Levis 515 boot cut..... my love/hate relationship

I started a weight loss journey two years ago.  My goal at the end --- a pair of really cool jeans.

I have Mom jeans. Have always had Mom jeans. I'm a small town non-girly girl who hasn't strayed much in hair styles or jean styles during my Mom years.

Give me a pair of faded Levis 515 boot cut jeans, and I can make them last forever. Literally, until the knees fall out.

Two years ago when I began my weight loss journey I had several pairs of Levis 515 in varying sizes. Thankfully I shrunk down to all but the smallest size and donated the others to Goodwill.  Ahhhh... those jeans were like an old friend.  I can't imagine how long I've had them.  It's certainly was a few years between when I bought them, to when I grew out of them, to when I grew back into them to today.

Today. slowly gaining weight back. Comfy. Comfy in my Levis 515. Comfy in life.

This is not the ending to my "audacious" living for 2014 I had planned.  Break barriers, try new things, finish my weight loss goal, be better with my family, find "our people".

Instead life takes over, I grow into my comfy jeans. I become comfy.

And, then one day - I bend my knee and my jeans pop out, a small hole, and then it grows and suddenly it isn't so small.  And, then the same with the other knee.

It's a reminder to me -- YOU WANT MORE. You don't want these comfy jeans, comfy life.  Make comfy uncomfortable. Strive for more.  Be more. Do more. Don't settle.

How will I respond?

It's been a year

There's usually more to the story.  It's been a year.....


     since I stopped smoking.

  or

     since I've given up Coke.

or

    since so & so died.



For me, today it's a complete sentence.  It's been a year.  With added adjectives, I might say:

It's been an incredibly difficult, exhausting, emotionally-draining,

terribly unfulfilling, and mentally exhausting year.

I could say that - and in my mind (today) it has been.  But, when I think about all those who have life so hard compared to me, that seems cruel to even write.  Get a hold of yourself woman!  You live in luxury in a 2,800 square foot house in middle America with monthly disposable income many families would love to see in a year. Seriously.

The truth is:

It's been a year.  It's not been my best and I'm certain it won't be my worst, 

but it's had more challenges that I'd hoped for.

Why the nostalgic attitude today about this seemingly unimportant day - July 21, 2014?  Well, one year ago on during my annual OB-GYN visit, I tipped the scales at 50 pounds lost.  It was a HUGE accomplishment. In my adult life - outside of my wedding day and the birth of my boys -- I don't think I've ever felt that proud of myself.  I did something I really didn't think I had the willpower to do.  It was all in my mind.  It wasn't even that difficult (gasp?).  Sure there were moments of "you want me to eat ONLY 1,154 calories for how long?" - but when I got into the swing of it, my numbers-driven, challenge-accepted self LOVED nearly every minute of it.  Especially my 1/4 cup of B&J's Karmel Sutra every night.  

I loved the skinn(ier) me.  I loved the more active me.  I loved looking good in clothes and feeling confident. I loved the process.  I loved the end result (which really wasn't the end - and thus that's where the problem 

I lived like it was "the end result".  The sense of let down came, Zach broke his leg and began an unhealthy obsession with food and I couldn't let food be the main source of discussion in our home.  I couldn't keep my focus off food while I was, on his behalf, focused on it.  It was a hard fall in fall. Winter was even harder. And, during all of it my work hours kept increasing and my ability to multi-task beyond work, keeping the three boys in my life mildly in focus - my life just spun out of control.  And, so did my eating.  

I know - even in my belly-fat-weakened-core -- I can't maintain the weight I want to maintain without logging into My Fitness Pal. But, when you barely have enough time to shower every other day - shopping, prepping, preparing and logging the food is really not at the forefront of your mind. Surviving is. Sleeping is.

It's been a year.  So, today there were many reasons (besides the obvious) why the drive to their office had me anxious.

The weigh-in was better than I expected.... but the shame was worse. 

Nearly 30 days ago I gave myself 30 days to get my act together and buckle down - there have been good days, and bad days.  I've spent time analyzing in my mind what worked well before.  There's been cleaning out the pantries and remembering "you can do this".  There's been long bike rides for exercise and trips to the gym to remember the elliptical.  I know I can do this.  I know I have the will power.  

  

I wonder what will I make of the next year.  

It's on.

I have issues

Oh, I have issues.  So many issues.  But, my #1 issue is: intimacy.

Today during a well-deserved lunch time at the park for me (well, me and God; okay, me, God and Attachments -- by Rainbow Rowell - a book that has taken me far too long to finish), I came face to face with that issue.

In the middle of the park was a young father walking his son to and from the park bathroom from the playground area -- a good 40 yards in each direction The father was holding his young son's hand the entire journey to and from.  The young boy was probably five or six - certainly old enough to have made the journey side by side, without holding hands. The area was safe with no dangers between here and there. But, the father held his hand the entire time, and clearly his son was delighting in the moment of intimacy with his Dad.

Well, I lost it. Tears full of childhood regrets.  Rewind my memory. Search. Scan. Search. Scan.  Do I have any mental picture of my parents holding my hand to lead me on a journey?  I do not.  Did they and I just don't remember?  I don't know -- but a large part of me doubts it happened because that intimacy was lost by the time my memory kicks in.

My parents were 18 when they had me and in quick succession they had two others - three kids by the time they each became adults at 21.  Even in the 60's I imagine such a family plans was a rarity.  Perhaps people looked at our family and said "Wow, those poor kids with parents that young."

Truth is, we were well taken care of. We had two sets of grandparents who lived in town and who stepped in to help and were true grandparents, loving and spoiling us unconditionally, playing with us, and sharing special moments with us. My Mom didn't work; my Dad had a factory job from the day after graduation (and stayed for 42 years - same job, same department). We weren't dirty, hungry, deprived. They had their own home and we created happy memories (from the pictures I see - my mind remembers relatively little) until I was 8 and life changed on frightful Halloween night.

Years later our marriage counselor would tell me I, as the first born, became an adult that Halloween when our parents told us of the impending divorce and my Dad moved out, and Grandpa came over to make us pancakes before trick-or-treating. We had no clue what had hit us except a lot of crying and our father walking out the door with a suitcase and his rarely used overnight travel kit.

Immediately - instinctively - I knew I had to care for the babies in the family.

Perhaps from that point on I appeared to not need any intimacy - anyone to take my hand and lead me along life's journey.... but I did.  Perhaps my parents didn't have anyone in their childhood holding their hand and leading them, modeling for them how to parent their own children.  Perhaps they had their own growing up to do a midst the crisis of turning 26 with three kids and a crumbling marriage.  Certainly my parents didn't have the wisdom that comes with maturity or gained from watching others succeed or fail as parents.

Marriage is a hard journey, only made better with true intimacy.  It's a work in progress.  Dog gone it I hate to say it is a work in progress after 20+ years.  Unfortunately, my husband has his own intimacy issues for completely different reasons. We continue to journey together slowly and surely (might I add: audaciously), settled it is the best way, but uncomfortable with the rocky path.

But, when it comes to our kids - we've done much better, I believe. I hope they'll remember the intimate moments we've created over the years. The hand holding during church or on long car rides; the cuddling late at night to watch tv or early on a lazy Saturday or under the starry Friday night skies; the footsies under the table during meals; or, the "why" he can feel comfortable still calling me "Mommy" at 18. On my death bed, may my hands not feel like a stranger's hand. May it still be ever so natural to hold hands, cuddle, kiss my forehead and call me "Mommy".  Lord, please let it be.

They'll have issues -- oh they will -- but I hope intimacy isn't one of them.

Draft Day

My 18 year old is mesmerized by football.  Has been since he was 8 or 9.  Seriously, this kid could wow you with the stats he knows.  Want to know who played in any Super Bowl (and where and who won)? Ask him.  He knows.  Also, if you give him enough time, he'll probably be able to tell you the MVP and talk strategy of that game to identify exactly why the other team lost.  [Yes, I know there is this handy thing called "google" these days, but it's so much more fun to see a human do it!]

Therefore, draft day in our house is a national holiday.  We celebrate with it playing on all tvs (sans Mom's office) - and we have football food.  Homework.... ha ha... not on draft day.  We were one of the handful of families that saw the movie DRAFT DAY, and really, really liked it.

This year I've also been following "draft day" (match day) for med school students.  An arduous task where you apply to all the schools you want (in preference order) and then you find out if your top school wants you; ie, did you make a match?

These events have me thinking about a new kind of draft day.

National Draft Day for Friendships.

So, here's the plan.  Everyone, follow along.  Between now and say 5/31/2014 you be thinking of your top 6 friends.  Now, since I'm focusing on "our friends" this year, and I'm setting the rules for this new draft [well, that and my Type A personality which requires that I remain in charge... geez -- this could say a lot about why I NEED a draft day, but I digress], I'm going to base my drafts on "our friends". Who do you and yours want to invest in this year? Who will you call when the basement has flooded?  Or, the cows don't come home at night?  Or, your chickens don't hatch eggs?  [I want a homestead, but again, I'm seriously digressing here.]  Now, certainly you'll have other friends individually or even collectively -- but who are the top 6 family friends that you'll invest in this year (near or far - distance isn't the determining factor). Those are your drafts. For the sake of ease -- you can drop out family.  You'll hang with them --- or not, whichever the case - but they'll be family.  Which friends will you stick closer to than a brother (sister)?

So, here's the deal.  Out of the hundreds (or thousands) or people you know or "friend" on Facebook -- who will you chose? You can only chose 6 and chose carefully because they have to chose you, too.

I mean, it has to be a match, right?  Every drafted NFL player has to say "I'll be happy to play football in the great city of Cleveland, Ohio and bring a championship back to the city" [cough, cough - and a little laugh too].  Or, each matched med student has to say "YES! That's where I want to study".

I need a draft day for friendships.  I want to know the six I chose to invest in as "our people" are really "our people".  Are we a match?  Have we agreed to try to be a match for a season? [Unless you trade us in on a third string quarterback and a second round pick in next year's draft -- or we flunk your first two exams and you kick us out of the school, in which case I'll probably hunt you down and throw cow dung on your house and rotten eggs on your car --- seriously I need some ADD meds today.]

Every draft day is filled with drama and anxiety.  It'll be the same with National Draft Day for Friendships. I'll put down six names and only two or three of those will put my name down [right? certainly we'd match with two or three -- geez, now I'm freaking myself out.]  But, on the other hand, perhaps two or three people will put us down that we didn't list.  Perhaps they've been on the fringes and we just hadn't thought of putting them in our first round.  So, yes, we'll have to do a second round.  Okay - we've all showed our hands, now - trade out your first round picks who didn't pick you and decide who is your second round choices. It'll be a tightrope walk: "of course we REALLY want you, we just didn't know you really wanted us? Please join our team!" Lots of those conversations -- see not that much different than an NFL draft - except without the millions of dollars we have to pay out to our draftees.

Alas, I'm probably a bit too organized, methodical, analytical and practical (insert: TYPE A - or "weird") for the way we earthlings gain and lose friends.  I don't want to slowly make these realizations of who my/our matches are -- I want the quick, pull the band-aid off the wound, or slap me across the face and tell me "hey, let's be friends - you've forgotten about us."

National Draft Day for Friendships.

I like it. I doubt it'll take off, but I'm doing all the detailed analysis work, looking at who my choices for first round would be.  Thinking about whether I'd be theirs.  And, I'm digging deep, searching wide for those second rounders I might have overlooked as "our people".

You can say I'm kooky.... but, you'd also have to say it's a pretty AUDACIOUS idea!

God's Not Dead

God's Not Dead. I believe.

Others glowed at how wonderful the movie was.  But, I was haunted by it; not able to quite put my finger on the source of my heart's nagging.

Until now.

What about the 79 who wrote "GOD IS DEAD"?

Likely 50 of those kids attended church regularly at some time in their life.  They should have believed, and likely believed for many years, that God wasn't dead.  They heard and believed the Easter story.  But, one step away from the comforts of home and confronted with a professor giving them an easy out, they quick to sell their souls for so little.  With one swift pen stroke on a scrap piece of paper, they betrayed the name of Jesus.

What's even more shocking is 15-20 of those college student probably had a deeply-involved faith.  One that included youth groups, mission trips, discipleship groups, parents who taught the word of God and instructed and encouraged based on God's precepts.  These are kids who had it all: a good church, a meaningful relationship, meaningful experiences, and parental and mentor support: a Bible-belt, middle class life with good, Christian parents.  But, still they walked away.

Most cheer for the one who didn't walk away; who stood proud and bold. A modern-day Bibleman come to save the day, and those around him who would listen.

I mourn for the others who right then betrayed the One they'd song about since infancy. The One whom they prayed to eloquently at dinnertime as a child. The One to whom they joyfully pledged "I believe that Jesus is the Christ" during baptism. The One to whom they prayed as they grew into adolescence - their comfort in midst of the storm of youth. The One who inspired the holy word of God they memorized for stickers.

I'm the mother of a millennial kid about to graduate high school.  He's fluffing his independence feathers and showing signs he won't be one of the ones standing strong in the face of challenge.  I see his face in the face of those who wrote "God's dead".  While I try to live an audacious life, his attempts at gaining independence are pulling him further away; he's making choices not based on his relationship with the One, but based on what he wants today.

New International Version (NIV)

The Parable of the Lost Sheep

LUKE 15 Now the tax collectors and sinners were all gathering around to hear Jesus. 2 But the Pharisees and the teachers of the law muttered, “This man welcomes sinners and eats with them.”

3 Then Jesus told them this parable: 4 “Suppose one of you has a hundred sheep and loses one of them. Doesn’t he leave the ninety-nine in the open country and go after the lost sheep until he finds it? 5 And when he finds it, he joyfully puts it on his shoulders 6 and goes home. Then he calls his friends and neighbors together and says, ‘Rejoice with me; I have found my lost sheep.’ 7 I tell you that in the same way there will be more rejoicing in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous persons who do not need to repent.

I can't wallow and wonder "what did I do wrong?" I want to.  I failed after all.  But, I can't. I won't. Sadly I'm falsely comforted in knowing this is not just happening in my house, it's happening in many.  How has our society gone from one lost sheep to 79 out of 80 lost?

Surely Jesus mourns with me for the 79 lost.

CROWD

I have no idea how to blog.  But, I've read many times we should write for 5-10 minutes every day.  Writing about things that matter help us see them differently, internalize them, and for me, seek His answers.  

So, last night my twitter feed I call "God bloggers" was abuzz with #fmfparty. It seems the leader of their "crowd" has a Five Minute Friday hook-up.  I know that a hook-up is a link on one blog to a lot of others about the same topic. I'm not linking it, but I thought it would be a good exercise.  5 minutes, one unplanned topic.  Kinda like ISTEP for this Mom!

Ready. Set. 10:51 a.m. Go.



Don't Follow The Crowd


Probably every lent season I'm impressed by something different - depending on what is going on in my heart at the time.  As a highly-sensitive person, I love the Palm Sunday triumphant entry story, and hate the Crucifixion. Easter season is difficult for me, it brings up too many emotions that I often try to avoid.  This season I'm thinking about the crowd, and how I react in crowds.

Luke 19:37: As he was now drawing near, at the descent of the Mount of Oives, the whole multitude of the disciples began to rejoice and praise God with a loud voice for all the mighty works that they had seen."

The crowd was welcoming Him.  No doubt there were those in the crowd caught up in the moment, welcoming Him but not really understanding who He was.

Only days later in Luke 23 we see that Jesus had been delivered to Pilate and was about to be set free for he could find no wrong in him.  But, when he called together the chief priests and the rulers and the people, they said "not so quickly".  "Away with this man."

The crowd turned quickly.  No doubt there were many in this crowd that only days earlier praised Him as THE KING.  Now, they turned their back on Him.

I can't help but remember Jesus' words in Mark 8:29 "But, who do you say I am?"

Really, in the end - the actual end - the only thing that will matter is what you believe. The crowd will be gone, and you'll stand before your Heavenly Father, Your Maker and you'll answer to Him.  "Who do you say I am".... 

You are God alone, who sent His only begotten Son to die for me, and because I believe in you, you provide your Holy Spirit as my gift.

Don't follow the crowd.... follow Him.



DONE: 10:59 (OOPS - two phone calls in between).  

Slap in the Face

Today a Chicago friend posted this story on her Facebook page:

I was touched by a homeless man asking for help because he was hungry. I was in a hurry and walked on. On my way out of my meeting, I stopped by a store and bought him lunch. (I never carry cash). When he approached me to ask again for help, I handed him the bag. He promptly screeched at me that he didn't want it and yelled that he wanted money so he could go to McDonald's.

The Facebook thread immediately went to "tool" "he wanted booze" "beggars can't be choosy".  Today that's not where my mind went, but it has many times before.

I was raised in a very small community in the 1960's - 1970's.  There were no black families in our town.  There were middle-class white people. Only. There were a few "rich" people that lived on the other side of town, in the "big" houses.  But, in reality we were all very middle class. And, all white. It's embarrassing to say even today. Our community wasn't culturally diverse, and my parents weren't either.  My parents were both born and raised in that same town, and never traveled further than 200 miles away before they were married just out of high school.  My parents didn't raise me to see others as equals; they didn't talk about "others".  They weren't prejudice; they just didn't know much about the "others". They knew about small-town middle-class white people.  

When I moved to Indianapolis I saw a little more of the melting pot.  But in all honesty, diversity frightened me.  I just wasn't certain what to expect.

On my first trip to Puerto Vallarta Mexico with Keith, we took the wrong bus, the wrong way and had to get out at the end of the line.  For 30 minutes as we waited for the next bus to come I mumbled under my breath about the "others" staring at us from shacks. I could hear them speaking in a language I didn't understand - obviously plotting to attack us and take what was ours for themselves. Well, that didn't happen -- and who knows what they said.  I didn't think I was prejudice; I was mostly just scared of what I didn't know or understand.


You see, in reality we are all the same --- me and the "others".  We were all created equally by a loving God.  We all want better for our kids than we had, a roof over our head and food for our bellies, we all want - to a degree - to be a little happier tomorrow than we were today.  We all want to afford a better education for our children than we had.  We all want to be known and loved. We come from different socio-economic backgrounds, and cultures, and speak a different language.  But, we really aren't that different.

And, like the homeless man in Chicago today, we all slap God when He gives us His good and perfect gifts. 

I have a beautiful house with plenty of rooms, but I often dream of a bigger, newer house (without ants).  I have a closet full of clothes, but I often dream of nicer, more stylish clothes.  My kids have so many electronic gadgets it makes me sick - but when the newest version comes out, they want it (well, to be honest - this one is about me sometimes, too).  I have food overflowing in two pantries, two fridges and a freezer, but I want a package of Oreos and a glass of milk to comfort me after a long day. I have His grace abounding in my heart, and yet I don't want to share it with others.

Many scoffed at the homeless man because he wouldn't accept the blessing given to him today. Yet, am I so different?  

Before I point out "beggars can't be choosy", I hope I remember how many fingers are pointing back at me. I am a beggar. And, He gives mercy, grace, love, and so many blessings; yet, I'm not a gracious receiver. I ask for different. I ask for more. I ask for a different color.  I ask for it sooner. Or later. I ask for a McDonald's lunch instead of a grocery story lunch every day, several times a day.  As the song says "ain't that a slap in the face".

Through it all. Despite my failings. Despite my scoffs, He loves me. Shouldn't I do the same for all those around me, even "the others"? Maybe especially "the others".  

I love because He first loved me.