At one time in my life I believed I would grow up to be a writer. My first "book" was to be titled, "Fortune Cookie", and I managed to write about eight pages of it. It was funny. It was eight pages of pure genius. It was about a single girl living in Manhattan and her journey. I was single at the time, but I knew nothing about living in Manhattan. So, it was loosely based on someone else being single and living in New York (can you say...Sex and the City). Genius I tell you! I never finished the "book" and today those eight pages are somewhere in the bottom of a drawer.
I am no longer a single girl and my understanding of living in Manhattan is more of my own now, but Fortune Cookie stuck around as the name of my blog. For years, I loved writing my blog and the title seemed to fit its description, "you never know what you're going to get"...until about nine months ago. I was uninspired and didn't feel like there was so much to be surprised about anymore. I felt like you did know what you were going to get when you came to my blog - catchy phrases, quotes from what I was reading, some pretty pictures, but nothing inspiring or worth reading. That's when I shut everything down.
What a difference nine months makes. Surprises abound! Our family unexpectedly went on our first mission trip together to Costa Rica, our baby is in Kindergarten, I got a new job, we got a puppy,"turned" Vegan, and we're beginning our journey of adoption. None of this was planned except for Kindergarten. Everything else has been the careful process of not carefully making any plans at all, but living and being available to God's plan. Praise be to God! Oh, and obviously the blog is up and running again and I cannot wait to share everything with you as we take this journey together. I hope it surprises you, inspires you, and finds you living the life you've always dreamed.
"My horse! My horse! My kingdom for a horse!"
Let me tell you something, I just watched Kevin Spacey roar these words into the audience in a production of Richard III at the Brooklyn Academy of Music's Harvey Theater. I've never felt the power of each syllable. I've also never seen such a beautiful orchestration of modern aristocracy and war mixed with 15th century language and social issues that still transcend even our modern democratic society (without all of the blood letting). The combination of incestuous hatred and death was almost enchanting because of the stage arrangement, which was bare wide planked hardwood floors and walls of doors, doors, doors. If you get a chance to see this play, get thee to the theater!
Let me tell you something, I just watched Kevin Spacey roar these words into the audience in a production of Richard III at the Brooklyn Academy of Music's Harvey Theater. I've never felt the power of each syllable. I've also never seen such a beautiful orchestration of modern aristocracy and war mixed with 15th century language and social issues that still transcend even our modern democratic society (without all of the blood letting). The combination of incestuous hatred and death was almost enchanting because of the stage arrangement, which was bare wide planked hardwood floors and walls of doors, doors, doors. If you get a chance to see this play, get thee to the theater!
I am intrigued by the concept in this video. While we've never gotten food from a dumpster, we have definitely recovered plants from our local nursery and useful building supplies from places going out of business. I am highly unlikely to follow in this person's steps for a variety of reasons, not the least of which, poor Clare already has the "weird, liberal" parents. However, I will say that I am a little disappointed that companies choose to throw away edible food and useful items rather than make more of an effort to provide items to people in need. Those flowers, while not perfect for a party, looked like they could sure brighten up a hospital room or nursing home. The food that expires that day could be used at homeless shelters, safe houses, or for families severely in need. It appears that all it requires is a little ingenuity, a good relationship with a store manager, and a team of people willing within a community to get the stuff (maybe before it reaches the dumpster) and take it to those in need (notice, I said "team" of people). Use this blog and the video I share to inspire you to action today! In Christ...
The Perennial Plate Episode 84: Dumpster Diver from Daniel Klein on Vimeo.
The Perennial Plate Episode 84: Dumpster Diver from Daniel Klein on Vimeo.
I hope you have pants on
After the most wonderful Christmas Eve day full of traveling, family, church, and fun, we calmly put Clare to bed at the usual time of eight o’clock. During our bed time ritual, we giggled about what Santa would bring, said night time prayers, distributed good dreams fairy dust and turned out the lights. Like every other parent of a young child on Christmas Eve, on our way out of the bedroom we sing-songed a sweet warning to her, “You must hurry up and get to sleep. If Santa comes and you’re awake, he won’t leave any presents.” Giggling, I started back toward the living room feeling the relief of knowing that it was eight o’clock and we had nothing else to do except display the beautifully wrapped and glitter embellished presents that I had prepared the night before. Oh, and to open that new bottle of wine we received as a gift. Parenting win, check! Christmas Eve win, check!
…let this perfect moment sink in for just a moment...
Ten minutes later, I hear the local fire truck racing down the street toward our neighborhood - you know the one with a fireman dressed as Santa on top of it. Before I could reason with myself, I started hysterically screaming Clare’s name and yelling for her to hurry and come to the front door so she could see Santa. Mason in a confused tone starts yelling back, “Lael, what in the world? Stop! We don’t even know if they’re coming to our neighborhood…Wait, they’re coming. It’s coming. It’s coming!” In the horrifying confusion that followed, Clare, in a legitimate state of fear, comes running to the front door. I grabbed her in my arms and ran outside with her in pajamas in the freezing night time air. Mason is right behind us with my coat. We get to watch the fire truck drive by our house at 100 mph with a coat half draped over her feet and my shoulders, as Santa hurls pieces of candy at us in the dark. It wasn’t exactly magical, but boy was it exciting. Screaming mommies and fire truck sirens should be everyone’s normal on Christmas Eve. Fourteen seconds later, we put her to bed again. This time she asked us to hurry up and get out of her room so she could go to sleep. Not a win, not exactly a loss. We’ll call it a wash.
An hour later, the excitement of Christmas got to me and Mason and we decide we needed to reinforce the myth of Santa. We created an elaborate scheme for me to go and crawl into bed with Clare, who was supposed to be asleep, while Mason went outside with bells. Mason would ring his bells and this would wake her from her precious slumber so she would think reindeer were outside of her window. I would be there when she woke up so she wouldn’t be scared. Perfect, right? However, when I went to crawl into her bed, she was wide awake. I excitedly told her that Santa was in our area and that she needed to hurry up and get to sleep before he got to our house. Next thing you know, there are ringing bells and some thump thump thumping outside of the house. PERFECT!! She squeezed her eyes closed and we both gasped because Santa was there. A minute later there was a significantly louder, and more unexpected, thud that came from the roof. It startled me, so I jumped. She immediately warned me through gritted teeth, “You’d better be asleep.” I nearly bit my tongue in half trying not to laugh. In the whisper of someone about to choke to death, I told her I was.. The next thing I know, Mason is making his way back down the hall. With all the creaking and cracking of the floor boards, he sounded like a 7ft tall, 500 lb gorilla coming toward us. Of course, she thought Santa on his way to her room. She curled in close to me and with the quietest voice I’ve ever heard her use, she breathed into my ear, “I hope you have pants on”. I lost it. I started laughing so uncontrollably that I had to excuse myself and get out of her bed without so much as a good night. I can only imagine her wondering if Mommy had ruined her chance for presents since I kept her from going to sleep (twice). We'll add this to her future therapy list.
Today I’m left to wonder why she was worried if I had pants on when Santa was on his way to her room, and if I run around without pants often enough for this to be a problem.
…let this perfect moment sink in for just a moment...
Ten minutes later, I hear the local fire truck racing down the street toward our neighborhood - you know the one with a fireman dressed as Santa on top of it. Before I could reason with myself, I started hysterically screaming Clare’s name and yelling for her to hurry and come to the front door so she could see Santa. Mason in a confused tone starts yelling back, “Lael, what in the world? Stop! We don’t even know if they’re coming to our neighborhood…Wait, they’re coming. It’s coming. It’s coming!” In the horrifying confusion that followed, Clare, in a legitimate state of fear, comes running to the front door. I grabbed her in my arms and ran outside with her in pajamas in the freezing night time air. Mason is right behind us with my coat. We get to watch the fire truck drive by our house at 100 mph with a coat half draped over her feet and my shoulders, as Santa hurls pieces of candy at us in the dark. It wasn’t exactly magical, but boy was it exciting. Screaming mommies and fire truck sirens should be everyone’s normal on Christmas Eve. Fourteen seconds later, we put her to bed again. This time she asked us to hurry up and get out of her room so she could go to sleep. Not a win, not exactly a loss. We’ll call it a wash.
An hour later, the excitement of Christmas got to me and Mason and we decide we needed to reinforce the myth of Santa. We created an elaborate scheme for me to go and crawl into bed with Clare, who was supposed to be asleep, while Mason went outside with bells. Mason would ring his bells and this would wake her from her precious slumber so she would think reindeer were outside of her window. I would be there when she woke up so she wouldn’t be scared. Perfect, right? However, when I went to crawl into her bed, she was wide awake. I excitedly told her that Santa was in our area and that she needed to hurry up and get to sleep before he got to our house. Next thing you know, there are ringing bells and some thump thump thumping outside of the house. PERFECT!! She squeezed her eyes closed and we both gasped because Santa was there. A minute later there was a significantly louder, and more unexpected, thud that came from the roof. It startled me, so I jumped. She immediately warned me through gritted teeth, “You’d better be asleep.” I nearly bit my tongue in half trying not to laugh. In the whisper of someone about to choke to death, I told her I was.
Today I’m left to wonder why she was worried if I had pants on when Santa was on his way to her room, and if I run around without pants often enough for this to be a problem.
Disneyland
Rattle within wooden bones
Look through impassive eyes
Searching the shadows
Sallow reflections
Bear a rigid truth
An elastic simulation
In the happiest place on earth
Blind obstruction
Pulleys concealed
A sleight of hand
Look through impassive eyes
Searching the shadows
Sallow reflections
Bear a rigid truth
An elastic simulation
In the happiest place on earth
Blind obstruction
Pulleys concealed
A sleight of hand
--Lael Boyd (2011)
Who?
I bought an O magazine tonight at the drug store. I blame Clare's teacher since Clare and I are required to find pictures in magazines that begin with letters of the alphabet for Clare to cut out and present to class each week. Not having many of these (Runner's World is surprisingly lame in the alphabet picture arena), I am forced to buy them. Magazine covers are temptresses. With the fabulous jeweled greens on the cover and cover story that read "Find Your True Calling: A Guide to Discovering Who You're Meant to Be," I quickly threw it into my basket and rushed to get out of the store. I was partly excited and partly ashamed. Neither emotion really mattered because for $4.50 I was about to be enlightened. After I put Clare to bed, I started my journey. I read the first article. I completed the first brainstorm. I asked my husband to describe me in three words. I took the motivational style test. I read the successful sidebar stories. What did I find, you ask?
I love to run (ok, come on Oprah. You can do better than that). I love photography - mine and other people's (Still a cheap parlor trick since everyone does). I love to sing (so what, who doesn't?) I want to play the piano again (You are right, O, I did really love that and I really have been thinking about taking up lessons again). Then she did it...her crafty little test produced one interesting result. I really love unique paper and want to learn to make my own paper art to combine with pressed flowers and poetry, mine and other people's (What? Hello crazy, where have you been hiding?).
The truth is that I didn't find out too much that I didn't know, but it also wasn't the worst way I'd ever spent an evening alone. The interesting thing is that I did very much feel the -
girl, you're amazing. Get out there and do what you love - you have our permission and encouragement to do so - vibe once I finished and was pretty excited about taking these talents or passions of mine a little more seriously. The experience also challenged me to sit down and not just figure out what I like, but to match it with situational goals that I am to discuss with a friend (Nice touch, O, accountability does help motivate people to do)
I'll give it to Oprah, it was worth $4.50 to get cracking on my personal to-do-list. I'm accountable to Oprah now so I have to do something. Someday soon I'm going to call about piano lessons, look for more updated camera equipment on craigslist, and pick up some flowers and homemade paper. Anyway, it all sounds like a really fun way to spend some time and to give me something useful to fill up the winter nights coming up. Oh, and If you get crappy hand-made gifts from me this Christmas, just understand that I've simply discovered "the me" I've always meant to be.
Do you want to get well?
“Do you want to get well? Get up! Pick up your mat and walk” (John 5:6,8, NIV).
Do you want to get well?
That seems like a strange question, doesn’t it. But sometimes we can get so used to being soul sick, we don’t even realize that we are not truly well. Sometimes the chains we wear shackled to our hearts become so comfortable, we get used to the pain and forget what it is like to be well. Perhaps some of us have never known. But the big question is – do you want to get well?
Do you want to be free?
"Of course I do", I hear you say. But do you really? There was a certain man that Jesus encountered who faced the same crossroads in his life. In Jerusalem, men and women with various infirmities congregated at the Sheep Gate Pool. Surrounding the pool were five porticoes or shelters, where sick people clustered, waiting for the “moving of the waters.” They believed an angel of the Lord came down from heaven at certain seasons and stirred the pool. When the people saw the waters ripple, they all made a mad dash to jump in. They believed that the first one to make it to the pool would be healed. One man, an invalid, had been waiting by the pool for thirty-eight years. When Jesus saw the man lying there and learned that he had been doing so for thirty-eight years, he asked him, “Do you want to get well?” (John 5:6). That seems like an unusual question – or does it? Sometimes we get used to being “sick.” We become attached to our wounds. They become a part of who we are and we can’t imagine life without them. For this man, healing meant a drastic life change. He would have to get a job, become a responsible adult, and stop lounging by the pool all day.
Oh, we say we want to be free, but do we?
Pain can become an idol. Not that we worship it in a good sense. But we worship it as an awesome force and allow it to control our lives. When we allow our past to control our lives and dictate our future, we are giving it the power of a god and making it an idol. Author Richard Exley wrote: “We can hug our hurts and make a shrine out of our sorrows or we can offer them to God as a sacrifice of praise. The choice is ours.” Did the invalid want to get well? He had not asked for Jesus’ help. It seems he clung to his illness and blamed it on those around him – a victim of circumstance. “I have no one to help me into the pool when the water is stirred,” he said. We don’t know if he had lost the will to be healed, was afraid to lose the income of a beggar, or simply had accepted lameness as his lot in life. In any case, he came face to face with the one who could set him free. The man never did answer Jesus’ question. Jesus simply said, “Get up! Pick up your mat and walk” (John 5:1-8). And he did. Thirty-eight years is a long time to be immobile, and yet, in my own life there were some things that had held me back for the same amount of time. I was paralyzed by feelings of inferiority, insecurity, and inadequacy because of messages from my past. Then Jesus asked me, “Do you want to get well?” Satan wants to use our past to paralyze us. God wants to use our past to propel us! The choice is ours.
Sharon Jaynes is the author of this devotional, which I have posted separate from my daily devotional that I receive daily as part of "Girlfriends in God"
Do you want to get well?
That seems like a strange question, doesn’t it. But sometimes we can get so used to being soul sick, we don’t even realize that we are not truly well. Sometimes the chains we wear shackled to our hearts become so comfortable, we get used to the pain and forget what it is like to be well. Perhaps some of us have never known. But the big question is – do you want to get well?
Do you want to be free?
"Of course I do", I hear you say. But do you really? There was a certain man that Jesus encountered who faced the same crossroads in his life. In Jerusalem, men and women with various infirmities congregated at the Sheep Gate Pool. Surrounding the pool were five porticoes or shelters, where sick people clustered, waiting for the “moving of the waters.” They believed an angel of the Lord came down from heaven at certain seasons and stirred the pool. When the people saw the waters ripple, they all made a mad dash to jump in. They believed that the first one to make it to the pool would be healed. One man, an invalid, had been waiting by the pool for thirty-eight years. When Jesus saw the man lying there and learned that he had been doing so for thirty-eight years, he asked him, “Do you want to get well?” (John 5:6). That seems like an unusual question – or does it? Sometimes we get used to being “sick.” We become attached to our wounds. They become a part of who we are and we can’t imagine life without them. For this man, healing meant a drastic life change. He would have to get a job, become a responsible adult, and stop lounging by the pool all day.
Oh, we say we want to be free, but do we?
Pain can become an idol. Not that we worship it in a good sense. But we worship it as an awesome force and allow it to control our lives. When we allow our past to control our lives and dictate our future, we are giving it the power of a god and making it an idol. Author Richard Exley wrote: “We can hug our hurts and make a shrine out of our sorrows or we can offer them to God as a sacrifice of praise. The choice is ours.” Did the invalid want to get well? He had not asked for Jesus’ help. It seems he clung to his illness and blamed it on those around him – a victim of circumstance. “I have no one to help me into the pool when the water is stirred,” he said. We don’t know if he had lost the will to be healed, was afraid to lose the income of a beggar, or simply had accepted lameness as his lot in life. In any case, he came face to face with the one who could set him free. The man never did answer Jesus’ question. Jesus simply said, “Get up! Pick up your mat and walk” (John 5:1-8). And he did. Thirty-eight years is a long time to be immobile, and yet, in my own life there were some things that had held me back for the same amount of time. I was paralyzed by feelings of inferiority, insecurity, and inadequacy because of messages from my past. Then Jesus asked me, “Do you want to get well?” Satan wants to use our past to paralyze us. God wants to use our past to propel us! The choice is ours.
Sharon Jaynes is the author of this devotional, which I have posted separate from my daily devotional that I receive daily as part of "Girlfriends in God"
because today I needed to laugh, and momma always provides...
I asked God for a bike, but I know God doesn't work that way so I stole a bike and asked for forgiveness.
Do not argue with an idiot. He will drag you down to his level and beat you with experience.
The last thing I want to do is hurt you, but it's still on the list.
Light travels faster than sound. This is why some people appear bright until you hear them speak.
The early bird might get the worm, but the second mouse gets the cheese.
Evening news is where they begin with 'Good evening', and then proceed to tell you why it isn't.
How is it one careless match can start a forest fire, but it takes a whole box to start a campfire?
Some people are like Slinkies - not really good for anything, but you can't help smiling when you see one tumble down the stairs.
Dolphins are so smart that within a few weeks of captivity they can train people to stand on the very edge of the pool and throw them fish.
I thought I wanted a career. It turns out I just wanted pay checks.
Whenever I fill out an application, in the part that says "If an emergency, Notify:" I put "DOCTOR".
Women will never be equal to men until they can walk down the street with a bald head and a beer gut and still think they are sexy.
(It's perfectly ok to laugh at silly little sayings that belong on bumper stickers. Enjoy)
Do not argue with an idiot. He will drag you down to his level and beat you with experience.
The last thing I want to do is hurt you, but it's still on the list.
Light travels faster than sound. This is why some people appear bright until you hear them speak.
The early bird might get the worm, but the second mouse gets the cheese.
Evening news is where they begin with 'Good evening', and then proceed to tell you why it isn't.
How is it one careless match can start a forest fire, but it takes a whole box to start a campfire?
Some people are like Slinkies - not really good for anything, but you can't help smiling when you see one tumble down the stairs.
Dolphins are so smart that within a few weeks of captivity they can train people to stand on the very edge of the pool and throw them fish.
I thought I wanted a career. It turns out I just wanted pay checks.
Whenever I fill out an application, in the part that says "If an emergency, Notify:" I put "DOCTOR".
Women will never be equal to men until they can walk down the street with a bald head and a beer gut and still think they are sexy.
(It's perfectly ok to laugh at silly little sayings that belong on bumper stickers. Enjoy)
Stick
Clare picked up a stick today that resembled a divining rod and started walking toward the road. Sugar, her pet cat/guerrilla warfare enemy, started running toward us. Clare saw him , smiled broadly, and ran back toward him (with the stick).
"Hey, Sugar, let's play stick" she yelled.
As she darts down the driveway with the thing, I'm thinking to myself, "Wow, she's about to wail on Sugar." I was right. Not such a fun game. I tried to explain that being hit with a stick, even if the person hitting you is happy and laughing, really isn't a lot of fun. What I didn't realize at that time was that he was waiting for his opportunity to play his game with Clare. Oh, it was on.
Fast forward twenty minutes. She's sitting next to him, while he is calmly draped over a railroad tie, in a moment that can only be described as angelic. Mason and I are commenting on their love for each other and how she'll never have a cat love her as much as Sugar does. She's rubbing his head and he's loving all of her affection. It was a really sweet moment right up until the moment when she left her arm near him, but turned her head toward us with a smile that said, "isn't he just perfect?"
With one single swipe, the love was gone and she was screaming with a gashed and bloody arm. Sugar got up and sauntered into the garage with what I can only imagine was a look that said, "How do you like that game, huh? Claws with Clare is my favorite. Next time you better check yo'self with that stick." Meanwhile Clare, between her gasps and screams, was asking me why Sugar would do this because she was being so gentle and sweet. At this point, I might mention that I am laughing uncontrollably. It was such a horrible parenting moment. I'm not sure what was sadder, the fact that Clare was screaming crying with a gashed and bloody arm, or that we were both laughing so hard that all we could do was comfort her as we laughed. We'll just write this one down in her book for her therapist later on.
"Hey, Sugar, let's play stick" she yelled.
As she darts down the driveway with the thing, I'm thinking to myself, "Wow, she's about to wail on Sugar." I was right. Not such a fun game. I tried to explain that being hit with a stick, even if the person hitting you is happy and laughing, really isn't a lot of fun. What I didn't realize at that time was that he was waiting for his opportunity to play his game with Clare. Oh, it was on.
Fast forward twenty minutes. She's sitting next to him, while he is calmly draped over a railroad tie, in a moment that can only be described as angelic. Mason and I are commenting on their love for each other and how she'll never have a cat love her as much as Sugar does. She's rubbing his head and he's loving all of her affection. It was a really sweet moment right up until the moment when she left her arm near him, but turned her head toward us with a smile that said, "isn't he just perfect?"
With one single swipe, the love was gone and she was screaming with a gashed and bloody arm. Sugar got up and sauntered into the garage with what I can only imagine was a look that said, "How do you like that game, huh? Claws with Clare is my favorite. Next time you better check yo'self with that stick." Meanwhile Clare, between her gasps and screams, was asking me why Sugar would do this because she was being so gentle and sweet. At this point, I might mention that I am laughing uncontrollably. It was such a horrible parenting moment. I'm not sure what was sadder, the fact that Clare was screaming crying with a gashed and bloody arm, or that we were both laughing so hard that all we could do was comfort her as we laughed. We'll just write this one down in her book for her therapist later on.
All you need is love?
Oh man it’s been a tough week. I understand that every parent has them, but man-oh-man I had hoped my precious little girl would be different. It’s been the solid gold week of “I don’t care about you Mommy.” Not simply the “I don’t care about you”, but the “I won’t listen to you, I will try to hurt your feelings over-and-over, and I will smile while doing it to show you I really do not care about you” all freaking week. Does anything hurt more than your child hurting you? I think not.
I mean, I love my baby. L-O-V-E her. None of you other mothers can possibly understand. You certainly do not love your child/children as much. That is why your children do not worship the ground you walk on. See, I exist to make her happy. I worry about her well being, take care of her, and think about her morning, noon, and night. I wash her clothes and buy her new ones when she outgrows the old ones. I make sure she is well fed and buy her the special snacks and treats that she likes most. I wake up every-single-night to cover her back up and calm her when she’s had a bad dream. I buy Valentines and help her write her name. I plan birthdays a year in advance and Christmas, too! I kiss all of her boo-boos and make everything better. If she says jump, I often find myself jumping. I’m trying to think of something I have not or would not do for her. It’s a give and take relationship. I give and she takes. So obviously she will love me because I am the best mother in the world and she will feel compelled to love me deeply for the rest of her life, right?
What’s that?
What did I hear all of you other mothers collectively say?
Wait…did I hear you correctly?
You mean…we all do this?
You mean…it’s not your fault that your child snubs you and turns his or her nose at your love and affection?
You mean…this is universally what it means to be a mother?
I am truly shocked!
Tongue-in-cheek aside I walked about this week like I’d been kicked in the heart, while my little one kept finding new ways to kick me harder. By Wednesday night, after putting her to bed early for the fifth night in a row because of her behavior, I had to excuse myself and go hide in my bedroom. In there, I fell on the ground moaning and crying so hard and loud that, at one point, I wondered whose voice I was hearing. I imagined Mason running to hide. I imagined myself running and hiding. I imagined Clare smiling in her bed enjoying the whole scene.
“JESUS!” I cried out, “Please, help me.”
It is my experience that Jesus kind of does and kind of doesn’t help in these situations. It depends on my definition of help. I want the cool, sparkly, fairy-wand help. I want a fairy godmother to come and make everything bloom and give me a beautiful dress to wear and send me to the ball with a catchy song. I want some giant hand to come and pat my back and wipe my tears and tell me it’ll all be ok. I don’t want to be the mommy for a minute. I need my God, my heavenly father, to help me. I want my baby to need me. I want my baby to love me. I want this week to be over. None of these happen while I’m crying. So, I cry louder and longer.
Jesus isn’t Disney.
He’s a listener and a whisperer.
After awhile I collected myself, went back into her bedroom, turned on her light, and gently asked her to sit next to me. I pulled her tiny little body as close to my tired and hurting heart as I could. With all of the love I am capable of, I told her that I didn’t care if she loved me or not, that I loved her and I always would love her no matter what. I promised her that she could never do anything to make me not love her. Even as I said those words, I knew she would make me prove them over and over in our life together. I guess she needed to know that because all of the ugly stopped and she was my baby again. I mean it came to a complete stop.
Thank you for that little call to action, Jesus. You whispered just the right words and gave me just the right answer even if there weren’t any magical sparkles, a dress, a ball and a catchy song to go with it. Thanks for being plain old Jesus for me.
Jeremiah 33:3
Call to me and I will answer you and tell you great and unsearchable things you do not know.
I mean, I love my baby. L-O-V-E her. None of you other mothers can possibly understand. You certainly do not love your child/children as much. That is why your children do not worship the ground you walk on. See, I exist to make her happy. I worry about her well being, take care of her, and think about her morning, noon, and night. I wash her clothes and buy her new ones when she outgrows the old ones. I make sure she is well fed and buy her the special snacks and treats that she likes most. I wake up every-single-night to cover her back up and calm her when she’s had a bad dream. I buy Valentines and help her write her name. I plan birthdays a year in advance and Christmas, too! I kiss all of her boo-boos and make everything better. If she says jump, I often find myself jumping. I’m trying to think of something I have not or would not do for her. It’s a give and take relationship. I give and she takes. So obviously she will love me because I am the best mother in the world and she will feel compelled to love me deeply for the rest of her life, right?
What’s that?
What did I hear all of you other mothers collectively say?
Wait…did I hear you correctly?
You mean…we all do this?
You mean…it’s not your fault that your child snubs you and turns his or her nose at your love and affection?
You mean…this is universally what it means to be a mother?
I am truly shocked!
Tongue-in-cheek aside I walked about this week like I’d been kicked in the heart, while my little one kept finding new ways to kick me harder. By Wednesday night, after putting her to bed early for the fifth night in a row because of her behavior, I had to excuse myself and go hide in my bedroom. In there, I fell on the ground moaning and crying so hard and loud that, at one point, I wondered whose voice I was hearing. I imagined Mason running to hide. I imagined myself running and hiding. I imagined Clare smiling in her bed enjoying the whole scene.
“JESUS!” I cried out, “Please, help me.”
It is my experience that Jesus kind of does and kind of doesn’t help in these situations. It depends on my definition of help. I want the cool, sparkly, fairy-wand help. I want a fairy godmother to come and make everything bloom and give me a beautiful dress to wear and send me to the ball with a catchy song. I want some giant hand to come and pat my back and wipe my tears and tell me it’ll all be ok. I don’t want to be the mommy for a minute. I need my God, my heavenly father, to help me. I want my baby to need me. I want my baby to love me. I want this week to be over. None of these happen while I’m crying. So, I cry louder and longer.
Jesus isn’t Disney.
He’s a listener and a whisperer.
After awhile I collected myself, went back into her bedroom, turned on her light, and gently asked her to sit next to me. I pulled her tiny little body as close to my tired and hurting heart as I could. With all of the love I am capable of, I told her that I didn’t care if she loved me or not, that I loved her and I always would love her no matter what. I promised her that she could never do anything to make me not love her. Even as I said those words, I knew she would make me prove them over and over in our life together. I guess she needed to know that because all of the ugly stopped and she was my baby again. I mean it came to a complete stop.
Thank you for that little call to action, Jesus. You whispered just the right words and gave me just the right answer even if there weren’t any magical sparkles, a dress, a ball and a catchy song to go with it. Thanks for being plain old Jesus for me.
Jeremiah 33:3
Call to me and I will answer you and tell you great and unsearchable things you do not know.
Ugh Pugs
Clare has been wanting a puppy for the last year. Our dog, Molly, really isn't a great dog. She's kind of like a stuffed animal that eats and has to go to the bathroom. It's not that she's not wonderful, she's just not the right fit for our family. But if you adopt a dog and give her a second chance, you're committed for the long haul, right? Even if she hides 231/2 hours a day under the sink and shivers in fear each time you walk in the room. Anyway, poor Clare needs a four legged friend to love her back, when she's trying to hard to be lovable. So, puppy has been on the tip of her tongue for most of her life now. Recently she's been very specific with her request, requesting not just any puppy but a Pug (my word they are cute). Mason and I have researched the breed, looked at the logistics of bringing another life into the house, and decided this is a reasonable dog for her to set her sites on. (I should note here that we never 'priced one out'). Since I do not want to bring another thing into the house that is my responsibility, I've told her that she must make sure to help take care of Molly every day in order for Santa to seriously look at getting her a pug puppy for Christmas next year. Her new job each day is to feed Molly, which is going very well. I am now counting on the fact that she'll get bored with it. After listening to her tell yet another person that Santa is bringing her a Pug for Christmas, and this person responding with how she has had Pugs all of her life and they're so wonderful....lalalalala...squeal...lalalala...yay....I decided to look for breeders in Alabama. Whew, we have a few thank goodness. At that moment, I also decided to price them out; you know with the whole five year old birthday Disney World trip and all in October, I might want to go ahead and put a little money aside for the precious little bundle of Christmas present. HOLY CRAP! Rarely, and I mean R-A-R-E-L-Y, does the price of something take my breath away. This took my breath away, literally. I was thinking a couple of hundred dollars, maybe five hundred at the max, but no! In order to get Clare a puppy from a reputable breeder and not a puppy farm it's going to cost us around two thousand dollars all told. I felt a little sick to my stomach. I still feel a little sick to my stomach. Like I said, I'm kind of hoping the feeding the dog thing peters out because I need a reason to get her an off brand puppy...you know the cute ones at the pound that cost $75 dollars. Bet you that I won't be reminding her every day to feed Molly. I might actually start feeding Molly before she wakes up just to stunt her little Christmas dream, "I'm sorry Clare, Molly doesn't eat any more either." If that doesn't work, I'm starting the Christmas fund. Don't be surprised when you see me standing at the end of the interstate exit with a jar and a sign that doesn't ask for food, but shows a graph of how much I have left to collect. Oh and all of you Pug owners out there, if you see a four year old little girl coming and asking you questions about Pugs please tell her they're mean little bitey things and that she needs a mutt instead. Thank you in advance!
The Rain
All night the sound had
come back again,
and again falls
this quiet, persistent rain.
What am I to myself
that must be remembered,
insisted upon
so often? Is it
that never the ease,
even the hardness,
of rain falling
will have for me
something other than this,
something not so insistent—
am I to be locked in this
final uneasiness.
Love, if you love me,
lie next to me.
Be for me, like rain,
the getting out
of the tiredness, the fatuousness, the semi-
lust of intentional indifference.
Be wet
with a decent happiness.
--Robert Creeley
All night the sound had
come back again,
and again falls
this quiet, persistent rain.
What am I to myself
that must be remembered,
insisted upon
so often? Is it
that never the ease,
even the hardness,
of rain falling
will have for me
something other than this,
something not so insistent—
am I to be locked in this
final uneasiness.
Love, if you love me,
lie next to me.
Be for me, like rain,
the getting out
of the tiredness, the fatuousness, the semi-
lust of intentional indifference.
Be wet
with a decent happiness.
--Robert Creeley
Apalachicola
There are places that I visit that make me wish I could write with more skill about the world I experience. Apalachicola is one of those places. I came down here with my family and friends to run a scenic half marathon, but the run ended up being secondary to the natural gifts of beauty I've been granted. I don't have enough descriptive words for the sun setting over the marshy rivers below my balcony, and a full moon revealing itself as the day collapsed into the water. I want to describe the moment where the night turned into day as I ran across a bridge over a bay this morning. I want to explain how the passion of the sea and sky combined with an inner gratitude to my Creator for being able to run into, then out of, that moment. How I was overwhelmed and brought to tears that I haven't cried before. I want to describe the inner courtyard garden, where I write these words, to somehow invite everyone into the mystery of three hundred years of architecture and trees protected from angry storms. The same garden my daughter and I call secret and play in and would play in forever if allowed. There are so many other places and things that I have seen. I don't have enough words. Or, maybe I don't have enough time because I'm ready to see more before it's all over.
Autumn
Him: Do you want an apple?
Her: No.
Him: Are you sure?
Her: No. Why are you always trying to feed me? I'm not hungry.
Him: Do you want it?
Her: No, I do not want an apple.
Him: Will you marry me?
Her: No.
Him: Yes you will.
Her: No I won't. I really won't.
Him: You will.
Her: It's not really my thing, you know?
Him: Do you want an apple?
Her: No.
Him: Are you sure?
Her: Yes, I'm sure.
Him: I love you.
Her: Actually, I would like an apple.
Him: Yes you will.
Her: <bites into the apple>
Her: No.
Him: Are you sure?
Her: No. Why are you always trying to feed me? I'm not hungry.
Him: Do you want it?
Her: No, I do not want an apple.
Him: Will you marry me?
Her: No.
Him: Yes you will.
Her: No I won't. I really won't.
Him: You will.
Her: It's not really my thing, you know?
Him: Do you want an apple?
Her: No.
Him: Are you sure?
Her: Yes, I'm sure.
Him: I love you.
Her: Actually, I would like an apple.
Him: Yes you will.
Her: <bites into the apple>
What Now?
I sit in the dark of the morning and wonder silently through all of the 'whats' that are 'now'. My mind twists over options, realities, imaginary ideas of what life will be like if this or that, and I grow confused and frustrated, and lash out at the ones I love. I cry out to God in anger and frustration, or in my heartbreak, because I know the only thing that will relieve me is going back to Him and peacefully settling into prayer and the Word. In my prayers, I have never heard a no or a yes about anything; I have only ever received a gentle reminder that God knows all, and as his child, I am promised that he loves me more than I can ever imagine. His answers to me are always simple in that I all must do is what He asks me to do to become more like Christ. I hear him whisper to me words of comfort and patience. I never feel condemned by Him even though I should feel like the trash I am always afraid that I am to others. But not God, His mercy and grace flow freely, and I am the undeserving recipient. I weep loudly because it isn't easy to wait. I weep loudly because it isn't easy to endure heart ache or heart break. I weep like a child who doesn't get her way and I lash out at the ones I love some more because I do not know how to handle everything. I do not go back into the Word. I quit praying. I turn around and stick my fingers in my ears and close my eyes and continue to walk blindly down dangerous roads with my patient creator at my side letting me trip and fall at my own insistence, but never alone. All the while, He tenderly whispers of His love and continues to be right beside me. Again, like a child, I get scared and come back and He is there waiting with unending patience for the day when I come to understand that it truly is His will and not mine that will bring me peace.
I do not know what today will bring and I never will. I know this fact irritates me because I wish to be in control. I do not know how all of the sticks that I have dumped on the ground will become a safe and sturdy bridge. I do not know how to get to the other side of the rivers I meet in my life. What I do know is that there are rivers and bridges and other sides. I know that if God means for me to cross it, I will and there will be no end to the blessings and peace that go with me and to those that I encounter along the way. I know that if I try to control the process without Him, then my bridges will be unsafe, my passing treacherous, and hurt will follow me.
So, I pray for safe passage, lean on the Word of God to mold me into the person that I know God wants me to be, and hope that one day everything will be revealed to me when I am the right person to enjoy, honor, and appreciate the gifts that lay ahead of me.
Always
I do not know what today will bring and I never will. I know this fact irritates me because I wish to be in control. I do not know how all of the sticks that I have dumped on the ground will become a safe and sturdy bridge. I do not know how to get to the other side of the rivers I meet in my life. What I do know is that there are rivers and bridges and other sides. I know that if God means for me to cross it, I will and there will be no end to the blessings and peace that go with me and to those that I encounter along the way. I know that if I try to control the process without Him, then my bridges will be unsafe, my passing treacherous, and hurt will follow me.
So, I pray for safe passage, lean on the Word of God to mold me into the person that I know God wants me to be, and hope that one day everything will be revealed to me when I am the right person to enjoy, honor, and appreciate the gifts that lay ahead of me.
Always
The Peace of Wild Things
When despair grows in me
and I wake in the middle of the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water,
and the great heron feeds. I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
and I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and I am free.
--Wendell Berry
October 2 at 10:58 a.m.
I never thought I would be the mother that repeated the original birthday story year-after-year to my husband and child, but yesterday was Clare's fourth birthday and that is precisely what I did all day Friday and Saturday morning. The point wasn't to be nostalgic. I think the truth is I am surprise at how vividly I remember everything leading up to the beginning of my little one's life. I remember that the night before she was born was a Sunday night and we ate take out chinese food, Pings, for dinner. I had hot and sour soup and crab angles. The day had been cool outside and the wind was blowing all day with the most beautiful blue autumn sky. I remember that, earlier in the day, we had purchased a huge maroon mum to put on the front porch so that when we got home from the hospital Clare would come home to fresh flowers (my not-so-secret little indulgence in life). I remember how meticulously I walked through her nursery to make sure everything was in its place, not knowing if I was bringing home a little boy named David or a little girl named Clare. How I straightened the sheets, checked the monitor, laid out necessaries and somehow believed I was prepared for what was about to happen to me. I remember packing my hospital bag and choosing the shirt and pants I would wear home and the robe and pajamas that I thought I would wear in the hospital. I remember the uneventful little onesie I picked out for her to wear home, not knowing how little she would be and unable to wear even the smallest article of clothing that I had purchased. I remember wanting to go to bed as soon as possible so that it would be morning faster. I remember calling my mother in the darkness of the morning and telling her I loved her and hearing the tears in her voice because she might not make it to the hospital in time to give me a kiss and tell me she loved me by saying, "I'm not going to be able to give my baby a kiss before she has her baby." I remember the morning at the hospital and the excited anticipation I felt at meeting my new little one. How Mason and I laughed and laughed and smiled and couldn't wait to get our suite, and how scared I was because I knew giving birth would be hard, but how much more scared I was for my baby because he or she should would be alone for a little while and unaware of what was going on. At least I had people around me and I knew what was about to happen, she didn't. I remember the terror I felt when the heart rate monitor stopped registering her heart beat and the quick response of the birthing team around me to remind her that she was almost here and to hang on. I remember her safe arrival at 10:58 in the morning and how I had to ask if I had a boy or a girl because no one thought to tell me when it all happened so quickly. I remember almost every detail, not because I mean to, but because those moments are now a part of my blood and bones...she is as much a part of me as I am of her. Anyway, so I remember, and I tell her because she lights up with joy when I tell her the story of her first birthday. I skip a few details, but I get the major ones and she giggles and makes me repeat how daddy told everyone in the waiting room and how we wouldn't let her go into the nursery and kept her in the room with us. She thinks it's so very funny that we woke her up all night that first night because she was so quiet and we just wanted to make sure she was alive; How we would listen to her little sleeping breaths and squeaks and think we would never forget them. One day a year I get to relive the best day of my life and celebrate her!
Of course, the fourth birthday was perfect. She woke up a "big girl" and never stopped until she went to sleep. We got lots of pictures. She got lots of presents. Everyone came to be a part. We were all exhausted when it was over and went to bed happy. Sounds just like a Birth day.
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