands of the One who made this world.
(Ironically I never really had control anyway – it’s just a fantasy we humans
like to entertain)
I’m glad.
Oh, so glad to be done.
The amazing
thing about letting go is I begin to see important things that were there all
along, but I couldn't see… blinded by my drive for perfection. What could
possibly be more important than creating my own, personal utopia?
Other
people.
Other people with real needs and real problems. Other people that I can
help. Other people who aren't perfect and, like me, cannot be perfect. Other
people that I can pray for. Other people I can learn from.
Funny how
focusing on my small slice of life and trying to make it perfect fixes blinders
on me and I don’t see past, well, myself. Yuck.
I think that
my striving for perfection is really a longing for home. Not here in Minnesota,
in America, on this earth, but in heaven: my eternal home. So while I’m here, I
will live amid the chaos, wrinkles, tears, frustrations, imperfections. And
there are many. But I will keep heaven in my heart. Now that is peace.
ENCOURAGEMENT:
Don’t look for heaven on earth, it won’t be found. Rather, find ways to help
others amid this crazy, crooked world. Be a slice of peace.
Thursday, June 6, 2013
What's Wrong or What's Right?
Sometimes it is easy to see what is wrong in the world. Frankly, there is so much. But today, I determine to see what is right. I woke up to a new day full of possibilities. Full of opportunities to operate within a positive attitude. To see the blessings. See the eternal. See the glory. It all started last night...
Yesterday was rainy. Not a "Gee, we really need this rain," sort of day. A drizzly, yucky, rainy after what has already been a failure of a year in the weather department day. Groan.
I spent the day going from one menial task to the next. Each time I glanced outside I had to fight the urge to go back to bed.
My son, on the other hand, spent his day alternating between a book and our canoe. He spent quite a bit of time in the drizzle on the pond out back with his iPod. He was using it, I found out later, to take pictures. A favorite hobby of his.
It was last night, when the sun we never did see had set and the rain had stopped that set the tone for my mood today. My son told me that he dropped his iPod in the water. Three times.
A little background information. My boy, bless him, is very much like me. He wants things to go smoothly. He wants days to be sunny and jobs to be completed without any mishaps. I mean, who doesn't? But sometimes those of us who don't, you know, go with the flow as easily, we have a hard time with mishaps like an iPod submerged in the water. Three times.
What he said to me after I groaned, however, hit me like a brick. He said something like, "Mom, an iPod is just a temporary thing. It isn't eternal." Zing! Bam! Pow!
I felt like a cartoon character that just had a piano dropped on her. Did my son really say that? My son? Don't get me wrong. He's a great kid, but that is not the sort of answer I expect from him when the iPod he painstakingly saved his dollars for fell in the water. Three times.
To top it off, I saw the pictures he posted on facebook of lily pads dotted with raindrops. Lovely. Should I call an art gallery in NYC?
This morning as I was reading from the Bible, I was struck by a passage: Psalm 19:1-2, "The heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of his hands. Day after day they pour forth speech; night after night they display knowledge."
Rain? A blessing. iPod in the water? Temporary. God's creation? Glorious. Today it is drizzly again. There is not one cloud in the sky but so many there is not a spot of blue. Nevertheless, the skies proclaim the work of God's hands. Hands that are so much bigger than any problem this world can produce. Hands that made a sky. Blessings. Eternal. Glory.
ENCOURAGEMENT: Look up when bad things happen and remember: The troubles of this world are temporary.
Yesterday was rainy. Not a "Gee, we really need this rain," sort of day. A drizzly, yucky, rainy after what has already been a failure of a year in the weather department day. Groan.
I spent the day going from one menial task to the next. Each time I glanced outside I had to fight the urge to go back to bed.
My son, on the other hand, spent his day alternating between a book and our canoe. He spent quite a bit of time in the drizzle on the pond out back with his iPod. He was using it, I found out later, to take pictures. A favorite hobby of his.
It was last night, when the sun we never did see had set and the rain had stopped that set the tone for my mood today. My son told me that he dropped his iPod in the water. Three times.
A little background information. My boy, bless him, is very much like me. He wants things to go smoothly. He wants days to be sunny and jobs to be completed without any mishaps. I mean, who doesn't? But sometimes those of us who don't, you know, go with the flow as easily, we have a hard time with mishaps like an iPod submerged in the water. Three times.
What he said to me after I groaned, however, hit me like a brick. He said something like, "Mom, an iPod is just a temporary thing. It isn't eternal." Zing! Bam! Pow!
I felt like a cartoon character that just had a piano dropped on her. Did my son really say that? My son? Don't get me wrong. He's a great kid, but that is not the sort of answer I expect from him when the iPod he painstakingly saved his dollars for fell in the water. Three times.
To top it off, I saw the pictures he posted on facebook of lily pads dotted with raindrops. Lovely. Should I call an art gallery in NYC?
This morning as I was reading from the Bible, I was struck by a passage: Psalm 19:1-2, "The heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of his hands. Day after day they pour forth speech; night after night they display knowledge."
Rain? A blessing. iPod in the water? Temporary. God's creation? Glorious. Today it is drizzly again. There is not one cloud in the sky but so many there is not a spot of blue. Nevertheless, the skies proclaim the work of God's hands. Hands that are so much bigger than any problem this world can produce. Hands that made a sky. Blessings. Eternal. Glory.
ENCOURAGEMENT: Look up when bad things happen and remember: The troubles of this world are temporary.
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