Can you name something beautiful?
If you were trying to come up with something that makes your life beautiful, what would it be?
Part of the joy, and skill, of writing is to create, conjure, and evoke imagery in order for others to see an idea, object, or scene, just as you, the writer.
I'm not certain I'm always skilled. My words tumble very quickly at times, which means the words themselves are more basic than dictionary.
A definition of beauty is: "the quality in a person or thing that gives pleasure to the senses."
With that being now defined, can you name something beautiful?
I can. I can name lots of things right off the top of my tongue.
Babies. White roses. Cello music. Waterfalls. Mount Timpanogos. The voice of James Earl Jones. (Seriously. You guys know it.) Blizzards. Mashed potatoes and gravy. (The Midwesterner in me had to say it)
I'm facing a birthday in a few weeks. Nothing monumental. No nice round decade number. Yet. But I must say...the definition of beauty has been on my mind as I contemplate aging.
I've never really considered myself beautiful. Some days I do better than others but I will never be the person turning heads for mere gorgeousness sake. And, let me tell you, over the course of this last year I can see aging, perhaps de-beautifying, happening. I'm getting the "sun spots" as I affectionately call them. Big brown freckles really, near my temples. (Yep, go on over and look to the photo at the right, you'll see 'em.) All the ladies before me have them so it is a family rite of passage. The laugh lines at the corners of my blue eyes are getting deeper with every smile. They just crinkle, crinkle.
We women are hard on ourselves in the area of beauty, desirability. So the idea of aging can be discouraging. But the thing is.... When I'm thinking of beautiful things, I am not thinking of the appearance of people. When someone suggests that I think of something beautiful - it usually is scenery, natural objects, or characteristics of people that initially come to my mind, not physical attributes.
Perhaps something like this...
You are standing on a grey stone balcony, overlooking a deep blue ocean that stretches for miles to the horizon, watching an approaching storm breaking the gathering clouds as a once gentle breeze picks up pace and begins to whip your hair, this way and that; a clap of thunder breaks silence and waves lapping the soft, grainy beach, intensify, as rain begins to pelt your upturned face and the stones beneath your small, bare feet. The soft tink, tink, tink of the drops is a symphony to the ears as the waves crash and the thunder resounds with authority as though leading a song planned just for you. In the distance, lightning flashes; thunder answers. A cacophony of light and sound plays around you; as the falling rain starts to deliciously chill your skin, you draw your arms close and blissfully sigh.
Beauty. Qualities that give pleasure to the senses.
How can that even begin to compare to physical beauty?
Physical beauty fades. If I'm having any parts of that, I can tell you, it's fading, friends, the freckles are coming.
But the joy of seeing and knowing beautiful things and characteristics in, and of, people will go on.
Writing the joy of feeling is beautiful.
The older I get, the more beauty I see and feel, because I look well past the physical to the heart. To the horizon. Where the storm is gathering in all its formidable, yet peaceful beauty.
Sunday, December 31, 2017
Saturday, December 30, 2017
Hold Your Secrets
I recently posted about keeping in touch. Writing personal notes. Making personal calls. It truly is the most important thing. Caring about each other.
To go along with my other post - it gives me purpose.
I received a phone call from an old friend after that post. We talked for well over an hour catching up on the last 20 years. It was so lovely. Reconnecting.
I thought I would make an amazing nurse. Because giving care is in my blood. I want to force my way in and care about you whether you prefer that or not. Have a cup of tea, pull up a chair, let me take a look at your hurt. That is my identity.
I tried several times, meaning more than once, to pursue this dream. I'd lose hope and digress, only to regain it and fall back in. I did fairly well in my classes, some better than others, but the important ones were so difficult. I had to retake a few because I had to have a 4.0 GPA to even be considered in the application pool. I applied when it was time, and I was so anxious and hopeful. I was made for this. I sacrificed time with my babies for this. I could do this. I will forever be grateful that my husband was on a mission when I received the news. I wasn't even in the top 60 applicants who would be granted an interview. I had a 4.0 GPA. I did everything that you asked. It still wasn't enough. I was devastated. In the truest sense of the word. I needed time to grieve. Because I knew this would be my last attempt at fulfilling this dream. I cried. A lot. It hurt. This perceived failure hurt.
The thing is. I have since understood this is not my calling. Because. When I am in emergent situations, I feel sick. I care ever so much about your situation, but from over here. On the safety of the couch. Where I can breathe. I've been told that's because these situations have generally been with people that I care about, like my children, and that is what makes the difference.
But. I think it's because it's not my calling to care about the physical hurt.
My calling is to care about the psychological hurt.
I am very intuitive in this area. God has gifted me with a great sensitivity to the feelings and hearts of others. I am very observant; I can see and sense the cards that are held close to the chest. I can see what prompts actions. I see meaning underneath words. And I care.
I'm not going back to school. This is a not-for-profit operation. Because I'm not in the business of making you fix your issue. I'm in the business of sitting with you in the dark. I'm in the business of holding your secrets.
I took my kids to see the Trans-Siberian Orchestra this week. These guys are phenomenal. You should go every chance you get, because they are just damn fine musicians. Take a little Ibuprofen beforehand if your years exceed 55, but you shall not regret your time.
One of my most favorite vocal songs is from Beethoven's Last Night - I'll keep your secrets. Look it up on YouTube. Do it. Then listen to all of the album.
I've provided the lyrics here....
Lost in your dark
I see you there
What do you see beyond your stare
And you believe that no one else can know
What is this thing you keep inside
Out of the light and wrapped in pride
Always afraid that one day it will show
I'll keep your secrets
I'll hold your ground
And when the darkness starts to fall
I'll be around there waiting
When dreams are fading
And friends are distant and few
Know at that moment I'll be there with you
What are these voices that you hear
Are they too far or far too near
What are these things that echo from the past
Who are these ghosts you see at night
There in the shadows of your life
They only live by the light you cast
I'll keep your secrets
I'll hold your ground
And when the darkness starts to fall
I'll be around there waiting
When dreams are fading
And friends are distant and few
Know at that moment I'll be there with you
I'll be around
When there's no reason left to carry on
And every dream you've ever had is gone
And the dark is deep and black without a sound
And every star has been dragged to the ground
Know at that moment I will be around
Know at that moment I will be around
I've come to know my purpose. But it shifts as the regular seasons of my life shift. As the people I know drift out... As life ebbs and flows...
This is my identity.
Have a cup of tea, pull up a chair, and let me take a look at that hurt..
I can hold your secrets.
To go along with my other post - it gives me purpose.
I received a phone call from an old friend after that post. We talked for well over an hour catching up on the last 20 years. It was so lovely. Reconnecting.
I thought I would make an amazing nurse. Because giving care is in my blood. I want to force my way in and care about you whether you prefer that or not. Have a cup of tea, pull up a chair, let me take a look at your hurt. That is my identity.
I tried several times, meaning more than once, to pursue this dream. I'd lose hope and digress, only to regain it and fall back in. I did fairly well in my classes, some better than others, but the important ones were so difficult. I had to retake a few because I had to have a 4.0 GPA to even be considered in the application pool. I applied when it was time, and I was so anxious and hopeful. I was made for this. I sacrificed time with my babies for this. I could do this. I will forever be grateful that my husband was on a mission when I received the news. I wasn't even in the top 60 applicants who would be granted an interview. I had a 4.0 GPA. I did everything that you asked. It still wasn't enough. I was devastated. In the truest sense of the word. I needed time to grieve. Because I knew this would be my last attempt at fulfilling this dream. I cried. A lot. It hurt. This perceived failure hurt.
The thing is. I have since understood this is not my calling. Because. When I am in emergent situations, I feel sick. I care ever so much about your situation, but from over here. On the safety of the couch. Where I can breathe. I've been told that's because these situations have generally been with people that I care about, like my children, and that is what makes the difference.
But. I think it's because it's not my calling to care about the physical hurt.
My calling is to care about the psychological hurt.
I am very intuitive in this area. God has gifted me with a great sensitivity to the feelings and hearts of others. I am very observant; I can see and sense the cards that are held close to the chest. I can see what prompts actions. I see meaning underneath words. And I care.
I'm not going back to school. This is a not-for-profit operation. Because I'm not in the business of making you fix your issue. I'm in the business of sitting with you in the dark. I'm in the business of holding your secrets.
I took my kids to see the Trans-Siberian Orchestra this week. These guys are phenomenal. You should go every chance you get, because they are just damn fine musicians. Take a little Ibuprofen beforehand if your years exceed 55, but you shall not regret your time.
One of my most favorite vocal songs is from Beethoven's Last Night - I'll keep your secrets. Look it up on YouTube. Do it. Then listen to all of the album.
I've provided the lyrics here....
Lost in your dark
I see you there
What do you see beyond your stare
And you believe that no one else can know
What is this thing you keep inside
Out of the light and wrapped in pride
Always afraid that one day it will show
I'll keep your secrets
I'll hold your ground
And when the darkness starts to fall
I'll be around there waiting
When dreams are fading
And friends are distant and few
Know at that moment I'll be there with you
What are these voices that you hear
Are they too far or far too near
What are these things that echo from the past
Who are these ghosts you see at night
There in the shadows of your life
They only live by the light you cast
I'll keep your secrets
I'll hold your ground
And when the darkness starts to fall
I'll be around there waiting
When dreams are fading
And friends are distant and few
Know at that moment I'll be there with you
I'll be around
When there's no reason left to carry on
And every dream you've ever had is gone
And the dark is deep and black without a sound
And every star has been dragged to the ground
Know at that moment I will be around
Know at that moment I will be around
I've come to know my purpose. But it shifts as the regular seasons of my life shift. As the people I know drift out... As life ebbs and flows...
This is my identity.
Have a cup of tea, pull up a chair, and let me take a look at that hurt..
I can hold your secrets.
Friday, December 29, 2017
Lessons
Two lessons from the final 6 weeks of 2017...
The final weeks of age 37...
One cannot survive without purpose.
Control means more to me than it should.
Purpose, like feelings, is fluid.
Purpose should be so much more than fulfilling our employment obligations. Purpose is loftier. Purpose is the thing beyond the thing right in front of you. It's okay for work to be fulfilling and provide a sense of joy and accomplishment, but it is not purpose. I struggled for a very long time trying to work out obligation and purpose. Trying to define each of those in my life. You would think it easy. It isn't.
I know what my purpose should be. I've been around the block long enough to give the rote answer. In fact, I believe I even wrote a blog somewhere along the line about the same. It's been such a struggle for age 37, but I feel certain if I can get this hammered out now, I can be better.
I've started a new job recently as my readers will know. My obligations are different. My course is different. And, thereby, it feels my purpose has shifted. Not true, really, but it feels off. Because. When I started a new job, I started all the way over. Meaning the life I have carved for 4 1/2 years is gone. And by gone. I mean gone.
I am starting on a branch. All by myself. In a foreign environment. With foreigners. With increased margin, I'm starting many new ventures at one time. That has been unwise; sometimes I lack wisdom. I'm intimidated. I'm overwhelmed. And underwhelmed. I'm surrounded by people. And feel entirely alone. I'm uncertain. And there is nothing I dislike more than being uncertain.
But I have been brave. Any time a new course is set, courage is required. In some cases, like Scrabble night at the library, it has paid off well. I had such a great time and the senior citizens kicked my butt. (I'm going back for more.) In some cases, like my new volunteering ventures, it has come up short of my desired expectation.
It all comes back to wrestling with purpose and control.
Purpose, for me, is equated to being needed.
Control is equated to being valued, understood, equal.
I have been enjoying this season. It has been filled with such a gentle mix of fun, rest, cookies, fresh air, reading, shopping, games and sushi. That's right. Sushi. Which wasn't easy. It's been a gift to enjoy my family and the holidays without stress.
But I continue to look for purpose and control. Looking for new friendly faces as I start fresh. It's difficult. I'm never good at it. But, usually, someone takes pity, takes you under wing and these find themselves righted.
Oh...but the interim between painful goodbyes and pleasant hellos is long....
The final weeks of age 37...
One cannot survive without purpose.
Control means more to me than it should.
Purpose, like feelings, is fluid.
Purpose should be so much more than fulfilling our employment obligations. Purpose is loftier. Purpose is the thing beyond the thing right in front of you. It's okay for work to be fulfilling and provide a sense of joy and accomplishment, but it is not purpose. I struggled for a very long time trying to work out obligation and purpose. Trying to define each of those in my life. You would think it easy. It isn't.
I know what my purpose should be. I've been around the block long enough to give the rote answer. In fact, I believe I even wrote a blog somewhere along the line about the same. It's been such a struggle for age 37, but I feel certain if I can get this hammered out now, I can be better.
I've started a new job recently as my readers will know. My obligations are different. My course is different. And, thereby, it feels my purpose has shifted. Not true, really, but it feels off. Because. When I started a new job, I started all the way over. Meaning the life I have carved for 4 1/2 years is gone. And by gone. I mean gone.
I am starting on a branch. All by myself. In a foreign environment. With foreigners. With increased margin, I'm starting many new ventures at one time. That has been unwise; sometimes I lack wisdom. I'm intimidated. I'm overwhelmed. And underwhelmed. I'm surrounded by people. And feel entirely alone. I'm uncertain. And there is nothing I dislike more than being uncertain.
But I have been brave. Any time a new course is set, courage is required. In some cases, like Scrabble night at the library, it has paid off well. I had such a great time and the senior citizens kicked my butt. (I'm going back for more.) In some cases, like my new volunteering ventures, it has come up short of my desired expectation.
It all comes back to wrestling with purpose and control.
Purpose, for me, is equated to being needed.
Control is equated to being valued, understood, equal.
I have been enjoying this season. It has been filled with such a gentle mix of fun, rest, cookies, fresh air, reading, shopping, games and sushi. That's right. Sushi. Which wasn't easy. It's been a gift to enjoy my family and the holidays without stress.
But I continue to look for purpose and control. Looking for new friendly faces as I start fresh. It's difficult. I'm never good at it. But, usually, someone takes pity, takes you under wing and these find themselves righted.
Oh...but the interim between painful goodbyes and pleasant hellos is long....
Tuesday, December 26, 2017
A Black Book
Do you remember address books?
A book full of addresses and phone numbers listed alphabetically?
My grandma had a huge black book full of numbers and addresses. I thought it was magical. I can still see her beautiful handwriting. Here and there. And there, there, there. Lines crossed through street names and more written in the margins. Birthdates. Deaths. A book packed with information about loved ones.
When heartfelt cards and notes were penned and ready for delivery, to the trusted black book she would go. I so enjoyed looking through the book to see how many people I knew; when she would ask me to make a call for her, I would get so excited. I would carefully thumb through the pages to just the right name, place my finger so I would not lose my place, and dial.
How I loved talking! Holding the phone so professionally, hearing the familiar voice on the line, and delivering the intended message.
I still have a million phone numbers and addresses from 1989 in my head. Do you?
But, today, I basically know the phone number of nobody. If I was in jail and needed to make a call I'd be toast. And, if anyone actually sends a card or package, we have to send out an APB for an address.
As a writer, I am of course, a fan of written words. I want detailed communication. Paper trails. Evidence. Write it all. Hearing a familiar voice brings a smile. To everyone.
I would make a daring proposal. In these final days of the year. I propose we take a look back at 1989.
Maybe write some personal notes in the next few days. Make a personal phone call.
Wouldn't it be special? Wouldn't it make a wonderful gift for a new year?
Share your heart. Share a piece of your soul. With an old friend.
Buy a book of magic. One by one fill the pages with love. And keep it.
A book full of addresses and phone numbers listed alphabetically?
My grandma had a huge black book full of numbers and addresses. I thought it was magical. I can still see her beautiful handwriting. Here and there. And there, there, there. Lines crossed through street names and more written in the margins. Birthdates. Deaths. A book packed with information about loved ones.
When heartfelt cards and notes were penned and ready for delivery, to the trusted black book she would go. I so enjoyed looking through the book to see how many people I knew; when she would ask me to make a call for her, I would get so excited. I would carefully thumb through the pages to just the right name, place my finger so I would not lose my place, and dial.
How I loved talking! Holding the phone so professionally, hearing the familiar voice on the line, and delivering the intended message.
I still have a million phone numbers and addresses from 1989 in my head. Do you?
But, today, I basically know the phone number of nobody. If I was in jail and needed to make a call I'd be toast. And, if anyone actually sends a card or package, we have to send out an APB for an address.
As a writer, I am of course, a fan of written words. I want detailed communication. Paper trails. Evidence. Write it all. Hearing a familiar voice brings a smile. To everyone.
I would make a daring proposal. In these final days of the year. I propose we take a look back at 1989.
Maybe write some personal notes in the next few days. Make a personal phone call.
Wouldn't it be special? Wouldn't it make a wonderful gift for a new year?
Share your heart. Share a piece of your soul. With an old friend.
Buy a book of magic. One by one fill the pages with love. And keep it.
Sunday, December 17, 2017
I'm Dreaming
For the beauty... Of love. Peace. Stars. Snow.
I love the thought of quiet, soft reflection. The scene: warm, white mini lights brighten the corner of a darkened room as I sit, alone, by the window watching the snow fall. To all those without the experience of snow, you truly are missing out. Snow falling at night is peaceful and silent.
My siblings and I spent a great deal of our childhood out of doors. We did not have a television, or electronic devices. Bicycles, dirt, trees, sleds, were the tools of childish trade. And, boy did we know how to use them.
Sleds. I have nothing but good things to say about this instrument of fun, since I never broke my leg on one, unlike my brother. Hours, upon soaking wet hours I spent on the hill in front of my house every winter. I'd lose feeling in all my limbs and still I climbed back up hauling my sled on my back. Yes, there are all kinds of lessons to be unraveled here.. like, perseverance, faithfulness. But the bottom line is joy. You haven't tasted true abandoned joy until you are on a slickened, circular object that is rotating uncontrollably down a hill, flying around trees and various objects (cars) with the sheer hope that you will 1) not hit something that you can't see because you are backward and 2) that you will make it all the way to the second hill that will catapult you to the backyard. Seriously. No. Greater. Joy.
And the best time to go sled riding? Unequivocally. Night. The added element of danger is always appealing to the pint sized. It's harder to see where you are going. Will you, in fact, fly straight into history over the ramp that has lovingly and painstakingly been built and iced for days? Will you miss it altogether? Or. Will you hit it on the side just so, get some air, and slam awkwardly, unceremoniously, into a pile of snow? The odds are almost never in your favor. But that's okay. Being famous is overrated; it is the infamous that are immortal. So when you find yourself in that pile of snow, feeling the ice forming in your watering eyes; watching your brothers running, then sliding, down, sans sleds, to check on you; you turn your eyes upward and gaze at a sky full of stars. And everything is so quiet. It's just you. Snow. Darkness. Stars. Peace. Joy.
Then you're being shaken. Concern turns to giggles. Peals of laughter echo through the trees. Through the silent night. You stand up. And head straight back up the hill.
Quiet reflection is best in winter. The cold naturally births restful, quiet mornings and evenings. A cup of tea. A dark room. Lit up with soft white lights. Thickly falling snow. It's the stuff of magic. It's the stuff of dreams. It's when princesses dance in silver forests. It's when you finally feel loved. For you. It's when anything is possible. It's when you might slip on your boots and take the hill one more time.
It's when you close your eyes and feel joy.
I love the thought of quiet, soft reflection. The scene: warm, white mini lights brighten the corner of a darkened room as I sit, alone, by the window watching the snow fall. To all those without the experience of snow, you truly are missing out. Snow falling at night is peaceful and silent.
My siblings and I spent a great deal of our childhood out of doors. We did not have a television, or electronic devices. Bicycles, dirt, trees, sleds, were the tools of childish trade. And, boy did we know how to use them.
Sleds. I have nothing but good things to say about this instrument of fun, since I never broke my leg on one, unlike my brother. Hours, upon soaking wet hours I spent on the hill in front of my house every winter. I'd lose feeling in all my limbs and still I climbed back up hauling my sled on my back. Yes, there are all kinds of lessons to be unraveled here.. like, perseverance, faithfulness. But the bottom line is joy. You haven't tasted true abandoned joy until you are on a slickened, circular object that is rotating uncontrollably down a hill, flying around trees and various objects (cars) with the sheer hope that you will 1) not hit something that you can't see because you are backward and 2) that you will make it all the way to the second hill that will catapult you to the backyard. Seriously. No. Greater. Joy.
And the best time to go sled riding? Unequivocally. Night. The added element of danger is always appealing to the pint sized. It's harder to see where you are going. Will you, in fact, fly straight into history over the ramp that has lovingly and painstakingly been built and iced for days? Will you miss it altogether? Or. Will you hit it on the side just so, get some air, and slam awkwardly, unceremoniously, into a pile of snow? The odds are almost never in your favor. But that's okay. Being famous is overrated; it is the infamous that are immortal. So when you find yourself in that pile of snow, feeling the ice forming in your watering eyes; watching your brothers running, then sliding, down, sans sleds, to check on you; you turn your eyes upward and gaze at a sky full of stars. And everything is so quiet. It's just you. Snow. Darkness. Stars. Peace. Joy.
Then you're being shaken. Concern turns to giggles. Peals of laughter echo through the trees. Through the silent night. You stand up. And head straight back up the hill.
Quiet reflection is best in winter. The cold naturally births restful, quiet mornings and evenings. A cup of tea. A dark room. Lit up with soft white lights. Thickly falling snow. It's the stuff of magic. It's the stuff of dreams. It's when princesses dance in silver forests. It's when you finally feel loved. For you. It's when anything is possible. It's when you might slip on your boots and take the hill one more time.
It's when you close your eyes and feel joy.
Monday, December 11, 2017
Understanding- A Holiday Must
Readers...
How is your holiday season?
I have a jumble of thoughts today and frankly it might not actually sync into a post that makes sense.
I've been digging through some old drawers in my mind. Going back through memories and stories. I've told you about this mind of mine - it captures and retains a lot. Mostly. Well. Except last week when it was supposed to capture and retain the concept of purchasing new saxophone music books for my eldest son. Hey. We win some. We lose some.
I've been thinking about the year my husband was deployed. What a sad time for me. What a long, sad time. I don't think I did anything good with that span of months. For the love nothing ever went right. Everything broke. All the time. I "failed" Anatomy and Physiology with a "C" and had to retake it because I had to get an "A." I tried to help out a homeschool co-op and almost lost some friends in the process. I tried to help out with a military support group and that, too, failed. I wanted to be a hermit. I wanted to stay in my home and not leave. It was. Such a time. I wanted to be left alone.
How does this relate to the holidays? Well. I wanted to be alone then too. I took my tree down a week before Christmas, with the caveat that we had celebrated our Christmas at Thanksgiving and I couldn't bear it any more. People wanted to invite me to this thing and that thing. And. "Come on by on Christmas day!" With much goodwill and thoughtfulness. But. People who are alone, or feel alone, do not necessarily want to drop by on Christmas day, even though you have asked with good intent. I don't want to be with people. I'm sad. I'm sulking. I'm ambivalent. I'm depressed. I'm uncertain. I don't exactly know how I feel right now. And you want me to come to your house on one of the most special days of the year?! Well bless it and save it, I just don't think I can watch you ooze contentment and joy right now. I can't be the third wheel who puts on an act trying to look all merry and bright. I can't feel like I really feel right now and that kinda irritates me. Because my heart is stuck.
I love people. My heart is for being with people. I am the inviter. I want you to come to my house. I want you to sit down and eat. I want to make you laugh. I want you to enjoy yourself. I want you to feel like you are home. In my presence. With my family.
But I see you, friend, the one who isn't sure. The one who feels ambivalent. The one who feels a little sad. I see you. I raise my mug of tea, thoughtfully, in your direction.
I have been you. If only for temporary times. But frankly I'm still you sometimes. Celebrating holidays without extended family is way different than when you are together. I legit have taken down my tree on 12/25 after everyone is in bed. I have to move on sometimes.
We all journey, friends, we all journey. We find ways to cope. We find ways to have some joy. We find ways to just get by.
You are invited. You are always invited, to my front porch, to my table, to sit near my cozy fire. You are loved here. In this space. It's safe. Even at lonely 12/25 kind-of-times. I will let you be sad. I will let you look at your phone. I will let you be in silence. I will let you nap. I will not let you starve.
Because what we need at Christmas is understanding.
More than anything else.
Yes, I love Jesus. Yes, I'm glad He's having another birthday. But sometimes I feel sad. And maybe you do too.
I respect that you prefer to be alone, dear friend, but you need not ever be, should you so choose.
Pick me.
I understand.
How is your holiday season?
I have a jumble of thoughts today and frankly it might not actually sync into a post that makes sense.
I've been digging through some old drawers in my mind. Going back through memories and stories. I've told you about this mind of mine - it captures and retains a lot. Mostly. Well. Except last week when it was supposed to capture and retain the concept of purchasing new saxophone music books for my eldest son. Hey. We win some. We lose some.
I've been thinking about the year my husband was deployed. What a sad time for me. What a long, sad time. I don't think I did anything good with that span of months. For the love nothing ever went right. Everything broke. All the time. I "failed" Anatomy and Physiology with a "C" and had to retake it because I had to get an "A." I tried to help out a homeschool co-op and almost lost some friends in the process. I tried to help out with a military support group and that, too, failed. I wanted to be a hermit. I wanted to stay in my home and not leave. It was. Such a time. I wanted to be left alone.
How does this relate to the holidays? Well. I wanted to be alone then too. I took my tree down a week before Christmas, with the caveat that we had celebrated our Christmas at Thanksgiving and I couldn't bear it any more. People wanted to invite me to this thing and that thing. And. "Come on by on Christmas day!" With much goodwill and thoughtfulness. But. People who are alone, or feel alone, do not necessarily want to drop by on Christmas day, even though you have asked with good intent. I don't want to be with people. I'm sad. I'm sulking. I'm ambivalent. I'm depressed. I'm uncertain. I don't exactly know how I feel right now. And you want me to come to your house on one of the most special days of the year?! Well bless it and save it, I just don't think I can watch you ooze contentment and joy right now. I can't be the third wheel who puts on an act trying to look all merry and bright. I can't feel like I really feel right now and that kinda irritates me. Because my heart is stuck.
I love people. My heart is for being with people. I am the inviter. I want you to come to my house. I want you to sit down and eat. I want to make you laugh. I want you to enjoy yourself. I want you to feel like you are home. In my presence. With my family.
But I see you, friend, the one who isn't sure. The one who feels ambivalent. The one who feels a little sad. I see you. I raise my mug of tea, thoughtfully, in your direction.
I have been you. If only for temporary times. But frankly I'm still you sometimes. Celebrating holidays without extended family is way different than when you are together. I legit have taken down my tree on 12/25 after everyone is in bed. I have to move on sometimes.
We all journey, friends, we all journey. We find ways to cope. We find ways to have some joy. We find ways to just get by.
You are invited. You are always invited, to my front porch, to my table, to sit near my cozy fire. You are loved here. In this space. It's safe. Even at lonely 12/25 kind-of-times. I will let you be sad. I will let you look at your phone. I will let you be in silence. I will let you nap. I will not let you starve.
Because what we need at Christmas is understanding.
More than anything else.
Yes, I love Jesus. Yes, I'm glad He's having another birthday. But sometimes I feel sad. And maybe you do too.
I respect that you prefer to be alone, dear friend, but you need not ever be, should you so choose.
Pick me.
I understand.
Thursday, December 7, 2017
Rivers In The Desert
"Behold, I will do a new thing; now it shall spring forth; shall ye not know it? I will even make a way in the wilderness, and rivers in the desert."
I am enjoying rivers in the desert, my friends. Restoring my soul.
If you follow my blog you will see that I've been writing some heavy chapters. Making changes. Unpacking some bags. Restoring the most important thing: my soul.
It's been painful and fulfilling.
Water spreading over parched, dry soil.
Joy is here.
I am enjoying rivers in the desert, my friends. Restoring my soul.
If you follow my blog you will see that I've been writing some heavy chapters. Making changes. Unpacking some bags. Restoring the most important thing: my soul.
It's been painful and fulfilling.
Water spreading over parched, dry soil.
Joy is here.
Thursday, November 23, 2017
Let There Be Light
I'm fitting a few moments of "me" time into today. Into this week. Even now, my children are hovering, and I'm fighting the good Mom fight of: "I love you and I know you haven't seen me all week but I need three to ten minutes of silent alone time but I do know you're growing and won't want to share everything about your day soon so...".
I need three to ten minutes.
My life is about to drastically change. I'm closing a season of time tomorrow, and it is incredibly difficult for me. I'm looking forward to the change, but it is a painful process to let go, to say "good-bye" to tasks that feel unfinished and to people my heart cares for. I am a very personal person. So often we are encouraged to "just live life," and "it's not personal, it's business," and "don't mix in emotions." It is good advice. It is. But, I don't care what anyone says, all good things come from being personal. All good things. Cold, hard people do not unwrap positive experiences for the world. Good work ethic. Good output. Good effort. World changers. These are organized, FEELING, people.
Thank you for your business advice. But I will continue to be myself. I will continue to put my heart on my sleeve and put myself wholly into my work. It's the only way I can be. And it's the only way I can change the world.
I'd like to express my gratitude for mentors, for "shiners." Those people with wisdom who shine when all the lights go out. Steady. Grace givers. Thank you for what you do. There are so few lights, mentors, and today my heart is very heavy for that specific reason.
Can I encourage you today to be that person?
Be a light. Please. Shine. Light up the dark places of the world. Don't bring more darkness. Don't bring more gossip. Don't bring more pain.
Be wise. Be quiet. Speak with grace.
I'm nervous moving into a new job, moving into a new season. Everyone hates being new. I especially hate being new. Learning new tasks. I prefer to know everything about everything two seconds in. If you know me, you get that.
But as I go, I give myself the same advice. No matter the season or place, I will try to shine. To be personal. To light up the dark places. And maybe change my corner of the world.
I need three to ten minutes.
My life is about to drastically change. I'm closing a season of time tomorrow, and it is incredibly difficult for me. I'm looking forward to the change, but it is a painful process to let go, to say "good-bye" to tasks that feel unfinished and to people my heart cares for. I am a very personal person. So often we are encouraged to "just live life," and "it's not personal, it's business," and "don't mix in emotions." It is good advice. It is. But, I don't care what anyone says, all good things come from being personal. All good things. Cold, hard people do not unwrap positive experiences for the world. Good work ethic. Good output. Good effort. World changers. These are organized, FEELING, people.
Thank you for your business advice. But I will continue to be myself. I will continue to put my heart on my sleeve and put myself wholly into my work. It's the only way I can be. And it's the only way I can change the world.
I'd like to express my gratitude for mentors, for "shiners." Those people with wisdom who shine when all the lights go out. Steady. Grace givers. Thank you for what you do. There are so few lights, mentors, and today my heart is very heavy for that specific reason.
Can I encourage you today to be that person?
Be a light. Please. Shine. Light up the dark places of the world. Don't bring more darkness. Don't bring more gossip. Don't bring more pain.
Be wise. Be quiet. Speak with grace.
I'm nervous moving into a new job, moving into a new season. Everyone hates being new. I especially hate being new. Learning new tasks. I prefer to know everything about everything two seconds in. If you know me, you get that.
But as I go, I give myself the same advice. No matter the season or place, I will try to shine. To be personal. To light up the dark places. And maybe change my corner of the world.
Thursday, November 16, 2017
We Hide Pain
Pain.
We keep it close to the chest, ya?
We hide it. We hide the things that cause us pain.
We push it down, the ocean, we stem its flow. We bury grief. Those things we cannot speak. We decide this is a private matter.
We cover it with alcohol, mind altering drugs, or we may even slap a large slice of apple pie over it like a bandage.
Today. I write a pain filled chapter. I bring out that which haunts me in the night.
This is, by far, one of the most painful experiences of my life. The ocean of grief is always fresh. It does not ebb, but always flows. My heart cannot hold the weight. Every single time I talk about it I sob like a child.
It's about labels. Do you have labels in your life? You likely label yourself. Procrastinator. Lazy. Beautiful. Hard Working. Fit. Unfit. Others label you. Freely. It's part of our society. We walk around every day weighted by labels. Most of them unpleasant. Unwelcome.
You, my faithful readers, will know about the pack, about the baggage I carry. This is in there. A very heavy piece that is really too much, too much to lug.
My greeting, and, "Welcome to New York" was a person calling the offices of child protective services and filing a claim against my family.
I will never, ever, ever forget the feeling of utter terror and helplessness that I waded through. For weeks. We often joke about it. "Oh, better no slap the hand of my toddler while we are at the grocery store or I might be reported." Uh huh. Yes, you probably will. It is the largest can of worms one can open, and your life will never be the same.
I trusted no one after that. I truly trust very few people still. I hid in my house, with my blinds and doors shut. I turned off the doorbell so that it would not ring. I put my entire family in the car before I even opened the garage door. I stopped going to church. I barely made it to and from work.
I want you to think about the kind of invasion this is. Someone that you do not know has absolute control over your future. Someone who does not know your child from Adam makes a life decision about his future. There is nothing, absolutely nothing that you can do to prevent these strangers from tearing apart your life brick by brick. They invade every space. They go to your children's school, church, doctors and dentists. They randomly visit your home.
It's complete, horrifying, terrifying, helplessness, day after long day. You wonder if you live in America or Cambodia.
But. You comply. You let them into your home. You sit across the table from them, answer their questions, but also freely tell them that their actions here today are humiliating. You let them interview your children. You wonder what on Earth will pop out of their mouth today, and how that might impact the case. You weep. And weep. And weep. Day after day, that rusty nail of time drives a gaping hole. That will never fill. Until you draw your last breath.
Because. We said this is about labels. When the State of New York rested, they believed that I was negligent as a parent. (And, yes, dear readers, I bawled for ten minutes after writing that statement. It is. Raw.)
I know they were just covering their bases. I wasn't criminally charged. I did not have to take parenting classes. But that does not matter. Not to a mother's heart. It just doesn't matter.
I hope you have had the chance to meet my sons. Because they are amazing. They are discerning, wise-beyond-their-years, tender hearted boys. I often ask God what I did to deserve such "easy" kids. We are all imperfect, and they are no exception, but the road is mostly paved with joy. I am their mother. I carried them close to my heart though the physical cost was great. I love them more than I love my own life, and I would not hesitate to lay my life down in exchange.
So this label. Aches in deep, deep places.
But what we bring out of the dark holds no sway. Shame loses its power in the light, and as it does so, healing has a chance.
There are all kinds of labels out there.
False. True. Undeserved. Deserved.
I know not what God will use, or has used, from this experience. But it has changed me for the better, so in (very) small ways I can be grateful. I don't easily apply labels to the journey of others. Your journey is your journey, not mine. I look deeper than the surface. I empathize. My role is to be a caring first responder. To care for the deep aches, to lessen the significance of labels.
Friends, may be we kind. May we be caring. May we be willing to help unpack the bag of our neighbor instead of adding to his burden.
It's so painful. This world. It's so full of pain and anguish.
Allow your pain a few minutes of air time, dear friend, let that shame slip away. Whatever it may be.
God's label for you is all that lives through eternity - loved, worthy, forgiven.
We keep it close to the chest, ya?
We hide it. We hide the things that cause us pain.
We push it down, the ocean, we stem its flow. We bury grief. Those things we cannot speak. We decide this is a private matter.
We cover it with alcohol, mind altering drugs, or we may even slap a large slice of apple pie over it like a bandage.
Today. I write a pain filled chapter. I bring out that which haunts me in the night.
This is, by far, one of the most painful experiences of my life. The ocean of grief is always fresh. It does not ebb, but always flows. My heart cannot hold the weight. Every single time I talk about it I sob like a child.
It's about labels. Do you have labels in your life? You likely label yourself. Procrastinator. Lazy. Beautiful. Hard Working. Fit. Unfit. Others label you. Freely. It's part of our society. We walk around every day weighted by labels. Most of them unpleasant. Unwelcome.
You, my faithful readers, will know about the pack, about the baggage I carry. This is in there. A very heavy piece that is really too much, too much to lug.
My greeting, and, "Welcome to New York" was a person calling the offices of child protective services and filing a claim against my family.
I will never, ever, ever forget the feeling of utter terror and helplessness that I waded through. For weeks. We often joke about it. "Oh, better no slap the hand of my toddler while we are at the grocery store or I might be reported." Uh huh. Yes, you probably will. It is the largest can of worms one can open, and your life will never be the same.
I trusted no one after that. I truly trust very few people still. I hid in my house, with my blinds and doors shut. I turned off the doorbell so that it would not ring. I put my entire family in the car before I even opened the garage door. I stopped going to church. I barely made it to and from work.
I want you to think about the kind of invasion this is. Someone that you do not know has absolute control over your future. Someone who does not know your child from Adam makes a life decision about his future. There is nothing, absolutely nothing that you can do to prevent these strangers from tearing apart your life brick by brick. They invade every space. They go to your children's school, church, doctors and dentists. They randomly visit your home.
It's complete, horrifying, terrifying, helplessness, day after long day. You wonder if you live in America or Cambodia.
But. You comply. You let them into your home. You sit across the table from them, answer their questions, but also freely tell them that their actions here today are humiliating. You let them interview your children. You wonder what on Earth will pop out of their mouth today, and how that might impact the case. You weep. And weep. And weep. Day after day, that rusty nail of time drives a gaping hole. That will never fill. Until you draw your last breath.
Because. We said this is about labels. When the State of New York rested, they believed that I was negligent as a parent. (And, yes, dear readers, I bawled for ten minutes after writing that statement. It is. Raw.)
I know they were just covering their bases. I wasn't criminally charged. I did not have to take parenting classes. But that does not matter. Not to a mother's heart. It just doesn't matter.
I hope you have had the chance to meet my sons. Because they are amazing. They are discerning, wise-beyond-their-years, tender hearted boys. I often ask God what I did to deserve such "easy" kids. We are all imperfect, and they are no exception, but the road is mostly paved with joy. I am their mother. I carried them close to my heart though the physical cost was great. I love them more than I love my own life, and I would not hesitate to lay my life down in exchange.
So this label. Aches in deep, deep places.
But what we bring out of the dark holds no sway. Shame loses its power in the light, and as it does so, healing has a chance.
There are all kinds of labels out there.
False. True. Undeserved. Deserved.
I know not what God will use, or has used, from this experience. But it has changed me for the better, so in (very) small ways I can be grateful. I don't easily apply labels to the journey of others. Your journey is your journey, not mine. I look deeper than the surface. I empathize. My role is to be a caring first responder. To care for the deep aches, to lessen the significance of labels.
Friends, may be we kind. May we be caring. May we be willing to help unpack the bag of our neighbor instead of adding to his burden.
It's so painful. This world. It's so full of pain and anguish.
Allow your pain a few minutes of air time, dear friend, let that shame slip away. Whatever it may be.
God's label for you is all that lives through eternity - loved, worthy, forgiven.
Sunday, November 12, 2017
Fierce Heart Of Jelly
When I look at myself, I think I am complicated. Or, better, simple, but not explainable. I find my thoughts, approaches, opinions, are fairly uncommon.
This season of my life has been about redefining myself. It has been harsh. And raw. All the safe, soft, jelly places in my heart have had a once, twice over, meeting with a meat tenderizing tool. Time after relentless time I offer myself and my heart for consideration, and the result is less than the fairy tale ending for which I had hoped.
As a writer. Endings are my whole purpose. You put pen to paper and pour out the words of your soul ever so passionately, delicately weaving pieces of your heart into a story that ends. Just so. With perfection. With flourish. With closure. With a sense of benediction being meted, you send it on its way.
Endings are hoped for with happiness and pleasure. I ALWAYS want the guy to get the girl. I don't want anyone being eaten by the clown. I am beyond certain that the bomb did not kill my favorite character. And above all else, I do not get left behind.
Seasons are timely. They begin and end with flourish and without. I can romanticize all I want, and I will, but it is just a passage of time.
If you read some of my original postings you will see one of my most admired Broadway characters is Elphaba. She is humble, meek, caring and alongtheway becomes fierce. I want to be her.
And. Somewhere, dear readers, alongthewaywithyou, I have become her. This period in time where I have struggled the most in my life with finding interpersonal connections, with finding my trusts misplaced, with feelings of ostracization, with raw emotion coating my days, weeks and months.
This New York season. Made me Elphaba without losing what is the heart of Angela. Fierce with a pile of feelings.
I have used my influence for as much positive as I could. I encouraged. I helped. And when push came to shove I waged battle. I stood my ground. I stood for my principles. I stood for what was right. History may tell a different story. Stories are always open to individual interpretation; it is what makes the written word powerful. I'm okay with that.
I was there. I saw it from the front row. And I am satisfied that I defied gravity.
"Beginnings are scary, endings are usually sad, but it's what's in the middle that counts."
Saturday, November 4, 2017
A Little Flourish
It's been an exhausting week, dear ones, an exhausting week. So I came here to write, to once again find myself in these pages, with you, my readers.
It's late fall in New York, the beauty of letting go, has swirled and twirled through windy pathways and reached the dying target of earth. The dry, brown leaves can be smelled and heard crunching underfoot. The mornings give forth the perfect combination of cold temperatures and warm, sweet coffee. Darkness can be seen more than light, or so it seems. It is in this season that candles, scarves, soft white twinkle lights on the mantle, and blankets provide a warm, safe place to harbor. Worry not about what happens out there, dear ones, in this environment, with me, you are safe, you are loved, and we are having a quiet, comfortable conversation as old friends.
Old friends share hopes, dreams, plans, and memories.
Take a walk with me. Toward the past. Toward another season.
It's a quiet, summer night. Humidity coats the air, and the breeze does not cool the brow. I'm sitting on the edge of a grey porch, staring at a sky full of stars, swatting mercilessly at mosquitoes. It would be just perfect without the mosquitoes, but, alas, mosquitoes will always be with us. My aunt sits next to me, we are in our nightgowns, outside, which feels scandalous and somewhat delicious. She shares her mug of tea with me. I'm very excited to have what surely is a grown up beverage, and so close to bedtime. The tea, in later years, will come to define me. Plain black tea, hot, sweetened, with a swirl of milk. Perfection. Please offer it to me anytime. She is so mild and meek, my aunt. She speaks with a softness to which I am unaccustomed. I live with firmer tones and directives. She is so genuinely pleased to be in my company. MY company. I can't be more than ten. The night is closing in around us and the moon is bright in the Ohio heavens. Her words come to me, even now, across decades of time. "Angela, slow down, take your time, be gentle and graceful, a lady is always full of grace."
Grace. Gentleness. Meekness.
I remember my aunt so fondly. In my memory, these qualities defined her. I want to sit on the porch and give sage wisdom. I long to be graceful, gentle, meek. In a world full of agressive, racy, entitled, attention seekers, I want to walk quietly. I want to be a lady that my aunt would have been proud of. Classic. Poised.
It's difficult. Today. To be those things. It's difficult to be a quiet influence, because the noise of life is drowning, and the world is weighted.
As we sit in quiet comfort, with old friends, it seems possible, for a moment, that we can do anything. Our dreams are within reach. Our memories are only golden. Our tea is always made perfectly.
Late fall is magical. It's warm. It's comforting. For just this minute, I might be exactly what my aunt had hoped I would be. Gentle and graceful.
But with a hint of spiciness that gives the story of my life a little flourish.
It's late fall in New York, the beauty of letting go, has swirled and twirled through windy pathways and reached the dying target of earth. The dry, brown leaves can be smelled and heard crunching underfoot. The mornings give forth the perfect combination of cold temperatures and warm, sweet coffee. Darkness can be seen more than light, or so it seems. It is in this season that candles, scarves, soft white twinkle lights on the mantle, and blankets provide a warm, safe place to harbor. Worry not about what happens out there, dear ones, in this environment, with me, you are safe, you are loved, and we are having a quiet, comfortable conversation as old friends.
Old friends share hopes, dreams, plans, and memories.
Take a walk with me. Toward the past. Toward another season.
It's a quiet, summer night. Humidity coats the air, and the breeze does not cool the brow. I'm sitting on the edge of a grey porch, staring at a sky full of stars, swatting mercilessly at mosquitoes. It would be just perfect without the mosquitoes, but, alas, mosquitoes will always be with us. My aunt sits next to me, we are in our nightgowns, outside, which feels scandalous and somewhat delicious. She shares her mug of tea with me. I'm very excited to have what surely is a grown up beverage, and so close to bedtime. The tea, in later years, will come to define me. Plain black tea, hot, sweetened, with a swirl of milk. Perfection. Please offer it to me anytime. She is so mild and meek, my aunt. She speaks with a softness to which I am unaccustomed. I live with firmer tones and directives. She is so genuinely pleased to be in my company. MY company. I can't be more than ten. The night is closing in around us and the moon is bright in the Ohio heavens. Her words come to me, even now, across decades of time. "Angela, slow down, take your time, be gentle and graceful, a lady is always full of grace."
Grace. Gentleness. Meekness.
I remember my aunt so fondly. In my memory, these qualities defined her. I want to sit on the porch and give sage wisdom. I long to be graceful, gentle, meek. In a world full of agressive, racy, entitled, attention seekers, I want to walk quietly. I want to be a lady that my aunt would have been proud of. Classic. Poised.
It's difficult. Today. To be those things. It's difficult to be a quiet influence, because the noise of life is drowning, and the world is weighted.
As we sit in quiet comfort, with old friends, it seems possible, for a moment, that we can do anything. Our dreams are within reach. Our memories are only golden. Our tea is always made perfectly.
Late fall is magical. It's warm. It's comforting. For just this minute, I might be exactly what my aunt had hoped I would be. Gentle and graceful.
But with a hint of spiciness that gives the story of my life a little flourish.
Tuesday, October 24, 2017
More Than Anything
Dear readers,
I face so much strife on a day to day basis.
Do you?
I encounter a lot of disrespectful people.
Do you?
In recent weeks I have lost the ability to effectively communicate. I have tried to write on numerous occasions but stare blankly unable to form sentences with jumbled thoughts. I have struggled with much inward turmoil, and the more that turns and churns inward, the worse for us all.
More than anything. Today. I love feeling the drizzling rain. Smelling leaves. Gazing at color saturated trees. I read somewhere that the beauty of fall is that the trees teach us how beautiful letting go can be.
You know the "I ain't doin it" lady... C'mon. You know you do. She is all over the place. Imagine me doing the same. I cannot let go. "Good lord" and "I would rather" and "that's not right" and all the other phrases too.
My baggage is deep, wide, heavy, and multiplying.
I am a small person. Although I just told my tall husband yesterday that I feel medium, actually. Because Erin Mummert is smaller than me. And two other people I know. So I'm basically medium. But medium still, my shoulders and back are not up to the task of supporting my baggage.
As a leader, if my reports cannot make it to work on time, or cannot handle the daily assigned tasks, I take that on myself, as a negative reflection of me, when really, it is on them.
As a mother when my child makes choices that are not viewed best by me, I take that on myself.
As a friend who manages to lose contact and connection with other friends, I stack that up.
As a daughter and sister with miles, memories, and no stops for calls in between, I add that to my pack.
As a person who would love to identify as a bondservant of Jesus, I throw right up there on top of the whole heap, the weaknesses of falling short of representing and serving Him well, and at all costs.
Baggage for days. For years. Full. Heavy. Weighted.
I am proud of two, just two, things in my life that I have been able to release. With good grace. Super big baggage that would not pass as carry on, and would require extra handling fees.
More than anything. I am grateful. There is exquisite beauty in the pain of holding, in the rush of bouncing back and forth in the winds of decision and emotion. Then. You let it go.
The person you are now is wiser, stooped, perhaps, but wiser. In the release you can see what has been freed. Space. For healing. For new dreams. For love.
More than anything. I would like to lighten the load I carry with me everywhere. It's so heavy. So heavy. I need three Smarte Cartes. Legit.
When I look out my window, during this my favorite time, I'm reminded of beauty.
Of letting go. With good grace. All the things that are not meant for me. And all the things that do not belong in my pack.
I will forever be hard on myself. I will hold myself to an impossible standard. I will carry bags until I pass from the life.
More than anything. Jesus knows His Angela struggles with pushing and pulling carts of stuff. He knows it. He smiles and looks on her with love and likely consternation that she never ever learns, but His mercy with her is the deepest ocean.
More than anything.
Color saturated trees.
Exquisite beauty.
Decision.
Let go.
With good grace. And a thankful heart.
I face so much strife on a day to day basis.
Do you?
I encounter a lot of disrespectful people.
Do you?
In recent weeks I have lost the ability to effectively communicate. I have tried to write on numerous occasions but stare blankly unable to form sentences with jumbled thoughts. I have struggled with much inward turmoil, and the more that turns and churns inward, the worse for us all.
More than anything. Today. I love feeling the drizzling rain. Smelling leaves. Gazing at color saturated trees. I read somewhere that the beauty of fall is that the trees teach us how beautiful letting go can be.
You know the "I ain't doin it" lady... C'mon. You know you do. She is all over the place. Imagine me doing the same. I cannot let go. "Good lord" and "I would rather" and "that's not right" and all the other phrases too.
My baggage is deep, wide, heavy, and multiplying.
I am a small person. Although I just told my tall husband yesterday that I feel medium, actually. Because Erin Mummert is smaller than me. And two other people I know. So I'm basically medium. But medium still, my shoulders and back are not up to the task of supporting my baggage.
As a leader, if my reports cannot make it to work on time, or cannot handle the daily assigned tasks, I take that on myself, as a negative reflection of me, when really, it is on them.
As a mother when my child makes choices that are not viewed best by me, I take that on myself.
As a friend who manages to lose contact and connection with other friends, I stack that up.
As a daughter and sister with miles, memories, and no stops for calls in between, I add that to my pack.
As a person who would love to identify as a bondservant of Jesus, I throw right up there on top of the whole heap, the weaknesses of falling short of representing and serving Him well, and at all costs.
Baggage for days. For years. Full. Heavy. Weighted.
I am proud of two, just two, things in my life that I have been able to release. With good grace. Super big baggage that would not pass as carry on, and would require extra handling fees.
More than anything. I am grateful. There is exquisite beauty in the pain of holding, in the rush of bouncing back and forth in the winds of decision and emotion. Then. You let it go.
The person you are now is wiser, stooped, perhaps, but wiser. In the release you can see what has been freed. Space. For healing. For new dreams. For love.
More than anything. I would like to lighten the load I carry with me everywhere. It's so heavy. So heavy. I need three Smarte Cartes. Legit.
When I look out my window, during this my favorite time, I'm reminded of beauty.
Of letting go. With good grace. All the things that are not meant for me. And all the things that do not belong in my pack.
I will forever be hard on myself. I will hold myself to an impossible standard. I will carry bags until I pass from the life.
More than anything. Jesus knows His Angela struggles with pushing and pulling carts of stuff. He knows it. He smiles and looks on her with love and likely consternation that she never ever learns, but His mercy with her is the deepest ocean.
More than anything.
Color saturated trees.
Exquisite beauty.
Decision.
Let go.
With good grace. And a thankful heart.
Sunday, October 1, 2017
To Change Me
Today is Sunday.
I am about to consume chili and cornbread for-the-win.
I just mowed the lawn wearing Ryan's hoodie, also for-the-win, along with using his precious noise canceling headphones. (Both of which are basically too large. How did two people so unlike become one? It's a mystery for sure.)
On these headphones I was listening to Christmas music. Best gift ever. Jesus. Love. Came to earth for you and me. No better time than 10/1 to start the joy.
It goes hand-in-hand with my project.
Today, I was given a project, and it would be the truth to say that I am completely overwhelmed.
During the sermon this morning at Grace Fellowship, our pastor said we should look in the seat back pockets in front of us, and grab the orange envelope. I checked, and then dutifully grabbed the one I found and held onto it while he continued. He went on to say that there might not be envelopes everywhere and that was okay.
I began to feel nervous.
Because this was clearly not an assignment for each parishioner.
"Oh,hey new friend, did you just arrive? I think this orange envelope is for you not me."
The orange envelope unwrapped...
Each one contains a $100 bill that the church budgeted for this church (4 campuses wide) project.
Each person must use/invest the $100 for an act of compassion outside the church walls.
You must tell the person/people you help why you are doing it. (ie tangibly showing God's love)
You must write a page about your thoughts - how you feel about being the one getting the envelope, who you helped, and the results.
You have until 10/19 to complete the entire task and turn in your feedback.
You may have to share your story publicly.
Um.
.....
So. Yeah.
The kids wanted to hold the $100 bill.
We talked about the extreme importance of being good stewards.
We talked about what options to pursue.
They laughed because I might have to give a presentation, thankful that it will not be them, giving a public report of how they spent God's money.
I am nervous.
But I am so excited by the opportunity. Compassion as action is what I always want my legacy to be. Love. Lived out. Freely given. When I take my leave of you, whether by relocation, or when I have passed from this life, it is my sincere desire that you would be able to say....she loved well. I could easily see that she lived her faith in a genuine way. That she was different. That she helped me to see even a glimpse of who Jesus is.
It's such a tall order. It really is.
But it is the heartbeat of heaven.
I'll keep you posted on what is sure to be a life changing, joyful experience. Giving is so much better than getting. I love love love giving gifts and treats of all kinds. To get to do so in the name of Jesus is an honor and privilege.
For now. Consider this...
Emmanuel, Prince of peace
Loves come down for you and me
Heaven's gift, the holy spark
To let the way inside our hearts
Bethlehem, through your small door
Came the hope we've waited for
The world was changed forevermore
When love was born
I am about to consume chili and cornbread for-the-win.
I just mowed the lawn wearing Ryan's hoodie, also for-the-win, along with using his precious noise canceling headphones. (Both of which are basically too large. How did two people so unlike become one? It's a mystery for sure.)
On these headphones I was listening to Christmas music. Best gift ever. Jesus. Love. Came to earth for you and me. No better time than 10/1 to start the joy.
It goes hand-in-hand with my project.
Today, I was given a project, and it would be the truth to say that I am completely overwhelmed.
During the sermon this morning at Grace Fellowship, our pastor said we should look in the seat back pockets in front of us, and grab the orange envelope. I checked, and then dutifully grabbed the one I found and held onto it while he continued. He went on to say that there might not be envelopes everywhere and that was okay.
I began to feel nervous.
Because this was clearly not an assignment for each parishioner.
"Oh,hey new friend, did you just arrive? I think this orange envelope is for you not me."
The orange envelope unwrapped...
Each one contains a $100 bill that the church budgeted for this church (4 campuses wide) project.
Each person must use/invest the $100 for an act of compassion outside the church walls.
You must tell the person/people you help why you are doing it. (ie tangibly showing God's love)
You must write a page about your thoughts - how you feel about being the one getting the envelope, who you helped, and the results.
You have until 10/19 to complete the entire task and turn in your feedback.
You may have to share your story publicly.
Um.
.....
So. Yeah.
The kids wanted to hold the $100 bill.
We talked about the extreme importance of being good stewards.
We talked about what options to pursue.
They laughed because I might have to give a presentation, thankful that it will not be them, giving a public report of how they spent God's money.
I am nervous.
But I am so excited by the opportunity. Compassion as action is what I always want my legacy to be. Love. Lived out. Freely given. When I take my leave of you, whether by relocation, or when I have passed from this life, it is my sincere desire that you would be able to say....she loved well. I could easily see that she lived her faith in a genuine way. That she was different. That she helped me to see even a glimpse of who Jesus is.
It's such a tall order. It really is.
But it is the heartbeat of heaven.
I'll keep you posted on what is sure to be a life changing, joyful experience. Giving is so much better than getting. I love love love giving gifts and treats of all kinds. To get to do so in the name of Jesus is an honor and privilege.
For now. Consider this...
Emmanuel, Prince of peace
Loves come down for you and me
Heaven's gift, the holy spark
To let the way inside our hearts
Bethlehem, through your small door
Came the hope we've waited for
The world was changed forevermore
When love was born
Sunday, September 24, 2017
My Husband Says I Need A Hobby
Sundays are the God given day of rest.
I must say. In recent weeks I've had to take both days. I sleep a large portion of Saturday. I've put my health in jeopardy for so long that I find it difficult to manage most days.
I love the day of rest. I love going to church. I love the feeling of refreshing that I feel there. I love that I am always inspired to write on Sundays.
Here I sit. In my living room. Watching the sun pour it's intensely not-Septemberish-rays through yellowing trees. Wearing my awesome not-old-lady reading glasses.
I love stories. I love that every person you meet has a story. I've said it numerous times - I am addicted to the written word. I love words spilling off pages and soaking into my heart. I love reading your heart in your eyes; yes, but I also love seeing your story in print. I can read between those lines and quickly, voraciously, devour all that you would speak. This is why I love writing. It removes that which hinders and leaves behind the beautiful remnant of the tale which will be the longevity.
I love being a story teller. I am not really blessed with the ability to be short winded, because I get so wrapped up in the telling. I am certain you, as a reader, want to know every detail of what it is like attempting to get clean whilst at the campground.
I find it is the personal stories that mean the most. I have tried to write fiction, to pull characters from the sky, and create. But I'm not sure I'm that type of writer. I get the most joy out of sharing the trove of treasures that have been my journey. Some of the goodies are delightful; and some seem better left in the dark, but it is the bringing out that allows those items to lose their hold. It's so therapeutic. Perhaps I can encourage you to be a writer. Get some thoughts down on paper... Even if no one else reads it.
One day I'll be the writer of many stories. I have no doubt that it will be a book that will run the emotional gamut. It will be the truest expression of my life as told best by the person who has lived it.
If you know how to read me, straight up or through the tear blurred lines, it will likely be like visiting an old friend on a rainy day in November. Comforting through the chill. Laughter through the tears. Memories wafting from the tea cups.
I believe this will be my pursuit in the months to come.
My hobby for distraction.
A compilation of my greatest hits.
I'll print it out upon completion and if you desire a copy...
I must say. In recent weeks I've had to take both days. I sleep a large portion of Saturday. I've put my health in jeopardy for so long that I find it difficult to manage most days.
I love the day of rest. I love going to church. I love the feeling of refreshing that I feel there. I love that I am always inspired to write on Sundays.
Here I sit. In my living room. Watching the sun pour it's intensely not-Septemberish-rays through yellowing trees. Wearing my awesome not-old-lady reading glasses.
I love stories. I love that every person you meet has a story. I've said it numerous times - I am addicted to the written word. I love words spilling off pages and soaking into my heart. I love reading your heart in your eyes; yes, but I also love seeing your story in print. I can read between those lines and quickly, voraciously, devour all that you would speak. This is why I love writing. It removes that which hinders and leaves behind the beautiful remnant of the tale which will be the longevity.
I love being a story teller. I am not really blessed with the ability to be short winded, because I get so wrapped up in the telling. I am certain you, as a reader, want to know every detail of what it is like attempting to get clean whilst at the campground.
I find it is the personal stories that mean the most. I have tried to write fiction, to pull characters from the sky, and create. But I'm not sure I'm that type of writer. I get the most joy out of sharing the trove of treasures that have been my journey. Some of the goodies are delightful; and some seem better left in the dark, but it is the bringing out that allows those items to lose their hold. It's so therapeutic. Perhaps I can encourage you to be a writer. Get some thoughts down on paper... Even if no one else reads it.
One day I'll be the writer of many stories. I have no doubt that it will be a book that will run the emotional gamut. It will be the truest expression of my life as told best by the person who has lived it.
If you know how to read me, straight up or through the tear blurred lines, it will likely be like visiting an old friend on a rainy day in November. Comforting through the chill. Laughter through the tears. Memories wafting from the tea cups.
I believe this will be my pursuit in the months to come.
My hobby for distraction.
A compilation of my greatest hits.
I'll print it out upon completion and if you desire a copy...
Tuesday, September 12, 2017
The Long Road
The floor is cold today.
A sure sign of the coming of Autumn.
I'm curled up on the couch, drinking coffee, watching a beloved Julia Roberts movie that matches my pensive mood. I don't care what critics say about her. I think she is iconic. I adore her. When I see her perform. I relate.
I've recently spent a great deal of time rereading my earlier posts. I'm pretty amazing I must say. (Just kidding.) Much that I read though, still resonates.
I see uncertainty. I see fear. I see triumph. I see growth. I see life.
My life has been ever changing. Anything but stagnant.
The direction seemed linear, sequential; but, what if the direction, the daily orchestral movement, is actually circular?
These lyrics play through my mind this week...
If I needed you, would you come to me?
Would you come to me for to ease my pain?
If you needed me, I would come to you.
I would swim the sea for to ease your pain..
Few things are more valuable on the rocky pathway of life than a person meeting you on the journey with a hiking stick, a mug of tea, and companionship for the next ten miles or so. It's my nature to come. I don't want you to be alone. No one should ever journey alone. Feeling uncared for. If I can honor you that way, I will come.
The bittersweet beauty of travel is the detours. The ways that wind and weave through back roads, suburbs, and through breathtaking cities with a million and one twinkling lights. Maybe you do not reach your destination on time. Maybe you never actually reach the place you intended. Maybe you turn back. Maybe you look far down that road. Maybe you see the precious people who have journeyed with you. Maybe you see the fading rays of sun filled years. Maybe you see the achingly beautiful moments that are frozen in time. Like your first house. Like your tiny, sweet baby with cords attached everywhere. Like the day your first child went to school. Like the days you said "goodbye" and walked away. Like the days you reached out and said "hello" to a new friend.
Maybe you look far down that road.
Maybe you see the place you started.
Maybe you turn around.
A sure sign of the coming of Autumn.
I'm curled up on the couch, drinking coffee, watching a beloved Julia Roberts movie that matches my pensive mood. I don't care what critics say about her. I think she is iconic. I adore her. When I see her perform. I relate.
I've recently spent a great deal of time rereading my earlier posts. I'm pretty amazing I must say. (Just kidding.) Much that I read though, still resonates.
I see uncertainty. I see fear. I see triumph. I see growth. I see life.
My life has been ever changing. Anything but stagnant.
The direction seemed linear, sequential; but, what if the direction, the daily orchestral movement, is actually circular?
These lyrics play through my mind this week...
If I needed you, would you come to me?
Would you come to me for to ease my pain?
If you needed me, I would come to you.
I would swim the sea for to ease your pain..
Few things are more valuable on the rocky pathway of life than a person meeting you on the journey with a hiking stick, a mug of tea, and companionship for the next ten miles or so. It's my nature to come. I don't want you to be alone. No one should ever journey alone. Feeling uncared for. If I can honor you that way, I will come.
The bittersweet beauty of travel is the detours. The ways that wind and weave through back roads, suburbs, and through breathtaking cities with a million and one twinkling lights. Maybe you do not reach your destination on time. Maybe you never actually reach the place you intended. Maybe you turn back. Maybe you look far down that road. Maybe you see the precious people who have journeyed with you. Maybe you see the fading rays of sun filled years. Maybe you see the achingly beautiful moments that are frozen in time. Like your first house. Like your tiny, sweet baby with cords attached everywhere. Like the day your first child went to school. Like the days you said "goodbye" and walked away. Like the days you reached out and said "hello" to a new friend.
Maybe you look far down that road.
Maybe you see the place you started.
Maybe you turn around.
Tuesday, August 29, 2017
Continuing
I'm thinking about the perfect job for me. Among many other things. Like whether to continue this blog...
Have you ever sat down to think about it for yourself? Perhaps you already have it so you need not consider additional options.
Here is a list of things I have been recommended for over the years.....
1) Nurse
2) Teacher
3) Secretary
4) Baker
5) School Counselor
6) Writer
Here is what I do to acquire cash - pharmacy technician. For a quadrillion stressful hours per week.
If you look closely you will see that none of the suggestions match my actual position.
Now. I often wonder if it is wise to try to make money at something you enjoy. Does it take the joy right out of it?
I love writing. Would I love it less if I were forced to do it every day versus when the mood strikes?
I enjoy kids. At a limit. I can't discipline the children of others. This greatly reduces my enjoyment of hanging out with them. Honestly, folks, there's a lot of bratty kids out there. Word.
I didn't get in to nursing school. #failure
That leaves secretary and baker on my list. I think I could do either quite well. I worked in a bakery before. As the clean up crew. Might I say here bless all the baker's because y'all are a hot MESS. What a disaster. Every single day. I guess speed trumps cleanliness-as-you-go. America needs them there muffins. Stat.
As much as I am encouraged to write. Professionally. I think it should remain a passionate hobby. It is a way for me to break free from the constraints of the daily grind. When I'm writing, I am all alone in the world. It's just me. My pen. My thoughts. And what follows is music and lyrics. You need both music and lyrics to express the soul and that stirring combination is what it feels like when I write. Forcing such a gift is like opening the Christmas present early.
I'm definitely interested in seeking alternate career paths. I'm definitely interested in the release of the overwhelming amount of stress.
For at least the short present it will come in the form of writing as a hobby only and friendships.
Let's share a cup of tea then, friend, and I have decided to continue writing this blog...
Have you ever sat down to think about it for yourself? Perhaps you already have it so you need not consider additional options.
Here is a list of things I have been recommended for over the years.....
1) Nurse
2) Teacher
3) Secretary
4) Baker
5) School Counselor
6) Writer
Here is what I do to acquire cash - pharmacy technician. For a quadrillion stressful hours per week.
If you look closely you will see that none of the suggestions match my actual position.
Now. I often wonder if it is wise to try to make money at something you enjoy. Does it take the joy right out of it?
I love writing. Would I love it less if I were forced to do it every day versus when the mood strikes?
I enjoy kids. At a limit. I can't discipline the children of others. This greatly reduces my enjoyment of hanging out with them. Honestly, folks, there's a lot of bratty kids out there. Word.
I didn't get in to nursing school. #failure
That leaves secretary and baker on my list. I think I could do either quite well. I worked in a bakery before. As the clean up crew. Might I say here bless all the baker's because y'all are a hot MESS. What a disaster. Every single day. I guess speed trumps cleanliness-as-you-go. America needs them there muffins. Stat.
As much as I am encouraged to write. Professionally. I think it should remain a passionate hobby. It is a way for me to break free from the constraints of the daily grind. When I'm writing, I am all alone in the world. It's just me. My pen. My thoughts. And what follows is music and lyrics. You need both music and lyrics to express the soul and that stirring combination is what it feels like when I write. Forcing such a gift is like opening the Christmas present early.
I'm definitely interested in seeking alternate career paths. I'm definitely interested in the release of the overwhelming amount of stress.
For at least the short present it will come in the form of writing as a hobby only and friendships.
Let's share a cup of tea then, friend, and I have decided to continue writing this blog...
Sunday, August 20, 2017
The Chance We All Deserve
How are you at speeches?
Do you like to give speeches?
I took a speech class in high school, even though I had been performing in plays and programs my whole life. I loved performing and did it every chance I got. I have a good memory which makes me perfect for it. The sick kind like - "On the Monday before Christmas in 1987 I was wearing a purple dress with blue flowers and we had chicken noodle soup for dinner." I remember conversations in detail. I remember dates and incidents. I almost do not need to take notes. I compartmentalize everything that I take in and then sort and re-sort the information in the following minutes, hours, and days. Emotions and feelings are attached to each item and then it is stored appropriately. The higher the level of attached emotion, the more often the item will be re-pulled throughout the day and days following. And this is the lengthy process that cements these events. (And explains why I'm exhausted because my brain NEVER turns off.) This is why I remember throwing up all over my Chemistry test in the 11th grade. The 11th grade. Not the 1st grade which is entirely acceptable. It's why I can vividly see myself aged 13, with braided hair, wearing a pink dress, throwing a cup of water in Matt's face when he had the audacity to publicly make fun of me for choosing not "to go" with him. (I secretly wanted to do just that, whatever it meant, but I had trust issues and he proceeded to prove me right and the betrayal stung. Deeply.)
I expected to excel in speech class, but I was nervous. I felt awkward. I felt uncertain. The reason? It was not fear of attention. It was fear of their opinions. In plays the words are not your own so it matters not. In speeches, the words are your own. Or should be. (It's a shame that famous people have writers. If you are speaking before an audience it should always be authentic.) My grade was fine but I never did get comfortable.
Somewhere along the way....
....that changed.
My ability to convey my heart has become so easy. I do all my own work, just so you know. I do not fear speaking in front of others, because I see their eyes, I see their heart, and what follows is a conversation. Even if it's a group of ten, forty or two hundred.
Not everyone is cut out for speech making. Not everyone gets in the spotlight. But it is the quiet conversations that we should all be having. The "Will you 'go with' me?" ones... The "You mean something to me" ones... The "Thanks for being my friend" ones.." And most importantly, when it comes down to it, the "Goodbye" ones....
We all deserve the chance to speak our heart. We all deserve to look into the eyes of an audience of one, or twenty, to share and inspire, and when necessary, let go, which is the hardest of all the things.
Just be sure to do your own work. Be authentic. Or you might get a face full of water.
Do you like to give speeches?
I took a speech class in high school, even though I had been performing in plays and programs my whole life. I loved performing and did it every chance I got. I have a good memory which makes me perfect for it. The sick kind like - "On the Monday before Christmas in 1987 I was wearing a purple dress with blue flowers and we had chicken noodle soup for dinner." I remember conversations in detail. I remember dates and incidents. I almost do not need to take notes. I compartmentalize everything that I take in and then sort and re-sort the information in the following minutes, hours, and days. Emotions and feelings are attached to each item and then it is stored appropriately. The higher the level of attached emotion, the more often the item will be re-pulled throughout the day and days following. And this is the lengthy process that cements these events. (And explains why I'm exhausted because my brain NEVER turns off.) This is why I remember throwing up all over my Chemistry test in the 11th grade. The 11th grade. Not the 1st grade which is entirely acceptable. It's why I can vividly see myself aged 13, with braided hair, wearing a pink dress, throwing a cup of water in Matt's face when he had the audacity to publicly make fun of me for choosing not "to go" with him. (I secretly wanted to do just that, whatever it meant, but I had trust issues and he proceeded to prove me right and the betrayal stung. Deeply.)
I expected to excel in speech class, but I was nervous. I felt awkward. I felt uncertain. The reason? It was not fear of attention. It was fear of their opinions. In plays the words are not your own so it matters not. In speeches, the words are your own. Or should be. (It's a shame that famous people have writers. If you are speaking before an audience it should always be authentic.) My grade was fine but I never did get comfortable.
Somewhere along the way....
....that changed.
My ability to convey my heart has become so easy. I do all my own work, just so you know. I do not fear speaking in front of others, because I see their eyes, I see their heart, and what follows is a conversation. Even if it's a group of ten, forty or two hundred.
Not everyone is cut out for speech making. Not everyone gets in the spotlight. But it is the quiet conversations that we should all be having. The "Will you 'go with' me?" ones... The "You mean something to me" ones... The "Thanks for being my friend" ones.." And most importantly, when it comes down to it, the "Goodbye" ones....
We all deserve the chance to speak our heart. We all deserve to look into the eyes of an audience of one, or twenty, to share and inspire, and when necessary, let go, which is the hardest of all the things.
Just be sure to do your own work. Be authentic. Or you might get a face full of water.
Saturday, August 19, 2017
Broken Pieces
I think that there might be things that feel like a right. Something deserved. Unearned. But deserved.
Like reading. Everyone should get the chance to learn that skill.
Like being part of a family. Everyone should get the chance to feel included in a fold of love.
There are plenty of sorrows to choose from if we were to categorize tonight. So many weighted hearts and minds. Most of the weighted seem to find screaming from the mountain tops the best way to rectify and resolve. I almost cannot bear to listen to one more person rail about racism and our president and the flag and minimum wage and capitalism and socialism and marriage laws and public restroom laws AND.... People, you are daily demanding attention...
I can't listen to one more word that you are shouting. Not one more word.
You know what I love about the Old Testament? What I respect about the Jewish faith? The passing of the Word from generation to generation. Verbally. Instruction is given (even now for us Gentiles) to teach the words and stories to your children when you are sitting, walking along the way, when you lie down and when you get up and....
You know what is the second most favorite thing I love about the Old Testament?
This.
"And he said, Go forth, and stand upon the mount before the LORD. And, behold, the LORD passed by, and a great and strong wind rent the mountains, and brake in pieces the rocks before the LORD; but the LORD was not in the wind: and after the wind an earthquake; but the LORD was not in the earthquake: And after the earthquake a fire; but the LORD was not in the fire: and after the fire a still small voice."
A still small voice.
The I AM. Who alone has authority to demand attention with wind and earthquakes and lightening and rainbows and thunder.
The I AM is found in a still small voice.
He spoke with Elijah. I can't even begin to imagine what that must be like, but one day I will know.
If we read into the passage we understand that He CAME to Elijah.
HE came TO Elijah.
Mind blown.
This is what our God does. This is the love that we cannot hope to understand. That in this season of doubt, heartache, worries, strife...the I AM pursues us.
Friends. He is not likely to join your riots. You will not hear him shouting. His Facebook feed will not be covered in political memes.
For now. He will come with a still small voice. You will have to be looking and listening to find Him. Oh, He knows your earthly fears. The rights you think you deserve or need. Better He knows your heart. Your innermost heart. And He still wants you.
When in my humanness I would wash my hands of all of you....God would not.
I cannot explain it. I cannot adequately share my faith because God blows my mind.
These are some lines from a favorite song...
"All these pieces broken and scattered
In mercy gathered, mended and whole
Oh, I can see you now
Oh, I can see the love in Your eyes
Laying Yourself down
Raising up the broken to life"
All these pieces.
If that doesn't describe our lives..
In mercy gathered.
If that doesn't describe our God...
Friends.
A still small voice is the answer. For your fears. For your pain.
He raises the broken to life.
I'm living proof.
Like reading. Everyone should get the chance to learn that skill.
Like being part of a family. Everyone should get the chance to feel included in a fold of love.
There are plenty of sorrows to choose from if we were to categorize tonight. So many weighted hearts and minds. Most of the weighted seem to find screaming from the mountain tops the best way to rectify and resolve. I almost cannot bear to listen to one more person rail about racism and our president and the flag and minimum wage and capitalism and socialism and marriage laws and public restroom laws AND.... People, you are daily demanding attention...
I can't listen to one more word that you are shouting. Not one more word.
You know what I love about the Old Testament? What I respect about the Jewish faith? The passing of the Word from generation to generation. Verbally. Instruction is given (even now for us Gentiles) to teach the words and stories to your children when you are sitting, walking along the way, when you lie down and when you get up and....
You know what is the second most favorite thing I love about the Old Testament?
This.
"And he said, Go forth, and stand upon the mount before the LORD. And, behold, the LORD passed by, and a great and strong wind rent the mountains, and brake in pieces the rocks before the LORD; but the LORD was not in the wind: and after the wind an earthquake; but the LORD was not in the earthquake: And after the earthquake a fire; but the LORD was not in the fire: and after the fire a still small voice."
A still small voice.
The I AM. Who alone has authority to demand attention with wind and earthquakes and lightening and rainbows and thunder.
The I AM is found in a still small voice.
He spoke with Elijah. I can't even begin to imagine what that must be like, but one day I will know.
If we read into the passage we understand that He CAME to Elijah.
HE came TO Elijah.
Mind blown.
This is what our God does. This is the love that we cannot hope to understand. That in this season of doubt, heartache, worries, strife...the I AM pursues us.
Friends. He is not likely to join your riots. You will not hear him shouting. His Facebook feed will not be covered in political memes.
For now. He will come with a still small voice. You will have to be looking and listening to find Him. Oh, He knows your earthly fears. The rights you think you deserve or need. Better He knows your heart. Your innermost heart. And He still wants you.
When in my humanness I would wash my hands of all of you....God would not.
I cannot explain it. I cannot adequately share my faith because God blows my mind.
These are some lines from a favorite song...
"All these pieces broken and scattered
In mercy gathered, mended and whole
Oh, I can see you now
Oh, I can see the love in Your eyes
Laying Yourself down
Raising up the broken to life"
All these pieces.
If that doesn't describe our lives..
In mercy gathered.
If that doesn't describe our God...
Friends.
A still small voice is the answer. For your fears. For your pain.
He raises the broken to life.
I'm living proof.
Thursday, August 10, 2017
Trouble With The Curve
Today, for the first time in his young life, my son resisted a hug from me . Because he was having some tweenage angst regarding instruction. He didn't just resist. He firmly pulled away. And he was good with that choice.
And I'm having a serious moment (or several) about it.
Parenting, like leadership, is a draining task. To keep all your little peeps trucking along in a row. To guide them. To instruct them.
If you're doing it well, you will not be making friends. At least not all the time. Someone in your row is going to be upset with you from time to time because receiving direction and instruction can be difficult. We all like to go our own way. But. If you report to someone, you have to go in the way that they desire. Because they are responsible for you. They are held accountable for your action or inaction as it pertains to outcomes.
Man. If parenting were all snuggles and baby kisses. Well. I'd have a lot more than two.
But.
Tweenage angst. (😡)
Adult entrees. (💸)
Book fair. (💰)
You understand.
I'm crying over here. Legit, real tears of sorrow and mommy pain.
My baby is an independent person with independent feelings and he is now on his way to stretching, pushing and growing his boundaries.
I'm trying to keep up with the curve, but like the movie, I have a little trouble with it.
It's probably ridiculous. But I felt that life inside my body and I birthed that child with great love and longing. I thereby reserve to have all the (several) moments of all the rites of passage that are now beginning in this household.
Son. I love you, sweet baby. You are my greatest joy. Your hands are letting go. And it's healthy. And natural. (Although not always done in the right way.)
And. No one. No one. Can prepare a Mommy's heart.
And I'm having a serious moment (or several) about it.
Parenting, like leadership, is a draining task. To keep all your little peeps trucking along in a row. To guide them. To instruct them.
If you're doing it well, you will not be making friends. At least not all the time. Someone in your row is going to be upset with you from time to time because receiving direction and instruction can be difficult. We all like to go our own way. But. If you report to someone, you have to go in the way that they desire. Because they are responsible for you. They are held accountable for your action or inaction as it pertains to outcomes.
Man. If parenting were all snuggles and baby kisses. Well. I'd have a lot more than two.
But.
Tweenage angst. (😡)
Adult entrees. (💸)
Book fair. (💰)
You understand.
I'm crying over here. Legit, real tears of sorrow and mommy pain.
My baby is an independent person with independent feelings and he is now on his way to stretching, pushing and growing his boundaries.
I'm trying to keep up with the curve, but like the movie, I have a little trouble with it.
It's probably ridiculous. But I felt that life inside my body and I birthed that child with great love and longing. I thereby reserve to have all the (several) moments of all the rites of passage that are now beginning in this household.
Son. I love you, sweet baby. You are my greatest joy. Your hands are letting go. And it's healthy. And natural. (Although not always done in the right way.)
And. No one. No one. Can prepare a Mommy's heart.
Sunday, July 30, 2017
An Amazon Princess
Purpose.
A loaded word.
It is defined this way:
"...the reason for which something is done or created or for which something exists."
Do you have this? In your life I mean. Do you understand why you are here? Do you know why you were created?
I'll give you a hint, it isn't likely to be for drinking coffee and schlepping from one place to the next. While these may be avenues of your daily life, and to some degree it is true for all of us, this is not the intent of the design.
I recently watched Wonder Woman. And. Man-oh-man, was I inspired. I made a statement on social media that went something like this....
"Dang. I'm gonna be as tough as Wonder Woman one day. But I'd have to grow two feet and stop eating Big Macs. So. Yeah. Maybe Velma is more my speed."
I wanted to be her. Tough - physically and mentally. Beautiful. Tall. Quick. Smart. Sacrificial. Giving. Seemingly flawless character. The embodiment of perfection. A tool of the gods. Designed for a purpose.
I'm close to the opposite of Wonder Woman in many ways. I am not the image of physical perfection. I am not solely sacrificial or giving. My character is flawed. I'm not super quick, probably because of those delicious Big Macs.
What we do share, Wonder Woman and I, is this. We are both designed for a purpose. We are both a tool for service. (Now I admit, for the record, I'd rather we shared a little more of those vanity features, and character bonuses, but it is what it is. Can I just for a minute put my arms together and deflect bullets like an attractive badass? Like. One minute. Thirty seconds? No? Okay.)
My purpose is to serve God and others; for this, I was created. I find, however, that purpose is muted in the cacophony. I am not fulfilling my purpose; because I can't hear it over the noise of "living" which orders my agenda.
The problem, for me, is not knowing my purpose, but living it. How do I restructure to fulfill purpose but not add to the cacophony? I have many roles, and this seems to be one more to add. And I'm tired. I. Am. Straight. Out. Exhausted. By life. (Unlike Wonder Woman.)
I have set my course. I have reorganized, recharted, improvised, and started a new path. Might I say these are hard things for summer? This job is for January and not July. I think Wonder Woman just has the one role to evaluate so she can do it whenever she wants. Which is probably all the time. And perfect.
I hope I will be successful. For when my life is over, I hope to hear, "Well done, good and faithful servant..."
And here is where I will have Wonder Woman beat.....
One day Angela will enter heaven, where there are no wars, no tears, no pain, and she will live there forever as a beloved daughter of the King.
It's best she know and fulfill her purpose.
A loaded word.
It is defined this way:
"...the reason for which something is done or created or for which something exists."
Do you have this? In your life I mean. Do you understand why you are here? Do you know why you were created?
I'll give you a hint, it isn't likely to be for drinking coffee and schlepping from one place to the next. While these may be avenues of your daily life, and to some degree it is true for all of us, this is not the intent of the design.
I recently watched Wonder Woman. And. Man-oh-man, was I inspired. I made a statement on social media that went something like this....
"Dang. I'm gonna be as tough as Wonder Woman one day. But I'd have to grow two feet and stop eating Big Macs. So. Yeah. Maybe Velma is more my speed."
I wanted to be her. Tough - physically and mentally. Beautiful. Tall. Quick. Smart. Sacrificial. Giving. Seemingly flawless character. The embodiment of perfection. A tool of the gods. Designed for a purpose.
I'm close to the opposite of Wonder Woman in many ways. I am not the image of physical perfection. I am not solely sacrificial or giving. My character is flawed. I'm not super quick, probably because of those delicious Big Macs.
What we do share, Wonder Woman and I, is this. We are both designed for a purpose. We are both a tool for service. (Now I admit, for the record, I'd rather we shared a little more of those vanity features, and character bonuses, but it is what it is. Can I just for a minute put my arms together and deflect bullets like an attractive badass? Like. One minute. Thirty seconds? No? Okay.)
My purpose is to serve God and others; for this, I was created. I find, however, that purpose is muted in the cacophony. I am not fulfilling my purpose; because I can't hear it over the noise of "living" which orders my agenda.
The problem, for me, is not knowing my purpose, but living it. How do I restructure to fulfill purpose but not add to the cacophony? I have many roles, and this seems to be one more to add. And I'm tired. I. Am. Straight. Out. Exhausted. By life. (Unlike Wonder Woman.)
I have set my course. I have reorganized, recharted, improvised, and started a new path. Might I say these are hard things for summer? This job is for January and not July. I think Wonder Woman just has the one role to evaluate so she can do it whenever she wants. Which is probably all the time. And perfect.
I hope I will be successful. For when my life is over, I hope to hear, "Well done, good and faithful servant..."
And here is where I will have Wonder Woman beat.....
One day Angela will enter heaven, where there are no wars, no tears, no pain, and she will live there forever as a beloved daughter of the King.
It's best she know and fulfill her purpose.
Wednesday, July 26, 2017
Untitled. Like the Hymn.
It's been a few weeks since my last post...
It feels like an eternity to a writer. My absence has not been for lack of words, but, rather, lack of the desire to express.
This is a summer unlike previous ones, and it's pretty mundane, almost as bad as the school year. Everyone needs a break from routine and we've had precious little of that.
Every day feels exactly the same.
But it's not.
Life is being evaluated. Life is being reorganized.
Change is a big part of life, but it is not something I enjoy or embrace.
I'm afraid to try new things. Truly. I don't order different things from menus. I don't often switch jobs. I don't take different routes. I'm going to be a very, very boring old person. I can see what I will look like, even now. Sensible white sneakers. Khaki pants. White blouse. Purple cardigan. Pearls. Glasses. And probably a handbag with a weight. For protection. (My temper is legit, friends. Don't cross me.) I will likely go to all the same places without fail. I will sit in my rocking chair and snap beans every other summer day. My body will be 83% sweet tea and holding. My Scrabble game will still be on point. And I will still be afraid to try new things. "No thank you, I do not eat anything that comes out of the sea...."
As much as I dislike trying new things, as much as I dislike change, it is so incredibly good for me. I need it so much. I need changes of scenery. I need opportunities to grow. I need people who will make me do those things I would shy away from. (PS - I don't care I'm still not eating sushi.)
I've made many positive strides. I can grow houseplants without death occurring in the first 14 days. I own a cat (that I personally bought) as heretofore I have been a nonpet owner. I drink coffee. These are all learned behaviors. Learned processes. One simply does not take a sip of coffee and love it.
So. To that end. New things. New changes.
Good for the soul.
I'm moving.
It feels like an eternity to a writer. My absence has not been for lack of words, but, rather, lack of the desire to express.
This is a summer unlike previous ones, and it's pretty mundane, almost as bad as the school year. Everyone needs a break from routine and we've had precious little of that.
Every day feels exactly the same.
But it's not.
Life is being evaluated. Life is being reorganized.
Change is a big part of life, but it is not something I enjoy or embrace.
I'm afraid to try new things. Truly. I don't order different things from menus. I don't often switch jobs. I don't take different routes. I'm going to be a very, very boring old person. I can see what I will look like, even now. Sensible white sneakers. Khaki pants. White blouse. Purple cardigan. Pearls. Glasses. And probably a handbag with a weight. For protection. (My temper is legit, friends. Don't cross me.) I will likely go to all the same places without fail. I will sit in my rocking chair and snap beans every other summer day. My body will be 83% sweet tea and holding. My Scrabble game will still be on point. And I will still be afraid to try new things. "No thank you, I do not eat anything that comes out of the sea...."
As much as I dislike trying new things, as much as I dislike change, it is so incredibly good for me. I need it so much. I need changes of scenery. I need opportunities to grow. I need people who will make me do those things I would shy away from. (PS - I don't care I'm still not eating sushi.)
I've made many positive strides. I can grow houseplants without death occurring in the first 14 days. I own a cat (that I personally bought) as heretofore I have been a nonpet owner. I drink coffee. These are all learned behaviors. Learned processes. One simply does not take a sip of coffee and love it.
So. To that end. New things. New changes.
Good for the soul.
I'm moving.
Wednesday, July 5, 2017
It's Where Life Is
For my young readers.
For those who need to hear it.
Know your worth.
Everything I would impress upon you, dear ones, is just this. Please know your worth.
I struggled my life long with self loathing. With self worth. A constant, heartsick battle.
Shame covered me. A deep sadness gripped every piece of my heart. I felt unworthy of being loved. I watched as the world passed me by with its style, music, entertainment; I didn't know how to find my place in it.
I was certain, absolutely certain that no one would enjoy my companionship. No one would understand the deep recesses of my heart. No one.
I watched life happen from the sidelines. My heart ached for what it appeared everyone else had. Life. Love. Laughter.
Do you know I wore only skirts until 1997?
1997. Friends.
I know very little about TV and movies prior to the same year. In fact, are you ready? I've never seen ET in its entirety. Mic drop.
I never had a boyfriend in highschool. Friends. All.The.Way.Through.Highschool.
Oh, dear young readers, nieces and nephews, this sounds like death to every teenaged heart.
So very awkward.
But what my aged wisdom tells me now is that I could have had no better blessing than this.
I can say without a doubt that my life would have had a very different outcome had I been down some of the roads my peers were taking. My heart was simply not prepared. So, thank you for not giving me the time of day, boys everywhere.
Relationships are difficult, no matter your age, be it friendships, family, or spousal. In order to be successful in your relationships, you have to understand who you are. No one under 30 fully understands themselves. No one. So, if you find yourself in an awkward between kinda stage, even at 28, don't take it personally or too seriously.
You are priceless, dear ones; before you give your heart away, consider that. Your value extends far beyond your physical beauty. Take less selfies of your breasts or muscles. Take more selfies with your smile.
Your heart should never be given lightly. Guard it well. The wrong hands will damage your heart, potentially beyond repair. Life is in the heart. In the right hands, it will flourish.
Above all else, guard your heart, for everything you do flows from it. Proverbs 4:23
For those who need to hear it.
Know your worth.
Everything I would impress upon you, dear ones, is just this. Please know your worth.
I struggled my life long with self loathing. With self worth. A constant, heartsick battle.
Shame covered me. A deep sadness gripped every piece of my heart. I felt unworthy of being loved. I watched as the world passed me by with its style, music, entertainment; I didn't know how to find my place in it.
I was certain, absolutely certain that no one would enjoy my companionship. No one would understand the deep recesses of my heart. No one.
I watched life happen from the sidelines. My heart ached for what it appeared everyone else had. Life. Love. Laughter.
Do you know I wore only skirts until 1997?
1997. Friends.
I know very little about TV and movies prior to the same year. In fact, are you ready? I've never seen ET in its entirety. Mic drop.
I never had a boyfriend in highschool. Friends. All.The.Way.Through.Highschool.
Oh, dear young readers, nieces and nephews, this sounds like death to every teenaged heart.
So very awkward.
But what my aged wisdom tells me now is that I could have had no better blessing than this.
I can say without a doubt that my life would have had a very different outcome had I been down some of the roads my peers were taking. My heart was simply not prepared. So, thank you for not giving me the time of day, boys everywhere.
Relationships are difficult, no matter your age, be it friendships, family, or spousal. In order to be successful in your relationships, you have to understand who you are. No one under 30 fully understands themselves. No one. So, if you find yourself in an awkward between kinda stage, even at 28, don't take it personally or too seriously.
You are priceless, dear ones; before you give your heart away, consider that. Your value extends far beyond your physical beauty. Take less selfies of your breasts or muscles. Take more selfies with your smile.
Your heart should never be given lightly. Guard it well. The wrong hands will damage your heart, potentially beyond repair. Life is in the heart. In the right hands, it will flourish.
Above all else, guard your heart, for everything you do flows from it. Proverbs 4:23
Tuesday, July 4, 2017
We Can Be Heroes
Do you have a super power?
Something that automatically comes to mind when someone suggests you might have one?
I do.
Can you guess what it is?
My sense of smell is highly developed. Highly.
I identify people by their scent.
Without looking up, I can tell who has recently passed me purely by the smell.
You can imagine what my life is. Living in a house of boys. And peepee. Peepee is everywhere. From kids to cat, the bathroom (s) is.too.much. I love all my boys. But. Peepee. I'm seriously thinking about making everyone who uses the toilets under my roof sit down for any and all potty business. But I digress. Slightly.
I think it is a powerful tool, really, the sense of smell. Smells can trigger memories. Smells can transport you to another place. Smells might ruin your day. Smells might brighten your day.
When I smell coffee, I think of a specific person. When I smell Murphy's Oil Soap, I think of a specific house.
I went to visit my Grandma, in Georgia, four years ago this coming week. She was in the hospital, having what would be her final surgery. I was getting ready to start my new job in New York, and I needed to go and say what I knew would be my last in person words. (Incidentally. Nothing prepares you for what you will say. Nothing. You can be a writer at heart. A person who loves words. And simply sit there ready to deliver the speech of a lifetime, and choke. On every single meaningful word. I'm the absolute worst at expressing my heart when it counts. Remember that. When we are parting. Know that I feel so very deeply I am unable. Just. Unable.) We arrived at the hospital, dropped my mother off, and my brother and I traveled on to the house alone. I walked in, turned to my brother and, referencing her Ohio house, said, "It smells just like Grandma's house." Later, when the house was quiet, I slipped into her room, sat in her closet and cried. Her smell was comforting and saddening.
Babies. When they are not covered in diarrhea, babies smell amazing. You lay them on your chest, inhale the sweet scent, and try to get some for-the-love rest.
Lemon smells like tea and summer.
Lilacs smell like happiness.
Cookies smell like home.
Smell and memory will be forever intricately linked. It might not be your super power. Smell. (Which, frankly, is something for which you can be grateful sometimes.) But it is wonderful how in the middle of a random Monday, you remember someone special.
I'm sure that flying through the air holding a bus full of people that you rescued is a better super power.
I wasn't given a choice. Heroes are just born, peeps. So. The next time you need help sussing out that troublesome odor, you just give me call.
And we'll make a memory together.
And that is what makes it special.
PS...
**Men, I'm going to insert a really big tip for y'all here. Buy cologne. Buy it. Wear it. Wear. It. This is not a drill. Ladies, you are welcome.**
Something that automatically comes to mind when someone suggests you might have one?
I do.
Can you guess what it is?
My sense of smell is highly developed. Highly.
I identify people by their scent.
Without looking up, I can tell who has recently passed me purely by the smell.
You can imagine what my life is. Living in a house of boys. And peepee. Peepee is everywhere. From kids to cat, the bathroom (s) is.too.much. I love all my boys. But. Peepee. I'm seriously thinking about making everyone who uses the toilets under my roof sit down for any and all potty business. But I digress. Slightly.
I think it is a powerful tool, really, the sense of smell. Smells can trigger memories. Smells can transport you to another place. Smells might ruin your day. Smells might brighten your day.
When I smell coffee, I think of a specific person. When I smell Murphy's Oil Soap, I think of a specific house.
I went to visit my Grandma, in Georgia, four years ago this coming week. She was in the hospital, having what would be her final surgery. I was getting ready to start my new job in New York, and I needed to go and say what I knew would be my last in person words. (Incidentally. Nothing prepares you for what you will say. Nothing. You can be a writer at heart. A person who loves words. And simply sit there ready to deliver the speech of a lifetime, and choke. On every single meaningful word. I'm the absolute worst at expressing my heart when it counts. Remember that. When we are parting. Know that I feel so very deeply I am unable. Just. Unable.) We arrived at the hospital, dropped my mother off, and my brother and I traveled on to the house alone. I walked in, turned to my brother and, referencing her Ohio house, said, "It smells just like Grandma's house." Later, when the house was quiet, I slipped into her room, sat in her closet and cried. Her smell was comforting and saddening.
Babies. When they are not covered in diarrhea, babies smell amazing. You lay them on your chest, inhale the sweet scent, and try to get some for-the-love rest.
Lemon smells like tea and summer.
Lilacs smell like happiness.
Cookies smell like home.
Smell and memory will be forever intricately linked. It might not be your super power. Smell. (Which, frankly, is something for which you can be grateful sometimes.) But it is wonderful how in the middle of a random Monday, you remember someone special.
I'm sure that flying through the air holding a bus full of people that you rescued is a better super power.
I wasn't given a choice. Heroes are just born, peeps. So. The next time you need help sussing out that troublesome odor, you just give me call.
And we'll make a memory together.
And that is what makes it special.
PS...
**Men, I'm going to insert a really big tip for y'all here. Buy cologne. Buy it. Wear it. Wear. It. This is not a drill. Ladies, you are welcome.**
Sunday, June 25, 2017
Pilots and Passengers
How do y'all feel about road trips? I think there is no middle ground here. You either are all in or all out. There actually are a variety of ways to be all in or all out.
I have taken two, or four, in the last 9 days so we're going to have us a little chat about that.
The first roundtrip was a solo 16 hours in the car. It involved Lots of thinking. Lots. Speeding (just a little.) Talking. To myself. Minimal eating. A very wide playlist. Wide. Metallica. Adele. George. Journey. Celine. Reba. Firehouse. Bon Jovi. Penrod. Nailed it. As you readers well know, singing is my best God given gift.
Driving and service centers breakdown:
It would appear we generally have pilots without a cause. A task has been accepted but the mission is unclear. When we're in the car. It's time to go. The same applies to the rest stop. When we get out of our vehicles, it's go time for potty break. It's the same playing field and I expect your full attention in both. Unfortunately. I seemed to follow the same friends all day. They drive and walk like it's Sunday. I mean it was on one of the days, but whatever. I am all about the business on solo trips, no deviation, no open mind, no stopping unless it's required; therefore, please step aside to the slow potty lane or we will have some trouble. I have set the timer and I have three minutes to get back on the Thruway.
Basically my concern(s) on a solo trip are, get to the destination as quickly as possible - going or coming.
I'm all in.
On the flip side you have the family trip or the "plus one" experience.
"How about taking the scenic route?"
........
Hum.
Scenic route?
Is there a way to graciously decline?
"How about on the way back?"
Well. Friends. The "way back" eventually comes around... And the "way back," like the camping rain, encodes and stores in distinct patterns along the neural pathway in the brain, and will create permanent and best memories.
I love scenes. I love to see the ocean. And sunsets. And gardens. And trees. And mountains.
I would love to love the scenic routes. But I have been cursed. I cannot handle the attractive twisty and winding ways. They so clearly lead to destruction, which is why I have no trouble sticking to the straight and narrow way that leads home.
So on the way back today....we took the scenic route.
And technology might not be exactly where we want it yet. (A wise person tells me that on occasion.) As we headed off the freeway, my heart sank a little, but GPS had a grand plan in mind for these New Yorkers. It was quite beautiful. The sun was shining, clear blue skies and minimal traffic. We drove and drove. As the miles passed, I leaned my seat back a little farther. And a little farther. My concern grew when the chief navigator missed the appropriate road. This can't be good. As we turn around, we miss it again.
Wait.
I see it, a teeny white sign that says
Route 70 ---->
Um.
....
No.
We follow the directions, which pleases Ms. GPS, and immediately begin heading up a ridge. In half a mile we are on a gravel road going 25 mph.
.....
This is our life for the next 45 minutes. Driving up. Driving down. Driving around. And around. Past cows. Ponds. Tractors. Trees. Countryside. Horses.
"This is beautiful country."
My chair is almost completely flat and I'm inwardly, maybe outwardly, groaning.
"This really is a beautiful drive."
What I learned, friends, is that if you want to hide a body, head to Pennsylvania. Cause cain't no lawman even find you. All you might see is a pick-up truck with New York plates, down "Heck Of A Long Drive Rd" (seriously), and me laying next to a gorgeous barn vomiting in the amber waves of grain.
"Okay, Babe, we're heading back to civilization. Route 14 is coming up."
Well. Ha. Route 70 was a gravel road so I'm not feeling super confident but I could use a spot of faith, so lead on...
Soon. Indeed. We're back.
And we have to ask our GPS friend to get us to a place for eating. Upon arrival, I order five things to Ryan's two. Hey, don't judge me, I almost vanished without a trace in the outback this morning.
Now. Comparatively.
Solo trip - no eating, no deviation. Nothing to make the trip particularly memorable.
The "plus one" experience. Nausea. Views. Laughs. Eating. The perfect recipe for memory.
I'm all in.
I'll be your "plus one" whenever I can.
And I won't make you hold my hair back.
I have taken two, or four, in the last 9 days so we're going to have us a little chat about that.
The first roundtrip was a solo 16 hours in the car. It involved Lots of thinking. Lots. Speeding (just a little.) Talking. To myself. Minimal eating. A very wide playlist. Wide. Metallica. Adele. George. Journey. Celine. Reba. Firehouse. Bon Jovi. Penrod. Nailed it. As you readers well know, singing is my best God given gift.
Driving and service centers breakdown:
It would appear we generally have pilots without a cause. A task has been accepted but the mission is unclear. When we're in the car. It's time to go. The same applies to the rest stop. When we get out of our vehicles, it's go time for potty break. It's the same playing field and I expect your full attention in both. Unfortunately. I seemed to follow the same friends all day. They drive and walk like it's Sunday. I mean it was on one of the days, but whatever. I am all about the business on solo trips, no deviation, no open mind, no stopping unless it's required; therefore, please step aside to the slow potty lane or we will have some trouble. I have set the timer and I have three minutes to get back on the Thruway.
Basically my concern(s) on a solo trip are, get to the destination as quickly as possible - going or coming.
I'm all in.
On the flip side you have the family trip or the "plus one" experience.
"How about taking the scenic route?"
........
Hum.
Scenic route?
Is there a way to graciously decline?
"How about on the way back?"
Well. Friends. The "way back" eventually comes around... And the "way back," like the camping rain, encodes and stores in distinct patterns along the neural pathway in the brain, and will create permanent and best memories.
I love scenes. I love to see the ocean. And sunsets. And gardens. And trees. And mountains.
I would love to love the scenic routes. But I have been cursed. I cannot handle the attractive twisty and winding ways. They so clearly lead to destruction, which is why I have no trouble sticking to the straight and narrow way that leads home.
So on the way back today....we took the scenic route.
And technology might not be exactly where we want it yet. (A wise person tells me that on occasion.) As we headed off the freeway, my heart sank a little, but GPS had a grand plan in mind for these New Yorkers. It was quite beautiful. The sun was shining, clear blue skies and minimal traffic. We drove and drove. As the miles passed, I leaned my seat back a little farther. And a little farther. My concern grew when the chief navigator missed the appropriate road. This can't be good. As we turn around, we miss it again.
Wait.
I see it, a teeny white sign that says
Route 70 ---->
Um.
....
No.
We follow the directions, which pleases Ms. GPS, and immediately begin heading up a ridge. In half a mile we are on a gravel road going 25 mph.
.....
This is our life for the next 45 minutes. Driving up. Driving down. Driving around. And around. Past cows. Ponds. Tractors. Trees. Countryside. Horses.
"This is beautiful country."
My chair is almost completely flat and I'm inwardly, maybe outwardly, groaning.
"This really is a beautiful drive."
What I learned, friends, is that if you want to hide a body, head to Pennsylvania. Cause cain't no lawman even find you. All you might see is a pick-up truck with New York plates, down "Heck Of A Long Drive Rd" (seriously), and me laying next to a gorgeous barn vomiting in the amber waves of grain.
"Okay, Babe, we're heading back to civilization. Route 14 is coming up."
Well. Ha. Route 70 was a gravel road so I'm not feeling super confident but I could use a spot of faith, so lead on...
Soon. Indeed. We're back.
And we have to ask our GPS friend to get us to a place for eating. Upon arrival, I order five things to Ryan's two. Hey, don't judge me, I almost vanished without a trace in the outback this morning.
Now. Comparatively.
Solo trip - no eating, no deviation. Nothing to make the trip particularly memorable.
The "plus one" experience. Nausea. Views. Laughs. Eating. The perfect recipe for memory.
I'm all in.
I'll be your "plus one" whenever I can.
And I won't make you hold my hair back.
Friday, June 23, 2017
Blast of Summer
It's the first day of summer for my kids.
I'm located in Clearfield, Pennsylvania.
Camping.
Like every good camping trip, it's raining.
I'd like to talk to you about what camping is, because frankly, not everyone knows.
It always rains. Unless you are in Utah. (And then it's so hot in the desert you might as well be dead because that is what it will feel like.)
You wear the same sweatshirt for four days because. Rain.
It's pretty healthy because you have to walk a mile to pee. And it never ever ever fails that your bladder will betray you with a 4am sloshing urge to spill over. Never fails. Like last night. You lay there and know that this will be your life in fifteen years but strongly desire that it not be so today because. Mile. You must decide how dire the situation. You attempt to fall back asleep, but by 5am you realize the error of your ways because now you know that it is physically impossible to crawl out of your sleeping bag, let alone actually walk said mile.
It's the walk of shame.
As the entire campground can hear the "zzzzzzzzzz" of the tent zipper.
Ha. Another camper bites the dust.
You basically do not brush your hair for four days. Four days. Friends.
Showering can be something for which you look forward. Possibly.
You perfectly capable camper you, you head to the house of showers, adequately prepared with a towel, washcloth, separate bag for dirty clothes, a bag with the essentials designed to hang, AND flip flops to wear IN the shower. You've been doing this for years. You got this. You got it.
Friends. I do not care how many blessed years you have been doing this. It will go wrong every time.
Have you ever tried to balance in wet, slippery shoes, with a soapy rag, holding a bottle of shampoo,trying desperately not to touch anything? Like if your elbow touches the wall your whole life will be over? If you've been camping you have.
If by slight random chance you make it through the washing portion of the show without touching anything, you give yourself a cookie, but you surely face the greatest gauntlet ahead.
Drying/dressing in fresh warm clothes with wet flip flops in the coldest, dampest environment known to man.
Let's take a quick minute to describe the tool you have on hand for this task. A pre-shrunken towel you've had since 1984, because you certainly do not take your $20 oversized beauty, camping. By pre-shrunken, we mean it reduced it's size by half over 20 years of washing.
It's hard to say where to begin drying, but you know for sure your feet will be last. Nothing dries, friends, nothing. You want to dry your feet in hopes to put on your underwear and pants and get a slight bit of coverage from the cold air seeping into the house of showers. You "dry" your feet and then carefully slip your wet feet through your undergarments, which in turn soak up the water like a dying cowboy. You force them up your damp, frozen body. Ahh. That feels. Gross.
The above scenario will occur 99.9% of the time. Guaranteed.
Perhaps you make it through. Perhaps you do.
But then, on the way out of the shower section, past the pottys, you drop your wet washcloth. And die a thousand deaths.
You only take your beloveds camping. Only your beloveds will be happy to see your makeup-less face, your windblown/unbrushed hair, your same sweatshirt for days, and still be willing to sit next to you and share the simple pleasure of a hot dog in the smoke filled air. (Disclaimer: if it's anything but Ballpark, you are officially NOT camping.)
They might even give you a flashlight at 4am.
Without laughing. But unlikely.
I'm located in Clearfield, Pennsylvania.
Camping.
Like every good camping trip, it's raining.
I'd like to talk to you about what camping is, because frankly, not everyone knows.
It always rains. Unless you are in Utah. (And then it's so hot in the desert you might as well be dead because that is what it will feel like.)
You wear the same sweatshirt for four days because. Rain.
It's pretty healthy because you have to walk a mile to pee. And it never ever ever fails that your bladder will betray you with a 4am sloshing urge to spill over. Never fails. Like last night. You lay there and know that this will be your life in fifteen years but strongly desire that it not be so today because. Mile. You must decide how dire the situation. You attempt to fall back asleep, but by 5am you realize the error of your ways because now you know that it is physically impossible to crawl out of your sleeping bag, let alone actually walk said mile.
It's the walk of shame.
As the entire campground can hear the "zzzzzzzzzz" of the tent zipper.
Ha. Another camper bites the dust.
You basically do not brush your hair for four days. Four days. Friends.
Showering can be something for which you look forward. Possibly.
You perfectly capable camper you, you head to the house of showers, adequately prepared with a towel, washcloth, separate bag for dirty clothes, a bag with the essentials designed to hang, AND flip flops to wear IN the shower. You've been doing this for years. You got this. You got it.
Friends. I do not care how many blessed years you have been doing this. It will go wrong every time.
Have you ever tried to balance in wet, slippery shoes, with a soapy rag, holding a bottle of shampoo,trying desperately not to touch anything? Like if your elbow touches the wall your whole life will be over? If you've been camping you have.
If by slight random chance you make it through the washing portion of the show without touching anything, you give yourself a cookie, but you surely face the greatest gauntlet ahead.
Drying/dressing in fresh warm clothes with wet flip flops in the coldest, dampest environment known to man.
Let's take a quick minute to describe the tool you have on hand for this task. A pre-shrunken towel you've had since 1984, because you certainly do not take your $20 oversized beauty, camping. By pre-shrunken, we mean it reduced it's size by half over 20 years of washing.
It's hard to say where to begin drying, but you know for sure your feet will be last. Nothing dries, friends, nothing. You want to dry your feet in hopes to put on your underwear and pants and get a slight bit of coverage from the cold air seeping into the house of showers. You "dry" your feet and then carefully slip your wet feet through your undergarments, which in turn soak up the water like a dying cowboy. You force them up your damp, frozen body. Ahh. That feels. Gross.
The above scenario will occur 99.9% of the time. Guaranteed.
Perhaps you make it through. Perhaps you do.
But then, on the way out of the shower section, past the pottys, you drop your wet washcloth. And die a thousand deaths.
You only take your beloveds camping. Only your beloveds will be happy to see your makeup-less face, your windblown/unbrushed hair, your same sweatshirt for days, and still be willing to sit next to you and share the simple pleasure of a hot dog in the smoke filled air. (Disclaimer: if it's anything but Ballpark, you are officially NOT camping.)
They might even give you a flashlight at 4am.
Without laughing. But unlikely.
Saturday, June 17, 2017
My Fellow Graduates
To the MCS class of '97....
What a phenomenal weekend. I'm not sure I have laughed this much in quite awhile. I remember being quite sad when highschool was over because it really was fun to be around you. We laughed a lot then, and twenty years later, it still works.
I learned a few things from you.
1) I had no idea you were reading my blog and, frankly, I'm quite shocked that you are. I will be most mindful of this in the future and speak less about leaking bodily fluids and speak more about things that make me sound intelligent. And holy. And smart.
2) When next someone mentions that I was a math competition attendee (AKA mathlete), I should roll with it. Yep, I definitely remember attending and winning first prize because math has always been my best subject.
3) I should recreate more and work less. Much less. How can I boat and BBQ like the Schulze's when I never see the light of day?!
4) Grey hair means nothing.
5) You are my peeps because you drink Coke products, not Pepsi products, and you can tell the difference between legit and fake sweet tea.
6) You have reinforced that the span of time and distance means little between friends.
7) Every last one of you is tall and successful.
PS - "I gave up the dream of nursing because I became a famous writer. Have you not read my book?"
How is that for my re-do/embellishment...??
It brought me such joy to see your faces. To see that you are well and happy. To see that coming together could be so easy and comfortable. I think it was a small taste of what a first day in heaven will be.
Joy. Love. Comfort. Laughter. After a season apart.
Reunions are the most joyous of occasions this side of heaven.
But one day, we will say "hello again" for the last time and that will be the best day we have ever known.
What a phenomenal weekend. I'm not sure I have laughed this much in quite awhile. I remember being quite sad when highschool was over because it really was fun to be around you. We laughed a lot then, and twenty years later, it still works.
I learned a few things from you.
1) I had no idea you were reading my blog and, frankly, I'm quite shocked that you are. I will be most mindful of this in the future and speak less about leaking bodily fluids and speak more about things that make me sound intelligent. And holy. And smart.
2) When next someone mentions that I was a math competition attendee (AKA mathlete), I should roll with it. Yep, I definitely remember attending and winning first prize because math has always been my best subject.
3) I should recreate more and work less. Much less. How can I boat and BBQ like the Schulze's when I never see the light of day?!
4) Grey hair means nothing.
5) You are my peeps because you drink Coke products, not Pepsi products, and you can tell the difference between legit and fake sweet tea.
6) You have reinforced that the span of time and distance means little between friends.
7) Every last one of you is tall and successful.
PS - "I gave up the dream of nursing because I became a famous writer. Have you not read my book?"
How is that for my re-do/embellishment...??
It brought me such joy to see your faces. To see that you are well and happy. To see that coming together could be so easy and comfortable. I think it was a small taste of what a first day in heaven will be.
Joy. Love. Comfort. Laughter. After a season apart.
Reunions are the most joyous of occasions this side of heaven.
But one day, we will say "hello again" for the last time and that will be the best day we have ever known.
Friday, June 9, 2017
The Gift of Life
It is a noble gesture to give the gift of life.
Especially since one day you may need to receive it.
I was excited to participate, but last night, somewhere along the way, something went terribly wrong.
I picked up Aaron and headed directly to church for my appointment to give blood. I went through the interview process and proceeded to a table. Of course, the technician found it difficult to locate a vein. All medical personnel feel it necessary to complain about my bitty veins. The "boss lady" was called upon for assistance and she agreed to get me set up. Aaron was allowed to come sit next to me, and everything was fine for the next ten minutes.
I felt it coming. Quickly. The nausea. I tried to get the attention of a staff member, but they were all busy. I turned to Aaron and asked him to get me help.
It felt like I could not vomit long enough to eradicate the nausea and bring my body back to equilibrium. I was feeling so sick.
From behind me I heard one of the technicians say, "Oh, just breathe, ma'am"
And that was it. Complete darkness. Quiet. Peace. And I wanted to stay. It felt wonderful.
I've watched enough medical shows (shout out to my early seasons Grey's fans), and I must say they do fairly well in depicting what it feels like. You come around in flashes. Your hearing and understanding comes and goes.
Flash One
When did I put my legs in the air? Wait. I don't feel my legs in the air. If I can't feel them, how are they staying up? Ah, someone is holding them. Wait. I don't feel them being held...
Flash Two
"Hey!"
"What's her name?! Does anyone know her name? What's her name?!"
"Her name is Angela." (Oh, bless. Sweet baby. You should not be here.)
Flash Three
I can see that Boss Lady is slapping some sense into my hand. My legs are STILL in the air?! They are taking off my shoes. Hmm...sorry peeps, it's been a very long day in shoes, good luck. Boss Lady is giving all kinds of orders. Get this. Bring that.
I don't feel good. Not at all. I'd rather not stay here. And I at least semi consciously make the decision to go back to the darkness.
Boss Lady instantly knows... "Oh no you don't...."
I don't feel good. Not at all. I'd rather not stay here. And I at least semi consciously make the decision to go back to the darkness.
Boss Lady instantly knows... "Oh no you don't...."
But I don't know her. Her face is way up there; I have no connection to her.
Flash Four
Oh my word. My legs are still in the air. There are like 7 people hovering.
"Focus on me, quit looking out there in space."
Boss Lady is not having it anymore. I can't seem to form words with my mouth. I can't seem to move either. But I manage to nod my head that I register her words.
She tells me they sent Aaron away. Thank goodness.
No-interest-in-vein technician rambles on in a whisper in my left ear about how scared everybody was, this is such an event. You are such a trooper so I'm giving you a first time donor sticker.
They finally put my legs down and I take stock of my body.
Boss Lady finally finds a whisper mode herself and says, "Uhh, honey, do your pants feel wet?"
Every inch of my body is saturated in sweat, it is coursing down the sides of my head like rain. Yes. My pants feel wet. I've lost all control of my body for who knows how long. No need to be cryptic. Am I bleeding? Pooping? Peeing? What?
"Uhh, the floor is wet. I think you, well, never mind, we'll just get it cleaned up."
These people are not emergency medical personnel. I don't care how many times they told me, "This happens every day." Based on their ability to manage the situation, this was not a situation to which they were accustomed. I am not stupid. I can tell.
Boss lady says, "Well, you were out for quite awhile, well, err, I mean no more than thirty seconds, but we couldn't get you back. I had to do a sternal rub and that worked right away. Your color still is not good. Your color was very bad and your lips were not pink. They still don't look great, but they are getting color back."
Interesting.
Everything is happening in extreme slow motion for me. I'm hearing all the chattering, but I am not talking, still trying to get my bearings. They talk about me not being allowed to drive home. They take my vitals and talk about making decisions for a squad. Never once do they ask to call someone for me. Really? Cause I might be dying. And maybe somebody out there cares about my death. Not to mention my nine year old son who at this point has returned and continues to observe. I direct him to call Ryan on my phone.
My blood pressure is still very low. Ryan arrives and provides moral support. They try to stuff me with fluids and snacks. None of which I want. But like a good patient, I try. My pressure begins to climb, slowly. This pleases Boss Lady who would love to wrap up and go home.
"You're a trooper" and "Way to go!" say the last lingering fellow givers of life as they head out the door without pee on their pants. I raise my hand in solidarity.
They finally let me go, it's already 7pm, and would you believe it, it's in the car that I begin vomiting.
Ryan wants to stop for a Coke as directed by Boss Lady but I tell him to get me home. Ya know, because I have soaked everything I'm wearing either with pee or sweat. I feel disgusting. And nauseated. And tired. And the kids need to eat dinner.
I feel like a senior citizen going to my bedroom. I can basically do nothing for myself I'm so weak
and unwell. Ryan helps me get cleaned up and into bed, despite that I am grumbling about not being able to do it myself. I'm not one for extreme vulnerability. Have I mentioned I puffy heart him?
24 hours later and I'm frankly still recovering.
24 hours later and I'm frankly still recovering.
I still think donating blood is noble. I wish I could do it.
To my fellow rare blood types, I did this for you.
It's going to be my last time, because I can't make this stuff up.
To my fellow rare blood types, I did this for you.
It's going to be my last time, because I can't make this stuff up.
And, in the end, they couldn't even use the donation....
Sunday, June 4, 2017
What Hurts the Heart
It's been a very eventful week.
Our pet bunny has left this world.
I attended my first ever dance fitness class. Are you even kidding me?! My coordination is lax. I was very disappointed to know for sure and for real that I will never be a dancing princess. Graceful is not an apt description; plodding, is.
I am trying to balance some health issues with an overwhelming work schedule. Trying to coordinate all the pieces makes me feel like I am losing every last piece of my mind.
Chapters are ending and chapters are beginning. And it's so much. Right now. It's so much.
I feel like I am losing at everything.
And it's truly the worst feeling.
It's humbling. I am being humbled. Becoming less.
It hurts the heart but it is good for the soul.
This body is frail and our time here is so very limited. And when our hearts are hurting we focus. Not on the temporal. But on the eternal.
As I sat in church today, I closed my eyes and breathed...."Even so, come." Actively longing for the Lord's return. Honestly. It doesn't happen often. Maybe on 9/11. Maybe every day when I read Facebook and see the geuine state of the human heart. But, you know what I mean, we are so wrapped up in life. None more than myself based on my timecard. A pause is good.
I am a complicated person. One who doesn't continually spout the gospel to all the creatures, but one who desperately clings to faith like a lifeline. One who knows all the words to all the hymns, but might occasionally bounce to a little gangsta rap.
Convoluted. Humbled.
Focus, Angela. Focus. On the eternal. On what is coming next. On Who is coming.
And all the decisions you make in surrender to that will be fruitful.
Run the Earth. Watch the sky.
Our pet bunny has left this world.
I attended my first ever dance fitness class. Are you even kidding me?! My coordination is lax. I was very disappointed to know for sure and for real that I will never be a dancing princess. Graceful is not an apt description; plodding, is.
I am trying to balance some health issues with an overwhelming work schedule. Trying to coordinate all the pieces makes me feel like I am losing every last piece of my mind.
Chapters are ending and chapters are beginning. And it's so much. Right now. It's so much.
I feel like I am losing at everything.
And it's truly the worst feeling.
It's humbling. I am being humbled. Becoming less.
It hurts the heart but it is good for the soul.
This body is frail and our time here is so very limited. And when our hearts are hurting we focus. Not on the temporal. But on the eternal.
As I sat in church today, I closed my eyes and breathed...."Even so, come." Actively longing for the Lord's return. Honestly. It doesn't happen often. Maybe on 9/11. Maybe every day when I read Facebook and see the geuine state of the human heart. But, you know what I mean, we are so wrapped up in life. None more than myself based on my timecard. A pause is good.
I am a complicated person. One who doesn't continually spout the gospel to all the creatures, but one who desperately clings to faith like a lifeline. One who knows all the words to all the hymns, but might occasionally bounce to a little gangsta rap.
Convoluted. Humbled.
Focus, Angela. Focus. On the eternal. On what is coming next. On Who is coming.
And all the decisions you make in surrender to that will be fruitful.
Run the Earth. Watch the sky.
Sunday, May 28, 2017
Eulogy?
The problem with being involved with a writer or entertainer is that you are likely going to be an easy subject.
Sorry, Ryan.
Ryan is younger than myself. In fact, I about #die when I consider that I was a junior in highschool when he was in the 8th grade. Blech. Although, for the record, he is only two years my junior. (I guess one of us is either smart or stupid for the big school gap. 😛)
He was trying very hard to date me in the early years, but I wasn't having it so much for a few reasons. I was in college and he was in highschool. I was kind of his boss at work. And, I'm very sorry to say, that there was a small, or big, factor, regarding looks. He was the largest beanpole I had ever seen. And, frankly, to this day I prefer my people more round and sturdy like myself than thin and scrawny. If I hug you and I can like wrap my arms well around you, this is a problem, because my arms are not very big. You need to eat more. I want to see and feel some substance, right? If you need assistance here, I am great with distributing snacks.
Anyway, it apparently eventually worked out.
But I digress.
I want to talk about one of his character traits.
Undeniably Ryan is a servant. A very Christlike, pour himself out for you, person. His heart for others really knows no bounds. If you have a need, he wants to help you. His specialty includes anything with a motor, and aside from myself, this is his first love. He also is pretty handy with home projects, and, of course, electronics.
Over the course of time, much to my chagrin at times, he has left our own projects destitute and lonely while he has been in the service of others. We still joke about the walls in our hallway that remained drywall free for the three years we lived in the house. (It's okay, he also had to go to Iraq, Singapore, Veldhoven, and the Dominican Republic. I get it.)
He gave up his entire summer our last year in Utah to landscape for our new church building a decade in the making. When I say landscape, I mean tear out trees, clear the lot, and put in a commercial sprinkler system. What a monumental task. He designed it. He rented the machines. And he did a very large portion with just his own two hands.
Yesterday, he gave up his day to help a coworker relocating from Veldhoven, thus with limited English, rip out a backyard and lay sod. He did the legwork of renting all the machines, ordering the sod, and transporting said heavy machinery.
And, no, I'm not upset that my toilet is still in my living room. Because I'm so proud of the man that he is.
You don't find many selfless people these days, everyone is looking to their own affairs; but, Ryan is always looking out for someone else.
I hope one day I might be more like him.
Sorry, Ryan.
Ryan is younger than myself. In fact, I about #die when I consider that I was a junior in highschool when he was in the 8th grade. Blech. Although, for the record, he is only two years my junior. (I guess one of us is either smart or stupid for the big school gap. 😛)
He was trying very hard to date me in the early years, but I wasn't having it so much for a few reasons. I was in college and he was in highschool. I was kind of his boss at work. And, I'm very sorry to say, that there was a small, or big, factor, regarding looks. He was the largest beanpole I had ever seen. And, frankly, to this day I prefer my people more round and sturdy like myself than thin and scrawny. If I hug you and I can like wrap my arms well around you, this is a problem, because my arms are not very big. You need to eat more. I want to see and feel some substance, right? If you need assistance here, I am great with distributing snacks.
Anyway, it apparently eventually worked out.
But I digress.
I want to talk about one of his character traits.
Undeniably Ryan is a servant. A very Christlike, pour himself out for you, person. His heart for others really knows no bounds. If you have a need, he wants to help you. His specialty includes anything with a motor, and aside from myself, this is his first love. He also is pretty handy with home projects, and, of course, electronics.
Over the course of time, much to my chagrin at times, he has left our own projects destitute and lonely while he has been in the service of others. We still joke about the walls in our hallway that remained drywall free for the three years we lived in the house. (It's okay, he also had to go to Iraq, Singapore, Veldhoven, and the Dominican Republic. I get it.)
He gave up his entire summer our last year in Utah to landscape for our new church building a decade in the making. When I say landscape, I mean tear out trees, clear the lot, and put in a commercial sprinkler system. What a monumental task. He designed it. He rented the machines. And he did a very large portion with just his own two hands.
Yesterday, he gave up his day to help a coworker relocating from Veldhoven, thus with limited English, rip out a backyard and lay sod. He did the legwork of renting all the machines, ordering the sod, and transporting said heavy machinery.
And, no, I'm not upset that my toilet is still in my living room. Because I'm so proud of the man that he is.
You don't find many selfless people these days, everyone is looking to their own affairs; but, Ryan is always looking out for someone else.
I hope one day I might be more like him.
Saturday, May 27, 2017
These Are They
First up. I am not even kidding about these reading glasses. Amazing.
If I were to ask you what your favorite chapter is, could you answer? Can you point to one thing that stands out in memory? One occasion that changed your life?
My favorite chapters are the ones forming friendships. All my best and favorite friendships cannot be defined. I cannot point to the exact moment a line was crossed from, "Eh, you're okay" to "You are a very important person to me."
I love that. I love that true and deep relationships flow so naturally without definition. Something is the bonding agent. Something common. Something big or small. Without even trying you are drawn to each other.
Friendship can never be forced. It must come from the heart or it holds no value. I think this is why it takes more and more time to form close bonds as we age. We feel we have less time because we're aging by the moment. Because no one wants to be lonely. Because everyone desires a person to see their heart without explanation. We might try to skip some steps in the process in order to feel connected.
But that one person who would be your first call. That person who will come when you are in a coma. That person who will let you cry because they know you need it. That person who will buy you a box of Life cereal with a note attached that says "For Ang Only." These are they that flowed naturally.
One of my friends once said, "We are an odd pair, who would have ever thought we'd be friends?"
Love. Just love. That's what I feel when I picture us in the back of a van, heading to a show, hearing her say that. She was right. We are a bit of an odd pair.
But the beautiful thing? It doesn't matter.
Just like carbohydrates, only love matters.
I thought I'd never have opportunities, but time has a way of weaving moments and joy into our lives. Bonding happens when you aren't even looking, just like the lyric, "life is what happens while you're busy making other plans." One day you wake up, and have a dear friend.
This has been my experience. The best chapters. The very best chapters. My heart aches for the closed ones. Finds deep joy in the current ones. And hopes for the future ones.
If you need a bonding agent. Life cereal. Write it down.
If I were to ask you what your favorite chapter is, could you answer? Can you point to one thing that stands out in memory? One occasion that changed your life?
My favorite chapters are the ones forming friendships. All my best and favorite friendships cannot be defined. I cannot point to the exact moment a line was crossed from, "Eh, you're okay" to "You are a very important person to me."
I love that. I love that true and deep relationships flow so naturally without definition. Something is the bonding agent. Something common. Something big or small. Without even trying you are drawn to each other.
Friendship can never be forced. It must come from the heart or it holds no value. I think this is why it takes more and more time to form close bonds as we age. We feel we have less time because we're aging by the moment. Because no one wants to be lonely. Because everyone desires a person to see their heart without explanation. We might try to skip some steps in the process in order to feel connected.
But that one person who would be your first call. That person who will come when you are in a coma. That person who will let you cry because they know you need it. That person who will buy you a box of Life cereal with a note attached that says "For Ang Only." These are they that flowed naturally.
One of my friends once said, "We are an odd pair, who would have ever thought we'd be friends?"
Love. Just love. That's what I feel when I picture us in the back of a van, heading to a show, hearing her say that. She was right. We are a bit of an odd pair.
But the beautiful thing? It doesn't matter.
Just like carbohydrates, only love matters.
I thought I'd never have opportunities, but time has a way of weaving moments and joy into our lives. Bonding happens when you aren't even looking, just like the lyric, "life is what happens while you're busy making other plans." One day you wake up, and have a dear friend.
This has been my experience. The best chapters. The very best chapters. My heart aches for the closed ones. Finds deep joy in the current ones. And hopes for the future ones.
If you need a bonding agent. Life cereal. Write it down.
Saturday, May 20, 2017
Redefining
For the record.
I love being a "young" parent. I love that my children are self sufficient and I'm only slightly middle age.
I went to the school carnival last night. Since my oldest is a "senior," we couldn't miss the last opportunity. If you know me well, you know how much I love to people watch. I love to observe and study people. School functions are pure fodder for sociology.
I see the mothers. All of them. Talking. Gossiping. Worrying. Flip flops. Bad mouthing. Dyed hair. Posting. Texting. Bored. Yoga pants. Mildly interested. Giving cash. Receiving treasures or junk to hold. Genuine laughter. Discomfort. Desiring connection. Grey hair. Painted nails. Fake laughter.
It's the whole enchilada, folks. I can spot it all.
Since moving to New York, I have learned that I did it all wrong. I should JUST NOW be starting to consider becoming a mother. I should have had a lucrative career in something, amassing a small fortune in the bank, a nice 401K stash, a luxurious freshly built home with 5 bedrooms and four bathrooms; and, then basically, with the 10 eggs I had left hope to have two beautiful children. One boy. One girl.
Here's how my story went....
I married my only boyfriend. Just one, friends, just one.
We married in October 2004 while Ryan was still in college. We were expecting Noah by January 2005 and I was supporting our family. I threw up all day, every day of 2005, while I processed rates and pricing for third party home mortgages, and Ryan was finishing his degree.
I had had it by week 39 and demanded, okay begged pitifully, (today I would demand) we get this child out of my body, so after 13 hours start to finish induction, we welcomed Noah four days before our first wedding anniversary. Incidentally we took an hour baby break and went to Bob Evans for breakfast to celebrate on 10/16. What a difference a year makes.
I went back to work and Ryan finished his degree in June 2006. He got a job and began traveling for training in July and by August, I called Utah, home.
Ryan traveled a lot so I stayed home with Noah. These were very lean years. That fortune? Not amassing. We were expecting Aaron by February 2007 and I spent the rest of the year throwing up and sorta attempting to watch Noah from the couch. (Pregnancy. Is. The. Worst.) Aaron arrived in October right next to Noah. These brothers will always be close.
Life was busy. Very busy with young children, and a traveling husband. I was an uncertain person. I was the mother talking, worrying, fake laughing, sporting yoga pants, desiring connection.
These years, the Utah season, was tough. Start to finish in personal ways. I wouldn't trade the chubby, "Chee" saying babies, for all the cash I could have accumulated during my younger years.
But I do have one regret.
And I think it might happen to most young mothers.
I did not take the time to cultivate and pursue my own interests.
The New York season has brought me these options. Did anyone know I would adore cats? That writing would be so fulfilling? That I was actually ambitious for my own desires?
I compare Utah Angela to Melanie Wilkes (with the exception that I was never quite as demure). New York Angela has willingly embraced the Scarlett side she always had.
Ryan and I will celebrate 13 years of marriage, and the boys will turn 10 and 12, all this coming October.
I would not trade the whirlwind.
I would trade the vomiting.
I am satisfied with the mixing of Melanie and Scarlett.
History will prove the New York season to be defining.
Redefining.
I love being a "young" parent. I love that my children are self sufficient and I'm only slightly middle age.
I went to the school carnival last night. Since my oldest is a "senior," we couldn't miss the last opportunity. If you know me well, you know how much I love to people watch. I love to observe and study people. School functions are pure fodder for sociology.
I see the mothers. All of them. Talking. Gossiping. Worrying. Flip flops. Bad mouthing. Dyed hair. Posting. Texting. Bored. Yoga pants. Mildly interested. Giving cash. Receiving treasures or junk to hold. Genuine laughter. Discomfort. Desiring connection. Grey hair. Painted nails. Fake laughter.
It's the whole enchilada, folks. I can spot it all.
Since moving to New York, I have learned that I did it all wrong. I should JUST NOW be starting to consider becoming a mother. I should have had a lucrative career in something, amassing a small fortune in the bank, a nice 401K stash, a luxurious freshly built home with 5 bedrooms and four bathrooms; and, then basically, with the 10 eggs I had left hope to have two beautiful children. One boy. One girl.
Here's how my story went....
I married my only boyfriend. Just one, friends, just one.
We married in October 2004 while Ryan was still in college. We were expecting Noah by January 2005 and I was supporting our family. I threw up all day, every day of 2005, while I processed rates and pricing for third party home mortgages, and Ryan was finishing his degree.
I had had it by week 39 and demanded, okay begged pitifully, (today I would demand) we get this child out of my body, so after 13 hours start to finish induction, we welcomed Noah four days before our first wedding anniversary. Incidentally we took an hour baby break and went to Bob Evans for breakfast to celebrate on 10/16. What a difference a year makes.
I went back to work and Ryan finished his degree in June 2006. He got a job and began traveling for training in July and by August, I called Utah, home.
Ryan traveled a lot so I stayed home with Noah. These were very lean years. That fortune? Not amassing. We were expecting Aaron by February 2007 and I spent the rest of the year throwing up and sorta attempting to watch Noah from the couch. (Pregnancy. Is. The. Worst.) Aaron arrived in October right next to Noah. These brothers will always be close.
Life was busy. Very busy with young children, and a traveling husband. I was an uncertain person. I was the mother talking, worrying, fake laughing, sporting yoga pants, desiring connection.
These years, the Utah season, was tough. Start to finish in personal ways. I wouldn't trade the chubby, "Chee" saying babies, for all the cash I could have accumulated during my younger years.
But I do have one regret.
And I think it might happen to most young mothers.
I did not take the time to cultivate and pursue my own interests.
The New York season has brought me these options. Did anyone know I would adore cats? That writing would be so fulfilling? That I was actually ambitious for my own desires?
I compare Utah Angela to Melanie Wilkes (with the exception that I was never quite as demure). New York Angela has willingly embraced the Scarlett side she always had.
Ryan and I will celebrate 13 years of marriage, and the boys will turn 10 and 12, all this coming October.
I would not trade the whirlwind.
I would trade the vomiting.
I am satisfied with the mixing of Melanie and Scarlett.
History will prove the New York season to be defining.
Redefining.
Saturday, May 13, 2017
Mother's Day Thoughts
A recipe for a perfect day for me might include some of the following....
Sleeping 12/24 hours.
Reese Pieces.
The pressure and warmth of a friendly hand on, or in, your own. (Human touch is so important and conveys so much)
Scrabble.
Pit.
The sight of daffodils waving in the breeze.
Thunderstorms.
Pedicure.
Banter.
Cornbread
The smell of lilacs.
The comforting presence of a dear friend.
A scarf.
BBQ ribs.
Cornhole. (Because I cannot hit the broad side of a barn but I get lucky occasionally. Pick me as your teammate.)
A Broadway show.
Time on a jet ski.
A ride on Top Thrill Dragster.
A large Diet Coke.
Snapping beans on the porch.
Someone washing, drying, and brushing my hair. Like every day for the rest of my life. Okay, one time is fine. (This is truly one of the simplest and best joys in life. Why does it feel so amazing?!)
Hearing old songs like "Yesterday," or "The Way You Look Tonight," or "My Way" for the afternoon.
Most of these things cost little or nothing. Remember when you are gift giving, money is often, less.
My son asked me what I wanted for mommy's day, and, frankly, any one of the above would be enough for me. Notice only one of them really involves standing. And none of them involve running.
How well do you know the people in your life? So many gifts will be given in the next few days. How much of it will be purchased in haste and mean little?
I feel like Mother's Day is kind of ridiculous. Always have. It makes, giving and appreciating, almost obligatory. (And who made it on a Sunday which involves no morning rest as we try to rally everyone for church?! Probably not a mother.)
I think most mothers would agree that the best gifts are those that involve a resting time with dear friends/family. Order in please. (For the working mothers) Go out (more than likely) - for the stay-at-homers.
As a person whose primary love language is gifts - I find it so important to express the importance for heartfelt, knowlegeable gifting. Know your people. Know what they like. Know what they don't. Know what will make them laugh. Know what will be of some meaning. Understand what it means to be a mother of littles. How some of the choices made are actually more work than we care to do on a day that is meant to give respite, however mandatory.
I might have just saved your marriage. Or made you angry. There is probably no middle ground on this one. But, I think this day often involves less thought and more, "this is what everyone does on this day." Like brunch. In my opinion, the absolute last thing I would ever want to do on any day, especially Mother's day. Or breakfast in bed. Do you know how difficult it is to eat pancakes in bed?!
I'm pretty easy, a box of Reese Pieces, and a game of Scrabble. It will be painful for you, Ryan, since you hate the game, but it will only cost you $1 and an hour of time. And I will be over the moon.
Give little gifts often. Not just on reserved days. And give them to everyone. Appreciation and kindnesses speak volumes. Time. Words. Touch. Candy.
May your household be able to say...
Love in any language. Fluently spoken here.
Sleeping 12/24 hours.
Reese Pieces.
The pressure and warmth of a friendly hand on, or in, your own. (Human touch is so important and conveys so much)
Scrabble.
Pit.
The sight of daffodils waving in the breeze.
Thunderstorms.
Pedicure.
Banter.
Cornbread
The smell of lilacs.
The comforting presence of a dear friend.
A scarf.
BBQ ribs.
Cornhole. (Because I cannot hit the broad side of a barn but I get lucky occasionally. Pick me as your teammate.)
A Broadway show.
Time on a jet ski.
A ride on Top Thrill Dragster.
A large Diet Coke.
Snapping beans on the porch.
Someone washing, drying, and brushing my hair. Like every day for the rest of my life. Okay, one time is fine. (This is truly one of the simplest and best joys in life. Why does it feel so amazing?!)
Hearing old songs like "Yesterday," or "The Way You Look Tonight," or "My Way" for the afternoon.
Most of these things cost little or nothing. Remember when you are gift giving, money is often, less.
My son asked me what I wanted for mommy's day, and, frankly, any one of the above would be enough for me. Notice only one of them really involves standing. And none of them involve running.
How well do you know the people in your life? So many gifts will be given in the next few days. How much of it will be purchased in haste and mean little?
I feel like Mother's Day is kind of ridiculous. Always have. It makes, giving and appreciating, almost obligatory. (And who made it on a Sunday which involves no morning rest as we try to rally everyone for church?! Probably not a mother.)
I think most mothers would agree that the best gifts are those that involve a resting time with dear friends/family. Order in please. (For the working mothers) Go out (more than likely) - for the stay-at-homers.
As a person whose primary love language is gifts - I find it so important to express the importance for heartfelt, knowlegeable gifting. Know your people. Know what they like. Know what they don't. Know what will make them laugh. Know what will be of some meaning. Understand what it means to be a mother of littles. How some of the choices made are actually more work than we care to do on a day that is meant to give respite, however mandatory.
I might have just saved your marriage. Or made you angry. There is probably no middle ground on this one. But, I think this day often involves less thought and more, "this is what everyone does on this day." Like brunch. In my opinion, the absolute last thing I would ever want to do on any day, especially Mother's day. Or breakfast in bed. Do you know how difficult it is to eat pancakes in bed?!
I'm pretty easy, a box of Reese Pieces, and a game of Scrabble. It will be painful for you, Ryan, since you hate the game, but it will only cost you $1 and an hour of time. And I will be over the moon.
Give little gifts often. Not just on reserved days. And give them to everyone. Appreciation and kindnesses speak volumes. Time. Words. Touch. Candy.
May your household be able to say...
Love in any language. Fluently spoken here.
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