If I ever needed Good Friday, it was today. There was nothing particularly wrong with today - other than this lingering chest stuffiness (which is trying its hardest to turn into bronchitis), two kids beyond tired of winter, a pile of work that was not very motivating, a house that would probably cause the child protective service people to gasp in horror and a pending drive to Happy Valley. (It doesn't matter that I lived for 18 months in Happy Valley or that it technically has fewer inhabitants than The Frontier. It still has worse traffic, more construction, more sprawl and results in more under-my-breath grumblings in the car while Woodstock says, "What mama? I can't hear you."
Tonight, once it was quiet, the girls were asleep, the laundry and dish washer were started, I listened to a podcast I'd been wanting to hear while scrubbing pots and pans and sweeping. (Sometimes I'd like to tell people my third job is as an after-hours janitor).
It was on Good Friday and Easter and how the celebration has morphed over the years.
I stopped to think about Good Friday - the day when many Christians observe the Passion and Crucifixion of Christ. Yet, little is said about the single most significant event in human history - the time CHrist spent in the garden atoning for each of us - individually - the loneliness and sadness and hurt and pain and disappointment and grief and guilt and sorrow and sin. The event that came before Christ surrendered himself to be presented before Roman officials in a mock trial.
This has been one of those incredibly long weeks. Two sick kids, one sick mom a seemingly endless season of rain and cold and damp, a house that has self-reproducing piles and an imaginary cleaning fairy that listens about as well as a 3-year-old. One of those weeks when the silence is too quiet, the noises are too loud, the to do list is too long ... I caught myself thinking how the atonement takes care of times like this too. That Christ felt all of this - and more - as he submitted himself in prayer to his Father. That he knows what it feels like to be a parent who doesn't feel well and still must plow through without thought of sleep or noodle soup or respite in order to keep the world (and the children) functioning at a semi-appropriate level.
It's a simple little thing - this too shall pass - and yet ... I'm glad for the rmeembrance that my Savior knows ME and suffered for ME and submitted Himself to unspeakable horrors in order to make MY life a little easier.
Good Friday indeed.
Showing posts with label Faith. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Faith. Show all posts
Friday, April 22, 2011
Friday, January 22, 2010
More on Monsters (and Childlike Faith)
As I mentioned a few days ago, Woodstock has a newfound fear of monsters - which apparently inhabit every dark corner of our house.
In an attempt to help arm her with tools that she could use to banish the monsters herself - therefore preventing me from having to "rescue" her over and over (and over) again - I told her, "When you are afraid, say a little prayer and Heavenly Father will help you."
Several nights of me going in to help her say a little prayer later (thinking "this is not going how I planned") ...
Tonight Woodstock called out from her crib (yes, she's still in a crib; no she hasn't tried to climb out yet; yes, we have a real bed for her; no, she isn't interested in it *sigh*), "Mama! I scared of da monsters, but is okay, I say a yittle prayer." I then heard:
"Heabenly Fader, Dank you for dis day, pa-yease bless Woodstock to not be afraid of da monsters. And help Mommy and Pebbles to not be scared of da monsters. Jesus name AMEN."
I could hardly keep from laughing for the sheer cuteness of it and crying from the absolute faith she has.
10 minutes later, the monsters returned. Woodstock called out, "I scared of da monsters, but is okay, I say anoder yittle prayer."
Sometimes, being a parent has payoffs much greater than I could have ever dreamed.
In an attempt to help arm her with tools that she could use to banish the monsters herself - therefore preventing me from having to "rescue" her over and over (and over) again - I told her, "When you are afraid, say a little prayer and Heavenly Father will help you."
Several nights of me going in to help her say a little prayer later (thinking "this is not going how I planned") ...
Tonight Woodstock called out from her crib (yes, she's still in a crib; no she hasn't tried to climb out yet; yes, we have a real bed for her; no, she isn't interested in it *sigh*), "Mama! I scared of da monsters, but is okay, I say a yittle prayer." I then heard:
"Heabenly Fader, Dank you for dis day, pa-yease bless Woodstock to not be afraid of da monsters. And help Mommy and Pebbles to not be scared of da monsters. Jesus name AMEN."
I could hardly keep from laughing for the sheer cuteness of it and crying from the absolute faith she has.
10 minutes later, the monsters returned. Woodstock called out, "I scared of da monsters, but is okay, I say anoder yittle prayer."
Sometimes, being a parent has payoffs much greater than I could have ever dreamed.
Friday, December 04, 2009
Round and Round We Go
Okay, so I'm behind. I still am going to blog my week of Thanksgiving, but between an office move, a holiday and an infant who decided that sleeping through the night was for the birds, I've been in a state of "just short of self-combustion" these days.
One of the glories of my job was that it was located a mere 9.25 miles from home - in the opposite direction travelled by anyone else going to work in The Frontier. If you tacked on the short drive to Miss Jan's and back to the office, it brought it up to 10 miles even.
It was a pretty sweet deal, especially after some of the commutes I've had - the longest (mileage-wise) of which involved a bridge-tunnel in the morning, a high-rise bridge in the afternoon and 72 miles of round-trip-stuck-in-traffic-delight. The problem was, the actual office at The Office left a lot to be desired - even for a nonprofit. The rents were high, the cleaning crew was non-existent (we had a "bring-your-vacuum-to-work cleaning party the last week in the office), the landlord unstable and the digs were ... well, balancing on the fine line between modest and terrible.
So, The Office moved to swanky new digs downtown - cheaper rent, cleaner toilets, effusive landlords and space that feels akin to the organizational "feel". It's also only 8.2 miles from my house.
The problem lies in the fact that The Office, while closer to my house now (by a mile each way) is now 16 miles from Miss Jan's. Drive south 9.5(ish) miles. Drop girls off. Drive north 16 miles. Spend .3 miles in the parking garage. Repeat in reverse eight hours later. It's not so much the distance (reference the 72-mile round-trip commute above) or the traffic (after East Cost traffic, this is nothing) or the extra gas/mileage/upkeep costs (still cheaper, more reliable and faster *sigh* than public transit here). It is two-fold: the fact that I have to go south to go north and drive an extra 35+ miles a day and the fact that I arrive home 40 minutes later than usual, exhausted, hungry and cold - posessing two children who feel the exact same way - only to have to switch hats and face my other life. The life that involves dishes, dinner prep, housekeeping (ha - as if that happens), bedtime and prep for the next day (dinner prep, dishes, housekeeping, setting clothing out, etc).
Once this week, it was too much. I was late picking the girls up, the traffic was in rare form (2 accidents, 1 construction zone = nightmare no matter which way I drove) and I just wanted to yell "Forgetaboutit!" and calculate the horrors of moving into a cardboard box and eating top ramen for the next 10 years.
Instead, I hung my head over the sink and sobbed as I wondered how long I'd have to pay for my sin of overindulgence and foolish financial management in my twenties.
The moment passed and the next day dawned sunny and hopeful - as new days have a tendancy to do (even in The Frontier winters). That night, my boss gave me a letter of appreciation and indicated that I'd be receiving a small bonus in my next check. I remembered that he didn't bat an eye earlier in the week when I announced that Miss Jan's relative had died suddenly and she would be closed for the funeral - he merely agreed that working from home would be fine. My paycheck came. Woodstock proclaimed how much she loved seeing her friends at Miss Jan's. Pebbles slept through the night again. I got more than 4 hours of sleep (only 5 1/2 actually, but that's better than 4). I remembered that I had a good, flexible job with a good paycheck in a crummy economy. I remembered that I had a fantastic, dependable, trustworthy, salt-of-the-earth sitter - who only charges me the rate for one child, even though she watches two.
And I realized that sometimes blessings come in the most unexpected moments. I still dislike my new commute, but there are far worse things in the world - and someday, I'll settle into a routine and laugh at how inefficient and inept I used to be.
One of the glories of my job was that it was located a mere 9.25 miles from home - in the opposite direction travelled by anyone else going to work in The Frontier. If you tacked on the short drive to Miss Jan's and back to the office, it brought it up to 10 miles even.
It was a pretty sweet deal, especially after some of the commutes I've had - the longest (mileage-wise) of which involved a bridge-tunnel in the morning, a high-rise bridge in the afternoon and 72 miles of round-trip-stuck-in-traffic-delight. The problem was, the actual office at The Office left a lot to be desired - even for a nonprofit. The rents were high, the cleaning crew was non-existent (we had a "bring-your-vacuum-to-work cleaning party the last week in the office), the landlord unstable and the digs were ... well, balancing on the fine line between modest and terrible.
So, The Office moved to swanky new digs downtown - cheaper rent, cleaner toilets, effusive landlords and space that feels akin to the organizational "feel". It's also only 8.2 miles from my house.
The problem lies in the fact that The Office, while closer to my house now (by a mile each way) is now 16 miles from Miss Jan's. Drive south 9.5(ish) miles. Drop girls off. Drive north 16 miles. Spend .3 miles in the parking garage. Repeat in reverse eight hours later. It's not so much the distance (reference the 72-mile round-trip commute above) or the traffic (after East Cost traffic, this is nothing) or the extra gas/mileage/upkeep costs (still cheaper, more reliable and faster *sigh* than public transit here). It is two-fold: the fact that I have to go south to go north and drive an extra 35+ miles a day and the fact that I arrive home 40 minutes later than usual, exhausted, hungry and cold - posessing two children who feel the exact same way - only to have to switch hats and face my other life. The life that involves dishes, dinner prep, housekeeping (ha - as if that happens), bedtime and prep for the next day (dinner prep, dishes, housekeeping, setting clothing out, etc).
Once this week, it was too much. I was late picking the girls up, the traffic was in rare form (2 accidents, 1 construction zone = nightmare no matter which way I drove) and I just wanted to yell "Forgetaboutit!" and calculate the horrors of moving into a cardboard box and eating top ramen for the next 10 years.
Instead, I hung my head over the sink and sobbed as I wondered how long I'd have to pay for my sin of overindulgence and foolish financial management in my twenties.
The moment passed and the next day dawned sunny and hopeful - as new days have a tendancy to do (even in The Frontier winters). That night, my boss gave me a letter of appreciation and indicated that I'd be receiving a small bonus in my next check. I remembered that he didn't bat an eye earlier in the week when I announced that Miss Jan's relative had died suddenly and she would be closed for the funeral - he merely agreed that working from home would be fine. My paycheck came. Woodstock proclaimed how much she loved seeing her friends at Miss Jan's. Pebbles slept through the night again. I got more than 4 hours of sleep (only 5 1/2 actually, but that's better than 4). I remembered that I had a good, flexible job with a good paycheck in a crummy economy. I remembered that I had a fantastic, dependable, trustworthy, salt-of-the-earth sitter - who only charges me the rate for one child, even though she watches two.
And I realized that sometimes blessings come in the most unexpected moments. I still dislike my new commute, but there are far worse things in the world - and someday, I'll settle into a routine and laugh at how inefficient and inept I used to be.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Thank You Satellite Television
Late last spring, when we thought we were moving to the sunny beaches of California, we had our satellite TV service put on hold. For three blissful months we didn't have television.
I didn't miss it. Even Himself, who always has the TV on if he's in the same room as the TV, even if it's muted (sort of defeating the point, but he doesn't seem to realize that), didn't seem to miss it (then again, it wasn't football season).
However, since we do have to fill our contract, we opted to have it tuned on in late summer, about the time Grover showed up and not long before Pebbles was due to arrive.
And, after a recent discovery, I am SO GRATEFUL. (Words I never thought I'd utter about TV in my life).
It turns out that the BYU Channel has these wonderful, 30-minute segments in the morning and the late evening featuring professors of ancient scripture discussing various scriptures in a round-table format. The ones in the morning right now focus on the Book of Mormon. The ones in the evening focus on the Doctrine and Covenants. Each segment focuses on about 3 chapters and is full of insights, commentary and reading many of the verses aloud.
One of the things I've struggled with since going back to work and having two kids is how to fit in the morning quiet time that I require to be a fully-functioning person. As a true introvert, I require "alone time" to recharge. Usually this is when I would read my scriptures. But with an infant and a toddler and a body crying out desperately for sleep (or falling asleep at the mere opening of a book), quiet time is a rare commodity.
Enter the Discussions on the Scriptures segments. Each morning, I sit, baby and pump in hand, scriptures on my lap and watch/listen to the devotional. I've learned so much and feel that quiet Spirit that is so elusive in my house sometimes. It gives me both intellectual and spiritual stimulation that I have lacked for far too long.
Those 30 minutes a morning make whatever we're paying to have satellite TV, and that channel in particular, worth it.
And THAT is something I definitely never thought I'd say!
I didn't miss it. Even Himself, who always has the TV on if he's in the same room as the TV, even if it's muted (sort of defeating the point, but he doesn't seem to realize that), didn't seem to miss it (then again, it wasn't football season).
However, since we do have to fill our contract, we opted to have it tuned on in late summer, about the time Grover showed up and not long before Pebbles was due to arrive.
And, after a recent discovery, I am SO GRATEFUL. (Words I never thought I'd utter about TV in my life).
It turns out that the BYU Channel has these wonderful, 30-minute segments in the morning and the late evening featuring professors of ancient scripture discussing various scriptures in a round-table format. The ones in the morning right now focus on the Book of Mormon. The ones in the evening focus on the Doctrine and Covenants. Each segment focuses on about 3 chapters and is full of insights, commentary and reading many of the verses aloud.
One of the things I've struggled with since going back to work and having two kids is how to fit in the morning quiet time that I require to be a fully-functioning person. As a true introvert, I require "alone time" to recharge. Usually this is when I would read my scriptures. But with an infant and a toddler and a body crying out desperately for sleep (or falling asleep at the mere opening of a book), quiet time is a rare commodity.
Enter the Discussions on the Scriptures segments. Each morning, I sit, baby and pump in hand, scriptures on my lap and watch/listen to the devotional. I've learned so much and feel that quiet Spirit that is so elusive in my house sometimes. It gives me both intellectual and spiritual stimulation that I have lacked for far too long.
Those 30 minutes a morning make whatever we're paying to have satellite TV, and that channel in particular, worth it.
And THAT is something I definitely never thought I'd say!
Tuesday, June 09, 2009
When There's Love at Home
As a child, whenever tensions rose at our house my mother would start singing (or worse yet, make us sing with her), "When There's Love at Home."
To this day, the hymn still grates on my nerves (enter big bolt of lightening right now to strike me down - I'm sure that is not terribly appropriate to admit). There is nothing wrong with it, it just brings up memories of being annoyed at having to set aside teenage indignation to join in singing a hymn in order to forget being upset.
Today, however, I thought about it as I went about my day. Particularly the stanza that says, "Peace and plenty here abide, Smiling sweet on ev'ry side, Time doth softly, sweetly glide, When there's love at home." I was particularly reflective today, because I had a good day. I got up early, studied my Sunday School lesson over my own quiet breakfast, prayed, got the house in order, got myself ready, got dinner mostly prepped and felt good. Really good. Full and productive and ... full of peace.
The first sight that greeted me upon arriving home was Woodstock, her blonde little head in the dining room window, nose pressed to the glass (I have a new straight back chair that she has claimed as her own and has now become her perch for bird and truck watching out the front window). The second sight that greeted me was a pot of boiling potatoes on the stove. The house was mostly unchaotic (clean is a word I've wiped from my vocabulary - unchaotic is what I aim for these days). Himself was in a good mood.
I was less harried than usual thinking of dinner and bedtime routine and this and that. I failed to even have a near meltdown when the broiler element went out, leaving mostly raw chicken to be dealt with. My anxiety levels were surprisingly low, given the complicated day I had had (and the fact that even with all my careful prep, dinner was still mostly raw an hour after arriving home).
It was if God himself were saying, "You gave me some time this morning, I am going to let it fill your day," and gave me Love at Home - exactly what I needed. Peace and plenty did abide here tonight, and I'm writing it down so I remember it the next time my "natural woman" takes over, tries to be master of the universe, forgets to kneel and study in humility and wonders why the world is falling apart at the seams.
In the cottage there is joy,
When there's love at home;
Hate and envy ne'er annoy
When there's love at home.
Roses blossom 'neath our feet,
All the earth's a garden sweet,
Making life a bliss complete,
When there's love at home.
Love at home, indeed. And if having that means upping my resolve to do better at my daily study, I can certainly stand to put in the effort.
To this day, the hymn still grates on my nerves (enter big bolt of lightening right now to strike me down - I'm sure that is not terribly appropriate to admit). There is nothing wrong with it, it just brings up memories of being annoyed at having to set aside teenage indignation to join in singing a hymn in order to forget being upset.
Today, however, I thought about it as I went about my day. Particularly the stanza that says, "Peace and plenty here abide, Smiling sweet on ev'ry side, Time doth softly, sweetly glide, When there's love at home." I was particularly reflective today, because I had a good day. I got up early, studied my Sunday School lesson over my own quiet breakfast, prayed, got the house in order, got myself ready, got dinner mostly prepped and felt good. Really good. Full and productive and ... full of peace.
The first sight that greeted me upon arriving home was Woodstock, her blonde little head in the dining room window, nose pressed to the glass (I have a new straight back chair that she has claimed as her own and has now become her perch for bird and truck watching out the front window). The second sight that greeted me was a pot of boiling potatoes on the stove. The house was mostly unchaotic (clean is a word I've wiped from my vocabulary - unchaotic is what I aim for these days). Himself was in a good mood.
I was less harried than usual thinking of dinner and bedtime routine and this and that. I failed to even have a near meltdown when the broiler element went out, leaving mostly raw chicken to be dealt with. My anxiety levels were surprisingly low, given the complicated day I had had (and the fact that even with all my careful prep, dinner was still mostly raw an hour after arriving home).
It was if God himself were saying, "You gave me some time this morning, I am going to let it fill your day," and gave me Love at Home - exactly what I needed. Peace and plenty did abide here tonight, and I'm writing it down so I remember it the next time my "natural woman" takes over, tries to be master of the universe, forgets to kneel and study in humility and wonders why the world is falling apart at the seams.
In the cottage there is joy,
When there's love at home;
Hate and envy ne'er annoy
When there's love at home.
Roses blossom 'neath our feet,
All the earth's a garden sweet,
Making life a bliss complete,
When there's love at home.
Love at home, indeed. And if having that means upping my resolve to do better at my daily study, I can certainly stand to put in the effort.
Friday, May 22, 2009
Wait, Not Yet
I had an epiphany this week (they do still happen, if only rarely, while pregnant): last year at this same time I was stuck in a job I'd been praying to leave for six months. Everyone told me to quit my job - my friends, my head shrinker, my family. (Himself did not - in self-preservation he tried not to talk about my job at all, as it would inevitably result in some sort of mass hysteria on my end). Normally when everyone is saying "RUN" I run, but this time ... the quietest voice inside said, "Wait. Not just yet."
Wait! Wait? What?! I spent a good deal of time telling Him exactly what I thought of that answer - couldn't He understand that I was dying a little every day? Couldn't He understand that my boss was a tyrannical lunatic who changed her mind as often as Heidi's daughter changes princess dresses? Didn't He get the fact that when one is financially dependent on one's paycheck having it be days, weeks, late was a problem (not to mention the bounced checks or the incorrect checks)?
Never did it cross my mind that it probably wasn't a good idea to try and explain things to God. Yet, despite all the logic and advice in the world, I waited. And waited. And cried. A lot. At least I listened, even if I did murmur about it for six whole months. Unfortunately, it's more likely because I was too afraid of being unemployed for a long period of time than any grand display of faith.
Then, the events of Friday the 13th occurred, and I was spun into a web of absolute devastation. If only I had quit, on my terms, I wouldn't be facing someone who was telling me I wasn't competent and did a terrible job. I spent the weekend begging Him to reconsider the "wait, not just yet" answer. Days later, I received the answer I'd alternately hoped for and feared for six months: Now.
I gleefully quit my job. I laughed all the way to the parking lot - during the points I wasn't thinking about how on earth I was going to make an income without a job.
Days later, The Office - a client - hired me full-time almost immediately. Same pay. Less stress. MUCH less drama. I said yes because that option felt best for my family and I eventually felt peace for the first time in months - even if I was bored stiff and deeply wounded, feeling as if I'd been shattered into thousands of pieces.
As it turns out, The Office was the answer to the six months of trying to change God's mind. He knew all along. I couldn't see past my immediate misery to understand it wasn't permanent. The boredom has passed and The Office has allowed me to expand my skills, to experiment with new ones, to rebuild my confidence, to have a consistent (correct, non-bouncing) paycheck, to make a difference. Not to mention, it often allows me to work from home, flex-time and whatever else I need to do in order to be the best mother I can be while I have to be employed full-time.
More than that, however, this week, I learned, that The Office will allow me to do the one thing I haven't dared hope for: have paid maternity leave. Not for long - 6 to 8 weeks of full-pay - but more than I ever expected. I can't begin to put into words the enormity of the burden this has relieved from my shoulders. This time, I did not have to bargain with the Devil and sell my soul, my sanity and the first six weeks of my child's life in order to keep my job. This time, I do not have to work part-time eight days after giving birth - and be railroaded into feeling guilty for not being available whenever The Factory felt like it. This time, I can celebrate the birth of our daughter, revel in the love of my two little girls, and go crazy handling only the demands of motherhood. Not other option I have had over the last 18 months would have granted me all of that. None.
Of course you know why I had to wait ... there wasn't the freedom in the budget for The Office to hire me before the Friday the 13th episode, nor was their relationship so tainted with The Factory that they'd even consider breaking their contract to hire me away. It required a perfect, and painful, storm on both sides.
It has been quite the journey. Months later, with the clarity of hindsight, I can say that "Wait. Not Yet" has been one of the best answers to a prayer I've ever received.
I send my apologies and stand quite humbled. And quite blessed.
Wait! Wait? What?! I spent a good deal of time telling Him exactly what I thought of that answer - couldn't He understand that I was dying a little every day? Couldn't He understand that my boss was a tyrannical lunatic who changed her mind as often as Heidi's daughter changes princess dresses? Didn't He get the fact that when one is financially dependent on one's paycheck having it be days, weeks, late was a problem (not to mention the bounced checks or the incorrect checks)?
Never did it cross my mind that it probably wasn't a good idea to try and explain things to God. Yet, despite all the logic and advice in the world, I waited. And waited. And cried. A lot. At least I listened, even if I did murmur about it for six whole months. Unfortunately, it's more likely because I was too afraid of being unemployed for a long period of time than any grand display of faith.
Then, the events of Friday the 13th occurred, and I was spun into a web of absolute devastation. If only I had quit, on my terms, I wouldn't be facing someone who was telling me I wasn't competent and did a terrible job. I spent the weekend begging Him to reconsider the "wait, not just yet" answer. Days later, I received the answer I'd alternately hoped for and feared for six months: Now.
I gleefully quit my job. I laughed all the way to the parking lot - during the points I wasn't thinking about how on earth I was going to make an income without a job.
Days later, The Office - a client - hired me full-time almost immediately. Same pay. Less stress. MUCH less drama. I said yes because that option felt best for my family and I eventually felt peace for the first time in months - even if I was bored stiff and deeply wounded, feeling as if I'd been shattered into thousands of pieces.
As it turns out, The Office was the answer to the six months of trying to change God's mind. He knew all along. I couldn't see past my immediate misery to understand it wasn't permanent. The boredom has passed and The Office has allowed me to expand my skills, to experiment with new ones, to rebuild my confidence, to have a consistent (correct, non-bouncing) paycheck, to make a difference. Not to mention, it often allows me to work from home, flex-time and whatever else I need to do in order to be the best mother I can be while I have to be employed full-time.
More than that, however, this week, I learned, that The Office will allow me to do the one thing I haven't dared hope for: have paid maternity leave. Not for long - 6 to 8 weeks of full-pay - but more than I ever expected. I can't begin to put into words the enormity of the burden this has relieved from my shoulders. This time, I did not have to bargain with the Devil and sell my soul, my sanity and the first six weeks of my child's life in order to keep my job. This time, I do not have to work part-time eight days after giving birth - and be railroaded into feeling guilty for not being available whenever The Factory felt like it. This time, I can celebrate the birth of our daughter, revel in the love of my two little girls, and go crazy handling only the demands of motherhood. Not other option I have had over the last 18 months would have granted me all of that. None.
Of course you know why I had to wait ... there wasn't the freedom in the budget for The Office to hire me before the Friday the 13th episode, nor was their relationship so tainted with The Factory that they'd even consider breaking their contract to hire me away. It required a perfect, and painful, storm on both sides.
It has been quite the journey. Months later, with the clarity of hindsight, I can say that "Wait. Not Yet" has been one of the best answers to a prayer I've ever received.
I send my apologies and stand quite humbled. And quite blessed.
Thursday, May 07, 2009
I See My Mother Kneeling...
There is a children's church song that was one of my favorites when I was a child, "Love is Spoken Here." The first verse goes:
This morning found me with those lyrics running through my head as I knelt in the middle of my bed, pleading. Only my pleas weren't of the "please keep my child from driving me insane and selling her to the gypsies" variety. I realized about halfway through that I really hoped this was one "plea to the Father" that Woodstock wouldn't hear, because what mother wants to admit she's pleading to be as good as her child?
It sounds, in words on paper (in cyberspace), ridiculous. But I have a strongly held belief that until the age of accountability, children are, in essences, perfect spirits. That, combined with Woodstock's utterly gentle, loving nature, makes me want to weep at how much she's taught me. It hardly equates with me teaching her the letters of the alphabet or that big green harvesting machines are called "Combines" (she's really into trucks at the moment - obsesively into trucks, I might add).
Yesterday was a no-good-horrible-very-bad-day, for a dozen of little reasons. I kept it mostly together all day. Shortly before Woodstock's bedtime, I began fighting off tears. Tears of hormonal pregnant insantiy, to be certain, but tears nonetheless.
As I rocked Woodstock before bedtime, tears pooling in my eyes, she looked up at me and said, "Momma sad," and snuggled into me, resting her little blonde head beneath my chin. As I put her down, for the first time, unprompted, she said, "Love you Momma."
This morning, after the emotional fog had cleared and I was again thinking with some form of rational process, I struggled to express myself to my own Father - who has certainly never felt that I was better than He - He whom I must have disappointed thousands of times over and over. How does a mother, four days before Mother's Day, pay homage to her Father for the gift he has given her that has opened her heart to so much goodness, so much love, so much clarity? How does one say "thank you" for a little person's wisdom and insight? How does one plead with her Father to help her refrain from screwing things up as she tries to protect the love and goodness inside the snuggly lump of purple fleece in the other room?
How indeed.
This Mother's Day, I want to thank Woodstock - for teaching more than I could ever hope to teach her.
I see my mother kneeling with our family each day.As a child, a teen, an adult, I generally thought of the "her plea to the Father" as one of those of the "Father, please keep my children from driving me insane and selling them to the gypsies" variety.
I hear the words she whispers as she bows her head to pray.
Her plea to the Father quiets all my fears,
And I am thankful love is spoken here.
This morning found me with those lyrics running through my head as I knelt in the middle of my bed, pleading. Only my pleas weren't of the "please keep my child from driving me insane and selling her to the gypsies" variety. I realized about halfway through that I really hoped this was one "plea to the Father" that Woodstock wouldn't hear, because what mother wants to admit she's pleading to be as good as her child?
It sounds, in words on paper (in cyberspace), ridiculous. But I have a strongly held belief that until the age of accountability, children are, in essences, perfect spirits. That, combined with Woodstock's utterly gentle, loving nature, makes me want to weep at how much she's taught me. It hardly equates with me teaching her the letters of the alphabet or that big green harvesting machines are called "Combines" (she's really into trucks at the moment - obsesively into trucks, I might add).
Yesterday was a no-good-horrible-very-bad-day, for a dozen of little reasons. I kept it mostly together all day. Shortly before Woodstock's bedtime, I began fighting off tears. Tears of hormonal pregnant insantiy, to be certain, but tears nonetheless.
As I rocked Woodstock before bedtime, tears pooling in my eyes, she looked up at me and said, "Momma sad," and snuggled into me, resting her little blonde head beneath my chin. As I put her down, for the first time, unprompted, she said, "Love you Momma."
This morning, after the emotional fog had cleared and I was again thinking with some form of rational process, I struggled to express myself to my own Father - who has certainly never felt that I was better than He - He whom I must have disappointed thousands of times over and over. How does a mother, four days before Mother's Day, pay homage to her Father for the gift he has given her that has opened her heart to so much goodness, so much love, so much clarity? How does one say "thank you" for a little person's wisdom and insight? How does one plead with her Father to help her refrain from screwing things up as she tries to protect the love and goodness inside the snuggly lump of purple fleece in the other room?
How indeed.
This Mother's Day, I want to thank Woodstock - for teaching more than I could ever hope to teach her.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Pause and Thank
Today's post was going to be about my nearly hysterical tax adventures (or mis-adventures), but then something profound happened, so you'll have to wait (I know you are counting the minutes) for that.
Over the last six months, I have been heard, more than once, saying, "I am so grateful for this economic crisis," which on it's face sounds like I've lost one too many brain cells. While I undoubtedly have lost more than one too many brain cells, I truly AM grateful for the economic crisis - for reminding me of just how blessed I am. I mourn for those who are victims of the topsy turvy "never-quite-sure-what-to-expect-next" chaos, for those who are biting their nails at how on earth they are going to get through the next day, month, week, for those who find themselves suddenly unemployed. I've been there. I've also been on the "spend too much and think too little" end, and I'm happy to have found a relative balance.
But today, I was profoundly reminded of how blessed every single one of us are. I was standing on the sidewalk, in 40-degree, windy, threatening-to-snow weather downtown. A colleague and I were chatting following a networking lunch of cheese and chocolate fondue. A woman, clean, but obviously distressed, carrying a baby in a Snugli draped with a small blanket - diaper bag over her shoulder - approached us.
She timidly said, "I'm so sorry to bother you. I lost my job and was evicted from my apartment a few days ago. I'm on a waiting list for a shelter and an apartment with vouchers, staying at the Motel 8. I was supposed to move in today, but the people in the apartment I'm getting didn't move out, and I am scrambling to find $35 to pay for another night at the hotel. Do you have anything you can spare? I called my ex-husband, and he won't help."
I will admit, I'm a bit jaded and terribly practical - too much so for my own (and others) good. But that baby. I didn't care what happened, it just broke my heart. I stood looking at her, tears nearly pricking my eyes, and I handed her the last $4 in cash I had from my wallet. Then I said, "I have an extra clean blanket in my car, would that help?" (Winter isn't over yet - I always have a blanket in the car during the winter). Her face lit up and she said, "Oh yes - I'm so worried about my baby in this cold."
I asked if I could see her baby. There he was, 4 months old, snuggled up in the Snugli under the small blanket with a pacifier, unaware that anything was wrong. He was beautiful. She wrapped the larger blanket around him. I wanted to hug her, sob and drag her out to buy a can of formula, but it wasn't really practical, given the circumstances.
When she departed, I told my colleague, "I don't normally do things like that, but oh, that baby!"
Right then, I remembered again just how fortunate I am. I have a more than adequate home. I know how I'm going to pay the rent this month. There is food - nutritious, fresh and abundant, in my pantry. I have a job. Himself has a job. I have a family. I have reliable transportation. There are people who love me.
I uttered a silent prayer on my way back to the office. "Heavenly Father, thank you for reminding me of how truly blessed I am, for giving me someone to help today, even just a little, and help me never to know what it feels like to not be able to provide the basic necessities for my children."
I'm hugging Woodstock extra close tonight and delighting in the aerobatics of her little sister, who seems to be quite content to kick my bladder repeatedly. May they never have to wonder where they will sleep at night. May I always be able to provide shelter, a bed, warmth, food and love.
May we not take for granted those things which place us among the most wealthy in the world.
Over the last six months, I have been heard, more than once, saying, "I am so grateful for this economic crisis," which on it's face sounds like I've lost one too many brain cells. While I undoubtedly have lost more than one too many brain cells, I truly AM grateful for the economic crisis - for reminding me of just how blessed I am. I mourn for those who are victims of the topsy turvy "never-quite-sure-what-to-expect-next" chaos, for those who are biting their nails at how on earth they are going to get through the next day, month, week, for those who find themselves suddenly unemployed. I've been there. I've also been on the "spend too much and think too little" end, and I'm happy to have found a relative balance.
But today, I was profoundly reminded of how blessed every single one of us are. I was standing on the sidewalk, in 40-degree, windy, threatening-to-snow weather downtown. A colleague and I were chatting following a networking lunch of cheese and chocolate fondue. A woman, clean, but obviously distressed, carrying a baby in a Snugli draped with a small blanket - diaper bag over her shoulder - approached us.
She timidly said, "I'm so sorry to bother you. I lost my job and was evicted from my apartment a few days ago. I'm on a waiting list for a shelter and an apartment with vouchers, staying at the Motel 8. I was supposed to move in today, but the people in the apartment I'm getting didn't move out, and I am scrambling to find $35 to pay for another night at the hotel. Do you have anything you can spare? I called my ex-husband, and he won't help."
I will admit, I'm a bit jaded and terribly practical - too much so for my own (and others) good. But that baby. I didn't care what happened, it just broke my heart. I stood looking at her, tears nearly pricking my eyes, and I handed her the last $4 in cash I had from my wallet. Then I said, "I have an extra clean blanket in my car, would that help?" (Winter isn't over yet - I always have a blanket in the car during the winter). Her face lit up and she said, "Oh yes - I'm so worried about my baby in this cold."
I asked if I could see her baby. There he was, 4 months old, snuggled up in the Snugli under the small blanket with a pacifier, unaware that anything was wrong. He was beautiful. She wrapped the larger blanket around him. I wanted to hug her, sob and drag her out to buy a can of formula, but it wasn't really practical, given the circumstances.
When she departed, I told my colleague, "I don't normally do things like that, but oh, that baby!"
Right then, I remembered again just how fortunate I am. I have a more than adequate home. I know how I'm going to pay the rent this month. There is food - nutritious, fresh and abundant, in my pantry. I have a job. Himself has a job. I have a family. I have reliable transportation. There are people who love me.
I uttered a silent prayer on my way back to the office. "Heavenly Father, thank you for reminding me of how truly blessed I am, for giving me someone to help today, even just a little, and help me never to know what it feels like to not be able to provide the basic necessities for my children."
I'm hugging Woodstock extra close tonight and delighting in the aerobatics of her little sister, who seems to be quite content to kick my bladder repeatedly. May they never have to wonder where they will sleep at night. May I always be able to provide shelter, a bed, warmth, food and love.
May we not take for granted those things which place us among the most wealthy in the world.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
The Hand of Providence
My Sunday School lesson this week is on personal revelation. As I've begun to study the materials and scriptures associated with it, I've become extraordinarily aware of just how much personal revelation, promptings and answers to prayer have played such a key role in my life over the last 12 months.
For months, I prayed for a new job to replace The Factory, where I worked for the Wicked Witch and struggled personally, professionally and emotionally. For months, I received the distinct answer, "It's not time." Then the entire thing came crumbling down around me and I moaned, "I tried to leave - why didn't you let me leave?" Only to discover a better job for my situation sitting under my nose. One that would not have been there three or six months prior.
There were big things like that, but there have been little things over the last month that have proven to be just as significant. Like the fact that 12 days ago, I read an article on something about pains you shouldn't ignore - including non-muscular calf pain. Two days later, I end up with a sharp pain in my calf. I thought it was psychosomatic, but the doctor recommended I come in and be seen anyway. Turns out, there were no indicators of anything significant, but when the pain got worse, the doctor complied with my plea of "you have to do something - something isn't right" and ordered an ultrasound. Sure enough, several deep-vein clots had taken up residence in the vein behind my knee.
I was in need of a doctor early in the month. I asked for recommendations, looked at my insurance plans and fretted. I chose one - highly recommended online, by people I knew and accepted both my insurances. However, it was a solo practice. I just couldn't shake the feeling in the back of my mind that I wasn't quite comfortable - nor could I explain in any rational fashion why I wasn't comfortable. I ended up going with another practitioner at the last minute - one who practices in a larger practice that includes an in-house lab, several doctors and a connection with some key specialists in the valley. Three weeks later, I am eternally grateful for having made that decision, given the amount of time I've spent in the lab, with ALL of the practice's doctors and the time I will be spending with the specialists with whom they consult.
Sure, it could be coincidence, but too many things in my life have happened to put much stock in happenstance. It's easy to get caught up in living the life of Super Woman and forget that there are little times, little feelings/promptings/answers that guide you in a certain way. I'm a firm believer in mother's intuition. I'm a firm believer that there is Someone who cares very much about me and my life and if I'd only be patient (I would work on this, but my one stint praying for patience was such a disaster I now maintain - be careful what you pray for, you might just get the opportunity) I can see the Hand of Providence weaving a very careful tapestry of my life - just so.
I am beyond comforted as I prepare my lesson this week. I know it will be one of those weeks when I learn far more than the 15+ 15(ish)-year-olds who will shuffle into my classroom on Sunday. I'm comforted to recognize the big and little instances where God has directed my life, especially those of late, as I face some challenges, unknowns and decisions in the upcoming months.
Somtimes, it's good to know one is not alone, in whatever way that is manifested.
For months, I prayed for a new job to replace The Factory, where I worked for the Wicked Witch and struggled personally, professionally and emotionally. For months, I received the distinct answer, "It's not time." Then the entire thing came crumbling down around me and I moaned, "I tried to leave - why didn't you let me leave?" Only to discover a better job for my situation sitting under my nose. One that would not have been there three or six months prior.
There were big things like that, but there have been little things over the last month that have proven to be just as significant. Like the fact that 12 days ago, I read an article on something about pains you shouldn't ignore - including non-muscular calf pain. Two days later, I end up with a sharp pain in my calf. I thought it was psychosomatic, but the doctor recommended I come in and be seen anyway. Turns out, there were no indicators of anything significant, but when the pain got worse, the doctor complied with my plea of "you have to do something - something isn't right" and ordered an ultrasound. Sure enough, several deep-vein clots had taken up residence in the vein behind my knee.
I was in need of a doctor early in the month. I asked for recommendations, looked at my insurance plans and fretted. I chose one - highly recommended online, by people I knew and accepted both my insurances. However, it was a solo practice. I just couldn't shake the feeling in the back of my mind that I wasn't quite comfortable - nor could I explain in any rational fashion why I wasn't comfortable. I ended up going with another practitioner at the last minute - one who practices in a larger practice that includes an in-house lab, several doctors and a connection with some key specialists in the valley. Three weeks later, I am eternally grateful for having made that decision, given the amount of time I've spent in the lab, with ALL of the practice's doctors and the time I will be spending with the specialists with whom they consult.
Sure, it could be coincidence, but too many things in my life have happened to put much stock in happenstance. It's easy to get caught up in living the life of Super Woman and forget that there are little times, little feelings/promptings/answers that guide you in a certain way. I'm a firm believer in mother's intuition. I'm a firm believer that there is Someone who cares very much about me and my life and if I'd only be patient (I would work on this, but my one stint praying for patience was such a disaster I now maintain - be careful what you pray for, you might just get the opportunity) I can see the Hand of Providence weaving a very careful tapestry of my life - just so.
I am beyond comforted as I prepare my lesson this week. I know it will be one of those weeks when I learn far more than the 15+ 15(ish)-year-olds who will shuffle into my classroom on Sunday. I'm comforted to recognize the big and little instances where God has directed my life, especially those of late, as I face some challenges, unknowns and decisions in the upcoming months.
Somtimes, it's good to know one is not alone, in whatever way that is manifested.
Monday, January 19, 2009
Tradition v. Testimony
Yesterday in Sunday School we had an interesting debate-lightly-disguised-as-a-conversation about tradition v. testimony - those who practice religion because it's "tradition" (everyone else in the family does it, so why not?) versus those who practice religion because they have a testimony of the core principles, ordinances and beliefs.
I was amazed at how many people who said they were glad to be born the religion they were, because they could never change something that was so deeply ingrained as a tradition in their family.
For some reason, that bothered me.
I am the same religion as my parents. I was baptized at age 8, attended religion classes throughout high school and college, teach Sunday School and (try to, at least) follow the principles and precepts of said religion.
However, while I was introduced to the religion by my parents and grew up learning the principles and precepts from childhood, I don't stay because it's "tradition." Indeed, it requires far too much effort to stay because my family thinks it's a good idea. I've long done little things to prove I am my own person within the family group.
For instance, I am the kid who got a lime-green retainer, not because I wanted one but because my mom said, "You can get any color but green." (She thought it was gross. I thought if she couldn't come up with a better reason, it was a perfectly legitimate way in which to safely rebel).
I registered for the "other" political party upon turning 18, just to prove a point - which was largely that I could make my own decisions (we'll dispense with whether or not it's a good idea that an 18-year-old can legally be allowed to make his/her own decisions).
I chafed at being told how to fold towels, so I started folding them my own way when I left home (only to relent to my mom's version several years later, once I realized why she was so picky about it).
I thought washing baseboards - a weekly activity in our household - was a dumb idea, so I didn't do that either. Until I realized how gross they get if one never cleans them.
I even went through a (gasp) not-going-to-church-much phase, as I worked out my own place in the world and my own theology and philosophy.
The point being, it would take a lot more than my parents' dedication to a religion to make me go to church at 1 p.m. on a Sunday afternoon just for the heck of it, for example. Among other, larger things.
I don't doubt that the people who said they could not change religions because of family tradition have a testimony (to some degree) of the religion in which they profess to believe. Yet, I often wonder how many show up on Sunday because they feel obligated to and leave feeling as if they've done their "religious duty" for another week, only to metaphorically put it on a shelf until the next Sunday rolls around.
I did that. It didn't work out so well for me. I'm far from perfect (my list of "sins of omission" could create an epic-length decree), but I try (some times harder than others) and I believe (not "try to believe" but trying and believing - just to clarify). For me, while I was introduced, and certainly influenced, by my family - I don't stay because it makes mom or dad happy. I practice (some times more faithfuly than others) because I truly believe. Because it brings peace. Because enough of it makes sense to my logical self to ground me and there is enough hope and reassurance to make my emotional self not feel left out. Because it works for me.
That said, I can't say that I don't love some of the family traditions that have evolved as a result.
I was amazed at how many people who said they were glad to be born the religion they were, because they could never change something that was so deeply ingrained as a tradition in their family.
For some reason, that bothered me.
I am the same religion as my parents. I was baptized at age 8, attended religion classes throughout high school and college, teach Sunday School and (try to, at least) follow the principles and precepts of said religion.
However, while I was introduced to the religion by my parents and grew up learning the principles and precepts from childhood, I don't stay because it's "tradition." Indeed, it requires far too much effort to stay because my family thinks it's a good idea. I've long done little things to prove I am my own person within the family group.
For instance, I am the kid who got a lime-green retainer, not because I wanted one but because my mom said, "You can get any color but green." (She thought it was gross. I thought if she couldn't come up with a better reason, it was a perfectly legitimate way in which to safely rebel).
I registered for the "other" political party upon turning 18, just to prove a point - which was largely that I could make my own decisions (we'll dispense with whether or not it's a good idea that an 18-year-old can legally be allowed to make his/her own decisions).
I chafed at being told how to fold towels, so I started folding them my own way when I left home (only to relent to my mom's version several years later, once I realized why she was so picky about it).
I thought washing baseboards - a weekly activity in our household - was a dumb idea, so I didn't do that either. Until I realized how gross they get if one never cleans them.
I even went through a (gasp) not-going-to-church-much phase, as I worked out my own place in the world and my own theology and philosophy.
The point being, it would take a lot more than my parents' dedication to a religion to make me go to church at 1 p.m. on a Sunday afternoon just for the heck of it, for example. Among other, larger things.
I don't doubt that the people who said they could not change religions because of family tradition have a testimony (to some degree) of the religion in which they profess to believe. Yet, I often wonder how many show up on Sunday because they feel obligated to and leave feeling as if they've done their "religious duty" for another week, only to metaphorically put it on a shelf until the next Sunday rolls around.
I did that. It didn't work out so well for me. I'm far from perfect (my list of "sins of omission" could create an epic-length decree), but I try (some times harder than others) and I believe (not "try to believe" but trying and believing - just to clarify). For me, while I was introduced, and certainly influenced, by my family - I don't stay because it makes mom or dad happy. I practice (some times more faithfuly than others) because I truly believe. Because it brings peace. Because enough of it makes sense to my logical self to ground me and there is enough hope and reassurance to make my emotional self not feel left out. Because it works for me.
That said, I can't say that I don't love some of the family traditions that have evolved as a result.
Thursday, January 08, 2009
On Miracles
I believe in miracles - big and small - things completely unexplained by rational thought. I've seen miracles in my own life. I am still alive because of a couple.
However, I've come to realize that miracles - and answers to prayers (another thing in which I believe strongly) - sometimes come disguised as something else. Like the Emperor's New Clothes, sometimes miracles can only be seen, and appreciated, by those looking with an open mindset, unencumbered by preconcieved notions, petty demands and a narrow definition.
Miracles are, well, miraculous - even the small ones can be amazing and wonderful and bring a person to her knees. Yet, there are times, when miracles, in all their wonder, are unexpected, unexplained and in one's limited scope of life, seem less-than-miraculous.
Sometimes miracles hurt. Sometimes they don't seem quite like the wonderful thing people make miracles out to be. Sometimes they don't seem right for us at all. Sometimes miracles and answers to prayers are inconvenient.
I've had some of those too.
Sometimes it takes realizing what the miracles bring to understand their miraculous nature.
Often, it means placing the miracle in God's hands and asking for guidance and praying for peace.
However, I've come to realize that miracles - and answers to prayers (another thing in which I believe strongly) - sometimes come disguised as something else. Like the Emperor's New Clothes, sometimes miracles can only be seen, and appreciated, by those looking with an open mindset, unencumbered by preconcieved notions, petty demands and a narrow definition.
Miracles are, well, miraculous - even the small ones can be amazing and wonderful and bring a person to her knees. Yet, there are times, when miracles, in all their wonder, are unexpected, unexplained and in one's limited scope of life, seem less-than-miraculous.
Sometimes miracles hurt. Sometimes they don't seem quite like the wonderful thing people make miracles out to be. Sometimes they don't seem right for us at all. Sometimes miracles and answers to prayers are inconvenient.
I've had some of those too.
Sometimes it takes realizing what the miracles bring to understand their miraculous nature.
Often, it means placing the miracle in God's hands and asking for guidance and praying for peace.
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
'Twas Two Days Before Christmas ...
'Twas two days before Christmas and the valley was covered in a thin sheet of ice and snow. My morning commute, against traffic, and therefore in generally-as-yet-unplowed territory, was trecherous. I crept up the block, then slogged up the hill. The far lane - the one leading to the Interstate that would lead to work - wasn't cleared at all. On a normal basis, I loathe driving in the snow - the constant state of panic about what my car - and the hundreds of cars around me - are going to do at any given second.
I know the "rules" about driving in snow, but it doesn't make it any better. With Woodstock in the car, everything gets ratcheted up times ten.
Tuesday, with blowing snow and ice-coated streets, wasn't any different, unless possibly, given the uncleared lane, it was worse. I made the hard right onto the on-ramp, in low gear, going 10 mph. Just enough to make the turn. Immediately, before the car had time to recover from the turn or figure out what was going on, I hit a solid sheet of ice. I quickly assessed the situation and decided at all costs, that I had to keep the car from sliding into the guard rail and potentially into traffic. I steered into the skid, did what I could ... and slid, nearly head-on, into a wall - 270 degrees from the direction in which I had been facing when I began.
CRUNCH. The fleeting feeling of helplessness and tension filled my body as the wall approached. I tried to keep one eye on the wall and one on the cars behind me - would they hit the same patch of ice? The one that slid a little, would it hit me broadside, as I was now perpendicular across the on-ramp? I counted my breaths to keep the rising agony at bay. Woodstock was on the side of the car that would be hit by any oncoming traffic, should they not be able to navigate their way around me.
I've never been in an accident while driving before, and I was in no mood to figure out what to do about it now. The first thing I had to do, damage to my front end be damned, was to get Woodstock out of harm's way. Except, that meant backing up, toward the downward slope and traffic and the guardrail, over the same sheet of ice that had put me in this predicament to begin with. I wanted to close my eyes as I put the car in reverse, but I figured that would only make matters worse. Truly making matters worse was the blind turn that cars entering the interstate had to make from the road to the on-ramp - and I was right in their path.
What felt like minutes, but was in fact only seconds, later, I was facing the right direction. I drove a little ways down the on-ramp until the shoulder widened to where I felt minimally safer pulling over and letting my breath out. At least Woodstock was out of the direct-impact zone. I dialed Himself.
Of course, he was concerned about our safety, but the next sentence was, "which car did you take?" I replied, "the Acura, of course." Of course, because I've only ever managed to damage the nicer of whatever two cars we've owned.
Still afraid to risk life, limb and tailbone (the shoulder was ice, however), to see the damage, I continued on my way, dropping Woodstock off, then making it (half-an-hour late) to the office. When I finally stepped out to examine the damage, I was perplexed.
While I was only going 10 mph when I went into the skid, I was a moving object that came to rest upon impact with a standing object, which would necessarily require that the object with the lesser mass (the car) would suffer impact damage. (I did learn something in physics, which I figured was pretty much impossible).
What I saw however, could not be. The license plate was crumpled almost beyond recognition. The license plate holder looked rather forlorn. The bumper had popped a couple of pins, and ... nothing else. To be certain, the front end was covered in snow, but even when I half-heartedly (not really wanting to see any damage) brushed it away, I could find no other evidence of having hit a concrete wall at a 75-degree angle.
Later, I took the car into the mechanic to get a good once-over - completely certain that there had to be more damage - the radiator, the air conditioning unit - something in the front that must have certainly cracked or jarred loose on impact.
The service tech came to find me.
"So you really hit a wall, huh?"
"Yes."
He went on to explain that the license plate holder was damaged beyond repair - though they had hammered my license plate back into something resembling, well, a license plate rather than a crumpled ball of foil. There were some bumper pins that needed replacing and ... that was it. $40 of parts, they were waiving the labor (since I also needed an oil change, new windshield wipers and surprise! the tires that we hoped would be okay for another month were not, actually, okay).
I nearly hugged the tech. $40? I hit a wall and the worst outcome was a $40 debit from my checking account? (In reality, it was over $400 - tires, oil change and wipers were not, unfortunately free - but weren't on the "accident" tab).
I prayed on the way back to the office. I celebrated the miracle of life, of morning prayers uttered to "keep us safe and bless us as we drive," of the man upstairs who knew that just once, I needed something to go my way.
The car parked in my driveway now, waiting for our trek to the southern desert to visit family, is testament that miracles still happen.
Merry Christmas.
I know the "rules" about driving in snow, but it doesn't make it any better. With Woodstock in the car, everything gets ratcheted up times ten.
Tuesday, with blowing snow and ice-coated streets, wasn't any different, unless possibly, given the uncleared lane, it was worse. I made the hard right onto the on-ramp, in low gear, going 10 mph. Just enough to make the turn. Immediately, before the car had time to recover from the turn or figure out what was going on, I hit a solid sheet of ice. I quickly assessed the situation and decided at all costs, that I had to keep the car from sliding into the guard rail and potentially into traffic. I steered into the skid, did what I could ... and slid, nearly head-on, into a wall - 270 degrees from the direction in which I had been facing when I began.
CRUNCH. The fleeting feeling of helplessness and tension filled my body as the wall approached. I tried to keep one eye on the wall and one on the cars behind me - would they hit the same patch of ice? The one that slid a little, would it hit me broadside, as I was now perpendicular across the on-ramp? I counted my breaths to keep the rising agony at bay. Woodstock was on the side of the car that would be hit by any oncoming traffic, should they not be able to navigate their way around me.
I've never been in an accident while driving before, and I was in no mood to figure out what to do about it now. The first thing I had to do, damage to my front end be damned, was to get Woodstock out of harm's way. Except, that meant backing up, toward the downward slope and traffic and the guardrail, over the same sheet of ice that had put me in this predicament to begin with. I wanted to close my eyes as I put the car in reverse, but I figured that would only make matters worse. Truly making matters worse was the blind turn that cars entering the interstate had to make from the road to the on-ramp - and I was right in their path.
What felt like minutes, but was in fact only seconds, later, I was facing the right direction. I drove a little ways down the on-ramp until the shoulder widened to where I felt minimally safer pulling over and letting my breath out. At least Woodstock was out of the direct-impact zone. I dialed Himself.
Of course, he was concerned about our safety, but the next sentence was, "which car did you take?" I replied, "the Acura, of course." Of course, because I've only ever managed to damage the nicer of whatever two cars we've owned.
Still afraid to risk life, limb and tailbone (the shoulder was ice, however), to see the damage, I continued on my way, dropping Woodstock off, then making it (half-an-hour late) to the office. When I finally stepped out to examine the damage, I was perplexed.
While I was only going 10 mph when I went into the skid, I was a moving object that came to rest upon impact with a standing object, which would necessarily require that the object with the lesser mass (the car) would suffer impact damage. (I did learn something in physics, which I figured was pretty much impossible).
What I saw however, could not be. The license plate was crumpled almost beyond recognition. The license plate holder looked rather forlorn. The bumper had popped a couple of pins, and ... nothing else. To be certain, the front end was covered in snow, but even when I half-heartedly (not really wanting to see any damage) brushed it away, I could find no other evidence of having hit a concrete wall at a 75-degree angle.
Later, I took the car into the mechanic to get a good once-over - completely certain that there had to be more damage - the radiator, the air conditioning unit - something in the front that must have certainly cracked or jarred loose on impact.
The service tech came to find me.
"So you really hit a wall, huh?"
"Yes."
He went on to explain that the license plate holder was damaged beyond repair - though they had hammered my license plate back into something resembling, well, a license plate rather than a crumpled ball of foil. There were some bumper pins that needed replacing and ... that was it. $40 of parts, they were waiving the labor (since I also needed an oil change, new windshield wipers and surprise! the tires that we hoped would be okay for another month were not, actually, okay).
I nearly hugged the tech. $40? I hit a wall and the worst outcome was a $40 debit from my checking account? (In reality, it was over $400 - tires, oil change and wipers were not, unfortunately free - but weren't on the "accident" tab).
I prayed on the way back to the office. I celebrated the miracle of life, of morning prayers uttered to "keep us safe and bless us as we drive," of the man upstairs who knew that just once, I needed something to go my way.
The car parked in my driveway now, waiting for our trek to the southern desert to visit family, is testament that miracles still happen.
Merry Christmas.
Monday, December 22, 2008
The Greatest Among Us
Last night, Woodstock had her theatrical debut ... as a sheep in my mom's family's annual Christmas celebration. She obligingly said "baa baa" when asked what sound a sheep made, shortly after the angel (standing on the coffee table) proclaimed the birth of Jesus to the shepherds (several, dressed in cast off bathrobes), at which point she lost interest in the whole production and spent the remainder of the production happily "chatting" on a cousin's cellphone while obsessing over a book of Christmas carols.
There were 16 kids - ranging in age from 15 months (Woodstock) to 19 years, although the 19-year-old declined to participate in the pilgrimage across the living room - from the front door (representing the Far East) to the mantel (representing the stable). It was a happy cacophany of holiday-related sounds, caloric monstrosities (my pasta salad would make a weak heart give up) and chaotic children, happily amped up on adrenaline, sugar and anticipation over the next snowfall. In Woodstock's case, she was amped up over the juice she normally doesn't get and the fact that she was surrounded by kids - instantly transporting her to her very happy place.
In the midst of all of this craziness, however, came a quiet, special moment that brought the prick of tears to the corners of my eyes. I was snapping pictures right and left, trying to capture kids who didn't sit still in costumes either too large or too small for their frames, when out of the corner of my lense I spotted Mary (a cousin of a cousin - about 9 or 10), sitting next to Woodstock, baby "Jesus" cradled between them.
"Mary" gently laid the doll in Woodstock's lap, leaning over to shelter the renegade sheep and the baby from the chaoas that swirled around them. Woodstock's eyes lit up. "Baby!" she exclaimed, scooping up the doll and smothering it with love. Then Mary gently scooped up baby Jesus, scooted over to my 2-year-old cousin and repeated the same thing. Over and over, Mary went to each of the smaller children, bringing the baby Jesus to them to hold and to love. She spoke not a word. Each time, she silently shared her "son" with each child, letting them shower the doll with love.
In that moment, I thought about how Christ comes in mysterious ways to touch people's lives - stopping to rest in the hearts of those who will allow Him entrance. He shuts out the chaos from around us, He whispers to our souls, lights the eyes of those who revere Him. He doesn't forget those that are easily overlooked or forgotten among the chaotic holiday revelry, instead, showering those who seek Him with love and comfort and peace.
Last night, He touched us all through the innocence of a little girl, clad as Mary, sharing her child, the Son of God, with the smallest among us. Their eyes lit up as they cradled the baby Jesus and enveloped Him in love - their pure innocence shining out from bright eyes. In that moment, it wasn't a doll - it was a symbol of reverence and little ones, like the shepherds and wisemen of old, paid homage with an awe reserved only for children.
Mery Christmas, to all, I thought. And to all, the remembrance of how the greatest among us sometimes barely reach our knees.
There were 16 kids - ranging in age from 15 months (Woodstock) to 19 years, although the 19-year-old declined to participate in the pilgrimage across the living room - from the front door (representing the Far East) to the mantel (representing the stable). It was a happy cacophany of holiday-related sounds, caloric monstrosities (my pasta salad would make a weak heart give up) and chaotic children, happily amped up on adrenaline, sugar and anticipation over the next snowfall. In Woodstock's case, she was amped up over the juice she normally doesn't get and the fact that she was surrounded by kids - instantly transporting her to her very happy place.
In the midst of all of this craziness, however, came a quiet, special moment that brought the prick of tears to the corners of my eyes. I was snapping pictures right and left, trying to capture kids who didn't sit still in costumes either too large or too small for their frames, when out of the corner of my lense I spotted Mary (a cousin of a cousin - about 9 or 10), sitting next to Woodstock, baby "Jesus" cradled between them.
"Mary" gently laid the doll in Woodstock's lap, leaning over to shelter the renegade sheep and the baby from the chaoas that swirled around them. Woodstock's eyes lit up. "Baby!" she exclaimed, scooping up the doll and smothering it with love. Then Mary gently scooped up baby Jesus, scooted over to my 2-year-old cousin and repeated the same thing. Over and over, Mary went to each of the smaller children, bringing the baby Jesus to them to hold and to love. She spoke not a word. Each time, she silently shared her "son" with each child, letting them shower the doll with love.
In that moment, I thought about how Christ comes in mysterious ways to touch people's lives - stopping to rest in the hearts of those who will allow Him entrance. He shuts out the chaos from around us, He whispers to our souls, lights the eyes of those who revere Him. He doesn't forget those that are easily overlooked or forgotten among the chaotic holiday revelry, instead, showering those who seek Him with love and comfort and peace.
Last night, He touched us all through the innocence of a little girl, clad as Mary, sharing her child, the Son of God, with the smallest among us. Their eyes lit up as they cradled the baby Jesus and enveloped Him in love - their pure innocence shining out from bright eyes. In that moment, it wasn't a doll - it was a symbol of reverence and little ones, like the shepherds and wisemen of old, paid homage with an awe reserved only for children.
Mery Christmas, to all, I thought. And to all, the remembrance of how the greatest among us sometimes barely reach our knees.
Monday, December 08, 2008
Skipping Sunday?
Yesterday was "ONE OF THOSE DAYS" - one of those days in capital letters that ends in weeping, wailing and gnashing of teeth - and feeling guilty about it (especially the gnashing of teeth part) because it's Sunday. One of those days, which, lately, happens every single week.
A new form of mommy guilt? On average, I see Woodstock for three hours a day - an hour in the morning and two hours in the evening before I put her to bed. Sometimes I cheat and put her to bed late because I want to play with her or hold her or something equally as selfish, but then I feel guilty because I'm depriving her of sleep. Which makes the weekends vital. However, on Sundays, if you take out church (which is full of weeping, wailing and gnashing of teeth - on both our parts - hardly quality time), I see her awake for .5 hours more than I do on a weekday (which is the getting ready/eating/going to bed portions). It leaves Saturday not only the only day to get things in order household-wise, but to the only day I have to spend any amount of time with as a mom. And peopple wonder why the house is never clean.
Humiliation (Real or Imagined). Yesterday started out fine - if you discount Woodstock's self-imposed hunger strike. Then we got to church. Woodstock's morning nap ran long, I underestimated the time I needed to get her diaper changed and out the door, and we arrived 5 minutes late - in the middle of the opening hymn. There were plenty of seats available - in the middle of the pews. I walked in with Woodstock, loaded down with diaper bag, scriptures, blanket and "Meow" - no one slid over. I was already making a huge scene - and I didn't want to climb over anyone, only to have to climb back over them when Woodstock needed to be removed from the premise. So, I walked out and we sat in the foyer. Normally, Woodstock is okay if we sit in the foyer - not as many distractions. Not yesterday. I refuse to let her run wild at church, so Himself and I took turns pacing with her. At one point, during the switch-off, she escaped, and, with a delightful gleam in her eye ran straight into the chapel. Humiliated, I followed her in, listening to the congregation trying to muffle a giggle as she yelled "nonono!"
At the end of Sunday School, Woodstock fell off the chair on which she was sitting (I had set her there to keep her from darting out, while we gathered her things). She screamed bloody murder. I felt terrible, even if she was likely more scared than hurt. I grabbed her to comfort her and then reached for my scriptures, only to have them fall - divesting every scrap of paper I've tucked in them for the last 15 years. The notes and handouts and tithe slips fluttered to the ground silently, like snowflakes. Himself was picking up the apple pieces Woodstock had chewed up and spit out all over. The class had emptied. The older men filed in for their class, held in the same room. Woodstock continued to howl and try to wriggle free while I was chasing papers with the other hand. The leader got up to start class - no one seemed to notice us. Himself and I kept diving for chewed-up apple and renegade papers. Flustered, I made it to the next class and found a seat by the door, humiliated.
Asking Why. I had been in class no more than 3 minutes when Woodstock, tired of being quiet and nearly ready for her afternoon nap, arched her back let out a howl and began yelling "nonono." I stood up, determined to make it through the third hour. I paced at the back. Woodstock continued to howl. I went into the hall, to minimize the disruption. By the end, I had locked myself in the mother's closet and I read her a story and held her and let her yelp and run around. Hardly the lesson I want to teach my child - yell and mom will let you go to a room and have your own way - but at the moment it was better than losing every last piece of patience and self-composure. I tried not to feel bad for finding more peace in that "closet" than I had the whole rest of the service.
After, I put Woodstock to bed. I retreated to the guest bath and I cried. Great huge wracking sobs. I wondered why it mattered that I go at all. I couldn't recite a single word I had heard spoken, hadn't felt any claming spirit and certainly no worshiping was accomplished. I dread Sundays - the one day that used to inspire peace and rest and satisfaction every week. At the moment, it is a trial more challenging than anything else. As the sobs got worse, so did my thoughts - Why was I sacrificing the precious little time I get with my daughter only for everyone to be aggravated, upset and frustrated the entire three hours. How was I the only one that seemingly couldn't manage? Other people have mutliple children at church and survive. How could I be so at the end of my rope with one? How could I counter Himself's argument that it is just better for everyone to leave all together when everyone is worn and frayed and hurting by the third hour? The angel on my shoulder said, "It's the principle. It's the habit. It's the lesson you're teaching." The devil-may-care side said, "It's killing you. It's doing no good. Himself is right. You need to think of your relationship with Woodstock and your sanity."
It's a good thing there are 6 more days until next Sunday for me to adjust my attitude and try again.
A new form of mommy guilt? On average, I see Woodstock for three hours a day - an hour in the morning and two hours in the evening before I put her to bed. Sometimes I cheat and put her to bed late because I want to play with her or hold her or something equally as selfish, but then I feel guilty because I'm depriving her of sleep. Which makes the weekends vital. However, on Sundays, if you take out church (which is full of weeping, wailing and gnashing of teeth - on both our parts - hardly quality time), I see her awake for .5 hours more than I do on a weekday (which is the getting ready/eating/going to bed portions). It leaves Saturday not only the only day to get things in order household-wise, but to the only day I have to spend any amount of time with as a mom. And peopple wonder why the house is never clean.
Humiliation (Real or Imagined). Yesterday started out fine - if you discount Woodstock's self-imposed hunger strike. Then we got to church. Woodstock's morning nap ran long, I underestimated the time I needed to get her diaper changed and out the door, and we arrived 5 minutes late - in the middle of the opening hymn. There were plenty of seats available - in the middle of the pews. I walked in with Woodstock, loaded down with diaper bag, scriptures, blanket and "Meow" - no one slid over. I was already making a huge scene - and I didn't want to climb over anyone, only to have to climb back over them when Woodstock needed to be removed from the premise. So, I walked out and we sat in the foyer. Normally, Woodstock is okay if we sit in the foyer - not as many distractions. Not yesterday. I refuse to let her run wild at church, so Himself and I took turns pacing with her. At one point, during the switch-off, she escaped, and, with a delightful gleam in her eye ran straight into the chapel. Humiliated, I followed her in, listening to the congregation trying to muffle a giggle as she yelled "nonono!"
At the end of Sunday School, Woodstock fell off the chair on which she was sitting (I had set her there to keep her from darting out, while we gathered her things). She screamed bloody murder. I felt terrible, even if she was likely more scared than hurt. I grabbed her to comfort her and then reached for my scriptures, only to have them fall - divesting every scrap of paper I've tucked in them for the last 15 years. The notes and handouts and tithe slips fluttered to the ground silently, like snowflakes. Himself was picking up the apple pieces Woodstock had chewed up and spit out all over. The class had emptied. The older men filed in for their class, held in the same room. Woodstock continued to howl and try to wriggle free while I was chasing papers with the other hand. The leader got up to start class - no one seemed to notice us. Himself and I kept diving for chewed-up apple and renegade papers. Flustered, I made it to the next class and found a seat by the door, humiliated.
Asking Why. I had been in class no more than 3 minutes when Woodstock, tired of being quiet and nearly ready for her afternoon nap, arched her back let out a howl and began yelling "nonono." I stood up, determined to make it through the third hour. I paced at the back. Woodstock continued to howl. I went into the hall, to minimize the disruption. By the end, I had locked myself in the mother's closet and I read her a story and held her and let her yelp and run around. Hardly the lesson I want to teach my child - yell and mom will let you go to a room and have your own way - but at the moment it was better than losing every last piece of patience and self-composure. I tried not to feel bad for finding more peace in that "closet" than I had the whole rest of the service.
After, I put Woodstock to bed. I retreated to the guest bath and I cried. Great huge wracking sobs. I wondered why it mattered that I go at all. I couldn't recite a single word I had heard spoken, hadn't felt any claming spirit and certainly no worshiping was accomplished. I dread Sundays - the one day that used to inspire peace and rest and satisfaction every week. At the moment, it is a trial more challenging than anything else. As the sobs got worse, so did my thoughts - Why was I sacrificing the precious little time I get with my daughter only for everyone to be aggravated, upset and frustrated the entire three hours. How was I the only one that seemingly couldn't manage? Other people have mutliple children at church and survive. How could I be so at the end of my rope with one? How could I counter Himself's argument that it is just better for everyone to leave all together when everyone is worn and frayed and hurting by the third hour? The angel on my shoulder said, "It's the principle. It's the habit. It's the lesson you're teaching." The devil-may-care side said, "It's killing you. It's doing no good. Himself is right. You need to think of your relationship with Woodstock and your sanity."
It's a good thing there are 6 more days until next Sunday for me to adjust my attitude and try again.
Wednesday, October 08, 2008
There But For the Grace of God Go I
There are some days when I truly believe it is only by the Grace of God that I am still functioning. The last 18 months have been a cacophony of static, a rollercoaster ride worthy of inclusion at Cedar Point and a sensory overload that threatens to drive even the sanest person into an asylum.
Last night was a particularly challenging night. I got home late. Woodstock was *thisclose* to starving to death upon arrival. Dinner (5-spice rolls) stuck to the steamer so I ended up pan-frying bits of rolls instead of actual rolls. The kitchen proves time and time again to be too small - not enough workspace - and after 4 years of great kitchen space (even the Hobbit Hole had more counters), my patience with inadequate kitchens is shot. I was trying to listen to the debate and actually make a (ha!) educated decision. I have something funky going on with my eye - it's red (but not pink eye) and sore and I've had the same massive headache for three days. My hip and bruised rear from Saturday's tumble down the stairs were giving me fits. Himself, as he does every Tuesday night, was working late.
Once dinner was over, all the rice was scrubbed out of Woodstock's hair and she was snoozing peacefully in bed, I tackled the budget for the seventh time in as many days. It doesn't matter that I have managed multi-million dollar budgets before - having to reconcile to the last penny - I cannot seem to manage my own. We're working on the Dave Ramsey 'Financial Peace' plan - which is great but might just kill one of us before the end of the course.
Himself came home to find jazz music blaring loudly (I forgot to turn off the radio after the debates and had totally tuned it out while giving the Evil Eye to my spreadsheet), me almost in tears, a pile of papers and calculations and bills and a spreadsheet with too many colums to count - covering the dining room table like the first snow of the season. My head hurt. My eye hurt. My hip hurt. My pride hurt. I wanted to know how Himself's check is always big enough and mine never is - even though our incomes are reversed.
More than anything, I justed wanted the blasted cleaning fairy to come and make the kitchen sparkle and Dave Ramsey himself (in all his wisdom) to figure out my budget mess and how come it just wouldn't balance (I should run for federal office - they can't balance budgets either - at least I wouldn't feel guilty). I wanted to curl up in a ball (on my unbruised right side) and cry myself to sleep.
Eventually, I got to bed - the dishes half done and the budget done enough to get us through one more day. Before I drifted off, I knelt in prayer and asked in total selfishness, "just give me the strength to get up tomorrow and do this again - and the funds with which to do it."
This morning, I got a reimbursement check from the county clinic that treated Woodstock's pneumonia in the middle of nowhere. I got notice that my raise is going through and will be included on next week's check. Two other reimbursement checks came in. My review was stellar - and I was reassured that we "aren't going anywhere." (The Office is a nonprofit funded by investments - you can imagine my relief at those words).
My hip hasn't hurt all day, my latest online project is successful and I'm going to Florida in November (it's for work, but it doesn't snow there - happy days!).
That which doesn't kill me, makes me a better person when the sun is shining.
Last night was a particularly challenging night. I got home late. Woodstock was *thisclose* to starving to death upon arrival. Dinner (5-spice rolls) stuck to the steamer so I ended up pan-frying bits of rolls instead of actual rolls. The kitchen proves time and time again to be too small - not enough workspace - and after 4 years of great kitchen space (even the Hobbit Hole had more counters), my patience with inadequate kitchens is shot. I was trying to listen to the debate and actually make a (ha!) educated decision. I have something funky going on with my eye - it's red (but not pink eye) and sore and I've had the same massive headache for three days. My hip and bruised rear from Saturday's tumble down the stairs were giving me fits. Himself, as he does every Tuesday night, was working late.
Once dinner was over, all the rice was scrubbed out of Woodstock's hair and she was snoozing peacefully in bed, I tackled the budget for the seventh time in as many days. It doesn't matter that I have managed multi-million dollar budgets before - having to reconcile to the last penny - I cannot seem to manage my own. We're working on the Dave Ramsey 'Financial Peace' plan - which is great but might just kill one of us before the end of the course.
Himself came home to find jazz music blaring loudly (I forgot to turn off the radio after the debates and had totally tuned it out while giving the Evil Eye to my spreadsheet), me almost in tears, a pile of papers and calculations and bills and a spreadsheet with too many colums to count - covering the dining room table like the first snow of the season. My head hurt. My eye hurt. My hip hurt. My pride hurt. I wanted to know how Himself's check is always big enough and mine never is - even though our incomes are reversed.
More than anything, I justed wanted the blasted cleaning fairy to come and make the kitchen sparkle and Dave Ramsey himself (in all his wisdom) to figure out my budget mess and how come it just wouldn't balance (I should run for federal office - they can't balance budgets either - at least I wouldn't feel guilty). I wanted to curl up in a ball (on my unbruised right side) and cry myself to sleep.
Eventually, I got to bed - the dishes half done and the budget done enough to get us through one more day. Before I drifted off, I knelt in prayer and asked in total selfishness, "just give me the strength to get up tomorrow and do this again - and the funds with which to do it."
This morning, I got a reimbursement check from the county clinic that treated Woodstock's pneumonia in the middle of nowhere. I got notice that my raise is going through and will be included on next week's check. Two other reimbursement checks came in. My review was stellar - and I was reassured that we "aren't going anywhere." (The Office is a nonprofit funded by investments - you can imagine my relief at those words).
My hip hasn't hurt all day, my latest online project is successful and I'm going to Florida in November (it's for work, but it doesn't snow there - happy days!).
That which doesn't kill me, makes me a better person when the sun is shining.
Friday, October 03, 2008
Venus Just Asked Me ...
This could not have come to my attention at a more opportune moment. I've been spending the last couple of weeks focusing on making me a better person - and while the results are negligible, I'm more encouraged every week.
This week, my goal is to put up my daily accomplishment goal on the door where I can see it. I think this poem just may go below it. Given the perspective of God and divinity that I believe, it is absolutely perfect.
Venus Just Asked Me
by Hafez, translated by Daniel Ladinsky
Perhaps
For just one minute out of the day.
It may be of value to torture yourself
With thoughts like,
"I should be doing
A hell of a lot more with my life than I am --
Cause I'm so damn talented."
But remember,
For just one minute out of the day.
With all the rest of your time,
It would be best
To try
Looking upon your self more as God does.
For He knows
Your true royal nature.
God is never confused
And can see Only Himself in you.
My dear,
Venus just leaned down and asked me
To tell you a secret, to confess
She's just a mirror who has been stealing
Your light and music for centuries.
She knows as does Hafez,
You are the sole heir to
The King.
This week, my goal is to put up my daily accomplishment goal on the door where I can see it. I think this poem just may go below it. Given the perspective of God and divinity that I believe, it is absolutely perfect.
Venus Just Asked Me
by Hafez, translated by Daniel Ladinsky
Perhaps
For just one minute out of the day.
It may be of value to torture yourself
With thoughts like,
"I should be doing
A hell of a lot more with my life than I am --
Cause I'm so damn talented."
But remember,
For just one minute out of the day.
With all the rest of your time,
It would be best
To try
Looking upon your self more as God does.
For He knows
Your true royal nature.
God is never confused
And can see Only Himself in you.
My dear,
Venus just leaned down and asked me
To tell you a secret, to confess
She's just a mirror who has been stealing
Your light and music for centuries.
She knows as does Hafez,
You are the sole heir to
The King.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Even Seventy Times Seven
I don't get angry as a general rule. I get annoyed, frustrated and irritated, I vent and it all blows over like a desert thunderstorm in July.
I don't hold grudges. More because I'm too lazy to hang on to hurtful emotions more than any indication of pending sainthood.
I don't believe in revenge. I believe it poisons the person seeking it more than it harms the person who (in all likelihood) might deserve it. (I did however, find delight in plotting comedic revenge on the practical-joking-neighbors in college, but that is neither here nor there).
I believe that life is not fair, nor was it meant to be. I believe that sometimes the good do die young, the bad guy wins, someone gets more or less than she deserves and once in awhile all sense of goodness seems to have evaporated.
I believe that there is some good in everyone. More good in some than others, but that's not the point of this statement at the moment.
I don't believe in retribution, and most of my opinion on litigation law would be categorized under "people unwilling to take responsibility for their actions."
I believe that sometimes no one is at fault - bad things just happen, sometimes bad things happen that no one can control. I think very often pointing fingers does nothing but create chaos that reduces the ability to solve the original problem.
With that said, I AM ANGRY. Angry enough to spit nails. Angry enough to not feel anything but the searing, white-hot emotional furnace of not caring about anything else but being angry.
It has been brewing for a month. It has been a month-long drama of hurt, betrayal, miscommunication, lies and shattered trust. I have remained reasonably emotionally sane, but today I hit a wall. A 1,000-foot-high-cement-wall-with-razor-wire-and-broken-glass.
And Sunday's sermon was on forgiveness. Delivered, incidentally, by a recently returned missionary who helped me move on Saturday.
As mad as I am, I am grateful for the reminder to forgive "even seventy times seven" (Even if you subscribe to the literal meaning, Christ must have realized that forgiving the same person 490 times would do more to prepare one for salvation than anything else, just by the sheer virtue of how much patience it would require). I have seen people destroyed by bitter anger and hurt. I have seen the inability to forgive poison people, families and generations.
I'm not willing to go that far over a few thousand dollars. My creditors might think otherwise, but at this point, while I will protect myself from further damage, I am praying to remember "even seventy times seven."
I don't hold grudges. More because I'm too lazy to hang on to hurtful emotions more than any indication of pending sainthood.
I don't believe in revenge. I believe it poisons the person seeking it more than it harms the person who (in all likelihood) might deserve it. (I did however, find delight in plotting comedic revenge on the practical-joking-neighbors in college, but that is neither here nor there).
I believe that life is not fair, nor was it meant to be. I believe that sometimes the good do die young, the bad guy wins, someone gets more or less than she deserves and once in awhile all sense of goodness seems to have evaporated.
I believe that there is some good in everyone. More good in some than others, but that's not the point of this statement at the moment.
I don't believe in retribution, and most of my opinion on litigation law would be categorized under "people unwilling to take responsibility for their actions."
I believe that sometimes no one is at fault - bad things just happen, sometimes bad things happen that no one can control. I think very often pointing fingers does nothing but create chaos that reduces the ability to solve the original problem.
With that said, I AM ANGRY. Angry enough to spit nails. Angry enough to not feel anything but the searing, white-hot emotional furnace of not caring about anything else but being angry.
It has been brewing for a month. It has been a month-long drama of hurt, betrayal, miscommunication, lies and shattered trust. I have remained reasonably emotionally sane, but today I hit a wall. A 1,000-foot-high-cement-wall-with-razor-wire-and-broken-glass.
And Sunday's sermon was on forgiveness. Delivered, incidentally, by a recently returned missionary who helped me move on Saturday.
As mad as I am, I am grateful for the reminder to forgive "even seventy times seven" (Even if you subscribe to the literal meaning, Christ must have realized that forgiving the same person 490 times would do more to prepare one for salvation than anything else, just by the sheer virtue of how much patience it would require). I have seen people destroyed by bitter anger and hurt. I have seen the inability to forgive poison people, families and generations.
I'm not willing to go that far over a few thousand dollars. My creditors might think otherwise, but at this point, while I will protect myself from further damage, I am praying to remember "even seventy times seven."
Friday, January 04, 2008
A Passion
I'm revealing myself a bit here ... but we just landed an account I'm so excited to work on.
I'm very passionate about a lot of what this film is about. I'm sharing it with you.
Thoughts? Comments?
I'm very passionate about a lot of what this film is about. I'm sharing it with you.
Thoughts? Comments?
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
And God Remembered ...
There is a passage in Genesis that struck me yesterday as I read it in a magazine article: "And God Remembered Rachel."
To put it in context, Rachel was barren and was stuggling to deal with it. She had essentially come to Jacob and said, "Give me children, or I shall die." I'm sure there was much wailing and gnashing of teeth - especially since her sister (and Jacob's first wife), Leah, had already borne him children. I'm sure there were long prayers in the middle of the night - pleading with God to hear her, to give her an answer.
And God Remembered. Rachel ended up bearing two sons and a daughter for Jacob - and not just any son, but Joseph who was sold into slavery and eventually became one of the most important men in Egypt.
The article was about something else, but the passage struck me as being incredibly timely right now - it's the Thanksgiving season, and I am making a concerted effort this season to being very, very grateful - not just in my heart, but publicly.
God Remembered ... After a couple of years of incredible challenges - many of which are unknown to all but a few people - 2007 ended up being a year of incredible blessings, answered prayers and surprising changes.
In a lesson at church on Sunday, the teacher admonished us to be grateful for even the difficult things, because after the trial of our faith comes the blessings. Easier said than done. I made a goal to list the difficult things for which I am grateful - some more difficult than others. Lest anyone think I'm some sort of saint for actually being able to be grateful for the hard things, I'm not. I was definitely not grateful for many of these DURING the rough period, until things came into focus and I realized that they were precursors to something much greater.
* I am grateful that I lost my job in February. I still miss the work and the people, but I now realize that it had to happen. I never would have willingly left, though I had contemplated it. We would have stayed and continued to run like a hampster in a wheel - faster and faster and just barely keeping pace.
* I am grateful for the miscarriage I had just over a year ago. At the time it was complex and confusing and the most physically painful thing I've ever been through (yes, worse than labor for me). Yet, it taught me what I needed to recognize about my body to be able to conceive and carry Baby Girl to term. And she is worth every agonizing moment I spent on the bathroom floor that night, terrified that I was dying.
* I am grateful that Himself didn't pass his nursing boards. This one is the one where there was great wailing and gnashing of teeth and pleading and ranting and making much noise. I'm still not entirely sure why the whole 18-month ordeal was necessary, but I know that it taught us a lot about each other, it helped Himself crystalize what he wanted to do professionally and, because he took it one last time, it meant he landed an incredible job in The Frontier.
* I am grateful for the promptings that Himself and I both had about moving to The Frontier. They came separately and Himself was afraid to even confess it, because he knew I was adamantly opposed to moving back to The Great Wild West. I still struggle with settling back down in the state of my childhood, but I am not as dumb as I occassionally look. I know that there are unbelievably good things that have occurred as a result. One of the greatest is having Baby Girl be surrounded with incredibly doting relatives.
* I am grateful that for 90 minutes in late July, I was unemployed. Again, this one was almost impossible to swallow at the time. However, it led (90 minutes later) to an even better opportunity that offers more stability, more flexibility and a better path toward an at-home consulting gig for me.
* I am grateful that I drop Baby Girl off at a wonderful sitter's every day. I might be struck by icicle glares from some for even admitting this out loud (and believe me, it has taken me a long time to come to this realization), but I can't change the status quo. At the moment, I have to work. We were blessed to find a wonderful sitter in Miss Jan. But I've discovered another benefit over the past two weeks: Baby Girl has some surrogate sisters in a pair of 3-year-olds that Miss Jan also watches. The two girls fuss over Baby Girl (from a distance) as much as Miss Jan will let them. One informed me last week that it was okay for me to take Baby Girl home for the night, but to bring her back, because Baby Girl was her baby. Every day when Baby Girl arrives, the girls rush to say hello. Every night when she leaves, they blow her kisses and say, "Goodbye Miss Baby Girl." It warms my heart to know that if Baby Girl can't spend her days at home with me, that she is spending them in the company of people who truly adore her.
Yes, I have realized that God truly does remember.
And I am grateful.
To put it in context, Rachel was barren and was stuggling to deal with it. She had essentially come to Jacob and said, "Give me children, or I shall die." I'm sure there was much wailing and gnashing of teeth - especially since her sister (and Jacob's first wife), Leah, had already borne him children. I'm sure there were long prayers in the middle of the night - pleading with God to hear her, to give her an answer.
And God Remembered. Rachel ended up bearing two sons and a daughter for Jacob - and not just any son, but Joseph who was sold into slavery and eventually became one of the most important men in Egypt.
The article was about something else, but the passage struck me as being incredibly timely right now - it's the Thanksgiving season, and I am making a concerted effort this season to being very, very grateful - not just in my heart, but publicly.
God Remembered ... After a couple of years of incredible challenges - many of which are unknown to all but a few people - 2007 ended up being a year of incredible blessings, answered prayers and surprising changes.
In a lesson at church on Sunday, the teacher admonished us to be grateful for even the difficult things, because after the trial of our faith comes the blessings. Easier said than done. I made a goal to list the difficult things for which I am grateful - some more difficult than others. Lest anyone think I'm some sort of saint for actually being able to be grateful for the hard things, I'm not. I was definitely not grateful for many of these DURING the rough period, until things came into focus and I realized that they were precursors to something much greater.
* I am grateful that I lost my job in February. I still miss the work and the people, but I now realize that it had to happen. I never would have willingly left, though I had contemplated it. We would have stayed and continued to run like a hampster in a wheel - faster and faster and just barely keeping pace.
* I am grateful for the miscarriage I had just over a year ago. At the time it was complex and confusing and the most physically painful thing I've ever been through (yes, worse than labor for me). Yet, it taught me what I needed to recognize about my body to be able to conceive and carry Baby Girl to term. And she is worth every agonizing moment I spent on the bathroom floor that night, terrified that I was dying.
* I am grateful that Himself didn't pass his nursing boards. This one is the one where there was great wailing and gnashing of teeth and pleading and ranting and making much noise. I'm still not entirely sure why the whole 18-month ordeal was necessary, but I know that it taught us a lot about each other, it helped Himself crystalize what he wanted to do professionally and, because he took it one last time, it meant he landed an incredible job in The Frontier.
* I am grateful for the promptings that Himself and I both had about moving to The Frontier. They came separately and Himself was afraid to even confess it, because he knew I was adamantly opposed to moving back to The Great Wild West. I still struggle with settling back down in the state of my childhood, but I am not as dumb as I occassionally look. I know that there are unbelievably good things that have occurred as a result. One of the greatest is having Baby Girl be surrounded with incredibly doting relatives.
* I am grateful that for 90 minutes in late July, I was unemployed. Again, this one was almost impossible to swallow at the time. However, it led (90 minutes later) to an even better opportunity that offers more stability, more flexibility and a better path toward an at-home consulting gig for me.
* I am grateful that I drop Baby Girl off at a wonderful sitter's every day. I might be struck by icicle glares from some for even admitting this out loud (and believe me, it has taken me a long time to come to this realization), but I can't change the status quo. At the moment, I have to work. We were blessed to find a wonderful sitter in Miss Jan. But I've discovered another benefit over the past two weeks: Baby Girl has some surrogate sisters in a pair of 3-year-olds that Miss Jan also watches. The two girls fuss over Baby Girl (from a distance) as much as Miss Jan will let them. One informed me last week that it was okay for me to take Baby Girl home for the night, but to bring her back, because Baby Girl was her baby. Every day when Baby Girl arrives, the girls rush to say hello. Every night when she leaves, they blow her kisses and say, "Goodbye Miss Baby Girl." It warms my heart to know that if Baby Girl can't spend her days at home with me, that she is spending them in the company of people who truly adore her.
Yes, I have realized that God truly does remember.
And I am grateful.
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