It's the eve of the new year. Mixed feelings always on this day. Do you know that I have never been to a party on this day? Never once have I been in a swanky, sparkly place, dressed to the nines, sipping Tequila at midnight. It sounds amazing. Being part of a group. Eating expensive food. Strings of white lights. Candles. Laughter. And. Maybe an opportunity to dance. Writers are dreamers. I'm good with that.
I have never once partied like it's 1999, because incidentally, on the eve of Y2K I was working till the wee hours to ensure the cash registers would allow the people, who were hung over on January 1, to purchase Advil.
I have, however, attended many a Scrabble match in my sweat pants, with sloppy joes, chips, sweet tea and cookies. I have shared my heart over puzzles. I have gone to bed with tears of lonliness. I have celebrated, with sparklers in the snow, the "magic" hour of 2100 hours before tucking precious littles into bed.
No matter the way in which I ring it in, I always experience melancholy. In some form. In the back of my mind. I dwell on the past. I feel the familiar pain. And I allow myself a moment, or two, to look my lifetime companion in the eye. To say, "I see you there. Your presence is palpable." But just as palpable is the knowledge that beauty rises from ashes. God does not intend for us to remain broken. He comes in the quietness to cover and heal those hurting spaces. Like a soft, winter snow. He does his best work here, friends, he really does.
I close my eyes briefly, and when I open them, I know that what lies ahead is different. Better. I'm older. Yikes. Creeping up there for realz. Who knows. Maybe one day I will find myself super important and special, attending a gala like Cinderella, on the eve of a new year. Even so, I will meet my old friend, and then I will smile. Big. Because whether in sweat pants or a cocktail dress, life is a gift to be celebrated.
I'll take an imaginary spin around the room tonight, but also I'll look back, and then to what lies ahead.
A new chapter in my story. I have no idea what it will say.
May the One who loves me best help me to write it well.
Saturday, December 31, 2016
Friday, December 23, 2016
Every Time A Bell Rings...
Readers, it's a tough week ahead. My least favorite week of the year. I hate considering the past and contemplating the future; but it is something everyone does at the imminent approach of a new year.
I've seen so many jokes about this being the worst year EVER. I remember the exact same thing happening a year ago. I have to wonder if this idea that every year is "the worst thing we've ever encountered" or "I'm so over this year, bring on another" was a thing before social media. Did our parents hate every single year of their lives? Seriously. Do you think so? Or is this indicative of a current sense of entitlement that seems to define EVERYONE?
I experienced many challenges this year. I'm still engrossed in exhaustion and challenge, but I certainly would not declare this to be the worst year of my life. Nor the one before it. (Those are reserved for some very specific times.) We are our choices. We shape our lives through daily choice, and if this was the eighth "worst year ever" in a row, I'd have to suggest you take a closer look at your agenda. I am not suggesting anything more than I am doing in my own life. I have taken copious notes in recent days and made some decisions. I realize the life I'm shaping isn't the life I necessarily want.
One of my favorite seasonal movies is - It's A Wonderful Life. I haven't seen it in several years, but I still have the script stored. How could George have possibly known that all those daily choices would add up to a life that is priceless? Each day that he made a choice to give of himself, he found meaning, and, further, he enriched countless lives around him. Every time I saw Jimmy Stewart desperately seeking to be known, wrestling with Clarence for information regarding his beloved, I was moved. Would that we all would have the opportunity for the same experience. A pre-chance to gauge how we are measuring up.
Are you shaping your life to be priceless? Or are you expecting this life to give YOU something? Like the year 2016 owes you more income, a different president-elect, or less stress. In actuality, the year 2016 was a season of time that you were gifted. Now you get to take stock of what you did with it. Did your daily choices add up?
I think if my life ended today, I wouldn't exactly be proud of my 2016. And it's not because of what happened TO me, it's because of the choices I made. It's the responses to situations. It's the time lost. It's the giving of myself to the things that will perish.
In the next week, I'm going to be bummed. It happens every year. But the key word for the approach of a new year is: GRACE.
May we all be liberal givers and takers of such. It is straight from tbe heart of God. For you. For your path.
2017 will not "hopefully be my year" unless you make it so. Be action. Be love. Be mercy. Be grace. I think you will find it will make for a wonderful life.
I've seen so many jokes about this being the worst year EVER. I remember the exact same thing happening a year ago. I have to wonder if this idea that every year is "the worst thing we've ever encountered" or "I'm so over this year, bring on another" was a thing before social media. Did our parents hate every single year of their lives? Seriously. Do you think so? Or is this indicative of a current sense of entitlement that seems to define EVERYONE?
I experienced many challenges this year. I'm still engrossed in exhaustion and challenge, but I certainly would not declare this to be the worst year of my life. Nor the one before it. (Those are reserved for some very specific times.) We are our choices. We shape our lives through daily choice, and if this was the eighth "worst year ever" in a row, I'd have to suggest you take a closer look at your agenda. I am not suggesting anything more than I am doing in my own life. I have taken copious notes in recent days and made some decisions. I realize the life I'm shaping isn't the life I necessarily want.
One of my favorite seasonal movies is - It's A Wonderful Life. I haven't seen it in several years, but I still have the script stored. How could George have possibly known that all those daily choices would add up to a life that is priceless? Each day that he made a choice to give of himself, he found meaning, and, further, he enriched countless lives around him. Every time I saw Jimmy Stewart desperately seeking to be known, wrestling with Clarence for information regarding his beloved, I was moved. Would that we all would have the opportunity for the same experience. A pre-chance to gauge how we are measuring up.
Are you shaping your life to be priceless? Or are you expecting this life to give YOU something? Like the year 2016 owes you more income, a different president-elect, or less stress. In actuality, the year 2016 was a season of time that you were gifted. Now you get to take stock of what you did with it. Did your daily choices add up?
I think if my life ended today, I wouldn't exactly be proud of my 2016. And it's not because of what happened TO me, it's because of the choices I made. It's the responses to situations. It's the time lost. It's the giving of myself to the things that will perish.
In the next week, I'm going to be bummed. It happens every year. But the key word for the approach of a new year is: GRACE.
May we all be liberal givers and takers of such. It is straight from tbe heart of God. For you. For your path.
2017 will not "hopefully be my year" unless you make it so. Be action. Be love. Be mercy. Be grace. I think you will find it will make for a wonderful life.
Saturday, December 17, 2016
Anne
One of my favorite literary characters of all time is Anne Shirley. I loved reading about her. I loved watching her come to life through Megan Follows. I personally relate to Anne on so many levels. I see the same characteristics in myself that I see in her. Just a joy from start to finish to be a part of her imagined life. Do yourselves a favor sometime. Immerse yourself in the culture of Prince Edward Island. Of Green Gables. Engage the spirit of friendship that, in my opinion, might be unrivaled. Friendship of the heart that knows no hindrance. Two hearts that so naturally bond for life. It's what we long for.
Now. Anne. Utterly delightful. Has some flaws about her. She, like myself, reacts quickly and emotionally. She breaks her slate on Gilbert's head after he calls her "Carrots" because of her red hair. She has a great deal of trouble holding her tongue. She is thoughtful but very reactionary. There is one particular instance that I am going to relate today.
A neighbor lady, Rachel, complained to Anne that her cow had been getting into her field and had been destructive. Anne promises to rectify the situation, but driving along one day, looks up and sees a cow in the field chewing on the produce. Instantly. Despite being in her best clothes, she hops out of the buggy, convinces her somewhat prissy friend to help, climbs the fence, and both attempt to corral the cow out of the muddy field. Both are drenched in mud and sludge when a local farmer happens along, and, in anger, Anne sells him the cow on the spot. Turns out the cow in question actually belonged to Rachel....
I've been particularly busy at work. I'm trying my best to hold a lot of processes together, and it happened to be the responsibility of my department to empty the garbage two weeks in a row. By day 9 of hearing complaints about the timeliness of this project being done, I had had it. My inner dialogue was something like this... "I'm juggling 354.8 balls right now. If the only one that falls to the ground is the garbage, so be it. I count that a success. If you have time to come complain about the garbage, you must have the time to do it yourself." Anne. Angela. Reactionary.
I push two of the bins out and empty them into the dumpster. I come back and grab the other two and notice a metal container on the floor. "Seriously?! You missed the bin in your haste to dump your trash?" is my question. I schlep it into the bin and proceed emptying those into the dumpster. As I return, I notice there are more of said containers. And. Further. There are labeled signs numbering the containers. Now you've gone and done it. In your haste and anger you have thrown away company property. When will you ever learn?!
I go out to the dumpster. In my best clothes, mind you. I find the container which isn't too far in but I can't reach it. I search to no avail for something to help me get it. I hike up my skirt, much like Anne, to avoid getting too dirty. I climb INTO the dumpster. Into the dumpster. Bless it. I retrieve the container. But I can't get out of the dumpster. It's seemingly the same height on both sides but I am actually a little shorter on the inside. I cautiously look out, and see the UPS guy chilling and watching the whole scenario. It's like Gilbert Blythe! Humph. I will handle this with as much dignity as I can muster at this point. Thankfully it's quite dark at this point, I hike up my skirt and ungracefully emerge...errrrr....fall out of the dumpster. I dust myself off and haughtily saunter past him. Anne to a "T."
As I'm replacing the container, a co-worker walks by and says something like, "Oh, what are you doing with that mousetrap?"
Mic drop.
I couldn't be more like her if I tried. Oh the situations I find myself in. Honestly I'm not sure I'm even as delightful as her to see past my transgressions. But we're all a work in progress, yes? Some of us apparently have more work to do than others....
Now. Anne. Utterly delightful. Has some flaws about her. She, like myself, reacts quickly and emotionally. She breaks her slate on Gilbert's head after he calls her "Carrots" because of her red hair. She has a great deal of trouble holding her tongue. She is thoughtful but very reactionary. There is one particular instance that I am going to relate today.
A neighbor lady, Rachel, complained to Anne that her cow had been getting into her field and had been destructive. Anne promises to rectify the situation, but driving along one day, looks up and sees a cow in the field chewing on the produce. Instantly. Despite being in her best clothes, she hops out of the buggy, convinces her somewhat prissy friend to help, climbs the fence, and both attempt to corral the cow out of the muddy field. Both are drenched in mud and sludge when a local farmer happens along, and, in anger, Anne sells him the cow on the spot. Turns out the cow in question actually belonged to Rachel....
I've been particularly busy at work. I'm trying my best to hold a lot of processes together, and it happened to be the responsibility of my department to empty the garbage two weeks in a row. By day 9 of hearing complaints about the timeliness of this project being done, I had had it. My inner dialogue was something like this... "I'm juggling 354.8 balls right now. If the only one that falls to the ground is the garbage, so be it. I count that a success. If you have time to come complain about the garbage, you must have the time to do it yourself." Anne. Angela. Reactionary.
I push two of the bins out and empty them into the dumpster. I come back and grab the other two and notice a metal container on the floor. "Seriously?! You missed the bin in your haste to dump your trash?" is my question. I schlep it into the bin and proceed emptying those into the dumpster. As I return, I notice there are more of said containers. And. Further. There are labeled signs numbering the containers. Now you've gone and done it. In your haste and anger you have thrown away company property. When will you ever learn?!
I go out to the dumpster. In my best clothes, mind you. I find the container which isn't too far in but I can't reach it. I search to no avail for something to help me get it. I hike up my skirt, much like Anne, to avoid getting too dirty. I climb INTO the dumpster. Into the dumpster. Bless it. I retrieve the container. But I can't get out of the dumpster. It's seemingly the same height on both sides but I am actually a little shorter on the inside. I cautiously look out, and see the UPS guy chilling and watching the whole scenario. It's like Gilbert Blythe! Humph. I will handle this with as much dignity as I can muster at this point. Thankfully it's quite dark at this point, I hike up my skirt and ungracefully emerge...errrrr....fall out of the dumpster. I dust myself off and haughtily saunter past him. Anne to a "T."
As I'm replacing the container, a co-worker walks by and says something like, "Oh, what are you doing with that mousetrap?"
Mic drop.
I couldn't be more like her if I tried. Oh the situations I find myself in. Honestly I'm not sure I'm even as delightful as her to see past my transgressions. But we're all a work in progress, yes? Some of us apparently have more work to do than others....
Thursday, December 8, 2016
Home Alone
It's been a full day of refreshment. I did not leave the house today. Not once. Presently I'm sitting in front of the fireplace, with a warm cup of coffee, staring at my screen and stealing glimpses of the Christmas tree. Side note: my cat is drinking the tree water and when I touched a branch today, all the needles instantly fell to the floor. Stay tuned for the Griswold fire in the next week or two... My youngest son is fresh from the shower in his jammie pants and suit jacket. He is listening to something with his headphones and grabbing slices of pizza. It's like watching a live version of Home Alone.
I'm browsing. Shopping in my mind. Two things stand out to me. 1) If I want to go see Wicked, I can buy the last reasonable ticket and go alone. We have already discussed my love of the theater and this production in particular. So. I'm probably going to do it. I've absolutely no issue going alone. It just means I have to buy my own slice of pie afterward. Which is a little disheartening. 2) My favorite childhood book is out of print. We also discussed this. The Twelve Dancing Princesses? Remember? I was thinking about purchasing it just because it was one of the happy memories of my childhood. A keepsake. Something sentimental. And do you know Amazon is selling it for $94?! A child's book. Probably 15 pages at most. Out of print. $94.
Now. If I'm in the live version of Home Alone, I'm rather expecting a Christmas miracle. And it could be one of many things. It's not likely to be Wicked tickets or an out of print book. I mean who knows, the big guy is always watching, ya? But. It's more likely to be the small things. The little kindnesses that creep into each day. The co-worker who brushes the snow off your car. The UPS guy who doesn't dump your packages in the snowdrift, but, rather, brings them to your doorstep. The person you pass every day who greets you with a warm smile. The child who lights up when you enter the house. The pet who curls up in your lap to watch a show. The friend that sends a random text to let you know you occupy a spot in their thoughts and heart. The large Dunkin Donuts iced tea with say two, or whatever, three, Splendas, that makes its way to your desk.
Small, maybe anonymous, Christmas miracles. A way to brighten a day. A week. Or a year. Challenge accepted.
I'm browsing. Shopping in my mind. Two things stand out to me. 1) If I want to go see Wicked, I can buy the last reasonable ticket and go alone. We have already discussed my love of the theater and this production in particular. So. I'm probably going to do it. I've absolutely no issue going alone. It just means I have to buy my own slice of pie afterward. Which is a little disheartening. 2) My favorite childhood book is out of print. We also discussed this. The Twelve Dancing Princesses? Remember? I was thinking about purchasing it just because it was one of the happy memories of my childhood. A keepsake. Something sentimental. And do you know Amazon is selling it for $94?! A child's book. Probably 15 pages at most. Out of print. $94.
Now. If I'm in the live version of Home Alone, I'm rather expecting a Christmas miracle. And it could be one of many things. It's not likely to be Wicked tickets or an out of print book. I mean who knows, the big guy is always watching, ya? But. It's more likely to be the small things. The little kindnesses that creep into each day. The co-worker who brushes the snow off your car. The UPS guy who doesn't dump your packages in the snowdrift, but, rather, brings them to your doorstep. The person you pass every day who greets you with a warm smile. The child who lights up when you enter the house. The pet who curls up in your lap to watch a show. The friend that sends a random text to let you know you occupy a spot in their thoughts and heart. The large Dunkin Donuts iced tea with say two, or whatever, three, Splendas, that makes its way to your desk.
Small, maybe anonymous, Christmas miracles. A way to brighten a day. A week. Or a year. Challenge accepted.
Sunday, December 4, 2016
Silent. Humble. Purposeful.
Today in church I sat behind a young couple with a newborn son. A freshly arrived, still wrinkly, head bobbing, thinly and unplump, sweet as can be, newborn. I could just eat him up. Kiss all his fingers and toes, inhale his baby scent, and eat him up. His mother shifted him in her arms and he did that amazing instinctive thing. He nuzzled his face right into her neck. I could have died.
Those were amazing days. The early days. Now I will be the first to admit I am not a wonderful person when I am lacking rest. So they were tough. But nothing in this world can compare to holding and loving a newborn child. Something so poignant and precious to snuggling a helpless gift.
I felt so safe and loved as I listened to the sermon and watched that baby. There is nowhere I would rather be on a Sunday morning than in church with my family. I don't want to be at work, or the football field, or the store or even in bed, though I adore sleep above all else. It helps give me courage to face the world.
Naturally the sermon topic centers around Christmas for the month of December. I wondered just what it must have been like to rock the Savior to sleep. I saw the picture of love in front of me as a young mother bobbed back and forth. Mary must have been so overwhelmed as a first time mother. I know I was. But to be holding a wrinkly, very unplump, unsteady baby that just so happened to have formed the stars... I feel like her emotions got the better of her those first few moments. She surely must have felt the additional weight of responsibility. How does one actually mother, God? Talk about Mom guilt. Mary must have been able to cart hers around by camel, or ten. Equally, though, the joy must have been unrivaled as she snuggled him close day after day. As she watched the unrest around her. As she reread prophecy. As she began to understand just what a gift had been given.
I'm so glad Love stepped into our broken, broken world. I'm so glad that an unorthodox method was chosen.
Silent. Humble. Purposeful.
Love and redemption. A tale as old as time.
Tomorrow when once again I find myself overwhelmed. I will remember that little guy from today. His pure sweetness. I will remember another baby. With tiny fingers and toes. Who walked the road of humanity to know me in this weakness.
What kind of love is this?
The kind that demands my all.
Those were amazing days. The early days. Now I will be the first to admit I am not a wonderful person when I am lacking rest. So they were tough. But nothing in this world can compare to holding and loving a newborn child. Something so poignant and precious to snuggling a helpless gift.
I felt so safe and loved as I listened to the sermon and watched that baby. There is nowhere I would rather be on a Sunday morning than in church with my family. I don't want to be at work, or the football field, or the store or even in bed, though I adore sleep above all else. It helps give me courage to face the world.
Naturally the sermon topic centers around Christmas for the month of December. I wondered just what it must have been like to rock the Savior to sleep. I saw the picture of love in front of me as a young mother bobbed back and forth. Mary must have been so overwhelmed as a first time mother. I know I was. But to be holding a wrinkly, very unplump, unsteady baby that just so happened to have formed the stars... I feel like her emotions got the better of her those first few moments. She surely must have felt the additional weight of responsibility. How does one actually mother, God? Talk about Mom guilt. Mary must have been able to cart hers around by camel, or ten. Equally, though, the joy must have been unrivaled as she snuggled him close day after day. As she watched the unrest around her. As she reread prophecy. As she began to understand just what a gift had been given.
I'm so glad Love stepped into our broken, broken world. I'm so glad that an unorthodox method was chosen.
Silent. Humble. Purposeful.
Love and redemption. A tale as old as time.
Tomorrow when once again I find myself overwhelmed. I will remember that little guy from today. His pure sweetness. I will remember another baby. With tiny fingers and toes. Who walked the road of humanity to know me in this weakness.
What kind of love is this?
The kind that demands my all.
Friday, November 25, 2016
Nostalgia
Writing is comparable to coming home. Do you know what coming home feels like? It's familiar. It's comforting. It's the old and the new intertwined. It's love. It's belonging. I have had a busy heart in recent weeks. And home and belonging are just what I need tonight. So I invite you to sit next to me with your favorite mug in hand and your favorite scarf nestled just so. Sit here with me. And hear my heart. Sit here. And come home...
I am extremely nostalgic by nature. I root, and attach, and put out all the situational feelers. I put a large store by love, family, friendships, good food, hospitality, and, it must be said, pie. When I conjure up the holiday seasons to mind, I'm thinking all the Hallmark commercials you ever saw rolled into one. Reality is #oftenalmostnever like a commercial. No one rolls in at the perfect snowy, twinkling moment with the adorable kitten poised in a box holding an engagement ring while you wait with baited breath under the mistletoe, washed in a warm candlelight glow, while the strains of "The Way You Look Tonight" can be heard in the background. In fact. Rather. It looks like...a freezing rain storm that delayed plans, a mangy mutt that, in fact, ate the ring, no mistletoe (cuz does anyone put that up anymore? It's not 1873), the cold glow of the piercing, quite possibly blinding, latest model LED flashlight (since the power is out), and the crowning moment serenaded by "Enter Sandman" as the random playlist song of choice.
Yes. Nostalgia. Reality. Often I stumble between the two so casually, cautiously, catastrophically. I want all the dreams. I want all the bells and whistles. If time has taught me anything, I believe that it is summed up something like this, "Nothing will ever fully be as expected." You may find joy when you think you will find strife. You may find pain when you think you will find love. The hallways of life are not as picturesque as nostalgia would have us believe or as grey as reality would imply.
There is, perhaps, a place that marries the two in an equal union of sadness, beauty, and memory. Today I considered nostalgia and reality, and memory as always proved precious. As I have bumbled along the pathway, facing painful realities, nostalgia has been there. Bringing such treasured friends to ease the pain. Those imagined feelings and yearnings of belonging, acceptance and rootings. They have been extended to me time and again like an oasis for the soul. Friends, even now, that look directly into my blue eyes and see right through to places in my heart instead. These realities, dear readers, these are better than any nostalgia I can dream. I have shared many a seasonal meal surrounded by just these friends and my heart and eyes overflow with memories that cannot be contained.
Today, as you leave this spot by the fireplace, as you go with your mug and scarf, remember the treasure is what you make of the moments you have been given. I, of course, would always advise rooting and attaching to as many kindred spirits as you can find. But choose at least one. One person who can help you unite sometimes painful realities with joyous nostalgia. And when you are aged, when you can no longer make a logical word in Scrabble, I think the seasons of kindred spirits long past will come to mind. And your heart and eyes will not be able to contain the blessing.
I am extremely nostalgic by nature. I root, and attach, and put out all the situational feelers. I put a large store by love, family, friendships, good food, hospitality, and, it must be said, pie. When I conjure up the holiday seasons to mind, I'm thinking all the Hallmark commercials you ever saw rolled into one. Reality is #oftenalmostnever like a commercial. No one rolls in at the perfect snowy, twinkling moment with the adorable kitten poised in a box holding an engagement ring while you wait with baited breath under the mistletoe, washed in a warm candlelight glow, while the strains of "The Way You Look Tonight" can be heard in the background. In fact. Rather. It looks like...a freezing rain storm that delayed plans, a mangy mutt that, in fact, ate the ring, no mistletoe (cuz does anyone put that up anymore? It's not 1873), the cold glow of the piercing, quite possibly blinding, latest model LED flashlight (since the power is out), and the crowning moment serenaded by "Enter Sandman" as the random playlist song of choice.
Yes. Nostalgia. Reality. Often I stumble between the two so casually, cautiously, catastrophically. I want all the dreams. I want all the bells and whistles. If time has taught me anything, I believe that it is summed up something like this, "Nothing will ever fully be as expected." You may find joy when you think you will find strife. You may find pain when you think you will find love. The hallways of life are not as picturesque as nostalgia would have us believe or as grey as reality would imply.
There is, perhaps, a place that marries the two in an equal union of sadness, beauty, and memory. Today I considered nostalgia and reality, and memory as always proved precious. As I have bumbled along the pathway, facing painful realities, nostalgia has been there. Bringing such treasured friends to ease the pain. Those imagined feelings and yearnings of belonging, acceptance and rootings. They have been extended to me time and again like an oasis for the soul. Friends, even now, that look directly into my blue eyes and see right through to places in my heart instead. These realities, dear readers, these are better than any nostalgia I can dream. I have shared many a seasonal meal surrounded by just these friends and my heart and eyes overflow with memories that cannot be contained.
Today, as you leave this spot by the fireplace, as you go with your mug and scarf, remember the treasure is what you make of the moments you have been given. I, of course, would always advise rooting and attaching to as many kindred spirits as you can find. But choose at least one. One person who can help you unite sometimes painful realities with joyous nostalgia. And when you are aged, when you can no longer make a logical word in Scrabble, I think the seasons of kindred spirits long past will come to mind. And your heart and eyes will not be able to contain the blessing.
Saturday, November 12, 2016
Ever In Peace
Today is the day we Americans honor veterans. Those persons that have sacrificially given their time, resources, mind, body, and spirit in dedication to this great nation. I can tell you firsthand that it is no easy task. Politics. Duty. Honor. Service. Questions. Right. Wrong. It can be very convoluted. But the soldier always answers the call.
I am married to a veteran. I remember well the day I sent him off to war. Our sweet babies did not understand, but as parents, our hearts ached. The flight was early and driving to the airport, it was dark. For which I was thankful. We had just celebrated a whirlwind 3 days together enjoying Thanksgiving and Christmas. Emotionally, I was spent. My eyes were dry, but every mile that moved us closer to our destination induced panic. What in the world was I going to do in the middle of Utah with two babies and no family support? It was the longest and shortest trip I've ever made to any airport. Security also was a breeze as if the TSA agents had pity on our little family. Again, amazingly, zero delays and the plane was here before we knew it.
You guys. I don't want to embarrass my sweet husband. But soldiers are people. With hearts. Just like ours. And when he took his sons in his arms. It was very hard for him to say goodbye. And he just had to abruptly go because I imagine there was just no other way. When he turned back at the gate, I saw his blue eyes had tears and I knew the personal cost was great because I had never seen him cry.
It was a hard, hard year. For him. And us. Once you experience this kind of painful separation where you cannot fully be briefed or understand what is transpiring, you begin to see why so many military marriages fail. There are multiple barriers to effective communication, and all the while life is happening on both ends. It is so tough for all the parties. I might have aged ten years. In one deployment. Imagine for multiple....
Reunion was the sweetest and oddest. I was so proud of us. We are not shrinking violets. No. We did this. We sent and received a beloved person. A soldier. A very tall soldier. Staff Sergeant Ryan Oldaker. Our personal cost was great. Ryan missed a year in the life of his children that he does not get back. Words. Milestones. Christmas. Easter. Gone without memory.
Now. Friends. When you, my fellow Americans, take it upon yourselves to demean democracy. To spew obscenities in your self righteous anger. To burn the stars and stripes. To riot. To refuse to acknowledge the results of said democracy. To dishonor the highest office of this land with your disrespect. You spit in my face. You spit in the faces of my children. You spit in the face of every person who has willingly laid down their life for your comfort.
If this is you. You should feel shame. You are not proving worthy of our sacrifice. Think long and hard about your actions. Think long and hard about your words. Choose to be honorable, respectful persons, even if you are uncertain about the future.
And then.... Walk outside. Take a look at Old Glory waving in the light.. The emblem of the land I love. Ever in peace may she wave...
I am married to a veteran. I remember well the day I sent him off to war. Our sweet babies did not understand, but as parents, our hearts ached. The flight was early and driving to the airport, it was dark. For which I was thankful. We had just celebrated a whirlwind 3 days together enjoying Thanksgiving and Christmas. Emotionally, I was spent. My eyes were dry, but every mile that moved us closer to our destination induced panic. What in the world was I going to do in the middle of Utah with two babies and no family support? It was the longest and shortest trip I've ever made to any airport. Security also was a breeze as if the TSA agents had pity on our little family. Again, amazingly, zero delays and the plane was here before we knew it.
You guys. I don't want to embarrass my sweet husband. But soldiers are people. With hearts. Just like ours. And when he took his sons in his arms. It was very hard for him to say goodbye. And he just had to abruptly go because I imagine there was just no other way. When he turned back at the gate, I saw his blue eyes had tears and I knew the personal cost was great because I had never seen him cry.
It was a hard, hard year. For him. And us. Once you experience this kind of painful separation where you cannot fully be briefed or understand what is transpiring, you begin to see why so many military marriages fail. There are multiple barriers to effective communication, and all the while life is happening on both ends. It is so tough for all the parties. I might have aged ten years. In one deployment. Imagine for multiple....
Reunion was the sweetest and oddest. I was so proud of us. We are not shrinking violets. No. We did this. We sent and received a beloved person. A soldier. A very tall soldier. Staff Sergeant Ryan Oldaker. Our personal cost was great. Ryan missed a year in the life of his children that he does not get back. Words. Milestones. Christmas. Easter. Gone without memory.
Now. Friends. When you, my fellow Americans, take it upon yourselves to demean democracy. To spew obscenities in your self righteous anger. To burn the stars and stripes. To riot. To refuse to acknowledge the results of said democracy. To dishonor the highest office of this land with your disrespect. You spit in my face. You spit in the faces of my children. You spit in the face of every person who has willingly laid down their life for your comfort.
If this is you. You should feel shame. You are not proving worthy of our sacrifice. Think long and hard about your actions. Think long and hard about your words. Choose to be honorable, respectful persons, even if you are uncertain about the future.
And then.... Walk outside. Take a look at Old Glory waving in the light.. The emblem of the land I love. Ever in peace may she wave...
Sunday, November 6, 2016
Longing. Chaos. Simplicity.
Readers....
I'm thinking about how to breathe right now. All I feel is turmoil in my heart today. I think this will be a tough week ahead. Locally. Nationally. It feels like the culture will make a dramatic shift in the coming months. There are also shifts, relationally, for many friends. I feel anxious. As if the place I knew I had is no longer. As if the ground is crumbling....
I spent the day with my youngest, who has an affinity for Panera, like myself, and so we went for lunch. As our eyes glazed over at the sights of pastries and all things heavenly baked, he surprised me with these words, "I'd really like to work here for a college job." To which I responded, "I'd really like to work here, too, or a place just like it."
It was a breath of fresh air.
Sweet simplicity amidst chaos.
What if we really just did simple things? The things we enjoy. Baking. Writing. Whatever name that pursuit has for you, what if you did that? Would you feel like the ground was crumbling? Would your relationships be shifting? Positively? It's something I'm considering.
I will never forget sitting on my Grandpa's lap as a child, in my favorite outfit consisting of a maroon "I'm a Pepper" shirt paired with a triple layered light pink skirt with blue flowers, having a career discussion. When asked what career path I wanted to choose, I responded with, "A McDonalds worker." I could sense complete bewilderment as he grappled with the right response mixing candor, love and guidance. Finally, all he could muster was, "Well, wouldn't you maybe want to aim just a little higher?"
Yes. Grandpa. I do.
But I see some positives in choosing some simplicity in life. Go to work. Bake some bread. Or punch some keys. Come home.
While waiting for our food, my son went on to say, "It would be nice, listen to this music, and help people, it would be good." He mentioned later in the conversation that his favorite song is, "Stressed Out." The lad is nine. I don't like the implication that someone so young should have a relatable context to stress.
So much chaos. So much stress. So many broken people. I feel so very anxious tonight. But. Once upon a time.... In very similar circumstances. Love pushed aside the curtain of heaven and cradled right in the heart of broken chaos. Love took a long journey of redemption because Angela was worth it.
Because every heart was worth it.
When I turn my eyes upon the Writer of my story. The One who knows the number of my days. The One who is from everlasting to everlasting. The I AM.
The ground stabilizes.
I see simplicity. Faith brings me simplicity. And it is the breath of air for which I have been gasping.
I'm thinking about how to breathe right now. All I feel is turmoil in my heart today. I think this will be a tough week ahead. Locally. Nationally. It feels like the culture will make a dramatic shift in the coming months. There are also shifts, relationally, for many friends. I feel anxious. As if the place I knew I had is no longer. As if the ground is crumbling....
I spent the day with my youngest, who has an affinity for Panera, like myself, and so we went for lunch. As our eyes glazed over at the sights of pastries and all things heavenly baked, he surprised me with these words, "I'd really like to work here for a college job." To which I responded, "I'd really like to work here, too, or a place just like it."
It was a breath of fresh air.
Sweet simplicity amidst chaos.
What if we really just did simple things? The things we enjoy. Baking. Writing. Whatever name that pursuit has for you, what if you did that? Would you feel like the ground was crumbling? Would your relationships be shifting? Positively? It's something I'm considering.
I will never forget sitting on my Grandpa's lap as a child, in my favorite outfit consisting of a maroon "I'm a Pepper" shirt paired with a triple layered light pink skirt with blue flowers, having a career discussion. When asked what career path I wanted to choose, I responded with, "A McDonalds worker." I could sense complete bewilderment as he grappled with the right response mixing candor, love and guidance. Finally, all he could muster was, "Well, wouldn't you maybe want to aim just a little higher?"
Yes. Grandpa. I do.
But I see some positives in choosing some simplicity in life. Go to work. Bake some bread. Or punch some keys. Come home.
While waiting for our food, my son went on to say, "It would be nice, listen to this music, and help people, it would be good." He mentioned later in the conversation that his favorite song is, "Stressed Out." The lad is nine. I don't like the implication that someone so young should have a relatable context to stress.
So much chaos. So much stress. So many broken people. I feel so very anxious tonight. But. Once upon a time.... In very similar circumstances. Love pushed aside the curtain of heaven and cradled right in the heart of broken chaos. Love took a long journey of redemption because Angela was worth it.
Because every heart was worth it.
When I turn my eyes upon the Writer of my story. The One who knows the number of my days. The One who is from everlasting to everlasting. The I AM.
The ground stabilizes.
I see simplicity. Faith brings me simplicity. And it is the breath of air for which I have been gasping.
Saturday, November 5, 2016
Perspective is reality
Friends. It has been a very, very challenging week. Many intense days. Many intense moments.
*I am juggling new responsibilities at work which requires careful consideration and great wisdom. I'm not sure I've had all the right wisdom.
*Someone whom I have greatly admired as a writer has really let me down this week. It was like a sucker punch to see some of things she said.
This evening, just when I thought I could not actually physically proceed any further... Not really an exaggeration. I honestly had to really concentrate on what people were saying for my brain to follow through... And even then....
Just when I was going to sit down and give up. I received the sad news that my friend had unexpectedly passed away today.
Suddenly, I didn't think too harshly of my performance this week. Suddenly, I was not tired anymore. Suddenly, I could embrace finding a new mentor. Suddenly.
My perspective switched gears. As I looked back on the week, I saw the highlights. I had THREE nights at home with my family which included, watching Big Hero 5 waddle the neighborhood which was hilarious. I saw an older brother show great compassion in waiting at each house for said hero guy to catch up, despite his best friend joining up with us, but constantly running ahead. More than once this week, someone encouraged me through touch. As much as I love words, sometimes, they are simply not necessary. Sometimes just a quick squeeze stimulates the parasympathetic system and that's all you need. Good things were still all around me.
I'm thinking of my sweet friend in heaven... I'm thinking that each day and year that passes finds me with one more person waiting on that swing under the tree. I hope it's big enough. And, friends, be assured if I should arrive before you, I'll definitely be waiting, anxiously, to see your face once again.
PS - My friend was always encouraging me to wear red lipstick. She was certain I could pull it off. She also raved about me having dark hair. So, for you, sweet friend... I'm going to do it.
*I am juggling new responsibilities at work which requires careful consideration and great wisdom. I'm not sure I've had all the right wisdom.
*Someone whom I have greatly admired as a writer has really let me down this week. It was like a sucker punch to see some of things she said.
This evening, just when I thought I could not actually physically proceed any further... Not really an exaggeration. I honestly had to really concentrate on what people were saying for my brain to follow through... And even then....
Just when I was going to sit down and give up. I received the sad news that my friend had unexpectedly passed away today.
Suddenly, I didn't think too harshly of my performance this week. Suddenly, I was not tired anymore. Suddenly, I could embrace finding a new mentor. Suddenly.
My perspective switched gears. As I looked back on the week, I saw the highlights. I had THREE nights at home with my family which included, watching Big Hero 5 waddle the neighborhood which was hilarious. I saw an older brother show great compassion in waiting at each house for said hero guy to catch up, despite his best friend joining up with us, but constantly running ahead. More than once this week, someone encouraged me through touch. As much as I love words, sometimes, they are simply not necessary. Sometimes just a quick squeeze stimulates the parasympathetic system and that's all you need. Good things were still all around me.
I'm thinking of my sweet friend in heaven... I'm thinking that each day and year that passes finds me with one more person waiting on that swing under the tree. I hope it's big enough. And, friends, be assured if I should arrive before you, I'll definitely be waiting, anxiously, to see your face once again.
PS - My friend was always encouraging me to wear red lipstick. She was certain I could pull it off. She also raved about me having dark hair. So, for you, sweet friend... I'm going to do it.
Friday, October 28, 2016
Page By Page
Another Angela tidbit, I am a sucker for a happy ending. I want everyone to get all the things they want from life. And I want them to be happy. Whether it is a tangible item or friendships or education. I want all the people to be happy. Unfortunately, or fortunately, we do not get all the things we want in this life. Around the corners and through every passageway situations arise that may change our course or our desires, and not always do we meet these with expectation. In fact. More often these are not anticipated...
I get so swept up in the experiences of life. I engage fully, which, frankly, leads to utter exhaustion, but the rewards far outweigh the cost. One can never be fulfilled by sideline living. It is one precious life and we should always pursue it, so I never apologize for that.
I've considered some challenging aspects lately, and I've considered all the possible results. (Side note to all my non perfectionist peeps, we perfectionists replay life. A lot.) I have mentally viewed the finish line. There could be several so it has been very time consuming, but I dutifully apply my happy ending principle. I'm hopeful it will be happy and all the parties will want to have a party, but I ponder the corners and passageways between here and there. I stop to worry. Then I worry a whole lot more. And then it hits me....
No story is good if the ending is known. There is no skipping to the last page of the book. You might as well just burn those glorious ink filled pages if you plan to do that. The true story is the journey. The following along page by page as the hero begins to learn and see himself as the hero. And no matter the ending, which of course I wait with every breath for it to be happy, the process defines him. The process. The journey. Life. Challenges. Corners. Joys. Passageways.
Spoken like a true girl, I hope everything is a fairytale. I hope all your dreams come true. But when they do not. When the corners catch you off guard, when the path ahead is shrouded from view and you feel a little less certain about proceeding, remember it's the journey, the discovery, that counts. It is the story of your life. Everyone gets to be the hero in their own story. Page by page. Write it well.
I get so swept up in the experiences of life. I engage fully, which, frankly, leads to utter exhaustion, but the rewards far outweigh the cost. One can never be fulfilled by sideline living. It is one precious life and we should always pursue it, so I never apologize for that.
I've considered some challenging aspects lately, and I've considered all the possible results. (Side note to all my non perfectionist peeps, we perfectionists replay life. A lot.) I have mentally viewed the finish line. There could be several so it has been very time consuming, but I dutifully apply my happy ending principle. I'm hopeful it will be happy and all the parties will want to have a party, but I ponder the corners and passageways between here and there. I stop to worry. Then I worry a whole lot more. And then it hits me....
No story is good if the ending is known. There is no skipping to the last page of the book. You might as well just burn those glorious ink filled pages if you plan to do that. The true story is the journey. The following along page by page as the hero begins to learn and see himself as the hero. And no matter the ending, which of course I wait with every breath for it to be happy, the process defines him. The process. The journey. Life. Challenges. Corners. Joys. Passageways.
Spoken like a true girl, I hope everything is a fairytale. I hope all your dreams come true. But when they do not. When the corners catch you off guard, when the path ahead is shrouded from view and you feel a little less certain about proceeding, remember it's the journey, the discovery, that counts. It is the story of your life. Everyone gets to be the hero in their own story. Page by page. Write it well.
Saturday, October 22, 2016
Goodbye
Do you know who you are? Can you describe yourself in clear, direct and honest terms? I think everyone should not only be able to do so, but be willing.
There are areas in which I am quite proficient, and I can easily list those, but I can also just as easily list the areas that are a struggle. For the love, let us not discuss engines, computer programming, equations, the periodic table, or Minecraft. None of us will have an enjoyable time if this is as interesting as the conversation will get. By far though, my most unmarketable skill, is the art of saying "goodbye." I don't even like temporary ones. I drag out all the evenings and events just to avoid those final moments. Can't we all just be together all the days? I will never get any better at this process. Perhaps someone could offer a class. Perhaps there are some strategies that could be imparted. I'm open to suggestions. I need all the help.
Personally, though, I do not believe it gets any easier with time or exposure. If you love big. If you love deeply. Goodbyes will always be painful. Life is filled with so much uncertainty, but love can be a north star, and when it is time to go, love makes us want to stay. And it is in these moments that I find myself without words. The very thing that is as natural as breathing and I am at a loss. In the movies, eloquence is most poignant at goodbye, but in real life I find it just is not the case. I trust that those I love can read my heart. And in it they see all the words I cannot express.
I've witnessed beauty in final goodbyes. I have heard heartfelt tributes. I have seen immeasurable pain overshadowed by hope. Hope is a gift.
Goodbye. It is likely the most difficult word in our concept of communication. Audible. Or not. Goodbye. Whether goodbye for days, weeks, a season, or a lifetime. It is the closing of a chapter of time. So we wait. Anxiously. For the day when the word "goodbye" no longer holds any sway...
There are areas in which I am quite proficient, and I can easily list those, but I can also just as easily list the areas that are a struggle. For the love, let us not discuss engines, computer programming, equations, the periodic table, or Minecraft. None of us will have an enjoyable time if this is as interesting as the conversation will get. By far though, my most unmarketable skill, is the art of saying "goodbye." I don't even like temporary ones. I drag out all the evenings and events just to avoid those final moments. Can't we all just be together all the days? I will never get any better at this process. Perhaps someone could offer a class. Perhaps there are some strategies that could be imparted. I'm open to suggestions. I need all the help.
Personally, though, I do not believe it gets any easier with time or exposure. If you love big. If you love deeply. Goodbyes will always be painful. Life is filled with so much uncertainty, but love can be a north star, and when it is time to go, love makes us want to stay. And it is in these moments that I find myself without words. The very thing that is as natural as breathing and I am at a loss. In the movies, eloquence is most poignant at goodbye, but in real life I find it just is not the case. I trust that those I love can read my heart. And in it they see all the words I cannot express.
I've witnessed beauty in final goodbyes. I have heard heartfelt tributes. I have seen immeasurable pain overshadowed by hope. Hope is a gift.
Goodbye. It is likely the most difficult word in our concept of communication. Audible. Or not. Goodbye. Whether goodbye for days, weeks, a season, or a lifetime. It is the closing of a chapter of time. So we wait. Anxiously. For the day when the word "goodbye" no longer holds any sway...
Saturday, October 15, 2016
Escape
Have you ever longed for a momentary escape? A way to ease the troubles of today? Perhaps it is a cup of coffee. Perhaps it is a sport. Perhaps it is a phone call to a mentor. Perhaps it is as simple as a hug from a friend. We each reach for an outlet when the stressors of our life have overloaded our capacity to deal.
Few things make me happier than blankets, hugs, candles, scarves and books. Separately or collectively,it is a recipe for safety and contentment. As a child, I would read for hours upon hours, devouring every book I could get my hands on. I could wholly lose myself in the story, and, often, I would wish myself to different times and places for I was convinced that I was not born in the right era. In fact, to some degree, I still think that might true.
My favorite story, although not a chapter book, was, "The Twelve Dancing Princesses." I checked that book out of the Canal Fulton Library so many times they should have let me keep it. I never tired of reading about the journey the beautiful Princesses took by boat and land through forests of gold and silver to dance all night in a palace across the way. I wasn't allowed to dance, and it sounded so magical and lovely and beautiful. A forest of gold and people twirling and laughing. All these years later, I can close my eyes and still see those illustrations, and it takes me right back to the feeling of magic. I'm not too old to want to twirl and laugh in a forest of gold. Quite unfortunately, I still do not know the first thing about dancing, but if I found that book at the local library, in no time I could be a dancing princess.
I will forever be devoted to words. To the power of writing. To the wonders of reading. It has been a lifelong solace. Can I encourage you to find life in paper and bindings and ink? To hear the heart of another? To imagine a different place? To dream?
It really is a momentary escape. A relief of the stressors that threaten to waylay our souls. Perhaps try it with a cup of coffee alongside a mentor who plays sports.
Few things make me happier than blankets, hugs, candles, scarves and books. Separately or collectively,it is a recipe for safety and contentment. As a child, I would read for hours upon hours, devouring every book I could get my hands on. I could wholly lose myself in the story, and, often, I would wish myself to different times and places for I was convinced that I was not born in the right era. In fact, to some degree, I still think that might true.
My favorite story, although not a chapter book, was, "The Twelve Dancing Princesses." I checked that book out of the Canal Fulton Library so many times they should have let me keep it. I never tired of reading about the journey the beautiful Princesses took by boat and land through forests of gold and silver to dance all night in a palace across the way. I wasn't allowed to dance, and it sounded so magical and lovely and beautiful. A forest of gold and people twirling and laughing. All these years later, I can close my eyes and still see those illustrations, and it takes me right back to the feeling of magic. I'm not too old to want to twirl and laugh in a forest of gold. Quite unfortunately, I still do not know the first thing about dancing, but if I found that book at the local library, in no time I could be a dancing princess.
I will forever be devoted to words. To the power of writing. To the wonders of reading. It has been a lifelong solace. Can I encourage you to find life in paper and bindings and ink? To hear the heart of another? To imagine a different place? To dream?
It really is a momentary escape. A relief of the stressors that threaten to waylay our souls. Perhaps try it with a cup of coffee alongside a mentor who plays sports.
Monday, October 10, 2016
Beauty
I've been enjoying a delicious, laid back, long weekend with some members of my tribe. I got to laugh. A lot. Tears were shed, but the diet coke stayed on the right course south. I walked through fallen leaves. I felt the soft drizzle of rain and watched it pelt the smooth waters of the lake and be effortlessly absorbed. Ping. Ping. As it hit the docks. No other sounds. Quiet. Stillness. Rain washes away the pain in the soul. Did you know that? Stand in the rain sometime. When your soul hurts. When you feel lonely or confused. Stand in the rain and turn up your face. I promise you will feel better.
I rode through some beautiful, breathtaking country. Such deep red fall colors that are certainly reserved for this part of the country alone. As I passed through God's art room, these were my thoughts... Beauty is often said to be defined by the beholder. I suppose that statement is true. Each person has a different eye for what is attractive. As women, it is almost certainly written into our DNA to want to be beautiful. Not all women like makeup, perfume and the whole bit, but almost all want to feel beautiful in some way to someone.
I struggled with this very idea for a good portion of my formative years. I was taught that vanity is a sin. God made you just the way he wanted you. If he wanted holes in your ears he would have put them there. Modesty is the most important thing you can wear, and that does not include anything that shows the shape of your legs and possibly your arms. Inwardly, I so wanted to be beautiful but felt that must surely mean I didn't want to be good. I coveted the earrings of my third grade best friend. She had a whole box full of them and when I stayed at her house I was so excited to help her pick out which ones to wear. I wanted them. So bad I could taste it. I didn't truly see how wearing something in my ears made me less good. I didn't understand those rules, and, frankly, even at nine, I didn't think anyone else did either.
Despite the fact that I still really struggle with accepting compliments - I really think that is a gift, actually, graciously accepting a compliment and not deferring - I have been able to learn it's okay to want to be beautiful. It is not vanity to care about one's appearance. It's okay to wear earrings, God does not view you any less because He looks on the heart. Inward beauty concerns our Lord.
And, the more years I have added, the more I want to share that with others. Personality does matter. In fact, it matters more. The kindness of your heart tops that amazing scent you are wearing. (And that's saying a lot because my Spidey sense is "smell.") And those words that roll off your tongue show the true condition of your heart.
These are the things that last. This is the beauty that does not fade. Those holes in your ears will close. Those green eyes will lose their sparkle. But a beautiful heart will always be magnetic. Outward beauty is okay, even good, my young friends, but inward beauty shines forever.
I rode through some beautiful, breathtaking country. Such deep red fall colors that are certainly reserved for this part of the country alone. As I passed through God's art room, these were my thoughts... Beauty is often said to be defined by the beholder. I suppose that statement is true. Each person has a different eye for what is attractive. As women, it is almost certainly written into our DNA to want to be beautiful. Not all women like makeup, perfume and the whole bit, but almost all want to feel beautiful in some way to someone.
I struggled with this very idea for a good portion of my formative years. I was taught that vanity is a sin. God made you just the way he wanted you. If he wanted holes in your ears he would have put them there. Modesty is the most important thing you can wear, and that does not include anything that shows the shape of your legs and possibly your arms. Inwardly, I so wanted to be beautiful but felt that must surely mean I didn't want to be good. I coveted the earrings of my third grade best friend. She had a whole box full of them and when I stayed at her house I was so excited to help her pick out which ones to wear. I wanted them. So bad I could taste it. I didn't truly see how wearing something in my ears made me less good. I didn't understand those rules, and, frankly, even at nine, I didn't think anyone else did either.
Despite the fact that I still really struggle with accepting compliments - I really think that is a gift, actually, graciously accepting a compliment and not deferring - I have been able to learn it's okay to want to be beautiful. It is not vanity to care about one's appearance. It's okay to wear earrings, God does not view you any less because He looks on the heart. Inward beauty concerns our Lord.
And, the more years I have added, the more I want to share that with others. Personality does matter. In fact, it matters more. The kindness of your heart tops that amazing scent you are wearing. (And that's saying a lot because my Spidey sense is "smell.") And those words that roll off your tongue show the true condition of your heart.
These are the things that last. This is the beauty that does not fade. Those holes in your ears will close. Those green eyes will lose their sparkle. But a beautiful heart will always be magnetic. Outward beauty is okay, even good, my young friends, but inward beauty shines forever.
Wednesday, October 5, 2016
The Best Medicine
I think y'all are settling right in and getting to know me. We've mentioned things over and over. I enjoy chatting, friends, tea, rain (which is why two-tenths of my soul died in Utah), writing, laughing. I really love to laugh. The laughing-so-hard-you-can't-breathe type. Like that one time, or ten, when pop came out of my nose. It stings, actually. I can't recommend that.
Laughter is the perfect bandaid for any situation. Not that nervous laughter reserved for people who are awkward in social arenas. I mean the disarming, genuine laughter, that puts people at ease. You will instantly know when you have met someone with the unique gift for comfortable timing and well placed banter. Mark these friends. Keep them. Come some season you will need to call upon them when the days are dark. Like when your two year old is peeing on the floor and you've lost any and all knowledge of humor. I think its not even a thing when you are parenting toddlers. It comes back later though. Once the urine routinely goes in the toilet and not on the carpet.
I laugh most when I am with my tribe. The people that know me best. Over a game of Scrabble that I am always winning. Midway through cards when my "friend" goes out while I am clearly not even in my foot yet. Negative three thousand points right there. A perfect recipe for Diet Coke flavored mucous. And for all those games I won because my score keeping math skills are unrivaled, the best memories are the ones where in my mind's eye I see the faces of those I love with big smiles or eyes raining tears from unbridled laughter. For in that. Is life.
Life is meant for joy, you guys. Joy. Banter. Laughter. It's Gods best plan for us. Abundant life.
More of that, okay?
For the record. Negative three thousand points in Hand and Foot does not make me laugh.
Laughter is the perfect bandaid for any situation. Not that nervous laughter reserved for people who are awkward in social arenas. I mean the disarming, genuine laughter, that puts people at ease. You will instantly know when you have met someone with the unique gift for comfortable timing and well placed banter. Mark these friends. Keep them. Come some season you will need to call upon them when the days are dark. Like when your two year old is peeing on the floor and you've lost any and all knowledge of humor. I think its not even a thing when you are parenting toddlers. It comes back later though. Once the urine routinely goes in the toilet and not on the carpet.
I laugh most when I am with my tribe. The people that know me best. Over a game of Scrabble that I am always winning. Midway through cards when my "friend" goes out while I am clearly not even in my foot yet. Negative three thousand points right there. A perfect recipe for Diet Coke flavored mucous. And for all those games I won because my score keeping math skills are unrivaled, the best memories are the ones where in my mind's eye I see the faces of those I love with big smiles or eyes raining tears from unbridled laughter. For in that. Is life.
Life is meant for joy, you guys. Joy. Banter. Laughter. It's Gods best plan for us. Abundant life.
More of that, okay?
For the record. Negative three thousand points in Hand and Foot does not make me laugh.
Sunday, October 2, 2016
Front Porch Sitting
Do you ever just want to sit down on your front porch with a good friend, and a mug of steaming tea laced with milk and sugar? I could use that. The comfort that comes from good company and tea leaves. I think it's a shame that people are unable to just drop by anymore. I bet in the olden days, and, yes, that means way before my time if my children are reading this, I bet back then friends dropped by quite often. All this "Get out your calendar and pencil me in here" business would have been nonsense. Please. All I'm doing is gathering the eggs, feel free to interrupt that at any time.
Now. I get this life. I get the pace. It's exhausting for sure. But as I sip my tea today, I'm considering the possibility of availability. If I am more available, will I not get more out of life? More out of my relationships? The trade-off of personal fulfillment in all these areas for what....in the end? We want all our ends to be good, right? To be profitable. We want to meet our work deadlines. We want the kids to get good grades at the end of the semester. We want the end of gardening season to show well on our storage shelves. And. In the end. When we are fading. We want to be loved.
If our lives will eventually fade. If eventually we will not be a lawyer, doctor, bread maker, parent-on-demand, maybe time spent on the front porch drinking tea with a friend is time better invested. Maybe availability will serve us well. Better. Than anything else ever could.
Earl Gray. Milk. Sugar. Availability. Good, deep thoughts for a Sunday. I want to be a lover of people. That is my heart. All the other things can fade.
Now. I get this life. I get the pace. It's exhausting for sure. But as I sip my tea today, I'm considering the possibility of availability. If I am more available, will I not get more out of life? More out of my relationships? The trade-off of personal fulfillment in all these areas for what....in the end? We want all our ends to be good, right? To be profitable. We want to meet our work deadlines. We want the kids to get good grades at the end of the semester. We want the end of gardening season to show well on our storage shelves. And. In the end. When we are fading. We want to be loved.
If our lives will eventually fade. If eventually we will not be a lawyer, doctor, bread maker, parent-on-demand, maybe time spent on the front porch drinking tea with a friend is time better invested. Maybe availability will serve us well. Better. Than anything else ever could.
Earl Gray. Milk. Sugar. Availability. Good, deep thoughts for a Sunday. I want to be a lover of people. That is my heart. All the other things can fade.
Sunday, September 18, 2016
The Strongest Emotion
We are almost to October, which if you have been following for any length of time, you will know is my favorite month. October is beautiful. The month stretches out with days of perfection and many fun annual activities. My least favorite part of October is the endless parade of gory decorations and details. Haunted houses. Haunted haywagons. You name it. It's everywhere. I have never understood the apparent fascination with haunted activities which incites internal fear and preys on it for fun.
Now, I have been to some haunted houses in my day. To young adult males it seems like the perfect fall outing. The logic might go something like this..."If I take this young lady out to a scary place, she'll instinctively cling to me in reaction to the fear she feels." Men are naturally protective, so in addition to the thrill in the young teenaged heart at being close to another, there is also the validation of manhood. Of protection. In my case, however, it does not behoove a young man to take me to a haunted house. My experience will be one of stark reality and not as an outsider looking in on fearful proceedings. I would make you go first, potentially I would cling to you, but I will be closing my eyes while you drag me through seven floors of terror. Your reward for such amazing physical stamina will either be a good smack or the silent treatment for having such a stupid idea. Save your money and let's eat pizza.
Fear.
Out of all the emotions, fear might be the most powerful. Fear is often even stronger than love. It motivates. It warps. It catalyzes. It cripples.
I have a fear of heights that seems to have increased as I age. On my recent vacation, I hiked up a mountain trail that winds always upward, always right near the edge of the cliff. Friends, I barely made it. Sheer panic overtook me at every turn. The tickle in your throat that becomes a full blown inability to breathe clearly. It's crippling. The more you try to calm yourself, the more quickly the panic rises. In my case, I feel like such an idiot that it stimulates the tear ducts. So. There I was. On the side of the mountain, clinging to the cliff, crying, gasping for air for now two reasons, while people passed me by. It was humiliating.
Fear. There are many reasons we encounter it. By far, the worst is when we feel unable to control what causes it or have a resolution for the situations that inspire it. Just this past week, I received news that again made me experience fear. Full-blown. Struggle-to-breathe fear. I sat in my car and gasped for air as panic rose in my throat, cutting off my airway. My reaction was instinctive because I felt I had no control.
I do not think it is a coincidence that in Scripture fear is discussed multiple times. We are encouraged not to fear. We are encouraged to know God is near to us. There is much to fear. People. Experiences. Loss. Tragedy. I'll just say it...haunted houses. The reasons for fear are ever present, but I have no greater consolation than the fact that Jesus walked this earth and understands my fear. He understands that the actions of others cause me fear. He understands it is difficult to get past the fear and pain of past experiences. And he says....trust me. I understand your fears, but I also see the end and everything in between. And my greatest promise is this...and, lo, I am with you, Angela, even to the end of the age....
Now, I have been to some haunted houses in my day. To young adult males it seems like the perfect fall outing. The logic might go something like this..."If I take this young lady out to a scary place, she'll instinctively cling to me in reaction to the fear she feels." Men are naturally protective, so in addition to the thrill in the young teenaged heart at being close to another, there is also the validation of manhood. Of protection. In my case, however, it does not behoove a young man to take me to a haunted house. My experience will be one of stark reality and not as an outsider looking in on fearful proceedings. I would make you go first, potentially I would cling to you, but I will be closing my eyes while you drag me through seven floors of terror. Your reward for such amazing physical stamina will either be a good smack or the silent treatment for having such a stupid idea. Save your money and let's eat pizza.
Fear.
Out of all the emotions, fear might be the most powerful. Fear is often even stronger than love. It motivates. It warps. It catalyzes. It cripples.
I have a fear of heights that seems to have increased as I age. On my recent vacation, I hiked up a mountain trail that winds always upward, always right near the edge of the cliff. Friends, I barely made it. Sheer panic overtook me at every turn. The tickle in your throat that becomes a full blown inability to breathe clearly. It's crippling. The more you try to calm yourself, the more quickly the panic rises. In my case, I feel like such an idiot that it stimulates the tear ducts. So. There I was. On the side of the mountain, clinging to the cliff, crying, gasping for air for now two reasons, while people passed me by. It was humiliating.
Fear. There are many reasons we encounter it. By far, the worst is when we feel unable to control what causes it or have a resolution for the situations that inspire it. Just this past week, I received news that again made me experience fear. Full-blown. Struggle-to-breathe fear. I sat in my car and gasped for air as panic rose in my throat, cutting off my airway. My reaction was instinctive because I felt I had no control.
I do not think it is a coincidence that in Scripture fear is discussed multiple times. We are encouraged not to fear. We are encouraged to know God is near to us. There is much to fear. People. Experiences. Loss. Tragedy. I'll just say it...haunted houses. The reasons for fear are ever present, but I have no greater consolation than the fact that Jesus walked this earth and understands my fear. He understands that the actions of others cause me fear. He understands it is difficult to get past the fear and pain of past experiences. And he says....trust me. I understand your fears, but I also see the end and everything in between. And my greatest promise is this...and, lo, I am with you, Angela, even to the end of the age....
Tuesday, September 6, 2016
Uniquely Gifted
I am uniquely gifted, you guys. I hope you are listening closely. I have the rare gift of brilliant, shiny, stubborn independence. Take note here. I would rather die than ask for assistance of any kind. Do not help me. I do not want your help. I have all the things under control. All the time.
I did think about learning my lesson one time...
In the fall of 2009, Ryan was slated for a twelve month deployment to Iraq. Aaron was not quite two years old, and he still rather refused to sleep through all the nights. One particular night in early October, I was returning him to his bed without the assistance of light for my path. I thought I was on the landing and firmly planted my right foot, but unfortunately I was midstep on the stair and started to trip. I quickly turned my body so I wouldn't fall directly on my son and together we fell to the landing. I instantly knew something was not right. Pain. In my right foot. Instant nausea. Aaron, smartly, ran off to bed while I proceeded to roll around on the floor for awhile like all reasonable people do at 0300. I then painfully, gingerly, hobbled/crawled back to bed. Later that morning we would find out that I had my first broken bone.
Ryan left us 7 days later.
Now. What is a single mother of two children under the age of four going to do in a multi level house with no relatives and a broken foot?
If you answered - "Go crazy." Yes. Certainly that is quite right, quite right.
If you answered - "Cry." Certainly tears were shed over the situation.
If you answered - "Ask for help." I'm going to have to go ahead and give a thumbs down on that one.
I asked the doctor for a special shoe so that I could drive the short distance to the store for groceries. He wasn't keen but he acquiesced. He said I needed to use my left foot for both pedals. Hum, quite a conundrum if you've never tried it.
I parked myself on the middle level for sleeping.
I bought a stool on wheels from Harbor Freight to support my right knee and zipped around the main floor which housed the kitchen, laundry room, the boys' bedrooms and a full bathroom.
I decided absolutely unequivocally I would proceed to potty train Aaron because I have strict, very strict, rules about waiting a day past 24 months to begin. Oh. Mylanta. Aaron's will is almost as strong as my own. (Hence why you do not wait past 24 months because children know it is a battle of wills at this point rather than simply accepting the fact that humans void on a toilet and not in our pants.) I chased that naked-from-the-waist down boy all over the place while he gleefully left a trail of pee for me to roll through; simultaneously, unbeknownst to me, Noah sprayed Pledge all over the kitchen floor.
Do you know how slippery that might possibly be?
Yeah. Me neither.
Until I sailed after Aaron, crutches tap tapping.
Crutches went opposite directions. Stool continued without me. Ohmaword. Just. Ohmaword.
(But. That boy was fully trained in two weeks time and we never had to look back.)
A few days later it was the first of the trash days. Now. Our house sat lower than the street which means the bin would have to go uphill. In hindsight, I would have definitely attempted this under cover of night but that is what got us in this mess to begin with. I can only imagine the field day the neighbors had watching this. Popcorn for ten.
I contemplated the stool, the bin, the crutches.
Strategy locked and loaded.
Attempt #1 - terrible.
Logistics are not a strength. Duly noted.
Attempt #2
As I approach the incline, I realize that I can't actually push the bin, while using the stool and one crutch. It would have to be a pulling strategy. But how to propel myself forward while balancing and pulling the bin at a tipping level but not too low....
Lost the bin. Fail.
Sit down on the hill. Rethink my life to this point.
I will not be bested.
I reclaim the bin and contents and drag that puppy up like a boss. And when I say "boss" I mean like an angry, stool-less, crutch-less rabbit hopping on one leg. Bless it.
I will leave out the part of the story where next all three of us got the flu.... Vomit. Lots of it. Pee. Gnashing of teeth. Double bless it.
I'd like to say I completely learned my lesson.
Ask for help. Accept help. And all the people said "Amen."
But, no, I'm still struggling. Still. Help me out, friends, wordlessly come alongside and just do what I'm doing. Hop, slide, chase. I'm not brave enough to ask you. You will have to be brave enough for the both of us.
I did think about learning my lesson one time...
In the fall of 2009, Ryan was slated for a twelve month deployment to Iraq. Aaron was not quite two years old, and he still rather refused to sleep through all the nights. One particular night in early October, I was returning him to his bed without the assistance of light for my path. I thought I was on the landing and firmly planted my right foot, but unfortunately I was midstep on the stair and started to trip. I quickly turned my body so I wouldn't fall directly on my son and together we fell to the landing. I instantly knew something was not right. Pain. In my right foot. Instant nausea. Aaron, smartly, ran off to bed while I proceeded to roll around on the floor for awhile like all reasonable people do at 0300. I then painfully, gingerly, hobbled/crawled back to bed. Later that morning we would find out that I had my first broken bone.
Ryan left us 7 days later.
Now. What is a single mother of two children under the age of four going to do in a multi level house with no relatives and a broken foot?
If you answered - "Go crazy." Yes. Certainly that is quite right, quite right.
If you answered - "Cry." Certainly tears were shed over the situation.
If you answered - "Ask for help." I'm going to have to go ahead and give a thumbs down on that one.
I asked the doctor for a special shoe so that I could drive the short distance to the store for groceries. He wasn't keen but he acquiesced. He said I needed to use my left foot for both pedals. Hum, quite a conundrum if you've never tried it.
I parked myself on the middle level for sleeping.
I bought a stool on wheels from Harbor Freight to support my right knee and zipped around the main floor which housed the kitchen, laundry room, the boys' bedrooms and a full bathroom.
I decided absolutely unequivocally I would proceed to potty train Aaron because I have strict, very strict, rules about waiting a day past 24 months to begin. Oh. Mylanta. Aaron's will is almost as strong as my own. (Hence why you do not wait past 24 months because children know it is a battle of wills at this point rather than simply accepting the fact that humans void on a toilet and not in our pants.) I chased that naked-from-the-waist down boy all over the place while he gleefully left a trail of pee for me to roll through; simultaneously, unbeknownst to me, Noah sprayed Pledge all over the kitchen floor.
Do you know how slippery that might possibly be?
Yeah. Me neither.
Until I sailed after Aaron, crutches tap tapping.
Crutches went opposite directions. Stool continued without me. Ohmaword. Just. Ohmaword.
(But. That boy was fully trained in two weeks time and we never had to look back.)
A few days later it was the first of the trash days. Now. Our house sat lower than the street which means the bin would have to go uphill. In hindsight, I would have definitely attempted this under cover of night but that is what got us in this mess to begin with. I can only imagine the field day the neighbors had watching this. Popcorn for ten.
I contemplated the stool, the bin, the crutches.
Strategy locked and loaded.
Attempt #1 - terrible.
Logistics are not a strength. Duly noted.
Attempt #2
As I approach the incline, I realize that I can't actually push the bin, while using the stool and one crutch. It would have to be a pulling strategy. But how to propel myself forward while balancing and pulling the bin at a tipping level but not too low....
Lost the bin. Fail.
Sit down on the hill. Rethink my life to this point.
I will not be bested.
I reclaim the bin and contents and drag that puppy up like a boss. And when I say "boss" I mean like an angry, stool-less, crutch-less rabbit hopping on one leg. Bless it.
I will leave out the part of the story where next all three of us got the flu.... Vomit. Lots of it. Pee. Gnashing of teeth. Double bless it.
I'd like to say I completely learned my lesson.
Ask for help. Accept help. And all the people said "Amen."
But, no, I'm still struggling. Still. Help me out, friends, wordlessly come alongside and just do what I'm doing. Hop, slide, chase. I'm not brave enough to ask you. You will have to be brave enough for the both of us.
Sunday, August 28, 2016
Sammy #ftw
As I'm doing my favorite thing, writing, this guy comes in to have a moment. I may or may not have held him captive for a photo op. Just like everyone else in this family, he does not like having his picture made. He's a newer member and so loved by us. We're cat peeps. Who knew?!
I Am...The Autumn Days
The last week of the summer is upon us. Can you feel the change coming? I can always feel it. Every season has a distinct moment when the old blends into the new, yet often we don't even notice that we have gracefully passed, like a partner in dance, from one to another. This is my favored transition, the gradual blend of the longest, warmest days to the crisp shorter ones, where one is able to nestle in a cocoon of cotton that soothes the soul from the inside out. Soul soothing defines these days.
There is a song I heard in childhood that correlates lifespan to seasons. In the seasons of my life, I can relate to the gentle fading from summer to autumn. It might be a long season, may it be so, but the change is coming. I'm so grateful for I never feel more alive than I do in autumn. I can be the autumn days. No problem. It's the joy of being comfortable with you. It's the peace that comes from established relationships. It's the love that you can give and receive encircling your heart.
A snippet of the lyrics....
"I am the Autumn days, when changes come so many ways. Looking back I stand amazed that time has gone so quickly. When love is more than feelings, it's fixing bikes and painting ceilings. When you feel a cold when coming, I am the Autumn days."
I'm looking forward to the week ahead. I'll regroup with my tribe. I'll see my beloved babies who are ever growing toward the summer phase. Many hugs will be distributed because in case you were not heretofore aware, a hug communicates a volume of information in silence. It communicates what cannot be voiced. It covers the hurting parts and strengthens the well parts. Hugs. Thumbs up. I digress.
As the week passes, and the calendar fills in, and we each neglect to notice that one, just one, moment when summer ends and autumn begins, I'll be thinking of what is ahead. How can I fade into, and write, the autumn chapter well?
The answer summed up. Stand amazed that time passes so quickly. Therefore. Love is more than feelings.
There is a song I heard in childhood that correlates lifespan to seasons. In the seasons of my life, I can relate to the gentle fading from summer to autumn. It might be a long season, may it be so, but the change is coming. I'm so grateful for I never feel more alive than I do in autumn. I can be the autumn days. No problem. It's the joy of being comfortable with you. It's the peace that comes from established relationships. It's the love that you can give and receive encircling your heart.
A snippet of the lyrics....
"I am the Autumn days, when changes come so many ways. Looking back I stand amazed that time has gone so quickly. When love is more than feelings, it's fixing bikes and painting ceilings. When you feel a cold when coming, I am the Autumn days."
I'm looking forward to the week ahead. I'll regroup with my tribe. I'll see my beloved babies who are ever growing toward the summer phase. Many hugs will be distributed because in case you were not heretofore aware, a hug communicates a volume of information in silence. It communicates what cannot be voiced. It covers the hurting parts and strengthens the well parts. Hugs. Thumbs up. I digress.
As the week passes, and the calendar fills in, and we each neglect to notice that one, just one, moment when summer ends and autumn begins, I'll be thinking of what is ahead. How can I fade into, and write, the autumn chapter well?
The answer summed up. Stand amazed that time passes so quickly. Therefore. Love is more than feelings.
Wednesday, August 24, 2016
Love: A Language
This might be what you look like when you are looking for inspiration. Or a friend.
Have you heard the theory that there are a few basic ways people give and receive love?
1) Physical Touch
2) Quality Time
3) Acts of Service
4) Gifts
5) Words of Affirmation
It is said that often we speak the language in which we would receive love. Which is amazing. Except the person we would like to shower with love might not understand or receive our gesture as love.
"Thanks so much for that blender, Lovie, but all I really wanted was for you to wash the dishes we already have..."
I think about it in relation to my spouse, my kids, my friends. I think about it in terms of myself. I do not think anyone in this house has the same primary love language which could add up to a mess of problems if we want to be well adjusted peeps. You should take a quick minute to think about these. Figure out which area makes you feel most appreciated or loved. Figure it out for the people around you. Start speaking love in ways they understand; it might make a big difference in your relationships!
Side note: You. Errrrr. May or may not find that you are an exclusively special person with all the needs and would fit into all the categories in all the hours of a day. And if you are this person, bless all the peeps who love you. Just bless. May God keep them in perfect peace. And give them long life. And energy.
Have you heard the theory that there are a few basic ways people give and receive love?
1) Physical Touch
2) Quality Time
3) Acts of Service
4) Gifts
5) Words of Affirmation
It is said that often we speak the language in which we would receive love. Which is amazing. Except the person we would like to shower with love might not understand or receive our gesture as love.
"Thanks so much for that blender, Lovie, but all I really wanted was for you to wash the dishes we already have..."
I think about it in relation to my spouse, my kids, my friends. I think about it in terms of myself. I do not think anyone in this house has the same primary love language which could add up to a mess of problems if we want to be well adjusted peeps. You should take a quick minute to think about these. Figure out which area makes you feel most appreciated or loved. Figure it out for the people around you. Start speaking love in ways they understand; it might make a big difference in your relationships!
Side note: You. Errrrr. May or may not find that you are an exclusively special person with all the needs and would fit into all the categories in all the hours of a day. And if you are this person, bless all the peeps who love you. Just bless. May God keep them in perfect peace. And give them long life. And energy.
Tuesday, August 23, 2016
Time
It's a gorgeous day in New York. It's a good day to be sitting, comfortably, in my kitchen, drinking a cup of coffee and looking at the trees. I'm also looking at my drying and yellowing tomato and pepper plants, thinking, "This season is just about over."
I had a goal this year. A goal to live intentionally. To live with thought and purpose, specifically regarding my family and friends. I considered, in January, the passing of time. How does it go so quickly? And when you are gone, does anyone even know you were here? In light of this, what matters most?
Living with purpose.
Such a noble goal.
Despite my best laid plans, I faltered. I did do some good things. I made good effort. But in review, I fell short. I let the chaos in. I let in life stresses. I let it disrupt my family. I did not even come close to maintaining an appropriate life balance, because while I was stripping myself down to the bone to deliver for everyone, I was unable to be fully engaged in any one task for either side. I'm still feeling the effects of that poor choice. Internally I feel like my tomato plants look. Spent. And I am ashamed. If I were to meet Jesus tonight, in my dirty bare feet, and not my Christmas shoes, I wouldn't be very proud of the last weeks of my life.
Live intentionally.
With thought and purpose.
I'm thinking about my long-term goals. Where I might see myself in 5 years. What I might be doing. But, mostly, I'm thinking about these next several weeks. I'm going to the movies, and dinner, with my husband. I will tell him his support and hard work do not go unnoticed. I'm going to smother him in hugs as is the right of every wife. Soon, I'm going to smother my kids in kisses and hugs. I will watch as they head off to the 5th and 3rd grades. I will embrace the practicing of the Saxophone in my house. I will sit in the rain at soccer. I will play all the games of Uno. I will meet that acquaintance for coffee. Or a movie. Friendship is a gift.
This is the here and now, and I can do nothing greater than fully invest in the lives of those around me.
Live intentionally. With thought and purpose. Friends. The time passes so quickly.
I had a goal this year. A goal to live intentionally. To live with thought and purpose, specifically regarding my family and friends. I considered, in January, the passing of time. How does it go so quickly? And when you are gone, does anyone even know you were here? In light of this, what matters most?
Living with purpose.
Such a noble goal.
Despite my best laid plans, I faltered. I did do some good things. I made good effort. But in review, I fell short. I let the chaos in. I let in life stresses. I let it disrupt my family. I did not even come close to maintaining an appropriate life balance, because while I was stripping myself down to the bone to deliver for everyone, I was unable to be fully engaged in any one task for either side. I'm still feeling the effects of that poor choice. Internally I feel like my tomato plants look. Spent. And I am ashamed. If I were to meet Jesus tonight, in my dirty bare feet, and not my Christmas shoes, I wouldn't be very proud of the last weeks of my life.
Live intentionally.
With thought and purpose.
I'm thinking about my long-term goals. Where I might see myself in 5 years. What I might be doing. But, mostly, I'm thinking about these next several weeks. I'm going to the movies, and dinner, with my husband. I will tell him his support and hard work do not go unnoticed. I'm going to smother him in hugs as is the right of every wife. Soon, I'm going to smother my kids in kisses and hugs. I will watch as they head off to the 5th and 3rd grades. I will embrace the practicing of the Saxophone in my house. I will sit in the rain at soccer. I will play all the games of Uno. I will meet that acquaintance for coffee. Or a movie. Friendship is a gift.
This is the here and now, and I can do nothing greater than fully invest in the lives of those around me.
Live intentionally. With thought and purpose. Friends. The time passes so quickly.
Thursday, August 18, 2016
Dear Ang
In honor of my big brother turning 40 today, it would seem there is time and purpose to reminisce. And I think I would pen a letter to myself...
Dear Ang,
I can tell you that you are currently in a place you would never expect to live. It's not space, but sometimes it feels as foreign to you as that might be. You struggle to breathe here, but in due time, you are thriving.
What are the things I would tell you...
Henry the Second will be your most favorite car. Enjoy all the moments, road trips, and window smashings you will encounter. (Because apparently everyone else knows Henry rocks, too.)
When you become a mother, do ONLY what YOU want, and can, do. Do not listen, nor often seek, the advice of others. At least not until your kids hit the elementary years. Before that it's anybody's guess and your guess is just as good as the next guy, if not better. ☺
Higher education is a great avenue for success and an admirable achievement. It will, however, never define the person you are. Remember that when you compare yourself to others. For the next 20 years. You are going to be SUPER proud of that associates degree. 👍
Your life will not be anything like you imagined, and it will shape you to be strong and independent. Relish every difficult moment. You will not believe this for years to come, but, emotional or not, you are fierce. Truly. And sassy.
Most importantly, Ang, know that forgiveness will be one of your toughest lifelong battles. You know it today, and twenty years from now, it is not any better. Because everything is personal, it is hard to suture the wounds. Some people absolutely mean to harm you. And they will. But some people will hurt you as a byproduct. Do not be stubborn. Do NOT be stubborn. Be humble. Give grace. Be merciful. You will never be like Jesus with that strong will of yours... He knew how to be a rebel appropriately. You do not. 😂 Be moldable. Be gentle. FORGIVE. Let go. Today. And everyday.
You are in for a treat - you have two amazing children, a devoted husband, and friends from here-to-there who love your whole heart, despite your many flaws. You have been given beauty for ashes.
Love,
Ang
Dear Ang,
I can tell you that you are currently in a place you would never expect to live. It's not space, but sometimes it feels as foreign to you as that might be. You struggle to breathe here, but in due time, you are thriving.
What are the things I would tell you...
Henry the Second will be your most favorite car. Enjoy all the moments, road trips, and window smashings you will encounter. (Because apparently everyone else knows Henry rocks, too.)
When you become a mother, do ONLY what YOU want, and can, do. Do not listen, nor often seek, the advice of others. At least not until your kids hit the elementary years. Before that it's anybody's guess and your guess is just as good as the next guy, if not better. ☺
Higher education is a great avenue for success and an admirable achievement. It will, however, never define the person you are. Remember that when you compare yourself to others. For the next 20 years. You are going to be SUPER proud of that associates degree. 👍
Your life will not be anything like you imagined, and it will shape you to be strong and independent. Relish every difficult moment. You will not believe this for years to come, but, emotional or not, you are fierce. Truly. And sassy.
Most importantly, Ang, know that forgiveness will be one of your toughest lifelong battles. You know it today, and twenty years from now, it is not any better. Because everything is personal, it is hard to suture the wounds. Some people absolutely mean to harm you. And they will. But some people will hurt you as a byproduct. Do not be stubborn. Do NOT be stubborn. Be humble. Give grace. Be merciful. You will never be like Jesus with that strong will of yours... He knew how to be a rebel appropriately. You do not. 😂 Be moldable. Be gentle. FORGIVE. Let go. Today. And everyday.
You are in for a treat - you have two amazing children, a devoted husband, and friends from here-to-there who love your whole heart, despite your many flaws. You have been given beauty for ashes.
Love,
Ang
Wednesday, August 17, 2016
October Memories
Today I'm going to write about one of my chapters, one of the difficult ones. In retrospect there would be much that I would do differently, but, of course we are not blessed with the gift of hindsight in the present tense.
It was a beautiful October day. Can I tell you that October is my favorite month of the year? I actually might be satisfied if every day would begin crisply and slowly fade to balmy sunshine. Perhaps heaven will forever be colored and temperate as a desirable October day. On this particular morning, I was in the early stages of labor with my second son. My water broke 24 hours earlier and since contractions never started, pitocin was administered. I can assure you that if you never encountered pitocin, you are likely better off.
Ryan and I had been in Utah for a year and personal connections were difficult to come by. Noah was a day away from turning 2 and Ryan was at home keeping watch and attempting to find a suitable sitter. Labor, just like pregnancy, was not at all similar the second time as the first. My doctor was on vacation so a doctor I never met showed up around 0830 to say "hello" before proceeding to the office. I remember thinking, "Seriously, how on earth do you expect me to carry on a normal conversation when I can barely breathe right now?" He asked why I was alone and I explained Ryan would be coming soon, and he assured me they would call him when it was time and he'd be on his way. Dude. Whatever. Be gone because I can't even right now...
Labor progressed so.much.more.quickly this time. I see absolutely no reason to be a hero and had requested medical intervention, but, alas, anesthesiologists are in high demand. A nurse arrived to inquire on my status. Finding me shaking, teeth chattering, and shivering from head to toe, she asked if I was cold to which I responded, "no." She told the student nurse this was a sign I was transitioning, then asked why I was alone and if there was anyone she could call, to which I again responded, "no." She assured me I was doing fine,the medical Savior would be on his way, and promptly left the room. I wanted my mother, and my husband, so desperately in that moment. It wouldn't be the last time that day either.
Ryan arrived in time for the saving medical procedure. I cannot fully explain the instaneous relief it was to go from intense, painful, full body convulsions, to...peace. Maybe this is why people do drugs. Seriously. Ohmaword. Amazing. Fifteen minutes later the nurse was shocked to report I was ready to roll... I was discouraged because sleep sounded so much better, but then it was announced that the doctor was still at his office which bought me 45 minutes of peace. The only peace I would have for the rest of the day.
Aaron Michael made his entrance so quickly. A bolt of energy which is characteristic to this day. It didn't take long to see they were not pleased with my son. They allowed me a quick glance, and began to assess his vitals. "He is fine, but just having a little trouble breathing so we will send him down to the nursery" was the response I received moments later. Ryan was clearly conflicted as to where his allegiance should be. I absolutely did not want Aaron to be alone and told him he must go with them. The medical staff did all the necessary things and left the room. I laid there, alone, feeling my body return to normal. I wanted someone. I wanted my child. I wanted my mother. I wanted my husband. It felt so empty to give birth and be left in the same space, viewing the aftermath... With nothing.
The nurses returned, helped me to get up, and took me to the maternity ward. I passed the nursery on the way but I could see nothing. They helped me into bed, much like a brokenhearted child, and made their exit. Still I waited. Alone. Looking out the window at the gorgeous multi colored tree. I made all the calls, which felt hollow, it felt surreal to announce a birth that was possibly questionable. I kept telling everyone the baby would be fine. Right? Just a little trouble breathing. Right? Breathing is not essential to life. Just a minor detail. It would be two, very long, very lonely, hours before Ryan returned with the news that it didn't look good and they were admitting our son.
In the coming hours we would learn that Aaron had pneumonia. They were treating him with antibiotics. I did not lay eyes on my new son for twenty-four hours. Twenty-four. Hours. It would be seventy two before I could hold him. Can you imagine a mother's heart at this point? A mother wants to look at her child. A mother wants to hold her child. To be denied the right to do so is to deny breath. Aaron spent two, physically and emotionally draining, expensive, weeks in the NICU. Many nights I wanted to pull out all the cords, and carry my child home like every mother is supposed to do. Many, many gut wrenching, tearful nights. The NICU is an emotional journey. It never goes straight from sick to well. More like, "sick" to "better" to "more sick" to "amazing" to "terrible" to "sick." I had to commit my son to the One who loves him more than I do. I had to trust He would hold him when I could not. No. Easy. Task. My mommy heart still feels the pings of all those lonely, uncertain hours. I hate that the birth of my child is forever shrouded in those painful memories. It should have been joyful. With lots of people to celebrate. It should have been filled with love and support and balloons.
Today I would have done things a little differently. I would have made more demands. I would not have been as passive. But the truth is, I see how this event greatly helped to shape my independence. Something I would need in the coming years. Something I am still proud to have. My baby son is none the worse for wear despite the less than ideal circumstances surrounding his arrival. In fact, he might be stronger because of it. Because nobody puts baby in a corner. Nobody.
It was a beautiful October day. Can I tell you that October is my favorite month of the year? I actually might be satisfied if every day would begin crisply and slowly fade to balmy sunshine. Perhaps heaven will forever be colored and temperate as a desirable October day. On this particular morning, I was in the early stages of labor with my second son. My water broke 24 hours earlier and since contractions never started, pitocin was administered. I can assure you that if you never encountered pitocin, you are likely better off.
Ryan and I had been in Utah for a year and personal connections were difficult to come by. Noah was a day away from turning 2 and Ryan was at home keeping watch and attempting to find a suitable sitter. Labor, just like pregnancy, was not at all similar the second time as the first. My doctor was on vacation so a doctor I never met showed up around 0830 to say "hello" before proceeding to the office. I remember thinking, "Seriously, how on earth do you expect me to carry on a normal conversation when I can barely breathe right now?" He asked why I was alone and I explained Ryan would be coming soon, and he assured me they would call him when it was time and he'd be on his way. Dude. Whatever. Be gone because I can't even right now...
Labor progressed so.much.more.quickly this time. I see absolutely no reason to be a hero and had requested medical intervention, but, alas, anesthesiologists are in high demand. A nurse arrived to inquire on my status. Finding me shaking, teeth chattering, and shivering from head to toe, she asked if I was cold to which I responded, "no." She told the student nurse this was a sign I was transitioning, then asked why I was alone and if there was anyone she could call, to which I again responded, "no." She assured me I was doing fine,the medical Savior would be on his way, and promptly left the room. I wanted my mother, and my husband, so desperately in that moment. It wouldn't be the last time that day either.
Ryan arrived in time for the saving medical procedure. I cannot fully explain the instaneous relief it was to go from intense, painful, full body convulsions, to...peace. Maybe this is why people do drugs. Seriously. Ohmaword. Amazing. Fifteen minutes later the nurse was shocked to report I was ready to roll... I was discouraged because sleep sounded so much better, but then it was announced that the doctor was still at his office which bought me 45 minutes of peace. The only peace I would have for the rest of the day.
Aaron Michael made his entrance so quickly. A bolt of energy which is characteristic to this day. It didn't take long to see they were not pleased with my son. They allowed me a quick glance, and began to assess his vitals. "He is fine, but just having a little trouble breathing so we will send him down to the nursery" was the response I received moments later. Ryan was clearly conflicted as to where his allegiance should be. I absolutely did not want Aaron to be alone and told him he must go with them. The medical staff did all the necessary things and left the room. I laid there, alone, feeling my body return to normal. I wanted someone. I wanted my child. I wanted my mother. I wanted my husband. It felt so empty to give birth and be left in the same space, viewing the aftermath... With nothing.
The nurses returned, helped me to get up, and took me to the maternity ward. I passed the nursery on the way but I could see nothing. They helped me into bed, much like a brokenhearted child, and made their exit. Still I waited. Alone. Looking out the window at the gorgeous multi colored tree. I made all the calls, which felt hollow, it felt surreal to announce a birth that was possibly questionable. I kept telling everyone the baby would be fine. Right? Just a little trouble breathing. Right? Breathing is not essential to life. Just a minor detail. It would be two, very long, very lonely, hours before Ryan returned with the news that it didn't look good and they were admitting our son.
In the coming hours we would learn that Aaron had pneumonia. They were treating him with antibiotics. I did not lay eyes on my new son for twenty-four hours. Twenty-four. Hours. It would be seventy two before I could hold him. Can you imagine a mother's heart at this point? A mother wants to look at her child. A mother wants to hold her child. To be denied the right to do so is to deny breath. Aaron spent two, physically and emotionally draining, expensive, weeks in the NICU. Many nights I wanted to pull out all the cords, and carry my child home like every mother is supposed to do. Many, many gut wrenching, tearful nights. The NICU is an emotional journey. It never goes straight from sick to well. More like, "sick" to "better" to "more sick" to "amazing" to "terrible" to "sick." I had to commit my son to the One who loves him more than I do. I had to trust He would hold him when I could not. No. Easy. Task. My mommy heart still feels the pings of all those lonely, uncertain hours. I hate that the birth of my child is forever shrouded in those painful memories. It should have been joyful. With lots of people to celebrate. It should have been filled with love and support and balloons.
Today I would have done things a little differently. I would have made more demands. I would not have been as passive. But the truth is, I see how this event greatly helped to shape my independence. Something I would need in the coming years. Something I am still proud to have. My baby son is none the worse for wear despite the less than ideal circumstances surrounding his arrival. In fact, he might be stronger because of it. Because nobody puts baby in a corner. Nobody.
Friday, August 12, 2016
I Think I've Made A Mistake
Mistakes. We all make them. We hurt the people that we love. We hurt ourselves. Life is full of moments of mess. Of navigating the unpleasant waters. I currently find myself in such a place.
I recently was presented with a situation, an opportunity, as I saw it,to be a resolution. I am definitely a female, sharing very,very few characteristics with the male gender, except this one, I like solving problems. I want to fix all the situations. I am an observer, and as previously stated, an excellent reader of people. I read emotions, faces, motives, and put together the puzzle behind the puzzle. I'm fascinated with the "why" of action and how that contributes to the whole. I'm fascinated with people. Plain and simple. Pair this fascination with pride, and problem solving, and you could take on the world.
In my quest for world domination, I think I might have been too proud to see one truth, as it relates to this situation. I am not always the one. The "if you could just see what the work of my hands will produce and then you will know I am right for the job" person... I have long, long, long been an over extender, saying "yes" to all the committees and projects, because surely everyone can benefit from all my wealth of expertise. I know, right? It is difficult to strip away the layers and find the truth. It is difficult, always, to admit fault. Specifically when you desire perfection. But in this place, we are being real. We are being transparent. So, friends, I see, so clearly, today, that I am not the resolution. It hurts. It hurts my pride, but mostly it hurts my heart.
What do you do? When you find yourself in the unpleasant situation of...I've made a mistake... The more difficult task is here. The road is hardest when your heart hurts, your pride stings, and you must admit that you were wrong. We celebrate warriors for hard won victories. We champion those who never give up. We repeat these mantras to ourselves as we #die to win at life. But in the quiet spaces, we can see the character that is established when warriors can be humble. Surrender requires more strength than brawn. Than self righteous pride. It is so.much.harder to give voice to the statement...I am not the one. The glory belongs to another. I did not, or can not, do the right things.
Life is full of moments of mess, yes, but these are the quiet spaces, the spaces where we are strong.
Humility is hard won, but rarely sought. What a shame.
I recently was presented with a situation, an opportunity, as I saw it,to be a resolution. I am definitely a female, sharing very,very few characteristics with the male gender, except this one, I like solving problems. I want to fix all the situations. I am an observer, and as previously stated, an excellent reader of people. I read emotions, faces, motives, and put together the puzzle behind the puzzle. I'm fascinated with the "why" of action and how that contributes to the whole. I'm fascinated with people. Plain and simple. Pair this fascination with pride, and problem solving, and you could take on the world.
In my quest for world domination, I think I might have been too proud to see one truth, as it relates to this situation. I am not always the one. The "if you could just see what the work of my hands will produce and then you will know I am right for the job" person... I have long, long, long been an over extender, saying "yes" to all the committees and projects, because surely everyone can benefit from all my wealth of expertise. I know, right? It is difficult to strip away the layers and find the truth. It is difficult, always, to admit fault. Specifically when you desire perfection. But in this place, we are being real. We are being transparent. So, friends, I see, so clearly, today, that I am not the resolution. It hurts. It hurts my pride, but mostly it hurts my heart.
What do you do? When you find yourself in the unpleasant situation of...I've made a mistake... The more difficult task is here. The road is hardest when your heart hurts, your pride stings, and you must admit that you were wrong. We celebrate warriors for hard won victories. We champion those who never give up. We repeat these mantras to ourselves as we #die to win at life. But in the quiet spaces, we can see the character that is established when warriors can be humble. Surrender requires more strength than brawn. Than self righteous pride. It is so.much.harder to give voice to the statement...I am not the one. The glory belongs to another. I did not, or can not, do the right things.
Life is full of moments of mess, yes, but these are the quiet spaces, the spaces where we are strong.
Humility is hard won, but rarely sought. What a shame.
Tuesday, August 9, 2016
Leaving On A Jet Plane
It's the last day of vacation. I'm doing laundry, which is definitely indicative of a return to reality. I've taken off that ragged baggage tag in preparation for a new one. It's always been interesting to me how airports are bittersweet. One direction is exciting and one way, not so much. The same is true of baggage tags. I was so glad to see that last baggage tag go on and now I rather dread seeing the next one applied. It means a small,but precious period of time has come to a close.
One thing I have learned over the last few days is that time is a great big plow. In its wake it leaves many things upturned and the sun, rain, and seasons bake, grow and shape our lives. It has been somewhat painful to see. It reminds me that we can never return to the former things. And if we are honest, that is usually a good thing. The best part, though, in observing what time has wrought is what remains. After seasons of grief, joy, loneliness, happiness, helplessness, pain... Love. Love is what remains. I love, and am loved, just as much now, as then. I see that I will always have these friends. Time change. Distance. Life. These keep us from constant interaction. But when we make the effort to reconnect, the bonds remain. It's amazing to see.
I'm dreading the goodbyes that come today and tomorrow. I brought my sunglasses and scarf just for this purpose.
FYI - when you are on a plane, and your heart is full of grief, your sunglasses and scarf will bring you comfort. You will care not about the people around you. Your eyes and nose will rain tears and snot. You will be a big, unattractive mess, but these things will ease this dark passage. I recommend them for every journey you take that will end in heartache.
Friends, as I sit here in these few quiet moments, looking at the phenomenal mountains my God made, and consider the hours ahead... My heart aches. Just. aches. I don't know when next I will see these dear-to-me faces. What I do know is this. You should give your heart away. In huge chunks. Reach out. Today. Invite people into your home. Invite people into your life. Give love. Give lots of love. You will never be sorry. The cost is great. For sure. No matter how the story ends, though, the journey through is precious, and paved with very good things. And, more often than not I believe, you will find yourself a treasure - friendship. Guard it well. Water it. And the joy and pain will follow you all the days of your life.
Worth it. Worth every minute.
One thing I have learned over the last few days is that time is a great big plow. In its wake it leaves many things upturned and the sun, rain, and seasons bake, grow and shape our lives. It has been somewhat painful to see. It reminds me that we can never return to the former things. And if we are honest, that is usually a good thing. The best part, though, in observing what time has wrought is what remains. After seasons of grief, joy, loneliness, happiness, helplessness, pain... Love. Love is what remains. I love, and am loved, just as much now, as then. I see that I will always have these friends. Time change. Distance. Life. These keep us from constant interaction. But when we make the effort to reconnect, the bonds remain. It's amazing to see.
I'm dreading the goodbyes that come today and tomorrow. I brought my sunglasses and scarf just for this purpose.
FYI - when you are on a plane, and your heart is full of grief, your sunglasses and scarf will bring you comfort. You will care not about the people around you. Your eyes and nose will rain tears and snot. You will be a big, unattractive mess, but these things will ease this dark passage. I recommend them for every journey you take that will end in heartache.
Friends, as I sit here in these few quiet moments, looking at the phenomenal mountains my God made, and consider the hours ahead... My heart aches. Just. aches. I don't know when next I will see these dear-to-me faces. What I do know is this. You should give your heart away. In huge chunks. Reach out. Today. Invite people into your home. Invite people into your life. Give love. Give lots of love. You will never be sorry. The cost is great. For sure. No matter how the story ends, though, the journey through is precious, and paved with very good things. And, more often than not I believe, you will find yourself a treasure - friendship. Guard it well. Water it. And the joy and pain will follow you all the days of your life.
Worth it. Worth every minute.
Thursday, August 4, 2016
I Know Exactly Who I Am
I'm taking a big trip soon. I'm revisiting an old season and it has me very excited, yet extremely pensive. And not one bit nervous. This old season began just exactly ten years ago, give 10 days. Oh, to look back that far, friends, it makes me cringe. In big, big ways. The Angela of today is not the Angela of then. Thank goodness! (God bless you, Ryan.)
Aging requires a great deal of grace. It isn't easy to find yourself going through physical, perhaps some mental, changes. No one particularly desires to lose the ability to read a book without visual aid. I haven't progressed to the point where I have encountered many negative physical changes, except for this cursed "tennis elbow" that might cause me to drop a precious plate of fried chicken. (Say it isn't so!) What I absolutely love most about the aging process is the myriad experiences that sharpen wit, increase courage, leverage focus, and develop self.
This is exactly what the 30s decade looks like. Finding self. It's not an easy process to look at all the facets of your life - your body, your personality, your past, your present, your feelings, your family, your abilities, your faults - and acknowledge. Acknowledge the good things. Acknowledge the bad things. Name the things you like. Face the things you do not like. Honestly, I do not think you can begin this process any earlier, because, experience is the catalyst for maturation. Maturation is the key for accepting self.
To quote a 90's-ish country song...(because three quarters of my heart will always belong to Reba, George, Colin, Jo Dee, Tim, Martina, Kenny, Deanna......)
I know exactly who I am.
More importantly, I really like, and accept, who I am, which is the harder distinction of the two. Angela from ten years ago...errr...not so much.
I can tell you that very recently at 36.5 years of age, I have declared that I only like my eggs boiled or over hard. Not scrambled. Not runny. Gooey eggs make me gag. There. I said it.
I will never ever be the person who drinks the spinach shakes and climbs mountains. I have not the slightest interest in pursuing either of those available options, yet I have never in my life experienced more confidence in the person that I am, in appearance, more than I do today. I will do my best to periodically lay off the chips and salsa...but Chili's for realz with the rewards and bottomless spicy goodness.... For the love.
Reading has been my gateway for life and I hope it always will be.
Expressing myself through writing is an amazing outlet for such an emotionally driven person - I feel certain I should have been doing this much sooner. I love it. Words flow so easily and naturally for me, unlike many other pursuits.
I am very cognizant of my abilities and my faults, which, incidentally, I think everyone should be; but, because I am a perfectionist, I choose to see my faults so much more vividly.
I hate for people to see me cry. Just. Hate. It. I prefer to do all my bawling in private, so if you ever see me crying, please don't ask, please don't hug, please don't chase me down, act like you see nothing and move on. I will not be able to get a grip until you stop saying all the words of care and concern. Yesterday, when I had given up the ghost, and cried every 8 minutes in front of all the peoole of all the worlds, I sat in the restaraunt across from Ryan and let the tears fall, unchecked, which I never do unless I'm completely alone, and Ryan said this to me, "You pick up on all the emotions and words from the people around you, and you take that on yourself, you take everything that comes your way so personally. And that makes you a good person. You are a good person." I'm not sure about the last statements, but, yes. Just yes. I read people very well. This is a total final summation of me. Emotions. Words.
When I go on this trip, and revisit this old season, I will be a very different person than the person who left. And that is a good thing. I'm not nervous because the people to whom I return love me deeply. Bless them. Bless them for seeing something in me that I didn't. Because when I look back at me, I cringe. But when they look back at me, they see love.
I can't wait.
Aging requires a great deal of grace. It isn't easy to find yourself going through physical, perhaps some mental, changes. No one particularly desires to lose the ability to read a book without visual aid. I haven't progressed to the point where I have encountered many negative physical changes, except for this cursed "tennis elbow" that might cause me to drop a precious plate of fried chicken. (Say it isn't so!) What I absolutely love most about the aging process is the myriad experiences that sharpen wit, increase courage, leverage focus, and develop self.
This is exactly what the 30s decade looks like. Finding self. It's not an easy process to look at all the facets of your life - your body, your personality, your past, your present, your feelings, your family, your abilities, your faults - and acknowledge. Acknowledge the good things. Acknowledge the bad things. Name the things you like. Face the things you do not like. Honestly, I do not think you can begin this process any earlier, because, experience is the catalyst for maturation. Maturation is the key for accepting self.
To quote a 90's-ish country song...(because three quarters of my heart will always belong to Reba, George, Colin, Jo Dee, Tim, Martina, Kenny, Deanna......)
I know exactly who I am.
More importantly, I really like, and accept, who I am, which is the harder distinction of the two. Angela from ten years ago...errr...not so much.
I can tell you that very recently at 36.5 years of age, I have declared that I only like my eggs boiled or over hard. Not scrambled. Not runny. Gooey eggs make me gag. There. I said it.
I will never ever be the person who drinks the spinach shakes and climbs mountains. I have not the slightest interest in pursuing either of those available options, yet I have never in my life experienced more confidence in the person that I am, in appearance, more than I do today. I will do my best to periodically lay off the chips and salsa...but Chili's for realz with the rewards and bottomless spicy goodness.... For the love.
Reading has been my gateway for life and I hope it always will be.
Expressing myself through writing is an amazing outlet for such an emotionally driven person - I feel certain I should have been doing this much sooner. I love it. Words flow so easily and naturally for me, unlike many other pursuits.
I am very cognizant of my abilities and my faults, which, incidentally, I think everyone should be; but, because I am a perfectionist, I choose to see my faults so much more vividly.
I hate for people to see me cry. Just. Hate. It. I prefer to do all my bawling in private, so if you ever see me crying, please don't ask, please don't hug, please don't chase me down, act like you see nothing and move on. I will not be able to get a grip until you stop saying all the words of care and concern. Yesterday, when I had given up the ghost, and cried every 8 minutes in front of all the peoole of all the worlds, I sat in the restaraunt across from Ryan and let the tears fall, unchecked, which I never do unless I'm completely alone, and Ryan said this to me, "You pick up on all the emotions and words from the people around you, and you take that on yourself, you take everything that comes your way so personally. And that makes you a good person. You are a good person." I'm not sure about the last statements, but, yes. Just yes. I read people very well. This is a total final summation of me. Emotions. Words.
When I go on this trip, and revisit this old season, I will be a very different person than the person who left. And that is a good thing. I'm not nervous because the people to whom I return love me deeply. Bless them. Bless them for seeing something in me that I didn't. Because when I look back at me, I cringe. But when they look back at me, they see love.
I can't wait.
Tuesday, July 26, 2016
Death and tomatoes
I've been thinking about my Grandma lately. I always think about her in the summer. I picked my first tomato of the season this evening, and it smelled like 1989, and Ohio, and warm earth that squishes between your toes. Fresh tomatoes will always be Grandma. I grow mine with such pride and joy, even if they fail me, for to grow them is to blossom memories.
My Grandma was a strong, sassy lady. She was a farmer. A school bus driver. A dog lover. A floribunda fighter. A pyromaniac. She was amazing in the kitchen - I loved everything she made except scalloped potatoes. The only good potato, frankly, is a mashed one. My beloved Grandma died from cancer two years ago. Over and over it was said, she simply clings to life as one who does not want to die. She prayed for healing and I think she believed God would grant it to her. She wanted to stay. Even though she knew heaven would be amazing.
When you get the opportunity to wait for death to claim a loved one, your experience is much different than when death arrives unexpectedly. The grieving process begins much earlier, but does not lessen the pain of loss. You live in memories while the person is yet before you, but gradually, with certainty, slipping away. You have the chance to make all the plans, even get input from the person themselves on what they might desire for funeral arrangements. You possibly check off bucket list items. You go places. You talk. You cry. You say all the necessary words. You cry. You say all the words again. I don't think there is a process more physically, emotionally, and spiritually draining than waiting for death.
This is from the perspective of the living.
I always wonder just what is the perspective from the dying. Truly. What is it like to breathe your last? What parts of those final moments do you even understand? If it's painful, do you let go more quickly? If it's peaceful, do you linger a moment more to see the stars come out one last time?
We applaud those who make it back "from the brink." We call them heros - of what I'm not sure. You what, cheated death? No, you simply will face that spector another day. What indeed makes us fight so hard to stay here? To be heros? What reasons do we have to avoid death? One good reason might be fear of the unknown. Truly none of us know what it is to take that last breath. The door to that hallway is big and scary. We love big here. And leaving that behind is also enough to cause us deep pain. This life is good. Painful. And good. We do well to cling so tenaciously to such a gift.
My Grandma pointed me to Jesus, as a child, as an adult, and now in whose presence she is fully healed. She knows more joy today than she ever knew growing tomatoes. She has seen the nail prints that made it possible, and therefore, she now understands fully what love is. I can't imagine how the last two years have flown for her. Eternity is not something we can grasp. But eternity in beauty. In love. In joy. With the God who desires so much to be with us that He provided a story of redemption....
I have no doubt I will cling to this life with all my being when the time comes, because I love my babies, my friends, rain, trees... I hope it will not be painful because I know I would linger to watch the stars...
....and find myself in the presence of the One who created the stars. The One who calls me beloved. The One who traded his life for mine. The One to whom I owe a debt I can't pay.
And somewhere, I'm still so hopeful it will be on a big swing, under a big tree, my Grandma will be waiting to welcome me.
My Grandma was a strong, sassy lady. She was a farmer. A school bus driver. A dog lover. A floribunda fighter. A pyromaniac. She was amazing in the kitchen - I loved everything she made except scalloped potatoes. The only good potato, frankly, is a mashed one. My beloved Grandma died from cancer two years ago. Over and over it was said, she simply clings to life as one who does not want to die. She prayed for healing and I think she believed God would grant it to her. She wanted to stay. Even though she knew heaven would be amazing.
When you get the opportunity to wait for death to claim a loved one, your experience is much different than when death arrives unexpectedly. The grieving process begins much earlier, but does not lessen the pain of loss. You live in memories while the person is yet before you, but gradually, with certainty, slipping away. You have the chance to make all the plans, even get input from the person themselves on what they might desire for funeral arrangements. You possibly check off bucket list items. You go places. You talk. You cry. You say all the necessary words. You cry. You say all the words again. I don't think there is a process more physically, emotionally, and spiritually draining than waiting for death.
This is from the perspective of the living.
I always wonder just what is the perspective from the dying. Truly. What is it like to breathe your last? What parts of those final moments do you even understand? If it's painful, do you let go more quickly? If it's peaceful, do you linger a moment more to see the stars come out one last time?
We applaud those who make it back "from the brink." We call them heros - of what I'm not sure. You what, cheated death? No, you simply will face that spector another day. What indeed makes us fight so hard to stay here? To be heros? What reasons do we have to avoid death? One good reason might be fear of the unknown. Truly none of us know what it is to take that last breath. The door to that hallway is big and scary. We love big here. And leaving that behind is also enough to cause us deep pain. This life is good. Painful. And good. We do well to cling so tenaciously to such a gift.
My Grandma pointed me to Jesus, as a child, as an adult, and now in whose presence she is fully healed. She knows more joy today than she ever knew growing tomatoes. She has seen the nail prints that made it possible, and therefore, she now understands fully what love is. I can't imagine how the last two years have flown for her. Eternity is not something we can grasp. But eternity in beauty. In love. In joy. With the God who desires so much to be with us that He provided a story of redemption....
I have no doubt I will cling to this life with all my being when the time comes, because I love my babies, my friends, rain, trees... I hope it will not be painful because I know I would linger to watch the stars...
....and find myself in the presence of the One who created the stars. The One who calls me beloved. The One who traded his life for mine. The One to whom I owe a debt I can't pay.
And somewhere, I'm still so hopeful it will be on a big swing, under a big tree, my Grandma will be waiting to welcome me.
Friday, July 22, 2016
It's A Love Story
I thought my audience might enjoy a throw back post, if you will. A "get to know" read. Sit back and I'm going to share with you the intricate interworkings of all that mushy love stuff.
Ryan. Perhaps we should call him Big Friendly Giant - or as the movie says...BFG? Ryan came to me when I was 17, a college freshman, spending my days studying and selling the groceries to the hungry masses. Not long after I met this bag boy, I moved up to the east side, being promoted to the service desk, where I could better utilize my social skills and keep all those hungry people happy. I honestly do not remember much about those first months, but these are the two impressions I do remember: 1) Most importantly, this boy is a gigantic man-child. An extremely skinny, all legs, super sweet, ultra baby faced, boy. He did not look old enough to work legally. 2) When I would look out the office door and down the cashier line, Ryan would be bent over double grabbing the necessary coins for his customers, because the register drawer popped out at his knees. Truly. I can't make this stuff up.
Soon, he moved into my territory and I moved up to the cash office, virtually becoming his boss. Sorta. Literally. Whatever. We worked a lot of hours together, this man-child and me. I schooled him in the ways of getting those peeps their Pick 3 numbers before the cutoff time. I showed him how to sort and count cash like a drug lord. I was fast. But things at the office did not always go smoothly and, Ryan, that boy, he was very smart. Unbeknownst to me, because I'm pretty oblivious to this type of thing, Ryan had set his heart on pursuing me. He wooed me, Friends, with the hot mustard. McDonalds will rule forever because of hot mustard sauce. I don't care what you say. I had to yell at a few of these NY branches for discontinuing it..(Are you kidding me?! Its your business' only saving grace) Oh. It's back now...fyi. I digress. He brought me the nuggets and the hot mustard sauce at 2100 when I was so busy I couldn't take lunch..(this is a trend in my life). Little by little he worked his way into my heart, becoming my friend.
And such a good friend he was. Our relationship was always completely amiable. We never ran out of things to talk about. But. Let's be honest. That's probably because of me. He eventually went off to some military obligations and then moved south for college. Because I did not seem to return his deeper affection, he pursued other relationships and we didn't speak for a few months. I was on my way to give him what for on 9/11, but never made it. When I did make it, a few weeks later, I looked into the blue eyes of my best friend, and gave my heart away.
This October we will celebrate 12 years of marriage. We live everywhere. We're raising some crazies. We're doing life. He still brings me food to combat the hangries. I cannot hide ANYTHING from this man. And it's amazing. And frustrating. He gets me better than anyone. Anyone. And he still loves me. That is a gift; one not to ever be taken lightly.
I don't have the recipe for marital happiness. But I can tell you that love born from deep friendship is the best kind. When you take away the love drama, (there is always love drama), you are left with your best buddy who knows you need a case of 5th Avenue bars and a game of Scrabble to survive.
Ryan. Perhaps we should call him Big Friendly Giant - or as the movie says...BFG? Ryan came to me when I was 17, a college freshman, spending my days studying and selling the groceries to the hungry masses. Not long after I met this bag boy, I moved up to the east side, being promoted to the service desk, where I could better utilize my social skills and keep all those hungry people happy. I honestly do not remember much about those first months, but these are the two impressions I do remember: 1) Most importantly, this boy is a gigantic man-child. An extremely skinny, all legs, super sweet, ultra baby faced, boy. He did not look old enough to work legally. 2) When I would look out the office door and down the cashier line, Ryan would be bent over double grabbing the necessary coins for his customers, because the register drawer popped out at his knees. Truly. I can't make this stuff up.
Soon, he moved into my territory and I moved up to the cash office, virtually becoming his boss. Sorta. Literally. Whatever. We worked a lot of hours together, this man-child and me. I schooled him in the ways of getting those peeps their Pick 3 numbers before the cutoff time. I showed him how to sort and count cash like a drug lord. I was fast. But things at the office did not always go smoothly and, Ryan, that boy, he was very smart. Unbeknownst to me, because I'm pretty oblivious to this type of thing, Ryan had set his heart on pursuing me. He wooed me, Friends, with the hot mustard. McDonalds will rule forever because of hot mustard sauce. I don't care what you say. I had to yell at a few of these NY branches for discontinuing it..(Are you kidding me?! Its your business' only saving grace) Oh. It's back now...fyi. I digress. He brought me the nuggets and the hot mustard sauce at 2100 when I was so busy I couldn't take lunch..(this is a trend in my life). Little by little he worked his way into my heart, becoming my friend.
And such a good friend he was. Our relationship was always completely amiable. We never ran out of things to talk about. But. Let's be honest. That's probably because of me. He eventually went off to some military obligations and then moved south for college. Because I did not seem to return his deeper affection, he pursued other relationships and we didn't speak for a few months. I was on my way to give him what for on 9/11, but never made it. When I did make it, a few weeks later, I looked into the blue eyes of my best friend, and gave my heart away.
This October we will celebrate 12 years of marriage. We live everywhere. We're raising some crazies. We're doing life. He still brings me food to combat the hangries. I cannot hide ANYTHING from this man. And it's amazing. And frustrating. He gets me better than anyone. Anyone. And he still loves me. That is a gift; one not to ever be taken lightly.
I don't have the recipe for marital happiness. But I can tell you that love born from deep friendship is the best kind. When you take away the love drama, (there is always love drama), you are left with your best buddy who knows you need a case of 5th Avenue bars and a game of Scrabble to survive.
Monday, July 18, 2016
Chapters
This might be an unpopular post, but the subject matter is something that is near to my heart. It has been expressed to me on various occasions over the years that I lead a blessed and apparent "trouble free" life; and, while I am a very open person - there is not much information about myself that I would withhold - be assured there are things that I keep very close to my heart. I will not be sharing those today because it is not prudent to let everyone read all the chapters of a life. What you can know is that there are chapters that are dark and very painful. There are chapters that I would rip out in a heartbeat if I were but given the chance. Some chapters I wouldn't even know how title. Some are confusing and the ending that presented itself doesn't quite seem to make sense. Some are still being written and some, some are but a flick of the pen away from beginning. Life is full of chapters, seasons, of time. The book I'm writing has so many pages filled with experiences that define, and often, it is the painful ones that define the most.
It is about these painful chapters, in particular, that I would like to share today. So very, very often I see social media posts, notes, cards that like to share condensed "wisdom" meant to inspire and encourage, but instead, I feel it desensitizes us to the truth. For example, "God will never give you more than you can handle" of course gives the individual the pride of being strong, at least in the opinion of the person who is doling out the encouragement; the statement also suggests that God is purposefully assigning the situation and, frankly, neither of these things are true. God does not say anywhere that you will not have more than you can handle in this life, and while he allows painful things to happen in this world, and in our lives, every situation should not be viewed as a direct test. Bad things happen. It just is.
Here are some of the things that God does say....
In this world you will have trouble... (Mark this well, readers. People will shoot people. People will abuse people. Floods. Hurricanes. Not a bed of roses. Trouble. A direct statement.)
But the good news....
I have overcome the world...
When you are broken hearted, I am close to you...
I am the Father who comforts you in all your troubles...
As the great emoter of our time, the one who might have inspired an emoji, my personal favorite is this one...
One day (Angela), I will wipe away every tear from your eyes.
I have some hard, very painful chapters that I will reread for the rest of my life, dear friends. I know that each of you has the same. Let's be real about it. Let's not give out cheap (false) lines. Let's be honest. Bad things happen. All around us. Multiple times per day. But as they happen, let's take a moment to go on the journey - with ourselves, our neighbors, our friends - that long, often ugly, journey of coping. Let's not put a bandaid of "God gives the hardest battles to his strongest soldiers" (Say what?!) and carry on. Let's share life. Let's try to help one another bring some closure to those tough chapters. Most importantly, let's share truth. Always.
There is no greater truth than this: God's heart is for you, especially during the hard times, dear reader, even if you believe not, and with the empathy God has gifted me, mine is too.
It is about these painful chapters, in particular, that I would like to share today. So very, very often I see social media posts, notes, cards that like to share condensed "wisdom" meant to inspire and encourage, but instead, I feel it desensitizes us to the truth. For example, "God will never give you more than you can handle" of course gives the individual the pride of being strong, at least in the opinion of the person who is doling out the encouragement; the statement also suggests that God is purposefully assigning the situation and, frankly, neither of these things are true. God does not say anywhere that you will not have more than you can handle in this life, and while he allows painful things to happen in this world, and in our lives, every situation should not be viewed as a direct test. Bad things happen. It just is.
Here are some of the things that God does say....
In this world you will have trouble... (Mark this well, readers. People will shoot people. People will abuse people. Floods. Hurricanes. Not a bed of roses. Trouble. A direct statement.)
But the good news....
I have overcome the world...
When you are broken hearted, I am close to you...
I am the Father who comforts you in all your troubles...
As the great emoter of our time, the one who might have inspired an emoji, my personal favorite is this one...
One day (Angela), I will wipe away every tear from your eyes.
I have some hard, very painful chapters that I will reread for the rest of my life, dear friends. I know that each of you has the same. Let's be real about it. Let's not give out cheap (false) lines. Let's be honest. Bad things happen. All around us. Multiple times per day. But as they happen, let's take a moment to go on the journey - with ourselves, our neighbors, our friends - that long, often ugly, journey of coping. Let's not put a bandaid of "God gives the hardest battles to his strongest soldiers" (Say what?!) and carry on. Let's share life. Let's try to help one another bring some closure to those tough chapters. Most importantly, let's share truth. Always.
There is no greater truth than this: God's heart is for you, especially during the hard times, dear reader, even if you believe not, and with the empathy God has gifted me, mine is too.
Saturday, July 16, 2016
syncmyride
Are you familiar with Sync?
I drive a Ford Escape and love everything about it. It's big, but small, and roomy without increasing the overall size of the vehicle. In my frank opinion it is vehicular perfection and I am so happy I could get one. Here I will take a minute to remind everyone that I drove a Ford Expedition in Utah. That's right, an 8 passenger vehicle had me blending into my surroundings as all wall flowers (yet another apt descripton of me) should; but, I could never do that here. My parking capabilities are limited. Truly. Comparably, I think the East is diminutive to the West. WHY oh WHY are the parking lots so cramped with a million and one curbs and spots for landscaping?! Less trees and more parking please. Cuz the traffic is heavy at the Chipotle. And I need my tacos. Sigh. I digress.
My Escape is equipped with Sync - a hands free device that connects your phone. Viola! Now you can speak on the phone and not break the serious NY law of hand held cellular use while driving, which we learned about the hard way. Ideally, Sync is a cool idea. Click a button and give voice commands to accomplish the task that would normally be reserved for your digits. Talking to talk should be right up Angela's alley, ya? Let me just give you a fly's perspective of how this cutting edge technology actually works for the market user....
Sync: Please say a command.
Angela: Phone.
Sync: Phone. Please say a command.
Angela: Call.
Sync: What name?
Angela: Ryan.
Sync: Say a name, or a line number, or say none of those. Please say a command.
Angela: Call Ryan.
Sync: Please say a line number, or say none of those.
Angela: None of those
Sync: Please say a command.
Angela: Call Ryan
Sync: Calling "some random person I haven't talked to in years because it couldn't of course be Mom" on cell.
Angela: CANCEL CANCEL CANCEL!!!
Sync: Please say a command.
Angela: Phone
Sync: Try saying a device like phone, climate or if you have a subscription, say Sirrius.
Angela: Phone
Sync: I did not understand you. Please say a command.
Angela: Phone.
Sync: Try saying a device like phone, climate, or if you have a subscription, say Sirrius.
Angela: Phone.
Sync: Phone. Please say a command.
Angela. Call Ryan.
Sync: Say a line number or say none of those.
Angela: Line 3.
Sync: Tuning to AM1200.
Why, yes, tuning to AM broadcasting is absolutely going to solve this train wreck.
Angela: CANCEL!
Angela: CANCEL!
As the strains of "Stars" reach my ears, I feel that I can proceed with caution to exit the vehicle as by this point I have coasted into the local Stewarts on fumes and a prayer. I leave the radio on because. Hello. Skillet.
I'm fueling. I'm singing. Terribly off key incidentally. Then....
Sync: Phone. Please say a command.
Skillet....
Sync: Calling "I can't hear the name."
!!!
Of course, additional NY rules, or preference, does not allow for the tab to keep the fuel going....probably some verbiage about the crazies who desperately need to reenter and control their autobot....so I must stay put.
"Hello. Hello. Hello?" Click. Skillet. (Reenter vehicle - check phone - Sync called an old Utah friend because of course it couldn't be Mom, yet again. It felt weird to call back and say, "Haha, my "carclearlyautobot" just called you, awkward right, so howyoudoin?")
For the love. I understand that the use of cellular phones impairs drivers; perhaps Sync is not the best resolution for this issue, as the average user, or just me, will seek solace in a glass.
My Escape. Optimus. He still rules.
I drive a Ford Escape and love everything about it. It's big, but small, and roomy without increasing the overall size of the vehicle. In my frank opinion it is vehicular perfection and I am so happy I could get one. Here I will take a minute to remind everyone that I drove a Ford Expedition in Utah. That's right, an 8 passenger vehicle had me blending into my surroundings as all wall flowers (yet another apt descripton of me) should; but, I could never do that here. My parking capabilities are limited. Truly. Comparably, I think the East is diminutive to the West. WHY oh WHY are the parking lots so cramped with a million and one curbs and spots for landscaping?! Less trees and more parking please. Cuz the traffic is heavy at the Chipotle. And I need my tacos. Sigh. I digress.
My Escape is equipped with Sync - a hands free device that connects your phone. Viola! Now you can speak on the phone and not break the serious NY law of hand held cellular use while driving, which we learned about the hard way. Ideally, Sync is a cool idea. Click a button and give voice commands to accomplish the task that would normally be reserved for your digits. Talking to talk should be right up Angela's alley, ya? Let me just give you a fly's perspective of how this cutting edge technology actually works for the market user....
Sync: Please say a command.
Angela: Phone.
Sync: Phone. Please say a command.
Angela: Call.
Sync: What name?
Angela: Ryan.
Sync: Say a name, or a line number, or say none of those. Please say a command.
Angela: Call Ryan.
Sync: Please say a line number, or say none of those.
Angela: None of those
Sync: Please say a command.
Angela: Call Ryan
Sync: Calling "some random person I haven't talked to in years because it couldn't of course be Mom" on cell.
Angela: CANCEL CANCEL CANCEL!!!
Sync: Please say a command.
Angela: Phone
Sync: Try saying a device like phone, climate or if you have a subscription, say Sirrius.
Angela: Phone
Sync: I did not understand you. Please say a command.
Angela: Phone.
Sync: Try saying a device like phone, climate, or if you have a subscription, say Sirrius.
Angela: Phone.
Sync: Phone. Please say a command.
Angela. Call Ryan.
Sync: Say a line number or say none of those.
Angela: Line 3.
Sync: Tuning to AM1200.
Why, yes, tuning to AM broadcasting is absolutely going to solve this train wreck.
Angela: CANCEL!
Angela: CANCEL!
As the strains of "Stars" reach my ears, I feel that I can proceed with caution to exit the vehicle as by this point I have coasted into the local Stewarts on fumes and a prayer. I leave the radio on because. Hello. Skillet.
I'm fueling. I'm singing. Terribly off key incidentally. Then....
Sync: Phone. Please say a command.
Skillet....
Sync: Calling "I can't hear the name."
!!!
Of course, additional NY rules, or preference, does not allow for the tab to keep the fuel going....probably some verbiage about the crazies who desperately need to reenter and control their autobot....so I must stay put.
"Hello. Hello. Hello?" Click. Skillet. (Reenter vehicle - check phone - Sync called an old Utah friend because of course it couldn't be Mom, yet again. It felt weird to call back and say, "Haha, my "carclearlyautobot" just called you, awkward right, so howyoudoin?")
For the love. I understand that the use of cellular phones impairs drivers; perhaps Sync is not the best resolution for this issue, as the average user, or just me, will seek solace in a glass.
My Escape. Optimus. He still rules.
Wednesday, July 13, 2016
Parenting
Let's talk about parenting. I cannot name any other task on this earth that requires more effort. To do it well, one must be engaged, but how many other things also require our engagement? Jobs. Church. Extended family. Friendships. Health. Volunteer work. We already discussed my perfectionistic tendancies, so we know that I'm going to struggle with the weight of balancing all these things. I'm pretty certain I'm failing at all of it. Just. Failing. I should definitely be doing more volunteer work, and, yes, I hear that "amen" from the local PTA. I should way more often be #dead whilst the next Tony Horton tells me I'm doing it all wrong. (Shout out to my Tooker.) I should call loved ones more often, because it is amazing how you can miss the sound of someone's voice once you never hear it again. The struggle is real this year, and every year, Friends, but the one task that calls us back again and again is parenting.
From the moment you receive that squalling baby until you breathe your last breath, you should struggle with the weight of your responsibility. Because if you don't struggle, you will find yourself a mediocre 'rent and you do not want to sacrifice your children on the altar of mediocrity. Every stage of parenting is tough. When you're in the baby stage, all you want is sleep, and for the love, a baby that is not a fountain or a liquid poo cannon. (A shout out to both my sons with all the love in my Mommy heart.) When you enter the toddler/preschool years, you're running on physical demand fumes, but adding in the worry about "sensory gross motor skills," when all you want is for the kid to just.eat.this.banana. Elementary rocks, as you send that child off into the world, and you rejoice for moments until you see the world is a tough place for a young one. And so you spend your time soothing, encouraging, pushing, and believing your child into the tween years. And this is the place I'm at, Folks. The tween years. This recent occurrence that you might not know is a thing. It's a thing. I'm standing at the edge, holding tightly to two smallishokaybigish hands and wondering if I can just wing them to the other side. The side where they are responsible, trustworthy, kind, loving, truth seeking men of moral courage. How on earth will I get them there? What will the journey look like? Will they make it? Suddenly bodily fluids seems preferable to character building. Diaper duty for one, sign me up.
While I stand here with these lads, you know, the ones with the smallishokaybigish hands, I do want to throw them to the other side. But. A bigger piece of me is aching, telling them to "Keep holding my hand, watch for traffic" even as I feel their grip loosen. And this is where the rubber meets the road. Parents, this is what we've been preparing for. Take courage, here, for this is the sacred ground. This is the place you must win. You must fight for, yet release, your precious ones. Pray hard. Pray some more. And when that nolongersmallishatall hand leaves yours.... Absolutely completely lose all your cool (read:bawling is acceptable). And know that you did all the hard things. You will not be sorry for the time you have invested in your children versus any other task demanding your attention.
And the seasons they go round and round.... We're captive on the carousel of time....
From the moment you receive that squalling baby until you breathe your last breath, you should struggle with the weight of your responsibility. Because if you don't struggle, you will find yourself a mediocre 'rent and you do not want to sacrifice your children on the altar of mediocrity. Every stage of parenting is tough. When you're in the baby stage, all you want is sleep, and for the love, a baby that is not a fountain or a liquid poo cannon. (A shout out to both my sons with all the love in my Mommy heart.) When you enter the toddler/preschool years, you're running on physical demand fumes, but adding in the worry about "sensory gross motor skills," when all you want is for the kid to just.eat.this.banana. Elementary rocks, as you send that child off into the world, and you rejoice for moments until you see the world is a tough place for a young one. And so you spend your time soothing, encouraging, pushing, and believing your child into the tween years. And this is the place I'm at, Folks. The tween years. This recent occurrence that you might not know is a thing. It's a thing. I'm standing at the edge, holding tightly to two smallishokaybigish hands and wondering if I can just wing them to the other side. The side where they are responsible, trustworthy, kind, loving, truth seeking men of moral courage. How on earth will I get them there? What will the journey look like? Will they make it? Suddenly bodily fluids seems preferable to character building. Diaper duty for one, sign me up.
While I stand here with these lads, you know, the ones with the smallishokaybigish hands, I do want to throw them to the other side. But. A bigger piece of me is aching, telling them to "Keep holding my hand, watch for traffic" even as I feel their grip loosen. And this is where the rubber meets the road. Parents, this is what we've been preparing for. Take courage, here, for this is the sacred ground. This is the place you must win. You must fight for, yet release, your precious ones. Pray hard. Pray some more. And when that nolongersmallishatall hand leaves yours.... Absolutely completely lose all your cool (read:bawling is acceptable). And know that you did all the hard things. You will not be sorry for the time you have invested in your children versus any other task demanding your attention.
And the seasons they go round and round.... We're captive on the carousel of time....
Monday, July 11, 2016
Broadway
As some of you may know, earlier this year, I crossed a big item off my bucket list. For my whole life I have wanted to see a show on Broadway, and, in recent years, it just had to be Wicked. So, on a frigid weekend in February, I found myself in New York City with the singular goal of taking in all the sights and sounds, essentially to have "one short day," in the Emerald City. The show was amazing. In absolutely every way, from start to finish. The actors. The costumes. The music. Everything was on point. The reward far outweighed the $110 price tag. In fact, on just about any day, I feel very certain I'd drop what I was doing and tag along with someone to the theater. There is something so very special about theater, musical theater in particular. For 2.25 hours, plus an intermission, you get to be somewhere else. You get to BE someone else. This is the part I love the most. Identifying yourself in the story of another. Many times I have made the statement that Broadway is the music of our lives. It is powerful, agonizing, breathtaking, and achingly, beautiful. If we are honest, this summarizes life. We encounter all these moments in an allotted span of days, months, or years; and, for a small sum the writers of plays nicely package this jumble of experiences and take you on an emotionally charged ride, upon which you disembark in the same condition that I hope to be when I am set to leave this world, spent, yet grateful for the journey.
Wicked is my play of choice for I greatly identify with Elphaba. I want to be her. I hope I am her. Through choices that were not her own, she often found herself in uncomfortable positions. She had every reason to be bitter about her lot in life, but, though she is flawed, she is kind-hearted. She wrestles with her past as do I. Underneath the ridicule she endures, in the quiet places of her heart, she is powerful. Strong in the face of injustice. No compromising who she knows herself to be. Quite simply. She learned to defy gravity. Of course, she also learns that life does not always turn out as expected, but the friendship she was fortunate to have forged has forever changed her, and though they part, it will remain a blessing for life. Elphaba is an extraordinary character. Flawed. Strong. Loved. Phenomenal.
I get so absolutely wrapped up in every performance I view. Frankly, I almost prefer to go alone because I can't have people along ruining it for me. You know, asking questions, laughing at inappropriate times, talking, leaving to use the facilities. Seriously. You got to sit down, shut up and leave me alone for the duration. From the time the curtain opens to the last encore, my heart is completely and utterly invested. That being said, Wicked is coming to the local theater next Spring and I am definitely going. I'll invite you along, but only, I mean ONLY, so that you can, without comment, dispense the necessary tissues, and, of course, applaud my vocal range. Oh. Yeah. And take me out for pie.
Wicked is my play of choice for I greatly identify with Elphaba. I want to be her. I hope I am her. Through choices that were not her own, she often found herself in uncomfortable positions. She had every reason to be bitter about her lot in life, but, though she is flawed, she is kind-hearted. She wrestles with her past as do I. Underneath the ridicule she endures, in the quiet places of her heart, she is powerful. Strong in the face of injustice. No compromising who she knows herself to be. Quite simply. She learned to defy gravity. Of course, she also learns that life does not always turn out as expected, but the friendship she was fortunate to have forged has forever changed her, and though they part, it will remain a blessing for life. Elphaba is an extraordinary character. Flawed. Strong. Loved. Phenomenal.
I get so absolutely wrapped up in every performance I view. Frankly, I almost prefer to go alone because I can't have people along ruining it for me. You know, asking questions, laughing at inappropriate times, talking, leaving to use the facilities. Seriously. You got to sit down, shut up and leave me alone for the duration. From the time the curtain opens to the last encore, my heart is completely and utterly invested. That being said, Wicked is coming to the local theater next Spring and I am definitely going. I'll invite you along, but only, I mean ONLY, so that you can, without comment, dispense the necessary tissues, and, of course, applaud my vocal range. Oh. Yeah. And take me out for pie.
Friday, July 8, 2016
Fridays
If you have followed me over here from social media, then we have already had the discussion of "genuine," and the black and white world in which I live. I am as pretty close to transparent as you might encounter, for I see no good reasons to be otherwise. If you are new here, or do not know me very well, then consider yourself informed as to the further content of this blog. This is #lifeunplugged and sometimes I cannot #getahandle but I think it is in these moments that we see authenticity is attractive.
Here we go....
It has occurred to me that the idea of "Friday" is novel. "Oh, hooray, we get an evening to celebrate the next two days of off." Or. "TGIF...where would I be without this precious and priceless day of the week?!" I think I can shed some light on the reality of Friday. And its complete and utter un-novel-ness.
I made it to Friday, this most special of all the days. ("Yippee" and "hooray" except I will not have a day off for awhile so it basically means nothing, but that is a note for the sidelines.) I started with the worst headache at approximately 1335 EST. I rarely get headaches, but by the time I picked up my children at 1600, I was in full blown crisis mode. Arriving home, I was desperately trying to get to my bed but persons of a smaller stature are so persistent, myself included. I could not process the questions. Not.A.Single.One. And there were oh-so-many.
Here we go....
It has occurred to me that the idea of "Friday" is novel. "Oh, hooray, we get an evening to celebrate the next two days of off." Or. "TGIF...where would I be without this precious and priceless day of the week?!" I think I can shed some light on the reality of Friday. And its complete and utter un-novel-ness.
I made it to Friday, this most special of all the days. ("Yippee" and "hooray" except I will not have a day off for awhile so it basically means nothing, but that is a note for the sidelines.) I started with the worst headache at approximately 1335 EST. I rarely get headaches, but by the time I picked up my children at 1600, I was in full blown crisis mode. Arriving home, I was desperately trying to get to my bed but persons of a smaller stature are so persistent, myself included. I could not process the questions. Not.A.Single.One. And there were oh-so-many.
I lay down, close my eyes and think of just the right response.... And then my eyes fly open, I stare at the ceiling, and try to adjust to what is very clearly a tranquilizer situation. My brain is so very fuzzy. "What day is it? How much time has passed? For the love whose kids are making all that racket? Am I supposed to be somewhere? Is it morning? Do I really own that cat?"
Just on cue, son #2 comes bounding in the room, asking the most famous and morally degenerating of all questions, "What's for dinner?" Oh. I see. Those kids must be mine. Great.
No sooner had the question been raised, then he was gone, and I am left to mentally account for his existence. Was he really just here? Dinner. Yes. I did not eat anything all day. Yes, dinner is a wonderful suggestion.
Wait. If that child is mine, I'm the mother, which means I need to procure the food. Bummer.
Wait! Za is most definitely the answer to this random child's question. I can get the za. Yes, I can do this. By sheer force of will I gather my faculties and stand, and, you guys, it is in this moment I realize I should not be operating any heavy machinery. Such as a vehicle. "Do these kids have a father? What's the deal here?" Seriously. Friends. It was the struggle of a lifetime.
Oh my word. Za was acquired. Everyone lived. My joy in parenthood is restored. Mostly.
But the moral: the joy of Friday means nothing. You make it to Friday and you cease to function. The end.
PS - Someone might want to make sure that tomorrow morning I know who I am and that I go to work.
PPS- These kids do have a father and he just got home.
PPPS - First blog. Boom.
PS - Someone might want to make sure that tomorrow morning I know who I am and that I go to work.
PPS- These kids do have a father and he just got home.
PPPS - First blog. Boom.
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