Finding Fruit

The Archives - Secret Desire

2012-02-16T08:26:00.000-08:00

Here is another post from the archives. This was written January 2009. I love this one because it reminds me how far I have come.

*****

I have told very few people, very few, that my secret desire is to be a writer. This is such a secret that I really have not done any writing, except in my own head. I never took a writing class in college or spent much time writing short stories. I wrote a few as a kid and they are funny to read now because they are pretty twisted. Somehow the prince kept getting eaten by a bear or some wild animal. Not just once but in more than one story that I have from my childhood.
I am not sure why I want to be a writer. I have never been encouraged to be a writer. But it seems like a job I would like. I love sitting alone in a quiet room just writing down my thoughts. So I guess I should clarify. I would love to be a columnist or an essayist who shares my thoughts on the world in hopefully funny ways that cause people to think and see the world from a different perspective. I love Donald Miller and Anne Lamont. They write about their faith, their foibles, their loves and their mistakes. Reading them often brings clarity to my experience even though our lives look nothing alike on the outside.
I don't want to change minds, just maybe open them a bit. And actually as I write this I realize I write to get things out of my mind and onto paper, or the computer screen in this case, not for people to read. Not that I don't like people reading. I would love to have people all over reading what I think and posting comments and starting dialogues. But I realize that is probably for real writers.
For now I will just write. Maybe people read my blog, maybe not. But either way, I will be clearing a few of my many inner dialogues out of my head, maybe even making room for me to remember the important stuff, like we need bananas. More likely new crazy ideas will take the place of the old ones.

The Book - Another Sneak Peek

2012-02-13T08:21:00.000-08:00

Here is another sneak peak at the book I am writing. I posted the beginning last Monday.

*****

The sidewalks were full of students heading to the football game. Mia though walked against the tide and headed to the library. She had never had time for the social norms of high school, for football games and dances. Her days had been filled with working at the local Dairy Queen and her nights with studying. She spent her high school years dreaming, planning and saving so she could attend this college, so she could escape her hometown. Her sole focus as a teenager was the future.

Mia had hoped that she would have time for all that fun when she finally got to college. She had dreamed of football games with roommates, parties at off campus houses, and late night food runs. But here she was heading to the library, not because she didn’t have time to go to the game but because she felt out of place there. She did not know how to joke easily and was not comfortable in the unknown flow of a group. The library though was her refuge.

She found her usual desk at the back of the 4th floor, the desk where the power supplies all worked and the stacks near her were rarely visited. It was usually quiet up here. Today she had the area to herself She plugged in her laptop, put in her ear buds and got to work.

This semester was going to be tough. She had started college with enough credits to be a sophomore; thankful for the Advanced Placement classes her small rural school was able to offer her. Mia now in her third year was in the heart of her core classes, the classes the professors used to weed out the accountants from the students. There were certainly easier business degrees but Mia wanted that CPA title. She wanted those initials after her name on her business cards. She pictured herself in smart business suits carrying a leather case. She dreamed of flying off on business trips and meeting colleagues for drinks after work. She wanted to belong to that club. The club that offered job security and known rules to follow.

Mia worked in the library until the room began to darken with the sunset. The overhead lights becoming brighter in contrast. The football game was sure to be over now. She hoped for a win. She enjoyed the euphoria on campus after the football team won. She liked feeling part of something bigger than herself and her studies, even though she did not watch any of the game. Not to mention the fact that she earned bigger tips when the team won. The restaurant filled with alumni after a win. After a loss she was left with a bunch of frat boys yelling about horrible officiating and incapable of figuring out how to tip.

Packing her bag she looked out the window. Students were milling away from the quad, slowly heading off toward their dorm rooms and off campus housing. No big celebration seemed to be happening. With the warm air hanging on into the night and the loss of the game, it was going to be a long night.

From the Archives - Out of Control

2012-02-10T10:09:00.000-08:00

I have been getting some really good writing done on my book these last couple of weeks, which has meant that I have not been spending much time here. I don't want to lose momentum so I thought I would post some items from the archives for all of you that have joined this journey along the way.

Here is the first blog post I ever wrote on October 15, 2008:

So yesterday as I was sitting in my minivan listening to my three boys fighting and shouting I suddenly knew clearly why God had given me three children. With three small kids (ages almost 2, 4, and 5) you cannot even pretend that you are in control. I like to think that I am on top of things and in control of my life, my kids, my surroundings. But let's be honest. The minivan is full of crumbs from snacks that the baby had to eat while being dragged to preschool pick up. There are school papers and crafts strewn about and at least one book floating between the back car seats. It is a mess. When I take the van to the wonderful car wash that vacuums and cleans inside and out and not an hour later there are finger prints on windows and water bottles rolling around the back. I turn on the radio and Laurie Berkner's singing about a rocketship blasting off. We are late for the mom's group at church because shoes were missing and my middle son decided to have a meltdown in the Starbucks doorway because his little brother touched him. So as I sit in my van waiting for the light in front of me to turn green so I can get to church before my youngest son's childcare room is full, I am reminded that I am not in control. But amazingly, I have a God who is in control. He gave me the three most wonderful, challenging, delightful boys in the whole world (yes, I know I am very biased). And I like to think that He did give me a parking space right in front so I could get my coffee. And when I got to church late and the class was full, He gave me a wonderful teacher who said, "don't worry honey, we'll find room for him" because she knew I needed a moment to sit down and hear God's words. He is in control of the big. He is in control of the small.

The Book - The Beginning

2012-02-06T08:00:00.000-08:00

In case you didn't know, I am writing a novel. I wrote about the process a bit on Friday and promised the first scene today. So here it is, the beginning.

****

It was one of those surprisingly warm fall days. Students sensing the season’s change were filling the quad with the noises of Frisbee and acoustic guitars. The sunlight drifted down between the old oak trees that lined up in front of the old stone buildings that had watched over students for a hundred years. Mia loved the classic architecture, the stone buildings cold and forbidding to the outsider. Everything about this place felt collegiate, felt like a world unto itself.

Mia sat down and felt the sun on her face. She leaned back, stretching her face toward the warmth, feeling the grass under her hands. She dug her fingers into the dirt reaching the cool soil beneath. She breathed in the quiet moment, her body relaxed. It had been a busy week, a busy month. The first month always was. She should be studying. But the sun felt too good to get up and head back indoors. Her mind too cluttered by the phone call from home that woke her this morning.

“Hey.” The word broke through her thoughts.

Mia looked up and saw someone getting ready to sit down next to her. She recognized him immediately. Everyone knew him by name, a son of privilege that came out west for college. Their paths had not crossed until this year. And then only across a crowded room at one of the many parties that littered the neighborhoods surrounding campus the weekend before classes began. He had been talking to a group of guys standing around the makeshift bar. His arm wrapped around the shoulders of a girl with long blond hair wearing a very short skirt. His hand hung down in her front proprietarily. Both had clearly been enjoying the alcohol that was free flowing.

And now this guy was sitting down next to her, smiling.

“Hey,” he said again. Mia’s body tensed.

“Is that your way of saying hi? Of introducing yourself?” Mia asked, her tone clearly annoyed by the interruption.

His grin faltered for a second and then grew stronger. His eyes were now smiling along with the rest of his face. He was amused by her response. This girl was not going to be charmed as easily as he had hoped. But as he looked over at Mia, he could see that she was definitely worth charming. Her long brown hair fell in waves. She was tall and thin but not skinny. He could not see her eyes behind her sunglasses but she had a few freckles that sprinkled her nose and cheeks so he was guessing they were blue or green.

“Pardon my rudeness. My name is Timothy Ogden Dillard. My friends call me Tods,” he stated formally.

She looked at him dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt, the sleeves rolled up an attempt at casual. “Seriously. Tods? You do realize you are no longer at your prep school, right?” she asked not wanting an answer.

Now his smile faded a bit. He was well aware that he was no longer in prep school. His father had said the same words to him before he left home. He had used the same tone, dismissive and disappointed. Each email, each corporate annual report emblazoned with his name reminded him that he was now an adult, now required to learn the family business and to start to contribute to the family’s legacy.

Tim met her scathing tone with his own, “Do you have a name? Or were manners not part of the curriculum at your public school?”

“Timothy,” Mia said her face flush with anger, “I am leaving.”

Mia heard him call after her, “You can call me Tim.” How completely obnoxious she thought as she walked away.

The Book - Halfway There

2012-02-03T08:11:00.000-08:00

I am halfway through writing my book. Actually at 46,839 words I am a little more than halfway. Now comes the hard part, the finishing.

It was easy to start. I had some ideas. I made some time in my mornings to sit down and type. And the words flowed. Then I got stuck but I sat at my desk still. A few words would show up for me to type. Then more words came.

And then at one point, I stopped sitting down. Life got the better of me. My time got spent doing things I love. Until I remembered - this book is my thing this year. This I need to finish.

I had to go back and read what I wrote again. I printed all the pages and put them in a notebook. I sat down with a pencil and started to read.

Oh what a painful thing that is. To see how truly awful some of it was. All those edits, the page torn apart by grey lead lines and letters. But then there were glimpses of what it could be. And so I keep writing. I am committed to finishing.

My characters have surprised along the way. One guy keeps showing up. One has faded away.

The key scene that started the writing may actually not work in this book. May have to save it for another one (she writes hopefully).

And I have learned more about myself and my relationships along the way.

I recently asked my husband for help. Actually I sent him this text:

When we were dating how would you have felt if I told you I had danced with a guy while out with friends?

His responses, we had quite the exchange, were interesting and forced me to think through more issues than I expected.

And so I will write. I will say no to things I love to make time for this, which I also love. But just in case I forget to stay focused, I am going to post the first scene from my book on Monday. I have posted a few snippets here and here. And maybe I will post a few more along the way.

My Place In Politics

2012-02-01T08:56:00.000-08:00

I am a Christian. But I am not a Republican. I am not a Democrat either. In my state I was allowed to "Decline to State" a political party when I registered to vote and so I declined. But I do vote. (Most of the time. I tend to forget to turn in my ballot on the off cycle elections where we are asked to vote about land use issues pertaining to sewage treatment.)

I am free to avoid allegiances because I have no plans to seek public office. If I did, I would choose one of the major parties. I know which one but I am not telling because I would alienate half my friends.

Because that's the thing about politics in America. It is no longer a topic of discussion and debate, it is an all encompassing way of life. It taints how we watch the news. It taints how we act out our faith. It taints how we view our friends who disagree with us.

It's just sad.

This week two different things popped up on my Facebook stream that I found interesting.

First is a YouTube video with Kermit and Miss Piggy:

The second is this image of a quote by Stephen Colbert that is going around Facebook:

You can see the whole clip of Colbert's response to a Bill O'Reilly editorial here. It is an old clip but just as relevant today as it was then.

And then today as I was reading Isaiah, I underlined this:

Those who guide this people mislead them, and those who are guided are led astray.
- Isaiah 9:16

All this to say, I don't know the answers. But I don't think any one side does either.

******

I choose to write about politics today after reading a post by Nish Weiseth about why she was closing down her one blog The Outdoor Wife and starting a new one Nish Happens. The blog post, her last at The Outdoor Wife, made me think about my own blog. Nish writes about feeling boxed in on her old blog, not feeling free to write about what she wanted on any given day. She like most of us is more than her faith, more than her parenting, more than any one post. And I love her political debate tweets. They make me laugh in the sadness of it all.

Humility Begins In Love

2012-01-30T10:23:00.000-08:00

When I look a the political process before us I wonder. Why is everyone so adamantly right about absolutely everything? How can there be no room for discourse any longer?

When I hear parents at school pick up or sports practices declaring the right way to handle any given situation I wonder. Why do we assume parenting is one size fits all? Why do we think we have the answers for another family and not see the work we need to do in our own parenting?

When I see friends hurting one another because they cannot see the other point of view I wonder. Why do we feel an intense need to defend ourselves instead of evaluating our actions? Why do we expect grace when we do not show grace to others?

When I read myself typing words of pronouncement I wonder. Do I actually think I know the answers?

The truth is I don't know the answers.

But I think that might be the key. Because in finally acknowledging that I don't know everything, I am able to be let go.

I am able to let go of being right.

I am able to let go of being perfect.

I am able to see who I really am, flawed and wonderfully made at the same time.

I am able to experience God's true love for me in that while I was yet a sinner, Christ died for me. I wonder what life would be like if we Christians really understood that God loves us just as we are. If Christians could feel safe and secure in God's love for them. For when I am able to truly experience God's love, I find myself in the right spot.

A place where I can humbly listen to someone else. A place where I can take correction. A place where I can extend grace to those around me. A place where I understand that God is working in each of our lives but that the lessons we are to learn may be different. The choices He asks us to make may be different. A place where I can understand the greys of His hand at work.

But this all comes out of my true belief that God loves me. He loves me just as I am. And because He loves me, I am safe. Not from the hardships of life, but from the need to be right. I am safe to listen and learn. I am safe to try new things and make choices that seem strange. I am safe to seek him just as I am.

I am safe enough to not need to be the best, the most righteous, the most right.

I am safe enough to be humble and secure.

What Do You Believe?

2012-01-25T13:32:00.000-08:00

A friend of mine recently wrote a post entitled "Believe" and at the end she wrote,

"Claim it, lay it down now. . . What are one or two truths you believe?"

What a great question to consider? Because all of our life decisions start here. Everything starts with what we believe.

My answer came to me immediately. Galatians 2:20. I memorized the verse when I was a teenager and it has stuck with me ever since. It is the absolute essence of what I believe about God's grace and who I am.

I have been crucified with Christ and I no longer live, but Christ lives in me. The life I now live in the body, I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave himself for me.

This is what I believe.

I believe God loves me.

I believe Christ died for me.

I believe I am made new because of my faith.

I believe I live this life with him now and always.

A few years ago, someone mentioned my relaxed nature, my calm, my confidence in God, as if these were an anomaly and not something available to all believers. It made me sad then and it makes me sad now when people assume that my trust in God is based on easy circumstances or a personality quirk. Because if you knew me as a high strung child with a suicidal mother, or as a perfectionistic college student having to take time off school to deal with depression, or as a young married woman dealing with Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, you know that my life has not been conventionally easy.

Any yet....

It has been easy. Because through it all, through every dark moment and painful memory, God has been faithful. He has been the cornerstone, the strong rock on which I built my house.

Hard things happen. Stress encroaches at times. But deep down I do believe what Galatians 2:20 says.

"I have been crucified with Christ. I no longer live but Christ lives in me."

I do not have to hold onto my past. I do not have to hold onto a sinful nature. I do not have to fear the battles of this world. Christ declared victory on that day so long ago and I hold onto that truth.

I will falter. I will fail. But only temporarily.

When life sends hardships, I know there is a plan. I know Christ is with me. I know that this is just part of the story God is telling with my life.

I know what I believe. For me.

Do you?

Do you know what the foundation of your life is? What you believe?

Don't Judge Me By the Color of My Minivan

2012-01-23T10:49:00.000-08:00

I drive a red minivan but I am not a red minivan driver. Don't get me wrong, I love my minivan. I am quite happy with my Swagger Wagon.

But I am not a red minivan driver, red being the key word that makes this descriptor inaccurate. My minivan is red, a dark red. It is a fine looking red but I still, after all these years, don't feel like I am the type of person who drives a red car.

I never wanted a red car or a red minivan. I like a nice blue color on my cars. Maybe even silver or white. But not red.

I remember being at the dealership, back when trying to find a minivan on a dealer's lot was next to impossible. They did happen to have one minivan available with all the safety and convenience features I wanted (An automatic back hatch that opened with a push of a button was my dream. Oh and those side impact airbags are probably a good thing to have too.) and none of the extras we did not want (those built in DVD players that would have my kids begging and whining constantly with me eventually giving in and wasting my precious tv time in the car).

Honestly it was the perfect minivan, except for the color. It was red.

I asked about finding what I wanted in another color. Suddenly the price jumped along with the timeline. It turns out getting exactly what you want costs money. But taking a minivan, that has sat there for a few weeks because it doesn't have a DVD player, off the dealer's hands can score you a deal. If you are willing to drive a red van around town.

And I have to admit that was a big if because people make assumptions about you based on the car you drive. Is it too flashy? Is it too trashy? Is it a statement car? A statement color?

You know BMW for flash. Mercedes for class. Toyota for reliability. Kia for price.

I wanted a blue minivan. It was my dream car.

But then I remembered, it is just a car. A way to get from point A to point B. You don't even see the color of the exterior really when you are in the car. I could pretend it was the perfect blue color when I was driving enjoying those leather seats and air conditioning.

I got a really good deal on my minivan because it was not the color I wanted. (Even as I took my time pondering if I could drive a red car, the price dropped even more.) I like a good deal. I really like a good deal on a car.

So now I drive a red minivan. But I still feel a need to explain that red was not my color choice. Because I am not a red car driver.

Which is really silly since some of the best people I know drive red cars.

And now that I write this all, I am curious what is your dream automobile color? What assumptions do you make based on the kind of car someone drives? (Or is it just me that judges people?)

In the Room

2012-01-11T08:34:00.000-08:00

She sat on the linen couch, her back against the oversized pillow a mug of hot tea cupped in her hands. Other women filled the seats around her, the sun lighting the room. They had gathered to be together, to seek God this Monday morning. Everything was set up to create warmth, a safe place to be.

The music started while the women sat listening to the lyrics, letting them wash over their busy mornings, the rushed breakfast dishes left in sinks, the second trip to school after a backpack was discovered left behind. The melody calming them, the words sneaking into their souls.

"Father we confess,
we have loved you less..."

She did not catch the next line, she was stuck on this one line.

"...we have loved you less..."

The words stung at first. She thought it must be guilt, guilt over not loving God enough. But it wasn't that, no there was something else. Something that pricked but did not break. She held the tea, warming her hands, the words turning over in her head even as the song went on.

She looked around the room at the women sitting there. She knew them only through the hostess. She wondered what they were scribbling down in their journals. What words were stuck in their minds.

This was her friend's home. She had been here countless times, though usually sitting casually aat the kitchen counter or on the smaller couch in the family room. Kids playing games out the back door. Today though the room filled with seekers her friend had picked up along the way.

"...we have loved you less..."

Those words would not go away.

A new song played. The Lord's Prayer filling the space.

"...we have loved you less..."

She sat and pondered and wondered. Did she love him less? Did she even know how to love?

There was that sting again as she realized the truth there.

Did she know how to love?

Did she even know what love is?

Why do I do this?

2012-01-09T09:36:00.000-08:00

I sometimes wonder why I blog.

Not why I write. That I have learned is what makes me dance, what makes me feel alive. Putting words on a page, feeling the keys beneath my fingers as they tap and fly across the letters. After a good day of writing I feel a deep satisfaction in my soul.

I live so much of my life in my own head. My son is the same way. I guess it is in our DNA. But sometimes I keep rehashing the same idea, the same words, until I write them down. And then they are free and I can move on to other thoughts. If I ever need them back, I can read what I wrote in the notebook on my desk, on the yellow lines of my iPhone notepad, or on this screen.

So I know the value of writing for me but why do I open this screen?

I guess I hope someone will read my words and relate. My thoughts might be validated. My words might encourage.

While I have always said I write for myself, I write because the process helps me understand, helps me grow, that does not explain why I blog, why I hit the publish post button at the bottom of this page and send my writing out into the world. That is a much more complicated question.

Do I think I have something worth sharing? Yes, oh arrogant, prideful me definitely thinks my ideas are good. But does my pride diminish the possibility that my ideas might be worthwhile to others.

Do I need validation? Absolutely. One of the hardest struggles of writing a novel is spending days, weeks, months writing and living in the world of characters that exist only in my head. There is no comment section or retweet to spur me on.

But there are also really good things that come from blogging, from sharing what God has put on my heart. Sometimes, my story does resonate with someone else. Sometimes, what I wrote are the words someone needed to read that day. Sometimes, nothing happens when I hit post and I am again reminded that my work and my reward is the writing, not the following (or lack thereof).

So I guess I blog for all those reasons, the good, the bad, and the truly ugly.

Isaiah - Just Starting Out

2012-01-06T08:30:00.000-08:00

So I decided to start studying Isaiah. I know a weird book to choose to study on my own but it kept coming to mind ever since I ran through it while reading the Bible in 2010. And when things keep coming to mind, I have a sneaking suspicion that is God at work.

So this week, I opened a group study Bible I have and started with Isaiah 1.

Here's the thing - when I show up, God shows up. Every single time. Not always in warm gooeyness. Sometimes just a phrase that won't leave me or a Bible verse that keeps popping up. Sometimes a song. But He always shows up when I do.

The book begins by describing the rebellious nation of Israel,

"ah, a sinful nation, a people loaded with guilt." (Is. 1:4a)

A nation loaded with guilt. A soul weighed down by guilt. A guilt not reflective of our God but of our rebellion. My mind turned these words over and over. How many people do I know weighed down by guilt? Too many are lost in that desperate place.

And then I keep reading. And the Lord says through Isaiah,

"I have no pleasure in the blood of bulls and lambs and goats," (Is 1:11b)

and then,

"Stop bringing meaningless offerings! Your incense is detestable to me." (Is 1:13a)

These passages sound harsh when read independently. God was the one that established the blood sacrifices of animals. How can he say their sacrifice is meaningless. But then I read back through the cross references. The stories of the kings. Of Uzziah who began obedient to God but after he became powerful, "his pride led to his downfall." (2 Chron. 26:16) Uzziah became so out of touch with his place as God's servant that he dared to enter the temple to burn incense. A job reserved only for the priests. I read how Ahaz took up idols and continued acts of worship to God. He spilled the blood of animals not just in the temple but everywhere. Taking the sacred and making a mockery of it.

No wonder God took no pleasure in these sacrifices. No wonder these acts of worship became detestable to God. His people were acting out traditions with no basis in faith, no understanding of God, no heart's desire to honor and please their Father.

And somewhere in reading this and flipping to other passages to understand, I feel alive. Not necessarily because of the content but because of the process, the studying - the desire to know and understand my God.

I loved what Kathy Escobar wrote about loving God in different ways. She lists different ways people love God. I am an intellectual (not to be confused with intelligent). I experience God in the process of studying His word.

So while I may not find some life changing wisdom in the passages I read, the act of reading and processing and decoding, changes me.

But that is just me. How do you experience God? How do you find your way when you are lost?

One Word

2012-01-04T10:13:00.000-08:00

My twitter feed has been full this past week with #oneword365 links, posts written across the internet declaring the writer's one word for 2012. I love the idea of holding onto a word for a season, of focusing my attention on one thing, that then impacts the whole of my life. I love the idea. I want to participate. I want to link up. But....

Right now, I can't seem to grasp one word. At least not one word I want to focus on in 2012. Because right now, when I think of one word, when I ponder the idea and ask God for clarity, the only word I hear in my mind is - lost.

I feel lost right now. Not despair. Not dejected. Not confused or doubting. Just a bit lost. Like I am walking through a new village without a map. I can see visual markers that guide me, a church steeple, a red cross on a hospital sign, but I am not sure where I am going - what my destination is. I am missing the voice of my internal gps that tells me to turn right in 40 feet, the voice that tells me my destination is on the left.

I am not sure how I got lost. I think it sometimes just happens in life. We drive the same roads every day, take the same path to school drop off and the ice rink, and then one day our usual route is changed but road construction. We find ourselves on a detour, just a few blocks off our usual route, but we are in new territory. And if the signs are not set up exactly right, or we decide we know better and make a different turn to get back on track, we can find ourselves lost. Lost in our own neighborhood, looking around for clues to get back on our previously determined route.

That's me. I somehow found myself just a few blocks from home but still lost.

And so I look for the markers to find my way home.

I ask for direction. I pray. I ask my friends to pray for me.

I look at my map. I open my Bible. Not sure what I am looking for, I can't decide where to start. Should I read it all over again? Maybe just the gospels? The Psalms? I think about being lost. When was I last lost in the Bible?

I remember. I was rushing to finish the Bible in one year. I was behind and hurrying to catch up with my friends. I found myself reading through Isaiah and Jeremiah at warp speed. My eyes hitting the words but not really understanding what I was reading. My mind occasionally seeing something that confounded me, but I had no time to stop. No time to decipher its meaning.

But now that I am lost, maybe it is time to go back to Isaiah. Maybe by trying to understand it, I will find some answers. I order books. I open to Isaiah 1. I read the questions in my group study Bible. My mind goes to work. I check cross references. I remember things I have studied in the past. It is only day 1. I am still not sure what this book is all about. But I now know more about the time and circumstances in which it was written.

I am still lost but maybe soon I will be found.

The In-Law Me

2011-12-31T16:50:00.000-08:00

There are times when I sit here and look at a blank screen. I type words, whole paragraphs, and then I delete them.

I have words finally, maybe not whole sentences, but words. Again. For which I am thankful.

Because recently I lost the words. Not for long, but long enough.

I lost the words about the same time as I lost myself.

It happens about once a year, twice this year. I know it is going to happen because I do it to myself. I agree to hide parts of myself in order to keep the peace. I put away the taboo liquids. I turn off Mumford and Sons. I avoid conversations that might reveal my "bleeding heart liberal" beliefs. I don't agree with it but I love my husband enough to go along with his plan for how we relate to his family.

It's not hard to hide. They are not looking for the real me anyway. I am just an accessory. I just wish it didn't hurt so much.

Case in point - This is an actual conversation that took place in my kitchen while I was sitting just a few feet away.

My mother-in-law: "Have you been to this museum before?"
Husband: "No."
MIL: "But the boys have been there before?"
Husband: "Yes."
MIL: "How did the kids get there if you haven't gone before?" She asked in all sincerity.
Husband: staring dumbfounded at his mother because the obvious answer was sitting right there hearing the entire conversation.

I finally chimed in that I took them, that I spend a lot of time enriching the boys' lives. I wanted her to know that I am a good mom. That I am doing a good job of taking care of her grandsons. Her response, "How can I verify that? I don't live nearby."

Seriously? Anger swelled within. My thoughts sharp, silent retorts. She was questioning my veracity? My truthfulness. And that really burned within me because I am known for my honesty. Ask anyone who knows me.

Except with my in laws I am not honest. I don't lie but I am not my authentic self. I keep things hidden that would bother them. I am comfortable with my way of life but I know that some of the choices I make are in direct conflict with how they believe a good Christian should live. They have more black and white rules; I live in the grey afforded by grace.

They are old and set in their ways. I am not going to convince them that their social norms are not Biblical but cultural. Instead I avoid and defer. I live my life outside of their view.

This is how their family relates.

But it made my Christmas sad. I felt like we were on display, like we were playing parts not being our real selves with them watching. I was guarded. I am not at my best when I am guarded. I become defensive and petty.

I lose grace when I stop allowing myself grace.

And without grace, I am lost.

I write this not to condemn, though I was angry and hurt. I write this because it is a challenge for me to figure out how to be authentic amongst people I don't want to hurt but who won't accept me as I am. This is my struggle with family - how to be me in a room full of people making claims to who I should be.

Anyone else able to relate?

The Last Christmas

2011-12-12T09:28:00.000-08:00

I thought I would use December to try a few Christmas stories. Some are true. Some are a figment of my imagination. Most fall in between, in that place that is fictional memoir. This one though is taken from the book I am writing.

******

It was early, the sun just beginning to peek over the mountains. The house was silent except for the quiet movements of Mia. She tiptoed down the hallway, her bags in one hand her shoes in the other. She reached the front door but before she opened it, she looked around the room one last time.

The tree was decorated now turning their sad, leftover tree, into something almost beautiful. Ornaments and white twinkling lights could do that, could turn something ugly and cast aside into something worthy of being the center piece of a room.

Two stockings hung from the mantle, one for her and one for her mom. They were bulkier now with Christmas presents hiding in the neck of the fabric. She had put a few trinkets she had picked up at the student store in her mom's along with some money. She could see that her mom had put something in her stocking but she could not bring herself to retrieve it. Not with her mom's words still swirling in her mind.

She turned her back on the room and opened the front door, hoping that the click of it closing behind her would not wake her mom. She was hoping to catch the morning bus back to school before her mom even knew she was gone. It was a cowardly choice, but practical. Telling her mom she was leaving would only induce another fight, another lashing of words.

She sat down on the front steps and put on her shoes tying the laces quickly. It was not a long walk to the bus stop thankfully. Just long enough for Mia to rehash the events of the night before. Things had been going so well. They had found their tree and her mom had been right. It was on sale. When they got home, they pulled out the old ornament box and trimmed the tree stopping often to reminisce. Each ornament bringing back memories; the clay hand print she had made in kindergarten, the Santa Claus stuck in a chimney they bought after watching Gremlins, the angel her grandmother had given her when she was a young girl. They drank hot chocolate and watched It's a Wonderful Life while they made Christmas cookies from sugar cookie dough they bought at the store. It was a perfect evening, movie made, until it was time for Mia to leave for church.

"Mom, I need to get going if I'm going to make it to the Christmas Eve service," Mia said. She went back to her room to run a brush through her hair and grab her jacket.

Her mom followed her down the hallway. "We aren't done yet?" Maggie said. "You can't leave now." The statement more of a demand.

"I'll be back soon. We can finish then." Mia could hear the pleading edge to her voice. She went to church every Christmas Eve so it was not a surprise. But her mom's reaction was. It shouldn't have been, her mom often swung with her words.

"The movie will be over by then." Maggie's voice calm and acidic.

"You can watch it without me," she offered. "I know how it ends. Or we can record it."

"That's not the point. You are supposed to spend Christmas with your family, with me."

"Why don't you come with me? We can go together and then come home and finish decorating the cookies together. They need time to cool down anyway." She tried to be hopeful, she tried to find a workable solution.

But Maggie wasn't interested in solutions, she was only interested in getting her own way.

"How dare you?" her mother accused. "You are such a brat. So selfish." Her words dripped with venom.

"What?" Mia was genuinely confused. What had she done? How had the conversation turned so quickly.

Her mother turned and walked toward the kitchen, though she continued to berate Mia with her words.

"Selfish."

"Ungrateful."

The kitchen cabinet opened. A glass filled with ice, vodka and a splash of diet coke.

"I'm stuck here all year because of you and you can't even spend one night with me."

"Disappointment."

Mia wanted to respond but the words kept coming only stopping for a moment as her mom took a sip of the drink she now carried around the living room. She listened to the first few but then she only heard the rest, her mind protecting her as best it could. She felt the fight drain from her body. She could never win, not if she stayed here. And so she put on her coat, found her mom's car keys on the counter and walked out the front door.

She was going to go to her childhood church tonight for Christmas. She was going to sit in a black chair near the back. She would listen to the words of the pastor who had baptized her as a child, who had served at her grandparent's funeral. She would sing Silent Night with the congregation at midnight. She would do these one last time, one last Christmas.

And now in the morning, she was going home.

No Rope?

2011-12-08T10:26:00.000-08:00

I thought I would use December to try a few Christmas stories. Some are true. Some are a figment of my imagination. Most fall in between, in that place that is fictional memoir.

*****

Did I ever tell you about the time we forgot to bring rope to the Christmas tree farm?

It is a favorite family story, at least for my family. I think it causes my husband anxiety.

The story begins with a van load of kids and two parents driving about a mile from our house to a nearby Christmas tree farm. Living in Oregon you end up passing multiple tree farms on a quick trip to Costco. It seems that any farm land left has trees growing on it. Most of these trees are actually cut down at the end of November and sent south, where Californians pay a crazy amount for a real live noble fir. I will be one of those crazy Californians this year.

Anyway, the family, including the six teenage foster kids that lived with us at the time were all walking through the muddy tree farm looking for the perfect tree. (There seems to be a theme to my Christmas tree stories.)

We looked at trees that looked perfect on one side but had a huge hole in the back. It always reminded me of a big civil war era hoop skirt tucked into a girl's pantaloons in the back.

We looked at trees that were too tall or too short. Someone started grumbling, most likely my dad. Someone started whining, probably me but since this is my blog I'll blame my little brother.

Finally the good enough tree was found and cut down. Again, there were people kneeling down on coats and a few choice phrases uttered as the handsaw got caught in the tree trunk. The wet needles flickering drops of water on everyone nearby as it is carried back to the car.

We, and by we I mean the grown ups and my big brother, finally get the tree on top of the van ready to be tied down.

But there is no rope.

And here is where my memory gets foggy because I would assume that the tree farm had string. The fancy tree farm we took our kids to when we lived in Oregon had string. They also let you preselect your tree in September before the California trees were harvested. And then they cut the tree down for you on the day you preselected for pick up. Maybe our childhood tree farm was not that fancy.

So we had the tree on top of the van but nothing to tie it down. And here is where my family becomes the Griswolds because the solution they found was to have my big brother lie on top of the tree, on top of van, holding on to the luggage rack, while my dad drove the van full of the rest of the family home.

Seriously. We drove a mile or so with a Christmas tree and my brother on top of the van.

We love this story. It is the essence of my family. Pragmatic and determined. Safety conscious...not so much.

I think the image of one of our boys on top of the van may be why my husband does not like that story.

Because truthfully, left in the same situation, I might try it. Hockey Boy is pretty strong.

Update - (I posted this link on my Facebook page where my brother read it. He confirms the story except for me forgetting to mention the rain and cold. Longest mile of his life he wrote.)

The Empty Room

2011-12-05T10:23:00.000-08:00

I thought I would use December to try a few Christmas stories. Some are true. Some are a figment of my imagination. Most fall in between, in that place that is fictional memoir.

*****

The room looked so empty, sparse. Gone was the large tree covered in ornaments. There were no stockings hanging from the mantle. There was no mantle. The room was silent. No “It’s a Wonderful Life” playing on the tv. No tv.

Christmas was different this year. The trappings of the season stripped from them when they lost their home and moved into their minivan. Everything but the essentials donated to the Salvation Army because there was no room in the minivan for decorations.

Sara thought about her angel tree topper. She wondered where it sat this year. She tried to picture the family that would be eating off of her Christmas dishes tomorrow. She thought about the card holder that used to fill with friend’s pictures and beautiful gold trimmed Christmas cards. There were none this year. They had not had an address until yesterday.

But now they did.

Sara looked around the small living room of their one bedroom apartment and she was thankful.  
Thankful for the roof over their heads.

Thankful for the lock on the front door.

Thankful for the food waiting to be cooked the next day.

Thankful for the job she was starting after the new year.

Thankful for a place to have a room for the kids to sleep.

Thankful too that the kids were still too young to know what was happening, just happy to be with mommy and daddy.

She was so very thankful.

Mostly because this past year had shown her what mattered. It had freed her from the artifice of the holiday season and shown her Christmas - Christ’s story.

This year, the nativity was made by her oldest in Sunday school. A picture she had colored, the star sparkling with glitter.

This year, instead of getting presents, they had decided to give presents to Jesus. Signing up for blanket making with the mom’s group at church and serving Christmas Eve dinner at the shelter they had once called home.

The kids had understood. It is Jesus’ birthday after all.

Sara had enjoyed the quiet of the season, with no presents to buy and no cards to address. No parties to attend. She did miss the small moments she had once enjoyed. Decorating the Christmas tree together. The cookie exchange with the play group.

But they had new traditions now. Walking the neighborhood looking at Christmas lights. Singing Christmas carols with the congregation. Making a birthday cake for baby Jesus.

Yes, as Sara looked around the empty living room, she was thankful.

Oh Christmas Tree

2011-12-01T13:18:00.000-08:00

I thought I would use December to try a few Christmas stories. Some are true. Some are a figment of my imagination. Most fall in between, in that place that is fictional memoir.

*****

"You guys are going to get the Christmas tree this year."

At first the three kids thought their dad was joking. But he wasn't. They were sent off with a blank check, the 16 year old at the wheel. They were given one command. They must all agree on the tree. Majority could not rule. It had to be unanimous. And it could not be over 8 feet tall or it would not fit in the living room.

Kevin, the oldest, turned the music on loud as he drove. His little sister Jane in the seat next to him. She was talking, as always. His little brother Stewart, was in the back seat, kicking the seat in front of him. Kevin knew it would not be long before the bickering began.

The driveway to the tree farm was muddy. The constant rain of Oregon made for beautiful trees but horrible harvesting conditions. They parked near the other cars in the parking lot, pulled on their hoods and headed out into the rainy day. They had been visiting this same tree farms for years. Kevin grabbed one of the hand saws and Jane grabbed the long pole used to measure the trees.

Stewart ran ahead. "Let's go to the top of the hill," he said. He was full of energy, excited to be on an adventure with his big brother and sister. He was often left out of the big kid events, but not today. Today he was part of it all, even better, they had to listen to him. That's what Dad said. They all had to agree on one tree.

"No, Stewart let's look down here first." Jane's voice of reason rang out.

"But I want to go to the top. Dad said we had to all agree." Stewart was starting to whine.

Kevin spoke. He rarely spoke so when he did his siblings listened. "I am not going to the top and then having to drag a tree all the way back here. We are going to find one nearby and quickly."

And so that is what they attempted to do. Jane would point out a tree she liked, full and round, with a strong top branch for the angel their mother embroidered, with gold thread for the halo. Stewart would point toward another one farther away, the one with a brown patch in the back. Jane would try again, finding another perfect tree. Stewart declared it too bushy, the next one too skinny. Every time saying, ““Dad said we had to all agree.”

After thirty minutes of wading through the mud, toes growing cold and wet bangs hanging in their eyes, Kevin and Jane were done. It stopped being about getting the perfect tree. The mission now was to get Stewart to agree to any tree.

“That one looks good Stewart,” Jane said when Stewart found another tree he liked.
Kevin surveyed the hole on one side and the crooked top and agreed that it would work if they turned it around. He laid his jacket on the ground and then kneeled on it ready to cut the trunk in two.

“Wait,” Stewart shouted. “I changed my mind. I don’t like this one. Let’s go back to the first one.”

“You just said liked this one,” Jane accused.

“But it has a hole Kevin said. And we have to all agree Dad said.” Stewart unsure if Dad’s command was losing its authority.

Kevin’s voice boomed. “I am done. Pick a tree, any tree. But we are cutting one down and going home now.”

Jane and Stewart both looked at him, eyes wide. They adored their big brother. Secretly, they had both been enjoying the forced time together. But it appeared it had come to an end.

“I liked the one back at the front, the first one,” Jane offered shyly.

“So did I,” said Stewart.

“Fine. Let’s go find the first tree, again,” Kevin said.

The mud on their boots made the walk back take longer than they remembered. They had wandered quite a bit in their quest for the perfect tree.

And then there it was. Right before them, two rows back from the parking lot. The perfect 8 foot douglas fir. Not too bushy, not too skinny. It was just right.

“Perfect,” declared Jane.  “I like it,” said Stewart.

“Then let’s get it,” said Kevin as he laid his coat on the ground again preparing a place for him to kneel to cut the tree. He inspected the trunk and let out an expletive the kids were not supposed to say.

“What’s wrong?” Jane asked worried.
“It has two trunks.”

----
It wasn't until years later, when the kids were relating the story to disbelieving spouses that it finally dawned on them the true purpose of this adventure. If they were all at the tree farm together without their parents, then mom and dad were left all alone in the house.

Thanksgiving Collection

2011-11-28T09:27:00.000-08:00

(This list is a compilation of the things I posted on Facebook and Twitter during the month of November.)

I am thankful for...

Starbucks baristas who greet me by name and make my drink just the way I like it.

Facebook. I love staying virtually connected when face to face is not an option.

Bright blue skies to start my day.

All the people that pour their hearts and lives into my boys. We are blessed by an amazing village.

College Gameday and Saturdays full of football games on tv.

Sprinkles Peanut Butter Chip cupcakes. Even better, we got them for free via Twitter - another thing I'm thankful for.

Favorite books that you can read over and over again. There is nothing more comforting when you are too tired or sick than wrapping yourself up in a beloved book's story.

The amazing worship team at our church. They create a space of worship for me each week.

Mornings with elementary kids. Nothing makes you feel more important than 24 sets of eyes taking in every word you say.

Play dates and sweet friends for my kids.

Fridays, so full of hope and expectation. And so consistent. We get one every week.

First goals of the season. So proud of all Hockey Boy's hard work.

Restful Sundays.

My quirky little boy, Middle Man. I love seeing his mind at work. I love his curiosity and the funny things he says. I love his strong will even when it drives me nuts. I love that he is happy as he is, not needing to follow the crowd. He has strong sense of self that I admire.

My baby who turns 5 today. He loves life and his laugh and enthusiasm are infectious. He is a determined little guy who goes after what he wants. He loves all things sports and he loves his momma. I am so thankful that God brought this little one into our family.

Hockey Boy - my first born. The one that taught me how to love in unexpected ways. I love his inquisitive mind, his tenacious spirit and his commitment to excellence.

Lunch dates with friends!

Air travel and sweet friends who made the trip to see me and my life in our new (old) town.

Glittery nail polish and sparkling vampires. (My girlfriends flew down for the weekend to see the new Twilight movie with me and to shop, eat and be together. So much love.)

My husband who works hard every single day so we can pursue our passions.

The swimming pool being open again and how much my boys love being in the water.

Cozy flannels, a warm house, coffee in bed and a lazy morning with the boy.

Today, and every day, I am thankful for grace, amazing grace.

Who Is God's Favorite?

2011-11-15T10:22:00.000-08:00

I have three children. Three boys, three brothers. They are close in age, less than four years separates them. They are the biological children of my husband and I. I say that only to point out that their genetic make up comes from the same source. I see my husband and I in each of them. I see little parts of each in the other.

And yet...

And yet, each of my boys is so uniquely themselves. Their personalities established long ago. One of my boys is a momma's boy in the best sense of the word. He adores me and wants to be with me a lot, more than the others do. He loves to start his morning with cuddles in my bed. One of my boys is quiet, an introvert. He would spend hours looking at puzzle books or laying in bed thinking if his brothers left him alone. He does not like kisses but if I sit next to him on the couch long enough our bodies will slowly move closer and closer until we are touching. My oldest is becoming more independent, more a young man, filling his world with friends and activities. But he still wants to end his day with a kiss from his mom and dad.

My three boys experience me differently. They need me to love and interact with them differently and I do. I have learned how to connect with each of my boys on their terms. I do not change, the essence of me is the same, but each has a unique understanding of who I am based on our unique relationship. They see me through the lenses of their interactions with me. I imagine how they would describe me. So much of who I think I am would be left out because they don't have access to that part of me.

One of my boys needs less of me - less time - less connection.
Do I want more? Yes.
But is that who he is?
What he needs? No.
He is made uniquely himself.

I think about how we relate to God, our Father. How often do I assume that other people connect to God the same way I do? How often do I let other's experiences of God affect how I try to relate to God.

I often feel awkward in rooms when people have strong emotional experiences with God. I feel like I am missing out. Am I too unfeeling? Do I not love God enough?

I am beginning to realize that I am me. And God and I relate in our own way. I am not my brothers or sisters. I don't have to compare my relationship with God to theirs. I see God through the filter that is my life, through my emotional needs, and my interactions with God. He does not change, but He does show up in my life the way I need Him to and that may look very different than how He shows up in someone else's life.

I don't have to wonder who is God's favorite.

Because we all know that parents don't have favorites. We love all our children. We just love them in different ways, depending on their needs and who they are.

(Don't tell God's other kids, but I know I'm His favorite.)

Veteran's Day

2011-11-11T07:00:00.000-08:00

I graduated the year of the first Gulf War, Operation Desert Storm I think was the name. I did not personally know anyone who was deployed though I have an uncle who served in the Navy at the time.

I was married when we invaded Afghanistan in Operation Enduring Freedom. It was right after 9/11. I remember people talking about whether this would be our generations call to duty, like all those boys that rushed to enlist after Pear Harbor. People did enlist but not in droves. I, along with most of my high school class went off to college. I did not personally know anyone who served in that conflict.

By the time the Iraq war began in 2003, I had a newborn at home, a newborn son. His gender felt important in light of a war. Before our troops were called home, I went on to give birth to two more boys. I still did not personally know anyone deployed to the war zone.

Six years ago, Veteran's Day took on a whole new meaning. It became the day after my friend lost her daughter and began a fight for her life in a horrible, tragic car accident. So for six years, November rolls around and I am reminded of November 10th. I am reminded of sitting in the ICU waiting room with her husband. Nothing we did could comfort and yet knowing it mattered that we were there with him. He was a veteran. Now this day, November 11th, only reminds him of the day before.

This year, my kindergartner learned about Veteran's Day in school. His teacher is amazing at explaining things to little kids. She reminded Little One that he does know a veteran. Our neighbor across the street flew helicopters in Iraq. He spent six years overseas and three in Iraq. I learned this today when the boys and I took over some pumpkin muffins we made as a small way to say thank you. His first deployment to the war was six months after he married his beautiful wife. I cannot imagine the pain of separation. I cannot imagine the worry. Those first years of marriage are hard enough without being apart for months at a time with the possibility of death hanging overhead.

Veteran's Day has passed me by for so many years. I think of it as a day off, a respite in our busy schedules. Little One in all his enthusiasm about learning new things reminded me that this holiday is not about sleeping in. It's about thanking those men and women who couldn't sleep well for months and years when deployed so that I can.

I am thankful for our neighbor, for his safe return to his wife, and for both of their sacrifices.

I May Be a Thinker but I Do Have Feelings

2011-11-09T09:27:00.000-08:00

So my mom visited last weekend. I have a complicated relationship with her.

It has been a long and often painful road being her daughter. But in the last few years, I have found my way. I have found my own life. I have created my own family.

I have spent years mourning the loss of what could have been with her. And now we move on. No longer as mother and daughter because that relationship was so damaged and dysfunctional that I had to let it go. The only hope we had was to redefine our relationship around my boys - as the grandmother and mother of my boys.

And most of the time that is okay. Most of the time I can hold onto the intellectual arguments about how this is best for my kids.

You know those letters that people throw out, the Myers Briggs test results. The ones that tell you if you are in introvert or an extrovert, whether you are an NP or a SJ. I had to take the full test in college, as part of the resident assistant application process. I am a I/E NTJ. And not just a T but a strong T. I am a thinker. I do have feelings but I don't use them for my decision making. I don't trust them. I know they change and often quickly. But thinking I trust. Information and research and thinking through the consequences works for me.

All this to say that for the most part, I can intellectualize the importance of having my kids' grandma in their lives. I can compartmentalize my feelings and invite her into my home.

I can try to hide my stress during her visits. I can smile and pretend I am not worried about what she might say.

I can try to act like her daughter around my kids. Even when she reaches out to touch me and my body wants to jump back.

I can do my best to model healthy adult relationships for my boys.

But there is still a small part of me, hidden deep, that aches when I drop her off at the airport. The little girl in me that wishes so desperately that she had a mom I could call when she was having a bad day.

I may be a thinker but I do have feelings. And it still hurts.

It Is Well With My Soul

2011-10-25T09:09:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I was sitting in a room with other women. The leader played an instrumental version of It is Well With My Soul and asked us to spend a few minutes with God writing down where we were at that moment. The lyrics of the song ran through my head. "It is well with my soul." I started to jot down a few notes about that idea.

Can it stay well with my soul?
It is yet... I get so frustrated and angry with my kids.

I often thought that when I was right with God, when I was feeling connected to him, then it was well with my soul.

And then I heard these lyrics in my head -

"Whatever my lot, Thou has taught me to say,
It is well, it is well, with my soul."

Thou has taught me to say...

My life, my soul doesn't have to feel it but it is. It is well with my soul. Not because of what I have done but because of who I am in Christ, because of what he did. The hymn goes on to say, "My sin not in part but the whole is nailed to the cross and I bear it no more."

It is well with my soul.

The truth of this statement trumps feeling. But the truth of this statement also gives me a feeling of peace that cannot be created by my circumstances. I rest in the truth of this. I am at peace because it is well with my soul.

And then, here's the kicker, I went to find a youtube version of this song to share on my blog. I found the story of the man who wrote this hymn. You have to watch this video. It will change how you hear this song forevermore.

Horatio Spafford experienced painful loss over and over again and yet he writes, "It is well with my soul."

This is the Right Place - Glimpses of Grace

2011-10-21T11:08:00.000-07:00

It rained here recently. Off and on for a few days in a row. My mood plummeted. I could not seem to get anything done. And then one afternoon the sun came out and I had energy and ideas, cookies were baking, writing was happening, and the laundry was done. It has been sunny ever since. Moving to California was the right decision. I would have never survived another winter in Oregon without the aid of antidepressants.

I have these flashes often. These moments of realizing, yet again, that we made the right decision to move here. It usually comes after some pouting time on my part because I miss my friends or I am tired of feeling like an outsider. Something will happen at school, at the rink, at church or just driving down the road and I will feel it, a flash of confirmation. It is like little moments of grace when God reminds me that this place, where He lead us, is the right now.

I love getting these glimpses of God's grace and witnessing what makes this life right for us. I love seeing God answer our prayers for our kids in unexpected ways. I love that they can play outside and wear shorts all the time. Middle Man loves shorts. I love having my husband able to spend the day at the 2nd grade campout with Middle Man and being able to be so involved with Hockey Boy's team. I love seeing Little One happily ensconced in kindergarten (and being in school five days a week).

I have a lot of people ask me how things are going after the move and apart from missing my friends and being known, I can honestly say life is good. We are good.

I don't think the Bay Area is better than Oregon. I love Oregon! LOVE

But I also love life here. I love Sprinkles and sunshine. I love reconnecting with friends and even though I can get insecure at times, I love getting to know new people and hear their story. I love bike rides with the boys and worshipping at our church. Life is good.

I Really Live Here

2011-10-19T10:55:00.000-07:00

There is a point in time after you move when you look around and suddenly realize, I really live here. It is after the excitement of the new adventure has worn off and after the homesickness has passed. You have met some new friends and figured out how to get to the grocery store, school, Target and the mall without having to look at the map on your phone any longer. Life has become routine. You sit in your kitchen with a cup of coffee and it feels normal. You really live here.

This though is when the real work of moving begins, at least for relational types like me. It is nice to meet new people and find connections but it takes time to develop deep, real relationships. And so I have to keep showing up to small group Bible study, even though I still feel new and know that if I don't come they won't miss me. I have to go up to the group of women I have met and chat casually at school pick up, even though I feel like I'm in middle school again and trying to get a seat at the cool kids table. I have to get to know the parents of the kids in Middle Man's class so I can find someone to have a play date with him because he wants one but he is quiet and quirky and has not made friends on his own.

People think I make friends easily. It is not that it comes easily to me. I struggle with getting in my car to meet up with a group of women. I get insecure asking for play dates for my boys. I am horrible with names and make a terrible first impression. But eventually, I do make friends and I think it is because I keep showing up. I keep reaching out.

I am in that place right now. The one where I realize this is now home. But I am still feeling disconnected and a little lost. I realized this week that while I have places to go and things to do, if I didn't show up no one would really miss me. If I dropped out of life, no one would really notice.

I miss my friends dearly. They would have noticed my absence or a change in my mood. They know me. I would love to meet up at the coffee shop and just be together. Not having to worry about saying the wrong thing or having to explain the whole back story. But this is home. And I know, from experience, that I will be known again. It will just take time.

And that is why this phase of a move is so hard. There is nothing you can do but wait.

Learning in Community

2011-09-29T15:33:00.000-07:00

One of my favorite things about community is seeing God through other people's eyes. I can read the Bible alone but my understanding is tainted by my experiences of life and of God. It is in community, in sharing what touches each of us, that I learn beyond myself.

I was sitting this Monday in a room full of women. We all came together be with Him and to be with one another. Our leader, Jennifer read to us Mother Teresa's words in the book "Bread and Wine." Every few lines, Jennifer would stop and ask us to ponder what we had read, the words on the page and the tugging on our hearts. She wrote about what touched her on her blog. Read her words.

I love to see what she wrote. We read the same chapter but the words that struck her, the words she chose to quote on her blog were different than mine. And that is what I love about community, about coming together to grow and learn and live in God's love.

Here are the lines of Mother Teresa, writing Jesus's words, that touched me.

"Nothing in your life is unimportant to me."

"I love you for you, for the beauty and dignity my Father gave you by creating you in his image."

"You don't need to change to believe in my love, for it will be your belief in my love that will change you."

The words I underlined show my incredible need to feel important to God, to feel valuable and worthy just as I am. To see myself as wonderfully made, just as I am.

Jennifer and I share a love for God. We share in the gift of redeeming grace. But our stories are different. The words we need to hear from God are different. But I learn so much from reading and listening to Jennifer's story. I learn about God's infinite ability to meet us individually, in our present circumstances. And I learn about the beautiful children He created.

I love the unity of faith and I love the differences of experience.

Life is like a... Roller Coaster?

2011-09-22T10:11:00.000-07:00

I keep hearing this phrase "Jesus is not safe" or something similar. At first it just rubbed me the wrong way but today when I read the phrase it really bugged me. So much so that I felt the need to address it.

I understand the point, I think people are trying to make. The point that Jesus does not want us to play it safe, that he wants us to engage our world even when it is scary. But there is a huge difference between being safe and playing it safe.

In playing it safe, we avoid taking any risks because we want to feel safe at all times.

In being safe, WE ARE SAFE.

When you add Jesus to these ideas, playing it safe means we try to create our lives, to control our circumstances, so we feel safe, not because of who Jesus is but because of what we are doing. Playing it safe does not mean we are safe.

When you add Jesus to being safe, you are. His mere presence in your life makes you safe. Your circumstances will change, your emotions will soar up and down, scary things will happen and catastrophe might strike. But in all of it, JESUS IS SAFE!

I was with a small group of women the other day talking about fear from Angie Smith's book "What Women Fear." In the book Smith writes about the analogy of walking a tight rope and how often we hear that God is our net. Smith writes that she thinks God is the balance bar in our hands. If we hold onto him we stay on the rope. He doesn't need to catch us because we don't fall if we hold the bar and let him counter balance our moments of imbalance. I like this.

As I was driving later, I thought about life as a roller coaster. My boys love roller coasters. They love the going fast in the tight turns and the terrifying, scream inducing, stomach lurching big drops. They love every minute of it and as soon as we get off they are ready to run back in line for another turn. They love the roller coasters because they know they are safe. They are locked in to a car on a track that has been time tested. They know if they stay seated with their hands and arms inside the car they will be safe. And because they know they are safe, they are able to enjoy the speed, the drops, the long climbs, and going upside down. They are safe even though it feels incredibly unsafe to this mom who is not a fan of stomach turning and being out of control.

I think life with God is a lot like riding a roller coaster. Just stay inside the car. Stay inside God's care. Follow the tracks he has set before you, no matter where they go. Don't try to get out even when you are about to go down the very long, long, long drop on Splash Mountain. Even though all you want to do is climb out and get off the ride. Because getting out at the wrong time gets you hurt. Getting off the track is dangerous. But staying in the log, staying in God's care, keeps you safe even when the world feels scary and painful.

Life's circumstances will happen but I know that I am safe.

I am safe because of Jesus.

Because Jesus is safe. Absolutely safe.

And because Jesus is safe, because he will take care of me (not necessarily that life will go well and I will never get hurt) I don't have to play it safe. I can step out. I can engage the dark places of this world. I can take risks. I can act justly. I can love mercy. And I can walk humbly with my God.

So please stop saying Jesus is not safe.

JESUS IS SAFE!

To Blog or Not to Blog

2011-09-19T08:56:00.000-07:00

For the last few years, blogging has been how I have engaged in writing. I love having a place to write, whether it is a cute story about one of my boys, me processing growing up in my family, or how God is showing up in my life. I love having a place to write, to process, to hit publish and share it with whoever wants to read.

I love reading blogs too, especially the blogs of friends who no longer live nearby. Reading their posts and hearing what is going on in their lives feels almost like we got to have a cup of coffee and chat face to face, almost. I learn so much from reading blogs.

But what I have been figuring out these last few months is that I am not a blogger. I am not very good about being consistent with my writing. Most posts feel inspired in some way, not great but inspired by God or life somehow. But as I have tried to be more disciplined about writing, I have also sat with a blank screen trying to figure out what to write because writing takes discipline sometimes. I have learned from some great writers that inspiration often does not show up until you are actually sitting down to write. So I have also practiced some discipline with writing.

I think this blog has been a great place for me to find my voice, to find my writing style and place. And now that I am trying my hand at a novel, I am finding that all my writing sparks are about my book. I often discover great writing prompts in church. Yesterday that was so true. So many ideas flooded my mind but they were all about the characters and plot lines in my novel. Nothing really great to blog.

I will keep writing here as I find something swirling in my mind that won't sit still until it is tied to words on the screen but I am not going to tie myself to a schedule any longer. Because if I do, I will spend my hour on Monday morning writing a blog post instead of working on my novel which right now is the priority.

So now my blog should only be the good stuff, the less is more style of blogging.

I am sure that once my novel is complete, I will be back to blogging regularly because I still want to finish My Story and have a place to share my thoughts with my long distance friends over a cup of coffee.

9/11 Belongs to Them

2011-09-11T20:51:00.000-07:00

I remember where I was. I remember the fear and the chaos. I remember the hours and days spent trying to figure it all out. This world turned upside down.

I was teaching at the time, high school history. My students looked at me for answers. I could explain the history of the conflict but I had no answers to give. There were no answers on that day.

My husband traveled for work a lot. He flew to Boston and New York. He flew home to San Francisco. He could have been on one of those flights.

It felt so personal.

We were attacked.

But what I have learned these last ten years is that while we, the world outside, claim 9/11, feel it deeply, it is not ours. For most of us it is images, it is memories, it is stories.

But there are thousand of people for whom 9/11 is not a remembrance, but a part of their daily lives. People who had their husbands, wives, parents or children were taken from them. People who were there that day that survived but face the very painful recovery both physically and psychologically.

I did not know anyone who died on that day. Not personally or even peripherally. It was not until recently that I became friends with someone who did lose their father on one of the flights. A friend who today remembers her father as she looks into the eyes of her children.

As I watch the memorial coverage, as I hear the names and watch the many, many stories on television today, I am aware for the first time that 9/11 belongs to them. It belongs to the people who have spent the last 10 years recovering, moving forward and remembering their loved ones.

Our world was forever changed but their lives were altered in ways we cannot imagine.

9/11 is not mine. It belongs to them.

I can mourn with them.

I can honor their loss.

I can remember.

TGINHF

2011-09-09T09:49:00.000-07:00

I am loving the boys being in school. I love the quiet mornings, once it gets quiet. The first hour of the day is full of me reminding the boys to brush their teeth and get their shoes on and them getting distracted by games of hide and seek and high jumping contests. But then we pile in the van, spend a few minutes on the playground and then the bell rings. Kids scurry off to class. And the world becomes quiet.

The routine has been good for all of us. Except the homework part. That part is killing me.

Our school has very reasonable homework guidelines. The work assigned is very manageable. Pretty sure though that the time spent whining, crying or procrastinating does not count against the time limits. That's just a bonus for those that choose it. I am in awe by the amount of drama that can come from a four sentence paragraph or how long it can take to do one page of cursive letter practice. So homework takes a lot longer than it needs.

This week, Middle Man had a math worksheet all about him. "What are the numbers in your street address?" "How tall are you?" "What is your library card number?" All sorts of questions that had number answers. I went to check his homework. He had answered all the ones he could by himself but for the rest he wrote "unknown". One question he answered "N/A" and he used it correctly because he did not know most the answers but for this one he doesn't have a favorite number so it really is not applicable. He cracks me up.

He was not happy when I erased all the unknowns and showed him the part of the directions at the top of the page that said to ask an adult if you don't know the answers. Because while he might not know how much he weighed when he was born, I remember very clearly that he was 9 pounds and that was without an epidural. It took him a while but we eventually figured out all the answers including his favorite number 999,999,999,999,999,999, 999. (I'm not sure if he would have kept going if he had not run out of room.)

That was just one assignment. For one day. I am exhausted by the end of the day. The one saving grace is that both boys are avid readers so getting their reading minutes/pages done is easy.

The other saving grace is that there is no homework assigned on the weekends. I love Fridays. I get to pick up my kids, hear all about their day and then enjoy a free afternoon with them.

Thank Goodness It's No Homework Friday.

TGINHF to you all!

My Story - My Little Brother

2011-09-07T12:30:00.000-07:00

As always My Story is from my point of view. You can read my disclaimer here.

******

My little brother has a long story. I hope one with a happy ending for him. But I know it has been a long and bumpy road for him.

As I wrote, my parents began taking in foster kids before my first memories come into focus. It was just one kid or two at first. My parents were committed to caring for these “orphans” these kids in need.

But they also wanted to add one more kid to our family, to our nuclear, core family of 4. My parents had always planned on adopting one more child. It was not in reaction to the needs of our foster kids but part of their desire to help with the world crowding problem that was popular to discuss in the 70s while having a family of three. At one point my parents were talking about adopting one of the older foster boys who lived with us but that did not work out. Then when I was 4 we found out there was a baby needing a family and my parents jumped at the chance to add this little boy to our clan.

They adopted my little brother when he was 10 months old. He was given up at birth and had been living with a foster family that loved him until I was almost 5 when he came home to our family. Knowing what I know now about his mother and his prenatal care, it is not a surprise that he had some serious challenges. He had problems with his ears as a child. Suffered a few seizures from high fevers as a toddler. But it was not until he was a preschooler that his ADD, his lack of impulse control and inability to stay on task for any length of time became a challenge for him.

None of this mattered to us, to our family. He was one of us. He was my brother. It made complete sense to me that we were a family, my parents, my older brother and my new little brother, that we were permanent and that the foster kids were temporary. It turns out my little brother being adopted was confusing to some of the foster kids later on, especially when my parents did not adopt any other kids but that is another story. It is his story to tell.

I wish things had turned out better in the end. I wish my parents had learned from what happened and never allowed him to be put in that situation again. I wish my parents had protected him better. I wish they had focused on his needs and not fallen back into the comfort of being foster parents, a job they felt confident in and a job that gave them a sense of doing good and serving God. I wonder what would have happened if they had chosen my brother over their job?

I wish things had not gone so sour as he turned into a teenager and then an adult. I wish he had seen us as his family and not as he called us, his “adoptive family”. I wish he had been able to find his way younger and not gone into his 20s with so much baggage and poor decision making. I wish things had been better for him, for us, for our whole family.

But choices were made. Pain built up. Life kept going. And now we are no longer a family of five. We are now five separate families, trying to figure out what our history means for each of us.

Feeling God's Absence

2011-09-05T10:34:00.000-07:00

I recently heard an amazing sermon by Kevin Kim on Lament from Psalms 88. You can watch the whole sermon here and if you are struggling in the darkness, if you are angry and hurt by what God is or is not doing in your life, I highly recommend it. It is also available in iTunes for free by looking up MPPC Lament.

I am in a good place in my life right now. So what I got out of the sermon was probably not the main point. But as I was sitting there, I wrote down two words that the pastor defined for us.

Consolation and Desolation

The pastor defined consolation "as the felt presence of God." These are those mountaintop moments where God is ever present in your life, in your circumstances, in your moments.

The pastor then defined desolation as "the felt absence of God." These are not the valleys of circumstance, the times when life is hard and the events of life are weighing you down. No. Desolation is the desert, desolation is the silence, when you don't feel God anywhere.

In America ,we believe in cause and effect, we believe in results based on works.

We believe that feeling close to God is a result of our Bible reading, prayer time and service. And conversely, when we don't feel God, when we don't hear God it is because we are pulling away, we are separating ourselves from him.

But what if God does not work from a results based paradigm. What if God's actions are beyond our understanding but for His purpose?

The ancients said, "What if consolation and desolation isn't so much about what you do and what you're doing, but it's more about what God is doing? What if consolation and desolation are both intentional moves of God in your life?" (Sermon Transcript)

If we learn nothing from Job, we learn this. There is a world at play beyond the world we know. Things happened in Job's life that had nothing to do with his actions. There was no cause and effect for Job and this really threw he and his friends for a loop. They spent chapter after chapter debating what Job must have done to cause these disasters in his life while Job continued to defend himself.

I find a lot of comfort in this idea of consolation and desolation not being necessarily a direct result of my actions. God loves me not as a result of what I do or who I am but because He loves me. My consolation is not based on my actions but on God's grace.

Sometimes my desolation, my feeling distance from God is because of actions or a lack of connection on my part. But I also have known a desert time in my life, a time of desolation and separation that was not a result, not a reaction to my deeds. I have felt the hand of God pull away even as I cried out for Him to hold me close. Even as I dove into His word more and more. Even as I sang songs of praise and worship and mercy at church each Sunday. My whole heart seeking, my whole mind knowing, my whole being serving who God is. And yet, God's felt presence was missing.

Why does God do that to those that love Him? I know it is not that He has left me because I know that nothing separates us from the love of God. (Romans 8:38 - 39) But I think sometimes the feelings drift away, sometimes the felt presence is removed so that we can grow, so that we can affirm our conviction apart from how we feel.

Just as at some point in every marriage, each person has to say yes, I am staying committed, yes I am choosing to love you. Even though I don't feel it today, even though you are not near. I am choosing you, even though...

I think the same is true in our relationship with God. At some point, we have to step up and say yes, I choose you God, even though I don't feel it today, even though I don't see you today. Today I will say blessed be your name.

I experienced this desert a few years ago, actually the last time we lived in the Bay Area. It was a dark time for me spiritually, even though I was doing all the right things. I was crying out to God to be in our lives, in my life. At some point I had to make a decision. Was I going to still follow God, even if I could not feel it, even if I did not feel the warmth and reassurance of God's love? Or was this God thing really just an opiate for the masses as Karl Marx had believed, something to make us humans feel better and give us something to hold onto and to follow instead of figuring life out on our own?

When faced with what I believed about God, what I knew about the Bible, I decided that God is God and that is enough for me. My circumstances, my feelings, did not change that truth. My experience of God did not change God. He was enough.

The darkness did not lift right away. It was not cause and effect, not a life lesson that once learned meant God would pour his presence back into my life.

But slowly, I did start feeling more and more of God's hand on my heart and my mind. And more than feeling God's presence, I had come out of the desert with a deeper understanding of who God is and who I am in Him. My life is not determined by my circumstances. God is not at the mercy of my actions or inaction. God is bigger than me, infinitely bigger, and yet I am His and that makes me bigger too. The more I enter His world, the more I enter Him, the less my world, the events of my days, sway me.

My conviction is so much stronger because I now know my commitment is based not on what God does for me but because of who God is.

I Choose Today...

2011-09-02T09:32:00.000-07:00

I am trying to be disciplined about writing. I don't want my few precious hours to really think, to write without interruption to get eaten up by errands and Facebook. But then there are mornings like today when I don't feel good, mornings when I wake up feeling hungover even though I had nothing to drink.

It is these mornings that I think will determine if this writing thing is a passing hobby or something real. Not because it is a reflection of my talent or lack there of, but because as Albus Dumbledore says, "It is our choices, Harry, that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities." (J.K. Rowling)

I know my identity in Christ. I know I am a child of God. I am endowed with talents and gifts, interests and passions, that make me unique with something to offer the world. My work has meaning but only if I actually do the work. All the talents, all the ideas, all the education, all the grace in the world means nothing if I choose to do nothing with it.

I have work to do. I was made with a purpose, we all were. It is easy as a woman living in my part of the world, my part of the country, to find work. It is easy to find things to keep busy. And while I believe that Christians share a purpose, to love God and to love our neighbors, how we do that will look quite different. Our work, how we spend our time, will be different.

Does my day, does my work, does my love please God?

That is the question I am asking now.

And so I choose to sit and write. Not because I have nothing else to do. Not because my work is necessary. God does not need my words. I choose to sit and write because the process, the writing, is the work I feel called to in this season of my life.

God is pleased when I show up.

When I show up the real work can begin.

He can work in me.

My Story - Foster Kids

2011-08-31T08:35:00.000-07:00

As always My Story is from my point of view. You can read my disclaimer here.

******

When I was 6 we moved to Oregon. My mom had spent a few years there as a child and wanted to go back. This was also when they started working together as full time group home parents. We had a few foster kids living with us in California but they were the easy kind. The little kids who needed a safe place to stay while their parent(s) figured things out and got their act together. My parents always said that they wanted to serve Jesus by loving and caring for the widows and the orphans.

I have mostly fond memories of these foster kids. I remember a girl named Wendy who was my exact same age. She and her older brother and sister lived with us for a while. She had brown hair and brown eyes and I had white blond hair at the time with blue eyes. We were yin and yang.

Now my parents were going to start a group home for 6 teenage girls. This was no longer a simple act of taking a few kids into our home while we lived a pretty ordinary life with Dad commuting into the city from the suburbs. No this was a wholly new life, full of drama and chaos, teenage expletive laden rants, and being exposed to a world of evil and pain most little kids do not know exists. I learned about sex and molestation as a young child. I was yelled at and belittled by teenage girls who resented the fact that my father was not abusing me. I was introduced to the darkest of evil at a very young age.

My world was a much older place than my young age. I was expected at 6, 7, 8 to participate in the same chore chart and kitchen duties that the older kids, these teenage girls did. I was parented in the same manner as these high needs, at risk kids were parented. I was also very aware that these kids needed my parents, needed their care, even if that meant I did not get a story that night or my mom was late to pick me up after a school activity. I had my parents living with me and these girls did not. I needed to share, I needed to be willing to give unto others.

I don’t know if this was right or wrong. I sometimes wonder if my kids need to be doing more around the house, if I am coddling them too much. But I look at my 8 year old and wonder how my parents ever expected me to do all my own laundry, do all the families dinner dishes on my night, or clean a bathroom without adult help.

I also wonder if I could open my home to a group of kids who had suffered so much damage, so much harm, that the people around them are inevitably part of the pain and the healing process. At one point I remember doing family counseling, and by family I mean the 5 of us and 6 teenage girls who changed month to month, year to year. I don’t know if I could or would ask that of my kids. I guess if that is what God has called us to do we would. And my parents were always really adamant that this was their calling, that God had told them to do care for the orphans, not just in spirit or with donations but in our home.

A few years back when I was talking to my mom about how I was having a hard time with the monotony of being a young mom, she told me something that sort of changed my understanding of my parents being foster parents. She mentioned that she was so bored with just the two of us, my brother and I, being a stay at home mom that they decided to bring in more kids. We were probably 2 and 6 years old.

This new kernel of information tainted my altruistic feelings of taking in the orphans and those in need. I understood her boredom, but was it the right decision for her kids, for us, to bring more kids into the family just so she wouldn't be bored. It certainly makes me wonder how many times really good acts are based on selfish motivations, selfish desires that may be harmful to those around us. The story of my parents taking in foster kids eventually did harm my family. I know that many kids were helped through the years, but when I saw the end results, it made me ask was it the right decision?

I don't have the answers. I know that being a foster parent is a tremendous gift. I do know though that it is a complicated decision that cannot be taken lightly.

4829

2011-08-29T09:43:00.000-07:00

4829 - that is how many words I have written for my book.

10 pages in a word document. I have read that novels start at about 80,000 words.

I have some writing to do and I love it.

I love spending part of my day in a fictional world. Some of the time, I am pushing the story along, but I have had those moments I have read about, where a character changes things on me. Where I am writing dialogue in one direction and I can almost hear the character writing different words. Nothing crazy, just the character becoming more alive and less of a cliche in my head.

It is work for sure to sit down and face a blank page, to have to figure out how my characters are going to get from one scene to the next. It is work just to get myself to the blank page. It is easy to get distracted after school drop off, to fill up the few hours I have when the house is quiet enough to really get some work done. There are so many things I want to do with these few hours of freedom I have. I want to get to the gym. I want to have long, uninterrupted chats with over coffee with friends. Even when I am at my desk with my laptop, there are so many places on the internet to visit. I love twitter @findingfruit and finding new people to follow. I love seeing what my friends up in Oregon are up to on Facebook. And I love reading other people's blogs and then clicking through the comments to new blogs. The distractions are endless.

But more and more, I am wanting to write. The story is taking on more shape. I am finding myself drifting into the story when I am folding laundry or driving the kids to the pool. I am finding myself sitting down at my desk more and more often to type out a new scene or to let the characters find their way to the next major plot point I have in mind.

I am loving the writing and yet it is also so incredibly scary to do something that I feel completely inadequate to do. I feel so silly at times. Who am I to think I can write a book? I read amazing stories crafted by talented authors and wonder how I have the audacity to think I can do the same thing.

I recognize that my writing may never amount to much more than the process. But what I have learned is that most of life is not about the results. It is about the process. The best life lessons, the most growth have come as I faced the unknown and walked the steps. There is value and worth in the process no matter the results. I will be changed in the process.

Blogs I Wish I Wrote

2011-08-26T10:02:00.000-07:00

I am trying to work on my book, which means I am spending more time clicking through twitter feeds and blog comments, instead of actually writing. The fun thing about procrastinating is I often find some really good new things to read.

Today I found a few blog posts I wish I had written. Ideas I had been contemplating but had not gotten around to writing. And now that I see these blogs, so well written with great content, I realize I don't have to write everything. Sometimes, it is better to pass on something that is really good than to make my own.

Sprinkles cupcakes are so much better than my attempts at homemade cupcakes (which really means from a box).
A great quote can often better some up a thousand of my words.
Store bought clothes still beat anything I can make myself.

And these blogs -

Kathy Escobar writes about loving God in lots of different ways. I commented but it has to wait for moderator approval so this is what I wrote about her post,

I have been struggling with how I love God for a while. I know I love Him, but my love looks so different from those around me. Looking at your list I am an intellectual, a traditionalist, a contemplative. I find God in His word. I find him in church. I find Him through music. But my response is intellectual. It is a series of beliefs that dictate my choices. It is not a feeling thing. It is a thinking love. And sometimes this doesn’t feel adequate, like I love God enough because my emotions are not affected. Thanks for this post. It reminded me that we give and experience love differently. Not better or worse, just differently. My love for God is very real, even if it looks foreign to those around me.

Preston Yancey admits to possibly being the worst theologian ever. In the middle he writes,

All the while, the rooted faith, the desire to glorify, love, and serve the Lord remains.
The doubt and questioning have nothing to do with Him, but with practice. And feeling. The terrible, beautiful gift of feeling.

Beautiful and so true for me.

And in this last post, Jennifer at You are My Girls speaks about confessing glory in a vlog (video blog). I actually sat on that same couch yesterday talking with Jennifer who is a dear friend. I love that everyone can hear her wisdom and the sweetness of her words. I just wish everyone could also taste the yummy pasta she made us for lunch.

I would love to read your favorite posts from the week. Want to share?

My Story - I Loved School

2011-08-24T09:15:00.000-07:00

As always My Story is from my point of view. You can read my disclaimer here.

******

With Little One staring kindergarten last week, my mind has wandered through my elementary years. Little memories from my childhood.

I remember going to kindergarten in Simi Valley, California. There was a gate around the kindergarten classroom. I cannot remember my teacher's name but I do remember that we got a lifesavers lollipop when we were able to identify all the lower case letters of the alphabet. It took me a couple of tries, those b's and d's were hard to tell apart, but eventually I got my strawberries and creme lollipop. I felt so proud of myself.

I remember being so sad at the end of the first day of first grade because I did not learn to read that day. I had been wanting to learn to read for so long. As a kindergartner, the school had wanted to have me go to first grade for a reading class but my mom declined. She did not want me to be bored in school like she was all those years. She promised I would learn to read in first grade. Turns out that was not the curriculum for the first day.

I remember moving from California to Oregon at the end of October during my 1st grade year. In Oregon we rode a bus to school. I liked waiting at the bus stop and riding around the neighborhood with my friends. In first grade in Oregon we played on the bars at recess and made houses out of the trees on the playground.

I remember in 2nd grade, my friend and I used to make colored glue using our markers and white glue. I am sure we were supposed to be doing something more productive with our time but we were both often done early with whatever lesson we were doing that hour. I remember going home after school with my friend Rebecca and roller skating in her culdesac for hours. I think that was the year my mom made me a Little House on the Prairie dress that I wore as many days as I could.

Third grade was a hard year for me. I was an incredibly emotional little 8 year old. I left the room crying a lot. I thought it was all the stress of my family life at the time, but my Hockey Boy is also really emotional and he often had to sit in the hall to calm his tears once he turned 8. I survived though even though I was convinced my teacher did not like me. A hard thing for a little perfectionistic, teacher lover like me.

I remember times tables in 4th grade and having a male teacher for the first time. I liked his class though he was the teacher nobody wanted. I liked the times tables tests. I liked being good at math. 5th grade was another male teacher. He was older and spent a lot of time building character but did not seem to care too much about the academics. It felt like a play year to me but I think I actually learned a lot as well.

One of my favorite school lessons ever was in 5th grade when a group of us got to go to a special class once a week or so and create our own civilization. Philofire because we were lovers of fire. All our artifacts had fire references. At the end of the unit we went to another school and buried all our artifacts in a big pile of dirt. We then dug up another school's make believe civilizations artifacts and tried to figure out what they were all about. What a great lesson plan!

School was a refuge for me. There were rhythms and systems in place that did not change year to year or moment to moment. There was lunch times and recesses to play and be kids. There were new places to visit in the pages of the books we read. There were caring adults, well except that one third grade teacher, who took care of me everyday no matter how they were feeling.

I loved school. I loved it so much that I eventually became a teacher myself.

The Book?

2011-08-22T10:28:00.000-07:00

I did it. I sat down today and started writing, not a blog post or an email but an actual book, a novel. I have had a story brewing in my head for a little while. I am not sure how it will start or how it will end, but I know a few points in the middle. I don't plan on it being a best seller or even getting published. But I have always wanted to write a book, sort of like other people want to run a marathon or jump out of a plane. It is something on my own personal bucket list.

I don't think I will share much of it along the way, but I wanted to share what I wrote today. Mostly because I finally sat down and started. Though this part that I wrote is actually somewhere closer to the end. It might be awful and trite. But I am okay with that. First time marathon runners don't try to win, they just keep running.

******

As they walked through the door of the small coffee shop, the ring of the bell reminded Mia of their first date, the first time she finally let this man buy her a cup of coffee. How long ago that felt. How far removed from this moment.

They both ordered lattes and then went to sit at a table by the window. Neither spoke. Mia could not even look at Tim. She kept her eyes on the little girl sitting on the bus bench outside. Tim watched Mia, hoping she would finally say something, anything that would fix the words that broke him.

The barista came over and set down their drinks. Mia held her cup. The heat of the milk and espresso warmed her hands. As she picked up her drink to take a sip her eyes fell on Tim’s face. The pain she had seen in his eyes the day before was still there. It had hardened though. It looked less wild but deeper.

Tim looked back at Mia. He searched her eyes but found nothing that explained what had happened. This Mia before him was the girl he loved. She looked back out the window again. The bus bench now empty. Still no words.

Tim finally spoke, “I know what she said.”

Mia’s eyes stayed moved from the bus bench to the tree. Anything to keep her eyes off of Tim’s face. Anything to keep her gaze trained and her heart in check.

Tim’s voice grew quieter. “I’m sorry.”

The pain was so clear in his words. Mia could hear it. But she could still hear his grandmother’s words. Those words, mixed with the words her mother had spoken to her all those years, rang louder in her head.

“You know what she said is not true. You know it. Why, Mia? Why do you let her words change our love?”

Mia finally looked Tim in the eyes. Her voice strong with conviction, “I told you. I refuse to be a disappointment anymore.”

And then her eyes went back to the tree, putting distance once again between the two.

“But Mia, you are not a disappointment. You know that. You know how much I love you. Why is that not enough? Why does what my grandmother says or think matter?”

Without looking at him, Mia said coldly, “She is your family. You are tied to one another. I do love you, but I cannot do it again. I cannot be part of a family that is clearly disappointed to have me as a member. It took a long time to escape that once, to find my own person, my own footing. I cannot do it again. I won’t lose myself again. I cannot be with you.”

Tim breathed deeply. The words stung again, more so even, because the shock had worn off. The first time he heard her say it, he didn’t believe it. He was caught off guard but convinced that once they talked, once they saw one another face to face, he could fix it. But these words, her coldness, her conviction felt so final, so true. His heart was breaking and he did not know what to do. He did not know how to fix it.

He looked around the coffee shop. There was a business man in the corner typing away on his laptop. A couple of students were studying at a table nearby. The baristas were happily chatting, waiting for more customers to come through the door and ring the bell. And here in this room, his life was falling apart. This girl, the girl he loved deeply, was letting go. His pain turned to anger. How can she not fight for us? How can this strong, smart, beautiful girl, this girl that put him in his place and taught him how to love, how could she let go so easily.

As he looked at her again, looked at her steeled face and her clenched hands, he saw her pain. He saw the fight within her. She was not blasé about this. He could see it now. He could see through his pain into hers. He could see the struggle she was having between protecting herself, a need that was deep inside her after all those years of trying to please someone who was never going to be happy with her, and loving him in spite of his family.

Suddenly his heart grew quiet. His body relaxed. He took a last sip of his coffee and stood.

His movement startled Mia, it broke her concentration. She looked up at Tim, finally looking in deep into his eyes.

“Mia, I love you. You are where I want my life to be. But I do understand now. All I ask is what you once asked me. Pray. Talk to God about this. See what He has to say.”

He then turned and walked away.

Stepping Into the Quiet

2011-08-19T11:02:00.000-07:00

My baby started kindergarten this week. All three of my boys are now at the same school together and I am home alone for 3 hours every day. Every day. Last year Little One went to preschool two days a week for 2.5 hours. So doing the math last year I had 5 hours to myself and I spent one of those days at the other boys' school volunteering. This year, I have 15 hours to myself. Even if I volunteer and hang out with friends or join a Bible study, I still have hours and hours unscheduled time for myself.

But what to do with all those hours? I made a decision years ago that I would not do any work around the house while the kids were gone that I could do when they were home. Why waste those precious moments on laundry and dishes. Also, I did not want my kids to come home every day to a clean home, made beds and fresh underwear in their drawers and think all that work just magically happens when they are gone. I am pretty sure my future daughters-in-law would not appreciate that. While it might be easier to just do the work myself, it is better for all of us in the long run if I take the time to teach them how to help and eventually do this work themselves.

So I'm not going to be cleaning or cooking. I still have hours after my kindergartner gets out of school for errand running, just the two of us. I decided instead to dedicate this time to reading, studying and writing.

But now that the hours are before me, it is scary. Now I have to actually do the work. I have to open the book, think about things that shake me a bit, and actually sit down and write. It is a process. It requires discipline on my part. A conscious decision to turn off the Today Show and plop my behind at my desk. It requires me to let go of the insecurities, the thoughts that what I have to say was already written so much better by this blogger or in that book.

I recently read Rachel Held Evans book, "Evolving in Monkey Town: How the Girl Who Knew All the Answers Learned to Ask the Questions" which I highly recommend for anyone who grew up in the church. I love her blog and tweets. She was a voice I was growing to really respect.

Her book felt so personal to me and then... And then she started to write about the tough things; the questions about our faith, our God, His judgment. Questions I have had, but don't want to address because I don't know if I can reconcile my faith with what I think is fair and right and loving. I got to the middle of the book and wasn't sure I wanted to keep reading. What if Rachel fell off the "Christian" cart? What if her conclusions felt like she was leading away from and not toward God. I had respected so many of her blog posts, her views on social justice and Jesus' love. Yet here I was in the middle of her book wondering if I could handle her answers, wondering if I wanted to keep reading her questions. Not to spoil the experience for you, but the book is worth the journey.

This is the thing about having time. It can be scary. You have to face some of those tough questions you put off for all those years you were just trying to get through the day.
Who am I? How should I spend my day? Am I good enough as I am?
What is my purpose? How do I contribute to this world? Am I doing enough?

I think I have some of these answers and some probably don't need answers. But it is implementing these answers that scares me. What if my work is not worthy? What if no one cares? What if I am horrible at it?

It is so much easier, at first, to stay in the known than to step into the unknown. But if I have learned anything from moving as many times as I have it is this, the unknown is full of rich blessings when you walk where God's lamp leads your path.

So I will walk. I will read. I will write. And I will try to quiet the still small voice that even in this moments critiques.

My Story - Why I Went to College

2011-08-17T20:27:00.000-07:00

As always My Story is from my point of view. You can read my disclaimer here.

******

My mom always dreamed of graduating from college. But she married my dad right after graduating a year early from high school and they headed east right away. College became a series of starts and stops for her. When I was four, she was enrolled in a community college nearby. While she was in class, I went to the preschool on campus.

I think my mom was studying to be a nurse. I am not really sure. She was often studying or working on an assignment. One of her classes involved bringing home a cat cadaver as homework. I would have thought it would be traumatizing seeing a dead cat in the house, but it wasn't. The smell though was overwhelming, not of death but of something that reminded me of disinfectant.

I knew even then that her work, her going to school was important. I was taught from a very young age that college was important. Neither of my parents went to school right after high school. They are both incredibly bright people. My dad worked with computers back before it was popular, back when computers took up a whole room. He did not need college to do his job. But he loved to learn. I remember the day my dad hung up the huge mural picturing earth from space on the wall in our living room. It covered the entire wall with the darkness of space broken up by the bright blue, white and green of the earth. They loved that mural. They were nerdy like that. They are both inquisitive and always learning but a traditional college experience was not available to them at the time. But for their kids, college was a given.

It was really, really, important to them that we go straight off to university. We were also told from a young age that we would have to pay for it ourselves. There was no college savings plan at our house. Foster parents do not have any extra money at the end of the day. It was sort of a confusing message to give to a kid I realize now. "Go to college which is really, really expensive, but we cannot help you with money." But it made sense to me then and it makes sense to me now. My mom gave up college, the dream she had for herself, to marry my father. Marriage at 16 and kids just a short time later was not her original plan. She wanted more for us but knew she could not help us get there beyond giving us the vision. But the vision was enough for me.

I learned watching my parents struggle to get through school over years and decades. I watched them and knew I did not want to be managing life, kids, and cutting up a cat cadaver all at the same time. I knew I wanted to go to college and be free to have a full college experience.

I am so glad I stay focused on that goal because college was life changing and life saving. And it did not involve a single cat cadaver being brought home. I was able to visit my dead science projects at the lab.

But again, I am getting ahead of myself.

Waiting for the Other Shoe to Drop

2011-08-15T08:33:00.000-07:00

I live a life that is blessed. Not just in a One Thousand Gifts, let's find the good, the eucharisteo in the everyday. My life is blessed in very tangible ways. I have freedom that most would fight to experience. I have a home, food, clean water, and enough money to buy new shoes for the kids without worry. I am married to an amazing man. He truly is but he doens't like me to write about him so I won't tell you how amazing. Just know that he is so amazing that he puts up with my attempts to help him become even more amazing. My kids are healthy, bright, happy and full of life. I have great friends, no matter where I live.

I am blessed.

But every once in a while, especially after listing how great my life is, I start to think about the downhill that must be coming. I am trying to get over my obsession with waiting for the other shoe to drop. I am trying to not measure life by the what goes up must come down theories. But they are always there in the back of my mind.

It is a tough thing to try to figure out the whys of blessings and trials. Is economic turmoil a result of bad decision making or is Satan testing me? Is illness a result of bad genetics or keeping my cell phone in my back pocket all my life or do bad things just sometimes happen to good people? Is there a set of weights and measures so that every great moment must be counter balanced by a horrible circumstance?

I was brought up to believe that those who were closest to God, who were the most obedient would be tested the most, that Satan would be constantly trying to lead them astray. But this does not really fit into my theology anymore. I don't doubt that God's people are attacked for their faith and good works but I don't think it is mandatory.

I guess I am coming to the conclusion that life is unexplainable. Maybe the shoe will drop someday. Maybe it won't. Or maybe the shoe has dropped but because I am no longer at the mercy of my circumstances, I didn't really feel the weight of the fall.

I know there are dark days ahead in life, but I am also thinking that maybe the darkness is no longer so dark for me. Maybe I have found enough light, enough hope, enough grace to brighten the dark days.

I had this post written and then I read these paragraphs by Shauna Niequist in her book "Bittersweet."

Grace isn't about having a second chance; grace is having so many chances that you could use them through all eternity and never come up empty. It's when you finally realize that the other shoe isn't going to drop, ever. It's the moment you feel as precious and handmade as every star, when you feel, finally, at home for the very first time.
Grace is when you finally stop keeping score and when you realize that God never was, that his game is a different one entirely. Grace is when the silence is so complete that you can hear your own heartbeat, and right within your ribs, God's beating heart, too.

I love these words. God is not keeping score. Grace is knowing the other shoe is not going to drop. Not because hard things are not going to happen because they will. But knowing that those hard things will be full of grace. I am no longer at the mercy of life's circumstances. The noise of this world, the fear of life's counter balances, are slowly getting quieter and quieter. The silence of grace in my life is becoming louder.

Fighting for Me

2011-08-12T09:00:00.000-07:00

In my mind I am defined. I list descriptors of myself, words that have been with me my whole life.
Demanding.
Selfish.
Loud.
Abrasive.
Loquacious.
Judgmental.
Stubborn.

Where did I get these words? Why do I see myself as someone who has to fight all the time?

I know I have changed over the years. Most people would not use those words to describe me now, okay they would probably still say I am talkative and have a problem with interupting and being a tad loud. I just get excited about what my friends are sharing and want to join in and share their story with them. But I don't think I am judgmental or stubborn anymore. I think I have softened over the years.

I don't know why it was always such a fight when I was younger. I am sure it has something to do with growing up in a family where both my parents also insisted they were right. I probably did have to demand some attention as a kid when all the energy and family decisions were being made to help my mom get better. When you have been forgotten to be picked up after an activity and have overheard your parents fighting over whose turn it was to have to go to my soccer game, you start to need to make your voice heard. And I realize that asking my cash strapped parents for a class ring when I was in high school was probably unrealistic. I was 17. I was unrealistic. But to call me selfish when I did not ask for much and paid for everything else in my life myself seems harsh. But I took on that label, along with all the others I was given along the way. Demanding. Emotional. Selfish. Lazy.

Somewhere along the way, sometime after leaving home, I was able to put down the boxing gloves and stop fighting. I found that I didn't have to demand that people pay attention to me. I made friends who genuinely seemed to like to be with me. People who enjoyed sharing life with me and who were willing to give and take in the relationship. People who wanted to listen to my pains without having to defend against it. I was able to take care of myself financially once I was in college. I did not have to rely on my parents for tuition or book money. I was no longer tied to their financial decision making. And in being free from my parents physically, emotionally, and financially, I was able to stop fighting.

I didn't have to fight to keep my own identity any longer. I didn't have to fight the quicksand I felt pulling me into who my parents saw me to be. I finally had time and space to actually figure out who I was, not who I was as a reflection of my family.

And it turns out I am not a fighter. I certainly can fight. I can stand my ground when I need but I am very willing to compromise. I can lead, I can make decisions for myself and others, but I also am happy to follow.

I know more about who I am. I have found myself apart from anyone else's definition of me. I have found my place in God's kingdom. I have found my identity as his child, loved and redeemed. I am learning that I can be generous and loving. I can be selfless and self sacrificing. I have found grace and can share that grace with those around me, even those I don't agree with or who have hurt me. I am thankful for life, for the little moments and the big life changing provisions.

It is not just that I have found my identity in Christ. I have also been figuring out more of who I am in this world. What kind of friend, wife, mother and participant I am. I don't have to fight to be heard any more. I don't have to fight to be cared for anymore. I have my own place in this world.

When I moved, many of my friends took some time to tell me what I mean to them. The words they used to describe me and our friendship were not on the list above.

They used words like authentic, honest, sweet, thoughtful, loving, friend.

While I do not want to find my worth or my identity in how other's see me, I do think it is time to let go of those words, those descriptors that are no longer accurate, and replace them with words that do describe who I am now.

My Story - Jesus Loves Me This I Know

2011-08-10T10:33:00.000-07:00

As always My Story is from my point of view. You can read my disclaimer here.

******

I don't remember a time not knowing who Jesus is. I grew up hearing Bible stories in church and praying before dinner. I knew that Jesus loved me because he loved all the little children, red and yellow, black and white. I knew I was precious in his sight.

I grew up going to church. I heard the story of Adam and Eve, Noah and the Ark, Jonah and the whale. I knew that Jesus was born on Christmas and rose again on Easter. I was told that God loved me so much that he sent his only son Jesus to die on the cross for my sins.

I knew I was a sinner who could choose whether I would go to heaven or to hell when I died. And when a four year old is faced with those options, I am pretty sure most would choose Jesus. But not me. At least not in that moment when they told us the story at church and explained about asking Jesus into our hearts to receive salvation. I was not going to jump on that bandwagon. No I was a thoughtful little girl. I wanted time to consider my options and think it through.

And then later that week, I was sent to time out. I have no idea what I had done that day, but I was sitting in timeout and instead of thinking of what I had done, I was contemplating this whole Jesus choice I had. And it was in timeout, all by myself, that I decided that yes, I did want to ask Jesus into my heart. I did want to go to heaven. I did want to follow Jesus.

I prayed the prayer they had taught me. I told my mom. And nothing really changed. At least not noticeably. My life went on. I kept going to church and praying with my family before dinner. I learned my letters and eventually went to kindergarten and then first grade. I grew up physically and intellectually, but I also grew spiritually. I continued to learn more about Jesus. And the more I learned, the more I grew.

I have had my share of crisis of faith moments. I have had doubts and struggles with the church and what it says about Jesus. But I continue to grow and learn and follow Jesus down the path I started when I was a little girl in time out.

My first step of faith was at 4 but that step was in response to a simple truth I have always known, Jesus loves me this I know.

The Opposite Race

2011-08-08T11:31:00.000-07:00

My boys are always in a race. A race to drink their milk first. A race to get dressed first. The most important race in our house right now seems to be the seatbelt race, as in who gets their seatbelt on first. This is a competition I can endorse because it gets everyone out the door faster and since we no longer live in a town where everything is five minutes away, we are often running late.

But there is a part of me that wants my boys to also learn to let others go first, to serve others. On Friday, I posted the Parable of the Workers in the Vineyard. This passage ends with the verse, “So the last will be first, and the first will be last.” (Matt. 20:16)

I recently talked to the boys about this verse and about the importance of looking out for one another, helping each other be successful, and allowing other people to go first sometimes.

I thought maybe my message had sunk in a little bit when I saw Middle Man, patiently let his older brother get in the van and then wait to buckle his seat belt.

Turns out he had changed the race to an opposite race once he realized he was going to lose the seatbelt race to Little One. So instead of the first winning the race, the last would be pronounced the winner.

I am not sure that is what Jesus had in mind.

A Days Wage

2011-08-05T11:10:00.000-07:00

Last week I took my boys to VBS at one of the satellite campuses of our church. Driving to the church, I pass a place where day laborers congregate waiting for work. It is an ever present reminder of how many people are wanting to work. These men want are willing to do hard, manual labor for a days wage. I don't like having to do too many loads of laundry in one day. I may be able to check off a to do list and keep my family in clean clothes but I have never been accused of being a hard worker, at least not when it came to getting dirty and sweaty. I am happy to do the heavy lifting when it comes to being in air conditioned rooms with a computer screen and books to read.

So driving by these day laborers I am aware of how blessed I am to be able to be with my boys and write a little. I do not understand why God choose to provide me more than I need materially and why other people cannot find work. But I am beginning to see that God's generosity is not in the material provisions but in his spiritual provision. The peace I feel in my life does not come from having, because I felt this same peace when my family lost our home and we had to move in with family friend's a state away. (That story is coming in the My Story series.) This peace comes from following God's lead, wherever it takes me. It might mean moving. It might mean waiting tables to pay for college or making bricks on a mission trip. It might mean giving more or learning to be content with having more.

God's generosity is not in what he gives but in who he is. He is generous. Seeing these day laborers day after day waiting for work reminded me of the story Jesus tells in the Parable of the Workers in the Vineyard in Matthew 20:1 - 16. I do not want to be the grumbling one who has worked all day. I want to celebrate God's generosity not matter who is the recipient.

“For the kingdom of heaven is like a landowner who went out early in the morning to hire workers for his vineyard. He agreed to pay them a denarius for the day and sent them into his vineyard.
“About nine in the morning he went out and saw others standing in the marketplace doing nothing. He told them, ‘You also go and work in my vineyard, and I will pay you whatever is right.’ So they went.
“He went out again about noon and about three in the afternoon and did the same thing. About five in the afternoon he went out and found still others standing around. He asked them, ‘Why have you been standing here all day long doing nothing?’
“‘Because no one has hired us,’ they answered.
“He said to them, ‘You also go and work in my vineyard.’
“When evening came, the owner of the vineyard said to his foreman, ‘Call the workers and pay them their wages, beginning with the last ones hired and going on to the first.’
“The workers who were hired about five in the afternoon came and each received a denarius. So when those came who were hired first, they expected to receive more. But each one of them also received a denarius. When they received it, they began to grumble against the landowner. ‘These who were hired last worked only one hour,’ they said, ‘and you have made them equal to us who have borne the burden of the work and the heat of the day.’
“But he answered one of them, ‘I am not being unfair to you, friend. Didn’t you agree to work for a denarius? Take your pay and go. I want to give the one who was hired last the same as I gave you. Don’t I have the right to do what I want with my own money? Or are you envious because I am generous?’
“So the last will be first, and the first will be last.”

I am learning that my place in line doesn't matter. I just want to be in the line.

My Story - Lake Days and Campfires

2011-08-03T09:25:00.000-07:00

As always My Story is from my point of view. You can read my disclaimer here.

******

My niece is getting married this weekend so we are traveling to Michigan, the land of my husband's birth, to celebrate with her and her fiance. We will get to spend time with all my in laws at my husband's parents' house on a small lake. I have always believed that the ocean was the greatest body of water ever. Until last summer. Last summer, I got to sit by shore of the lake, reading my book, watching the kids play in the shallow, quiet waters of the lake. It was warm and sunny. This was where my husband spent his summers as a child. The house was not there, it was just a trailer on a piece of lake front property, but it holds so many memories for my husband. I could get use to life at the lake.

My childhood summer memories are centered around camping. My family would meet up with my cousins and their parents at Jedediah State Park in the Redwood forest in northern California. We would sleep in tents, walk through the redwoods, swim in the river and take part in the junior ranger programs. I remember washing dishes on the picnic table and then the littlest kids being washed in those same dishpans. I remember having a lot of freedom to explore with my brothers and cousins. Occasionally we would go canoeing or tubing on the river. I learned about ferns and moss, redwoods and cooking on a propane camping stove. We caught our marshmallows on fire because we liked our s'mores crispy.

I also remember looking for the missing kid, who was always found. My parents having trouble with the air mattress they brought for their tent. The hard ground under our sleeping bags. The rain. Wet tents that kept you dry as long as you did not touch the side of the tent. Being scared of the dark in my own tent. I wish though that I remembered more, that I was able to hold onto more of the memories.

I have wonderful memories of camping. But at some point we stopped camping. I don't know why. We stopped packing the van and tents and started staying home more.

The idea of camping seems so romantic and relaxing to me. But the logistics involved, the dirt, the shared bathrooms, the sleeping on the ground, the cost of all the equipment and the fact that neither my husband nor I are the outdoorsy type and I realize that we will probably never take our kids camping. I feel like we "should" take them camping, give them the typical childhood camping experience. I feel a little bad that we are not willing to sacrifice our comfort and clean sheets for tents and camping for our boys. But I am willing to get over the guilt. We can still visit Yosemite and the Grand Canyon, we will just stay in the nice, clean, warm hotels nearby. That is why they built hotels near national parks, right?

To Work or Not to Work

2011-08-01T10:59:00.000-07:00

Recently a friend and I were having a conversation about the purpose of work. It was a text conversation because it appears that is now where we are in the world of communication. We text. We read each other's blogs and comment on each other's Facebook pages. And honestly as someone who moves a lot and therefore has a lot of long distance friendships, I like texting. It lets me stay connected without feeling pressure to find a nice long window of time to talk on the phone. Though I did video chat with a friend last week which was fun, except I kept being distracted by how ugly I looked in my little video window. My friend was as beautiful as ever though. All this to say that I like feeling connected to my friends even if we cannot just show up at each other's houses for coffee anymore.

So my friend was talking about how she and her husband have been discussing the purpose of work, specifically how it pertains to jobs - actually real paying jobs. Unlike the "work" I claim I am doing when I want the kids to leave me alone while I am checking email or playing Zuma on Facebook. Work seems to be a topic right now. Another friend of mine had been planning to go back to college this fall to start a new career but is now postponing that plan for a while. I have noticed that as our kids are all getting older I am hearing the question, "Are you going to go back to work?" more and more often. I am starting to feel like a bit of lone wolf because I don't plan on going back to work, more specifically I don't plan on going back to a job.

It is not that I am not tempted to go back to teaching, if I could find a position. I loved teaching. I loved being in the classroom and working with high schoolers. And I loved bringing home a paycheck and having my own thing. I loved being a professional.

I have a masters degree in teaching and I instead spend most of my days keeping tabs on my kids bodily functions and how many fruits and vegetables they have eaten at any given meal. My life is at the mercy of sick kids, school holidays, and tantrums. And the tasks involved in this job never end. Laundry, meals, pick ups and drop offs. There is always another load, always another dirty dish and always another practice or activity. It is never ending. Just as I think I have made it through the to do list of my day and I am off the clock, Hockey Boy comes out for a drink of water or Little One comes running into my room scared from nightmare.

So the idea of going back to the world of a real job, with real hours and a bit of respect, is very attractive. Especially since I have a real passion for teaching and what I did once upon a time.

But then I look at the actual logistics, the having to get my kids to school which starts after I would have to be at my own school. Then the pick up, the conference days. Not to mention a sick child or a hockey tournament on a non holiday Friday. Most of the time my husband could help with some of this but he also travels sometimes, he has serious commitments at work too and the truth is his job pays a whole lot better than any teaching position ever would.

Just thinking about the logistics makes me tired. I don't like feeling tired. I spent a lot of years being tired all the time. I fought Chronic Fatigue Syndrome for a few years at the beginning of our marriage. Most likely brought on by PTSD and my type A personality stressing over my work and being perfect at everything. I worry that if I went back to full time work, I would fall right back into being stressed and overwhelmed by demanding parents and too many papers to grade in one weekend. And even if I can manage the stress and figure out a good work/life balance, a teacher's schedule is not flexible during the school year. Yes, we get the summers off, but on school days I am expected to be in the classroom, even if one of my kids has a classroom pancake party or another has a overnight field trip.

The truth is I like my life. I like being available to my kids. I like being able to pick them up after school and volunteering at their schools. I also like the down time I get when they are all at school or camp. I like the moments I get to sit and read a good book or write a blog post. I like having time to meet with friends for coffee or be in a small group at Bible study. I like being able to have strong relationships with the women around me because I am not having to rush off all the time. I like having space in my day for the unexpected.

I feel a lot of pressure at times to find a role in life now that my kids are all in school. A title to tell people when they ask. It feels a bit decadent to say I stay home, that I have 3 hours a day that are all mine, and in another year it will be 6 hours a day, 30 hours a week. I start to feel a little guilty about the freedom I have to even choose. The truth is I don't need to a job. We don't need the paycheck. We have created a life that works on my husband's salary. We won't be flying off to Europe anytime soon and we drive our cars for a very, very long time before buying another one. But we are more than blessed and we know that.

For me it is not about the money. I am free to make the choice to work or not. And I know that is a huge gift. I do want to contribute though. I want to be productive. I just don't think a traditional job is the answer.

My work happens every day, without a title, without a job, without a paycheck. I am beginning to think that work is that which you do with intention. Work is where we plant seeds and care for our plants, whatever they are. For my husband that involves accounts and ledgers and financial plans in a world of renewable energy. For me that involves taking care of my three boys, loving my neighbor and using my mind and gifts to serve God however he calls me to. If that someday involves a real job I am ready, if it involves building relationships and haphazardly writing and sharing my stories with people, I am ready for that too.

The great thing about God is that he made us all different. He designed us for different work and different jobs. We all have our part to play. The world needs us in different roles. There is not right or wrong in the work. The right or wrong comes in the intention. Are we serving God with our gifts, our talents our work? But since we can never be all right or all wrong, are we at least trying? Are we at least moving in that direction?

Being Known

2011-07-29T08:00:00.000-07:00

Hockey Boy has been waiting for the baristas at Starbucks to "know" my drink. I guess he thinks it is as cool as I do when someone knows your drink as soon as you walk in the door. Especially since I have a complicated drink order. If it is not too hot, I order a single, grande, hazelnut, nonfat, no whip, mocha. Ordered in the correct Starbucks-ese because I have been trained properly. Right now though it is too hot to drink a hot drink so I am trying different iced concoctions. I am not as loyal to my drink in the summer. I guess the sun brings out the adventurous spirit in me.

Unfortunately, none of the baristas have learned my drink order yet. I cannot blame them. I live in a triangle of Starbucks and depending where I am going, I will visit different ones every day. Also, I am really enjoying sleeping in and being lazy these last few weeks and just making coffee at home. So I am still not known. I am still anonymous. And Hockey Boy is a bit disappointed by this. Someday, when school is back in session, I am sure I will develop a routine Starbucks, a place to grab coffee after dropping the boys off at school. I may even get to know the baristas names and recognize a few familiar coffee drinkers in line.

But the anonymity, the not being known, is okay for now. Because while I may not be known and the stores may look different, Starbucks still feels like my place. I read an article about Howard Schultz, the founder of Starbucks, recently and he said, “We’re not in the coffee business. It’s what we sell as a product but we’re in the people business—hiring hundreds of employees a week, serving sixty million customers a week, it’s all human connection...”

I love the distinction. "We're not in the coffee business." I am not in the laundry, carpooling, homework helping, dinner cooking, time out giving business. I am in the people business. I am building a relationships with my kids. I am helping them to be known. Known personally, in a busy, hectic, over crowded world.

I know my kids' drink orders. I know them. And I don't ever want to lose that. In a world full of anonymity, my kids are known.

My Story - Swimming Pools, Broken Legs and Birthday Dirges

2011-07-27T10:42:00.000-07:00

As always My Story is from my point of view. You can read my disclaimer here.

******

My earliest memories, my own memories and not mirages made up of the stories of my family, are set in Simi Valley, California. Simi Valley was once a set apart suburb of Los Angeles, a town that required driving a freeway that was surrounded by grassy hills to get into Hollywood where my father worked as an engineer for a tv station. Simi Valley was not only home to my family but also Big Sky Ranch where Laura, Mary and the Ingalls family filmed Little House on the Prairie, my favorite television show.

My early memories are full of kids. There was always someone to play with. Sometimes it was the neighbors, often it was one of the many foster kids that lived with our family over the years. Once my parents settled down in Simi Valley and my dad had his job in Hollywood, they began to take in foster kids. First one teenage girl. At some point a family of three kids. My parents taught us that God commands his people to take care of the widows and orphans. They took that teaching seriously and literally as they opened our home, our rooms, our lives to abused or neglected children who needed a safe place to live. I don't know how many kids my parents took care of over the years but I know it is too many for me to remember. A few names and faces stick in my mind. Philip and Molly, Stephen and Michael, James. It is sad that I don't remember more of them because when they were in our home they were my siblings.

In my preschool years, I felt like I had an idyllic childhood. We did things together as a family, as one big family. I remember drives to my Aunt and Uncle's house in northern California. I remember stopping at Ghirardelli Square in San Francisco for ice cream on the long drive north. I remember camping in a tent in their yard one summer. Playing in tree houses and visiting the beach. I remember a free flowing of kids, animals and grown ups enjoying open summer days. I loved being with my cousins.

I have good memories of playing with my neighbor friend Tony, swimming in his pool and running on the grass in our front yards. Days were spent playing and being together. I think I was with Tony, running through the kitchen, when I fell down with a spoon in my mouth. Blood poured everywhere and I was rushed to the emergency room. Thankfully I was fine, no stitches needed, but I can still feel the dent in the top of my mouth with my tongue. You would think I would have learned my lesson but just yesterday I was walking around Costco with a spork in my mouth.

I also remember something really bad. I was four and I did not know what had happened but I was sent to my parents room where I sat on their bed waiting for someone to come tell me. It was evening and then night time. Eventually someone came to tell me my brother had been hit by a car. He was 8, I think. He and Philip were going somewhere together. That was back when you could let kids go to the corner market for an ice cream sandwich. My brother decided to run across the street and ended up in the hospital for almost two months with a broken leg, traction and eventually a body cast at home for a few months more. I remember visiting him in the hospital, my mom having to sneak me in because kids were not allowed to visit. Or maybe we just had missed visiting hours. More often I remember standing in the courtyard visiting him through his window. I adored my older brother and missed him dearly when he was away. He recovered and went on to be quite a successful high school soccer player and eventually a PE teacher so I guess his leg turned out just fine. He also is the main reason my boys are really good about not running into the street. Because whenever they get too comfortable around cars, I remind them of their Uncle who got hit by the car. Suddenly little boys are walking a little closer to mommy and checking a few extra times for cars.

One final memory I wanted to share because I was reminded of it this week when my father left a singing voicemail for my birthday. At our house, birthday cakes were always accompanied by candles and the singing of not one but two birthday songs. The first was the traditional "Happy Birthday to You" but the second was a unique family tradition. As soon as everyone finished the first song my family would break out with our own birthday dirge, a sadly sung deep voiced song.

Happy Birthday. Happy Birthday. Death, misery and despair. People dying everywhere. Happy Birthday. Happy Birthday.

It is a disturbing song. My husband was not able to get on board with our family continuing the tradition once the kids were born. But for me, it brings a smile to my face every time I hear that song.

In Christ Alone

2011-07-25T08:00:00.000-07:00

It has been interesting looking back at my life, at My Story, and I am realizing that the series is probably getting longer by the blog post. So I am going to keep writing those but think I will try to post those once a week, hopefully on Wednesdays, so that I can still have space to write the random things that come to mind. So on Wednesday I will write about my early memories, including the story of my brother being hit by a car.

Nice tease there. :)

Today though I wanted to take a minute to remind my dear friends, my fellow Christians, that you are loved, that you are forgiven and that you are forever more children of God.

I write this because I have been hearing more and more people sharing their very real pain over not feeling worthy of God's love. I don't know where this lie comes from, actually I do. I know it comes from the depths of hell to keep God's children in the dark. To force them to live lives that are less than. Because when we become focused on past sins, past decisions that were disobedient and rebellious, when we define our lives by what we have done in the past and who we were, we miss out on the true gift of being saved. The gift of being defined simply as a child of God, redeemed and reborn. And then living in this freedom gained by grace.

There is scripture after scripture that points to God's forgiveness and love. There are countless scriptures that remind us we are not a compilation of our decisions but that we are simply defined by the act of Christ on the cross.

"I have been crucified with Christ and I no longer live, but Christ lives in me. The life I now live in the body, I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave himself for me." Galatians 2:20

"If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousness." 1 John 1:9

“There is therefore now no condemnation to those who are in Christ Jesus …” Romans 8:1

“Come now and let us reason together,” says the Lord, 'Though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be as white as snow.'" Isaiah 1:18

“Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; old things have passed away, behold, all things have become new.” 2 Corinthians 5:17

We know these verses. We have read of God's forgiveness throughout the old and new testaments. And yet, so many cannot really believe these words deeply. I am slowly realizing that my confidence in Christ's work in my life, my confidence in being His child, new and worthy, is a gift that God gave me. I don't know why He did, but I have never doubted God's love for me. I have certainly doubted my value in the world's eyes. But not in God's eyes. Even when I mess up, when I stray away, I know He loves me and holds me close. I know my Father loves me no matter what I have done in my life.

And I want that so desperately for my friends. I want them to walk in confidence as God's children, deeply loved and forever forgiven. I want my friends to see themselves as God sees them, white as snow through faith in the cleansing work of Jesus. I want my friends to let go of the haunting parts of their pasts. So many hold on to things they have repented, continuing to seek forgiveness when it was already given. They are weighed down by guilt and self flagellation. Unnecessary and so incredibly destructive. No matter what they do, there is still this part of them that holds onto who they were, what they did. It is a sad place to live.

I heard this song yesterday morning in church and the words were clear.

For I am His and He is mine
Bought with the precious blood of Christ
No guilt of life, no fear in death
This is the power of Christ in me

In Christ Alone - Lyrics

In Christ alone my hope is found
He is my light, my strength, my song
This Cornerstone, this solid ground
Firm through the fiercest drought and storm
What heights of love, what depths of peace
When fears are stilled, when strivings cease
My Comforter, my All in All
Here in the love of Christ I stand

In Christ alone, who took on flesh
Fullness of God in helpless babe
This gift of love and righteousness
Scorned by the ones He came to save
‘Til on that cross as Jesus died
The wrath of God was satisfied
For every sin on Him was laid
Here in the death of Christ I live

There in the ground His body lay
Light of the world by darkness slain
Then bursting forth in glorious Day
Up from the grave He rose again
And as He stands in victory
Sin’s curse has lost its grip on me
For I am His and He is mine
Bought with the precious blood of Christ

No guilt of life, no fear in death
This is the power of Christ in me
From life’s first cry to final breath
Jesus commands my destiny
No power of hell, no scheme of man
Can ever pluck me from His hand
‘til He returns or calls me home
Here in the power of Christ I’ll stand

My Story - Baby Me

2011-07-22T09:00:00.000-07:00

As always My Story is from my point of view. You can read my disclaimer here.

******

It was 38 years ago this weekend that I was born. At least I think it is 38. I seem to be forgetting how old I am a lot lately and then have to do the math when someone asks. 20?? - 1973 is not easy math. It involves borrowing numbers.

So 38 years ago this weekend, my mom was anxiously awaiting my arrival. I was already three weeks late. At one point in the pregnancy, I guess I thought I would try to come out early. The doctors were not keen on that and after some medication and rest, I decided to stay put for the duration of my mom's pregnancy. Maybe I was so offended by not being let out early that I decided to make them wait instead.

My mom had spent the day walking around the zoo with my older brother and family friends. She was really tired by the end of the day so when she woke up feeling like she had to go to the bathroom she did not recognize those as labor pains. (Funny enough with my second son, I also kept getting up to use the bathroom every 10 - 15 minutes all night long unaware that those were labor pains. It took my water breaking to get me out the door.) Thankfully my mom's friend was more aware and took her to the hospital where I was born. All 6 pounds 10 ounces of me. At three weeks late. I am thinking the math might have been off on that one because my brother was 9+ pounds. Little babies do not run in our family as I found out with my boys.

My dad was not there. He was at a conference, a plane ride away. I was already 3 weeks late and my mother insisted that he go on the trip because I didn't seem to be planning on making my entrance any time soon. So my dad went. It turns out it was not a big deal because back in those days, the dark ages, dads were not in the delivery room anyway. My dad instead saw a note tacked to a bulletin board at the conference letting him know his baby girl had been born.

All I know from my early years are the stories I have been told and the pictures I have seen. I remember seeing a picture of my brother feeding me a bottle while I am in a bassinet or infant seat of some kind. It is not the usual picture of the big brother holding his baby sister in his arms all precious even though you know there is an adult standing off to the side all nervous that the big sibling might drop the baby.

I am not sure what my brother thought of me. He was almost 4 when I was born. Old enough to know that there is a new center of attention in the house, at least for a while. Old enough to know that the baby is fragile and makes weird sounds. One morning I was crying and my older brother did what he saw my mother do countless times when I was crying. He picked me up and put me on the changing table. He then went back to watch cartoons. I, of course, fell off the changing table. Thankfully I turned out to be somewhat bright and literate or this story would not seem funny. At least it seemed funny until I started having babies.

Now when I look back at that story, I wonder where my parents were that my brother had enough time to hear me cry and be bothered enough to respond. He was watching cartoons so I can only imagine he was not jumping up quickly to deal with the baby crying. I don't know if he tried to get one of our parents first or if he just thought that he could solve the problem just like Mommy did. I do know that times were different and that my generation of moms have been trained to be uber-safety conscious. Also I know I was not the first or last baby to fall off a changing table.

As I started having babies more details came out about how my parents managed the stresses of having a new baby around. I was mentioning something about having a hard time sleeping with the baby monitor next to my bed because I heard every noise and turn Hockey Boy made. My mom mentioned something about putting one of us kids, not sure which, in the basement so my dad could sleep.

It is interesting what we choose to tell kids about their birth stories and about them as infants. I have been fascinated hearing the stories my mom told change as I became a new mom. The words of advice and attempts at comfort brought out stories that surprised me but also explained a lot of my childhood family's dynamics.

When Middle Man came along, my mom was trying to help me navigate the whole sibling thing. She joked about telling my older brother, who was 4 mind you, that babies can be annoying. Like they were in it together against this annoying baby who cried and fussed and got in the way. She would then get up and play with me in the middle of the night so my older brother wouldn't get jealous. I have always thought of myself as annoying to my big brother. I have always felt like I needed to take whatever attention and time he gave me and then leave him alone and not be a pest. I have always felt like he really doesn't want to be with me but thinks I am annoying. Turns out those were not his words.

I don't want my kids to see each other as competition for my attention. I want them to know they are all wonderful parts of our family and that we are all better because of each other. When Middle Man came along Hockey Boy was only 15 months old. He was pretty unphased by the whole new baby thing. But when Little One came along both the boys were not sure they wanted to share my time with this new baby. Instead of hiding my love for the new baby, we took some time to show the older boys pictures and videos of me cuddling and feeding each of them. We talked about how we took care of each of them in the exact same way. Babies may need extra attention but each of them had their turn as the baby.

I don't think I have any memories of my own until I was 3 or 4 and living in southern California. I have heard the story of leaving the east coast on my 1st birthday, heading west. We lived in Denver at one point, Fresno and I think a stint in San Diego where all my grandparents lived before finally settling down for a bit in Simi Valley, California. That is where my first memories take place.

My Story - The Young Newlyweds

2011-07-20T11:12:00.000-07:00

My story really starts with my parents. It actually goes back farther to an abusive maternal grandfather and a maternal grandmother who committed suicide with pills and alcohol when my mother was 15. It also goes back to my father's family, a paternal grandmother who suffered with multiple sclerosis and was absent both physically and emotionally a lot of the time my dad was growing up. He did have an amazing step-father who stepped into the picture when my biological paternal grandfather left his family around the time my dad was born. The story goes something along the lines of my dad hopefully bringing the family together but instead it tore apart.

Pain ran deep in both my parent's lives. They both were frantically searching for something better, someone to love them. They were grasping at straws trying to create the life they dreamed was out there. And at 16 and 18 years old they married.

When we were young the story was about falling in love when my dad saw my mom after a Bye Bye Birdie musical rehearsal at her high school. She was 15. He a few years older. Ahhh, young love. Later, as I got older, the story got murkier. A southern Baptist boy who knew better, trying to both convert this young girl and also sleep with her. He succeeded in both. As I got even older the story of my paternal grandfather forcing an abortion and heaving threats of statutory rape if they did not get married were told to me. The story of young love getting darker and darker. The start of our family being built out of weak wood and bent nails.

They married in June, right after my mom graduated early from high school. They then moved all the way across the country for a fresh start, a new life away from the familial heartache in San Diego. 18 months later my older brother was born. They started a successful business. Served in youth ministries. Made deep friendships with other young Christian families and almost four years after my older brother was born, they had me.

That though is another story.

My Story - The Disclaimer

2011-07-18T23:11:00.000-07:00

I have been thinking a lot lately about taking some time and some blog posts to tell my story, more accurately my history. I have struggled with whether I should write my story. Whether I needed to. And if I choose to write my story, how much am I supposed to share when other people are involved and not in a good way.

I spent a lot of my life telling everyone who would listen how dysfunctional my family was and how hard it was to grow up with a mentally ill mother. I then spent years not wanting her story, my childhood family's story to define me so I stopped telling the stories.

But it's a funny thing beginnings, they keep creeping into the middle of the story of my life. Sometimes my childhood comes up as I process my parents getting a divorce this summer. Sometimes it comes up when I share how God has worked in my life. Sometimes it is a random comment I make or a shared experience with someone who also is dealing with a mentally ill family member. And as I look back over the last few years I see blog posts that have told bits and pieces of my family's story. Usually though these posts were responses to what was going on in my life, not an intentional examining of how I got to where I am.

But I am beginning to think it might be time for me to share my story. If only for myself. If only to have some record, some history of my childhood which is slowly disappearing from my memories the more I heal. Not just the down and dirty but also all those moments where God showed up. Because that is really the point. The point is not to write down a list of all the awful things that happened, mostly because it is not my intention to gossip or slander but also because my list of woes is not really all that impressive. The story is not in the pain but in the redeeming of the pain.

I remember watching the Oprah interview with James Frey this year. He is the author of "Million Little Pieces" which was released as a memoir but contained stories and characters that Frey made up. He was called out by Oprah on her show 5 years ago for writing lies. In the interview this year, five years after the original scandal, he apologized but said something that stuck with me. He said, "I'm more influenced by artists than writers. Let's say you look at a cubist self-portrait. It doesn't look anything like Picasso. So when I was writing the book I was thinking of it like that." This struck me. This idea that a self portrait may not look anything like a photograph of the person, but it is still a self portrait. It is how the artist sees himself using the tools and style of painting he prefers.

I think that my story is a lot like that. I know my side, my memories, my feelings but they may not accurately represent the truth. My story is how I experience what happens, how I process that experience, what parts I keep in my memories, what parts I leave out and what parts I never saw even if they were there. The words I don't remember being spoken or the words I heard but were never spoken. Memories have a habit of changing the story over time. Sometimes our memories make the good times even more beautiful and the hard times more sinister. Or in my case, I often diminish my experiences of pain, explaining the real hurts away.

So I am going to take some time over the next few months to write down MY stories, my history. Some of these stories will include my family. I am sure my family will remember some things differently. I'm sure they have held onto different parts of our shared lives that I don't remember. But that is the thing about a self portrait. I can only tell the story how I experienced it.

This is my disclaimer.

Forgiveness

2011-07-16T10:09:00.000-07:00

Last Sunday our pastor was set to preach on forgiveness. But instead, he showed a video that someone passed on to him from CBS News. It is the story of a woman who has truly walked the hard road of forgiveness. You can see the story here. Go on over and watch it if you have not heard the story of Mary and Oshea. It is worth your time.

After showing the clip in church, Mary and Oshea came out and shared more of their story with the congregation. What stuck out to me from their talk was that forgiveness did not come easy for Mary. It was a hard process, a long process. It took work on her part, years of prayer and seeking God's heart for Oshea. And while Mary's forgiveness had nothing really to do with Oshea, she forgave him before she ever knew him personally, it was in Oshea's receiving that forgiveness that the miracle grew. Together they have taught the world something vitally important. Together they have shown the power of Christ's forgiveness and love for His children, no matter what.

Hearing Mary talk about forgiveness I began to think about the long road of forgiveness I have been walking. Some hurts, I have been able to forgive quickly. I don't know why. Maybe because the offense didn't feel directed at me even though it was the spark that started the kindling that was my childhood family on fire. Our family was already brittle and weak, easy to catch flame. We had been drifting apart, unable to really enjoy being in the same room all together. There was drama and competition, rage and manipulation. Life with my childhood family was centered around one person. Her mood, her reaction, her opinions and thoughts were the center of our familial universe. One person at the center was not healthy. And so the spark was easier for me to forgive and move on. I understood it, I think, even though I cannot condone the actions my father took to light the match.

Sometimes it is easier to forgive the big sins. I don't know why. I think partly because my mind cannot really manage the pain and partly because God's grace shows up bigger in those deep pains. I know my quick forgiveness has hurt and probably surprised others. Especially since I seem to be having a much harder time forgiving the events, actions, and words at the center of our family that made us brittle and weak. I am still in process with my mother. I am able to say the words, I choose to forgive, as Mary said on Sunday morning. I am able to choose the words but my heart is still not there. My heart is still not ready to live next door to her. I am still on the road. But I really am not sure I want to take any more steps. I am not sure I really want to walk any further down this road. I am just not there yet. I am hopeful though after listening to Mary tell her story that someday my heart will catch up with my head.

Hopeful and yet reserved. Because life is complicated and I am not sure what would have happened with Mary's story if Oshea had not said yes to meeting her, yes to moving to her community, yes to making a better life for himself.

During the church service we sang a song I had never heard before. Today I heard it again on the radio. It is hauntingly beautiful to me and I wanted to share it with you. This is the group Gungor singing their song "Beautiful Things".

All this pain
I wonder if I’ll ever find my way
I wonder if my life could really change at all
All this earth
Could all that is lost ever be found
Could a garden come up from this ground at all

You make beautiful things
You make beautiful things out of the dust
You make beautiful things
You make beautiful things out of us

All around
Hope is springing up from this old ground
Out of chaos life is being found in You

You make beautiful things
You make beautiful things out of the dust
You make beautiful things
You make beautiful things out of us

You make beautiful things
You make beautiful things out of the dust
You make beautiful things
You make beautiful things out of us

You make me new, You are making me new
You make me new, You are making me new

You make beautiful things
You make beautiful things out of the dust
You make beautiful things
You make beautiful things out of us

What Is He Really Saying?

2011-07-15T09:40:00.000-07:00

We are almost done unpacking. There is one box in the garage and one labeled mantle items. This would be the box full of all the little knick knacks and picture frames that once lived on our mantle and other shelves in our living room. Little trinkets we picked up along our travels before we had kids. There are a few framed baby and school pictures I need to pull out but I think we will leave the rest in the box this time. I love the memories but I felt so much better when we cleaned out all the clutter and personal items when we were getting our house ready to show for sale. I love the little touches in other people's houses but in my own it turns out I prefer the less is more motto. All this to say we are down to finishing touches of moving in, the picture hanging, basket placing, finding the perfect spot to hang backpacks phase of the move.

In our house, my husband is the picture hanger. He is meticulous and hanging pictures involves a measuring tape, picture nails and level. He takes it seriously. So I felt like he had things under control. And then I came in and found this:

First thing you need to know is that this is a series of four pictures, all taken of the exact same location in Portland but at four different times of the year to represent the four season. These pictures are completely uniform except for the season, the falling leaves or snow covered ground is the only difference.

The second thing you should know is I like things lined up, symmetrical and balanced. I like things neat and uniform. I like clean lines and edges. And when you have four pictures in a series, I obviously want these to line up, to form a square. I want the eye to be drawn to the pictures, beautiful photographs we bought at the Saturday Market.

I appreciate my husband's efforts. I don't want to be the wife that nags and makes lists and then redoes all the hard work he does around the house. Usually I just let things go, but this was too much for me. So I asked him to fix it. Turns out he thinks the pictures look just fine like that.

But I am not sure I can live with these pictures as they are. I am anxious sitting here looking at them on the wall in front of me. I try to hide my obsessive side. I try to let go of having to have things perfect. And truthfully most of the time I don't care. Except with things that are permanent, things that I am going to pass dozens of times every single day, my need for order comes raging out.

Beyond the discord it creates in the space, I am seriously left to ask, "How can my husband do this to me? Does he not know me at all?" We have been married for 14 years. We have hung pictures on walls 11 times. We have laid the pictures out on the floor, mapped them out on paper, hung and rehung pictures until they are lined up just like we like.

See that is where my mind ends up going. I take disjointed pictures and turn it into a statement of my husband's understanding of me and even more so his love for me because he does not plan to rehang them. He said I am welcome to and I am pretty sure I will have a hammer out tomorrow but why is he not willing to do it for me? Why is it not important to him? Why does this become a huge issue instead of just a little hiccup in the picture hanging process? Why is my worth hung up with these pictures?

This is not a statement about my husband. It really is not. It is a statement about me. About my vulnerability and my willingness to read into things where no message was ever intended.

This truly was picture hanging. He wanted to be creative with the display. He likes the way it looks. Mostly, he just wanted to get the pictures on the wall and be done with his to do list for the day.

I Once Played This Game

2011-07-13T20:21:00.000-07:00

I once played soccer. I played from 8 years old until I was a junior in high school. I have even tried my hand at indoor soccer as a grown up. It was the sport of my youth. I grew up standing in the backfield in the rain while the good players, the boys, went up and scored goals. I sucked the juice out of orange slices and the smell of wet mud and grass takes me right back to the fields of my childhood.

I am amazed by the fact that I once played the same game that the US Women's National Team is playing in the World Cup. Obviously I played with the same ball, cleats and rules, but I really did not play the same game. I love World Cups, Olympics, any major sporting event finals. I love the thrill of victory but hate to see the agony of defeat. Seeing the US women come back in their quarter finals game in extra time and then win the game on penalty kicks was inspiring.

The game may look over.

Life might not be fair.

But we need to keep playing and playing hard. We need to keep striving, working hard, and staying focused on the goal.

I need to do this. I need to keep working, keep focused on the goal.

But there are so many distractions. So many fun things to do with my day. So many insecurities that make it easy to let up, make it easy to just go through the motions until time runs out.

As a child, I often just wanted to get the game over with so we could get out of the cold rain. Sometimes though, when I worked hard, when I ran after the ball intent to win it, when I stood my ground and sent the forward away from my goal, I had fun. I felt strong. I felt powerful. I felt valuable.

This was not because I was valuable. I was not. I was never a great soccer player. But when I worked hard, when I went for it without reservation, I felt good. I walked away from the game, win or lose, fulfilled in that moment.

Like the saying goes, it's not whether you win or lose, it's how you play the game. I want to play the game without reservation. I want to live life focused and strong. I want to know that I have responded to the tugs on my heart and passions God has given me. I want to live a life worthy.

Summer Lovin - Having a blast?

2011-07-11T12:31:00.000-07:00

I love summer. I really do. My list of one thousand gifts fills easily in the summer. I don't know if it is the warmth, all that vitamin D flowing through my brain after time in the sun or lazy mornings. I love a lazy morning.

The move pushed back the start of summer for us. I think last week was the first full week we could really laze around each morning before finally making a plan for the day. Often that plan involved playing with friends or going to the playground for a picnic lunch. We live in a culdesac now and the kids, all three of them can ride their bikes safely in the street, which is a good thing since we don't have sidewalks in our part of town. My list of gratitude fills quickly with fresh strawberries from the farmer's market and late night blizzard runs with the kids. I love not having to worry about bedtimes and rushing out the door for school.

But summer can also be exhausting. The kids are always with me. ALWAYS. There is one week coming up when all three get to go to VBS together. That week would be marked with sparkly glitter pen and stickers if I actually kept a paper calendar. Because as much fun as we have in the summer, there is always a point in the day when everyone, me included is suddenly sent to their rooms for a little time alone. Sometimes it is quiet time. Often it is TIME OUT. As in, get away from me with all the whining and fighting. Somehow my ability to handle whining has been rapidly diminishing and now it just feels like nails on a chalkboard. My body has a visceral reaction to whining. And it is in those moments that I need eucharisteo. It is in those times of chaos, anger and frustration that I need to see God.

I loved what Ann Voskamp wrote in One Thousand Gifts about trying to be contemplative in the midst of her life.

How to be a contemplative here, seeing the fullness of God with the six children 24/7, the one farm, the six hundred sows, eight hundred piglets, only a whole a howl of craziness... In the messy, Jesus whispers, 'What do you want?' and in the ugly, I cry, 'I want to see - see You in these faces.' He speaks soft, 'Seek My face.' I want to answer with David, 'My heart says to you, 'Your face, LORD, do I seek' (Psalm 27:8 ESV) but I'm desperate to grab someone, anyone, and shake hard, 'How do I have the holy vision in this mess? How do I see grace, give thanks, find joy in this sin-stinking place?'

Summer can be so much fun. Freedom from schedules, freedom from routine. But sometimes all this freedom can be too much for us. Sometimes my little family needs to settle into a bit of routine to keep us all sane.

This morning I tried to instill some routine into our day. It is finally time to start that summer school work we had packed away in the moving boxes. Time for my kids to spend some time doing what they hate most in school, writing. Funny how what they hate is what makes me feel alive. I had asked the kids to turn off the video games and gave them a short list of chores along with their summer school work. I was amazed at how quickly everyone disappeared. And then I heard the sweet sounds of boys playing together in their rooms. Using their imagination to make up games and laugh together. Who knew all I needed to do to cure the "I'm Bored" whines was give them something to do.

And so I add that to my list.

Late mornings still in our pjs
Boys laughter coming from behind bedroom doors
Sun
Warmth
Flip flops and crocs
Play dates with friends
Sandboxes and swing sets
Blizzards, Frozen Yogurt and Fudgesicles
Good books to read
The Children's Library
Bike rides and soccer balls
Farmer's Market
Sunday Mornings
God's hope for our lives shared by those who have lived the hard work
Last minute goals
Time to rest, time to think
Books in the mail
Books on hold at the library
Coffee and blogs to read

Life is good. Loving summer. We really are having a blast.

What is your favorite part of summer? We are always looking for new ideas and adventures.

Have you read Ann Voskamp's book One Thousand Gifts yet? If not you really should. And while you are waiting for it to arrive head over to her website and read writers who are counting God's gifts grace in their lives.

My Work Clothes

2011-07-09T22:21:00.000-07:00

One day last week, we had to meet my husband at his new office to pick up some papers. This was our first visit to the new company. There were a few people there that came out to meet us. They were all dressed so professionally. One woman stood out to me. She was warm and friendly. Her clothes could have been straight out of a Nordstrom catalog. Her hair and makeup were polished. She looked so put together.

The kids and I on the other hand were all dressed for a day at the park, in shorts and t-shirts. I had on a hoodie because it was a little chilly and foggy that morning. I was dressed for my job... as a mom... going to the park. And I suddenly felt less than. I felt frumpy and unimportant. I just wanted to get out of the office before one of my kids screeched at his brothers. I wanted to get away from those feelings of inadequacy that were overwhelming me in that moment. I wanted to get away from the what ifs and maybe I should haves that were jumping around in my head.

Maybe I should have kept working instead of staying home with the kids.

Maybe I should have studied something more important in college and gotten a real job, an important job after graduation.

What if I had gone into business or law or technology? What if I had done something important with my life?

One of the things I really loved about my suburban life in Oregon was that I was surrounded by other women like me who were choosing to stay home with our kids. Many of my friends were former teachers like myself. I felt like I was among my peers.

Last time I lived in the Bay Area, I often found myself chasing my identity. Trying to give value to who I was and what I did. I often felt like I should be doing more. Contributing more. It started with small comments when I was a teacher almost a decade ago here in the Bay Area. Comments like, "you could make so much more money if you went into technology" or "you could make more money as a nanny" because obviously money is the measure of my worth.

Then last time we lived here, my life, my passions, my dreams took a back seat to my husband's career and his long, long, long hours. My life became only about taking care of our kids and our house and our lives. I was the sole person responsible for the kids at all times unless I checked with my husband and he could find one night maybe next week or month to come home a little early so I could get out for a bit or see the dentist.

Over the last few years, I think I have found out more about myself, more about the work that God has for me, more about how I do contribute to this world through my relationships, my teaching, my writing, my life. And my husband agrees. He really supports the work that I do, even though it does not look like work, is mostly really fun stuff and definitely does not come with the perks of work, like a paycheck. And we made an agreement that this time would be different. This time my dreams and work do matter. This time we will share the responsibility for the kids and the home life. Obviously I still have the 8 - 6 time shift Monday to Friday but I like that. I like being home with my kids. I just don't think it is good or healthy for any of us for me to be the sole parent.

And then I shook that woman's hand. That lovely lady that was just being kind and welcoming. And I felt a host of insecurities rise up in my throat.

Sensory memory is like that. A quick glimpse of something painfully familiar can bring things rushing back into your mind. A business office like the one that took my husband away from us for so many hours and days and months. A professional woman, the antithesis of what I am and yet in my mind, far superior. Smarter, more charming, harder working, more independent, better.

But this time I know better. I don't necessarily feel better in the moment. Insecurity might rise up but I am able this time to hold onto the truth. I am able this time to remember who I am and who God made me to be. I am able to look back at what I know to be true and hold onto that.

A Few Lessons On Moving

2011-07-08T11:41:00.001-07:00

We move A LOT. We move so much that people think my husband must be in the military. But truth is I think our tours of duty are actually shorter than most military personnel. This is our 11th move in 14 years of marriage and that is not counting temporary housing situations. We have become very good at moving. Here are a few lessons from this last move...

- Label boxes clearly. It will save you a ton of time on the other end when people are hot, tired and just want to put that kitchen box down in the middle of the living room.

- Make time for goodbyes. There is so much to do to get ready for moving but I really think one of the most important is saying real goodbyes. Goodbyes are hard and I think our natural instinct is to avoid things we know will hurt. We get busy partially to avoid the pain of goodbyes. I have said goodbye a lot and I have to say that while it hurts, it is one of the sweetest parts of moving. Saying goodbye gives you time to tell people how much they really mean to you. Grabbing a cup of coffee or having one last play date to mark your friendship is valuable. It is time well spent. And it is these memories that will booster you in the first few days and weeks in a new place. Remembering that you love and are loved will give you the extra push you might need to say hi to someone at the park or get involved in the PTA to meet new friends. Not to replace but to connect.

- Get enough sleep. The week before I said goodbye to everyone, I wanted to stay out late with friends every night and do one more thing when I should be heading to bed but I get really grumpy when I don't get enough sleep. And when I say grumpy I actually mean down right hostile. Not a good idea to be sleep deprived when you know extra patience is required. I was having move induced insomnia from about 4:30 - 5:30 am the last month but could fall back asleep eventually. So when we planned our travel days we made sure to allow extra time in the morning so I could sleep a little longer.

- Determine your unpacking priorities. If you just open the first box you see you may be eating on the good china and wearing heels all week. On move in day our priorities are beds, towels and tvs. We want to sleep, shower and be able to relax after a stressful few days. We also make sure that we have the internet and cable connected either before or on move in day. It might be chaotic but we are already at the house for the 2 - 4 hour window that cable companies give for installation. (You will need a tv in the house to have cable connected. We have a small one we rarely use that we put in one of our cars on moves so it is with us and not stuck on the truck.)

- Slow and steady wins the race. This is one of our family mottos, not so much the slow part though that is true of me, but the steady part. It turns out it is also a belief of our truck driver/unloader. He was working with a young kid who kept running around with boxes and then wore himself out and needed a break. Slow and steady. Gets things done without getting things broken. Once we have the basic house set up, we like to tackle one room at a time getting it all the way unpacked and really organized. This move has been slowed down a bit by all the fun we are having reconnecting with friends and favorite places. I don't want the kids to lose their whole summer to the move.

- Moving is more expensive than you would think. Between eating out because you have no groceries or bowls and then needing to buy a new trash can that fits in the space and new cleaning supplies because the shelves have to be wiped down and your supplies are all in boxes (or in our case left behind at the old house), moving costs money. For this house we needed window air conditioners, wall hooks for towels, narrow night stands because our old ones were too big, shoe organizers, and liquids, lots and lots of liquids - the flammable type since moving companies won't move these. Not to mention the moving gifts (bribery) for the kids and all the special treats when they are good on moving day, at the DMV, on the long drive, etc. When moving, like remodeling, double the estimate.

- Give grace and ask for grace. Moving is stressful. Moving feels out of control and I don't like being out of control. No matter how many times I move, my body defies my experiential knowledge and stresses out. This often comes out in me being harsh with my husband or yelling at the kids for something that normally would not be a huge problem. This move went amazingly well. We had no major problems and lots of help. I felt peace most of the time and the kids were uncharacteristically cooperative and kind to one another. Grace was given day after day. Grace we received.

On Our Way

2011-06-25T21:25:00.000-07:00

The moving truck drove up yesterday ready to load all our furniture and boxes into its massive belly. The move is underway. We will be living in hotels until our stuff arrives, hopefully on Tuesday. That amounts to a lot of family time. :)

So much family time that as I was attempting to write about something that happened yesterday, I had to stop and go out to the car again because the stuffed animals' bag was in the van. My boys are really attached to their stuffed animals, each has at least two that must travel with them at all times. And they have all seen Toy Story 1, 2 and 3 too many times to leave these special lovies in the van all night. One of the stuffed animals is missing since the last hotel. I was gone when the boys packed up so I don't know if it was left behind or in the van. We have a call into the hotel from last night and will also tear the van apart tomorrow to try to find it. Thankfully the lost Orangey belongs to the Middle Man who is the least attached to his stuffed animals.

Once everyone had their stuffed orcas, snowmen, and other fluffy creatures, we had to rearrange sleeping positions because "he's touching me" was said one too many times. My husband and I now have to sit quietly in our bed hoping the kids will go to sleep soon so we can maybe watch a little tv. I would read except my iPad is being charged right now because it ran out of batteries while someone, not me, was playing NHL hockey on it. I could read it while it is charging except the plug is not close enough to the bed.

So I guess all that to say that I think any blog post involving coherent thoughts and organized ideas may have to wait until after we are in our house.

A List of Names

2011-06-20T07:45:00.000-07:00

This is our last week in the Pacific Northwest. Our last week in our home that we love. One last week of goodbyes. Last times.

It is in the midst of these goodbyes that my list of one thousand gifts, my list of gratitude, is starting to fill with names. Names of the people I love. The girls I will miss dearly. The moms and kids we will no longer see at the park or share an afternoon with. Our babysitter. My small group leaders. The kid's teachers. Name after name filling my list.

A friend who listens
Words of affirmation, confirming something that I was secretly thinking, spoken by a friend
A teacher who sees Middle Man as special and unique
Authenticity shown in the life of my friend
My wise friends who I learn from in ways they would never expect
Hockey Boy spending one last day at his buddy's house because it is the one thing he wants to do before we move
A friend who always has a smile to share
The woman who is a dose of sunshine on a grey day
A brother and sister in law who I can trust
The Sunday School teacher who keeps teaching the kindergartners year after year with such love
Our babysitter who knows my kids so well and who we trust so much we can really relax when we are away
A group of girls who get me out of my house and remind me of who I am as me, as Jen
Friends I met when our first babies were born, who shared the struggles of new motherhood with me and who now we can enjoy a nice evening out without the kids. We have come so far in these last 8 plus years.
Her...
And Her...
And Her...

The list goes on and on in my head. So many instances when I was one of these names touched my life and was a little gift from God in that moment. I have been so incredibly blessed by the amazing people in our little piece of suburbia. My kids have been cherished and valued. I have been encouraged and loved. I have laughed out loud more and shared deep hurts. I have learned to receive and even give hugs. I have found women I love deeply and cannot imagine my life without.

My list if full of names. Names of the people that God put into my life. Each one a gift that keeps giving every time I spend time with one of these names. It is easy for me to add to my list of gifts when I think of the people in my life. Name after name floats through my head. Memories that bring such incredible joy to me.

What names are on your list today? Who has blessed your day, your week, your year?

I am counting my gifts as part of Ann Voskamp's Multitudes on Monday community. If you have not read her book "One Thousand Gifts" yet, you really should. It has really made me think. It is book that I feel compelled to share. You can also read more of her words and the words of other list makers at her blog - A Holy Experience.

Perfectionism Relapse

2011-06-18T14:55:00.000-07:00

I have been thinking a lot about why I feel the need to edit and revise my conversations after they are done and gone. When I wrote my last post I thought that was it. I had written it down and processed it all, or so I thought. But then my mind kept wandering to why. Why do I feel the need to edit. Why do I want to change and fix my words. I thought it was a desire to communicate clearly and not hurt feelings, but I am beginning to think that my perfectionism has reared its ugly head in a new place. I think I just want my words, my conversation, to be perfect. I want to say the right thing. I want to be perfect.

I have always wanted to be perfect. It started at a young age when a very caring mom of a friend made a comment about my mom being sick and not being able to be there for me. I didn't want anyone to think my mom or my life was less. I didn't want anyone to judge my mom, even though now I can see that the friend's mom was absolutely right. So as a young girl, I started to want to do things right, to things perfectly. I wanted straight As. I wanted to do things right. I wanted to be perfect so no one could say we were less.

But as I grew up, as I started to see the tole that perfectionism was taking on my soul and my body, I realized it was not a worthwhile goal. Not only because perfectionism is unattainable but because it puts the focus on me and what I am doing. Me attempting to accomplish the impossible hurt not only me but left me unavailable to the people around me. And so I gave up trying to be perfect. I no longer worry about looking perfect or having the perfectly clean house. I no longer need to be the best in the room and can actually enjoy other people's successes. I don't need to hold my kids to outrageous standards of perfect kids as a reflection of my own perfection.

I am a recovering perfectionist.

Until I relapse. Until I start worrying about saying the right thing. Until I start reliving the imperfect moments in my life and conversations.

And again I realize that this drive for perfectionism takes me out of the conversation. It makes it hard listen and be in the moment when all I want to do is edit it.

Again I need grace. Thankfully, God is full of grace.

Where in your life are you trying to be perfect?

Revising My Words

2011-06-15T08:32:00.000-07:00

Words are important to me. Words have so much power. Words are beauty and meaning.

When I read a book, I care very little about the description of the location, the look of the characters, or the action taking place between the words. What I want to read is the dialogue. The words spoken as well as the inner dialogue of the characters. The thoughts that eventually, or maybe never, are spoken.

I walk away from conversations, good conversations, and start to revise what I said in my mind as I drive away. I spend so many minutes and hours as I lay in bed, rephrasing and editing what I said.

When I have been in a battle of words, I want a second chance to speak more clearly, to make my point. I want to find resolution in the words and in the spaces in between the words. I understand why I want to revise those words.

But what still surprises me is my response even when the conversation goes well, when I am out to dinner with a good friend or sitting on the couch talking over coffee. I will still often rework the conversation later in my head.

Dialogue playing out. Topics changed, less harsh thoughts, more grace filled words, more encouragement.

I want a do-over. A chance to explain what I really meant. So I spend time having the conversation again in my head. And I begin to feel a little less. A little less right. A little less of a good friend. A little less...

I start to feel insecure.

Does that person still like me after what I said?
I am a horrible listener.
Why did I say that?

I don't know why I feel the need to rehash a nice conversation. I don't know why I end up assuming that I hurt the other person either with my words or my lack of asking about something I "should" have remembered to ask about. I don't know why I end up walking away feeling bad about a conversation that felt really good, really authentic and really fun at the time.

I know I should not lose sleep over these conversations and I am trying not to. But I have found that through revisiting my words and the dialogue, I slowly figure out how to listen better and how to communicate more effectively.

Do you have rehash conversations in your head? What conversations do you find yourself most reliving?

Writing It Down

2011-06-13T08:07:00.000-07:00

I missed last week's Multitudes on Monday. I missed joining the community at www.aholyexperience.com.

I was still counting my blessings, listing my one thousand gifts but all in my head. I did not write them all down. And while I experienced the immediate joy in the listing, I have forgotten a few of the gifts already. I have lost a few along the way of life. That is sad. It is sad both how quickly I forget the gifts in my days and how willing I am to skip part of the process. Life is in the process, it is in the journey and if you don't write down the road markers you often get lost. I think that is what happens when I skip writing. I get lost. So here are a few of the things on my list of gifts:

Sunny day on the patio looking out over the countryside
The warmth of the sun
A circle of friends
Laughter
Communion as a body of believers
The iBook app so I can start reading NOW
Amazingly patient and loving preschool teachers
Graduations
Red Velvet Cake
Knowing you are done
House showings - hope
Doctor's offices willing to make it work on short notice
Trampolines and tired out kids
Good potato salad
Saturday evening barbecues, water squirters and a pack of kids running in the grass

I really do believe that living in a place of gratitude does bring more joy to my life. It focuses me on the good, good things that happen every day in my life. I really should add Ann Voskamp's book "One Thousand Gifts" to my list every week. Because I love it so. Not only because it is such a great book, but it is a great book to give away. It has made end of the year gifts both more personal and easier this year.

When God Ran

2011-06-11T11:16:00.000-07:00

I grew up in a Christian home. I was taken to church my entire childhood. I prayed the prayer when I was four after hearing about asking Jesus to live in your heart at Sunday school. I went to Awanas, memorized verses and went to church camp. I have always believed in the words of the Bible, in the saving grace of Jesus.

It was in junior high though that I started to really understand that this whole church thing, this whole God thing was not just a set of religious beliefs. It was in junior high that I started to understand that God truly loved me. Not just as part of the whole church but me as an individual. And part of this came from hearing the song, "When God Ran" for the first time. A friend recently posted this video on her Facebook page. This song is part of my testimony.

Community - Finding it in Unexpected Places

2011-06-09T11:16:00.000-07:00

I live in a smallish suburb. Not too small where everyone knows everyone's name but small enough that you run into the same people lots of places in town. I often find one of my kids tugging on my hand after church or at the library saying, "let's go" or Little One's favorite, "you're talking forever." When you first move to a new town, everyone is a stranger. But the more you frequent the same spots, the more you get to know people at preschool drop off or the library story time, you slowly begin to build community in unexpected places. Here are a few of my favorite unexpected favorite places...

Starbucks is the obvious first choice for me. I like to go to the same Starbucks every time. You know you are finally a regular when they know your drink order before you say a word. My Starbucks knows me well enough that I have had friends go in and order my drink and the barista will ask if that is for Jen? I have to say that I think my Starbucks has the best baristas (though in all honesty I will probably think that about our new Starbucks in California as soon as they know my drink.) I also run into so many people in the Starbucks line and love the opportunity to chat for a bit while waiting for our coffees.

The grocery store is another great place to see people. The joke at our house is if we are in a hurry send my husband because if I go to the store it might take a while depending on how many people I run into that I know. Who knew Safeway was such a great place to catch up? Even if I do not see anyone I know from outside of Safeway, I have slowly gotten to know a couple of the checkers. Okay I don't really KNOW them but I can tell if they are having a good day or need an extra smile from me.

The YMCA is another great place to build community. Mind you it is a community of people with headphones in their ears, reading magazines while running or elipticalling next to one another. Occasionally I will run into a friend at the Y. This last set of swim lessons for the kids I got to enjoy reconnecting with someone I knew from a mom's group years ago. But most of my community is faces I see but people I never speak to. If you go at the same time often enough you start to know the rhythms of the the people around you. The people I see each time I go and wonder if they are okay if I have not seen them for a while.

Maybe it helps that I am a creature of habit. We go through the McDonalds drive thru most Tuesday evenings for the $1.25 Happy Meals. (Before you judge we get apple dippers in at least one of the bags and everyone gets milk.) So I should not be surprised when the lady working the drive thru recognizes me and smiles. She also knows to double check that the hamburgers are plain and to give me straws for the milk which is an added bonus being a regular.

This is part of the community I will miss when we move.

What unexpected place have you found community?

I Think I Might Be Stressed

2011-06-07T23:09:00.000-07:00

This weekend I was out with friends and dropped my phone, yet again. "I think I might be stressed" I mentioned. They all seemed to agree that yes I was stressed. I guess it is to be expected. We are moving in less than three weeks. But I haven't really thought of it as being a stressful move. We move a lot. This will be our 11th move in 14 years of marriage. I am good at moving, especially the kind of move that involves professional packers and hotels while the moving van is being loaded and unloaded by someone else.

Things have all lined up perfectly. So I didn't think I was stressed. But then I kept dropping my cell phone. I forgot things I would normally remember. I am able to fall asleep but often wake up in the middle of the night or early the next morning and cannot go back to sleep. And then yesterday I went to grab the ketchup out of the refrigerator for Little One's corn dog but ended up grabbing the milk instead and pouring that on the plate.

So yes, I guess I am stressed. It is frustrating to have my body betraying a stress I don't intellectually feel. But my body feels it. I guess it is part of the process, part of the letting go and moving on process. Sort of like by the time you get to the 9th month of pregnancy you are willing to endure anything to get that baby out. The stress of moving is causing part of me to want to get this show on the road. Because as much as I do not want to say goodbye, I am really looking forward to the first morning I am sleeping in my own bed in our new house. When I can finally sleep. When I am not trying to squeeze in one more play date, one more dinner, one more hour, one more minute with dear friends.

I am not ready to say goodbye, yet. I just might need a little extra grace from those around me in the next two weeks. And possibly a new cell phone.

Saying Goodbye...to the women of Bible study

2011-06-02T09:04:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I started the goodbye process, saying goodbye to the women at Bible study. I wanted to share a few things with them about how much they have meant to me and what I have learned by studying the Bible together.

I wanted to tell them that God really does care about the little things in our lives. A few years ago a group of us were studying the essentials of the faith. Our discussion that week was about how involved is God in our day to day lives? If we find a front row parking spot at Starbucks is that God? Or is He really more involved in the big decisions, the life changing decisions of our lives. This discussion came back to me later that week when I was sitting in the ICU waiting room at the hospital, watching the husband of one of these women grieving the loss of his daughter while trying to help his wife fight for her life. In that moment, in that waiting room, I knew deep inside me that God does care about the little things. He is involved in the day to day. Because it is the little things, the day to day that changes lives. My friend was driving to the library. No big decision, just a simple trip that rocked the world around them forever.

I also wanted to share with them the lesson I am slowly learning about the importance of inquiring of God. My small group is reading through the Bible this year and we are in the story of David, a story we should know well by now since we did a Bible study on David last year. What struck me with this reading of his story is how often the Bible says, David inquired of God. And when he did, things went right. David might still be hiding in caves, but God was there and his heart was right. But as he became successful, we don't see that phrase as often. What we see instead is David inquiring of his advisors, or inquiring of no one and taking what he wants. We see him fall into sin. Inquiring of God has been a theme this year for me through these studies and also the study of prayer I did to teach last fall. It took a few different studies to really start to sink in but it is.

But mostly I wanted to tell the women in the room, how much they meant to me. How much I have learned from not only what they have shared in our small groups but from their kindness and grace towards me and the women around them. These are amazing women. Women who want to know God's word better. Women that want to love one another, even when we don't always agree. Women who want to be connected to one another in a deeper way.

I don't know if they know how much it meant to me to be able to teach the group the few times I had a chance. I loved the opportunity to study and read, to write and teach. I loved seeing them nod or smile as they connected to what I was saying. They encouraged me in my teaching. They gave me a small sense of purpose which for this young mom who spent my days with small children was life changing.

I have grown immensely over the last 8 years and this group is part of the reason. How far have I come? At the end, one woman who was in my first small group came up to me. She told me she remembers the very first words I said at Bible study so many years ago, words that I remembered when she said them but now feel so distant. I had said I have a hard time with women. Oh, how I remember the past pain of being disconnected, of having been brushed aside. These women changed that in me. These women showed me love, encouragement and grace. They challenged me to grow but always from a place of love. These women laugh together. They pray together. They find joy in one another.

I am hopeful that my tears of gratitude as I said thank you will give them a small understanding of what they mean to me. They have known me and know I am not one to cry easily. But saying goodbye to these women was so much harder than I imagined. Just writing this brings fresh tears to my eyes. God has blessed me so very, very much with this group of women. My small groups have changed over the years. I have gotten to know so many amazing women with each new small group and each new leaders. God has blessed me with these women in countless ways.

Thank you so much ladies! Wednesday mornings has been my resting place in my week.

Chronicles of Hope

2011-05-30T08:00:00.000-07:00

As I am reading through the Bible with my small group, chronologically this time, we have come to the stories of David that are recorded in both Samuel and Chronicles. These books are normally separated by Kings in the Bible but in the chronological reading plan they are read together, story by story, with Psalms intermixed. It can at times be repetitious because Chronicles was written as a recounting of God's gracious care of His people beginning with Adam and Eve. It is often taken word for word from Samuel and Kings. So as we read of David's actions in Samuel, we read it again in Chronicles often on the same day.

Which got me wondering why God included in His Holy Scriptures a recounting of a story that is already included in the Old Testament. Why do they record these stories again? And then I saw Bob Goff's tweet, "Sometimes God lets us lose hope for a moment so we'll retrace our steps and remember every place we saw it last."

Chronicles was a remembering of all those times God had provided, all those times God had lead the way, all those times He had redeemed His people, again and again and again. Chronicles was an exercise in looking back at all those times of hope present in the lives of the Israelites.

I have found that I am often in need of a chronicle of God's work in my life. A reminder of God's provision and care when I am feeling stressed out by the unknown. A scavenger hunt of hope. So as I think about my list of gratitude, my one thousand gifts, as part of Ann Voskamp's Multitudes on Monday, I wanted to spend a day looking backward at those points in my life that I am ever so thankful for. Those points that shaped me and kept me close to the One who loves me so.

My mom marrying my Dad and ending the cycle of abuse
Mrs. Wybenga, my Sunday School teacher who showed me grace
God's word before me, always available
Spring break college tour that introduced me to Biola
Youth group, full of fun, intention and meaningful discussions
Moments abroad that opened my world
A holy place set apart for me to study, to become my own person, surrounded by people who loved the Lord and saw me as His child
A sudden urge to spend a semester in Washington DC, where I met my beloved
Overwhelming fatigue that forced me to change how I viewed myself
Three boys that are teaching me how to be interconnected in a way that is uncomfortable for independent me
An invitation to teach

A Few Clicks

2011-05-25T11:13:00.000-07:00

Sunday morning, my husband took all three boys to hockey and then they were going to our "hockey" church, a church close to the rink that has service times that work with spring hockey. All three boys were going even though only two were playing hockey because they really love that church. So I had the house to myself. I grabbed my laptop to look something up for my husband and as I clicked through websites and blogs, I found myself seeing a book on someone's reading list that caught my eye. I love how that happens. I was not looking for this book. I was simply clicking along and there it was. But as soon as I saw it I knew it was meant for me.

I clicked over the Amazon and downloaded the free sample chapter to my kindle app. I was laying in bed reading and tears came to my eyes. I wiped them away and fresh tears came. I had needed these words, these words of encouragement. These words of affirmation. These words were a salve to a broken place in my heart.

I have been wondering what I am meant to do with my life. I know I am supposed to be a mother to my boys. But is there more? I am slowly figuring out where God has gifted me and what He has put on my heart. I think there must be a reason that He made me someone who LOVES to read and study and then read and study some more. Someone who cannot be anything but authentic. Someone who is not afraid to speak in public. Most people fear that more than death I hear. Someone who is relationship driven, someone who wants to be engaged in real, deep, growing conversation. I am finally figuring out that God made me the way He wants me to be. And that He might just have a purpose for all of those things that make me a little unique.

But I have not been able to mesh what I think I am meant to do with where I am. I have run into some hidden barriers that I did not realize were holding me back. This book shed some light into the dark places I did not realize were discouraging me. I have been trying to figure out how to do what I love in the world I am in, in a world that puts limits on what I can do. Limits that are not based on who I am, what I know, or how God has gifted me but instead simply on my gender, on the fact that I am a woman. And that really hurts. Deep inside me it hurts.

I know I am a woman. I have given birth so I truly know that God made men and women different. I have no aspirations of taking over the world. No desire to tell people what to do. I just want to be true to who God made me. I am not sure of who that is but I am beginning to understand that being a woman is only part of it. It may describe me but it does not define me. I am first and foremost a child of God. My gender does not limit what God will do in my life.

There is neither Jew nor Gentile, neither slave nor free, nor is there male and female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus. - Galatians 3:28

I still don't know what exactly I am going to be when I grow up. But I have some glimpses. And this book, the result of a few "random" clicks, encouraged me in a way I did not know I needed. A little affirmation, a little clarity of thought, a huge dose of "I am okay".

Am I Shallow?

2011-05-23T08:00:00.000-07:00

So last Monday, I started keeping a list of gratitude, a list of a thousand things that bring me joy, little things in my day. It is part of Ann Voskamp's Multitude of Mondays. You should definitely visit her website if you haven't yet. Her book "One Thousand Gifts" has been a great reminder that I need to spend my time being thankful for what God has given me, the life He has prepared for me, instead of looking at the world and people around me wondering why me or why them.

This week, as I started composing my list in my mind, I was struck by how dissonant my list looks on paper.

Women coming together to study God's word
The first sip of Starbucks
Watching Little One celebrate a goal
Dropping Little One off at school
A new episode of Bethenny Ever After on my DVR
prayer requests shared
lying in bed with a good book
a good laugh with friends
clean sheets
warm laundry
date night starting with an adult creamsicle drink
lunch with the Gilmore Girls

When I read my list, I am not sure this is what Ann had in mind. I have peeked through some of the lists other's have shared. Their lists look so peaceful. Full of nature and love. God and family. I often catch myself editing my list in my head before I even write it down.

Is this worthy of the list?

Is my list holy enough?

Am I shallow?

I know I am not a shallow person by nature. But I have shallow moments.

I also know that I am not a holy person. But I have holy moments.

And I am thankful for both.

Do Christians Need Church?

2011-05-21T11:32:00.000-07:00

Another interesting topic came up at the girls weekend away I went on last week. The house was full of Christian women that overlapped one another from various parts of the homeowners life. Many were from her days at a church across town where they were all young adults together, figuring out careers, finding husbands and eventually going their separate ways as jobs and moves pulled them away. So these are not new Christians, these women have been going to church for decades. But at one point in the weekend I found myself in a conversation about whether we really need church.

Not God. That was never in question. These women love the Lord. But after decades of being in church, they were wondering if it mattered if they went. I so get that. There are Sundays when I would rather sleep in or do my own thing. There are Sundays when we have to attend two different services or even two different churches because of hockey times. Church can be so inconvenient sometimes. Not to mention the junk that can come with church. Seeing the person who hurt you last week with her mean comments. Being accosted by the child care workers to volunteer in the 2s room. Trying to find a seat and having to keep going toward the front because that is where all the empty seats are. And those are the hurdles once you are in the building.

What about those people who have been hurt by the inappropriate actions of pastors or staff people. The believers who have tried to find a church that felt comfortable but keep getting stuck with people who don't understand their decision to not have kids, or if they have kids, they decide to homeschool or even worse, send their kids to public school. What about the people who want to believe in Jesus but cannot get past the visions of the church that see on tv.

So do Christians Need church? Do we actually have to show up on a Sunday morning or can we worship at home? Can we listen to sermons online and be covered for the week? Do we really need to be engaged and connected to a church community?

I don't know. Sometimes I think I am a better christian apart from the church. Not apart from God but apart from the church. Sometimes I find church to be a distraction from God. But that is not because church and corporate worship are the problem. That is because either myself or the community I am in are having a problem.

Last fall our women's Bible study read RC Sproul's book "5 Things Every Christian Needs to Grow." In this book Sproul makes the argument that worship, corporate worship at church is important and essential to our growth as believers. He writes,

"He (God) absolutely requires human beings to honor, glorify, and worship Him in the way He commands, not according to the ways we prefer."

Hebrews 10:19 - 25 says,

Therefore, brothers, since we have confidence to enter the Most Holy Place by the blood of Jesus, by a new and living way opened for us through the curtain, that is, his body, and since we have a great priest over the house of God, let us draw near to God with a sincere heart in full assurance of faith, having our hearts sprinkled to cleanse us from a guilty conscience and having our bodies washed with pure water. Let us hold unswervingly to the hope we profess, for he who promised is faithful. And let us consider how we may spur one another on toward love and good deeds. Let us not give up meeting together, as some are in the habit of doing, but let us encourage one another—and all the more as you see the Day approaching.

Let us encourage one another.

Let us spur one another on toward love and good deeds.

Let us not give up meeting together.

Church can be hard. Whenever people are involved things can get hard. We are sinful people and we make mistakes and bring our own agendas to the building. But there is still something magical that happens at church when we show up ready to be with God in His house with His people. There really is. But we have to show up.

Sproul writes,

We benefit from the encouragement we get form being with friends who are also on a spiritual pilgrimage, people who know us, love us, and are praying for us. We, too, too have the responsibility to encourage our fellow believers. Faithful attendance at worship is one way in which we can encourage one another.

I show up at church to worship God. I show up at church to hear Biblical teaching. I show up at church to be among God's children. I don't show up to be entertained. I don't show up to "get" something. I show up because God is deserving of honor and praise. And I show up because I am part of community of believers.

I owe both my presence.

Do We All Need a Bestie?

2011-05-19T09:00:00.000-07:00

Recently I spent the weekend with a group a women at the beach house of a friend. Some of the women I knew, most I did not. Our tie that bound us together was the woman who owned the beach house. She decided to open her home to the mothers around her who might need a weekend away. There was no agenda, no schedule, just an open house, clean sheets, and an overwhelming sense of peace and freedom that comes from having nothing planned. Nothing to do.

As the weekend went on I had a few conversations about friendship and community with different women there. There was one group of four that came together, another pair and then a few of us came alone. There were some women invited that did not feel comfortable coming because they wouldn't know everyone. I was one of the women who came alone so that struck me. I was just so incredibly thankful for a place to get away, a place to sleep in, a place without the demands of kids or schedules. I was thankful for the time alone even. I was grateful that I was being forced to spend some time with myself for a change.

It made me think about how we view friendship in our world. Oprah has Gayle. Rachel has Phoebe, Monica and the boys. Some of my friends talk with their sisters every day or so, in person if possible, on the phone if not. Some neighbors have an open door policy. I do not have friends like this. I don't talk to anyone on the phone every day, except my husband if he is traveling. I don't have that one go to friend. I don't know if that is because I move a lot or if that is because life changes. I just know that my friendships ebb and flow over time.

I spend a lot of time at the rink during hockey season and have gotten to know those families really well. And during hockey season, I know what is going on in their lives and they know mine. If someone needs help with a ride or missing gear, if someone needs a kid watched or a baby held so skates can be tied we are there for each other. But then the season ends and we go our separate ways. For a time these are quantity friendships, friendships that get lots of time together.

And then there are the few quality friendships that I have. Friendships that can go to that deeper place, where we share our fears and hurts, our joys and triumphs. We may not see one another often but when we do there is instant connection and meaning. I may move away and we not talk except through Facebook but when I come back we can pick up where we left off. We may live across the country from one another, but we truly love each other, always wanting the best for each other. Praying for each other and encouraging each other. And while we cannot seem to get our schedules to line up as often as we would like, I know that if ever I needed one of these friends, truly needed someone by my side, they would be there. Because I know that I would jump on a plane at a moments notice if one of these friends needed me.

While I may not have a bestie, the truth is I do have a Gayle or two in my life. One is my husband, the very first person I would call. The person I check in with each day.

The other is God, my heavenly father. The truest of true go to people. The person that will always answer the phone and is always available for a coffee date. I just wish sometimes that He could actually sit in the chair across from me at Starbucks. I guess that may be why we are always looking for a bestie. We were made to have that kind of relationship. We were made to have a best friend in our lives every day. But in this world we have tried to fill that void with the people around us, we have tried to find a bestie.

I don't want to do that. I love my friends. I have been blessed by the friends God has brought into my life. But I never want them to be a substitute for God Himself. I need to figure out how to let God be my bestie.

WE FOUND A HOUSE!!

2011-05-17T08:00:00.000-07:00

YES I KNOW I AM SHOUTING. Shouting from the roof tops with joy! Because we found a house. A house in the school zone we wanted, the school where we already have friends, where we are already known.

A real house with 3 bedrooms, a yard, and our very own washer and dryer in the garage. And we are thrilled. Thrilled with a house that is smaller than we have now. Thrilled to have amenities we have now. Thrilled because there was a point in this house search that we began to think that a 2 bedroom apartment with a shared laundry room and parking garage would become home for next year.

Perspective always amazes me with its ability to change my view on what I need. To change my view of what would make me happy.

When we started this journey my two requirements were being in our old school zone and having my own laundry. Slowly as we lost the first house we found and then the second and started to get scared by the lack of rentals available, I was willing to give up the laundry. I was more willing to take my quarters to the laundromat than give up the school we wanted. It is not like this is some magic school. But it is a place where my oldest has friends, where he feels safe already. A place where I don't have to make a good first impression.

But finally a house showed up on Craiglist. When the landlord called me back she already had another family that wanted it as well. I am so glad that my husband was in California at the time. He was actually on his way to the airport to head home but he quickly changed his plans. He was able to see the house the next day at lunch with his check in hand.

And now we have a house. I didn't have to worry. I did but it turns out worry wasn't necessary. The right place came available just as we needed it. Just as I knew it would, in my head, though my heart had its doubts.

(This is actually old news at this point. It happened almost two weeks ago. But as I was looking through my blog posts, or lack thereof, I noticed I never wrote about finding our house.)

One Thousand Gifts

2011-05-16T08:00:00.000-07:00

I recently started reading Ann Voskamp's book "One Thousand Gifts" after reading about her book on a number of friend's blogs. I am not quick to jump on a bandwagon. I didn't start reading the Twilight series until all four books were already on the bookshelf at Target. But there are a few books I have read in the last few years that I think have been game changers for me, books that broke new ground and changed the way I view life. This is one of those books.

For me the moment came in Chapter 1 when Ann writes,

"Ultimately, in his essence, Satan is an ingrate. And he sinks his venom into the heart of Eden. Satan's sin becomes the first sin of all humanity: the sin of ingratitude. Adam and Eve are, simply, painfully, ungrateful for what God gave.

Isn't that the catalyst of all my sins?

Our fall was, has always been, and always will be, that we aren't satisfied in God and what He gives. We hunger for something more, something other."

I had never thought of original sin in that way, as an act of ingratitude. Adam and Eve were in a garden full of good things to eat. They had ALL they needed. They had more than they needed. They did not need to eat of the tree of knowledge. But they did. They did exactly that which God had told them not to do. They sinned.

I look around my life and I am so incredibly blessed. I have what most people in this world would call enough. And yet, I struggle with wanting more...
more love...
more purpose...
more comfort...
more reassurance...
more acceptance...

My eyes focus on the something more, something other and lead me away from the life and blessings God has given me.

This book challenged the author and now me the reader to make a list of a thousand ordinary gifts within her days.

So today I will start my list.

A God who loves ME
grace that sets me free
a warm cup of coffee
time to sit and be
time to write
a husband who loves me enough to send me away for the weekend
finding the song my son wants to hear but can't tell me the name
a place to keep this list

This is my first post as part of Ann Voskamp's Multitudes on Monday. Head on over there to see what other's are thankful for this week.

Convincing My Heart

2011-05-14T13:18:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago we found out that we were back at square one of finding a place to live in the Bay Area.

I thought I had already dealt with this fear and insecurity about our future. I thought I trusted God. And yet...

It is always and yet.

And yet, I felt fear and worry creeping in. I felt sadness. A cloud hung over my day.

The thing is my head knows that God is in control. My head knows that God has always provided. My head knows that things will work out. My head knows.

But some days my heart just doesn't get it. My heart aches no matter what my head tells it.

I pray and I try to convince my heart.

And then time passes. My heart aches a little less. Streaks of sun glimmer between the clouds.

My heart remembers.

God is good.

Professional Planner

2011-04-21T10:40:00.000-07:00

"I love it when a plan comes together." - The A Team

I agree. I am a planner by nature, a professional planner - unpaid of course. I like to think about the future and start lining things up. I like to plan and then re-plan. I like to think of all the contingencies and then make plans for those. It is how I deal with the stress of the unknown. I plan for any possible outcome.

Let me clarify though before you ask me to plan the next women's tea at church. I like to plan my family's future. I like to plan vacations. I like to think about what I would write or say in a given situation. I do not like to plan meals, find volunteers, or decorate anything. I like the big picture, defining a vision, but I am not in the details. I get lost in the details. I have learned that about myself this year.

I used to think that someday I would maybe go to seminary and possibly work in women's ministries. I can still see me going to seminary. I love going to school and learning. And I can still see me teaching in women's ministries. But after a year of being behind the scenes at my church, I have learned that I am not made to work in women's ministries. I am not made to run any program. My body, mind and heart are not wired for that kind of work. The kind of work that requires attention to detail, lots of relationships and meetings, and follow up emails.

I so love women's ministries. I love being with other women who love God or are just learning about the joy of being in relationship with God. I love women's Bible studies and retreats. And a part of me I think, was trying to figure out a plan for my life that involved me working in an area I love. Working in an area where I saw a need. I was trying to plan.

But what I have seen over the last few months is that God has a plan that does not have to involve me. He is at work in other people's lives, not just my own. He is calling other amazing women to serve Him. He is preparing hearts to take on new tasks, new challenges, new responsibilities apart from me. He does not need me here.

I have been blessed these last few months to be in a few different circles where people were separately seeking God's purpose. God's purpose for our church. God's purpose for our women. And God's purpose in some individual lives as well. Completely separately I have seen God at work in these circles. I don't know how God's plan is going to work out. I think I see glimpses of amazing things ahead. I think I see the threads binding together. But what I know for sure is God has a plan. He is at work. I don't have to rush around trying to make things work out. I don't have to plan for every contingency. I don't have to figure it all out. God has a plan.

I love it when God's plan comes together.

The Prayers of a Child

2011-04-15T09:40:00.000-07:00

So the whole moving thing is obviously on my mind a lot. And the biggest weight right now is finding a place to live.

We recently told the kids about the move and they took it in stride. We are professional movers after all. They have been down this road before. I did find the first question they asked very telling. "When will we move back?"

We plan on this move being permanent. Not so much a permanent spot in the Bay Area because I have learned to stop saying that, but we really don't think we will be coming back to the Pacific Northwest again. This time we are selling our house. This time we are not saying, "see you in a few years." We really are saying goodbye.

The next thing they wanted to know was where would we live. Middle Man wants a three story house with an elevator. Hockey Boy really wants to be near his old friends from when we lived there 2 years ago. And that is our hope. Not necessarily the three story house but moving back to the same school.

I talked to Hockey Boy the next day about God having a plan for our lives. That God is directing our path and because He is God it will be good. And then I suggested we pray about God helping us find the "right" house. The house that God wants for us even if it is not in our old neighborhood. So we prayed and continue to pray each night before bed.

This would be a great story if it were not for the little voice in the back of my head. The voice that thinks, "Yes, let's get Hockey Boy to pray. God won't break a little boy's heart and move us away from his friends would He?" The voice that would love for God to show up in a very tangible way for my son. Part of this is a desire for my son to learn that God hears our prayers. This is a good lesson for him to learn. So am I manipulating God to have to show up by having Hockey Boy pray? Or am I really trying to turn this into a great spiritual lesson for Hockey Boy?

The great thing about God is that He will show up for Hockey Boy either way. Hockey Boy and God have their own relationship. God is taking care of Hockey Boy often through me but sometimes in spite of me. Hockey Boy is praying to God, sharing his real heart's desire. He is learning to call out to God in a time of need. And I really think he is starting to understand that the house God finds for us really will be the "right" place for us.

As I write this though, I am realizing that I need to learn that lesson. I need to know that God not only hears my prayers but that He really does have a good, kind and loving plan for my life. I need to trust Him like my little 8 year old is, no matter what answer comes.

It's just...

2011-04-13T13:00:00.000-07:00

My husband has started his new job. He will be working from home and traveling to the Bay Area until we can move this summer. So on Monday, he got on a plane and headed off to his new job.

Later in the day we chatted about how things were going. We were texting actually, the modern version of a midday chat. He was happy. I think his exact words were, "Best work day in a long time." And I was happy for him. Really I was.

It's just...

Well it's just...

okay, the truth is a little part of me resented his happiness. A little part of me resented that he had found a job, working with his friends, doing something that he really enjoyed. A little part of me resented that he had work he loved.

I would say that I resented that he was off in the grown up world of business lunches and meetings that actually challenged your mind except I don't really want to go off to work. I like my flannel pants and having time to keep up with Hoda and Kathie Lee on the Today Show. I just wish I was enjoying the job part of my days, the taking care of my kids part.

But honestly when my four year old is telling me he hates me and is going to kick me tomorrow (why tomorrow I will never understand) I am not really enjoying my job. When Middle Man misses the bus again because he can't seem to stay on track when I go off to take a shower, I don't really like my job. And when Hockey Boy falls apart at practice because I put the wrong shirt in his bag, I don't really like my job. And it is not because my kids are being pains in those moments. They are supposed to be difficult. That is their job as kids, at least some of the time. Some of the time they are supposed to assert their desires (demands in Little Ones world). Some of the time they are supposed to lose it because they are kids.

No the part I hate is my response.

My reaction.

My frustration.

My harsh words.

I hate the person I become in those moments.

I find that I am most reactive when I am not engaged in parenting, when I am not intentional about being a mom to my boys. I have been finding myself going through the motions a lot lately. Making the breakfast, doing the laundry, helping with the homework, but part of me is distracted. Distracted by a desire for more, a desire for something of my own. Distracted.

And that is the sad part. I really do want to be engaged. I really do want to be home with my kids. I don't have any desire to go out into the world and get a job. I want this job. I just don't really like all the work involved. I don't like the hard parts. But as I spent the last two years reminding my husband, "that's why they call it work."

So yes, I am happy for my husband. I just wish I felt the same way about my job.

Is it too Early for an Ethics Class?

2011-04-11T12:20:00.000-07:00

I was volunteering in Middle Man's classroom today. I love first grade. The kids are still so cute but they actually can have some good discussions and are able to do more on their own. It is a great age.

One of the things I love about volunteering in the classrooms is seeing what my boys are doing in school. Today I sat down next to Middle Man who was working on a special packet of work his teacher had created just for him. The worksheet he was doing involved hypothetical situations and Middle Man was supposed to figure out how he would handle the situation.

Question #1 - Your friend's pet died yesterday. What would you say to him?

My son's response - Nothing. He is not a talker. Nor is he empathetic. When I suggested he write, "I'm sorry" he looked very confused and did not want to write that because then his friend might think it was his fault. I guess "I'm sorry" is the same as saying, "I'm guilty."

Question #3 - A friend has offered to pay you to do his homework for him. What do you say to him?

My son's response - "How much will you pay me?"

I am not sure if I should be proud of his business venture or worried that he may be kicked out of school someday for breaking the honor code.

Trusting God isn't for the Weak

2011-04-08T10:31:00.000-07:00

We are moving this summer. Moving back to the Bay Area. And I really, really, really want to move back to the same town and in the same school zone as we lived last time. It would be so much easier for all of us to have friends we already know and who already love us as we are. No making first impressions, which I am horrible at. No trying to figure out who I can put down on my emergency contact sheet. No wondering if it is okay for my kid to go to that boy's birthday party because I don't know their parents. It would just be so much easier and I also believe so right. So right to reconnect and build deeper friendships. So right to be authentic and real and invested.

We found the perfect house within a few days of making the decision to move. Right neighborhood. Right number of rooms. Right price which is incredibly helpful when housing is so incredibly expensive down there. So expensive that I don't usually mention how much we used to pay in rent because people make weird choking noises when they hear. We applied for the house, sight unseen, hoping we could all our ducks in a row right away. We waited, trusting that God would work it all out, and we waited. Finally after a week we heard that the owner decided on other renters. My heart dropped a bit at the news. Tears wanted to flow out of my eyes. I thought it was all going to work out perfectly.

But here is the thing, the thing I know from years of experience. Things will work out perfectly in God's time and God's time is usually about 3 seconds before you absolutely need it. Meaning that since we don't want to move until mid-July, the perfect place will not become available until early July.

I could stress about this. I could worry that we won't find a place. And there are moments when I do. But somewhere along the way, I have really come to understand that God is going to work things out in His time, in His way, and for His glory. And it is always GOOD. He has never let me down. I can trust Him, even when I wish He would hurry up a bit.

So when those thoughts pop up and start to take hold, I remind myself that God is good and His plan is perfect. I remind myself that worry will not change anything, well it will make me crankier and less fun to be around, but it won't find me a house any faster. 2 Corinthians 10:5 says, "We demolish arguments and every pretension that sets itself up against the knowledge of God, and we take captive every thought to make it obedient to Christ." Worry that God will provide goes against my knowledge of God so I will take that worry captive and focus instead on how God has provided in the past and how He will in the future.

And then I pray. I pray for God's guidance. I pray for God's peace. And I pray that God would find my family the perfect place to live, even if it ends up not being in my perfect neighborhood.

Living on the Mountain Top?

2011-04-07T10:17:00.000-07:00

I love retreats. I love the time away, away from the distractions of life, away from the chaos of my house, away from the schedule and to do list. I enjoy the rest and reconnection with God. I enjoy sharing those moments with women I love and women who love the Lord. It is a sweet, sweet time.

There are some years when I am at a turning point in my life and the retreat comes at just the right time for me to really grapple with some tough things. I come home changed. But often, as was the case this year, I was not changed. It is hard to write that down because there is an expectation that I would be changed by God at the retreat. One of the retreat leaders even ended the retreat by asking if we were changed and said if we were not we needed to spend some more time in prayer asking God to change us. And I get that. I get that we should be asking God to change us daily. We should be constantly on the sanctification road. But I also resented the idea that I had to feel changed by the end of the retreat.

Retreats are often a mountain top experience. They end with everyone having a spiritual high. And this can be good if it motivates people to spend more time with God once they get home. Giving people of taste of true fellowship with Him and His people is a huge blessing. Spending time on the mountain top can rest our souls and also remind us of how much God loves us and wants to spend every day with us. Mountain tops give us a clearer view of the world below and a better understanding of our place in it. There is a reason people climb mountains.

But we spend most of our lives on the ground. And if we stay too focused on the mountain top, we can get lost when our real lives crash back in on us. We often meet God on the mountain and then accidently leave Him there as we drive home. Cell phones start ringing with news of sick kids. Emails start showing up in our inbox about the PTA carnival and the next women's event at church that needs to be planned. Laundry is piled up and work awaits.

Life is where we need God. It is when we turn to God in our daily lives that we are truly changed. It is when our pressures lead us to prayer, our worries lead us to trust in Him, and our relationships lead us to understand Christ's love for us, that we are truly changed.

I am all for the mountain top experience. This was the most restful and restorative retreat I have been on. I needed that time away. But I brought God with me and I took Him back home with me. The mountain top did not change me. God does every day, in little ways.

He Still Shows Up

2011-04-05T09:48:00.000-07:00

I spent this weekend with some amazing women at our church's women's retreat. It was a sweet time with dear friends and new friends who all love the Lord. It is always a privilege to hear how God is working and speaking in other people's lives and retreats allow the time and quiet to really have those deep conversations with one another. It is also supposed to be a time to reconnect with God. And it was.

On Saturday morning, after our morning meeting together, we were scheduled to take a one hour quiet time. Now normally I would love to sit with God for an hour. But after being up until 2 am the night before laughing and talking with my roommates, I was tired. Tired to the core of my being. I may have been able to pull that off in college, but I am old now. I need my sleep or my body starts to shut down. So I decided to take my quiet time in my bed, with my eyes closed, rationalizing that I would get more out of the rest of the day if I got a little sleep.

I am a rules follower though so I made sure to put some JJ Heller on my iPod. Listening to Christian music while resting my eyes is quiet time right? I say to myself while rolling my eyes to myself.

As I wrote recently, we are relocating (again) to the Bay Area this summer. I can give lots of intellectual reasons why the move makes sense because it does. But then the song Everything is Changing by JJ Heller started playing in my ears and pierced straight to my heart.

Everything is changing all around me
Is this the ending of a dream
I thought I was doing what you wanted
It isn’t as easy as it seemed

Those lyrics matched something my husband had said about all the things I am doing being a distraction from what I (and we) thought God wanted me to be doing. I don't always understand the why's of God's direction. Often I find out later. But I do think that this move will help me refocus on what God has planned for me. I have learned a lot from the times I said yes over the last few years. I found my strengths and my weaknesses. I found what made my heart sing and what distracted me and weighed me down like a heavy blanket. The yeses were good. The things I did these last few years were good but I am realizing that they are not necessarily where God has me, not what He made me to do. I needed to hear the words to this song.

Turns out God will show up even when I only give Him a small part of myself. He will whisper to me what I need to hear. He will use what I have given Him to take me one more step along the journey.

If you want to hear the whole song you can hear it here.

Headphones for Silence

2011-04-02T22:03:00.000-07:00

As I was driving around today with all three boys in the minivan, I was accosted by crazy voices as my kids became different Pokemon characters. If it is not high pitched Pokemon conversations, then it is fighting over the armrests or the inevitable "he's touching me" "no I'm not" tattling. My minivan is noisy and the noise seems to echo even louder in that small space.

Amidst all that noise, I have started dreaming of the day when they are teenagers. Teenagers who are wearing headphones and listening to their own music on their own iPods. I can see them all in my rearview mirror in hoodies and big headphones, tapping their knees to different rhythms.

No fighting.

No loud silliness.

No interruptions.

Just silence.

Headphones and iPods might be the price for quiet in my minivan. And while it will limit conversation and connection, it is a price I might be willing to pay.

Maybe when we are not together all day, every day. Maybe when the kids are all in school all day and then at activities all afternoon and evening. Maybe when Little One stops shadowing me wherever we go. Maybe then I will miss the noise. I will miss the conversations.

But right now, I am dreaming of headphones and silence.

My Parenting Failure

2011-03-31T14:12:00.000-07:00

Lately after I tuck my kids into bed at night I walk down the hall feeling like a complete parenting failure. It is a frustrating feeling, a feeling of helplessness mixed with incompetence, like I should be doing things so much better and yet I am not.

In my head a good parent has obedient kids who are polite, follow directions the first time and are incredibly respectful. In my head, good parents have control of their kids.

As my kids are getting older I am realizing that I really do not have control of my kids. I am a failure at controlling my kids.

My boys are loud. They are boisterous and fill a room completely when they enter it. People look at us in Target or smile on me with pity in the grocery store. Just today an older couple, after seeing my boys run out of a store and race each other to the van, said, "You've got your hands full." They tantrum and cry when they don't get their way. They fight with each other, both with words and with their hands and feet. They go silent and fall behind me when a grown up tries to talk to them. They leave toys everywhere and whine when they are told to clean up and do their chores.

The noise and chaos often overwhelms me. I feel out of control. And yet deep down I know that my kids are not out of control.

But neither am I in control. I do not have control of my kids because they are growing up, they are making more and more of their own choices, and they are starting ever so slowly to take control of their own lives. This doesn't mean that they can take over our house do whatever they want. There are consequences for bad behavior, consequences from us and consequences from the world.

My parenting failure is not that I can't control my kids. My parenting failure is buying into the idea that I can control my kids, that I should control my kids.

Community - People Should Come with Warning Labels

2011-03-29T17:00:00.000-07:00

I have been thinking a lot about community this winter and have a couple of blog posts on the subject. One of the things I realized recently was that community would be so much easier if people came with warning labels.

"I have great intentions but I am a flake."

"I over share. Don't tell me your secrets."

"I am a drama queen. Don't take my woes too seriously."

"I have been hurt so don't trust easily."

"I am quick to judge."

"I make horrible first impressions but give me another chance."

I have recently discovered that my warning label would be "Just when we become great friends, I will move away." I feel like I need to start letting new people I meet know this about me. I am a serial monogamist when it comes to community. I am quick to jump in and get involved. I am committed. I show up. I am loyal. Until the moving truck shows up. And if it is has been 2 years that we have lived in one place, then know the moving truck is coming.

We have been in the Pacific Northwest now for 2 years, exactly 2 years this week. And while the moving truck is not coming until this summer, the decision to move has been made, the house hunt has begun, and we are starting the process of disconnecting here and reconnecting there. Thankfully for us our there is back in the Bay Area where we lived a few years ago. A place full of friends, a great school community, and a strong church. A place we know and a place the kids, well some of them, remember.

This time I may not need to put on my warning label. We hope, as we did during our last move, that this one is permanent. I think we are getting closer to what is best for our family long term. I think we have found the right school system and the right hockey program for our boys. A hockey program that will not conflict with church anymore. We are moving back to the sun which makes me so very happy.

And yet, we have to say goodbye, again. Goodbye to amazing friends. Goodbye to a church family full of people who held my boys when they were babies. Goodbye to our small and tight hockey group.

With the advent of Facebook and blogs it is really not so much a goodbye, as let's stay connected via our iPhones. Which is really not so bad after all. Much better than saying goodbye.

Eerily Silent

2011-03-28T15:34:00.000-07:00

I got an email from a friend today checking in on me. She wrote that I have been eerily silent, no blog posts or emails. I like that phrase eerily silent. Thought I am not happy with the silence. I am not happy that I have let my life get away from me, me queen of saying no, queen of the boundaries. Not only has my schedule gotten the better of me, but the grey, wet days up here in the Pacific Northwest have beaten me down. I am finding that I don't have anything nice to say, so as Thumper's mom says, I'm not saying anything at all.

And yet, by not sitting down with my laptop to write, I am not giving my mind space to stretch. I have not been giving myself space to be with my own thoughts. I have been avoiding my thoughts and I am not really sure why. They are not dark. They are not harsh. They are not even confusing. Mostly though I think I am very aware that I don't really have any deep thoughts worth turning over in my mind and on my computer screen.

It is my own fault. In this grey, dreary time of year I find myself canceling workouts and turning to coffee to get me through the afternoon. It is so wet outside that I turn on the tv to comfort shows instead of getting out and seeing people or visiting the library for a new book. And when my schedule gets busy, I find myself procrastinating everything for no reason at all. Some people thrive on activity and busyness. I apparently shut down a bit. Not really a good trait when there are things to be accomplished.

So I am going to try to make time for myself to read, time for myself to think, and time for myself to write. I know with things that are coming up in my life, I will certainly have things to process and writing is a great way for me to figure things out.

Community - Hockey Moms

2011-02-28T09:22:00.000-08:00

All three of my boys are now playing hockey. Middle Man and Little One's season ends this weekend. Middle Man is ready for a break but Little One LOVES hockey and asks almost every day, "How many more days until hockey?" Hockey Boy is on a more competitive hockey team this year. He has mid week practices and weekend tournaments. So we spend a lot of time at the rink. A LOT of time. And this is only the first year of competitive hockey. As the younger kids move up we will be spending even more time in big coats and warm boots lacing up skates and trying to stay warm.

One of the my favorite parts of hockey is the community we are building with the other families. We are in a small hockey program so this group of kids will always be playing with or against one another which means we will be seeing the same parents at the rink week after week, year after year. And as one mom said, it is like a big family complete with a crazy uncle or annoying aunt that always shows up for the family reunion. We will be hanging out in the lobbies and stands of hockey rinks for years to come. Hockey is not really a drop off sport until the kids are in middle school. Skates are really hard to tie and the rinks are not just around the corner so we end up hanging out at practices in case our kid gets hurt or because it is not worth driving home just to come back. This adds up to a lot of hours where the parents and siblings get to be together.

I make a horrible first impression. I know this about myself. I need a little grace when you first meet me but I will grow on you. Because I know this about myself, I have gotten a lot better about taking some time before I let my initial perception of a new person set in. Hockey has been a great place for me to practice this. We all come from various parts of our metro area and often it seems hockey is the only thing we have in common. But as I am getting to know these families better, I am finding that hockey may be the thread that binds us together, but together we are. We have become a community. A community that cares for one another. A community that looks out for each other. A community that shares carpool responsibilities and keeps an eye on each other's kids. A community that bands together when someone needs help outside the rink.

I have really felt this idea of community at the rink for a while, but it became even more real for me this weekend. It's a bit of a long story.

Hockey boy moved to forward this year. He had always played defense before so scoring goals was never really on his radar. He was more focused on making sure the other team did not score. But suddenly scoring goals became paramount. He wanted a goal. He watched all his other teammates score goals this season. Everyone but him. There was a point in the middle of the season when win or lose, he would cry and get upset after a game because he did not get a goal. We watched the movie Rudy and talked about how not everyone was meant to score, but he could work hard, he could be tenacious, he could do everything he could to help his team succeed. It took a few weeks but it finally sunk in. He stopped worrying about scoring and started focusing on helping his team win. In the movie version of his life, that would be when he would score a goal. But he still didn't score. The buzzer went off just as he was about to shoot on an open net. The goalies stopped his shot. He hit a post. He kept getting so close but the shots weren't going in. And then this weekend, in the semifinal game of the league championship, with 3 minutes left in the game, a pass went across the crease, Hockey Boy had to reach out for puck, he got his stick on it and put it in behind the goalies pads.

Hockey Boy scored. I jumped up and cheered. His Dad who was working the penalty box was cheering. But what really amazed me was all of our fans who were cheering and jumping and hugging me. You would have thought he had scored the game winning goal with how the crowd erupted but the game wasn't even close. They were all just so happy to see Hockey Boy score.
There were tears in my eyes, seeing my boy who had worked so, so hard finally get a goal. But I was not the only one with tears of joy. A lot of the moms were so thrilled for him that they also got a bit emotional. It meant the world to Hockey Boy and his proud parents, but it also meant the world to his teammates who kept congratulating him. I think it brought a lot of joy to his coaches and manager who made sure to get him the puck to keep. The win was nice, but the goal was amazing! And we got to share it with people who really understood and had been with him through the whole season.

It was an amazing moment to share with our hockey family. And it kept going the next day as moms who missed the game came up to talk about the goal and how happy they were for Hockey Boy.

These may not be the people I would have chosen to spend so much of my life with and that is why I am loving hockey. We have met some amazing people and our family's lives have been enriched by them.

Snow Day

2011-02-24T09:49:00.000-08:00

Earlier this week Snow Watch 2011 began. Snow was predicted for late Wednesday night and would probably result in a snow day on Thursday for all the kids. Where we live, any snow on the ground shuts our town down. People from the midwest, my husband, like to make fun of us Pacific Northwest natives who don't drive in the snow. They mock us until they experience their first real snow storm and are tamed by the unique nature of snow here. Snow that melts and then refreezes, hills that get crowded by cars not made for snow, and commutes that take 4 hours to go 20 miles. Snow is serious business here. Well serious in the sense that we have snowmen to make, sledding to do, hot cocoa to drink and movies to watch.

So yesterday, I kept waiting for it to snow. I wanted to know we were going to have a snow day today so I wouldn't have to make lunches and we could put off homework for another day. "Maybe tomorrow" is often my refrain. I am not by nature a do-er. But as a mom, I have to help my kids learn good work habits and help teach them responsibility. It goes against my nature, as do most things that are actually good for me. Healthy foods never taste as good as peanut butter cups. I love to stay up late even though my body needs sleep. People magazine is my reading material of choice for an airplane ride though it is when I spend time in God's word that I feel fed, refreshed and whole.

That is one of the reasons I do love having a Bible reading plan that tells me what to read every day. While I like to put things off, I am also a list checker and people pleaser. I have trouble resting if there is something on my to do list, which is why I try to avoid putting things on my list. But each day, I know what I have to read, and I know I will feel a twinge of guilt until I get it done. Maybe not the best way to get myself reading the Bible, but effective. And once I am there, reading God's words, He meets me there.

I was wanting the snow to come yesterday after school so I could plan on a snow day, so I could cut things off my to do list. But it waited. This morning we woke up to a wonderful treat of a snow day AND we are all ready for school tomorrow as well. So now I am off. I have some serious snow business to attend to.

Community - Buy In

2011-02-21T09:43:00.000-08:00

I have been thinking the last few weeks about community and all that it means. In my life we are a part of a number of different communities; our neighborhood, the boys' schools, our church, the boys' hockey teams, and our various friendship circles. For a lot of people these are just things they do, the people they know. But for us, these activities, these places, these people make up our communities. I have been trying to figure out the difference, the reason some people can just show up and others feel a need to contribute. The reason people are so quick to change churches, friends, activities.

I think it all starts with buy in, with a sense of willingness to commit to the group. We move a lot so we don't have time to wait around to feel a part of any community. If we did, we would be packing up the moving truck just as we were starting to feel a sense of community. Because we move a lot we are quick to step in and commit to our schools, our church, our library - library cards are one of our first items checked off the moving to do list. We jump in and start volunteering and supporting our new communities. I make friends quickly, for myself and my boys, and make sure to show up.

I think it helps that we have always been able to choose where we moved, the neighborhood we would live in and the church we would attend. When we moved to the Bay Area a few years ago, my husband and I went on a trip to visit the area before we made our final decision to accept a new job or not. Our first stop was at the ice rink that hockey boy would learn to play hockey. He loved hockey and we wanted to make sure that the facilities were going to meet our needs. We also were able to afford to live in an amazing neighborhood with wonderful schools. And God put the perfect church in our path through our preschool search. We found Kirk House preschool first and when we went to visit it we discovered Menlo Park Presbyterian Church. God's leading us there was such an act of grace for us. But every step of the way was a choice we got to make. We got to choose our school, our church, our neighborhood. And we were thrilled with it all. There were ups and downs, a lot of ups and downs. But it was our community and were invested in it. We bought in to Bay Area life.

When we got to come home I was so thrilled to be coming back to somewhere where we already had community built in. We already had a preschool. We already had our house, our neighbors. We already had a church and friends. We were able to plug right back into our communities.

But now we are facing some challenges at the places we love. Our church stopped having a Saturday evening service while we were away which has been a challenge with the boys' hockey schedules. We had chosen the church partly because of the various service times. We love Saturday night services and prefer that worship time. And now it is gone. Our church is a huge part of our lives. We love the people, the pastors, the sense of community we have there. But as our hockey schedule becomes more demanding and we visit churches with more flexibility we start to wonder. Are we at the right place for our family? I believe we are. We love our church. We are tied to our church by so many beautiful threads. My boys were loved in the nursery as babies. Many of my dearest friends I know because of our church. I love getting to be a part of sharing God's word with the women at our church. These threads bind us close, even when we are far away at a hockey tournament.

Our public school district enacted boundary changes while we were gone and our elementary school was changed. We had never been to the other school but part of our decision for moving to our neighborhood was the strong elementary school. I still like the boys' school but we are starting to find that it may not be meeting the needs of our boys any longer. We are in the process of trying to figure out a good solution but I am starting to wonder if the school can meet the boys' needs. And with deeper budget cuts just around the corner it makes me even less confident.

I am finding that in some of our communities that sense of buy in is lessening. I think part of this is because of the changes that happened. We made choices that worked for our family and also upheld our higher family priorities, our commitment to being a part of God's family through a committed relationship with one church, our desire to be salt and light in the world, and our desire to give our kids the best education possible so they will be able to use the gifts and talents God has given them to change the world for Him. I am finding that our family priorities are not necessarily working in our current communities. But because we have bought in to our communities, because we feel a sense of commitment to our communities we are trying really hard to find a way to make it all work.

It is the buy in, the commitment, that is holding us to our communities. I am thankful for that commitment. I am thankful we are tied to our communities even when it is hard to make it all work. Because for me, community is one of the great joys and challenges of life on earth.

Yes??? And yet...

2011-02-08T13:57:00.000-08:00

I want to say yes. I really do. I am passionate about the project. I have definite ideas. It seems like the perfect fit and yet....

And yet I hear a small voice in my head saying no.

I try again. I push a little harder to make it happen. I convince myself that I have to be involved. I have to help lead and make sure things are done "right" and yet....

There's that voice again, a little louder this time saying no.

I try again. I hear yes in so many things around me. So many of my conversations are saying yes. So many of my thoughts are saying yes. So many things are pointing to yes.

I say yes and yet....

The voice grows louder. "Get out" I hear clearly in my head. The same words my husband says to me later that night. "Get out" and yet...

No more and yets. No more trying to make it work. It is not working no matter how much it seems like the perfect fit, no matter how much I want it to work, no matter how important I think it is.

It is so hard to walk away but somewhere deep inside I know I should. I want to fix it even if I can't be participate. I want to find my replacement, talk it through, polish it up before I walk away. But the voice says, "get out" not "wrap it up." I need to let it go, let it be God's work not mine. I need to stay focused on my place and my work.

Meaningful distractions are still distractions. They still pull me away from the work I am supposed to be doing. The work God made me to do.

I don't want to get distracted by the good. I don't want to miss out on the work God has for me.

Alone

2011-02-01T21:44:00.000-08:00

So last weekend after the girls left to go home, I stayed one extra night at the beach house. I have been wanting to get away for a little alone time for a while and it worked out that the rental had a rent two nights get a third night free deal going on that weekend. I had really been looking forward to a weekend with the girls but as an introvert, yes I know that is hard to believe but actually true, I was really looking forward to a night to myself at the end.

I was pleasantly surprised by how much I enjoyed being with these women over the weekend. I had thought that at some point I would be ready for them to leave but I really was not. I wanted them to stay, I wanted to continue to enjoy their company. I was having a great time and hated to see them go home. But they did. They drove off around 7pm and I stayed behind.

In an empty house.

All by myself.

Alone.

I was surprised by the funny butterfly feeling I got in my stomach as they drove away. I was not scared to be alone. I was simply not sure what to do with myself, all by myself. I have not spent a night away from my boys or all alone in years. I did not have any great plans for the evening. A little leftover pizza, some cake and junk food, watching a little tv and maybe reading my book. Nothing exciting. This was not a spiritual retreat or a cleanse. This was not me trying to figure something out or taking the time to work on a project. This was just me spending an extra night alone to rest and maybe recuperate a little after a long but great weekend with friends.

I was doing what I would do at home on a Sunday evening. I talked on the phone with my husband for a bit, I surfed channels until I found House Hunters International, I read a little bit in my book, I stayed up later than I planned. The only difference was that the next morning nothing but my own body woke me up. The first noise I heard was not any one of my little boys' voices. My boys were not there. I was alone.

And for some reason, the fact that I stayed alone, by myself, at the beach felt like a huge accomplishment. I thought about packing up a few times in the evening. I missed my family. I felt guilty that my husband had to work from home and deal with our Monday morning schedule all alone. I didn't really need a night alone. I already had so much fun I didn't need to stay an extra night. I didn't deserve to stay an extra night.

But I didn't give in to the many voices in my head because for some reason I knew it was important that I stay. I don't know why it was important. I just know that it was.

I stayed behind.

In an empty house.

By myself. Alone.

I can't wait to do it again!

Girls Weekend

2011-01-25T12:21:00.000-08:00

I just got back from a weekend at the beach with 5 of my friends from church. These are the women who read the Bible together last year. The women who shared what we were learning from our readings, who held each other accountable and then when they heard someone was behind offered to watch kids so that person could catch up on their reading. These are the women who wanted to give up in October when they were two months behind but didn't because we were all in this together and no one wanted to miss out on a weekend away together, the prize for finishing the whole Bible in 2010. These are the women I read the Bible with in 2010, a most amazing group of women. I learned a lot this weekend and thought I would share a few of my favorite lessons.

- Tortilla chips crushed on top of eggs tastes way yummier than I ever would have expected.
- We are wired differently. Some of us are do-ers. Some of us are be-ers. The do-ers run on the beach. The be-ers stay in the house drinking coffee and reading. I am a be-er.
- How to do a tequila shot. I have always had a healthy respect for tequila because of a bad experience with a pitcher(s) of margaritas and friends who filled my glass without me knowing it. Tequila is not the problem. Too much tequila would be a problem. At 37, I know my limits and am able to have fun without getting sloppy. Something I am thinking the bachelorette party girls we ran into still need to learn.
- I am safe with these women. They will look out for me. They will give wise counsel. They will listen to me without judgment. I can be who I am, share where I am struggling, and know I am loved just as I am.
- Real housewives weekends do not end up in torrid, yelling matches with everyone taking sides and the weekend ruined by the drama. Our weekend was drama free and so much fun.
- I love how when I am with these women we can move between conversations about the Bible to Friends trivia, from praying together at dinner to dancing at Karaoke. We do not have to separate our spiritual selves from our fun selves. They can be one and the same.
- After a surprising smooth transition back to the real world, it turns out I was exhausted and overwhelmed because I needed a break not because my life is overwhelming. What a great piece of knowledge to have when I start to get exhausted or overwhelmed again. My life is amazing. I have a great husband and fabulous kids. We are all growing, struggling at times with one another and with the world, but at the end of the day I am truly blessed.

Love Your Neighbor

2011-01-19T12:03:00.000-08:00

As I have been thinking about how to handle rejection, I have been felt challenged to stop avoiding the pain and start doing what Jesus taught in Luke 10:27.

"Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength and with all your mind; and, Love your neighbor as yourself." Luke 10:27

"Love the Lord your God." I am not good at loving God. I should be because He is easy to love. He is loving, kind, trustworthy. He does not tear me down. He does not compete with me. He does not reject me. He made me, He knows me, He accepts me. I feel love deep down in the core of who I am, but my actions, the time I spend with Him, my inconsistency in following His commands, my unwillingness to give up my plans and dreams to follow His plan, many of my actions deny my feeling of love. In this I am the problem. Thankfully, He is the answer. And while I find it hard to act out my love of God, it is the second part of that verse that really shakes my world.

"Love your neighbor." Love the people around me. Love my family, love my friends, love the baristas at Starbucks and the kids at my sons' school. I think that in loving my neighbors my actions give the appearance of love that I am not sure I feel deep down. I know how to be kind. I know how to listen and support someone in pain. I know how to serve others and give to others. I even know how to forgive when I have been hurt by someone. I know the right actions to take. Most of the time I actually do feel love for those around me. I love my husband deeply. I love my boys unconditionally. I love being with my friends and sharing their lives.

But there are times in my life, where I am supposed to love someone and I just don't feel it. I have been hurt. I have been rejected. I have been pushed aside. And then the person wants me to let them back in no questions asked. Not even no questions asked but instead without any acknowledgement or understanding that they have rejected me. And I begin to wonder, how many times am I supposed to let them in. How many times do I open myself up for rejection, again. I try to keep my heart detached. I think it is my way of protecting myself. I should be able to protect myself right?

But I look back at what Jesus said and I don't see any words about protecting myself. Love thy neighbor. I am beginning to wonder if my actions are enough? or does my heart have to be in it as well?

The verse says love your neighbor as yourself. If I love my neighbor only with my actions but not my heart, is that how I end up loving myself? Do I see myself only as a compilation of actions and not as a deeply feeling person? But as a deeply feeling person, how can I keep feeling this pain of rejection and not become changed by it?

I am trying to find that place within me that can love others without fear of being hurt. I am finding the more I understand God's love for me, the more I have hope that I will feel His love for others.