So I've been thinking...

christmas freaks

2009-12-18T21:59:00.003-05:00

As it turns out, we are Christmas freaks. No, not in the sense that we obsessively celebrate the season with boat loads of presents or a 50,000 light display, quite the opposite, really. We are Christmas freaks because we’ve never really made a big deal over Santa or the presents and don’t plan on it.

To be clear, our house is not a Santa-free zone. We just consider it a really fun story like Peter Pan or something. So we have a pretty little Christmas tree with all of the twinkling lights and ornaments and candy canes. And there are a few gifts underneath there but not that many. And it works for us but it's not what you’d call typical these days so by definition I guess that makes us freaks or as my sister lovingly calls us, The Murderers of Christmas Fun.

I have to admit that being a Christmas freak is harder than it used to be. We’d read The Night Before Christmas and hang some Santa ornaments on the tree but by choice our main focus has always been Christ’s birth. It just seemed simpler that way. So Santa, for us, was always something fun but we pretty much left it at that. No problems whatsoever until November 30, the Monday after Thanksgiving which, unbeknownst to me, marked the reading of the first Santa book of the season at Seth’s preschool. The teacher cracked open the book with great joy and anticipation and my son, my pride and joy said, “Santa’s not real.” Fortunately, the other kids didn’t hear him but the teacher, who by all accounts is a lover of all things Christmas, most certainly did hear him and started to cry. It was then that Seth received a short lecture on how to preserve the magic of Christmas for the rest of the class and then he started to cry.

Talking it over later that afternoon, Seth and I agreed that every kid should be able to have fun with Santa and it would be really wrong of us to say something that would take that fun away. But all of it made me wonder for a moment if we’d done it all wrong, if Seth would be forever traumatized or filled with some deep sense of loss for having freakish parents who did not embrace Santa as a source of Christmas joy and fulfillment. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that no matter how crazy it seems to some people, Christmas for our family is centered on Christ and generosity. These messages are so easily drown out by want and commercialism that, for our family at least, it’s good to just simplify the focus.

So for me bumbling Christmas freak that I am, this Christmas season has taught me some really valuable new lessons: 1) lectures on preserving the magic of Christmas for all boys and girls begins early next year - like right after Halloween, and 2) do what’s right for your family at Christmas and always - even if it seems fairly odd.

u2 and then some

2009-10-11T20:44:00.003-04:00

Well I have lived to witness U2 in concert. That was my little goal for this week. My grandfather had this habit of making goals for himself. It kept him alive for years. “I’d like to make it to my 90th birthday,” he’d say. "I’d like to live to see my great-grandson,” and so on. It worked so well for him I thought I should give it a try. You see, I’ve felt simply awful for about three weeks now and I needed a little something extra to help me make it through the dark hours. I suppose my little cocktail of antibiotics, decongestants, and muscle relaxers may have helped a bit too.

My ticket to U2 was actually a birthday present from my beloved sister who, among other things, takes great pleasure in finding expensive forms of entertainment, for which I am grateful. I love her completely but as it turns out we are almost polar opposites. She is fun and social and a bit of a fashionista with a wardrobe consisting primarily of bright and/or shiny clothing, sexy boots and a large collection of what I lovingly refer to as “hooker shoes.” I am not all that fun or social, wear sensible loafers and do not possess an ounce of the fashion confidence required to wear clothes that shimmer. If we didn’t sound exactly alike on the telephone I would swear we were not related at all.

Back to the concert - we got there early and parked about a mile away from the venue. We spotted a fence and potential shortcut so we did what anyone from Lake City would do - pulled real hard and squeezed through the opening in the gate. We were at the stadium in five minutes. The next bit is pretty uninteresting. We found our seats, listened a bit to Muse. I got thirsty, went to find something to drink, watched the sunset while standing in line for 20 minutes to get two bottles of water, got beer spilled on my shoe, then returned to my seat to watch Muse’s last song and wait for U2. And they were good. Very, very, very good. I liked the songs from the new album way better than I thought I would. Bono did this nice little take on "Amazing Grace" to lead into "Where the Streets Have No Name" which was supremely beautiful. He also wore a jacket with red lights on it for the last few songs. I found this strangely interesting. At one point, Larry took a little walk while playing what I’m guessing was a djembe. The Edge, dressed in plaid, was as fantastic as ever. And then there was Adam, pounding away faithfully on the bass; I only wish I could have heard him. He’s as cool as the come, but then, bass players are always cool, aren’t they? Overall, awesome stage, great performance, and a very nice birthday present.

So now I am thinking about fame and how interesting it must be to have millions of people you don’t know exist speak about you in familiar, admiring ways. I’m afraid I will never know what this is like. It may surprise you but there is not a lot of fame and fortune associated with speech therapy. And if I were to become some superstar speech therapist there is a very good chance I would crack under the pressure and be forced to create some stage name and alter-ego personality so that I could deal with all it all.

Alas, the show ended around 11. The band went back to wherever and we shuffled out of our seats. It was hot and humid and everyone was all squished together like sardines moving en mass toward the exit. I began to realize why people die in stampedes and I plotted my escape route just in case. We eventually made it out alive, squeezed back through the gate, and drove across town to our room. I was in bed by midnight. And here’s the best part – I slept until 9:30.

a tidbit

2009-10-08T21:35:00.002-04:00

So I just finished Operating Instructions: A Journal of My Son's First Year by Anne Lamott and I'm so glad I read it. I am especially glad to have read it after having my own son. I will share my most favorite section for you, in case you are interested. From page 206 -

"My plans for molding him into the leader of the rebel forces do not seem to be going very well. I think of all those pacifists in the sixties and seventies whose children chewed their toast into the shape of guns. Sam will be one of those children. I can see it all now. He will probably be a Young Republican by the age of eight and want to spend his summers at camp with other little conservative boys and girls, singing patriotic songs in shorts and knee-high socks, holding his briefcase in his lap. He'll pound the table jovially and cry out. "we're table one and we want the salt!" and then help plot the forced internment of the left wing in America. Then he'll come home from camp, and everywhere I go in our house, his eyes will seem to follow me, and when I notice this, he will give me thin smiles."

I laughed very hard. It was a good read.

the swine flu blues

2009-09-27T12:46:00.002-04:00

I tried to write a bit earlier this morning when I was feeling somewhat perky due to a sudden burst of adrenalin. All this deceived me from the fact that I still feel pretty terrible, something I found out only after I came into the study, plopped on the couch and realized that both thinking and reading hurt. Now a few hours, a peanut butter sandwich and two ibuprofen later, I will attempt it. Thinking hurts a little less. Typing hurts not at all. So I will write because writing is therapy. I can’t remember who said that but someone must have.

So here are the details: I contracted the swine flu within three days of returning back to full-time employment. I can not begin to express how deeply disappointed I am in my immune system right now but I am dealing with it. I’m not quite sure what I expected. Realistically I knew there was a chance, a good chance of getting sick once I started working in an elementary school but after three days? That is pathetic even by my standards.

The first day was rough. I lay on the couch with my little sick kit – chamomile tea with honey, thermometer, Kleenex, Tylenol – and watched a show about pirates on Hulu. I moaned a little, shivered under covers, and tried to breathe. I worked out the lyrics for a song, “The Swine Flu Blues” but stopped because nothing rhymes with Relenza except credenza and I just couldn’t make that work. Then I spent some time mentally designing the flag I should attach to the house to warn people to stay away, just like the sailors had to do once they discovered the black plague was aboard. I decided that mine would be black with a little white pig in the center.

On Friday, Seth joined me in my sickness. I was sad for him because I really wanted him to stay healthy but in way it was nice to have a little companionship. I hadn’t hugged him in a couple of days and all of the people I talked at the doctor’s office were wearing masks so I guess I was getting a little lonely. So we drove to Gainesville to see Seth’s doctor. I wore my mask when I got there. People stayed very far away from us because of it – good for them. The nurse asked why I was wearing it and out came the story and she laughed when I told her that I’d only been working for three days before I got it. That is good. I’m glad someone else has a sense of humor. People like that remind me that life is funny if you look at it the right way. I think I will begin to approach this perspective when my temperature returns to normal and also when I forget that my pay has been docked because I haven’t built up enough leave.

On Saturday, Seth woke up at 6:30 am as happy as ever. He is an early bird, God bless him, and a very good sick person for the most part unless we’re talking tonsillitis then he makes me spoon feed him and he sleeps in my arms for most of the day. So despite the fact that he still had a pretty good fever and cough, there he was, bouncing on the bed asking me if I can play a game. At that point I was coherent enough only to understand that I should never have encouraged Shaun to go out of town for the weekend because now I was really all alone and no one on Earth could come to help me what with the black piggy flag flying from the house and all. But somehow I managed to pull myself together and made it though the rest of the day on prayer and painkillers.

So now it’s Sunday. Shaun is home and abundantly healthy. He’s cooking us lunch and playing with Seth. The ibuprofen has definitely kicked in and I am looking forward to a long afternoon nap. And although it’s probably not been much to read, the writing has indeed been therapeutic, just like so-and-so said.

life song

2009-09-15T15:15:00.000-04:00

So I am currently discovering something that is kind of exciting - a quasi-revelation about life. I use the words “quasi” and “kind of” because this may be absolute garbage and produce no real revelation at all – that is my official disclaimer. But like most revelations, if this truly is one, time will bear it out.

It began when an idea for a song somehow found its way into my in to my head. This doesn’t happen often these days but when it does, I try to take a few seconds and write it down on a scrap of paper or the back of a napkin or some bubble gum paper whatever is handy. And though the likelihood that I will actually devote any time to these little wisps of inspiration is practically none, it makes me feel better to know that I am making some sort of an effort. And so it was with the words that popped into my head the other morning. I dutifully scribbled them on a blue post it, then placed them in the desk drawer designated for creative thought, AKA, the black hole.

The revelation came as my mind turned to the creative process as a whole - the excitement that comes with that first thought, those first lines, the first hint of a melody. The feeling you get when all those little neurons start firing in earnest and you stumble upon a beautiful mystery that is larger than yourself and compels you to just watch and listen for a while so it can reveal itself to you. It’s in that moment you feel unsinkable, as if you could conquer the world, or at least a small part of it with sheer creative genius alone. That’s how it feels to me.

I’d like to say it carries on like that but it’s never really worked out that way. Creating something takes time and effort and changing. Somewhere along the line you start to wonder whether it’s worth your time or effort because that is a real question after all. But then you decide to stay with it only you really must change this word or that one or make the chorus the bridge because it was never actually a chorus at all, it just seemed that way at first. And then ultimately you arrive at something that you can be proud of, something that is really meaningful to you. Only you look back and you find that the one line, the one that got you going in the first place, the springboard for all your efforts, has been replaced by something that you found along the way or perhaps forgotten altogether. And that seems odd at first because when you first began everything was so focused around it. Only now looking back, you see it was essential only in the sense that it served as a starting point.

Songs are like that, and sometimes so is life.

recycled thoughts

2009-07-24T08:54:00.003-04:00

An old post came back to mind today. I wrote it about two years ago. It is interesting to read what was written in the past. Some things change, some things seem to endure. This one, for me, has endured.

wounds

I've been thinking today about wounds - the ones that heal and the ones that don't.

It was a long, long time ago, but I can still remember sitting on my grandpa's lap looking at his hands. They were worn and calloused. He was a sharecropper's son. I noticed that one of them had a long, thin scar, a perfect diagonal running right across his palm. I asked him how he got it. He told me it happened when he was about thirteen. His sisters were fighting in the kitchen and one of them got out a knife. Grandpa stepped in and tried to take the knife away. When he grabbed at it and got the blade end. His scar was earned for keeping the peace.

There is another story about my Grandpa. My Dad told it to me on the way back from my Grandpa's funeral. When Grandpa was seventeen or so, he was out drinking and playing cards with a group of buddies. He and another guy, one of his best friends, got into an argument that turned into a full-blown fight. Somebody pulled a knife. Grandpa nearly killed his friend that night.

To this day, I have never known a person more gentle and humble than my grandfather. Maybe that humility was borne out of the grief and shame that followed that horrible night. I can't see how a life could not be affected by it. Ironic that a man so remarkable for his quiet gentleness could be capable of inflicting such pain. I think it reveals something of the nature of man and life here on Earth - we wound and we are wounded.

My mind thinks back to another wound "...wounded for our transgressions," it says,"...bruised for our iniquities." With those precious wounds, peace was purchased.

I am acquainted with many words but redemption is among the sweetest. I'm inclined to think that if I asked him, Grandpa would agree.

magic carpet

2009-07-20T21:47:00.001-04:00

Last night I dusted off A Light in the Attic and started reading some of my favorites to Seth.

When I was in elementary school, my favorite Shel Silverstein poem was called "Sick." It is the one about the little girl who gives a rambling list of illnesses in the hopes of staying home from school only to find in the last stanza that it is Saturday. So she decides, of course, to go out and play. This was my favorite because as a child I had a bit of a history of faking illnesses to get out of school so I could completely relate to that poem.

Now here I am, twenty something years later, reading about bears in refrigerators and pet hot dogs and all the other brilliant silliness that was churned out by Shel Silverstein. And in the middle of this book, a light did go off in the attic (as was certainly intended) and now I have a new favorite which I love because I am a thirty-two and at a crossroads so I can completely relate to this poem. Here it is:

MAGIC CARPET
by Shel Silverstein

You have a magic carpet
That will whiz you through the air
To Spain or Maine or Africa
If you just tell it where.
So will you let it take you
Where you've never been before,
Or will you buy some drapes to match
And use it
On your
Floor?

following the rules that I myself have made up for my son - part 2

2009-06-17T22:19:00.000-04:00

A few weeks ago when we realized that my son was one of the worst behaved kids in his preschool class my husband and I did something I swore we’d never to do – we began to bribe him. But it’s actually worse than that, we began bribing him with food. A year ago I would have considered this really bad parenting (setting him up for very unhealthy perspective of food and all that). Now a little further along the road of parenthood I realize that bribery is sometimes a very good option. For what it’s worth, my son is only too happy to work for food. I often think of getting him a shirt that says as much but I think that might be taken the wrong way, even though it is the absolute truth. So we set a little goal, something like no time outs this week and we’ll take you to TCBY. This usually keeps him right on track but today he informed me that he forgot all about TCBY and did something that landed him in time out. “Well,” I said from the front seat of the car on the ride home, “you’re working on it. We’re all working on something.” And then he asked what I was working on. And I wanted to tell him that it would actually be quicker if I told him the areas of my life that didn’t need improvement but instead I told him that I was working on several things. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that they were all rules that I had made up for him to apply to his own life. And then I realized I would probably have more blog material.

No whining - that is the rule at our house. I deplore whining. It grates on my nerves like nails on a chalkboard. We draw a pretty hard line for Seth on this one. Simply put, it is not an acceptable form of expression at our house…change that, it is not an acceptable form of expression at our house – for anyone but me.

I wish somehow I could have learned how not to whine when I was younger. Not that I am complaining, of course, but it’s awfully hard to change that habit after 30+ years. I’m not so much a social grumbler, more like a closet whiner or as I like to think of it, commentator. Mostly my areas of complaint center around myself and the things that impact me - the weather, the house, my son, my health, my horrible rain-soaked vacation. I like to think of my commentary as a sort of constructive verbal analysis that allows me to accept the disappointments of life but really it’s just plain whining. The reality is that I have been blessed with some very good things in my life. The expectation that my life should remain in some state of perpetual happiness is both naïve and ungrateful. I don’t desire my son to walk around with such a sense of entitlement, but unless I make a change, it’s bound to affect him. This is not the legacy I wish to pass on to the next generation.

So I’m working on it.

something I found along the way

2009-05-31T20:01:00.007-04:00

Today my mind was in a million places all at once. I found it slightly maddening. I tried searching for some calm, a bit of simplicity in an overcomplicated world but peace was hiding, apparently, because I certainly couldn't find it. I tried the usual fixes - chocolate first, mindless internet surfing second. Although I did manage to escape reality for a bit as I watched the finale of Britan's Got Talent, alas, it was short lived (I am glad to see that Diversity won, Yay! They deserved it). At the peak of my desperation I decided to go for a run. Somewhere along the road the thought occurred to me that I was really being overwhelmed by non-essentials. A year from now I won't even remember being concerned about the things bombarding me today. In that way, I suppose, forgetfulness is a great blessing. So now I return with a beautiful sense of calm and the understanding that peace can be found - if you know where to look for it.

following the rules that I myself have made up for my son

2009-05-15T14:48:00.002-04:00

And right now while I am writing Shaun is doing something essential and helpful like folding laundry or learning how to make more money and I am doing what is inexplicably essential to me – writing.

Today I’m thinking about following rules. Specifically, following the rules that I myself have made up for my son.

The first year with Seth was easy. There were no rules then. They only became necessary when he started wrecking the house and otherwise behaving badly. And yes they were (and continue to be) challenging for him but what surprises me is how difficult some of them are for me. Take, for example, the early rules: No hitting, No biting, No throwing. No hitting was easy. I’m way too non-confrontational to have issues in that area. No biting, also easy. No throwing…well, that was a tough one.

Something like 98% of the time I am calm, patient, and generally tolerant of people and situations but there is the odd occasion when my temper gets the best of me and I do something that violates this “no throwing” rule. So there, I admit it, I throw things; I am a thing thrower. Actually the statement “throw things” is not entirely true. I’ve never thrown much in the plural sense. I would say instead that I throw a thing– thing being whatever tool, frying pan, or unattached object somehow connected with the distressing situation. I do take some comfort in the fact that I’ve never actually thrown any thing at a human target, say my husband (for which he is unknowingly grateful). I simply propel the thing in the general direction of “away from me.” And while I’ve never really been proud of this type of behavior, I did feel it provided some sort of positive stress relief and since no one was hurt in the process, it could be deemed as harmless, and perhaps even beneficial. Then along came one-year old Seth and the sudden realization that his two little eyes were watching me, learning from me and that is when I realized I had to change. If throwing was unacceptable for Seth then why was it acceptable for me?

They have a name for people who make up rules that they themselves don’t follow- they’re called hypocrites. And the fact is, I don’t want my son to grow up thinking I am a hypocrite. Okay he’s four now so he doesn’t actually have a good working definition of that word but when he gets one I don’t want it to be associated with me.

So that was the first step to following the rules that I myself made up for my son. It hasn’t been so very hard, not throwing things. I try to do what I’ve taught my son to do – take a break from the situation, do something different, take three deep breaths, etc. And it seems to be working – for both of us. I can’t remember the last time either of us let something fly. And I couldn’t be more proud of us.

time in a bottle

2009-05-01T06:23:00.003-04:00

Since my son's fourth birthday I've witnessed this amazing transformation. The things he says, his new found independence, everything astounds me. On one hand, I welcome it because it is all so charming and amazing and, I must admit, a whole lot less demanding. There are no late night feedings or diapers or tantrums or any of the other not-so-fun stuff that accompanies the three and under crowd. But now comes the sudden realization of just how fleeting all of this is - like trying to catch sand with your outstretched hand. You watch it filter through your fingers as it is being poured out. You can't hope to contain more than a few grains of it, so you're left to watch as the rest of it slips away and is forgotten. I realize that now as I watch my baby transform into a very wonderful little boy.

the grand experiment (in my opinion)

2009-02-17T11:52:00.000-05:00

I am three weeks into my grand experiment - the experiment to determine if I can bring myself to return to full-time employment. So far my stint has gone pretty well. Despite some minor inconveniences - inexplicably grumpy teachers, laryngitis, a nasty cough, and of course, pink eye (it had to be pink eye) – despite all of that, things are going very well.

It seems like I am complaining. I am not complaining. This job has actually been a great blessing. I’m doing my job and being paid well for it. So I have no reason to complain at all except for the pink eye. Unfortunately, I have been a pink eye magnet since kindergarten but I have never had strep throat, so that is a consolation.

Communicable diseases aside, this job is helping me in ways I had not imagined. Take for instance, time management. I have discovered that I do not completely stink at it. It’s just that I only tend to manage my time when I have less of it, oddly enough. I find that I don’t have nearly enough time to procrastinate these days. So it has come back to me, like riding a bicycle.

It has also given me this tremendous sense of gratitude for my life at home. Mostly, I miss seeing my son. I had the chance to stay home with him yesterday and it was sheer bliss (if you subtract several time-outs for the usual four-year-old behaviors). But it’s not just missing him. I miss the pace, the casual pace of life that we have together – shopping in the morning, picnics at lunchtime, the treadmill at naptime. Yes there are things not to miss - the mess, the laundry, but those things never cease.

So in five weeks I will return to life as I knew it before the grand experiment with something I’m not sure I ever had before – appreciation.

food for thought

2009-02-16T15:53:00.002-05:00

Just thought I'd share the most wonderful gem I rediscovered after my third reading of Anne Lamott's Bird By Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life.

"Perfectionism is the voice of the oppressor, the enemy of the people. It will keep you cramped and insane your whole life...I think perfectionism is based on the obsessive belief that if you run carfully enough, hitting each stepping-stone just right, you won't have to die. The truth is that you will die anyway and that a lot of people who aren't even looking at their feet are going to do a whole lot better than you, and have a lot more fun while they're doing it."

Perhaps it will sink in this time.

making preparations

2009-01-22T23:35:00.000-05:00

Tonight you will find me baking cakes for Seth’s fourth birthday party bash. This is ironic since I resigned from birthday party planning altogether after last year’s party. Alas, a year has gone by and I have once again taken over the invitation mailing, the food purchasing, the activity planning and the cake making. A wise and altogether realistic person would go easy on herself and buy the sheet cake from Publix but I find that completely uninspiring (and expensive) so now I will spend the better part of my Friday creating a largish cake with a tall skyscraper upon which the Spiderman candle I spent three days searching for will perch. I think Seth will need a ladder to blow out his candle. And that is OK. You only turn four once, why not celebrate with a very tall cake.

tubeless wonder

2009-01-07T10:31:00.002-05:00

I am trying to negotiate this recovery period as deftly as possible. I am up and writing, which is a good sign. Writing always makes me feel a bit more alive so I am counting on that. I would have written sooner but whatever pain medication they had me on was causing some pretty strange hallucinations – there were the three dancing little pigs and these worms with barracuda teeth – and also I was having a hard time spelling and choosing words correctly. This is a very big reason why I do not do drugs.

I feel the sudden urge to get a little rest but I did want to tell you about the piggies so I have accomplished that today at least.

finding faith

2009-01-03T14:31:00.004-05:00

Monday, January 5th is the day. Before yesterday, I had made up my mind to look forward to this surgery – to anticipate it even. Then, of course, Friday happened. Friday is the day that my doctor informed me that upon further inspection, my tube - the only one I have left, does not appear to be in good shape, leaving only a small chance that he will be able to clear it.

My mental response: No tube, no baby - at least not without a test tube and a whole lot of money. Sigh. Sigh again. Stomp feet. Wonder “Why in the heck I am going through with this nonsense?” (I mean, besides the fact that I’ve already paid the hospital $450). Try deep breathing exercises. Shed a few tears. Sigh. Sigh some more.

So now I am face-to-face with “the essential pain of life” – that is how a very good book I once read described it. It is the pain that comes when you realize there is no fairness in life; that life's circumstances occur in a realm outside of your control; that you cannot always possess whatever it is you think you want or need.

If I could, I would run away from the essential pain of life, or go hide in a closet, or eat a whole lot of chocolate until it leaves but that would do no good. It is completely inescapable. So there is nothing left to do but embrace it – to feel all of the normal human emotions that accompany it and then move beyond it to a place of peace. Peace that I find when I accept my inability to control this situation and entrust it all - my life and well-being, my future and all my hopes - to a God whose power and wisdom is far greater than my mind can comprehend.

Perhaps this is how we learn to live by faith.

hope for the new year

2008-12-28T09:00:00.001-05:00

So it is the week after Christmas and with it comes the startling realization that the house is a cluttered mess and the Christmas tree must come down and I really need to try to make it through the next few days eating minimal amounts of chocolate.

In a fit of organization I began cleaning my desk area which is a bit of a black hole or black heap - however you choose to look at it. I had, up until today, entertained the notion that if I replaced my desk with a new one – one with more storage areas, more baskets, more pen holder things - that it would be utterly organized, functional, and thus, beautiful. I now understand that was wishful thinking. My work area could achieve that level of organization only if I never worked in it, which would rather defeat its purpose. In the midst of this misguided project I discovered a note card with the most wonderful forgotten little quote (Thank you, JannieLynn, for introducing it to me in the first place). So I quit my compulsive fit of cleaning to consider for a moment these beautiful words so full of hope:

It is never too late to be who you might have been. – George Eliot

There are many things that stand in the way of embracing life and our place in it but I think the most devastating and insidious of these obstacles is hopelessness. And so as a new year begins my wish for myself, my wish for you too, is that each day would be filled with hope.

And in that sentiment, I return to my desk.

foolish anticipation

2008-12-19T14:20:00.003-05:00

Soon, very soon, I will be making a complete fool of myself at our church Christmas party. I do not think I can adequately express just how much I am looking forward to this. Part of it has to do with the fact that I dreamed up this skit (a silly version of Dancing with the Stars) and just want to see it through to completion, that is the obsessive “artist” in me. I place “artist” in quotes because this parody will not resemble art; however, my brain is mush and I cannot think of a more appropriate word. But mostly I think my eagerness stems from the fact that I spend 364 days of each year trying rather desperately not to make a fool of myself. Tomorrow I will have official permission from myself to be completely ridiculous. I should do that more often.

truly grateful

2008-11-17T16:05:00.002-05:00

“Bless us, O Lord, for these thy gifts which we are about to receive and make us truly grateful.” I cannot count the times I have heard that prayer. It was the mealtime prayer of my grandfather. These warm, familiar words returned to me as I was finishing the last of my Thanksgiving cards. Thanksgiving cards – that sounds a little strange, I know. It is an odd little tradition I began after my son was born. I think that was the first year I realized what it meant to be “truly grateful.”

Throughout the year there are all sorts of people who bless our family in some way with their skill, kindness, encouragement and love. I keep a sort of mental list of these people and then some time around the second week of November, I start writing.

This year I began with a hefty chip on my shoulder. The exact reason for my bad mood seemed illusive and I didn’t have the mental energy to search it out so I procrastinated all afternoon until I finally ran out of excuses and just began writing my notes, chip still firmly in place. It didn’t take long, maybe only 5 or 6 cards, until the most wonderful thing began to happen – everything began to change. A smile replaced my frown, joy overwhelmed my meloncholy thoughts and thankfulness saturated my soul. And it was in that moment that I realized the prayer of my grandfather had been answered yet again.

adventures in hypochondria

2008-11-11T15:32:00.003-05:00

Last week I was 99% sure I would consent to the surgery we discussed with the fertility specialist. Today I am 90% sure. It seems to depend upon the day or perhaps the hour or the minute. I am not sure.

The golden carrot dangling before me is that this whole ordeal could result in another pregnancy. And that is an intriguing possibility.

One of the reasons I cringe a little when I think of surgery is my previous tendency toward hypochondria. I do not think I am a hypochondriac today (although some might debate that statement). I am pretty good at recognizing the signs now and buffet it by allowing myself to conceive of how utterly ridiculous these thoughts would seem to anyone else. Take for example the last time I had a fever. I entertained for a few minutes the possibility that my fever, muscle pain and lethargy were attributed to some sort of encephalitis but then I remembered that my son had the same symptoms the week before. And also I had not been bitten by any mosquitoes lately. At that moment I realized that actually mentioning this thought activity to my husband would send him into a fit of laughter. It was at that point I decided that I was probably over-reacting. And as it turns out, I was right.

That being said, there is a very good chance that my upcoming surgery and recovery will not include significant loss of blood, infection caused by flesh eating bacteria, medical malpractice, disfigurement or death. There, I feel better already.

adventures in infertility

2008-11-03T07:13:00.003-05:00

The title is a misnomer actually but it sounded kind of catchy to me so I decided to stick with it. A more accurate title would be "I can get pregnant but the darn eggs keep getting stuck in my fallopian tubes" but I thought that was a little too long.

So this morning we are in Orlando where Shaun and I will see yet another infertility specialist in our efforts for a second grubbling. This particular doctor comes highly recommended and according to his profile has a number of "novel surgical products." I was slightly disturbed when I read this. Not that I am against novel surgical products, I just thought that the wording sounded a little creepy. Semantics aside, I will soon meet the good doctor and in 15 minutes or so decide if I'm buying.

I do not like making these decisions. They loom too large in the landscape of my mind. Of course I have Shaun to help me but still it is a difficult one. And there are so many questions. Questions that we cannot answer.

Are we trying too hard? We have a great little boy, do we really need another one?

Is there a reason we only have one? It this simply our life journey?

What if we go through with this and something goes wrong, would we regret our decision?

If we do nothing, would we regret our decision?

What if this is our last and best chance for another baby? Seth would be a wonderful big brother.

Like I said, there are no answers. Maybe we will learn something today that will help us make this decision.

I am suddenly remembering a line from a song I once wrote -"We don't know what the future holds, but we know the one who holds us in the palm of his hand." At the time I was writing those lines for my nephew and our friend's new baby but perhaps there was a greater intent, one that could not have been understood at the time. Maybe I was writing for me.

So for my part, I will pray.

For Seth's part, he wants a baby - a green baby.

a few quotes for you

2008-11-01T11:44:00.002-04:00

It seems I have unleased my inner cynic. In honor of this occasion, a few quotes from www.wisdomquotes.com:

We hang the petty thieves and appoint the great ones to public office. - Aesop

Yes, we have to divide up our time like that, between our politics and our equations. But to me our equations are far more important, for politics are only a matter of present concern. A mathematical equation stands forever. - Albert Einstein

A politician should have three hats. One for throwing into the ring, one for talking through, and one for pulling rabbits out of if elected. - Carl Sandburg

The Democrats seem to be basically nicer people, but they have demonstrated time and again that they have the management skills of celery. They're the kind of people who'd stop to help you change a flat, but would somehow manage to set your car on fire. I would be reluctant to entrust them with a Cuisinart, let alone the economy. The Republicans, on the other hand, would know how to fix your tire, but they wouldn't bother to stop because they'd want to be on time for Ugly Pants Night at the country club. - Dave Barry

Anyone that wants the presidency so much that he'll spend two years organizing and campaigning for it is not to be trusted with the office. - David Broder

There is one safeguard known generally to the wise, which is an advantage and security to all, but especially to democracies as against despots. What is it? Distrust. - Demosthenes

Too bad that all the people who really know how to run the country are busy driving taxi cabs and cutting hair. - George Burns

In our age there is no such thing as "keeping out of politics." All issues are political issues, and politics itself is a mass of lies, evasions, folly, hatred and schizophrenia. - George Orwell

To put the world right in order, we must first put the nation in order; to put the nation in order, we must first put the family in order; to put the family in order, we must first cultivate our personal life; we must first set our hearts right. - Confucius

Happy voting!

apolitical

2008-10-31T14:20:00.003-04:00

The matter of politics is presently unavoidable. It is crowding my mail box, flooding the internet, and blocking the scenery as I drive about town. I find myself wishing desperately for November 5th when all of those signs start to disappear. I’ve looked forward to that day since May when the first signs started popping up. Let me be clear – I vote. I’ve always voted. I will continue to vote because I greatly cherish this right. My frustration is not with the electoral process; it is with the political machine and its abrasive grinding gears -the network analysis and the crazy emails and the phone calls and the talking heads. Quite simply, I do not need their voices to help me make up my mind.

compulsion and creativity

2008-10-27T13:17:00.000-04:00

I am supposed to be writing every day now. I was actually doing this until a few weeks ago then it all got out of hand and I found myself sneaking off from my work and family to be with my story. So I had to end that little affair.

For me at least, compulsion and creativity have always been intertwined. One does not exist without the other. Perhaps that is naïve. Perhaps there is some other way. If there is, enlighten me.

snips and snails and puppy dog tails

2008-10-20T21:06:00.002-04:00

My beautiful, wonderful, caring little boy is obsessed with weapons. He no longer plays with toys, not even monster trucks. It’s all weapons, all the time. Weapons and ropes. The ropes are to be worn around the waist as a means to store the weapons (and also to tie people up when necessary). Sticks are actually not sticks at all. They are swords, guns or a combination of the two. Acorns and nuts are, of course, bombs. Three dollars of Seth’s birthday money was used to purchase a plastic Grim Reaper ax nearly twice his size from Wal-Mart. I saw it as I approached the Halloween isle and tried desperately to divert his attention but it was no use. Shaun is apparently delighted with this new behavior. So proud that he whittled the end of one of my wooden curtain rods to resemble the point of a spear.

Part of me understands that all this is a very natural and passing stage. Seth will someday grow out of a love for daggers, and guns, and talking, clanging swords – surely he will do that. Some day he will not say things like “I will kill your heart” or “You want some of me?” So for now I just smile a bewildered smile at those comments and encourage him to move in slow motion during sword play so as to avoid whacking people in the head. When I have the chance I teach him what it means to love and treat others with respect. Sometimes I wonder if any of that makes sense to his testosterone-bathed brain. But then I hear comments like the one he told me from the back seat of the car the other day - “If you chop somebody’s leg off, that’s not very nice.” I looked at his angelic face in the rear view mirror. “That’s right, sweetheart,” I said. “It is not nice to chop someone’s leg off.” So despite all the tough talk and the weaponry, maybe he’s been listening to me after all.

oatmeal battle scar

2008-10-11T17:26:00.000-04:00

I am, as it turns out, somewhat accident-prone. I can go for weeks without displaying any real uncoordinated behavior but then it catches up with me. At that point I typically experience several mishaps in quick succession which serve to remind me once again the need to be a little more careful.

Yesterday it was Rachel vs. boiling hot oatmeal. Steel cut oats to be exact. Inexplicably, I missed the bowl and poured a good bit of the steaming stickiness right on to my leg. I yelped and tore off my shorts then tried desperately to push my leg up over the counter and into the sink for some cold running water. It took longer than it should have for me to realize that was not a very good plan. I’m simply not that flexible. I glimpsed over at Seth and my nephew, Avery, suddenly realizing that they may have been traumatized in some way by the incident or at least by my reaction to it. They were not. I tried to enlist Seth’s help by asking him to get ice for me but he just kept saying “underpanties” and laughing. I got the ice myself. Today I have a little battle scar on my knee (that’s what we call them at our house, battle scars, booboos are for wimps - at least according to Shaun and Seth). Oh well, at least it’s not nearly as bad as the time I almost blew myself up.

confessions

2008-10-03T23:15:00.000-04:00

I was over at a friend’s house a few weeks ago. We have children that are close in age who like to play and/or fight with each other. Usually my friend and I talk about kid things during these play dates and that’s what we were discussing until I changed the topic of conversation to the matter of confession. I was immensely curious about the subject and - this is an important detail - I am not catholic so I figured I would ask my friend who happens to be married to one. I know this first-hand because I was actually in her wedding. It was a really big wedding and probably the most entertaining one I’ve ever attended. At one point the old folks were having so much fun they started swigging champagne straight from the bottle. There was also a brawl between two girls for the bouquet and other silly things of that nature. Lots of fun to watch. I also learned from my friend’s wedding that non-catholics are not actually allowed on the stage during the ceremony. I’m not sure if I was allowed on the steps or not. At any rate, my friend married a very nice catholic guy and is now my window into the catholic faith. I am otherwise surrounded by protestants and heathens.

So I asked my friend if she goes to confession. The details are sketchy but I think she said that she does not and her husband does not but maybe other members of the family do because they are quite devout. I said I’d been thinking about confession and how nice it would be to just go into the booth there and confess my sins, what a relief it would be to release those burdens in that way. I think I said something like that. Then she told me that she wasn’t sure but she didn’t think they did confessions that way any more, that she was pretty sure that you just made and appointment with the priest and went to his office to talk things over.

For some reason, this new information made me very sad. I liked the idea of anonymous confession. Not that I could actually go to confession, since I’m not catholic, but it sounded like it could actually beneficial.

You see, I’m not in the habit of confessing my sins to anyone else but I’ve been doing a little reading lately and I’m finding that this is actually something I’m supposed to do. I guess I’ve always just skipped the middle man and gone straight to God. Only sometimes, maybe it would be good to hear another human voice on the other end of the conversation. So I’m still thinking about confession and I’m wondering what you think.

ode to fall

2008-09-30T22:49:00.000-04:00

It is late. Too late to start writing a blog but I feel that I might shrivel up if I don’t get a least a thought or two out there.

So I’ve been thinking about Fall lately, wonderful, blissful, beautiful Fall. Did I mention it’s my favorite time of the year? Any day now I will find myself searching for my “October Road” CD. I’ll spend the next few weeks driving around North Florida hoping to spot a Maple tree or something, listening to James Taylor. I’ve been missing that guy.

I’m glad it’s that time of year again.

God glue

2008-09-24T22:31:00.000-04:00

It’s been a rough day. The kind I wish never to repeat. That is unlikely but still, a nice wish. And then I stumbled upon this. It brought peace again to my troubled mind.

man is broken
he lives by mending
the grace of God is the glue

I think I can sleep now.

the running life

2008-09-16T10:58:00.000-04:00

I have hated running for as long as I can remember. Unfortunately for me, I found myself running a lot when I was growing up since I was always involved one sport or another. I distinctly remember running and running and running around the court lines in the gym at volleyball practice and loathing every minute of it. It made me breathless. It made me tired. It even made my ears hurt. I can’t actually explain that last symptom but the sum effect of it was an ever-present, ever-increasing hatred for running.

After graduation I did my best to participate in as few aerobic activities as possible. I didn’t become a complete couch potato, I just chose other, more restful forms of physical activity (think yoga and pilates, walking sort of fast on the treadmill). I have only recently begun to regard running as an activity worthy of my time. This is quite a shift for me and since I don’t change my mind a lot, I felt is strangely noteworthy.

I guess the first hint of a change was inspired by my little boy, Seth. I love him more than I ever thought I could ever love another human being. He has, God bless him, the independent streak of his mother and the energy level of his father, which is to say he’s mostly compliant, except for when he’s not and runs around pretty much all of the time. And did I mention that he’s three? So let’s just say that the need to regularly de-stress is has been growing.

The second and most compelling reason to change became clear to me at the end of a very long illness. The months that I was sick, those were horrible days. I was tired and cranky, hurting and scared but mostly, I was sad, tremendously sad that I was missing so much of my life. And then something miraculous happened. Suddenly, I began to sense health returning to me - not in a trickle but a steady stream. I was overjoyed! Life and vibrancy and hope had returned to me like a very needed but unexpected gift. I remember asking myself one day, what I was going to do with my newly restored life. I decided the most gracious way to accept this gift was to open it, to really live life, and to celebrate it by doing something crazy, something unimaginable, something like running.

So that’s how it all began. I started slowly - and I mean that in every sense of the word - but over time something very strange happened. I began to enjoy it. It is a small thing but I remember so clearly the day that I ran a mile without really even breathing all that hard. It felt great! It gave me this tremendous sense of accomplishment that I had been missing for so, so long. I helped me believe in me again.

So now running has become a bit of a habit (only, unlike eating chocolate and popping my knuckles, this one is actually good for me). I’ve been running about other day now for about three months. And I’m very happy and quite proud to announce that last Saturday I completed my first 5K! Hooray for me! And then just for fun, I did another one last Saturday. Hooray for me again!!!

This is all very new to me, this parading my personal triumphs, this use multiple exclamation points. I am much more comfortable unleashing silliness or mindless wonderings into the world of print. But I think I’m beginning to realize how important it is to recognize those truly amazing happenings in life like changefulness and accomplishment and to celebrate them. They really aren’t that common and they have the most wonderful effect of making life a bit more livable and hope a bit easier to sustain in the midst of difficult times.

stuck in my head

2008-08-29T15:54:00.000-04:00

The Bartender Song was stuck in my head all day long yesterday. This did not drive me crazy because I actually get a kick out of that song. I can’t tell you exactly why but I think it has something to do with my strange sense of humor and the fact that I grew up in Lake City where losing your heart in the trailer park is a lot more common than in a place like Seattle.

notes from a recovering perfectionista

2008-08-22T16:01:00.000-04:00

For starters, I almost couldn’t find my word document labeled “blog posts.” That was somewhat frustrating. This is what happens when I try to organize my files, when I try to organize much of anything, actually. I am awfully good at appearing to be organized, though. I imagine people look at me and think, “My how organized she is! She must get so much accomplished!” Maybe I’m wrong about that. Maybe no one thinks of me that way at all.

The little-known truth is that I stink at most areas of organization not because I’m incapable but because I just really don’t really like me when I am organized. I tend to get a bit cranky and oppressive and that’s uncomfortable to me (not to mention the people I live with) so I just sort of turn around and head in the other direction, i.e., general disorganization. My closet is probably the one exception. All of the blue clothes are with the blue clothes and the white clothes are with the white clothes and so on and so on. I had a hard time deciding what to do with the few multi-colored items I own. Put them together in their own multi-colored group or go with the base color? In the middle of this dilemma I realized two things: 1) I have an inordinate number of black separates, and 2) I was probably overcomplicating the issue. I never knew you could over-think closet organization but then I could probably win an Olympic medal in over-thinking so if anyone could do it, I could.

I think…here I go again…that if I noodle things through long enough that I will inevitably discover the right answer and that my life will be beautiful and happy and essentially free from all pain and disappointment. I am beginning to see that this is not such an effective strategy. It seems to me that perfectionism carves out for you this tiny little repressive space and expects you to squeeze the whole of your life into it. Only not everything fits, so you have to start tossing out some things - good things like grace, and kindness, and your own sanity. I have become rather fond of those things so by default I have chosen to allow a good bit more disorganization into my life. I suppose there is some middle ground, some balance to be found between the two extremes. Maybe I will find it as I bounce back and forth between the two.

80's music rocks

2008-07-23T15:27:00.000-04:00

The Foreigner/Bryan Adams concert Tuesday night in Jacksonville was completely random, fantastic fun. I think I should state for the record that I'm not a concert goer by nature. I've always been a bit of a concert snob, actually. I was forever thinking that the ticket prices were too high or that the act wouldn't be that good, or that it was a school night. I don't know what compelled me to change my mind about the whole thing. Maybe it's the fact that I can actually afford tickets now, or that I realize that no one ever sounds as good in concert as they do in the recording studio, or that I actually don't have a bedtime and there will be no exam tomorrow, or any other day for that matter. So with nothing to stop us, Shaun, George, Laura and I sent the kiddos to grandma's and set out for an evening of excitement and good ol' American rock and roll (only as it turns out Bryan Adams is from Canada and half of Foreigner is British, hence the name "Foreigner" - you learn something new everyday).

The evening started with a raucous performance from Foreigner. I've always wanted to use that word, raucous, now I actually have a reason to use it. Thank you, Foreigner. I was really amazed at how old everyone looked - and I don't just mean the band. I spotted about five people there under the age of 30. The guy in front of us brought his 8 year old but I have a sneaking suspicion that he was only there to see Bryan Adams. I think there was only one original member of Foreigner on stage and he looked positively geriatric - think of the professor from the "Back to the Future" movies, only instead of a lab coat, this guy was wearing a shiny satin shirt and skinny man-pants with white sneakers. Even the handful of babes that rushed the stage for the band's performance looked old, probably the same ones that were down there two decades ago, still scantily dressed. I wonder if it had the same effect. The band, for what it's worth, actually sounded good, really loud, but good. They played their biggest hits, the ones I know all the words to, fun stuff like "Jukebox Hero," "Urgent," "Hot blooded" and my personal favorite, "I Wanna Know What Love Is." We all sang along and laughed at our silliness. It was fun. You just can't beat '80's music.

Bryan Adams was a bit more laid back. He looked surprisingly well-preserved, especially compared to the previous band. Still having most of your hair is helpful. The show was pretty good but then I've always been a fan. I remember listing his song, "Please Forgive Me," as my favorite song in my Senior yearbook. "Please forgive me for listing that as my favorite song," that's what I'm thinking now. I was far too young and knew so little of the world and the music in it. I realize now that he actually has some much better tunes.

Eventually, the concert came to an end, that was good because by that time we were all a little sleepy. We loaded up in Laura's minivan and headed to the house stopping for bottled water along the way. We experienced a bit of a high school flashback, we got pulled over for speeding along the way - only this time we got off with a warning since we were in the school van and also because George is a probation officer (things you just don't have going for you in high school). And that was the end of our adventure. I was happy to be home and in bed by 12:30, content with the understanding that I was neither young, or wreckless, or needing to unwind. I guess nothin' can last forever.

best dad on the planet

2008-06-15T18:01:00.000-04:00

This is for Shaun who is probably the best Dad on the planet. That is a tremendous blessing to me but, if I’m honest, sometimes it’s hard to live with a guy like that. I love my son, it’s true, but I’m not going to be nominated for “Mother of the Year” any time soon.

I see what a wonderful relationship Shaun is building with Seth and I’m awed by it. It’s like watching an acrobat fly through the air. You see him moving so precisely and in that moment, as you watch his skill so masterfully displayed, you realize just how clumsy you are. Sometimes I watch Shaun like that.

I’d like to think Shaun has this endless supply of energy but I’ve seen him get tired. I’d like to think he never gets frustrated but it happens sometimes. I’d like to think he never needs time for himself but he does. So what is it then? Something his parents did or didn’t do? Sheer will-power?

I was really curious so I asked him about it one day and he told me this: “I just knew that I was going to be a great Dad.” Translation: “Whatever it takes, whatever the sacrifice, I made the choice a long time ago that I was going to be there for my kid.” It’s not some lofty goal. It’s what he lives out every day.

Shaun, you’re my hero!

Seth, what a lucky boy you are!

2008-05-10T15:22:00.000-04:00

Time for me to write again in what seems to be a monthly ritual at this point. If only I could somehow convince myself to eat chocolate at such a frequency! Today, in honor of Mother’s Day, I have jotted down some random thoughts about my life as a mom and a time that can simply be referred to as “before.” Enjoy!

Before I was a mom, I never really understood the sheer bliss or needfulness of a long, hot bath.

Before I was a mom, I could make it through a Halmark commercial without even thinking of crying.

Before I was a mom, I thought mothers who let their children wear brown shirts, red shorts, yellow rubber boots and winter gloves in public were in desperate need of parenting classes.

Before I was a mom, I never had heated discussions with Shaun about nap times, childhood nutrition, or immunizations.

Before I was a mom, I didn’t hide the fact that I was drinking Coke by pouring it in to a dark-colored plastic cup while turning my back so that the whole ridiculous act couldn’t be witnessed by anyone. (That’s right. We don’t let Seth drink Coke - maybe when he’s ten).

Before I was a mom, I slept soundly all night long without interruption.

Before I was a mom, I didn’t know anything about playgroups during which the topic inevitably turns to, you guessed it, nap times, childhood nutrition or immunizations.

Before I was a mom, I never really changed dirty diapers. In fact, I can only remember doing that once. I found out later that I put the diaper on backwards. For some reason, those people never called me back to babysit their kid.

Before I was a mom, I kept cleaning solutions containing chemicals that are harmful if swallowed in convenient, unlocked locations.

Before I was a mom, my face never beamed when I heard the word “I wuv ou.”

Before I was a mom, I never blew bubbles just for fun.

Before I was a mom, I never felt the joy of watching a wiggly little lamb steal the show by rolling down the steps multiple times in the middle of the Christmas pageant.

Before I was a mom, I never ran from room to room with a large foam sword yelling “PIRATES!” at the top of my lungs just because someone asked me to.

Before I was a mom, I couldn’t understand the wonder finger paint.

Before I was a mom, I could never fully appreciate the sacrifices my own mother made for me.

Before I was a mom, I didn’t make up silly songs about stinky feet, elephants, the three little pigs, or some combination of the three.

Before I was a mom, I never experienced the amazement of gazing into a little face and finding a little bit of myself looking right back at me.

Before I was a mom, I never snuck into anyone’s room and sat down quietly by their bed, just to watch him sleep.

Before I was a mom, I never knew what I was missing.

Here’s wishing you (and your Mom) a wonderful Mother’s Day.

scenes from a worship service

2008-04-08T15:15:00.000-04:00

I took some time Sunday just to look around during the worship service. This is unusual for me. I generally try very hard to focus on anything BUT the people around me. People can be so distracting sometimes, completely interfering with my worship experience. (Did you catch the thinly veiled sarcasm there? I hope so. I am quite selfish, to be sure, but even my ego has limits - or so I would like to think). Just ahead of me these two wonderful older couples stood singing. They’ve been walking with the Lord for so many years yet there they stood, still worshiping God. A few seats over there was another ardent worshipper, singing her heart out, dancing, jumping, loving the Savior and shouting blessings to God. Just ahead of me, a young man took a seat behind his mother and began to pray for her. Then they embraced. She began to cry and hold him even tighter. Sitting beside me was Erica and her beloved, John. Too many memories flooded my mind - bible studies, long talks, all those emails. I’ve watched her grow up. Today I realized that we will not worship together again for a very long time. I turned to the right and I saw my parents, hands clasped together. I know what they have been through these past few years; that gesture was not meaningless to me.

The beauty of all these moments moved me nearly to tears. I am acquainted enough with the people in that room to know the hard times that some of them have been through. Some of them are still going through it, yet they praise the Father. They look expectantly to him. I felt in that service as though a window had suddenly flown open and through it I could see these people, not as they appeared, but as they truly are - the children of God. And in that moment, I sensed, if just for a moment, an inkling of the His deep, unending love for us all.

a quite heart

2008-03-29T16:03:00.000-04:00

While reading the Psalms these words captivated me - “I have cultivated a quiet heart.” Out of context, I know, but the idea of a quiet heart struck me as amazing, beautiful, and sadly, uncommon, at least in my life lately. Lately…I wonder if I have I ever known it. I read those words again and again and then the next line, “Like a baby content in its mother’s arms, my soul is a baby content.”

My mind would say that life leaves little room for quietness. Things must be done. Quite is a sacrifice laid upon the alter of the god of accomplishment. But the Truth, thank God for it, moves beyond my arguments. It seems I have misunderstood quietness, mistaking it for neutrality or even inertia. Oh, but how horrible it would be if the only people fortunate enough to possess a quite heart were those who attempted nothing at all! No, there must be more to it than that. Perhaps quite is borne, not from lack of activity, but by presenting life as a whole and in detail to Christ. It sounds so simple. It is not.

rice and eggs and a place of abundance

2008-02-29T13:12:00.000-05:00

I ate lunch outside today. Why I don’t do that more often? We’ve been blessed with such beautiful weather lately. A beautiful day and a good meal – rice and eggs. My grandmother used to fix that for me sometimes. She was a wonderful Southern cook. She could make anything taste good, even rice and eggs. It was all very satisfying until my mind drifted away to some not-so-generous thoughts about a friend. To be honest, I was surprised to find them there and a little confused.

I'll be the first to admit that I’m no saint but I typically try to regard others with kindness and respect. It is a rare occasion when I find myself feeling negatively towards someone, especially someone I consider a friend. I could have blown it off but today I was curious. Why would I desire a dream to be dashed, a hope to be crushed? Why would I withhold love and encouragement? Why would I secretly desire failure for a friend? All good, uncomfortable questions. I was surprised at how suddenly the answer came. Gently, like a breeze, the word “scarcity” floated into my mind. Something within my spirit began to resonate.

For a moment, or perhaps a lifetime, I have tolerated a great, disastrous untruth – that there is not enough to go around - that you have to beat out everyone else out if you want the prize – that to succeed you must crush the competition. Truth is, if you beat down the competition, you indeed win the race, the game, the fight, whatever, but in doing so, you brutalize your soul. How satisfying is a victory when it leaves behind a trail of broken and bleeding, hurting people? How soon before your glory fades and the trophy begins to tarnish? And when you withhold yourself, your support, your love, your help, how long before you yearn for the very thing you once refused to give?

You know the ending. All of the fame, the glory, the stuff, evaporates. Only faith, hope, and love remain. In these there is no lack or striving, no selfish ambition to muddy the motives of the heart. If I allow it, these glorious ideas move me far beyond hurt and desire, beyond even pride and selfishness. They move me to a wide open space. I imagine it as an expansive field, beautiful and peaceful. Here there is no fear. Here I am free to give my love, my support, and my encouragement to a friend without regard to my own desires. God knows them after all. His hand nourishes and supports them. It is a good place. I think I would like to live here.

my valentine

2008-02-14T15:07:00.000-05:00

I thought I’d do something really special for Shaun today, Valentine’s Day, so at lunch I leaned across the table and whispered discreetly, “I just wanted you to know that after lunch I’m going home…to do my taxes.” Hey, it might not been sexy but boy did it bring a smile to his face! So I’ll have to write fast. I don’t want blogging to make a liar out of me.

My CD player has gone on strike recently and I am now forced to listen to random radio stations while driving. Today, apparently, is good music day for free radio - songs about love and romance or at least hooking up - classics like “Love Shack,” and “Pour Some Sugar on Me” (Shaun’s favorite). Inexplicably, “Gone to Carolina in My Mind” made it into the Valentine’s Day rotation. I am thankful for that. Actually, I am thankful for any time a James Taylor song makes it into the rotation. He’s one of my favorites. Someone once told me they met him and he was actually quite strange. I don’t think I liked hearing that at the time but it makes sense to me now. I think creativity requires a certain measure of insanity. Anyway, hearing James Taylor made me think of George Harrison and that made me think of what I consider his finest work, “Something.” So I indulged in a little YouTube whilst preparing my taxes; that is to say, I played the video several times while shuffling papers around. I am replaying it even now - for inspiration, and also because it is a really beautiful song. One of my favorite Beatles tunes – and that’s saying a lot.

Hearing this song, and thinking about how much I like it, I started wondering how incredible it would be if Shaun and I could somehow work it into our 25th anniversary ceremony or something. I know it’s a few years down the road but a girl can dream, can’t she? Suddenly reality crept in - the reality that Shaun has no idea that this is one of my favorite songs…the reality that if, in fact, he does know that it is one of my favorite songs he would probably not remember it on such an occasion…and the ultimate reality that (gasp!) he probably doesn’t like ANY Beatles songs anyway!

I came away from my sudden awakening thinking once again, “How could I have married someone so different!” But then I had to laugh. I laugh because the supreme reality is that I simply could not navigate life without my Shaun, my wonderful, responsible, Type A, fun-loving, bill-paying, fearless, confrontation-handling Shaun, who would, if given the opportunity, choose Def Leppard over The Beatles in a heartbeat. Yes, we are different but oh, how I love him!

Now, it’s time to do some taxes.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

statement of faith

2008-02-07T22:37:00.000-05:00

I find it odd that my first blog here would be a statement of faith but it seems that is what this will become in the end. Odd because my blogs as of late have been rather light-hearted, generally consisting of my random thoughts about purses or playgrounds or other issues (not necessarily beginning with the letter p).

My inspiration? An article I found flipping through Real Simple. When I glanced at the title, "After God Left" I was afraid to read it - a bad habit I picked up in my earlier years when I refused to read anything with a hint of doubt about the Christian faith. Later that night I sat down to read, not some scathing commentary, but the story of a young Catholic girl and the faith she lost after the death of her older brother. As I read the author's description of her feelings of loneliess and her longing for faith, I understood her perfectly.

Some would call it the problem of pain - that seems a gross underestimation but for simplicity's sake it must do. My world, my faith, my understanding, came crashing down around me just after my nephew was diagnosed with Leukemia in 2005. He celebrated his third birthday hooked up to an I.V. in a hospital bed. I remember the feelings - intense anger, confusion, overwhelming sadness. I was scared but I allowed myself to ask questions that I had been too afraid to ask before. How do I know that God is real? How can anyone know? Is Christianity like other religions - man's attempt to cope with essential pain and frailty of life? I had no answers. I tried to talk to others about it but that left me only with a persistent and profound sense of loneliness. So I read a great deal. I cried a lot too. It was a mournful time and the most desperate time I have ever experienced. I had lost something very dear to me. I remember yearning for the security I had once found in my very comfortable, very naive set of beliefs . Sometimes I still yearn for that kind of knowing.

In the article, the author remarked that "...(doubt) is the great agitator. It breaks things open. It pushes you into the world. It makes you ask why." I'm inclined to agree. In the end, we arrived at different conclusions. She wrote that she doesn't talk to Jesus anymore, she talks with her brother instead. I remember settling the issue irrevocably the day I decided that I simply didn't possess the faith not to believe. I remember a strange yet peaceful understanding settling into my spirit when I realized that there are certain things that simply can't be known, that can only be believed. And that is how I discovered faith.