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.
Sunday, December 12, 2010
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.
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