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.

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).

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.

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.