Tuesday, October 11, 2011
New Blog!
Hey guys the blog has gotten a bit of a facelift and been moved to here please give it a visit.
Monday, August 15, 2011
Appreciation
On Sunday last I ventured to Florence Street. Those closest to me know what that means.
I had a dream about my grandfather a few nights ago, and it prompted me to go and visit, which I need to do far more often. Sunday was the first time I’d seen my grandparents in nearly two months. Shameful, I am aware.
The visit began as my visits to their house often do, with me locked out. I knocked three separate times, the cousin that had accompanied me also knocked, more loudly than I, but to no avail. Finally, I pulled out my cell phone and called their house line, alerting them to the fact that I was indeed on their front porch enjoying the 106-degree heat.
When I entered, things seemed as usual. Oversized portraits of grandchildren decked the walls, flanked on either side by prints of our honorary cousins, John Wayne and Chuck Norris, better known as Walker Texas Ranger. My grandpa greeted me with, “Well, I’ll be,” and a hug. My grandma, however, walked within five feet of me several times without realizing I was in the room. But, when she eventually did, I received a warm embrace, promptly followed by an intense interrogation session that her grandchildren collectively refer to as “100 questions.” In actuality, there are only five questions, but they are repeated 20 times. She forgets and I love her, so I answer them repeatedly with repeated enthusiasm.
After these niceties, we (that being my newly arrived aunt and uncle, and me) pointed out that my grandparent’s 62nd wedding anniversary is this week, to which my grandmother replied, “Big deal.” She’s never quite gotten over the whole bed-of-roses scam that she believes marriage to be. She and my grandpa bicker quite a bit, but I know they love each other. Years ago my grandma was hospitalized with a heart-related issue. On a Sunday morning, my grandpa went into the hospital to check on her before going to church. Upon leaving the hospital he was T-boned and taken right back into the emergency room with a concussion. My grandma found out he was injured, but of course, wasn’t allowed to go and see him. When he was finally released in the early evening, he went straight to the elevators and up to her room. With tears streaming down his face, he walked in, his generally slow and stooped form moving with vigor, went straight to her bedside, where she was also in tears, and kissed her. It was the most precious sight I have ever witnessed. Unrivaled. Period.
Nevertheless, on Sunday, my grandma’s dander was up. No doubt the result of my mischievous uncle agitating her with picture shows, hamburgers and slop buckets, but that’s another blog, and I digress. My sweet grandpa shared the oversized musical Father’s Day card he received from another aunt and uncle. He’s very proud of it, as he is still sharing it in August, and Father’s Day was June 19. I opened it and looked, as did others, and my grandmother watched and waited. Like a spider. Then she said, “ I’ve got something better than that.”
She rose from her rocking chair and disappeared into a bedroom. Conversation continued in her absence and we all forgot her threat, but ten minutes later, she emerged. I know now that she went into that room and spent TEN MINUTES searching for something, anything that would one-up my sweet PawPaw’s musical Father’s Day card. I love her, but she’s ornery. Any of her five children or 14 grandchildren will tell you so.
What she carried in her hands was a framed drawing. She passed it in front of my Aunt Wilma first and stated that somebody named Johnny had given it to her, to which we all responded, more or less, “Who the #$%^ is Johnny?” There is no one in our family named Johnny.
As the art piece made its way around the room and closer to me, I caught a brief glimpse, and familiarity washed over me. My uncle was still trying to figure out who Johnny was, I was trying to remember where I had seen this lovely drawing of a feathered creature before, and my aunt said the magic words, “That has Rachel’s name on it.”
That’s right! I drew that bird in seventh grade, not Johnny! Whoever that is! I staked my claim on the art, backed up by others, but I’m reasonably certain Phantom Johnny will continue to get credit for it in my absence, despite my signature (in fine seventh grade penmanship) being etched along the breast of the bird. Oh well, it momentarily drew attention away from the Father’s Day card, and thus brought my grandmother great pleasure, which was my intention when I gave her the drawing ### years ago. Mission accomplished.
I had a dream about my grandfather a few nights ago, and it prompted me to go and visit, which I need to do far more often. Sunday was the first time I’d seen my grandparents in nearly two months. Shameful, I am aware.
The visit began as my visits to their house often do, with me locked out. I knocked three separate times, the cousin that had accompanied me also knocked, more loudly than I, but to no avail. Finally, I pulled out my cell phone and called their house line, alerting them to the fact that I was indeed on their front porch enjoying the 106-degree heat.
When I entered, things seemed as usual. Oversized portraits of grandchildren decked the walls, flanked on either side by prints of our honorary cousins, John Wayne and Chuck Norris, better known as Walker Texas Ranger. My grandpa greeted me with, “Well, I’ll be,” and a hug. My grandma, however, walked within five feet of me several times without realizing I was in the room. But, when she eventually did, I received a warm embrace, promptly followed by an intense interrogation session that her grandchildren collectively refer to as “100 questions.” In actuality, there are only five questions, but they are repeated 20 times. She forgets and I love her, so I answer them repeatedly with repeated enthusiasm.
After these niceties, we (that being my newly arrived aunt and uncle, and me) pointed out that my grandparent’s 62nd wedding anniversary is this week, to which my grandmother replied, “Big deal.” She’s never quite gotten over the whole bed-of-roses scam that she believes marriage to be. She and my grandpa bicker quite a bit, but I know they love each other. Years ago my grandma was hospitalized with a heart-related issue. On a Sunday morning, my grandpa went into the hospital to check on her before going to church. Upon leaving the hospital he was T-boned and taken right back into the emergency room with a concussion. My grandma found out he was injured, but of course, wasn’t allowed to go and see him. When he was finally released in the early evening, he went straight to the elevators and up to her room. With tears streaming down his face, he walked in, his generally slow and stooped form moving with vigor, went straight to her bedside, where she was also in tears, and kissed her. It was the most precious sight I have ever witnessed. Unrivaled. Period.
Nevertheless, on Sunday, my grandma’s dander was up. No doubt the result of my mischievous uncle agitating her with picture shows, hamburgers and slop buckets, but that’s another blog, and I digress. My sweet grandpa shared the oversized musical Father’s Day card he received from another aunt and uncle. He’s very proud of it, as he is still sharing it in August, and Father’s Day was June 19. I opened it and looked, as did others, and my grandmother watched and waited. Like a spider. Then she said, “ I’ve got something better than that.”
She rose from her rocking chair and disappeared into a bedroom. Conversation continued in her absence and we all forgot her threat, but ten minutes later, she emerged. I know now that she went into that room and spent TEN MINUTES searching for something, anything that would one-up my sweet PawPaw’s musical Father’s Day card. I love her, but she’s ornery. Any of her five children or 14 grandchildren will tell you so.
What she carried in her hands was a framed drawing. She passed it in front of my Aunt Wilma first and stated that somebody named Johnny had given it to her, to which we all responded, more or less, “Who the #$%^ is Johnny?” There is no one in our family named Johnny.
As the art piece made its way around the room and closer to me, I caught a brief glimpse, and familiarity washed over me. My uncle was still trying to figure out who Johnny was, I was trying to remember where I had seen this lovely drawing of a feathered creature before, and my aunt said the magic words, “That has Rachel’s name on it.”
That’s right! I drew that bird in seventh grade, not Johnny! Whoever that is! I staked my claim on the art, backed up by others, but I’m reasonably certain Phantom Johnny will continue to get credit for it in my absence, despite my signature (in fine seventh grade penmanship) being etched along the breast of the bird. Oh well, it momentarily drew attention away from the Father’s Day card, and thus brought my grandmother great pleasure, which was my intention when I gave her the drawing ### years ago. Mission accomplished.
Friday, August 5, 2011
In my wise old age ...
It seems I’ll be 28 soon. At least that’s what mathematical logic tells me, as I was born in August of 1983. Fear of aging sneaks up on you and smacks you in the back of the head. I never worried about it until I turned 25, and only then because SOMEBODY, SOMEWHERE, decided it would be a great idea to write an article, which I read, stating that 25 is a defining year for a woman. To summarize, the author purported that goals not met by age 25 might never be reached. Preposterous as it was, that pseudo-factoid stuck.
Paying too much attention to the opinions and lives of others holds the power to ruin perfectly good situations.
It is easy, tempting even, to stack our shortcomings and disappointments against the accomplishments and blessings of others. In fact, when we foolishly do so, we develop justification to stop trying and an excuse for our sloth.
In her book “The True Measure of a Woman” Lisa Bevere talks about our visual of God’s storehouse of blessings and states that we often see the blessings of others as a decrease in God’s ability to bless us in similar fashion. She uses a personal example of her young family of six being in desperate need of a new vehicle. While she prayed about it, a family in her church with only one child was blessed with a larger vehicle. Lisa simply didn’t understand why her family was not blessed in the same way. They had more children AND worked in more ministries than that family! In consequence she became bitter, envious and angry.
“He is the Rock, his works are perfect, and all his ways are just. A faithful God who does no wrong, upright and just is he.” Deuteronomy 32:4
How often have I failed to apply that scripture to my life? When we focus only on the negative, we are blind to the positive. That’s why we are commanded to praise God through our circumstances. If we focus on all He has already done, we are able to see what He is doing. I don’t believe God answers every prayer with a silver bullet. Sometimes He does, but most often He uses a process. God’s a multi-tasker. As He works in one area of our lives, why not challenge us, and consequently develop a strength or skill that we are in need of for the future?
In relation to focusing on the blessings of others instead of our own, just remember, we are commanded to love. At all times. Period.
“Rejoice with those who rejoice. Mourn with those who mourn.” Romans 12:15
Paying too much attention to the opinions and lives of others holds the power to ruin perfectly good situations.
It is easy, tempting even, to stack our shortcomings and disappointments against the accomplishments and blessings of others. In fact, when we foolishly do so, we develop justification to stop trying and an excuse for our sloth.
In her book “The True Measure of a Woman” Lisa Bevere talks about our visual of God’s storehouse of blessings and states that we often see the blessings of others as a decrease in God’s ability to bless us in similar fashion. She uses a personal example of her young family of six being in desperate need of a new vehicle. While she prayed about it, a family in her church with only one child was blessed with a larger vehicle. Lisa simply didn’t understand why her family was not blessed in the same way. They had more children AND worked in more ministries than that family! In consequence she became bitter, envious and angry.
“He is the Rock, his works are perfect, and all his ways are just. A faithful God who does no wrong, upright and just is he.” Deuteronomy 32:4
How often have I failed to apply that scripture to my life? When we focus only on the negative, we are blind to the positive. That’s why we are commanded to praise God through our circumstances. If we focus on all He has already done, we are able to see what He is doing. I don’t believe God answers every prayer with a silver bullet. Sometimes He does, but most often He uses a process. God’s a multi-tasker. As He works in one area of our lives, why not challenge us, and consequently develop a strength or skill that we are in need of for the future?
In relation to focusing on the blessings of others instead of our own, just remember, we are commanded to love. At all times. Period.
“Rejoice with those who rejoice. Mourn with those who mourn.” Romans 12:15
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Smell your way
Smell is the strongest sense tied to memory. I’ve written before about opening storage containers or trinket boxes, breathing in, and instantly being transported to a time or event in my past, good and bad. Quite possibly, my very favorite sensation is waking up during the night before Thanksgiving and smelling the roasting turkey. Even in semi-consciousness that smell always reaffirms that something wonderful is to come, and I’m certain I fall back to sleep with a smile on my face. Memories of this are present throughout my childhood, as my mom almost always did the turkey for family Thanksgivings. The smell of the turkey comforts me. It means I’m at home, surrounded by the people I love most. Home from college at Thanksgiving, it was a reminder that I was home. An added treat was hearing the soft footsteps of my mother at various times throughout the night as she went into the kitchen to baste. Now I cook the turkey at Thanksgiving, which some might argue I do just so I can wake up and smell it cooking.
I’m on a half-vegan kick with my amazing new roommate right now. (Make no mistake, there will be turkey at Thanksgiving. I haven’t lost my mind.) I made slow-cooker oatmeal last night with fresh strawberries, coconut milk and almond extract. All night I woke to this unfamiliar, but sweet aroma, and when I remembered what it was, I think I may have giggled in excitement a little before closing my eyes again.
Over the years, I’ve gone to bed at night afraid, worried, stressed, doubting … I’m sure we have all spent a sleepless night or two experiencing one or more of these emotions. I pray before I sleep, especially when I am experiencing any of the above. But, as any mature believer will tell you, sometimes the peace, the resolve, the answer, doesn’t come before I slip into a strained and troubled sleep.
“Know therefore that the Lord your God is God; he is the faithful God, keeping his covenant of love to a thousand generations of those who love him and keep his commands.” Deuteronomy 7:9
Many times, my prayers have immediately brought peace, restful sleep, and a clear direction to take the next morning. Other times my questions go unanswered.
Nevertheless, I serve a faithful God. The answer may not come when I want it, and certainly not when I feel I need it the most, but it’s always right on time, because it comes on His schedule, not mine.
“Consider it pure joy, my brothers, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith develops perseverance. Perseverance must finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything.” James 1:2-4
For several weeks, maybe longer, I’ve been plagued with a trial. It has appeared in many forms and has involved many different people. I haven’t even known what to call it. How do you pray about something you can’t define?
I spent time with friends last night, had some good laughs, started my slow-cooker oatmeal, and went to bed. Somewhere in the night, I didn’t look at the clock, I woke feeling a question or some form of dread associated with this trial. I tossed and turned for a few minutes and mulled the circumstance over. I looked for a way around the problem it presented, because I’ve tried for weeks to go over the mountain and get it under my feet and haven’t been able to. As I worked to calculate my own solution, God finally whispered in my ear. Just a few words put it all in perspective so simply.
I woke up one or twice more last night before getting up for oatmeal and church this morning. Each time I did, I remembered those few words. How comforting it was to have a plan and a definition, to have guidance from the author and finisher of my faith. It was better than the aroma of a roasting turkey, or slow-cooker oatmeal.
I’m on a half-vegan kick with my amazing new roommate right now. (Make no mistake, there will be turkey at Thanksgiving. I haven’t lost my mind.) I made slow-cooker oatmeal last night with fresh strawberries, coconut milk and almond extract. All night I woke to this unfamiliar, but sweet aroma, and when I remembered what it was, I think I may have giggled in excitement a little before closing my eyes again.
Over the years, I’ve gone to bed at night afraid, worried, stressed, doubting … I’m sure we have all spent a sleepless night or two experiencing one or more of these emotions. I pray before I sleep, especially when I am experiencing any of the above. But, as any mature believer will tell you, sometimes the peace, the resolve, the answer, doesn’t come before I slip into a strained and troubled sleep.
“Know therefore that the Lord your God is God; he is the faithful God, keeping his covenant of love to a thousand generations of those who love him and keep his commands.” Deuteronomy 7:9
Many times, my prayers have immediately brought peace, restful sleep, and a clear direction to take the next morning. Other times my questions go unanswered.
Nevertheless, I serve a faithful God. The answer may not come when I want it, and certainly not when I feel I need it the most, but it’s always right on time, because it comes on His schedule, not mine.
“Consider it pure joy, my brothers, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith develops perseverance. Perseverance must finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything.” James 1:2-4
For several weeks, maybe longer, I’ve been plagued with a trial. It has appeared in many forms and has involved many different people. I haven’t even known what to call it. How do you pray about something you can’t define?
I spent time with friends last night, had some good laughs, started my slow-cooker oatmeal, and went to bed. Somewhere in the night, I didn’t look at the clock, I woke feeling a question or some form of dread associated with this trial. I tossed and turned for a few minutes and mulled the circumstance over. I looked for a way around the problem it presented, because I’ve tried for weeks to go over the mountain and get it under my feet and haven’t been able to. As I worked to calculate my own solution, God finally whispered in my ear. Just a few words put it all in perspective so simply.
I woke up one or twice more last night before getting up for oatmeal and church this morning. Each time I did, I remembered those few words. How comforting it was to have a plan and a definition, to have guidance from the author and finisher of my faith. It was better than the aroma of a roasting turkey, or slow-cooker oatmeal.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
The Four P's
It’s April, and therefore graduation planning is under way. I find myself with an all-female senior class of young ladies who are very smart and very promising. (And I’m not just saying that because my little sister is one of them.) I have secured our keynote speaker, and this morning while drying my hair, found myself mentally writing her address. Of course, this very capable person will be writing and delivering her own speech, but I figured I’d blog my ideas anyway, send them into the universe for someone else to be (hopefully) inspired, and then remember to graft some of them into my introduction of the speaker in June.
Purpose. Perseverance. Patience. Progress. These four words have more in common than their first letter. The last is rarely achieved without the application of the former three. As graduates stepping into the adult world, the following will be good advice to follow. Planning a future is not simple, and neither is taking on the challenges (and there will be many) that will bring your plans to fruition.
I detest an ambiguous task. Nevertheless, when faced with one that I just can’t seem to get my head or arms around, it is always best to sit back and think of the desired end result and try to get a feel for the big picture. After all, if you don’t know where you’re going, how do you expect to get there? Purpose. Determine it.
However, the end objective is often intimidating, and seems unattainable. That is why once the purpose is determined, logical steps to fulfill it must be outlined. Then that outline must be acted upon even if it is an uphill battle the entire way. Perseverance.
Certainly the order you try to keep these steps in will be tossed, and the schedule in which you wish to achieve them will not be kept. People get in the way. Life gets in the way. We get in the way of ourselves. Plans change. Cheese gets moved. There are few great things in life that don’t require some form of waiting. Patience. I hear it’s a virtue.
Finally, progress. The funny thing about this one is that we never realize when it occurs. It’s only when you look back that you realize you’ve achieved it. An added reward is that the hard work and victories won have made you a better and stronger individual, one ready to grab the next challenge by the horns and start all over, but with earned confidence.
Accompanying all of these steps is the most important advice I can leave with a graduate, or anyone, including myself. Remember it is all in God’s hands – if you put it there. When you can’t see the light at the end of whatever tunnel you’re in, look up at the Light. Knowing this is simple enough, living and walking in it is slightly more difficult. I have to remind myself to do so approximately once an hour.
With that said, we can boldly take on the circumstances life throws at us, whether they are professional or personal. We don’t have to be intimidated by any perceived limitation or ceiling, except the starry one we sit under at night, and only then because we are humbled by the mystery and wonder of its Creator.
If you’re reading this and plan to attend Calvary Way’s commencement exercises, I suppose you can plug your ears when I take the podium to introduce the speaker and present the graduates, because these thoughts will be represented again. But, I promise I’ll phrase it differently, throw in a cheesy joke, and you’ll witness the added spectacle of me tearfully handing an Honor’s Diploma to my baby sister.
Purpose. Perseverance. Patience. Progress. These four words have more in common than their first letter. The last is rarely achieved without the application of the former three. As graduates stepping into the adult world, the following will be good advice to follow. Planning a future is not simple, and neither is taking on the challenges (and there will be many) that will bring your plans to fruition.
I detest an ambiguous task. Nevertheless, when faced with one that I just can’t seem to get my head or arms around, it is always best to sit back and think of the desired end result and try to get a feel for the big picture. After all, if you don’t know where you’re going, how do you expect to get there? Purpose. Determine it.
However, the end objective is often intimidating, and seems unattainable. That is why once the purpose is determined, logical steps to fulfill it must be outlined. Then that outline must be acted upon even if it is an uphill battle the entire way. Perseverance.
Certainly the order you try to keep these steps in will be tossed, and the schedule in which you wish to achieve them will not be kept. People get in the way. Life gets in the way. We get in the way of ourselves. Plans change. Cheese gets moved. There are few great things in life that don’t require some form of waiting. Patience. I hear it’s a virtue.
Finally, progress. The funny thing about this one is that we never realize when it occurs. It’s only when you look back that you realize you’ve achieved it. An added reward is that the hard work and victories won have made you a better and stronger individual, one ready to grab the next challenge by the horns and start all over, but with earned confidence.
Accompanying all of these steps is the most important advice I can leave with a graduate, or anyone, including myself. Remember it is all in God’s hands – if you put it there. When you can’t see the light at the end of whatever tunnel you’re in, look up at the Light. Knowing this is simple enough, living and walking in it is slightly more difficult. I have to remind myself to do so approximately once an hour.
With that said, we can boldly take on the circumstances life throws at us, whether they are professional or personal. We don’t have to be intimidated by any perceived limitation or ceiling, except the starry one we sit under at night, and only then because we are humbled by the mystery and wonder of its Creator.
If you’re reading this and plan to attend Calvary Way’s commencement exercises, I suppose you can plug your ears when I take the podium to introduce the speaker and present the graduates, because these thoughts will be represented again. But, I promise I’ll phrase it differently, throw in a cheesy joke, and you’ll witness the added spectacle of me tearfully handing an Honor’s Diploma to my baby sister.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Recycled post ... sort of
I haven't been blogging. I'm sure you've noticed. The truth is, I haven't slowed down long enough to ponder my thoughts. Tonight, I finally did. I was playing a song before Bible Study began. It's one I play often, and it was definitely on my heart. Everything went fine, until the final note. I just played the wrong chord altogether. It made me laugh, it made me think of the post I have reposted below, and then it almost made me cry. I'll tell you why in a minute.
--- Originally posted on August 6, 2010 --- Major Minors
At times, when goals still seem so far from being met, it's easy to think you haven't accomplished much. I'm not talking about a pity party, although I still have those. It's more of a drill sergeant-type self lecture: "Allen! You have got to pick it up!" or "Do not make this mistake again!"
Fortunately, when I have those moments, it's never too long before some positive little memory from the past floats to the surface. I may run across someone who brings it to mind, I may be going through student records and recall an occurrence, or it may just come to me in a silent moment. It's not important how it arrives, but that it does.
Our church is small. Our ministries are big. We aren't a Latin-instructing preschool, or an Ivy League preparatory high school, but we do change lives for the better - always with His help.
A memory came to mind today while I was thinking about needing new floors in the commons area, and tricking myself into believing that my students are somehow disadvantaged by the mustard shade of linoleum that is there at present. Suddenly, I remembered a single mother who was at a crossroads I hope I never stand at. She was on her own with a 10-month-old, and she had to be honest about something in order to enroll her child in our day care center. I could tell she was cringing inside because she was expecting to be judged.
I believe God allows each and every one of us to experience things for the express purpose of having the right mindset to handle some event in the future. I am so grateful He did that for me. Otherwise, today I would cringe at how I handled that woman's confession. Instead, because of what His grace did for me, I was able to look her in the eye and offer reassurance, and care for her baby while she earned a living. Our facilities might not be as shiny and new as my human self would like them to be, but that day God was able to use our day care ministry to make a difference in two lives.
Since having that remembrance early this morning, my day has been peppered with recollections. Some have made me laugh, and some have brought tears to my eyes. All of them have shown me that my God is a composer, a weaver, a master artist.
I love music that incorporates minor chords. The sharp change from a bright, full chord, to the one that seems slightly incomplete gives me chills. When I play, I love to hold out a suspended chord. Even though I'm seemingly in control of what I'm creating, my ear waits at point for the resolve.
When we step off track. When we lose our way completely. When we take something complete and full and choose to change it. In those instances, I believe God just sees that He's going to have a little more interesting finished piece. He'll use the minor chords of our own creation to do something beautiful and unexpected further down the road.
------------------------------------------------------------------
... and back to present day.
It is so easy to lose sight of our purpose. I fear I've gotten off track as of late, I've felt that way for a while. I've been praying about it, God knows what's up and I trust Him to make the crooked ways straight. Tonight, He once again, in an awesome but gentle way, showed me that He has heard. He reminded me that He uses the foolish things to confound the wise, and that in my weakness, He is strong. My wrong note is still music to His ears, so long as it is played for the right reasons. Therefore, I know my life still has purpose in His kingdom, as long as it is lived in a way that points to Him.
--- Originally posted on August 6, 2010 --- Major Minors
At times, when goals still seem so far from being met, it's easy to think you haven't accomplished much. I'm not talking about a pity party, although I still have those. It's more of a drill sergeant-type self lecture: "Allen! You have got to pick it up!" or "Do not make this mistake again!"
Fortunately, when I have those moments, it's never too long before some positive little memory from the past floats to the surface. I may run across someone who brings it to mind, I may be going through student records and recall an occurrence, or it may just come to me in a silent moment. It's not important how it arrives, but that it does.
Our church is small. Our ministries are big. We aren't a Latin-instructing preschool, or an Ivy League preparatory high school, but we do change lives for the better - always with His help.
A memory came to mind today while I was thinking about needing new floors in the commons area, and tricking myself into believing that my students are somehow disadvantaged by the mustard shade of linoleum that is there at present. Suddenly, I remembered a single mother who was at a crossroads I hope I never stand at. She was on her own with a 10-month-old, and she had to be honest about something in order to enroll her child in our day care center. I could tell she was cringing inside because she was expecting to be judged.
I believe God allows each and every one of us to experience things for the express purpose of having the right mindset to handle some event in the future. I am so grateful He did that for me. Otherwise, today I would cringe at how I handled that woman's confession. Instead, because of what His grace did for me, I was able to look her in the eye and offer reassurance, and care for her baby while she earned a living. Our facilities might not be as shiny and new as my human self would like them to be, but that day God was able to use our day care ministry to make a difference in two lives.
Since having that remembrance early this morning, my day has been peppered with recollections. Some have made me laugh, and some have brought tears to my eyes. All of them have shown me that my God is a composer, a weaver, a master artist.
I love music that incorporates minor chords. The sharp change from a bright, full chord, to the one that seems slightly incomplete gives me chills. When I play, I love to hold out a suspended chord. Even though I'm seemingly in control of what I'm creating, my ear waits at point for the resolve.
When we step off track. When we lose our way completely. When we take something complete and full and choose to change it. In those instances, I believe God just sees that He's going to have a little more interesting finished piece. He'll use the minor chords of our own creation to do something beautiful and unexpected further down the road.
------------------------------------------------------------------
... and back to present day.
It is so easy to lose sight of our purpose. I fear I've gotten off track as of late, I've felt that way for a while. I've been praying about it, God knows what's up and I trust Him to make the crooked ways straight. Tonight, He once again, in an awesome but gentle way, showed me that He has heard. He reminded me that He uses the foolish things to confound the wise, and that in my weakness, He is strong. My wrong note is still music to His ears, so long as it is played for the right reasons. Therefore, I know my life still has purpose in His kingdom, as long as it is lived in a way that points to Him.
Sunday, January 9, 2011
Snow Notes
It's a good day to be a writer. I am sitting before my patio door and staring out at a snow-covered landscape (see it above). My laptop is open, an article was just edited, and I have a cup of Starbuck's Salted Caramel Cocoa within arm's reach. Coffee and a crackling fire would raise the day to a level of historic perfection, nigh nirvana, but alas, I must sleep tonight, and I don't think the fireplace in this house has been used or cleaned in over a decade.
East Texas had two legitimate snow days last winter, so I didn't dare hope that it could happen again this year, but it has. Too often, I allow preconceived notions of the possible and impossible to dash my hopes. I forget to keep those Disney-inspired aspirations alive.
"God can do anything, you know—far more than you could ever imagine or guess or request in your wildest dreams! He does it not by pushing us around but by working within us, his Spirit deeply and gently within us." Ephesians 3:20-21 (The Message)
I think we all hear and live under the "don't get your hopes up" line too much. While I know life is not always a bed of roses, it's nice to look out the window and know that all the naysayers (also known as snow haters) are eating their words.
Today's wintry beauty is just a small reminder that God likes to surprise us every now and then. We are His children, and He does love us immeasurably, so why wouldn't He pull out all the stops just to make us smile?
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Teardrops on the MacBook
The holiday season is officially here. That announcement usually ushers in a great deal of excitement. Naturally, I am looking forward to celebrating old traditions, making up new ones, spending time with family and friends, and of course, always present on my mind is the bleak hope of snow. However, I find myself holding back this year.
I am happy to report that since writing the above sentences nearly two weeks ago, holiday cheer and general merriment have begun to take hold. Ninety-five percent of my shopping is done, presents purchased are wrapped and sitting under a fabulous tree, and our yard should be on par with the Griswold's sometime this afternoon. But, I digress ...
Loss lays dormant. It becomes an uncomfortable, but familiar stitch in the side. Then one night, while putting up a Christmas tree, the thud of reality hits again. The world has kept spinning, somehow, without a certain person on it. Memories are in place, but the possibility of making new ones is gone.
Holidays are full of memories for me, as I'm sure they are for every person reading this. My favorite memories of childhood Christmases involve Krystal. I laugh out loud when I remember our special operative-style plans to meet Santa. I cringe when I recall our wading through waist-deep snow until being abruptly stopped by the jagged rim of a culvert. Under my tutelage Krystal learned and sang the wrong words to many a Christmas carol, but our parents never corrected us. Instead, they listened patiently as we drove through the streets of Boise or Burley looking at lights, and then silenced us with homemade hot cocoa once we were home. Our childhoods were simple, and filled with love.
This year, life has not been as simple. Nevertheless, laughter seems to be our choice of illumination when we find ourselves in a tunnel. It's not the same carefree giggling we shared as girls. Instead, it is a deeper, I'll even say healing acknowledgement of the joy and contentment present in the simple pleasures God provides. Despite our constant wishes for Kenny to be here to laugh for himself, his absence has taught us to look for his special brand of humor in every situation -- now we laugh more often, a little harder, and a little longer, and we laugh at ourselves, to make up for not hearing his goofy chuckle echoing with our own.
Exhibit A: Kenny was a faithful follower of Christ, but was less enthusiastic about the commercialism of the Christmas holiday than Krystal, whom he affectionately dubbed "Krystal Christmas" from roughly November 15-January 2 of every year. With that in mind, I heard a fiendish chortle mix with the north wind last night when we discovered that the lights we had carefully wrapped every tree with would not connect with the extension cords we had purchased. Evidently, these extension cords were manufactured on Mars.
Transplanting past memories, grafting them into the fabric of the present, makes loss easier to handle. Sometimes it plays a trick on the mind, one that is followed by tears or just moments of silence. As I've said before, a fresh moment of heartbreak is a small price to pay for a minute or two of vivid, joyful memory.
I know the same love and strength that has always been a part of Krystal's life will continue to illuminate a path for her. Kenny is not here, but the memories of his love and devotion are. He can't physcially be a part of our celebrations this year, or next, but he is with The One that we celebrate.
I am happy to report that since writing the above sentences nearly two weeks ago, holiday cheer and general merriment have begun to take hold. Ninety-five percent of my shopping is done, presents purchased are wrapped and sitting under a fabulous tree, and our yard should be on par with the Griswold's sometime this afternoon. But, I digress ...
Loss lays dormant. It becomes an uncomfortable, but familiar stitch in the side. Then one night, while putting up a Christmas tree, the thud of reality hits again. The world has kept spinning, somehow, without a certain person on it. Memories are in place, but the possibility of making new ones is gone.
Holidays are full of memories for me, as I'm sure they are for every person reading this. My favorite memories of childhood Christmases involve Krystal. I laugh out loud when I remember our special operative-style plans to meet Santa. I cringe when I recall our wading through waist-deep snow until being abruptly stopped by the jagged rim of a culvert. Under my tutelage Krystal learned and sang the wrong words to many a Christmas carol, but our parents never corrected us. Instead, they listened patiently as we drove through the streets of Boise or Burley looking at lights, and then silenced us with homemade hot cocoa once we were home. Our childhoods were simple, and filled with love.
This year, life has not been as simple. Nevertheless, laughter seems to be our choice of illumination when we find ourselves in a tunnel. It's not the same carefree giggling we shared as girls. Instead, it is a deeper, I'll even say healing acknowledgement of the joy and contentment present in the simple pleasures God provides. Despite our constant wishes for Kenny to be here to laugh for himself, his absence has taught us to look for his special brand of humor in every situation -- now we laugh more often, a little harder, and a little longer, and we laugh at ourselves, to make up for not hearing his goofy chuckle echoing with our own.
Exhibit A: Kenny was a faithful follower of Christ, but was less enthusiastic about the commercialism of the Christmas holiday than Krystal, whom he affectionately dubbed "Krystal Christmas" from roughly November 15-January 2 of every year. With that in mind, I heard a fiendish chortle mix with the north wind last night when we discovered that the lights we had carefully wrapped every tree with would not connect with the extension cords we had purchased. Evidently, these extension cords were manufactured on Mars.
Transplanting past memories, grafting them into the fabric of the present, makes loss easier to handle. Sometimes it plays a trick on the mind, one that is followed by tears or just moments of silence. As I've said before, a fresh moment of heartbreak is a small price to pay for a minute or two of vivid, joyful memory.
I know the same love and strength that has always been a part of Krystal's life will continue to illuminate a path for her. Kenny is not here, but the memories of his love and devotion are. He can't physcially be a part of our celebrations this year, or next, but he is with The One that we celebrate.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Box Tops and Lies
“Solve for ‘y’.”
“Benjamin Franklin.”
“You have to complete the Punnett Square to get the percentage!”
“Multiply by the inverse and simplify.”
“London and Istanbul were both conquered by Romans.”
“Rubber and quinine.”
“Tuck your shirt.”
“Where’s your belt?”
“You need a haircut.”
“Austin, stop fidgeting.”
“Posture for prayer. Posture. For. Prayer.”
Those are just a few of the phrases that have left my mouth today. Some are statements, others are commands. Most are answers to the 47,000 questions I respond to every day. Nonetheless, it wouldn’t be a standard day at CWA if I didn’t say one or more of those things 15 times, didn’t come home with my pockets full of Box Tops, my hands covered in red ink messages to myself -- reminders that still didn’t remind me -- and at least a few comical anecdotes.
This morning in pledges we voted on our Christmas service project. I found five children’s charities to choose from. My logic was that a hand vote would be quicker and easier than distributing paper ballots to each class. I described each charity and then asked students to vote. My exact words were: “Raise your hands high, and DO NOT put them down until I say so.” (Donna, are you reading this?) Like nailing Jell-O to a tree, my friends. On the first round, I counted to about 12, then 14 more hands went up. I started counting again, and 11 hands went down. This was repeated in similar fashion five times, and our voting process resembled something like a game of Whack-A-Mole. Eventually, we selected a charity, and bless their hearts they chose a good one. I’m proud.
Later in the day, I was on my way into a parent meeting. I noticed a young man (I’ve written about him before, he’s a suspicious fellow) lingering behind me in the commons.
“Do you need something?” I asked.
He oddly nodded his head “yes” and “no” at the same time.
“What is it?” I repeated.
He went on with some question about science experiments, and without having all the background information, and in my hurried state, I gave the answer he undoubtedly was seeking. Three minutes later my meeting was interrupted by the student’s teacher. Said student had originally been given the exact opposite answer. He then proceeded to lie to his teacher about needing to ask me a question for his mom. He was excused from class and found me, and the rest is history. Oh, to channel this resourcefulness into something truly useful ... and honest.
I remember being a teenager and having far more important things on my mind than following instructions. Although, most of the time I did follow instructions, to the point of being nerdy, because the idea of not doing something right frightened me. I also remember not liking the answer I got from my mom, and subsequently going to my dad. I’ve said this before, and I’ll say it again: God gives us experiences that not only teach us, but give us wisdom and grace to deal with people and situations further down the road. Fortunately, I remember what it was like to not quite have it all figured out. I still don’t quite have it all figured out.
I’m glad I can not only laugh at my students’ antics, but also turn them into endearing memories. Wherever I end up in life, when I look back on this chapter it will be filled with humor and joyful memories, and that’s exactly how I want it.
“Benjamin Franklin.”
“You have to complete the Punnett Square to get the percentage!”
“Multiply by the inverse and simplify.”
“London and Istanbul were both conquered by Romans.”
“Rubber and quinine.”
“Tuck your shirt.”
“Where’s your belt?”
“You need a haircut.”
“Austin, stop fidgeting.”
“Posture for prayer. Posture. For. Prayer.”
Those are just a few of the phrases that have left my mouth today. Some are statements, others are commands. Most are answers to the 47,000 questions I respond to every day. Nonetheless, it wouldn’t be a standard day at CWA if I didn’t say one or more of those things 15 times, didn’t come home with my pockets full of Box Tops, my hands covered in red ink messages to myself -- reminders that still didn’t remind me -- and at least a few comical anecdotes.
This morning in pledges we voted on our Christmas service project. I found five children’s charities to choose from. My logic was that a hand vote would be quicker and easier than distributing paper ballots to each class. I described each charity and then asked students to vote. My exact words were: “Raise your hands high, and DO NOT put them down until I say so.” (Donna, are you reading this?) Like nailing Jell-O to a tree, my friends. On the first round, I counted to about 12, then 14 more hands went up. I started counting again, and 11 hands went down. This was repeated in similar fashion five times, and our voting process resembled something like a game of Whack-A-Mole. Eventually, we selected a charity, and bless their hearts they chose a good one. I’m proud.
Later in the day, I was on my way into a parent meeting. I noticed a young man (I’ve written about him before, he’s a suspicious fellow) lingering behind me in the commons.
“Do you need something?” I asked.
He oddly nodded his head “yes” and “no” at the same time.
“What is it?” I repeated.
He went on with some question about science experiments, and without having all the background information, and in my hurried state, I gave the answer he undoubtedly was seeking. Three minutes later my meeting was interrupted by the student’s teacher. Said student had originally been given the exact opposite answer. He then proceeded to lie to his teacher about needing to ask me a question for his mom. He was excused from class and found me, and the rest is history. Oh, to channel this resourcefulness into something truly useful ... and honest.
I remember being a teenager and having far more important things on my mind than following instructions. Although, most of the time I did follow instructions, to the point of being nerdy, because the idea of not doing something right frightened me. I also remember not liking the answer I got from my mom, and subsequently going to my dad. I’ve said this before, and I’ll say it again: God gives us experiences that not only teach us, but give us wisdom and grace to deal with people and situations further down the road. Fortunately, I remember what it was like to not quite have it all figured out. I still don’t quite have it all figured out.
I’m glad I can not only laugh at my students’ antics, but also turn them into endearing memories. Wherever I end up in life, when I look back on this chapter it will be filled with humor and joyful memories, and that’s exactly how I want it.
Saturday, November 20, 2010
Carnival Contemplations
Last Friday, I enjoyed a massage and fantastic night out with one of my best friends and former roommate, Andrea. During our outing I noticed a carnival was set up near the mall. More on that later. Andrea and I hadn't spent any time together in a while. Even when we were roommates our schedules were so hectic that we rarely saw each other for more than a few waking hours at a time. But, spending time with her last Friday, I realized just how used to her companionship I had become, and I hadn't thought to miss it until it was reintroduced. Funny.
The following morning, I hopped out of bed and got to cleaning, then went to lunch with Krystal, enjoyed the Art Walk in downtown Kilgore, which I was unexpectedly pleased with, and got a fabulous haircut. Following the new do, Krystal and I headed to Longview to shop and met up with my sister and her boyfriend. We went into Ulta, where Nathan learned about the importance of good conditioners and choosing eye makeup shades that complement one's eye color. Then we ambled through Kohl's, where my blood sugar reached a dangerous low. Not dangerous for me, but profoundly hazardous for those around me. We went to dinner at El Sombrero, also known as heaven on earth. On the way to the restaurant, we passed the carnival again. Krystal insisted that we go after eating ... Mexican food. I agreed. The under 20 crowd we were with (i.e. Nathan and Rebekah) seemed hesitant, and for good reason it turned out.
Let's talk about traveling carnival workers for a minute. I began to feel uneasy when we purchased our tickets. On the booth was a sign that read: "Workers needed for tear down, $7/hour." I wondered if the people that set the rides up were paid $7 an hour, and recruited via yellowed and crumpled fliers. My adult mind began to analyze, scrutinize and visualize. Do these people receive safety training? Are they certified by some kind of carnival authority, if one exists? Where's the quality control? I found myself searching out what might push me to join the ranks of a traveling carnival and none of them were good things, nothing say, driven by ambition. Where's the motivation to tighten that bolt, lubricate that gear, double-check that safety latch?
Mind you, none of this kept me off the rides. Unfortunately most of the above entered my mind while I flew through the air 40 feet above the ground with my precious baby sister out of arm's reach. After "La Arana" and the "Tilt-a-Whirl," Rebekah had endured all the high-speed spinning she could. Krystal and Nathan ran for the "Scrambler" and Rebekah and I went to the "Fun House," which ended up being no fun at all. We approached the ticket-handling professional, and he gave us a look that can only be described as "Really?" After meandering our way through a littered and smudged room of mirrors, we ascended stairs and found ourselves at the top of a precarious twisty slide. We landed safely on the ground. The ticket-handling professional's expression now made sense.
It seemed the carnival's charm was spent, until we were walking to the car and Nathan held up his hand in warning. He abruptly shoved Rebekah away from his side, and was sick. If that was the worst that happened to any of us during our brief visit, I'm happy.
When I was a child, I was fearless. As a teenager and young adult, I was reckless. Now, I dissect everything. Just like with Andrea, I didn't think to ponder my dormant apprehension of carnival rides until I was committed. I think I like it that way. There are definitely some life issues that need to be evaluated, and fears that need to be heeded. But, for the most part, I'd like to shut my analytical side up most of the time. Turns out I can manage that pretty easily when in the company of good friends.
The following morning, I hopped out of bed and got to cleaning, then went to lunch with Krystal, enjoyed the Art Walk in downtown Kilgore, which I was unexpectedly pleased with, and got a fabulous haircut. Following the new do, Krystal and I headed to Longview to shop and met up with my sister and her boyfriend. We went into Ulta, where Nathan learned about the importance of good conditioners and choosing eye makeup shades that complement one's eye color. Then we ambled through Kohl's, where my blood sugar reached a dangerous low. Not dangerous for me, but profoundly hazardous for those around me. We went to dinner at El Sombrero, also known as heaven on earth. On the way to the restaurant, we passed the carnival again. Krystal insisted that we go after eating ... Mexican food. I agreed. The under 20 crowd we were with (i.e. Nathan and Rebekah) seemed hesitant, and for good reason it turned out.
Let's talk about traveling carnival workers for a minute. I began to feel uneasy when we purchased our tickets. On the booth was a sign that read: "Workers needed for tear down, $7/hour." I wondered if the people that set the rides up were paid $7 an hour, and recruited via yellowed and crumpled fliers. My adult mind began to analyze, scrutinize and visualize. Do these people receive safety training? Are they certified by some kind of carnival authority, if one exists? Where's the quality control? I found myself searching out what might push me to join the ranks of a traveling carnival and none of them were good things, nothing say, driven by ambition. Where's the motivation to tighten that bolt, lubricate that gear, double-check that safety latch?
Mind you, none of this kept me off the rides. Unfortunately most of the above entered my mind while I flew through the air 40 feet above the ground with my precious baby sister out of arm's reach. After "La Arana" and the "Tilt-a-Whirl," Rebekah had endured all the high-speed spinning she could. Krystal and Nathan ran for the "Scrambler" and Rebekah and I went to the "Fun House," which ended up being no fun at all. We approached the ticket-handling professional, and he gave us a look that can only be described as "Really?" After meandering our way through a littered and smudged room of mirrors, we ascended stairs and found ourselves at the top of a precarious twisty slide. We landed safely on the ground. The ticket-handling professional's expression now made sense.
It seemed the carnival's charm was spent, until we were walking to the car and Nathan held up his hand in warning. He abruptly shoved Rebekah away from his side, and was sick. If that was the worst that happened to any of us during our brief visit, I'm happy.
When I was a child, I was fearless. As a teenager and young adult, I was reckless. Now, I dissect everything. Just like with Andrea, I didn't think to ponder my dormant apprehension of carnival rides until I was committed. I think I like it that way. There are definitely some life issues that need to be evaluated, and fears that need to be heeded. But, for the most part, I'd like to shut my analytical side up most of the time. Turns out I can manage that pretty easily when in the company of good friends.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Work Day(s)
"Every day should be a day we allow God to work on us, but there are some days that we need to be totally gutted and rebuilt. Today is one of those days."
I wrote that before leaving for church on Sunday. I then left and went to prepare a Sunday school lesson. Ironically, or eerily depending on how you look at it, I taught my kids about Zacchaeus and how he changed after meeting Jesus. I came home that afternoon and tried to complete this post using Zacchaeus as an example and couldn't make the pieces fit. Finally, at 5 a.m. on Wednesday, I seem to be on the path to finishing it. I guess I needed more than one workday.
If any of you work in ministry, you know it's not a bed of roses all the time. Foolishly, I sometimes think it should be. As a freelance writer, I write about many very large churches and get to know members of their staff. I trick myself into thinking that the day-to-day work lives of these individuals must be easier than mine because they work for these massive, well-organized ministries. Then, I read Acts chapter 6. Even the first church was disorganized and chaotic. In spite of eager and fervent workers and a number that increased daily (two things I very much want and need for our ministries), there were many problems. Problems with people. How 'bout that?
I began my workday on Sunday, and over the past three days God has illuminated many things to me. It took more than one day for Him to get me to a place where I would hear it, absorb it, and begin to work on it. I didn't even realize that the recurring struggles of my day job were such a weight on me until I read in Acts this morning. But as soon as I did, I instantly felt relief because God showed it to me, and now we can work on it together.
I continued in Acts and read about Stephen, the first martyr. In the seventh chapter, Stephen recounts the history of the Israelites. No matter how many times I read or reflect on this portion of Biblical history, I am always amazed at the long-reaching plan of God. What began as a somewhat dubious promise to a childless Abraham was completed over generations in Isaac, Jacob and Joseph. In the lives of just those four individuals are trials I can't begin to list. Trials I've never endured, but every one a component in God's ultimate plan for His chosen ones. Isaac was almost killed at the hand of his father; Jacob was swindled into marrying the wrong woman; Joseph was sold into slavery by his own brothers ... and all of these events had their place. Joseph's presence in Egypt laid the foundation for Moses to arise and deliver the Israelites out of captivity.
I read all that this morning and rested. God always ties it up with a neat bow at the end. Something that happens today might be a precursor to an event ten or two hundred years down the road.
I am making a conscious pledge to have workdays more often. God is a wise father who knows exactly how much we can handle at one time. I didn't learn every rule of English in one day (still haven't perfected them all). It was a process that lasted many years and required many forms of teaching. I can't expect learning to be a good ... everything ... to be any different. I believe God measures out the wisdom, instruction, and guidance we need as we need it, and as we ask for it. Asking is the key (James 1:5). And, when that wisdom hits you on the head at 5 o’clock on a Wednesday morning, don't be overwhelmed by it -- trust in the strength you have in Him. (Philippians 4: 13).
I wrote that before leaving for church on Sunday. I then left and went to prepare a Sunday school lesson. Ironically, or eerily depending on how you look at it, I taught my kids about Zacchaeus and how he changed after meeting Jesus. I came home that afternoon and tried to complete this post using Zacchaeus as an example and couldn't make the pieces fit. Finally, at 5 a.m. on Wednesday, I seem to be on the path to finishing it. I guess I needed more than one workday.
If any of you work in ministry, you know it's not a bed of roses all the time. Foolishly, I sometimes think it should be. As a freelance writer, I write about many very large churches and get to know members of their staff. I trick myself into thinking that the day-to-day work lives of these individuals must be easier than mine because they work for these massive, well-organized ministries. Then, I read Acts chapter 6. Even the first church was disorganized and chaotic. In spite of eager and fervent workers and a number that increased daily (two things I very much want and need for our ministries), there were many problems. Problems with people. How 'bout that?
I began my workday on Sunday, and over the past three days God has illuminated many things to me. It took more than one day for Him to get me to a place where I would hear it, absorb it, and begin to work on it. I didn't even realize that the recurring struggles of my day job were such a weight on me until I read in Acts this morning. But as soon as I did, I instantly felt relief because God showed it to me, and now we can work on it together.
I continued in Acts and read about Stephen, the first martyr. In the seventh chapter, Stephen recounts the history of the Israelites. No matter how many times I read or reflect on this portion of Biblical history, I am always amazed at the long-reaching plan of God. What began as a somewhat dubious promise to a childless Abraham was completed over generations in Isaac, Jacob and Joseph. In the lives of just those four individuals are trials I can't begin to list. Trials I've never endured, but every one a component in God's ultimate plan for His chosen ones. Isaac was almost killed at the hand of his father; Jacob was swindled into marrying the wrong woman; Joseph was sold into slavery by his own brothers ... and all of these events had their place. Joseph's presence in Egypt laid the foundation for Moses to arise and deliver the Israelites out of captivity.
I read all that this morning and rested. God always ties it up with a neat bow at the end. Something that happens today might be a precursor to an event ten or two hundred years down the road.
I am making a conscious pledge to have workdays more often. God is a wise father who knows exactly how much we can handle at one time. I didn't learn every rule of English in one day (still haven't perfected them all). It was a process that lasted many years and required many forms of teaching. I can't expect learning to be a good ... everything ... to be any different. I believe God measures out the wisdom, instruction, and guidance we need as we need it, and as we ask for it. Asking is the key (James 1:5). And, when that wisdom hits you on the head at 5 o’clock on a Wednesday morning, don't be overwhelmed by it -- trust in the strength you have in Him. (Philippians 4: 13).
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Rejection: The castor oil of emotion
It looks as though I'll be a publishing a book. I repeat: It looks as though I'll be publishing a book!!! The opportunity I've been waiting on for two years has finally arrived. This brings me to today's topic: Rejection.
I've been rejected on the publishing front quite a few times. No surprise there. It comes with the territory, and with the economy as it is, nobody wants to gamble on a first-time author. However, at the risk of sounding arrogant, I really feel that my writing is exceptional, and that I am worth the gamble because I am an abnormally hard working and diligent person. Thinking in this manner caused me to feel dejected at some times, and kept me going at others. I guess my reaction at any one point in time depended on my blood sugar. But finally, my belief in my skill as a writer (of novels) has been validated.
It can be said that my book was rejected because I didn't approach the right publishers at the right time. Perhaps my presentation wasn't quite perfect. Maybe the publisher's perception of my work was skewed due to something in that individual's past. Who knows? I find it interesting that these same issues can be applied to all different types of rejection. Not making a team, not being hired for a job, not being asked on a second (or a first) date.
The lesson to learn is this: When it comes to rejection, some variables are just beyond our control. I could never have predicted that a gatekeeper at a publishing house would gloss over my work because they are adverse to New Orleans, hypothetically speaking. Conversely, I could never have known that a hiring manager would pick me because I wore a pinstripe suit and the candidate ahead of me wore a solid.
In the grand scheme of things, it's all already been worked out. But, that's difficult advice to swallow while reading rejection e-mail #84. Nonetheless, I kind of feel that rejection is just the universe's way of helping us to weed out the unworthy so we can end up with something truly wonderful and worthwhile.
I've been rejected on the publishing front quite a few times. No surprise there. It comes with the territory, and with the economy as it is, nobody wants to gamble on a first-time author. However, at the risk of sounding arrogant, I really feel that my writing is exceptional, and that I am worth the gamble because I am an abnormally hard working and diligent person. Thinking in this manner caused me to feel dejected at some times, and kept me going at others. I guess my reaction at any one point in time depended on my blood sugar. But finally, my belief in my skill as a writer (of novels) has been validated.
It can be said that my book was rejected because I didn't approach the right publishers at the right time. Perhaps my presentation wasn't quite perfect. Maybe the publisher's perception of my work was skewed due to something in that individual's past. Who knows? I find it interesting that these same issues can be applied to all different types of rejection. Not making a team, not being hired for a job, not being asked on a second (or a first) date.
The lesson to learn is this: When it comes to rejection, some variables are just beyond our control. I could never have predicted that a gatekeeper at a publishing house would gloss over my work because they are adverse to New Orleans, hypothetically speaking. Conversely, I could never have known that a hiring manager would pick me because I wore a pinstripe suit and the candidate ahead of me wore a solid.
In the grand scheme of things, it's all already been worked out. But, that's difficult advice to swallow while reading rejection e-mail #84. Nonetheless, I kind of feel that rejection is just the universe's way of helping us to weed out the unworthy so we can end up with something truly wonderful and worthwhile.
Monday, October 18, 2010
The Waiting Game
Ever had a hankering to do something really stupid? I mean really stupid - I'm not fooling around here. I have. Mercifully, God has granted me with enough wisdom over the past few years that I have avoided, or talked myself out of, most of these foolish ventures. I'm thinking of two instances in particular. One popped up some months ago, the other crossed my mind more recently. Both were spawned from the discontent that seems to spring up even in the most pious Christian lives. At least I hope I'm not the only one that gets antsy and human. Let me know if I am and I'll work harder.
I get in a hurry every now and then - I get impatient and worried. For brief moments I completely and totally take my eyes off God, forget His promises, and con myself into believing I need to take matters into my own hands. This rarely (read: never) works out to my advantage. Thank goodness for that. What a shame it would be to craft something of my own and miss out on whatever He has created for me. How sad to settle for what I can accomplish on my own, instead of waiting for His design to take shape.
In several chapel lessons I have used puzzle pieces as an example for God's will. We only have one piece of the puzzle, and it's probably just a blob of meaningless color. We can't possibly know our place in the big picture because our perspective is too limited. God has the box. Not only does he see the whole picture, He also has the rest of the pieces. I lose my piece every now and then, and God has to show me where I left it. Sometimes I argue and refuse to pick my piece back up. Fortunately, I always do, and more fortunately still, He waits while I make up my mind to do so.
Probably one of the hardest things to do as a Christian, as a human, is to wait. Babies take nine months to be born - that's a long time - but isn't it worth it? What do a mother and father do during that time? They prepare a place for their child, and they prepare and educate themselves to be parents. Can't we do the same regardless of what we're waiting for? Prepare and educate. I can do that.
Waiting is hard for me because I am an active person that always wants to be accomplishing something toward a goal. So, while writing this blog today I have learned that instead of losing my puzzle piece, or pawning it, I should probably study it a little closer. I should prepare and educate myself for whatever God is working on for me.
I get in a hurry every now and then - I get impatient and worried. For brief moments I completely and totally take my eyes off God, forget His promises, and con myself into believing I need to take matters into my own hands. This rarely (read: never) works out to my advantage. Thank goodness for that. What a shame it would be to craft something of my own and miss out on whatever He has created for me. How sad to settle for what I can accomplish on my own, instead of waiting for His design to take shape.
In several chapel lessons I have used puzzle pieces as an example for God's will. We only have one piece of the puzzle, and it's probably just a blob of meaningless color. We can't possibly know our place in the big picture because our perspective is too limited. God has the box. Not only does he see the whole picture, He also has the rest of the pieces. I lose my piece every now and then, and God has to show me where I left it. Sometimes I argue and refuse to pick my piece back up. Fortunately, I always do, and more fortunately still, He waits while I make up my mind to do so.
Probably one of the hardest things to do as a Christian, as a human, is to wait. Babies take nine months to be born - that's a long time - but isn't it worth it? What do a mother and father do during that time? They prepare a place for their child, and they prepare and educate themselves to be parents. Can't we do the same regardless of what we're waiting for? Prepare and educate. I can do that.
Waiting is hard for me because I am an active person that always wants to be accomplishing something toward a goal. So, while writing this blog today I have learned that instead of losing my puzzle piece, or pawning it, I should probably study it a little closer. I should prepare and educate myself for whatever God is working on for me.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
My Life as a Vagabond
I am a failure on the blogging front. Not that it’s an excuse, but I have been in the process of helping to renovate a house, and moving into said house. The experiences related to the aforementioned have inspired this very post.
I moved back to my parent’s house in the spring while I was in a time of transition. Soon thereafter my cousin, Krystal, decided to buy a home and asked me to live with her, so I stayed put at mom and dad’s through the summer. Krystal closed on her house in September and we spent the rest of the month painting, changing floors, ripping out sinks, filling a pit, and all of the other fun tasks that go along with making a mid-70’s home respectable for twenty-somethings.
On one such renovation-related occasion, Krystal and I had been painting for several hours. All other family and help had abandoned us. We finished a bedroom and moved on to the pantry and utility room closet. The floors were (supposed to be) being put in the next day, so in view of my extremely messy painting skills, we wanted all painting done beforehand. I went to work cutting in at the ceiling of the pantry while Krystal rolled the walls. I was high on a ladder in the dark pantry when Krystal jumped backward out of the small space and spoke a phrase. I heard only one word that mattered: spiders. How I removed myself from the ladder and closet without serious injury will always be a mystery. After spastically shaking my head to make sure there were no arachnid stowaways, I returned to the pantry doorway with Krystal where we beheld not one, not two, but a “herd” of spiders. We knew if we killed just one, the rest would come after us, so we went in search of some tool that could kill several at once. In an empty house, our choices were limited and we returned armed only with Windex. It didn’t work, other than to ruin what painting we had gotten done. Next, we made a desperate phone call to a nearby friend. He wouldn’t help. We gave up on the pantry and decided to paint the utility room closet, but found it in the same shape. So, we went home.
We officially moved in last Friday, sans beds, dishes, working shower, etc. It made for a fun evening. On Saturday, I moved my furniture from my parent’s house, which is about thirty miles away. I followed my dad in my own car and watched for signs of loosening ropes and such. About a quarter of the way, a billowy white mass flew at my windshield. Snow? Manna from heaven? No. It was my perfect-in-every-way Sealy pillow top mattress and box spring flying out, followed closely by the beautiful headboard and footboard of my canopy bed. I swerved to dodge the mattress and pulled over. I didn’t know what to do next. I climbed out of the car and, with hands raised in some warped form of surrender, walked the three or four yards to my mattress. Unsure of protocol in such a situation, I tried to pick it up. I was unsuccessful. My dad and cousin were at my side by this time and picked it up. I began the search for the pieces of my life … err bed. I saw my headboard at a distance and believed it to be unscathed. I rushed toward the grassy place it rested in only to see the main support beam busted in half. It was facedown, so I lifted it and discovered the lustrous dark wood was now slightly distressed and rustic. We reloaded and drove the rest of the way to the new house. I had put on a brave face for my dad during clean up, but cried once I was alone.
Despite my disappointment over the bed, it is just a piece of furniture. My thankfulness over my family and I being safe and healthy far outweigh my chagrin. I am grateful to be in a place where my contentment and peace come from an intangible source. God works in all things, and He works them for the good of those who seek Him. I know this move, this change, is a fresh start of sorts - definitely a new chapter. Maybe, just maybe, a new bed is part of that.
I moved back to my parent’s house in the spring while I was in a time of transition. Soon thereafter my cousin, Krystal, decided to buy a home and asked me to live with her, so I stayed put at mom and dad’s through the summer. Krystal closed on her house in September and we spent the rest of the month painting, changing floors, ripping out sinks, filling a pit, and all of the other fun tasks that go along with making a mid-70’s home respectable for twenty-somethings.
On one such renovation-related occasion, Krystal and I had been painting for several hours. All other family and help had abandoned us. We finished a bedroom and moved on to the pantry and utility room closet. The floors were (supposed to be) being put in the next day, so in view of my extremely messy painting skills, we wanted all painting done beforehand. I went to work cutting in at the ceiling of the pantry while Krystal rolled the walls. I was high on a ladder in the dark pantry when Krystal jumped backward out of the small space and spoke a phrase. I heard only one word that mattered: spiders. How I removed myself from the ladder and closet without serious injury will always be a mystery. After spastically shaking my head to make sure there were no arachnid stowaways, I returned to the pantry doorway with Krystal where we beheld not one, not two, but a “herd” of spiders. We knew if we killed just one, the rest would come after us, so we went in search of some tool that could kill several at once. In an empty house, our choices were limited and we returned armed only with Windex. It didn’t work, other than to ruin what painting we had gotten done. Next, we made a desperate phone call to a nearby friend. He wouldn’t help. We gave up on the pantry and decided to paint the utility room closet, but found it in the same shape. So, we went home.
We officially moved in last Friday, sans beds, dishes, working shower, etc. It made for a fun evening. On Saturday, I moved my furniture from my parent’s house, which is about thirty miles away. I followed my dad in my own car and watched for signs of loosening ropes and such. About a quarter of the way, a billowy white mass flew at my windshield. Snow? Manna from heaven? No. It was my perfect-in-every-way Sealy pillow top mattress and box spring flying out, followed closely by the beautiful headboard and footboard of my canopy bed. I swerved to dodge the mattress and pulled over. I didn’t know what to do next. I climbed out of the car and, with hands raised in some warped form of surrender, walked the three or four yards to my mattress. Unsure of protocol in such a situation, I tried to pick it up. I was unsuccessful. My dad and cousin were at my side by this time and picked it up. I began the search for the pieces of my life … err bed. I saw my headboard at a distance and believed it to be unscathed. I rushed toward the grassy place it rested in only to see the main support beam busted in half. It was facedown, so I lifted it and discovered the lustrous dark wood was now slightly distressed and rustic. We reloaded and drove the rest of the way to the new house. I had put on a brave face for my dad during clean up, but cried once I was alone.
Despite my disappointment over the bed, it is just a piece of furniture. My thankfulness over my family and I being safe and healthy far outweigh my chagrin. I am grateful to be in a place where my contentment and peace come from an intangible source. God works in all things, and He works them for the good of those who seek Him. I know this move, this change, is a fresh start of sorts - definitely a new chapter. Maybe, just maybe, a new bed is part of that.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
September Thoughts
It is now the third week of school, therefore the honeymoon is officially over, the gloves are off, et al. Nevertheless, as my students settle in and begin to show their true personalities, I’m overcome with how much joy they bring me. I am so grateful for all the lives that are a part of my life. Below are a few laughable examples of why I don’t mind the sound of my alarm clock … most days.
I have assigned my high school students the task of recreating the constitutional framer of their choice’s journal during the time of the Constitutional Convention. One such student shared their work so far with me yesterday. I learned that Thomas Jefferson not only had an alarm clock, but also rode to the convention in a taxi. The following day, he ate cereal and borrowed a suit from a neighbor, naturally, since he forgot to drop his own suit off at the dry cleaner’s. No complaints – the student is making a noble and imaginative effort.
At lunch Tuesday, I confiscated a switchblade comb from an elementary student. Before I realized it was a comb, visions of a crumpled bleeding body on the floor of our lunchroom aged me a few years. The owner of this novelty item crossed my path again later in the day when he left his classroom and appeared to be choking. I was immediately concerned, but soon discovered he was breathless with laughter, and also noticed he was carrying his chair. I got distracted, but went to investigate a few minutes later. I assumed he had been sent to the hallway because he was misbehaving in class. However, I couldn’t find him in the hallway. Soon, I heard stifled laughter, and found this young man behind the door in a dark bathroom. He was sitting in his chair with books open - accomplishing nothing as it was dark - but quite pleased with his cleverness.
We enrolled four siblings this year, one is in the elementary class, but the other three are mine, and they are magnificent. I wish I could clone them. However, the endearing mischievous nature of my veteran students is starting to rub off on them. This was evidenced by the oldest boy in the family repeatedly setting the alarm clock on another student’s desk. I couldn’t get mad, because it was funny – especially when the student whose desk it was couldn’t begin to comprehend why or how that radio was coming on all by itself.
Finally, a student came running into my office at lunch time on Thursday (I love that they are undaunted by the “principal’s office”) to inform me that he decided to change his name to whatever country his finger landed on when he rolled the globe. Unfortunately, that country was Iran. I counseled him against this decision.
Do I often want to beat my head against a wall after I’ve gone over the same instructions 15 times? Yes. But, a long time ago I asked God to put love in my heart for the young people I work with, and He’s done just that. At the end of the day, whatever mishap, mistake, or misunderstanding may have occurred, I count it all joy. I have the privilege of showing them how to get it right tomorrow … for the 16th time.
I have assigned my high school students the task of recreating the constitutional framer of their choice’s journal during the time of the Constitutional Convention. One such student shared their work so far with me yesterday. I learned that Thomas Jefferson not only had an alarm clock, but also rode to the convention in a taxi. The following day, he ate cereal and borrowed a suit from a neighbor, naturally, since he forgot to drop his own suit off at the dry cleaner’s. No complaints – the student is making a noble and imaginative effort.
At lunch Tuesday, I confiscated a switchblade comb from an elementary student. Before I realized it was a comb, visions of a crumpled bleeding body on the floor of our lunchroom aged me a few years. The owner of this novelty item crossed my path again later in the day when he left his classroom and appeared to be choking. I was immediately concerned, but soon discovered he was breathless with laughter, and also noticed he was carrying his chair. I got distracted, but went to investigate a few minutes later. I assumed he had been sent to the hallway because he was misbehaving in class. However, I couldn’t find him in the hallway. Soon, I heard stifled laughter, and found this young man behind the door in a dark bathroom. He was sitting in his chair with books open - accomplishing nothing as it was dark - but quite pleased with his cleverness.
We enrolled four siblings this year, one is in the elementary class, but the other three are mine, and they are magnificent. I wish I could clone them. However, the endearing mischievous nature of my veteran students is starting to rub off on them. This was evidenced by the oldest boy in the family repeatedly setting the alarm clock on another student’s desk. I couldn’t get mad, because it was funny – especially when the student whose desk it was couldn’t begin to comprehend why or how that radio was coming on all by itself.
Finally, a student came running into my office at lunch time on Thursday (I love that they are undaunted by the “principal’s office”) to inform me that he decided to change his name to whatever country his finger landed on when he rolled the globe. Unfortunately, that country was Iran. I counseled him against this decision.
Do I often want to beat my head against a wall after I’ve gone over the same instructions 15 times? Yes. But, a long time ago I asked God to put love in my heart for the young people I work with, and He’s done just that. At the end of the day, whatever mishap, mistake, or misunderstanding may have occurred, I count it all joy. I have the privilege of showing them how to get it right tomorrow … for the 16th time.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Free and undeserved
"You can't outrun grace." Yes, it's a lyric from a song. I heard the song the other day and those four words resonated with me. It probably means a thousand different things to a thousand different people. To me, it just means I am loved unconditionally and my mistakes are not only forgiven, but also forgotten. Remembering that truth is the best part of my day. So why is it often so hard to offer it to others?
I received an apology from someone today. I knew what they had done, but didn't care. I can honestly say they were forgiven when it happened, and long before they thought to ask for forgiveness. I can also honestly say I have not always behaved in such a gracious manner.
How many movie plots are based upon one character not forgiving another over some small mistake or misconception? This is the situation Hollywood is built on - the skeleton in the closet, I dated your sister 13 years ago, accidentally ran over your cat, missed chance, miscommunication, just add B actors, instant plot.
We sit in the audience and watch the break up unfold, and we cringe. We think how ridiculous it is that they're not together. We are astonished over the foolishness of the individual holding back their forgiveness. However, are there people in our lives we haven't forgiven for far more trivial, although non-fiction, things?
As I write this I am scouring my life, looking for hidden grudges. I am expanding my search to people I don't see or hear from on a regular basis, and now I'm on to people I've never even met. I admit I'm not always pleased with the decisions made by our nation's leaders, I may even become angry with them. Chances are, not one of them will be sending me an e-mail or picking up the phone to ask my forgiveness for their shortcomings. It's unlikely these individuals will ever admit to having shortcomings. So, why don't I just sit back, unload my worries on the one who's offered to carry them for me, and forgive people before they even have the chance to know they're wrong. It's not my job to sit back and judge their actions anyway.
I write this now, I'm sure I'll forget it soon enough. But, if I remember to practice it here and there, it could make a difference. Think how short romantic comedies would be if forgiveness was just poured out up front.
We can't outrun God's grace, so why make others chase after ours?
I received an apology from someone today. I knew what they had done, but didn't care. I can honestly say they were forgiven when it happened, and long before they thought to ask for forgiveness. I can also honestly say I have not always behaved in such a gracious manner.
How many movie plots are based upon one character not forgiving another over some small mistake or misconception? This is the situation Hollywood is built on - the skeleton in the closet, I dated your sister 13 years ago, accidentally ran over your cat, missed chance, miscommunication, just add B actors, instant plot.
We sit in the audience and watch the break up unfold, and we cringe. We think how ridiculous it is that they're not together. We are astonished over the foolishness of the individual holding back their forgiveness. However, are there people in our lives we haven't forgiven for far more trivial, although non-fiction, things?
As I write this I am scouring my life, looking for hidden grudges. I am expanding my search to people I don't see or hear from on a regular basis, and now I'm on to people I've never even met. I admit I'm not always pleased with the decisions made by our nation's leaders, I may even become angry with them. Chances are, not one of them will be sending me an e-mail or picking up the phone to ask my forgiveness for their shortcomings. It's unlikely these individuals will ever admit to having shortcomings. So, why don't I just sit back, unload my worries on the one who's offered to carry them for me, and forgive people before they even have the chance to know they're wrong. It's not my job to sit back and judge their actions anyway.
I write this now, I'm sure I'll forget it soon enough. But, if I remember to practice it here and there, it could make a difference. Think how short romantic comedies would be if forgiveness was just poured out up front.
We can't outrun God's grace, so why make others chase after ours?
Thursday, September 9, 2010
It must be love ...
I have numerous very good reasons for not posting for almost two weeks. School started this week, which is the root of most of the reasons. It is also the reason I'm multitasking tonight. By that I mean that I am blogging and preparing a chapel message for tomorrow at the same time.
I'm confident most have heard the story about the young man that dropped all his books while walking home from school. Several students laughed and pointed, and none of them offered to help - routine behavior for his peers. However, one boy did eventually cross the street and helped pick up the books. They walked home together and were friends throughout junior high and high school. On graduation day, the boy who dropped the books stepped onto the stage to give his valedictorian address. In his speech he recognized his best friend, and confessed that the day they'd met six years before was the day he'd planned to kill himself. I don't know if this account is based on actual events, but every time it finds its way into my inbox, I am reminded of the magnitude of importance our actions, or inactions, possess.
My chapel message for tomorrow will come out of Romans 12 - we'll be talking about love. It is simple, but complex. Desired, but not always deserved. You can see that my challenge in relaying love's importance to young people is making them understand the depth of what love actually is.
I can scoop up a toddler and put a bandage on a scraped knee easy enough, but can I smile and be patient with the chatty individual ahead of me in the check-out line? I can help a family member through a trial because I love them and I'm invested in their future, but can I do the same for a stranger whose circumstances and personality I am not familiar with? Simple, meet complex.
I can accept the graciousness and generosity of my family and my Savior, but I can't earn it. Desire, meet undeserving.
When I was young, I thought love was a Disney movie. I thought it was a hug. Not until adulthood did I see that love is not an emotion or action we save for just those closest and dearest to us - it is how we are to act toward every single person we come in contact with, and it is usually expressed in the most casual ways.
Romans 12 instructs us to honor others above ourselves, practice hospitality, bless those who persecute us, be willing to associate with people of low position. Here's a tough one: Be careful to do what is right in the eyes of everybody. Everybody. Not just your pastor, not just your grandma on Sundays when she takes you to church. Everybody. All the time.
I've been really busy lately with good stuff, but as I sit here at 10:00 on a school night (gasp) I wonder how much of my business includes following all those instructions in Romans 12. When I'm in the middle of some seemingly crucial task and the phone rings, am I being patient and exuding love to the soul on the other end? Am I being careful to do what is right? If not, what kind of impression am I leaving?
Simple actions make bold statements.
I'm confident most have heard the story about the young man that dropped all his books while walking home from school. Several students laughed and pointed, and none of them offered to help - routine behavior for his peers. However, one boy did eventually cross the street and helped pick up the books. They walked home together and were friends throughout junior high and high school. On graduation day, the boy who dropped the books stepped onto the stage to give his valedictorian address. In his speech he recognized his best friend, and confessed that the day they'd met six years before was the day he'd planned to kill himself. I don't know if this account is based on actual events, but every time it finds its way into my inbox, I am reminded of the magnitude of importance our actions, or inactions, possess.
My chapel message for tomorrow will come out of Romans 12 - we'll be talking about love. It is simple, but complex. Desired, but not always deserved. You can see that my challenge in relaying love's importance to young people is making them understand the depth of what love actually is.
I can scoop up a toddler and put a bandage on a scraped knee easy enough, but can I smile and be patient with the chatty individual ahead of me in the check-out line? I can help a family member through a trial because I love them and I'm invested in their future, but can I do the same for a stranger whose circumstances and personality I am not familiar with? Simple, meet complex.
I can accept the graciousness and generosity of my family and my Savior, but I can't earn it. Desire, meet undeserving.
When I was young, I thought love was a Disney movie. I thought it was a hug. Not until adulthood did I see that love is not an emotion or action we save for just those closest and dearest to us - it is how we are to act toward every single person we come in contact with, and it is usually expressed in the most casual ways.
Romans 12 instructs us to honor others above ourselves, practice hospitality, bless those who persecute us, be willing to associate with people of low position. Here's a tough one: Be careful to do what is right in the eyes of everybody. Everybody. Not just your pastor, not just your grandma on Sundays when she takes you to church. Everybody. All the time.
I've been really busy lately with good stuff, but as I sit here at 10:00 on a school night (gasp) I wonder how much of my business includes following all those instructions in Romans 12. When I'm in the middle of some seemingly crucial task and the phone rings, am I being patient and exuding love to the soul on the other end? Am I being careful to do what is right? If not, what kind of impression am I leaving?
Simple actions make bold statements.
Friday, August 27, 2010
Pioneers: The first purpose-driven lives
I am a morning person. I meant to write a post on this topic yesterday and never got around to it. I'm so glad I didn't. I woke up this morning, started a pot of coffee (Savannah Seduction from the Paula Deen collection - you should try it), and looked out the back door. It's been mercifully cool here the past two days, and this morning the temperature was just low enough to pull a swirling mist out of the lake. The wind was blowing gently, pushing water toward our dock and causing the tall reeds on the far shore to sway. The same breeze permeated the branches of the oak trees, putting a million leaves in motion and even sending some fluttering to the ground and water beneath. Generally speaking, my backyard was on par with a scene from a Nicholas Sparks movie.
I opened up our day care yesterday morning. We open at 6:30, which means I was up at five and out the door by six. The drive into town got me thinking on this subject: As much as I love to sleep, I love a quiet, still morning that much more. There is a confounding mixture of peace and majesty right before the sun comes up that I love to be a part of. Add to it the aroma of strong coffee and I'm blissfully happy.
I have mostly fond memories of the wee morning hours. Growing up, our family vacations always commenced in the pre-dawn darkness. Likewise, our Christmas mornings have never seen the light of the sun. Even while working long summer days at the National Interagency Fire Center after my first year of college, the 6:30 a.m. clock-in time was met with laughter and in the company of one of my best friends.
There's more to it than positive associations, though. Mornings are filled with possibility. Everything is new. Those are qualities not shared by other times of the day. Historically speaking, mornings were most important – the entire day’s success pivoted on what was accomplished before the sun was even up. Failure to literally seize the day resulted in catastrophe and waste on a farm or other primitive place of commerce.
Every branch of my father's family tree made the trek from the eastern United States to the mountains of Idaho in the late 1800's. His maternal grandfather lost his first wife and three children along the way. Harsh winters can last eight months in that already rugged country, which was at that time (and now, come to think of it) sparsely populated. Nevertheless, my ancestors hacked out homes, started families, and became successful founding citizens of what would become our nation's 43rd state (1890). I consider my day's productivity to be wrecked if the Internet is running slowly.
In spite of that fault, I do hope my a.m.-adeptness is something passed down from my pioneer ancestors. On childhood camping trips I would wake in the tent or camper that was damp with dew. I would smell the fire right before recognizing its crackling sound mixed in with clanging pots and pans. My dad would already be up working on his "Mountain Man Breakfast." Stepping out into the crisp and pure mountain air of Idaho - you have no idea - you literally feel your lungs being cleansed. The rustle of pine needles underfoot, the burble of a meandering stream nearby, the call of birds, the smell of coffee percolating in a tin pot, and the sight of distant rocky peaks that tell you just how small you are. This is purely my assumption, but those have to be the small joys cherished by the hard workers I came from.
I sit back and picture a great-grandfather stepping outside a cabin of rough-hewn timber. It's early, their body is sore, but they have a hot be it meager breakfast in their stomach. They look to the east and see the faint promise of sunshine making its way up the backside of what I believe to be the most perfect landform created by God. They button another button on a coat or pull gloves onto chapped hands and then take a deep breath and start out. Inside they have a knowledge that whatever they accomplish that day, little or much, it's that much more done and it's a measure of work they can be proud of because they started early and with purpose.
I opened up our day care yesterday morning. We open at 6:30, which means I was up at five and out the door by six. The drive into town got me thinking on this subject: As much as I love to sleep, I love a quiet, still morning that much more. There is a confounding mixture of peace and majesty right before the sun comes up that I love to be a part of. Add to it the aroma of strong coffee and I'm blissfully happy.
I have mostly fond memories of the wee morning hours. Growing up, our family vacations always commenced in the pre-dawn darkness. Likewise, our Christmas mornings have never seen the light of the sun. Even while working long summer days at the National Interagency Fire Center after my first year of college, the 6:30 a.m. clock-in time was met with laughter and in the company of one of my best friends.
There's more to it than positive associations, though. Mornings are filled with possibility. Everything is new. Those are qualities not shared by other times of the day. Historically speaking, mornings were most important – the entire day’s success pivoted on what was accomplished before the sun was even up. Failure to literally seize the day resulted in catastrophe and waste on a farm or other primitive place of commerce.
Every branch of my father's family tree made the trek from the eastern United States to the mountains of Idaho in the late 1800's. His maternal grandfather lost his first wife and three children along the way. Harsh winters can last eight months in that already rugged country, which was at that time (and now, come to think of it) sparsely populated. Nevertheless, my ancestors hacked out homes, started families, and became successful founding citizens of what would become our nation's 43rd state (1890). I consider my day's productivity to be wrecked if the Internet is running slowly.
In spite of that fault, I do hope my a.m.-adeptness is something passed down from my pioneer ancestors. On childhood camping trips I would wake in the tent or camper that was damp with dew. I would smell the fire right before recognizing its crackling sound mixed in with clanging pots and pans. My dad would already be up working on his "Mountain Man Breakfast." Stepping out into the crisp and pure mountain air of Idaho - you have no idea - you literally feel your lungs being cleansed. The rustle of pine needles underfoot, the burble of a meandering stream nearby, the call of birds, the smell of coffee percolating in a tin pot, and the sight of distant rocky peaks that tell you just how small you are. This is purely my assumption, but those have to be the small joys cherished by the hard workers I came from.
I sit back and picture a great-grandfather stepping outside a cabin of rough-hewn timber. It's early, their body is sore, but they have a hot be it meager breakfast in their stomach. They look to the east and see the faint promise of sunshine making its way up the backside of what I believe to be the most perfect landform created by God. They button another button on a coat or pull gloves onto chapped hands and then take a deep breath and start out. Inside they have a knowledge that whatever they accomplish that day, little or much, it's that much more done and it's a measure of work they can be proud of because they started early and with purpose.
Monday, August 23, 2010
Clever Title
Accomplishment: Something that has been achieved successfully.
Today is my 27th birthday. I'm in full swing analytical mode looking back over the 23 years I remember well. I've succeeded at a lot of things, I have failed at others. I ran my first 5K race this past weekend. It was something I had wanted to do for some time, and I feel really great about having done it. I finished college, a degree hangs on my office wall. I attempted to adopt children and backed out. I tried to buy a house, several actually, and never made it to closing. I've written a book, but haven't had it published. I could continue to list successes, near successes, and failures, but no more is necessary to make my point.
Above my bed hangs a sign: “Blessed is the life that finds joy in the journey.” Life's mixture of attempts, missed chances, triumphs, and let downs are what make up a lifetime of rich memories. They are what make a person. Forced experience never ends up being all that rewarding or memorable, but a chance encounter, an unexpected experience, a stolen laugh, the unmerited opportunity to be a light for another soul, those make up the well-woven tapestry of a life.
When Krystal, Rebekah, Cynthia, and I were in New York in January, it wasn’t the expertly planned and executed moments that were the most enjoyable. Instead, a second trip to Junior’s for cheesecake and a table full of diabetic coma-inducing desserts in Little Italy are my favored memories … and it’s merely a coincidence that they happen to revolve around food.
1 Peter 2:9: But you are a chosen people, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, a people belonging to God, that you may declare the praises of him who called you out of darkness and into his wonderful light.
When push comes to shove, every accomplishment and every moment of life are gifts from above. We are allowed to have them because of his grace. We are a “chosen people, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, a people belonging to God” for the sole purpose of glorifying him. I live in the light! And not because I found it on my own. He led me to it, and when I stray into darkness, he plugs in a nightlight for me. How can I not live my life for his glory?
I dub myself an overachiever, and I am a person satisfied by work well done. I have goals and plans, among them are running a full marathon, publishing books, marrying a man who loves me, having children of my own and adopting more, making a home, growing a school, and seeing the world. But before any of these, I have the goal of molding and shaping a life that is in keeping with the commands and will of my Lord.
The most comfortable clothes I own are the ones that are stained and frayed, and have been in a dresser drawer for a quarter or more of my existence. Similarly, the people I most enjoy being with are the ones that have been walking beside me, and I by them, through the food fights and mountain tops of life. In this vein, I hope that the accomplishments I treasure most are the ones that point to Him. Like paint-splattered jeans and old friends, they might not look like much, but they mean a lot to me, and one other person.
Today is my 27th birthday. I'm in full swing analytical mode looking back over the 23 years I remember well. I've succeeded at a lot of things, I have failed at others. I ran my first 5K race this past weekend. It was something I had wanted to do for some time, and I feel really great about having done it. I finished college, a degree hangs on my office wall. I attempted to adopt children and backed out. I tried to buy a house, several actually, and never made it to closing. I've written a book, but haven't had it published. I could continue to list successes, near successes, and failures, but no more is necessary to make my point.
Above my bed hangs a sign: “Blessed is the life that finds joy in the journey.” Life's mixture of attempts, missed chances, triumphs, and let downs are what make up a lifetime of rich memories. They are what make a person. Forced experience never ends up being all that rewarding or memorable, but a chance encounter, an unexpected experience, a stolen laugh, the unmerited opportunity to be a light for another soul, those make up the well-woven tapestry of a life.
When Krystal, Rebekah, Cynthia, and I were in New York in January, it wasn’t the expertly planned and executed moments that were the most enjoyable. Instead, a second trip to Junior’s for cheesecake and a table full of diabetic coma-inducing desserts in Little Italy are my favored memories … and it’s merely a coincidence that they happen to revolve around food.
1 Peter 2:9: But you are a chosen people, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, a people belonging to God, that you may declare the praises of him who called you out of darkness and into his wonderful light.
When push comes to shove, every accomplishment and every moment of life are gifts from above. We are allowed to have them because of his grace. We are a “chosen people, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, a people belonging to God” for the sole purpose of glorifying him. I live in the light! And not because I found it on my own. He led me to it, and when I stray into darkness, he plugs in a nightlight for me. How can I not live my life for his glory?
I dub myself an overachiever, and I am a person satisfied by work well done. I have goals and plans, among them are running a full marathon, publishing books, marrying a man who loves me, having children of my own and adopting more, making a home, growing a school, and seeing the world. But before any of these, I have the goal of molding and shaping a life that is in keeping with the commands and will of my Lord.
The most comfortable clothes I own are the ones that are stained and frayed, and have been in a dresser drawer for a quarter or more of my existence. Similarly, the people I most enjoy being with are the ones that have been walking beside me, and I by them, through the food fights and mountain tops of life. In this vein, I hope that the accomplishments I treasure most are the ones that point to Him. Like paint-splattered jeans and old friends, they might not look like much, but they mean a lot to me, and one other person.
Monday, August 16, 2010
Spiritual Geography
“It's in Christ that we find out who we are and what we are living for. Long before we first heard of Christ and got our hopes up, he had his eye on us, had designs on us for glorious living, part of the overall purpose he is working out in everything and everyone.” Ephesians 1:11
Mountains and valleys, friends. Mountains and valleys. Every human has both. Looking back over a few of the valleys I've been in, I see an image of myself with a shovel in my hand. Do we dig our own at times?
I've always considered myself to be an "up by the bootstraps" kind of gal. However, when I really hold a light close, I see that I have occasionally managed to kick myself while I was down. Who needs enemies when you have yourself? How do I manage to do this? I have several favored methods, but here is a prize-winning example.
When presented with an opportunity I often jump to the most preposterous negative circumstance I can imagine and will let it intimidate me. I am proud to say, I do usually go through with said opportunity, but not without a lot of unnecessary anxiety. A hilarious example of this occurred just this past weekend. I was looking for a 5K and found a trail run in Austin. I haven't trained for trail running (yet), so it was a poor choice anyway, but ahead of determining that, I was actually wasting brain cells worrying about mountain lions. That's right. Mountain lions. There have been four attacks in 100 years, none of them fatal, in this particular park in the Austin area. Pretty slim odds, right? Doesn't matter, my mind left all actual logic behind and was 1,000 miles ahead fashioning a weapon out of a fallen pine branch to protect myself from the feline beast, which is sure to uncharacteristically show up and choose to attack me out of 300 runners. If I were ready for trail running, I would have talked myself down and gone to this race. But, why do I even go looking for these fears?
I find the worst valleys are the ones where we have forgotten the truth in Ephesians 1:11. My mountain lion fear was not a valley, but it is an instance where I took my eyes off Jesus. Peter did that once, too.
I know myself pretty well. God knows me better, which is why I should listen to Him more, and others less. When I feel myself on the slippery edge and can look down and see a descent in front of me, it’s never His voice I’m hearing, it’s usually not my own, either. Instead it is the imagined, or real, judgment from others. Their thoughts on my choices, my plans, my actions – the perceived disapproval of others is how my journey through a declivity of self pity always begins.
I stumbled on the above scripture in Ephesians a few days ago and began writing this post. I couldn't finish it ... until now. I stumbled on more scripture a few minutes ago that I feel complete the thought. 1 Thessalonians 5:16 says: "Be joyful always, pray continually, give thanks in all circumstances, for this is God's will for you in Christ Jesus."
Always be joyful - God's given you joy. Exercise it. No matter what's going on, if you know Him, you've got a reason to be joyful.
Pray continually - Even in the rare event that you and everybody around you is experiencing a blissfully perfect life, somebody somewhere doesn't know Him. Pray for that person.
Give thanks in ALL circumstances - This one is hard, but when things are looking glum, when you feel the cold fist of a bad mood, the best thing to do is start praising him. Count your blessings, not your sorrows. (I borrowed that from a church sign.)
It's safe to say that the next time I find myself in a valley, or on my way down to one, if I'll utilize these tools instead of that old shovel, things will get better a lot quicker.
Mountains and valleys, friends. Mountains and valleys. Every human has both. Looking back over a few of the valleys I've been in, I see an image of myself with a shovel in my hand. Do we dig our own at times?
I've always considered myself to be an "up by the bootstraps" kind of gal. However, when I really hold a light close, I see that I have occasionally managed to kick myself while I was down. Who needs enemies when you have yourself? How do I manage to do this? I have several favored methods, but here is a prize-winning example.
When presented with an opportunity I often jump to the most preposterous negative circumstance I can imagine and will let it intimidate me. I am proud to say, I do usually go through with said opportunity, but not without a lot of unnecessary anxiety. A hilarious example of this occurred just this past weekend. I was looking for a 5K and found a trail run in Austin. I haven't trained for trail running (yet), so it was a poor choice anyway, but ahead of determining that, I was actually wasting brain cells worrying about mountain lions. That's right. Mountain lions. There have been four attacks in 100 years, none of them fatal, in this particular park in the Austin area. Pretty slim odds, right? Doesn't matter, my mind left all actual logic behind and was 1,000 miles ahead fashioning a weapon out of a fallen pine branch to protect myself from the feline beast, which is sure to uncharacteristically show up and choose to attack me out of 300 runners. If I were ready for trail running, I would have talked myself down and gone to this race. But, why do I even go looking for these fears?
I find the worst valleys are the ones where we have forgotten the truth in Ephesians 1:11. My mountain lion fear was not a valley, but it is an instance where I took my eyes off Jesus. Peter did that once, too.
I know myself pretty well. God knows me better, which is why I should listen to Him more, and others less. When I feel myself on the slippery edge and can look down and see a descent in front of me, it’s never His voice I’m hearing, it’s usually not my own, either. Instead it is the imagined, or real, judgment from others. Their thoughts on my choices, my plans, my actions – the perceived disapproval of others is how my journey through a declivity of self pity always begins.
I stumbled on the above scripture in Ephesians a few days ago and began writing this post. I couldn't finish it ... until now. I stumbled on more scripture a few minutes ago that I feel complete the thought. 1 Thessalonians 5:16 says: "Be joyful always, pray continually, give thanks in all circumstances, for this is God's will for you in Christ Jesus."
Always be joyful - God's given you joy. Exercise it. No matter what's going on, if you know Him, you've got a reason to be joyful.
Pray continually - Even in the rare event that you and everybody around you is experiencing a blissfully perfect life, somebody somewhere doesn't know Him. Pray for that person.
Give thanks in ALL circumstances - This one is hard, but when things are looking glum, when you feel the cold fist of a bad mood, the best thing to do is start praising him. Count your blessings, not your sorrows. (I borrowed that from a church sign.)
It's safe to say that the next time I find myself in a valley, or on my way down to one, if I'll utilize these tools instead of that old shovel, things will get better a lot quicker.
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