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?
Wednesday, September 10, 2014
Monday, July 21, 2014
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:
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.
Monday, June 23, 2014
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.
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.
Wednesday, May 14, 2014
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!
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!
Tuesday, May 6, 2014
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.
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.
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.
Friday, March 14, 2014
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).
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).
Tuesday, March 11, 2014
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.
Monday, March 10, 2014
He's constant
Yesterday I had a continuing text conversation with my friend Julie who is en route to Ft. Lauderdale.
I deplore text conversations.
Texts, I believe, are meant for quick updates. Not an all day, running conversation that causes me to look down at my phone each time it beeps so as to not ignore you. Pick up the phone and call me. But, it's her preferred mode of communication. Her comfort zone, so I acquiesced and had a running text conversation.
Today a friend told me, "you always answer your emails, how do you do that?"
I like to have a clean in-box; and if you take time to "write" me, I take time to write you back.
Emails, I believe, are for longer conversations - particularly good when you have to communicate the same information to a group of people -- or when you think of something while working at 2:00 a.m. and a phone call wouldn't be good right then. Or, for friends who live in the middle of an ocean!
Let me count.... 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7 ..... I'm losing count, but I have at least 7 email accounts I control. For myself, my clients, the community meals coordination -- everything gets it's own email account. And, if I have more than 10 in my "in-box" (that's opened but not dealt with yet) - I feel "behind". As if I've let you down. Anxiety sets in. I clear emails daily. Fear not terrible email replier -- I'm weird, not you. My highly-sensitive personality trait just requires I deal with matters so they don't stay locked in my brain. I know this and I've just learned to adapt by keeping a clean in-box.
Then there is social media. I'm missing a lot of information about "friends"/"followers" these days because I'm not keeping up on social media as in the past. I love Instagram, Twitter and Facebook, but I'm deciding to value "in real life" this year. I'm audaciously breaking the chains which have consumed my time and presented me with a false concept of who mattered.
Social media can be a great tool for good and communication, but it shouldn't be the only way folks know you.
Then, of course, there is via telephone, or Facetime, or Skype - in real life - conversation. Those are great. I'm driving to work, you are sitting working on a non-sensical project and we can chat about life for 20 minutes to pass the time and get caught up. Ahhhh.... I love those. Those put a smile on my face.
Telephone calls are now more intimate than ever -- we reserve those for the important people in our life, or the important matters.
But, my very most favorite is "in real life" - sitting eyeball to eyeball as my grandpa used to say.
Saturday night I had a scrumptuous Japanese dinner with two fabulous lady friends, followed by an Indie film (Hank & Asha - must see). Amidst our fried rice, fried veggies, scallops and filet mignon, and sandwiched between two other parties at our table for eight, we relaxed, and shared life. We chatted about movies we are looking forward to, books we are reading, career dreams, husbands who do funny things, and kids who frustrate us. We were together. None of us grabbed our smart phone and checked social media, or texts, or emails. We relaxed together. We stopped and took a moment to share life. In real life. Those moments are few and far between, but they warm my heart for days.
In real life is where it's at.
There are so many forms of communication -- so many different ways our family and friends say "care for me" "stay in contact with me" "be my people". I have to keep everyone's preferred form in the front of my mind because not everyone shares my "communication language".
For me, I'm beginning to understand, finally, those who matter most to me (and vice versa) are those who say "yes, let's take time, come together, eat, relax; I value it as much as you do."
That got me thinking about God's "communication language". Our methods of communication are changing. Are we forgetting how He communicates with us isn't changing? We only connect with Him through prayer, worship, meditation. He doesn't have the ability to text with us. He doesn't have one email account. He doesn't have a land-line or a cell phone to call us; never has, never will. I'd follow his Twitter, Facebook or (and especially) Instagram feed, but He doesn't have one.
Since the beginning of time, He's asked us to find Him. To seek for Him and He would be found. To meditate on His goodness. To use the tried and tested "in real life" methods of prayer, worship and meditation.
He's constant. He hasn't changed. If we sense He's not near, perhaps it's good to take a hard look at our communication language with God, and make certain we are using one that's working for Him. Drop the phone and connect "in real life" with the Maker of it all. You will find Him.
I deplore text conversations.
Texts, I believe, are meant for quick updates. Not an all day, running conversation that causes me to look down at my phone each time it beeps so as to not ignore you. Pick up the phone and call me. But, it's her preferred mode of communication. Her comfort zone, so I acquiesced and had a running text conversation.
Today a friend told me, "you always answer your emails, how do you do that?"
I like to have a clean in-box; and if you take time to "write" me, I take time to write you back.
Emails, I believe, are for longer conversations - particularly good when you have to communicate the same information to a group of people -- or when you think of something while working at 2:00 a.m. and a phone call wouldn't be good right then. Or, for friends who live in the middle of an ocean!
Let me count.... 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7 ..... I'm losing count, but I have at least 7 email accounts I control. For myself, my clients, the community meals coordination -- everything gets it's own email account. And, if I have more than 10 in my "in-box" (that's opened but not dealt with yet) - I feel "behind". As if I've let you down. Anxiety sets in. I clear emails daily. Fear not terrible email replier -- I'm weird, not you. My highly-sensitive personality trait just requires I deal with matters so they don't stay locked in my brain. I know this and I've just learned to adapt by keeping a clean in-box.
Then there is social media. I'm missing a lot of information about "friends"/"followers" these days because I'm not keeping up on social media as in the past. I love Instagram, Twitter and Facebook, but I'm deciding to value "in real life" this year. I'm audaciously breaking the chains which have consumed my time and presented me with a false concept of who mattered.
Social media can be a great tool for good and communication, but it shouldn't be the only way folks know you.
Then, of course, there is via telephone, or Facetime, or Skype - in real life - conversation. Those are great. I'm driving to work, you are sitting working on a non-sensical project and we can chat about life for 20 minutes to pass the time and get caught up. Ahhhh.... I love those. Those put a smile on my face.
Telephone calls are now more intimate than ever -- we reserve those for the important people in our life, or the important matters.
But, my very most favorite is "in real life" - sitting eyeball to eyeball as my grandpa used to say.
Saturday night I had a scrumptuous Japanese dinner with two fabulous lady friends, followed by an Indie film (Hank & Asha - must see). Amidst our fried rice, fried veggies, scallops and filet mignon, and sandwiched between two other parties at our table for eight, we relaxed, and shared life. We chatted about movies we are looking forward to, books we are reading, career dreams, husbands who do funny things, and kids who frustrate us. We were together. None of us grabbed our smart phone and checked social media, or texts, or emails. We relaxed together. We stopped and took a moment to share life. In real life. Those moments are few and far between, but they warm my heart for days.
In real life is where it's at.
There are so many forms of communication -- so many different ways our family and friends say "care for me" "stay in contact with me" "be my people". I have to keep everyone's preferred form in the front of my mind because not everyone shares my "communication language".
For me, I'm beginning to understand, finally, those who matter most to me (and vice versa) are those who say "yes, let's take time, come together, eat, relax; I value it as much as you do."
That got me thinking about God's "communication language". Our methods of communication are changing. Are we forgetting how He communicates with us isn't changing? We only connect with Him through prayer, worship, meditation. He doesn't have the ability to text with us. He doesn't have one email account. He doesn't have a land-line or a cell phone to call us; never has, never will. I'd follow his Twitter, Facebook or (and especially) Instagram feed, but He doesn't have one.
Since the beginning of time, He's asked us to find Him. To seek for Him and He would be found. To meditate on His goodness. To use the tried and tested "in real life" methods of prayer, worship and meditation.
He's constant. He hasn't changed. If we sense He's not near, perhaps it's good to take a hard look at our communication language with God, and make certain we are using one that's working for Him. Drop the phone and connect "in real life" with the Maker of it all. You will find Him.
- Jeremiah 29:13-14 “When you come looking for me, you’ll find me.“Yes, when you get serious about finding me and want it more than anything else, I’ll make sure you won’t be disappointed.” God’s Decree.
Saturday, March 8, 2014
And, they're off
Thursday night we did what friends of thirteen years do. We halted our plans, we helped pack, we drove their kids here and there, we bought pizza, we packed more, and we hosted the family in our home. On Friday we shared #thelastbreakfast, we helped packed some more while the boys played, loaded boxes to ship and loaded more boxes to take to the store. And, at 1:00 p.m. we hugged, said our "I love you"s and watched them walk down to Benjamin's as a family to say their final goodbyes. And, as we got in the car to drive away, I cried.
Keith didn't sleep well on Thursday night and decided to take Friday off to see them off and work on the bathroom. But, instead he jumped in and did whatever he could with the packing details. At the end of the night, as we sat watching their cat and our dog get acclimated Keith said "who would have helped us pack up? I really don't think they would have." IE, he's saying "who are OUR PEOPLE?"
The bottom line is, it doesn't matter if we were/are "their people" for a long season of our life they were "our people" and we needed to do what we did for them. It was honoring to our friendship... to the years. His comment helped me realize he is also seeking to know "our people".
Who knows who our local "our people" will be? Maybe we already know them and our friendship will deepen? Who will come to our aid when we need to move? Or when one of us is sick? Or when we just need friends. Maybe we'll go a long season without a family friendship this deep. We don't know. But, this I know, this about us...introverted people...
"..are ideally suited for friendship. They often have more empathy for others. They tend to want to meet anyone’s needs if they can, so it is natural for them to do that for a friend. HSPs are also less competitive--unless they are sure they will win. But even then they do not want those who lose to feel bad, so they would just as soon not turn everything into a match to see who’s best. Introverts like to have a few close friends, or perhaps even only one, a best friend. They like to have deep talks about the meaning of life or help each other through problems and crises. " (Elaine N. Aron, Ph.D., November 2008: Comfort Zone ONLINE)
We are friend-worthy. We are good friends to our friends. I know this in my heart of hearts. Some forge. Others take. We are forgers. Always. The forging work of friendships.... of showing love and investing... is painful, sometimes heart-breaking and often unreciprocated. But, we love because HE first loved us. And, we love because. Just because. Because that's what close friends do. That's the only way we know how to do it.
(Harrison enjoying his parting gifts in his room: Hilary Clinton mask, working stop light and couch/pillows.)
Wednesday, March 5, 2014
Next of Kin
When I moved to Indiana twenty-seven years ago (YIKES, I've been a HOOSIER for longer than I was a BUCKEYE), I had no family near. My "emergency contact" was my Dad who was 4.5 hours away in the days before cell phones. After I married I started listing Keith's Dad as my "next of kin" (emergency contact). We were, after all, "kin-in-laws" and he was newly retired with nothing but time on his hands. Physically he was closer than my Dad, so it made sense.
I remember vividly the conversation I had with Julie about listing her as "emergency contact" on Zach's school paperwork thirteen years ago. "So, I don't have any family around, and you don't have any family around and we are like sisters -- so will you be my official 'emergency contact' for the school? It shouldn't mean anything, but you know--just in case." "Of course". Done.
And, so it's been for thirteen years. I don't ask every year, it's just known - you are my (our) emergency contact. We are each others' family. We both have in-laws somewhat nearby, but still we are each others' "emergency contact"; there is no "in-law" at the end of our "sister" card. Whether the emergency is a kid with a broken leg at school, or a need for a Starbucks to vent, or a movie & popcorn to relax, or a triple chocolate meltdown to celebrate, we have been each others' emergency contact.
Today we had lunch with a dear friend and as Julie slipped away for a moment my friend asked if I was okay. "Yes. I'm okay. But, who will be my emergency contact?" Those words, spoken out loud, brought tears to my eyes (that I withheld when Julie returned). I have LOADS of fantastic girlfriends all across the country, a bestie on the north side of Indy, and a handful of really nice lady friends in Franklin. I know - I really know - I'm fortunate to have great girl friends. But, I don't have an "emergency contact" anymore. And, neither does she.
She'll be fine. She's incredibly independent and she'll have a new best friend in a matter of months, or days of landing poolside as she works from home for a couple of months.
Me. The introvert who is leaning in this audacious year - it's going to be a bit more difficult to find my new "emergency contact". I have a feeling I'll be crying every time someone asks me to supply an emergency contact. And, I'll be praying God provides just the right one along this journey.
T-40 hours and they'll be off. I have 5 months until someone will ask me to fill out a school form updating my "emergency contact" information. Hopefully by then I still won't be crying at the thought of it.
I remember vividly the conversation I had with Julie about listing her as "emergency contact" on Zach's school paperwork thirteen years ago. "So, I don't have any family around, and you don't have any family around and we are like sisters -- so will you be my official 'emergency contact' for the school? It shouldn't mean anything, but you know--just in case." "Of course". Done.
And, so it's been for thirteen years. I don't ask every year, it's just known - you are my (our) emergency contact. We are each others' family. We both have in-laws somewhat nearby, but still we are each others' "emergency contact"; there is no "in-law" at the end of our "sister" card. Whether the emergency is a kid with a broken leg at school, or a need for a Starbucks to vent, or a movie & popcorn to relax, or a triple chocolate meltdown to celebrate, we have been each others' emergency contact.
Today we had lunch with a dear friend and as Julie slipped away for a moment my friend asked if I was okay. "Yes. I'm okay. But, who will be my emergency contact?" Those words, spoken out loud, brought tears to my eyes (that I withheld when Julie returned). I have LOADS of fantastic girlfriends all across the country, a bestie on the north side of Indy, and a handful of really nice lady friends in Franklin. I know - I really know - I'm fortunate to have great girl friends. But, I don't have an "emergency contact" anymore. And, neither does she.
She'll be fine. She's incredibly independent and she'll have a new best friend in a matter of months, or days of landing poolside as she works from home for a couple of months.
Me. The introvert who is leaning in this audacious year - it's going to be a bit more difficult to find my new "emergency contact". I have a feeling I'll be crying every time someone asks me to supply an emergency contact. And, I'll be praying God provides just the right one along this journey.
T-40 hours and they'll be off. I have 5 months until someone will ask me to fill out a school form updating my "emergency contact" information. Hopefully by then I still won't be crying at the thought of it.
Monday, March 3, 2014
Except for that "ONE BIG THING"
Keith turned 50 on Friday. On Thursday as he was leaving for work I reminded him that Friday was his 49th birthday (with conviction). And, I took my child down with me. Yes, we both looked him in the face and convincingly lied... telling him we were clueless it was really his 50th birthday (and cracking up laughing as he closed the door in disgust).
We weren't clueless, but some might say he was.
I cooked half the day on Thursday and all day Friday to pull off a dinner party for 10 Friday night - planned a month in advance. When he walked into the house Friday after work, his best guy friends and their wives were there. We gathered around a table for dinner of tossed salad, Italian chicken noodle soup, lasagna, garlic bread and a trio of desserts. One friend said a beautiful prayer for Keith's life; another gave a heartfelt toast that turned mid-way into a loving roast. Later we adjourned to the parlor (yes, this is the 1800's) and played Apples to Apples. About the time the party was breaking up, we egged Keith on to streak Main Street to make his 50th birthday even more memorable. Well, he did a semi-streak to the gleeful horror of the women at the party. It was a great night, even if I didn't have a torch to "brule", so it ended up just "creme". (I didn't serve it, but every once in a while I go in and take a big spoon full.... heaven!)
The party continued on Saturday -- with the boys, his family, "our people" and some more of his people. The ploy was set. I'd leave at noon (with a big 'ole pot of frosting - and no questions as to "what's that?" -- hmmm, clueless?) to take Harrison to get ready for the bowling birthday party he was attending from 1-3. And, Keith would pick him up at 3. Except that I should have told him more than twice. I should have texted him at 1 after I "supposedly" dropped Harrison off. I didn't. The party was front and center in my mind, and seriously, how could he forget his son?
I had sent a reminder to the confirmed 50 guests "he's early to everything; so if you want to be there for the surprise, try to arrive by 2:45 p.m." Note to self: he's early to everything he remembers. He did not remember. At 3:05 p.m. when he still wasn't there, I sent a text "how did Harrison enjoy his party?"
Thankfully he had showered and dressed for the night after a morning of insulting our bathroom under construction. And, thankfully he hadn't made it upstairs to take that nap he was planning. Instead of napping, he bolted out of his chair, down the stairs and into his car, scaring to death the neighbor walking by as he did a u-turn on Main Street and scrambled to the bowling alley. 10 minutes late to pick up his son.....rather, to his own party!
He was surprised. The folks he works with told me he snickered and sneered all day Thursday and Friday. "She's at home fretting trying to figure out how to pull something together now for my birthday." Ha Ha.... gotcha!
It was a great weekend. Everyone deserves to have so much attention lauded upon them for one weekend of their life.
Thankfully "our people" helped to make it a great one.
Love you Keithie!
We weren't clueless, but some might say he was.
I cooked half the day on Thursday and all day Friday to pull off a dinner party for 10 Friday night - planned a month in advance. When he walked into the house Friday after work, his best guy friends and their wives were there. We gathered around a table for dinner of tossed salad, Italian chicken noodle soup, lasagna, garlic bread and a trio of desserts. One friend said a beautiful prayer for Keith's life; another gave a heartfelt toast that turned mid-way into a loving roast. Later we adjourned to the parlor (yes, this is the 1800's) and played Apples to Apples. About the time the party was breaking up, we egged Keith on to streak Main Street to make his 50th birthday even more memorable. Well, he did a semi-streak to the gleeful horror of the women at the party. It was a great night, even if I didn't have a torch to "brule", so it ended up just "creme". (I didn't serve it, but every once in a while I go in and take a big spoon full.... heaven!)
The party continued on Saturday -- with the boys, his family, "our people" and some more of his people. The ploy was set. I'd leave at noon (with a big 'ole pot of frosting - and no questions as to "what's that?" -- hmmm, clueless?) to take Harrison to get ready for the bowling birthday party he was attending from 1-3. And, Keith would pick him up at 3. Except that I should have told him more than twice. I should have texted him at 1 after I "supposedly" dropped Harrison off. I didn't. The party was front and center in my mind, and seriously, how could he forget his son?
I had sent a reminder to the confirmed 50 guests "he's early to everything; so if you want to be there for the surprise, try to arrive by 2:45 p.m." Note to self: he's early to everything he remembers. He did not remember. At 3:05 p.m. when he still wasn't there, I sent a text "how did Harrison enjoy his party?"
Thankfully he had showered and dressed for the night after a morning of insulting our bathroom under construction. And, thankfully he hadn't made it upstairs to take that nap he was planning. Instead of napping, he bolted out of his chair, down the stairs and into his car, scaring to death the neighbor walking by as he did a u-turn on Main Street and scrambled to the bowling alley. 10 minutes late to pick up his son.....rather, to his own party!
S - U - R - P - R - I - S - E!!!
He was surprised. The folks he works with told me he snickered and sneered all day Thursday and Friday. "She's at home fretting trying to figure out how to pull something together now for my birthday." Ha Ha.... gotcha!
It was a great weekend. Everyone deserves to have so much attention lauded upon them for one weekend of their life.
Thankfully "our people" helped to make it a great one.
Love you Keithie!
Wednesday, February 26, 2014
The beginning of the end
I met one of my best friends in college. We were thrown together by the luck of a dorm room draw. But, luck didn't keep us together. Forging did.
Even though I only attended college with her for one year, and it was BC (Before cellphones or computers), we were constant pen pals. We were kindred spirits -- so much alike. (We marry opposites, but aren't our deepest friends more like us than not?)
After her wedding while I was still single, our relationship changed. She had "the one" and her time was spent cultivating her marriage garden, and rightly so. Our relationship wasn't a priority. Or, maybe I was just too needy, like a nasty dandelion weed pushing my way in and around everywhere. Who knows. Either way, rocky days prevailed. When I married three or four years later, she wasn't in my wedding party as I had been in hers. But, she was there in the background. That movement towards me was the start of the renewing of our friendship. After I had a child and while she struggled with fertility, our friendship waned again. I was heartbroken, but truth be told I was cultivating the family garden and I was a prickly thorn, piercing her unintentionally along the way.
Years later, after Harrison was born, we reconnected. Both of us "settled in", and with the advent of technology to help, we were able to stay better connected. Today our friendship is stronger than ever. I love what Ann Voskamp says:
There were times when one of us didn't "forge" and we hurt the other. Fortunately for us, it went both ways. We were able to forgive the other because we'd done the same. We figured out our relationship was important and we both began to forge.
Harrison is about to learn about forging for a friendship, and I'm about to be given a chance to forge differently in this season.
Julie and I were co-workers at Capin Crouse. She was an auditor, much younger than me and she traveled frequently for her job, meeting new people in each city and landed just long enough to turn in her expense report, have dinner with a group of friends, and fly off again. We were friendly co-workers, but nothing more. Thirteen years ago, about the time I was leaving Capin Crouse, she and her new husband moved to Franklin. Slowly her Sunday night soups won me over and we became friends... many would say best friends.
Our boys have grown up together and despite not going to school together, would say they are "best friends". When Julie introduces me to someone who doesn't know me or our connection, she'll always tell the story of Harrison figuring out that it was odd that he and Oscar are best friends because so are their Moms. Julie and I unofficially appointed them "best friends" at Harrison's birth 11 months after Oscar's, but they've grown into the role at their own choice -- fighting and loving like biological brothers. Oscar has spent more nights at our house than any house except his own in the past 11 and a half years.
And, like our sons, over the years there has been plenty of fighting and loving -- like biological sisters for Julie and I. We've always been there for each other. And, when I say "there" I mean within a half mile of each other in our small town -- a stone's throw away, as they say.
I'm her Yoda -- always there to provide big sister advice whenever she wants it, and many times just when she needs it. We've share the "lovebird" special at the movies - the movies our husband wouldn't appreciate. We've known each others kitchen and shared many meals together. We've vacationed together and studied God's word together. When I've needed a spot for extra family members, it's her house. When she's needed a place to drop her kids for four days, it's my house. When I've needed to borrow fancy china, or a serving bowl, she's been my first call.
She's an extrovert, and I am not. She's the life of any party and always has too many things/people on her plate (ahem - well, that's this introvert's belief -- one she wouldn't share). I stick close to those I know. She's a home-schooling Mom who opened a toy store. Then, when she decided to be a career woman again, she set her heart on the French toy company she wanted to work for and strategically placed herself where she'd get noticed and win her dream position. I'm happy in my small home office with the clicking of the keyboard as I support the financial needs of others and tend to my small (but important) world.
In nine days the Wells' time in Franklin ends as they move to Ft. Lauderdale Florida for her career. These last nine days are the beginning of the end of this Franklin chapter, of living life together in real life.
Technology will make it easier to keep in contact - but we all know it will be oh so different. Our boys won't go to proms together or share impromptu play dates or sleepovers. I won't be able to call Julie up when the latest chick flick comes out and say "want to share a lovebird special at 10 pm?" When I throw a party, I'll have to beg extra kitchenware from another friend. It's all slowly been changing for a while as we grow and mature differently, but this is really the beginning of the end of this period in our life.
For the extroverted Wells' it will be relatively unnoticeable in the warmth of the Florida sun, as they spend weekends together bicycling the short path to the beach. They, after all, are moving to a city with new adventures, new friends, beautiful weather, and the Atlantic Ocean as their backyard. We are left here with a large hole in our Franklin life.
Tomorrow night our families gather one last time to break bread -- or, in our case chips and salsa. We'll laugh and we'll cry as we share the albums I created for the boys of their lives to date. We'll remember. And, ultimately, I know, it will end with a promise to "forge" on to keep our friendships going.
It's the beginning of the end of this chapter. What happens in the next depends on the forging --- the forging work of four individual people in two unique relationships. Two moms and two sons. In our case:
It takes four people forging to do the friendship tango.
Even though I only attended college with her for one year, and it was BC (Before cellphones or computers), we were constant pen pals. We were kindred spirits -- so much alike. (We marry opposites, but aren't our deepest friends more like us than not?)
After her wedding while I was still single, our relationship changed. She had "the one" and her time was spent cultivating her marriage garden, and rightly so. Our relationship wasn't a priority. Or, maybe I was just too needy, like a nasty dandelion weed pushing my way in and around everywhere. Who knows. Either way, rocky days prevailed. When I married three or four years later, she wasn't in my wedding party as I had been in hers. But, she was there in the background. That movement towards me was the start of the renewing of our friendship. After I had a child and while she struggled with fertility, our friendship waned again. I was heartbroken, but truth be told I was cultivating the family garden and I was a prickly thorn, piercing her unintentionally along the way.
Years later, after Harrison was born, we reconnected. Both of us "settled in", and with the advent of technology to help, we were able to stay better connected. Today our friendship is stronger than ever. I love what Ann Voskamp says:
"Friendships never just happen — they are forged."
There were times when one of us didn't "forge" and we hurt the other. Fortunately for us, it went both ways. We were able to forgive the other because we'd done the same. We figured out our relationship was important and we both began to forge.
It takes two people forging to do the friendship tango.
(that's a Cathy original. Ann Voskamp, you can use it if you want)
Harrison is about to learn about forging for a friendship, and I'm about to be given a chance to forge differently in this season.
Julie and I were co-workers at Capin Crouse. She was an auditor, much younger than me and she traveled frequently for her job, meeting new people in each city and landed just long enough to turn in her expense report, have dinner with a group of friends, and fly off again. We were friendly co-workers, but nothing more. Thirteen years ago, about the time I was leaving Capin Crouse, she and her new husband moved to Franklin. Slowly her Sunday night soups won me over and we became friends... many would say best friends.
Our boys have grown up together and despite not going to school together, would say they are "best friends". When Julie introduces me to someone who doesn't know me or our connection, she'll always tell the story of Harrison figuring out that it was odd that he and Oscar are best friends because so are their Moms. Julie and I unofficially appointed them "best friends" at Harrison's birth 11 months after Oscar's, but they've grown into the role at their own choice -- fighting and loving like biological brothers. Oscar has spent more nights at our house than any house except his own in the past 11 and a half years.
And, like our sons, over the years there has been plenty of fighting and loving -- like biological sisters for Julie and I. We've always been there for each other. And, when I say "there" I mean within a half mile of each other in our small town -- a stone's throw away, as they say.
I'm her Yoda -- always there to provide big sister advice whenever she wants it, and many times just when she needs it. We've share the "lovebird" special at the movies - the movies our husband wouldn't appreciate. We've known each others kitchen and shared many meals together. We've vacationed together and studied God's word together. When I've needed a spot for extra family members, it's her house. When she's needed a place to drop her kids for four days, it's my house. When I've needed to borrow fancy china, or a serving bowl, she's been my first call.
She's an extrovert, and I am not. She's the life of any party and always has too many things/people on her plate (ahem - well, that's this introvert's belief -- one she wouldn't share). I stick close to those I know. She's a home-schooling Mom who opened a toy store. Then, when she decided to be a career woman again, she set her heart on the French toy company she wanted to work for and strategically placed herself where she'd get noticed and win her dream position. I'm happy in my small home office with the clicking of the keyboard as I support the financial needs of others and tend to my small (but important) world.
In nine days the Wells' time in Franklin ends as they move to Ft. Lauderdale Florida for her career. These last nine days are the beginning of the end of this Franklin chapter, of living life together in real life.
Technology will make it easier to keep in contact - but we all know it will be oh so different. Our boys won't go to proms together or share impromptu play dates or sleepovers. I won't be able to call Julie up when the latest chick flick comes out and say "want to share a lovebird special at 10 pm?" When I throw a party, I'll have to beg extra kitchenware from another friend. It's all slowly been changing for a while as we grow and mature differently, but this is really the beginning of the end of this period in our life.
For the extroverted Wells' it will be relatively unnoticeable in the warmth of the Florida sun, as they spend weekends together bicycling the short path to the beach. They, after all, are moving to a city with new adventures, new friends, beautiful weather, and the Atlantic Ocean as their backyard. We are left here with a large hole in our Franklin life.
Tomorrow night our families gather one last time to break bread -- or, in our case chips and salsa. We'll laugh and we'll cry as we share the albums I created for the boys of their lives to date. We'll remember. And, ultimately, I know, it will end with a promise to "forge" on to keep our friendships going.
It's the beginning of the end of this chapter. What happens in the next depends on the forging --- the forging work of four individual people in two unique relationships. Two moms and two sons. In our case:
It takes four people forging to do the friendship tango.
Thursday, February 20, 2014
40 year sabbatical
God's been working on me for sometime. But, often I catch myself saying "I've been a Christian for longer than I can imagine", it sounds like I'm so ready to accept my crown and move on, like what more could I learn? But, the reality is as we mature in life, we should mature in Christ.
(Found this beauty in the last chapter. It wasn't a bad book, but seriously QUIET is a hard act to follow and I was reading them at the same time.)
There have been plenty of days in the last six weeks where I've crawled back to bed and slept or read a good book and ignored my cell phone. I've turned off Facebook, I've ignored most of my friends, I've taken a big long retreat from my life. I've cooked less, I've slept more, and I've laid in the beds of each of my boys and talked -- wonderful chats. I've prayed more, I've read my Bible more, I've digested and internalized and thought about the real change I want. (All in the middle of my busy season.)
Even though I'm a "seasoned" Christian, perhaps because I'm a seasoned Christian I need this retreat, this break. It's been a long time with some poor habits, following the Christian crowd around. But, do I really listen to Him?
Nope. My time isn't over. Not even close to over. I hope this retreat lasts a good, long time. It's my "I've been a Christian for 40 years" sabbatical. I'm going to make it last.
Stop. Rest. Assess. Dream. Pray. Advance.
This, I believe is my mid-life crisis (a God-approved mid-life crisis -- hopefully better than buying a red corvette convertible and wearing skimpy clothes while driving it around town all summer; sorry for the visual). It's been a couple of years of focusing on "wait", trying to hear more from God and allow Him to influence my steps, thoughts, words. I fail all the time. Repeat all the time. Ask my highly-reactive son who doesn't need a Momma yelling at him because his AP-Psych grade is still 31%. Fail. Fail. Fail. (IE, ME. Well, okay, me and him - but the only one I can change is me.)
But, I digress.
When in mid-January I really focused on what "audacious" was for me, I backed away from everything. Everything. I couldn't see the big picture of why. The leaving was painful. Why is this leaving feel so right, and yet so wrong? Just tell me the "why?" and I'll be okay, I think.
I didn't get an answer. I just obeyed, out of hurt and disappointment, but also out of the excitement for a journey.
Now, I say "no" way more than I ever have. I want to say "no" way more than I ever have. I don't initiate things with family or friends (well, except that ONE BIG THING - but more on that later). I'm just being. I'm living. I'm living happy. I'm reading, I'm working, I'm loving my boys, I'm taking long, leisurely lunch breaks by myself, and yes, on occasion, I'm cuddling up in bed in the middle of the day and napping. It feels so different, so odd, so.....wrong.
I'm reading Becoming Myself by Stasi Eldredge, actually I've just finished it. (NOTE TO SELF: when you decide you aren't really into a book - skip to the last chapter - usually the last chapter is a good summary and gets you what you wanted out of the book!).
And I know it can be really hard sometimes, this life of ours. Days come when I just want to crawl back into bed and pull the covers up over my head. I want to disconnect my phone and take a break from my life. And, there are days when I do just that. For a bit. That's actually a good thing. There are seasons when I need to retreat so that afterwards I can advance. (emphasis added).
(Found this beauty in the last chapter. It wasn't a bad book, but seriously QUIET is a hard act to follow and I was reading them at the same time.)
There have been plenty of days in the last six weeks where I've crawled back to bed and slept or read a good book and ignored my cell phone. I've turned off Facebook, I've ignored most of my friends, I've taken a big long retreat from my life. I've cooked less, I've slept more, and I've laid in the beds of each of my boys and talked -- wonderful chats. I've prayed more, I've read my Bible more, I've digested and internalized and thought about the real change I want. (All in the middle of my busy season.)
Even though I'm a "seasoned" Christian, perhaps because I'm a seasoned Christian I need this retreat, this break. It's been a long time with some poor habits, following the Christian crowd around. But, do I really listen to Him?
Nope. My time isn't over. Not even close to over. I hope this retreat lasts a good, long time. It's my "I've been a Christian for 40 years" sabbatical. I'm going to make it last.
Stop. Rest. Assess. Dream. Pray. Advance.
Sabbatical or a sabbatical (from Latin sabbaticus, from Greek sabbatikos, from Hebrew shabbat, i.e., Sabbath, literally a "ceasing") is a rest from work, or a break, often lasting from two months to a year. The concept of sabbatical has a source in shmita, described several places in the Bible (Leviticus 25, for example, where there is a commandment to desist from working the fields in the seventh year). In the strict sense, therefore, a sabbatical lasts a year. (wikipedia)
Why?
Recently I was having lunch with a friend and I mentioned something about a blog post. I'd completely forgot this blog is my secret shared with only a select few. Her next question surprised me: "why?"
Why do I blog? Why do I write?
The answer is really very simple.
Because, I have to. Words jumble in my head and they cry to get out on paper. Regardless of their audience, regardless of their impact - raw, here's-where-I'm-at-now words just have to get out on paper.
A few days ago I was at a business meeting with seven people. My role in this particular work-group is strategic thinker, someone who challenges the status quo and says "is there a better way?". Monthly we meet as a team to focus on our "finish strong" goals for 2014/2015; we are trying to complete a nasty project which has to put to bed. My involvement in this team meeting was to determine if we had team buy-in on a critical driver in the success of this project. We felt perhaps very few of us believed in the critical driver. My job was to challenge us, to work through an exercise to see if the critical number was pie in the sky or a real possibility many hadn't grasped yet. If the team couldn't or didn't buy into the critical number, there would be some serious soul searching.
The meeting was a smashing success for six of us. My involvement in the exercise was not about, but about showing where we've been, where we are and where we are going and then asking the right questions for each category. The critical questions I asked, and the direction I led the conversation helped the team say, in their words, "your critical driver is correct." It was exactly what we'd hoped for, a team exercise using team synergy to answer a question critical to our collective success. I didn't know what the "aha" moments would be, but I knew they would come and they'd help push us forward. When we had completed, all six of us took pictures of the white board to keep those memories alive.
But, there were seven of us at the meeting. The key person, our salesperson, was negative, critical and condescending during the entire meeting. The six of us felt it. Actually we stopped the meeting early and the three person leadership team assembled with our mouth's agape.... "what in the heck just happened." We had to figure that out before we moved on with her. However, despite our abrupt end, even the leadership meeting produced more "aha" moments to propel us forward. As leaders we were ready to move, with or without her.
What her boss found out the next day was there was a complete disconnect between what the meeting was to be, and what she thought it was to be. She was done with the "drama" of it all and wanted to move ahead without any further communication about it. I, on the other hand, as the strategic caregiver of this fragile company knew that the elephant in the room, not only her actions, but her beliefs still needed to be addressed - and we needed to be certain she understood roles and the process of "team".
My mind whirled for about 30 minutes and a memo to her was drafted in my head. I sat at my computer for 15-20 minutes and pounded it out, laying the foundation for the exercise, my role to strategically challenge actions, the role of team meetings to not be another "regular weekly meeting" but to dig deeper, and how each member of the team has their role to play in order for us to "finish strong". Typed. Proofed once. Few edits. 2 pages done in 20 minutes.
I forwarded it to her boss. His reply "wow - you nailed it. perfect. forwarding."
This second email response was "out of curiosity, how long did that take you to write?"
"20 minutes".
"no way." (He isn't certain where the CAPS key is. Seriously.)
"Yes, way."
I live in my head. My head swirls thoughts and ideas, and discouragements and dreams, and disappointments and joys, and sometimes the only way to get them out of my head is to take pen to paper, or these days, fingers to my keyboard and pound them out.
Whether anyone reads them is (almost always) immaterial to the process of getting them out of my head so I can decide what to do this the mumbo jumbo mess.
That is why I write. That is why I don't sugar coat. That is why I write with lots of "I"'s. This is the story of me figuring out my life. Getting those swirling words out of my mind; working them through while pounding the keys.
That's the "why".
Why do I blog? Why do I write?
The answer is really very simple.
Because, I have to. Words jumble in my head and they cry to get out on paper. Regardless of their audience, regardless of their impact - raw, here's-where-I'm-at-now words just have to get out on paper.
A few days ago I was at a business meeting with seven people. My role in this particular work-group is strategic thinker, someone who challenges the status quo and says "is there a better way?". Monthly we meet as a team to focus on our "finish strong" goals for 2014/2015; we are trying to complete a nasty project which has to put to bed. My involvement in this team meeting was to determine if we had team buy-in on a critical driver in the success of this project. We felt perhaps very few of us believed in the critical driver. My job was to challenge us, to work through an exercise to see if the critical number was pie in the sky or a real possibility many hadn't grasped yet. If the team couldn't or didn't buy into the critical number, there would be some serious soul searching.
The meeting was a smashing success for six of us. My involvement in the exercise was not about, but about showing where we've been, where we are and where we are going and then asking the right questions for each category. The critical questions I asked, and the direction I led the conversation helped the team say, in their words, "your critical driver is correct." It was exactly what we'd hoped for, a team exercise using team synergy to answer a question critical to our collective success. I didn't know what the "aha" moments would be, but I knew they would come and they'd help push us forward. When we had completed, all six of us took pictures of the white board to keep those memories alive.
But, there were seven of us at the meeting. The key person, our salesperson, was negative, critical and condescending during the entire meeting. The six of us felt it. Actually we stopped the meeting early and the three person leadership team assembled with our mouth's agape.... "what in the heck just happened." We had to figure that out before we moved on with her. However, despite our abrupt end, even the leadership meeting produced more "aha" moments to propel us forward. As leaders we were ready to move, with or without her.
What her boss found out the next day was there was a complete disconnect between what the meeting was to be, and what she thought it was to be. She was done with the "drama" of it all and wanted to move ahead without any further communication about it. I, on the other hand, as the strategic caregiver of this fragile company knew that the elephant in the room, not only her actions, but her beliefs still needed to be addressed - and we needed to be certain she understood roles and the process of "team".
My mind whirled for about 30 minutes and a memo to her was drafted in my head. I sat at my computer for 15-20 minutes and pounded it out, laying the foundation for the exercise, my role to strategically challenge actions, the role of team meetings to not be another "regular weekly meeting" but to dig deeper, and how each member of the team has their role to play in order for us to "finish strong". Typed. Proofed once. Few edits. 2 pages done in 20 minutes.
I forwarded it to her boss. His reply "wow - you nailed it. perfect. forwarding."
This second email response was "out of curiosity, how long did that take you to write?"
"20 minutes".
"no way." (He isn't certain where the CAPS key is. Seriously.)
"Yes, way."
I live in my head. My head swirls thoughts and ideas, and discouragements and dreams, and disappointments and joys, and sometimes the only way to get them out of my head is to take pen to paper, or these days, fingers to my keyboard and pound them out.
Whether anyone reads them is (almost always) immaterial to the process of getting them out of my head so I can decide what to do this the mumbo jumbo mess.
That is why I write. That is why I don't sugar coat. That is why I write with lots of "I"'s. This is the story of me figuring out my life. Getting those swirling words out of my mind; working them through while pounding the keys.
That's the "why".
Tuesday, February 18, 2014
So different than I imagined
It's beyond funny to me that I envisioned selling our house and climbing (figurative) mountains in my quest to live 2014 audaciously. Dream big or go home.
Audacious. Seriously, you can't say that word and not think "something big is coming."
It is. Something big is coming.... but perhaps "my one word" for 2012 and 2013 .... WAIT.... was preparing me for something. Good things come to those who wait, and who follow.
My audacious 2014 meant -- I am ready, here am I, send me.
Now. In 2014.
Over the past year or so, I've presented three wonderful outreach ministries to our church. All three have been shot down. My "I'm ready, here am I, send me"-soul is weary. I'm ready to go, but each God-thing impressed upon my heart has been given the "thumbs down." That's draining.
Yesterday was a particularly hard day for Z and I. We've had very few of those -- he and I. Really, probably not since the days of trying to memorize math facts for timed tests have we had a day so bad. My "I'm ready, here am I, send me" soul shrank as God smacked me up along side my head with His proverbial baseball bat and said "come on, let's clean up your own life audaciously, radically, boldly....and then."
Meanwhile, while I'm audaciously working towards cleaning up debt, minimizing our wants, loving our kids, treasuring my husband and learning more and more how to lean upon my heavenly Father's strength and not my own, the world is hurting all around. Time is of the essence. I must do this work audaciously.
It's all coming together. My season of learning, of study, of changing my world views. My season of waiting for the Lord who brought me new insights and softened my hardened hart.
This season is about the becoming.
I said "send me" -- He's saying "abide in me; let me make you ready."
I'll audaciously abide.
Audacious. Seriously, you can't say that word and not think "something big is coming."
It is. Something big is coming.... but perhaps "my one word" for 2012 and 2013 .... WAIT.... was preparing me for something. Good things come to those who wait, and who follow.
My audacious 2014 meant -- I am ready, here am I, send me.
Now. In 2014.
Over the past year or so, I've presented three wonderful outreach ministries to our church. All three have been shot down. My "I'm ready, here am I, send me"-soul is weary. I'm ready to go, but each God-thing impressed upon my heart has been given the "thumbs down." That's draining.
Yesterday was a particularly hard day for Z and I. We've had very few of those -- he and I. Really, probably not since the days of trying to memorize math facts for timed tests have we had a day so bad. My "I'm ready, here am I, send me" soul shrank as God smacked me up along side my head with His proverbial baseball bat and said "come on, let's clean up your own life audaciously, radically, boldly....and then."
Meanwhile, while I'm audaciously working towards cleaning up debt, minimizing our wants, loving our kids, treasuring my husband and learning more and more how to lean upon my heavenly Father's strength and not my own, the world is hurting all around. Time is of the essence. I must do this work audaciously.
It's all coming together. My season of learning, of study, of changing my world views. My season of waiting for the Lord who brought me new insights and softened my hardened hart.
This season is about the becoming.
I said "send me" -- He's saying "abide in me; let me make you ready."
I'll audaciously abide.
Wednesday, February 12, 2014
Unraveling, like a mystery
Seriously, is our God awesome, or what?
Audacious is turning out to be more than my one word...it's an unbelievable journey He has laid out for me. How big is our God that He pieced this all together for me? You might not see it, or think God cares individually about me, or you. He does.
Quite by accident this year, through the challenges I've been facing, I realized that I'm really more introvert than extrovert. That, along with the fact that I have a senior introvert headed off to college soon, I plunged into the book Quiet by Susan Cain.
Oh, what I'm uncovering. For Zach. And, for me.
Zach is his Momma's son, a male chip off the old Momma block. Throughout the years I've read many books to help me better parent Zach, and realized this truth: he's his Momma's boy. We've sought diagnoses and answers about what is unique about him, and had various and sundry "aha" moments - but none that really made complete sense to me. Quiet, more than anything, has helped me piece together the pieces.
For some time I've envisioned myself as somewhat neurotic. I mean, not in a weird, crazy way - is there a not weird way to be neurotic? Just who has kids who nickname their Momma "8:00 p.m. Mommy". By 8 I just can't handle anymore. Not that I'm tired. My brain just says "ESCAPE" "RUN" "HIDE" -- and they know I must be left alone.
There are other quirks, too. Quirks has always been my way of saying it. Or, my husband might say - "you like things the way you like them".
A few weeks ago the family begged me to go to dinner someplace besides our normal Chicago's Pizza or El Meson. I was trying to be "our people" so I acquiesced and we headed to Bob Evans. Oh. My. Lands. It's loud. It's tiny. There is very little space at a table. There is very little space between tables. There is very little decent on the menu. My very little brain was about to explode. Within moments of us sitting down, my dear sweet husband could see the horror on my face said "do we need to leave?" He knew I was losing it. But, why? I sat there and wondered if I was neurotic. Spoiled. A snob. Careless for the needs of others.
No, I was just down right overwhelmed. It wasn't my "sweet spot".
We have a tiny coffeehouse in our town. Tiny. It's "the place" to gather. I can't do it. There are 40 chairs within the space that 10-12 people should be seated. Often times when I'm asked to go there I ask myself those same questions I asked at Bob Evans.
What in the heck is wrong with me?
For the past three years or so I've worked the majority of my time out of my home office. It's my "sweet spot". I'm comfy. Everything is orderly. I know my routine to stay focused. Check social media. Close social media. Start Pandora on low. Start the diffuser with peppermint or lavender. Mid-day I turn the background noise to Dave Ramsey, fill the diffuser and start again. It's my "sweet spot". Change one thing up in my office and my senses are overwhelmed. I added Christmas playlists to my Pandora list in November, and my system was so attune to those changes, it was all I could hear and it took me days to get back to my "sweet spot". Or, put me in a client's office and my senses are heightened to the point of ineffectiveness.
You either love or loathe personality tests. I love them. During my years managing the development of a housing sub-division, I had to take a Caliper(TM) test. This test is used most often to find idea sales candidates - but it revealed something very unique about me. My empathy level was 99%. The interpreter told me I'm incredibly in tune with the world around me. I can anticipate with great accuracy what people are thinking or feeling, the nuances of group dynamics, I hear things that others don't hear, I take in more of the world and attempt to process it. Was it related to ADHD - my inability to stay on task? More likely, probably the cause for me not staying on task. (Later I'll tell you about the other startling statistic from this test.)
Over the years I've really remembered and hung on to this empathy factor. No one scores a 100% - so I knew this was a biggie for who I was, how I processed things.
Yesterday Zach came home from a long day at school and told me school was literally sucking the energy out of his body, especially his A/P Psych class because it required endless introspective surveys and analysis and conversations. "I'm wilting." Words no parents wants to hear....but words I understand. His energy was gone. He was gone. He couldn't move forward. (An aside - I'm blessed that Zach talks to me about most everything; I couldn't have or wouldn't have or didn't have the opportunity to share these things with my parents - I'm blessed.)
It was the same feeling I had when he broke his leg at the start of his senior year. I knew him. I knew his psyche. I knew he'd become "wilted". It wasn't self-fulfilling prophecy - it was his core of who he is now. The senses, everything he'd have to take in and process, the missed school, missed social events, the fitting back in again as a "newbie", it would lead to a "wilt" and it did.
I spent time processing with Zach late last night and then chilled by reading Quiet to search for more answers. Chapter 4 "Is Temperament Destiny? Nature, Nurture and the Orchid Hypothesis" is about "highly-reactive" people - a term that was new to me.
Is this not our God? Able to ease this Momma's mind - to provide the word -- wilt -- to help me understand He was going to help me unravel this mysery -- put a name to the matter.
Yes. Amen! Praise you Jesus. And, He didn't stop there.
I follow this blogger modernmrsdarcy.com. and, I follow her on Good Reads. Yes, I'm cyber stalking her in the nicest way. Her recommendation of Quiet led me to it. Today her blog is entitled: "Let's talk about highly-sensitive people". Ding ding ding. I'm reading about highly-reactive (sensitive) people right now - so yes, let's talk about them.
Her words today (along with links to loads of information):
And, that's God for the winner. How awesome. Last night. Last night, folks, my son said "I'm wilting". Later that very night, I'm reading a book and come to a theory about "wilting". And, today a blogger I read posts all sorts of great information about HSP, with specific examples that scream "you and Zach!"
It just doesn't get more encouraging than that, folks. God individually love us all. If He does it for little old me in Franklin, Indiana - he'll do it for you. He loves you the same as He loves me.
I'm praying anew for my orchid, my Zach, as together we decide the best next step for him:
Audacious is turning out to be more than my one word...it's an unbelievable journey He has laid out for me. How big is our God that He pieced this all together for me? You might not see it, or think God cares individually about me, or you. He does.
Quite by accident this year, through the challenges I've been facing, I realized that I'm really more introvert than extrovert. That, along with the fact that I have a senior introvert headed off to college soon, I plunged into the book Quiet by Susan Cain.
Oh, what I'm uncovering. For Zach. And, for me.
Zach is his Momma's son, a male chip off the old Momma block. Throughout the years I've read many books to help me better parent Zach, and realized this truth: he's his Momma's boy. We've sought diagnoses and answers about what is unique about him, and had various and sundry "aha" moments - but none that really made complete sense to me. Quiet, more than anything, has helped me piece together the pieces.
For some time I've envisioned myself as somewhat neurotic. I mean, not in a weird, crazy way - is there a not weird way to be neurotic? Just who has kids who nickname their Momma "8:00 p.m. Mommy". By 8 I just can't handle anymore. Not that I'm tired. My brain just says "ESCAPE" "RUN" "HIDE" -- and they know I must be left alone.
There are other quirks, too. Quirks has always been my way of saying it. Or, my husband might say - "you like things the way you like them".
A few weeks ago the family begged me to go to dinner someplace besides our normal Chicago's Pizza or El Meson. I was trying to be "our people" so I acquiesced and we headed to Bob Evans. Oh. My. Lands. It's loud. It's tiny. There is very little space at a table. There is very little space between tables. There is very little decent on the menu. My very little brain was about to explode. Within moments of us sitting down, my dear sweet husband could see the horror on my face said "do we need to leave?" He knew I was losing it. But, why? I sat there and wondered if I was neurotic. Spoiled. A snob. Careless for the needs of others.
No, I was just down right overwhelmed. It wasn't my "sweet spot".
We have a tiny coffeehouse in our town. Tiny. It's "the place" to gather. I can't do it. There are 40 chairs within the space that 10-12 people should be seated. Often times when I'm asked to go there I ask myself those same questions I asked at Bob Evans.
What in the heck is wrong with me?
For the past three years or so I've worked the majority of my time out of my home office. It's my "sweet spot". I'm comfy. Everything is orderly. I know my routine to stay focused. Check social media. Close social media. Start Pandora on low. Start the diffuser with peppermint or lavender. Mid-day I turn the background noise to Dave Ramsey, fill the diffuser and start again. It's my "sweet spot". Change one thing up in my office and my senses are overwhelmed. I added Christmas playlists to my Pandora list in November, and my system was so attune to those changes, it was all I could hear and it took me days to get back to my "sweet spot". Or, put me in a client's office and my senses are heightened to the point of ineffectiveness.
You either love or loathe personality tests. I love them. During my years managing the development of a housing sub-division, I had to take a Caliper(TM) test. This test is used most often to find idea sales candidates - but it revealed something very unique about me. My empathy level was 99%. The interpreter told me I'm incredibly in tune with the world around me. I can anticipate with great accuracy what people are thinking or feeling, the nuances of group dynamics, I hear things that others don't hear, I take in more of the world and attempt to process it. Was it related to ADHD - my inability to stay on task? More likely, probably the cause for me not staying on task. (Later I'll tell you about the other startling statistic from this test.)
Over the years I've really remembered and hung on to this empathy factor. No one scores a 100% - so I knew this was a biggie for who I was, how I processed things.
Yesterday Zach came home from a long day at school and told me school was literally sucking the energy out of his body, especially his A/P Psych class because it required endless introspective surveys and analysis and conversations. "I'm wilting." Words no parents wants to hear....but words I understand. His energy was gone. He was gone. He couldn't move forward. (An aside - I'm blessed that Zach talks to me about most everything; I couldn't have or wouldn't have or didn't have the opportunity to share these things with my parents - I'm blessed.)
It was the same feeling I had when he broke his leg at the start of his senior year. I knew him. I knew his psyche. I knew he'd become "wilted". It wasn't self-fulfilling prophecy - it was his core of who he is now. The senses, everything he'd have to take in and process, the missed school, missed social events, the fitting back in again as a "newbie", it would lead to a "wilt" and it did.
I spent time processing with Zach late last night and then chilled by reading Quiet to search for more answers. Chapter 4 "Is Temperament Destiny? Nature, Nurture and the Orchid Hypothesis" is about "highly-reactive" people - a term that was new to me.
The Orchid Hypothesis, by David Dobbs in The Atlantic: This theory holds that many children are like dandelions, able to thrive in just about any environment. But others, including the high-reactive types that Kagan studied are more like orchids; they wilt easily, but under the right conditions can grow strong and magnificent.
Is this not our God? Able to ease this Momma's mind - to provide the word -- wilt -- to help me understand He was going to help me unravel this mysery -- put a name to the matter.
Yes. Amen! Praise you Jesus. And, He didn't stop there.
I follow this blogger modernmrsdarcy.com. and, I follow her on Good Reads. Yes, I'm cyber stalking her in the nicest way. Her recommendation of Quiet led me to it. Today her blog is entitled: "Let's talk about highly-sensitive people". Ding ding ding. I'm reading about highly-reactive (sensitive) people right now - so yes, let's talk about them.
Her words today (along with links to loads of information):
A highly sensitive person is more sensitive to physical and/or emotional stimuli than the general population. According to Dr. Elaine Aron, who coined the term, the HSP “has a sensitive nervous system, is aware of subtleties in his/her surroundings, and is more easily overwhelmed when in a highly stimulating environment.”In practice, that means HSPs tend to avoid violent movies, are easily overwhelmed by bright lights and loud noises, get rattled when two people are talking to them at once, and need time and space to regroup during especially busy days.Whether or not you’ve heard the term before, that description should ring true for about 1 in 5 of you. The trait of high sensitivity affects 15-20% of the population (and Aron points out that this percentage holds across species, not just for humans).Like many people, I was first introduced to Aron’s work through Susan Cain’s excellent book Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can’t Stop Talking, and had a major “Aha!” moment of my own. (Although highly sensitive people are not a subset of introverts: 30% of HSPs are extroverts.)I’m an HSP to the core: I avoid violent imagery, I’m hugely empathic, and I feel like my head will explode when two people try to talk to me at the same time. Or if I’m trying to make dinner while the counter is cluttered with the morning’s dishes. Or if someone is singing while the radio is playing a a different song.
And, that's God for the winner. How awesome. Last night. Last night, folks, my son said "I'm wilting". Later that very night, I'm reading a book and come to a theory about "wilting". And, today a blogger I read posts all sorts of great information about HSP, with specific examples that scream "you and Zach!"
It just doesn't get more encouraging than that, folks. God individually love us all. If He does it for little old me in Franklin, Indiana - he'll do it for you. He loves you the same as He loves me.
I'm praying anew for my orchid, my Zach, as together we decide the best next step for him:
"Lead us to the right conditions so he can bloom, and grow strong and magnificent for You."
He is able to show us the way. He loves us that much.
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