Tradition, Tradition

I am a traditionalist. I grew up in the same town, in the same house, in the same room until I left for college. I had the same friends from preschool all the way into high school. I grew up in a family and a town where change was a rarity and I liked it that way. Holidays were especially important, entrenched in moments that repeated themselves year after year. I remember the stir it caused in my extended family when we moved our Christmas day celebration to a new location - it was big news.

When I got married almost fourteen years ago, I had no idea that my traditionalist ways were about to be greatly tested. My husband decided to pursue a career that required lengthy and varied training. This meant transferring to many different schools, all of which ended up being in different states. After just a few years, we moved thousands of miles away from any family member, making it even more difficult to carry on the traditions I had loved as a girl. I tried to make the best of every occasion and learned to adapt to the existing circumstances of my life, but a part of me still longed for the upbringing I had known for my own children.

Last week, thoughts of turkey dinners, extended family, hot pies and tradition started haunting me again. We had planned to travel several states away to visit with friends who have become like family for the Thanksgiving festivities, but they had an unexpected flood in their basement. Our sleeping quarters were under water and they needed the time for home renovations, so we were left without plans. I was inclined to stay home and host another dinner myself - not unlike many I had done in the past where we invited others without family to join us for a feast. But my husband really wanted to get away, so he started looking at beach houses to rent. It's cheap to visit the beach in the winter - too cold, too windy. He found a beauty of a cottage at a beauty of a price and suggested we travel there, turkey, trimmings and all for this traditional holiday.

Accustomed to variance in my visions of tradition, I agreed. I, too, love the beach. I just never anticipated celebrating Thanksgiving there. Packing the morning we left, filling paper bags with Thanksgiving foods, suitcases with sunscreen and swimming suits, my mood swiftly declined. Where was tradition? Where were the memories? What kind of heritage was I giving my children? Who has Thanksgiving at the beach by themselves?

We schlepped everything, dog included, into the van and drove the few hours to the beach. We arrived just before sunset. I suggested we stop by the ocean before unschlepping at the cottage. As we parked, set foot on the sand, and saw the waves rolling gently inward and outward, the sun sinking in crimson delight, my tension melted away and I thought, who gets to have Thanksgiving at the beach?

The sun rose slowly through the fog on Thursday. Forecasting over 70 degree weather, we decided to buck tradition altogether, seize the sun filled day and head to the sea and sand. We read, we jumped waves, we tried skim boarding, we dug giant holes and we walked along the ocean. We ate cheese sandwiches for lunch and snacked on licorice and gummy bears on the shore. We stayed until the sun was waning and the cool breezes licked our faces, reminding us it was November after all.

We cleaned up at the cottage and drove through the sleepy beach town trying to find anyplace open to eat. As we heartily downed potato soup, fried shrimp and salad I couldn't resist one last try at tradition. I asked everyone to share something they were thankful for. My daughter said, "I'm thankful we could spend Thanksgiving together at the beach."

I realized then that I was giving my children memories. I was giving them a wonderful heritage. Not one where the dishes and company were always the same. Not one entrenched in sameness and solidarity. Not one that they would necessarily continue generation after generation in their own homes as they grow and leave me. But I was giving them the heritage of love. I was leaving them the legacy of spending time together having fun as a family. I was giving them the ability to be grateful for time away, the ability to celebrate a holiday based on gratitude by being grateful for the moments they had, however untraditional they were.

They, in turn, were giving me the gift of a new definition of traditionalist.

Can You Do Me a Favor?

My neighbor called me last week to ask a favor. She is my good friend and we do things for each other all the time - pick up kids from school, watch the dogs while they play, borrow potatoes and get the paper when we're out of town - you know, neighborly kinds of things. So I fully anticipated a request for eggs or carpool when I saw her name on the caller ID that morning.

"Good morning!" I said.

"Hi Anna, do you have a minute?" she asked, her voice cracking a bit.

"Sure, what can I do for you?" I replied.

"I wonder if you would pray for me today," she said.

She then proceeded to share with me how worried she was that morning. She was anticipating an encounter associated with her job that she was dreading. She was emotional and vulnerable and needed a friend in that moment. Not just any friend. One that would pray for her.

"I know you are a good Christian woman," she said, "and I need extra help today. Will you pray and ask Him to help me do this?"

Now I share many things with this wonderful Christian woman, but not my faith. We have openly shared our beliefs with each other and even attended events at one anothers' churches. We have doctrinal differences that we have always respected with kindness. But we share a deep belief in a loving Savior who will help us in our times of need.

I have never been more touched at a request than I was that morning. My friend had granted me the priceless gift of trust in that moment, asking me to pray to the God I know and love on behalf of her, a woman I know and love. I listened to her, encouraged her and assured her that I would pray for her. I got off the phone and immediately went to my bedside and knelt in fervent prayer for my faithful, fearful friend. As I did, I felt comfort, peace and assurance that she would be all right.

I saw her at the school that afternoon as we were picking up our children. I knew her meeting had been just prior to that. As she walked over to me, she looked almost joyful.

"It went wonderfully," she shared. "I felt the words just come to me and I knew what to say. I feel so much better. Thank you for praying for me today."

All I could do was tearfully hug and thank her - my sweet neighbor who taught me by humble example what help really is. It's more than a cup of sugar and picking up mail. It's trusting and loving a friend enough to share fear, express concern about a difficult experience and asking that person for a specific, immediate prayer. It's asking someone to lighten the burden, to share the load, to pray in faith.

Since that encounter, I have tried to think if I had ever done such a thing. I certainly have had many moments in my life when I needed the faith and prayers of friends, but for whatever reason I didn't call. I have heard of people's illnesses or difficulties, and said I would pray for them, but rarely have I done so immediately or with such specific fervency as I had that morning. I couldn't think of any good reason why. Maybe I worried that I would feel weak or inadequate in my faith if I had to request the help of others. Maybe I thought asking for help would overly burden my friends. Maybe I thought I simply had to endure my difficulty or worry alone. I have begun to recognize how wrong and selfish I have been by denying others the opportunity to help me, to pray for me. In my friend's simple request for help, she lifted me. She asked for a prayer. She asked for my faith. I'm starting to see what a beautiful request that can be.

So, can you do me a favor?

Published

Well, the day arrived unexpectedly yesterday. The day every author waits for to be able to declare themselves an official writer - publication.

Monday morning I wrote a short story on a service project some youth from my church did here in my city. They placed flags on gravesites at a local veteran's cemetery. My good friend took some beautiful pictures and I sent them out to a myriad of local newspapers, hoping for some human interest coverage. On a whim, I sent the story to a national publication. By Tuesday morning, I had received an email from a colleague congratulating me on my story - published by the national paper. Today it is their top story.

It speaks to the state of our nation, I think, that a story about teenagers placing flags on graves would be national news. You see, they're not just any teenagers. They are children of military families. It also speaks to the state of our nation that my story has not received any local coverage. Not a bite. You see, I live in a military town. Here it is not big news that children have parents who are deployed. Here people honor veterans and soldiers ever single day. It's nice to place flags on veterans' graves, but we give our fathers, our husbands, our brothers and our mothers to this country every single day. We send them off for months at a time, wondering if they will return. We go to birthday parties and meet gold star wives - women widowed by the ravages of war. We have displays at school showing how many veterans are connected to the children there and we see row after row after row. We have breakfasts with veterans where many men and women show up in uniform to eat with school children knowing there are many, many more who wish they could, but are eating MRE's in the desert thousands of miles away from their children. We don't need to wear yellow ribbons or fly flags to remember our veterans. Our loved ones wear the flag every day on their uniforms and the strings pulled on our hearts from here to wherever they are too long and too strong to be represented by a little yellow string.

I wondered yesterday, as the nation celebrated Veteran's Day, if they thought of my friends, my neighbors. I wondered how many private citizens took the time to honor a soldier, a veteran in some way. I wondered as they went about their lives, grocery shopping, working, flying on a business trip, if they recognized that every piece of that freedom was bought by a soldier. It was bought by his family, by his children who sacrifice each day without him home, praying for his safety. Each moment of freedom in this nation is a moment someone sacrificed for.

So if my story touched anyone, lent any light or hope about our country, I am grateful. But my greater hope would be that the story would prompt a flood of gratitude to our soldiers, to their families, to their children. They are the ones who need to be remembered and recognized. They are the ones who are powerful and resilient and amazing.

I hope that one day these beautiful young people will not have to know the normalcy of sacrifice that exists here. I wish I could write a piece that would be the top story here, one that meant our soldiers were safe, our families were together and they wouldn't have to leave again. I long for the front page story of freedom from oppression, from hatred, from war. Until that happens, I hope that their sacrifices are never forgotten. I hope there's not an American soldier alive who thinks his efforts aren't appreciated or remembered by his countrymen.

I hope we as a country never forget how we got our freedom - now that would be newsworthy.

Photo by Amanda Anderson

Milestones

My odometer hit the 100,000 mile mark today. I knew it was coming. That line of nines for the past several trips had told me it was coming. I dropped my son off at preschool and noticed it was only seven miles til the turnover. But when I left for my next errand, made a quick phone call and went on auto pilot running errands, it happened. And I missed it. By the time I looked down it was two miles over.

I wonder how many milestones I miss in life because I'm busy running errands or simply on auto pilot. Sometimes I know they're coming and then when I'm in the moment, my mind is racing to consider the next task and I miss the present.

Still trying to learn to slow down, to better anticipate the precious moments that come and pass so quickly in life. Trying to capture the times that are - let go of what is past and stop anticipating what is to come.

Learning to mark the milestones...

It Doesn't Take Much

I think we make service too complicated. We work at raising our children and serving our families day after day and somehow still feel guilty that we're not doing enough to help other people. We feel like if we're not at a homeless shelter or cleanup project, it isn't really serving. We worry that unless we spend hours helping others at an immense personal sacrifice, we're not doing enough. But I learned this week that sometimes service can be simple. I discovered that God has a way of using us to serve others in deeply personal ways, if only we let Him.

Many months ago I bought a picture that had particular meaning to me. It has hung on the wall next to my bed since then and brought me significant comfort and perspective. A couple of months ago I was asked to share some thoughts with a women's group and brought the picture to share. After my remarks, one woman told me how much that picture had touched her, so the next time I was at the store where I had bought it, I picked one up for her. It didn't take much time, it wasn't expensive, and I simply stuck it in my bag.

The picture sat somewhat forgotten until a crazy day last week. I was trying to prepare food, costume my children and get out the door to a Halloween party. It had been another full day and I was already exhausted at 5:00. A friend called me and said she had been making chicken pot pie and it had taken on a life of its own. She had way too much and asked if she could bring dinner over. I had just begun to wonder what I could quickly throw together for my family before we left and readily accepted her offer. The pot pie was like manna from Heaven in that moment. She had no idea when she called that I was on the verge of an early evening collapse. She didn't, but God did.

Minutes before we had to leave for the party I remembered my trunk. At the end of the festivities we would hand out candy from our beautifully decorated car trunks. Already racing the clock, I realized I hadn't decorated the van and sent my children scrambling through the house to grab some pumpkins and pictures to throw in. As we hurriedly drove away, I looked with dismay into the back seat. It was strewn with bags. Some days I just about live in my van, so I always have an assortment of bags with me in case I have time to write, run to the gym, or prepare a lesson. I was so embarrassed that I hadn't even had time to clear out my mess, but rushed on to the party anyway. I hoped no one would notice the chaos when it was time to open up the trunks.

We got to the party, started to eat and play games when I noticed the woman who had talked to me after my presentation. I hadn't seen her for over a month and I suddenly remembered the purchase I had made weeks before. I walked over and told her I had something for her. She looked at me, a bit surprised, and said, "You thought of me today?" "No," I replied, "I got it a month ago." It then dawned on me that I actually had it with me. The picture was in my embarrassing disaster of a backseat. It was in one of my bags. I quickly said, "I'll be right back." I ran out to my now gratefully full van, got the picture and brought it inside. As I handed it to her, tears instantly welled up in her eyes and with considerable emotion she said, "You have no idea how much I needed this. And that I needed it - today." She told me later how lonely and discouraged she had been feeling that day. She had wondered if God really knew her and remembered her. She had prayed for comfort, to know if she was loved. When I handed her that particular picture, in that precise moment, she knew. I had no idea how much she needed that picture right then. I didn't, but God did.

Saturday afternoon I had my son make a phone call. He had scored the winning goal at his soccer game that day and was so excited. He had already called both sets of his grandparents when I had the passing thought that I should dial another number. I had him call my sweet friend who has been going through some tough times. He told her all about his soccer goal and chatted happily for a few minutes, then hung up. Off we drove to his team party to celebrate. She called me last night to thank me. She told me how that day she had been struggling, dealing with a difficult situation and was on the verge of tears. Then her phone rang. When she heard my son's innocent, excited voice talking about his accomplishment, it lifted her heart and helped her get through her day. She said I had no idea how much she needed that call at that exact moment. She's right. I didn't, but God did.

Service doesn't always have to be big. Most of the time it's simply thinking of another person and letting God work His miracles through us. He's that good. He can inspire us to serve in ways that only He knows will help. He can use kind neighbors, tired Moms and even little boys to help someone else. It doesn't take much. Sometimes service is a chicken pot pie, a simple phone call, and a messy van.

In Memoriam

Dear Reader,

If you ever find yourself in the darkness, the deep kind filled with despair and indecision, the kind that feels never ending, like there is no way out, I want to promise you there is. You may feel like you are the only one who feels the way you do. You might stand in a group of people and feel totally alone. You may hear comments or half conversations and be convinced that others are speaking unkindly, ignoring you or can't understand how you feel.

Let me tell you a secret. We all feel that way sometimes. We all have moments when we feel uncomfortable, inept and alone. It's a huge risk to open up to another human being. When we open up we risk being rejected or feeling stupid. Maybe you've felt that. We all have. Some of us cover up our feelings of rejection with bravado and ill treatment of others. Some of us choose to talk endlessly so that we never have to feel the silence of our sorrow. Some of us walk around all day pretending everything is wonderful and come home and cry ourselves to sleep. Some of us feel constant anxiety and fear of rejection. But all of us feel, reader. All of us understand.

You may feel like you will never feel any differently - that life is pointless. You may decide in that moment that life is not worth living anymore. You may consider doing something drastic, something final in that moment. Perhaps you think nobody will notice or care. If so, I wish you could have been with me in my car last week to see the faces of shock, terror and grief as the ambulance arrived. I wish you could have heard the cries of disbelief and anguish over a life cut so short, so suddenly, so pointlessly. I wish you could hear the expressions of grief by close friends, blaming themselves for the words not said or the signs not seen. I wish you could feel the sorrow of strangers feeling the loss, sharing the burden of grief. I wish you could see and feel the ripples of a life stilled in such a sudden and tragic way and the never ending wish that that life were still with us.

I hope that you would consider, for a moment, that your life touches others. Your presence, your breathing, your essence carries beyond yourself in every moment to other people. If they knew, if they really knew of your deepest feelings they would tell you that you are not alone. They would plead with you to talk to someone about how you're feeling. They would want you to know that life is worth living, even when it's hard. They would want you to know there is hope.

There is a way out, a different way. I promise.

Take a walk - notice the creations around you. Consider the care with which they were made. You are infinitely more important than the most perfect flower or tree. Find an animal and spend some time with it. Softly stroke its fur or wing. Feel its innocence and peace. Listen for its heartbeat and consider the gift of your own. Write your feelings down, the sad ones, the scary ones, the silly ones and the insecure ones. Validate for yourself what you are feeling. Recognize that you have words to speak. Things to say. Things worth saying. Listen to a song, not one filled with anger and despair. Find music that speaks of hope, of peace. Listen carefully to how you feel as you hear it. Let its beauty fill you. Read a book about someone who knows what it is to suffer, study how they have fought the darkness. Learn from them. Try to emulate them. Study your medications. Sometimes certain medicines that work wonderfully to help us with asthma or anxiety can cause devastating effects on our minds. Perhaps adjustments need to be made. Read about your family. Find out if anyone else in your family, present or past, has had struggles like you are having. Sometimes our heredity betrays us with our genetics and we have to fight the demons harder than others. This is not an excuse or a source of blame, it is a pathway to treatment and understanding.

Finally, reader, talk to someone. If you still feel the darkness, the despair pulling at you and dragging you into the place of no return, tell someone. If you can't speak the words out loud, write them in a letter. Not a final letter, but a letter to someone you know would want to know. Then wait. Wait as long as it takes. They may not know what to say or how to help. Their silence may not be one of carelessness, but of fear and uncertainty. If they don't respond, tell someone else. Tell and tell and talk and talk until someone listens, really listens. Then let them help you. Open up and let them listen. Let them understand your world of sorrow. Let them lead you to people who can show you the way out of the struggle. Let them remind you that you are not alone. You are not beyond help. You are of infinite worth.

There is a way out. I promise.

Balance

I constantly struggle to find balance in my life. I often feel pulled in fifteen different directions all warranting my time and energy at once. When I place my focus on one area, I feel guilty that I'm not doing something else.

I was sharing my struggle with a friend the other day and she told me about her Dad's boat. She said that there is a mechanism on his boat called a 'trim tab'. If there is ever imbalance in the weight distribution of the boat, you can push a button and weight will be distributed to the opposite side to create balance that will keep the boat afloat. She explained that it was a slow, careful process to determine what is the proper weight distribution for the boat to be perfectly balanced.

I have considered carefully since then the balance of my own boat. I think I'm carrying a lot of unnecessary weight around on my boat. I've thought about what items in my boat simply need to be jettisoned. Sometimes I allow others to place things on my boat without permission and then spend the day working to adjust my trim tab to compensate for it. Sometimes I place unneeded weight on my own boat, not realizing the time and energy it will require to have it there. Other times I place undue importance on things, making them heavier than they need to be. I also realized the imbalance created when I try to carry loads that are designed to be carried well by other boats. You see, it dawned on me that no two boats are alike. We are all designed differently to carry different loads, chart different courses through life and accomplish different things. I need to stop looking at any other boats in comparison, and simply focus on balancing my own.

It's a constant readjustment, working that trim tab. Seeking balance, day by day.

Ship ahoy!

Monday Morning

Maybe it's just Monday morning. Maybe it's the clouds and cold permeating the scene through my window. But it's only 11:00 a.m. and it's already been a day for me.

The dog started barking at 5:30. Dead dragging, toe freezing, pull myself up with every ounce of energy I haven't got kind of a morning. As I was making lunches with the last crusts of bread I could scavenge due to my sinking dread of returning yet again to the grocery store, I was inundated with paperwork. Flu shot papers, sign the reading record, testing reports, everything that was tossed aside with backpacks and lunchboxes on a whimsical Friday afternoon. Shoes and jacket thrown over my still pajama clad self as I went into the garage to remember that my son's bike chain had come off last week - its disrepair another casualty of the weekend. Dashing in the van to cart him to his destination, only returning home to find the dog had made a chew toy of my daughter's headband. Her departure joined by simultaneous barking and frenzied response as her friends rang the doorbell. Out she went. Moment to breathe. Only a moment.

Turning then to see my youngest still in pajamas, upset already about the fact that I wasn't allowed to join him in the preschool field trip today. Too many moms signed up and I wasn't high enough on the list to merit chaperone status this time. Finding shoes, coat, lunchbox & pizza party money, I had just pulled out my cereal bowl for a moment of quiet to myself when the garage door opened and in trudged my terribly sick husband who had earlier dragged himself to work only to find after his arrival, he was in fact too sick to be there after all. After getting him settled, I realized my time for breakfast and a shower had disappeared and it was suddenly time for preschool carpool, hearing again how much I was wanted at the field trip. Coming home to walk the restless dog, pick up his business all over the back yard, start the load of towels that had been left soaking all over the bathroom floor and throw the remaining dishes left from last night's dinner into the dishwasher that had been left sitting on the table as I ran out the door to a meeting for church.

10:30 - finally - breakfast, read the paper, a moment of silence and solitude.

I have been trying for months, years really, to understand how to take things in stride. How to find balance amidst the demands of my family's busy lives. I've made significant efforts to simplify, to slow down, to be content. I feel like I'm making progress, I'm changing and slowing down and then I have a Monday morning...

I guess part of motherhood and raising a family is learning to be fluid. Trying to take life as it comes and not let it phase you too significantly. People eat, dirty their clothes, come and go and then do it all again the next day. And the next day and the next. There's really no such state as 'finished' in a busy household of growing children. I guess the trick is to be present, truly engaged in the moments that are important - saying goodbye, holding hands during prayer, saying I love you, hugs before field trips, cold Sprite when you're sick. The rest of it will all wash away with the day, and into the next and beyond. I guess I'm learning to move with the current of life, trying not to feel drowned or let it wash me away by clinging to the buoys of meaningful moments along the way.

Off to finally take my shower...

Of Plants & Blooming

I have a houseplant that hates my house. I have tried it in every room in my house, including the bathroom, to no avail. It would do fine for a few days, then the leaves would start to droop, sometimes yellow and even fall off. After months of this plant's tenuous survival as a houseplant, I finally moved it outside to my screened in porch. Within a day, it was thriving. I couldn't believe the difference it made simply moving it to the right location.

I have heard the phrase 'bloom where you are planted', but I think sometimes you need to plant yourself where you will bloom. Many times we place ourselves in situations, relationships, organizations or otherwise that do not allow us to thrive. We put ourselves in the front window when really we need to be on the back porch. The beauty of life is that we have choices. Even when we are surrounded by circumstances not of our choosing, we get to choose how we react. We get to choose how we feel. We get to choose how we will handle it. We get to decide on the location of our heart.

So if it's not working, try a new spot. Maybe you need to plant yourself where you will bloom.

Perspective

Are you having a bad day? Feeling sorry for yourself? I was this morning. Until...

I had the opportunity to help someone. A single mother of three whose youngest son was almost killed in an accidental shooting two years ago. She was moving because the small house she had been renting was in foreclosure - her landlords simply hadn't paid the mortgage with her rent checks. She only had a couple of days to find a new place that would accommodate her son's wheelchair and ongoing medical needs. Her nursing hours had been cut, so she had been up most of last night caring for him. Her parents had come to help, but her father was limited because he is in the early stages of Parkinson's disease.

All I did was wipe down things throughout the house. She came in with her son in tow, smiling from ear to ear. She got right to work, talking and laughing as we cleaned. She took everything in stride, even when her carpet cleaner blew up. Her biggest concern as I went to leave was that she had taken all the food over to her new home and didn't have anything to feed me for lunch.

Hungry? It was the last thing on my mind. I had driven to that home seeing only the difficulties in my life. I was hungry then, but for perspective, not pastries. I needed to see all the things I had to be grateful for. I needed to be lifted by a woman who had every reason to be bitter and angry and feeling sorry for herself, but who laughed and smiled and worked. I left there feeling filled, despite the empty refrigerator.

There is always a reason to be discouraged. You can always find a reason to despair. But there is always someone who has it harder. There is always someone you can help. There is always a reason to seek for joy. There is always something to be grateful for.

Perspective. It's what's for dinner.

You Never Know

I lost a friend two weeks ago. A young friend. He was 17 years old and in the prime of his life. He had gone to the track near his home to run, working on one of the final badges he needed to earn his Eagle Scout. When he didn't come home, his Dad went to look for him. He found him - face down on the track. He was gone.

I was able to attend his funeral last week and was amazed that all of his family members spoke. I was so touched by all of them, but particularly his mother. She talked about that Monday. She had been out that afternoon and called home to find out if the family needed anything from the store. Her 17 year old answered the phone and excitedly said, "Mom, guess what? You're going to be so proud of me. I'm going to earn my Eagle Scout!" She responded, "That's great. I am so proud of you. Now hand the phone to Dad." Life - a quick phone call, a simple verbal exchange, but those words ended up being the last words she ever spoke to her son. "I am so proud of you." What a comfort to a grieving mother that she hadn't said anything she would regret. She could have reminded him to take out the trash or asked him why he hadn't made his bed that morning. She could have felt rushed in the craziness of her afternoon and simply said, "That's great. I'll talk to you about it when I get home - please hand the phone to Dad." But she didn't. She had a moment to connect with her son in a loving, positive way, and she did. She said, "I am so proud of you."

Those words have been haunting me the past two weeks. Each time I hang up the phone or send someone off for the day, I replay the last words I said to them. If they were final words, would they be comforting to me, to them? I find myself listening to my words more carefully. What am I really saying to those around me, especially to my family? In the bustling busy-ness of life, am I taking the time to connect, to uplift, to simply say, "I am so proud of you."

I was at a birthday party with one of my children on Friday. I spoke with two other mothers there, both women I knew from my neighborhood. We are all so busy that most of the time our interactions consist of waving to each other as we pass by in our cars. But as we watched the children roller skate, we had a few moments to connect. I found out that one woman had recently survived a massive blood clot. She had been in the ICU for days following what she thought initially was a pulled muscle. She has four children. Another woman told me of her recent scare with breast cancer, her husband overseas on a difficult job assignment. She also has four children. She spoke to me of her brush with mortality and the wake up call she received. She has been rushing for so many years, this experience has taught her to slow down, to breathe, to connect. She realized how fleeting and fragile this life is. The reality is that you never know. You never know when your time will come.

Am I ready? I don't suppose I'll ever really know that for sure, but I feel the wheels of time spinning under my current daily routines, asking me if I am. If a blood clot or breast cancer or genetic heart defect took me tomorrow, what would others remember as my last words to them? I'm trying to preemptively edit myself, to hear what I say even in seemingly mundane conversations differently. I want them to hear, "You are important to me. I love you. You are the breath of my life. You are my everything. I am so proud of you. Now hand the phone to Dad."

Because, you never know.

I'm Alive

This Kenny Chesney / Dave Matthews duet is one of my new favorite songs. Take a listen. Sometimes we make gratitude complicated.

"Breathing in and out's a blessing, can't you see?"

"I'm alive and well."

Amen.

Hooray!

My husband ran over our son's bike last night. The brand new bike he just got for his birthday. He hadn't put it away all the way, so my husband caught the end of it as he pulled into the garage after a very long day at work. My husband felt horrible, the destruction capping off the day he'd just endured. He hesitated telling our son, but knew he'd have to before the next morning when he'd want to ride it to school. He walked to the front yard, told our son he'd crushed the training wheel on his new bike. Our son jumped up and down shouting, "Hooray!" He was thrilled that now he'd get to learn to ride his bike without training wheels. Dad and son spent the rest of the evening mastering the art of two wheeled biking, having a wonderful time.

I wonder if we should try to see our trials in life and shout, "Hooray!" for the opportunity to learn something from them. Somehow I think God is waiting for us to embrace all our life experiences as chances to learn and grow, to finally ride on two wheels.

Hooray!

I Need a Break!

"I need a break," she said with desperation in her voice. Sorting and folding five loads of laundry, potty training preschooler in the background, home schooled high schooler in the kitchen, other kids already off to school and a gravelly cough in her throat, I'm not sure how my friend was even able to hold the phone. She lives in another state, or I would have gone over to her house and shooed her out the door for the morning. Her husband has been working very long hours at work, including most nights and weekends, for months now. She has been braving the homefront virtually alone, trying to keep up with all of her endless responsibilities. Her husband is willing but not able to help, so she's been burning both ends of the night to keep everyone happy. Everyone, that is, but herself.

This dear woman has spent the bulk of her adult life in a full time caregiving role. She has been selfless and dedicated and amazing. She willingly relinquished ambitions of further education and career for herself to raise a family. She has been doing it for almost twenty years now. Her children are phenomenal. Her home is immaculate. Her schedule is relentless. I worry about her.

"I guess I'll just have to wait until all the kids are out of the house before I can have a day to myself," she half joked. We have been trying to get together, meet part way, for months now. Each time she is unable to unravel herself from the complicated commitments of a large family to get away. We're in the midst of trying yet again. The problem is she's too good at what she does. She has sacrificed her own needs and desires for so many years in an effort to please and support and uplift her family that they simply don't understand why she would need to get away - to have some time alone. Isn't she happy? Doesn't she feel blessed? Why wouldn't she want to be with her family?

She is blissfully happily and mightily blessed, but she is tired. Understandably exhausted. She needs to reconnect with the woman that is uniquely herself. She needs to remember what it feels like, for a day or two, to be called by her own name instead of "Mom". She needs to wake up one morning and simply decide to do whatever it is that she wants to do. She needs to find an hour of solitude to sit by the beach to simply exist in the moment. In the quiet. To stop running, helping, erranding, fixing, feeding, cleaning, laundering, chauffering, pleasing and pushing herself. She needs to stop for a day or two. She needs some rest. She needs more than just a morning to sleep in, her soul needs rest from the chaos of the everyday. She needs to find and feel the beating of her own heart so she doesn't resent the demands placed on it by so many others.

"Am I normal?" she asked. Normal? She is unequivocally human. We cannot expect to give unceasingly without allowing ourselves time to recover. We need rest. We need respite. We need regeneration. But aren't we supposed to be charitable and selfless? Yes, but we must not forget to include ourselves in the equation of love, kindness and charity. If we who are primary caregivers do not love, honor and cherish our own needs and desires, how can we expect anyone else to?

Didn't the Savior Himself go into the wilderness to fast and be alone for forty days before beginning His ministry? Didn't He rest when He was wearied - even in the midst of the storm? Didn't he understand the need for nourishment during His sermon on the mount and stop to feed everyone, including Himself? Didn't He retreat often to recover and restore His strength? Even He who was gifted with almighty heritage required rest from the relentless demands of His life.

When we grant ourselves the gift of time we become more patient and willing to grant that gift to others. When we find the way to honor our heart, it is nourished and grows more capable of loving those around us. When we recognize our own unique qualities we can more easily see those same traits in others. When we listen to the voice of our own soul crying out for rest and recuperation, we can release hidden resentment when other voices request the same. Honoring the self is not selfishness. It is actually the key to selflessness. Heeding the divine within ourselves allows us to more easily comprehend the infinite essence of others. When we love and honor all of God's creations, we find the key to loving like He does.

So give yourself a break. You may just find it will make you a better person after all.

Vaulted Vision

We cannot hope to see God's face
Until we've seen His hand.
We cannot hope to recognize
Or even understand
The mercy of the Holy One,
His watchful, tender care,
Through blessings that surround us
'Til we see His workings there.

His hand is seen in tenderness
Of mother's first embrace
Of tiny infant placed nearby
Her wearied, grateful face.
His hand is witnessed carefully
Each time the sun doth rise
Then arcs upon its course along
The never ending skies.

His hand extends to weary hearts
Who suffer on their way
Through other hands who minister
And care for them today.
His hand is quiet, gentle, seeking
Place on every head
Who seeks to feel His presence
More than worldly praise instead.

And as we train our eyes to see
The smallest grace from Him,
Our vision will be opened to
The majesties within.
Our noble born inheritance,
His children we'll be known
As those who've seen His hands
We'll know His face when we are home.


Anna M. Molgard

© 2009 Faithsong Publications, L.L.C.
www.faithsongmusic.com

Here's a Kicker

Boy, you try and increase your writing output, taking care to post things you feel confident about when suddenly out of the blue you get thrown down a notch or two. I just got a notification from Google that they thought my blog was a spam blog. I'd never heard of such a thing so started looking at their links. In particular, they said "Spam blogs can be recognized by their irrelevant, repetitive, or nonsensical text..." I had to verify that I am an actual living, breathing human being, writing and posting on this blog. Glad my work is reaching someone - in all its nonsensical, irrelevant glory. Write on! :)

Homesick

Homesick today. Interesting though, I haven't lived in the state where I grew up for over ten years. I find that I'm feeling homesick, but not for any one place in particular. I feel a longing for snow capped mountains, for bustling cities and soothing beaches. My heart wanders to the west coast, east coast, midwest, deep south and across the sea to Europe. It searches for the hearts I've felt connected to over the many years and longs, somehow, to be with them again. My version of heaven is a way for all the lives I've known and loved to miraculously be connected again, reunited in a way that I can feel the love and friendship of kinship once again. Home is where the heart is - and mine is all over the map.

Storms

What do you do during a rainstorm? I hate the cold, so I usually do all I can to avoid getting wet, stay inside and curl up with a good book, a favorite movie, or bake with reckless abandon. Well, we had a rainstorm here today and my dog had a different idea. He decided it was the perfect time to go outside to find his favorite digging hole. It had become a virtual swimming hole and he thought it was the perfect time to excavate the wet, sopping mud. I didn't realize he'd gone outside until he came bounding in the back door, raced around my living room furniture and sprayed muddy water everywhere. He had soggy mud on his face all the way past his eyes, the slopping mess covering his legs and stomach, dripping off onto the floor. I grabbed his collar quickly before he did any more damage to my carpet and said, "First, grab the camera, then fill up the bathtub!"

I think the next time I face a storm in my life, I'll try to be more like my dog and look for the puddle to play in instead of the shelter to hide me from the rain. He was a terrific mess, but he was incredibly happy and pleased with himself. He hadn't even noticed the cold or the rain or the impending thunder. He was too busy splashing and digging. I'm not sure that every cloud has a silver lining, but every rainstorm makes a fine, sloshy mud puddle to pounce in.

Searching?

I am married to a man who can't find anything. I can describe to him in detail where to locate a particular item, he will go in that room, wander around aimlessly looking, only to return and tell me the item is not there. I will then walk directly in, go to the precise place I so carefully specified and find the item within seconds. I used to think he did this just so that I would stop asking him to get things for me, but then I started to go with him just to see. I watched him search under, over, and all around the spot never being able to find the intended item. This exchange has happened so many times that I developed a catch phrase for it. It now simply feels like a reflex to say, "Just because you can't see it, doesn't mean it's not there!"

I read an article in the USA Today this week that has me thinking. It was on Tues, Sept. 22, 2009 in the Life Section, page 7D and was entitled "15% now check 'no religion'" by Cathy Lynn Grossman. According to an 18 year survey directed by Trinity College based on a sampling of 54,000 adults, 15% of Americans now say they have no religious identity. Just over 1100 of those people were surveyed more closely to determine their specific views on God. The results of this more finite survey indicated that 21% of those men and 36% of the women definitely believe in a personal God. There was another segment (25% men and 22% women) who recognized a higher power, but no personal God. The rest of the people surveyed were either unsure or certain that God does not exist at all.

I respect every person's right to make decisions and judgments for themselves. I have a high regard for religious freedom and tolerance in this country. I witness on a daily basis families who sacrifice significantly to protect that freedom. But because of what I have experienced in my own personal life, I am inclined to say, "Just because you don't see Him, doesn't mean He isn't there."

I have witnessed His hand guiding my family throughout the years. I have seen Him lead me to specific people, places and even books when I have needed guidance or help or inspiration. I have seen Him inspire other people to be attuned to my needs and minister to me in loving ways. I have observed His tender care in the creation of beautiful things in this world. I have participated in the miraculous experience of childbirth three times. I have watched Him save, at different times, the lives of each of my children in marvelous ways. I have seen Him in the sorrow of death and loss. I have seen Him in the shadows of tragedy. I have seen Him in darkness, despair and grief, carrying me through the suffering to the other side where hope lives.

I know God lives. I know that He loves His children. I know that He is a very personal God who is interested and involved in the very details of our lives. He wants us to keep looking, keep searching, keep hoping.

Just because you cannot see Him, doesn't mean He isn't there.

Refill

I just refilled my almost deflated tires. It's amazing how much better my bike rides now. It's smooth, balanced and requires much less effort on my part to ride well.

It got me wondering about the rest of my tires. When was the last time I refilled? I could use some balance.

Anna's Refills...

Reading a novel just for fun
Yoga
Biking along the river
Lunch with a good friend
Fine chocolate
Reading to my kids
Snuggling with my dog
Spontaneous outing with my husband
Time to aimlessly wander in a bookstore
Napping
Sitting and pondering in nature

I think I'll go curl up with my dog and a book and maybe take a little nap. Feeling like I could use a refill. I'm sure the rest of the day will require much less effort if I do.

What are your refills?

Morning Meanderings

I turned over in bed and the clock blinked 4:07. AM. My mind has woken me up again, though in a surprisingly different way today. It was racing with thoughts, but not the panic stricken, surely I have missed something or forgotten to sign a paper or buy the pickles I had signed up to bring to preschool today kind of thoughts. No, these thoughts were free and inspiring and motivating. I rolled over, padded softy in bare feet into my office, careful not to awaken anyone, and turned on my computer. My right eye refused to adjust to the light on the screen in stark contrast to the darkened solitude surrounding me as the small digital clock on the lower right hand side of my screen read 4:27. I rubbed it patiently until my vision finally caught up with my mind. What in the world am I doing up at this hour?

I love to sleep. I have dreaded mornings for as long as I can remember. I think it stems back to my childhood when I first really discovered reading. I grew up in a small home with three brothers and a sister. My parents are both night owls, especially my Dad. He still stays up until all hours of the early morning to read. I was in the sixth grade when the "Babysitter's Club" series of books came out through the Scholastic book orders I received at school. I was starting to do a bit of babysitting myself for some families in the neighborhood and the first volume caught my eye, so I used some of my hard earned, $1 an hour earnings to purchase the book. Upon its arrival I stayed up late into the night devouring it. In such a full house, the late night hours were the only quiet ones I could find. In time I ordered and savored all thirty some odd books in the series. I remember reading until I fell asleep with a book on my chest, lamp light still blaring in the stillness. I would wake up often after midnight, put my book on my nightstand, turn off the light and go back to sleep. This relished ritual gave me much needed solace and respite, but wreaked havoc on my morning routine. I remember hitting the snooze button multiple times on my alarm clock. With each exhausted expression of fatigue I created another justification for an additional seven minutes of sleep. "I'll lay here and pick out my outfit in my mind. That will save me time." Seven more minutes of peace. Horrible interruption. "I don't need to blow dry my hair this morning. I'll just let it air dry." That heavenly seven returning. Annoyance revisited. "I can just pull my hair back this morning." And on and on until I would find myself grabbing cold toast as I ran out the door, late again to school, hoping I had on matching clothes and that I had remembered to brush my teeth. All because of that book I couldn't put down the night before. The nightly cycle continued year after year until I vehemently dreaded mornings.

As I grew older, especially during my college years, I struggled to find the time to accomplish all that was demanded of me. I read several books which said to utilize the early morning hours of your day. They were the most productive since they were when you would be the most 'fresh'. HA! Fresh was hardly the word I would use for myself at that inhuman hour of the day, but I was willing to try. I have vivid memories of dragging myself out of my warm, soft bed on a cold, winter morning in the west at 5:00 AM to walk in the darkness over the music building on my college campus. I had a requirement for my piano performance class to practice a minimum of three hours a day. I would have much rather practiced late at night, when my brain was used to the creative process, but unfortunately I was a lowly freshman and had been given the very last pick of times for use of the practice rooms in the basement of the music building. The only way I could find a solid three hour block each day was to practice from 6-9 in the morning. I never did get used to it. Often after working hard for a couple of hours, I would lay my head down on the piano just to 'rest my eyes' for a minute, only to have a more senior student knock on my door and awaken me just in time for my 9:00 class. Freshness? More like groggy, sloggy, bleary eyed freshman. I kept at it all that first year, but never looked forward to the time. I never once bounced out of bed, anxiously awaiting my time of solitude. I always dreaded it. Every morning.

I was grateful for the following year when my slightly increased seniority and acceptance into the music program granted me much more favorable practice room hours, and I quickly abandoned the hair brained idea of early morning anything. I then realized one of the incredible advantages of university life was the ability to create my own schedule. I never again scheduled a class before 10 AM and resumed my late night habits. I would often go running at 10 at night just to activate my brain and then come home to write papers until 2 in the morning. It was wonderful and I lived that way throughout the remainder of my university career.

Those college years passed, marriage came, then first time motherhood found me feeling that returning sense of increased responsibility accompanied by decreased ability. After taking care of my beautiful newborn all day long, I was too exhausted to stay up late anymore. I didn't know how other mothers even found the time to shower and do the dishes, let alone pursue any personal interests. I was feeling dumpy and disorganized, so I reached back for that promised oasis of time in the early morning and started setting my alarm to get me up before the baby each day. I rediscovered my love hate relationship with my alarm clock as I would drag myself up to shower and get ready each day, leaving some extra time for cleaning. But as time progressed, the allure of that extra hour of sleep overcame any vanity I had acquired at that point and I gave it up. It hardly felt worth losing sleep over being perfectly coiffed for my infant and I certainly wasn't motivated to bounce out of bed for housework. The adage had failed me again. Really? THIS was the great secret?

I tried it again sporadically for running, gardening, housework, and reading, all to no avail. None of the anticipated rewards outweighed the immediate benefit of increased sleep, so the grand ambitions would falter and my love affair with the snooze button continued. I concluded finally that I was simply not a morning person. I never would be, so I quit trying.

Then I started writing again. I have vivid memories of English class my Junior year of high school. Our teacher emphasized writing and constantly assigned us essays to write. That was back in the dinosaur ages before the internet and when most people didn't even have a computer in their home. My Dad owned a small business in our little town, so I would go up in the evenings after his work day and write my papers there on his computer. I distinctly remember staring out the window just behind the computer into the shadowed stillness and feeling a kind of blissful abandon with the silent darkness. Nobody was there to interrupt my thoughts. I could leave my busy, noisy home and find a soundless oasis where my ideas could flow freely. I relished that time.

Only recently have the words come to me again in the stillness. Poems have awakened me in the early hours, their meter and vocabulary calling me out of sleep, begging me to put them to paper before they disappear back into the sanctity of the quiet night. Lyrics linger in that half awakened state between sleep and consciousness singing to me. They float and find themselves uniting into verses, song structures, reminding me that unless I arise and record them, they will travel back into the creative chasm from whence they came. Words and ideas haunt me kindly but insistently until finally articulated. The promised island of solitude has finally found its way to me, or perhaps I to it. I realize now that the soul awakens early not by intrusion of alarm, or by outside imposed direction. The mind and the heart can only overcome the overarching needs of the physical body when compelled by a deep longing. A connection to self that requires awareness of innate desire. The sun will only rise on the soul in stillness.

The key to finding this silent island oasis is not productivity, it is creativity. What stirs your soul? What resonates deep within you in a way you can neither explain nor deny? Where does your mind travel while your hands are occupied in mundane, routine tasks? What connects you to yourself and the divine within you? Release expectations you feel placed on you by others, by society, by your former self and listen. Just listen. Listen in the silence for the beating of your own heart. It will speak to you. It will teach you. It will lead you to the haven of creativity that is uniquely yours. Then the mornings will call to you and beckon you into the stillness. For there is where brilliance is born.

Buddy

Puppy Love

I have a dog. Those of you who know me will echo a recent post from a friend on Facebook who said, "YOU have a dog?!?" You see, I have never had a dog before. I grew up in a home with reluctantly allowed pets, only kittens I had found in the yard and begged my Mom to let me keep. My Mom had some frightening experiences with dogs as a child that never really left her and although I never remember her telling us outright that she didn't like dogs, we all knew. Dogs were scary and mean and we should stay away from them.

That ingrained dislike, or what I now recognize as misunderstanding, of dogs stayed with me throughout my life. I remember one afternoon playing on the playground with some friends after an elementary school day. We were on the swings and a stray dog came walking by. Now, had I understood dogs, I likely would have stood still, allowed him to come to me and greet me if he wanted and then let him go on his way. But I didn't understand dogs, so I kept swinging, agitating the poor thing to the point he started nipping at me. I know now he thought I was playing a game, but I thought then that he wanted to hurt me. So I hopped off the swing and ran. Yup. He chased me. I remember running around the playground, crying and praying at the same time. Surely God had mercy on his poor, panic stricken daughter that day and sent the only Animal Control officer in town to the playground at that moment. I was saved from this 'menacing' dog, misunderstanding and fear further ingrained into my psyche.

My children, however, have grown up surrounded by dogs. I married into a dog family. Not just any dog family, one who can have over 50 dogs at their yearly family reunion. Labradors, chihuahuas, beagles, poodles - you name it, someone in my husband's family probably owns or has owned one. My children LOVE dogs and have absolutely no fear of them because they have more understanding of how they think, how they act, and how they love.

My children had begged me since they could talk for a dog of their own. My husband was close behind them, though somewhat more tolerant of the fears associated with my canine deprived upbringing. I've had every excuse in the book over the years for not getting a dog. The easiest was that for many years we were renters and couldn't have pets in our apartments. Once we finally had our first home, I was pregnant with our youngest son and told them that we had a baby instead. That seemed an inadequate replacement to them, but helped to dissipate the issue enough that it died away for a time. When we moved to another state, our home didn't have a fence. I told them then that we couldn't have a dog without a fence. After several months when my husband had finally completed the fence, I found myself at last without an excuse. So I started to consider getting a dog.

Plagued by misunderstandings and lingering negative feelings about dog ownership, I did what I always do when embarking on a new adventure in my life. I go to the library. I check out books - lots and lots of books - and saturate my mind in the new subject. I need to read and study and learn about it. The more I read about dogs, however, the more overwhelmed I felt. I had no practical experience whatsoever with dogs. What's the best way to housetrain him? Should we keep him in a crate or not? How much would we feed him and when? How would our family schedule accommodate his needs? But beyond the practical concerns was the ingrained fear and dislike I had for dogs. I had learned to tolerate them in my husband's family over the years, but I didn't think I could invite another living being into my life and merely tolerate him. What to do?

My husband found a breeder about an hour from our home. It was on the way to the beach where we went most Saturdays this spring and summer and he asked me if we could just stop and look at the dogs. I reluctantly agreed, feeling fairly educated about the animal itself but increasingly unsure how I would react upon meeting our possible companion face to face. The day arrived and we pulled into the driveway of the breeder's home. It was a small, country place, fairly isolated from other homes in the area. As we got out of the car, I understood why. The smell hit me with force and I recoiled momentarily. Their entire back yard was sectioned off into kennels inhabited by various colors of Labrador Retrievers. They all began barking and jumping excitedly to greet us. The kind breeder and his wife came out to meet us and instantly set us at ease. We had previewed some of their dogs on their website and liked the look of the white labrador, so they took us over to the section of the yard where the white labs were. We saw the adults running and playing together in the yard and with each enthusiastic acknowledgement of our presence, my anxiety increased. I didn't think I could do this after all. I was back at the playground being chased off my swing. We talked and asked about litter arrival dates and parenting lines, but inside I knew I could never do it. Then they asked if we wanted to see the puppies.

They took us inside a little cabin that was their office and viewing area. We told them we were hoping for a male, so they brought in a group of seven little guys who were only about four weeks old - pups from their most recent litter. They said all of them were sold except for one and they would be starting the selections once the puppies reached eight weeks. If we purchased one of these dogs, we would have the last pick. The children were instantly on the floor, loving and romping and playing with the puppies. They were all full of life and energy. I watched them with increasing anxiety. How would I ever tell the children now that they couldn't have a dog after all? Then I noticed one little guy off to the side. He was squirming around, but certainly not getting into the middle of the chaos that was ensuing nearby. I reached over and gently picked him up. He was sleepy, so once I picked him up and held him against my chest, he tucked his little head up right in the crook of my neck and fell fast asleep. His tiny heart beat rapidly and I could feel his softness and vulnerability. He was singular serenity in that moment and my heart melted into oblivion. I held him while we visited, expressed interest in the possibility of a purchase, but promised nothing. We would have to see. We would have the last pick, after all. I knew that I could take home that puppy, but I couldn't handle the more energetic dogs. What are the chances that he would be the one left?

We came home, talked a lot and decided to put a deposit down on that litter. We made it clear to the breeders that when we came down to meet the one that was left, we reserved the option not to take him and transfer our deposit for a later litter. I knew I couldn't manage the more enthusiastic puppies. They were gracious and understanding and even began posting pictures online for the future owners to see their growth. The dogs quickly changed so much that I began to question if I could remember which puppy was the one I had loved instantly that day. As each family visited the breeders for selection, they would post online which puppy had been chosen. There was one, sweet faced little man I had hoped was that lovey pup, but couldn't be sure without being with him again. I told my husband that if I had to pick from a picture, he would be the one.

The time finally arrived for our 'selection', really a formality as far as choice was concerned, but the meeting held great significance for me. Could this possibly be our puppy? We drove the hour in anticipation and excitement, hurried into the rear cabin and they carefully brought him in. Within minutes I knew. It was him. That sweet little floppy faced puppy who had snuggled right up to me. The one whose picture was my perfect pick. He had such a calm, even temperment. He came right up to us with love and sweetness in his eyes. He was so wonderful with our children and they instantly took right to him. He ended up falling asleep on the couch with our daughter snuggled up right next to him. We knew. He would be our dog. I couldn't believe it. What are the chances that we would stop by for a casual inquiry at a breeder's, they would have a litter of the kind we wanted with only one dog left and that the very animal we had hoped would be ours would be the last one picked? Some would say fate, others call it destiny, I call it love.

I think that true love can work miracles in life. I felt in that very first moment of meeting him a love for another living creature that I had never felt before. It was an affection for an animal that I had previously feared that was instantly replaced with devotion. It was unanticipated, unabbreviated, uninhibited love. Why wouldn't he be the one to come to our home? We loved him. As we realized what was happening in that moment of singular sentiment, tears filled our eyes. My husband asked what we should name him. I said, "Buddy" and agreements resounded.

I have a dog.

Pinkies & Piggy Toes

I think that God has a sense of humor. Not the kind that would make fun of others or be crude in any way, but I have to think that He must sit back and just laugh along with us sometimes as He tries to teach us the lessons we need to learn in life.

I have been a slacker writer for months now. I have piles of ideas, half finished projects, but nothing complete, nothing submitted, nothing to the point that it's useful to anyone - including myself. So since my kids started back to school a couple of weeks ago I have been praying for God to help me find balance in my life and asking Him to help me accomplish what He would have me do. I set a goal to write for two hours every day. Every day. I think in the past three weeks it's happened twice, maybe three times. Something was always coming up.

Last Monday morning, exactly a week ago, I slammed my pinky finger in the truck door. Hard. To the point I was holding back tears and gasping like a small child. My finger swelled up to the point it desperately hurt if I even bumped it. The nail turned completely black and pounded for days. I met my writing goal one day last week. Just one. Things came up. So this morning I was hurriedly doing the dishes before getting my kids off to school when I dropped a trivet on my toe. A trivet is not a made up word, contrary to my husband's insistence. It is a scrolled metal rectanglar object used to protect the table from hot dishes. This morning, however, it felt equivalent to an eight pound weight being slammed onto my innocent little toe. More almost-tears, more deep breathing, frustration, then suddenly laughter. How's that for an answered prayer?

I went to a writing workshop on Saturday and a local poet, Neil Ray, said he doesn't use the term 'writer's block'. When he gets stuck he calls it a 'wham bam koo' which means a rebirth. Well that pummeling metal trivetation on my toe felt like a 'wham bam sock it to you ma'am, get up off your can and write already' moment. Can't go shopping, running, yoga-ing, erranding, or anything with this throbbing little toe. Nothing to do today but write.

I started thinking about the last several months, trying to decide what has kept me from writing. Sure, I've been busy. Who isn't busy? I have three kids, a dog and a busy husband. But it's been more than that. I have an entire book outlined. I had set a goal to have three chapters ready to submit to publishers for consideration by September. Haven't touched it since I finished one chapter in June. I have a musical play only needing two new songs and final editing. I set myself a deadline for December. Haven't looked at it since May. I have piles of poetry sitting in notebooks and journals, not posted, not submitted, not published. I haven't even posted on my blog since April. Why?

I think in many ways obscurity is easier than mediocrity. You know the saying, "It's better not to have tried at all than to have tried and be dismissed as irrelevant". I can't be a disappointment if my work is never seen. I recognize that writing only for myself is somewhat selfish, but it's also been supremely safe. The unknown outcome still holds the promise of possibility whereas the known contains certain rejection, acceptance, or in the worst case - ambivalence. Writing requires a significant amount of vulnerability, a willingness to share openly the deepest insights and imaginations of my heart. In sharing, submitting, and publishing my work, I risk having that essence of myself edited, criticized or dismissed. But I realized something this morning as the teetering ten ton trivet hit my toe. In my fear of uncertain rejection, I have been missing the possibility of connection.

In the writing workshop Neil said that as writers we not only write to express ourselves, but we write to express for others what they feel but cannot seem to articulate for themselves. In my hobbited state of safety and reluctant fear, I have been in denial. I have denied not only myself, but others the ability to communicate, to share, to experience that resilient human connection of spirit that occurs when another person seems to say the words written deep within your heart. The ones you didn't know were there until you find them perfectly expressed by another's pen.

So I'm writing again...with my blackened pinky finger, swollen piggy toe, and God's laughter ringing in my ears.

Street Signs

I live in a city that has evolved over time. When I moved here, the GPS technology I now rely on was still very new and quite expensive, so I learned to navigate the city the old fashioned way - with a map. Each time I ventured out to find a new location, I would carefully study the map, eventually learning my way around the labyrinth of the city streets. I loved discovering new routes and I especially enjoyed finding unusually named streets. One of my favorite discoveries was Notblake Drive. Why? I once worked for a home builder and when the company was working to develop a new area of the city for housing. One day the developer brought the plat maps into the office which included all the proposed street names. Curious as I read the street names and saw the likes of Jennie Lane and Davis Drive, I asked the developer where the names had come from. He told me they were the names of his grandchildren and informed me that the land developer got to choose the names of the streets. Notblake Drive always makes me laugh and wonder what poor Blake ever did to the developer of that particular neighborhood!

Just recently I discovered a new street name that gave me pause, perhaps because it wasn't the street sign that caught my eye first. There was a short, unpaved dirt road leading to two small houses. They were very humble in construction, in size and amenities. Only one had a small, very well used vehicle parked out front. There was not much to speak of as far as landscaping and there were certainly no boats, four wheelers, or other "toys" parked out front. After seeing the homes, desolate and isolated by worldly standards, I saw the name of the street. Truly Blessed Drive. I wondered about the people who lived in those homes. The buildings looked like they had been there for ages and I wondered if the residents themselves had developed that rudimentary street and been the ones to decide what to name it. I wondered about what was truly important to them. It was fairly obvious that their material possessions didn't create their happiness or their definition of being blessed. I wondered about their families, what they had been through together. I wondered how many times a day they counted their blessings, recognized the beauties that surrounded them, hugged their children, told someone they loved them and helped another person. I was certain that what happened inside those homes was a far greater indicator of their definition of blessed than what was seen on the outside.

I thought about another neighborhood I had seen recently in a coastal resort town, filled with luxurious homes, swimming pools, tennis courts and gated entrances. It had street names like Magnolia Drive and Emerald Parkway and was littered with foreclosure and short sale signs. I wondered if the people who had lived in or purchased those homes, some now shackled with burdensome debt they could no longer carry, felt truly blessed. I wondered if their homes were filled with gratitude and wonder at all the glories and beauties that still surrounded them or if all they could think about was what they were losing.

I wonder if the state of our happiness actually depends upon our willingness to choose our perspective and very little to do with income, zip code, or balance sheets. Perhaps as external economic conditions force us to cut back, downsize or relocate, we can remember what it takes to feel truly blessed. Eyes to see, ears to hear, hands to help, mouths to speak kindness, and perhaps even a well placed street sign.

Of Weeds

I was weeding my flower bed the other day. It was a sunny, quiet morning and it was just me and the weeds that had grown up over the winter and were threatening my newly resurrected dianthus and daylilies. I had been dreading this impending chore, knowing some of the roots were deep, some of the weeds had been ignored and grown larger than I'd cared to admit, and it's just a yucky, tiresome chore. But as the morning progressed, I noticed something. The soil was soft and forgiving. The weeds came out fairly easily. What should have taken all morning, was accomplished with minimal effort in a couple of hours. It had rained the day before.

I wondered about the weeds in my life. Ones with deep roots. Ones that had grown comfortably over time. Ones that didn't seem significant at the time so had grown slowly, but certainly, over time. Ones I simply hadn't wanted to tackle, knowing the effort it would take.

Often we wonder why it rains. Maybe God simply knows we have some weeding to do.

Motivation

I was recently invited to become a permablogger on an exciting new blog (details forthcoming soon). In some communication with the other writers, I was asked to share a short biographical sketch of myself. Most of the other writers were complete strangers to me and here I was being asked to condense my life into two short paragraphs that would capture the essence of me.

I found myself in a quandary. What information was pertinent? What information would be superfluous? Which life experiences from the last 30 some odd years should I share? It felt much more important than a simple "25 Random Things" list on my Facebook page. It seemed to me an exercise beyond a mere resume or listing of job qualifications. I had already been invited to participate, so what aspects of my life would I choose to define myself as a person? Who am I? Really?

I've heard the expression 'wearing many hats' before, but as an actress I like to think of my life in terms of the roles I play. Maybe it seems a bit more dramatic and exciting that way, especially on the days when the roles merely change from laundress to housekeeper to cook. But in acting, the portrayal of the roles are always an extension of the character's motivation. Why would that character make that choice? What drives that person to behave or interact in that certain way? So behind all the various roles we have in life there is what drives us, our character motivation.

Think about what you would say if asked to encapsulate your life for perfect strangers in a matter of a few words. Consider not only what you would say, but ask yourself the soul searching question of, "Why?"

I love the song by Julie de Azevedo entitled, "A Window to His Love." There is a line in the song that says, "I want to be a window to His love, so when you look through me you will find Him." After a lifetime of self-evaluation, perhaps I will have reached this point of purely charitable character motivation. That is my hope - to one day be motivated purely by a Christ like desire to reach out to others, to help them find Him. I hope to someday reach the point where my all roles can be driven by that true character motivation and my life can be encapsulated in three mere words. Woman of God.

Sounds Like Life to Me

Sounds Like Life To Me (Darryl Worley)

Video Code provided by MusicRemedy.Com

Today I was running errands. One of my stops was to fill up my van with gas. When I was young I swore I would never drive a minivan. It seemed like the ultimate in giving into suburban, Mommy life and I didn't want to ever admit that about myself. However, when I was pregnant with my third child and about to outgrow our current vehicle, I found myself at the Honda dealership with my husband coercing me into test driving an Odyssey van. I went kicking and screaming, but found as I drove it I liked the way it handled, I loved the flexibility of the functions and I absolutely LOVED that I could push a button from my keychain or the driver's seat and either of the side doors would open. With all of that and the fact that a nice used van was considerably less than an SUV, we purchased the van.

I've driven that van for the past five years as my babies have grown into children and young adults. I was so thrilled with its reliability, despite some dents and scratches, stained carpet and a few flat tires. I was ecstatic when we paid it off in full last month and we wouldn't have a car payment. Hondas can last forever!

So today as I was driving away from the gas pump and heard a huge crunching sound, my heart and my stomach met somewhere in the middle. I slammed on my brakes, wondering what in the world I could have possibly hit. I opened my door and saw a stationary 3 foot tall cement post placed just after the gas pump. What purpose it could possibly serve is beyond me, but it succeeded in scraping the entire driver's side of my van, smashing in one of the precious sliding doors so that it no longer functions.

I met my husband for lunch in tears. I felt so stupid for what I had done and I now had a huge symbol of stupidity wherever I drove. He was kind and caring, reassuring me that it was just an accident, no one was hurt and our insurance would take care of it.

On the drive home, I remembered the new song (link posted above) I had heard the day before - "Sounds Like Life to Me" by Darryl Worley. My favorite line is "the only thing for certain is uncertainty." It helped me realize that accidents, trials and disappointments are just a part of life. There is no such things as a perfect life without problems. Perfection in progression comes by granting ourselves the grace to make mistakes and move forward.

I also remembered a portion of the book "The Last Lecture" by Randy Pausch. I first saw him on an Oprah show giving his last lecture that he had presented at Carnegie Mellon where he was a professor. He had been invited to give a hypothetical last lecture of his life to his students and colleagues in a few months as part of a lecture series there. In the meantime, he was diagnosed with terminal cancer. He decided to give, literally, his last lecture in honor of his three young children. Following this lecture, he worked with an editor, Jeffrey Zaslow, to write words of wisdom and perspective to his children, words that have reached out and given perspective to many others.

In his book he tells the story of a day his wife backed their van out of the garage right into his car, which she didn't realize had been parked there. She was so worried about his reaction and spent the day preparing the perfect evening to soften the news. Randy reacted without anger or frustration. He had been taught that vehicles were utilitarian devices designed to get people from point A to point B, not expressions of social status. He told her that since the damage was simply cosmetic, there was no need to get them repaired. Thy still functioned properly and did what they were designed to do. So they drove dented cars. He said they became a statement in their marriage that not everything needs to be fixed. (The Last Lecture, by Randy Pausch, 2008, p.85-87)

Prof. Randy Pausch passed away early in the morning on July 25, 2008, at his home in Virginia.

I'll bet his wife still drives that car.

I Wish I Had 100...

I was back in the second grade classroom yesterday and the students had a writing project. The title of the piece was "I Wish I Had 100..." . The students filled in the wish and wrote why they made that wish and what they would do with it. Many of the students wished for 100 dollars and then listed what they would buy with the money. My son wished for 100 pies. He really likes pie. Another wished for 100 of himself so he could do lots of things at once. One girl wished for the money, but wrote that she would use it to buy clothes and food for people who are poor. Made me wonder what I would wish for... 100 days on a tropical island with my family? 100 months of maid service? 100 years of a life lived well? What would you wish for?

Grace from Grief

It's amazing to me how God can make something good out of something terrible.

As I was waiting for an appointment this morning, I read a story about a young 25 year old man who was at his church when a couple began having a heated marital dispute. In the midst of trying to break up the altercation, he was shot and later died from complications resulting from the gunshot wounds. His parents, in their grief, decided to donate his organs. Because he was young and healthy, they were able to harvest and use five different organs for immediate transplant. In the bitter moments of one family's tragedy came immense joy to five other families - many awaiting certain death of their loved ones without those transplants. Several of the organ recipients attended the memorial service for the young man, overcome with both grief and gratitude. The heart recipient told of the young man's mother coming over to him and listening to his new heart - a living, breathing part of her son, now sustaining another man's life.

As I was driving home, I saw a man riding his bike down the road, full speed, an enormous smile on his face, with no legs. I'm sure he never anticipated his journey through life with no legs, but there he was training for a race nonetheless. He was making something wonderful from his tragedy and in doing so spread joy to a perfect stranger who saw his enthusiasm as he pedaled his wheelchair bike down the road with his hands.

There's nothing so terrible in life that God can't make something good come from it.

Grateful

Today, I am grateful.

I'm grateful that I am healthy enough to exercise. I have a friend who has such severe health problems that she never knows when she will be well enough to even leave the house, let alone exercise.

I'm grateful that I have the means to go grocery shopping for my family. I read in the newspaper about people lining up for hours for a free breakfast from Denny's. One woman said that after she paid her rent she only had $10 and used it to buy gas.

I'm grateful that my father is still alive and I can tell him that I love him. I have a cousin who wrote a beautiful tribute to her father to give to him on Father's Day. She didn't give it to him in time - he passed away and she used it as a tribute at his funeral. I love you, Dad.

I'm grateful that my husband is home. I have many, many friends whose husbands are serving overseas in dangerous military assignments. They worry every day about them. They are amazing examples of fortitude and faith - keeping their homes and families running alone.

I'm grateful that my children are growing and healthy. I have a friend with newborn, premature twins and was in the hospital with one all day yesterday. She is still worrying about him, unsure of his progress and condition. Her husband is gone, too.

I'm grateful that my heater works. It has been unseasonably cold where I live and I saw a man today walking the street, wrapped up as tightly as he could be against the bitter wind. I wondered if he had anywhere warm to sleep tonight.

I'm grateful that I can read. I have met two women from other countries who can neither read nor write English very well, living in America and raising families here.

I'm grateful for my sight. I have a friend who works at the Center for the Blind in my city who reminded me that if I think I'm having a hard time, I should go there. Those people understand what difficulties, and opportunities, really are.

I'm grateful that I can choose how to see, and be in the world.

Today, I am grateful.

Black and White

Today was black and white day at preschool. All of the children were to wear black and white clothing of some kind, then they would have a black and white snack, do black and white activities and apparently have a fantastically fun black and white day. The school sends the parents a calendar at the beginning of each month detailing all of these important events in the lives of our four year old children. I dutifully hang mine on the side of my refrigerator each month and hope I remember to glance at it in time to be adequately apprised of each upcoming occasion.

I had three extra children in my home for three days and nights prior to this morning. After an exhausting weekend of doubled everything, I was pretty proud of myself that I had managed to get my children up, dressed, fed, out the door with lunches made, orderly backpacks, clean clothes, and combed hair. So when we walked into the preschool this morning, I was anticipating a feeling of accomplishment and looking forward to a well deserved quiet morning to myself. As my son skipped in wearing his forest green henley shirt with khaki brown corduroy pants and his new Batman shoes, I noticed all the other children dressed in their black and white and suddenly remembered the black and white day square so carefully posted on the preschool calendar at home. I started quickly into the world of 'mother guilt' that plagues even the most stalwartly self-confident mothers at times. How could I have forgotten black and white day?

As I was hanging up his coat, I began apologizing to the teachers. I kept feeling like I should have remembered somehow. I felt so bad for him and quite embarrassed for myself. Then I noticed how little my son seemed to care or even notice. He was busily placing his butterfly nametag on the attendance rainbow. He was giving me high fives, noticing that it was his turn to be the light helper today. He was thrilled to be back amongst his friends after a week of snow days. He didn't care that he looked different. He knew he would still get the snack and be able to do all the activities. He was simply happy to be at school, dressed just as he was.

As I drove away, I took my cues from my son and realized how little that 'mistake' in my mothering mattered in the grand scheme of things. My son was happy. He had crawled on my lap earlier that morning to read together. He had grabbed me around the legs as I was making sandwiches and said, "I love you, Mom." He kissed me before he went to get dressed. After the older children had left for school, during the half hour before it was time to leave, he asked me to play a game with him. I usually shower during that time, but not today. I played with him. We were having so much fun, laughing and being together that we lost track of time and were a little late getting away. And in we walked together to school, hand in hand, smiling and laughing and happy, dressed in green and brown.

I came home, circled the date on the preschool calendar and put a happy face on it to remind me. Motherhood isn't measured by perfectly dressed children. Success isn't determined by calendars or agendas or checklists. Lasting influence is largely determined over time. Character is nurtured by cherishing even the smallest moments of happiness. Fulfillment is found by sharing the short, fleeting footsteps of our children, before they grow so large and independent that they walk successfully away from our immediate circle of significance. Happiness is hard to quantify, impossible to counterfeit or conceal. Marks of masterful motherhood are multi-hued, vibrant and variant - anything but black and white.

We Choose

I am on my third week of terrible ear pain, untreatable thus far by modern medicine - a terrifying situation for a musician. As I was returning to the doctor's this morning for further treatment I was a little behind schedule. I parked my car, locked it and started running into the clinic, worrying about the possible implications of my situation when I saw a man limping out into the parking lot. He had a huge leg brace on his right leg and was struggling to maintain his limited momentum in order to make it to his car. I slowed immediately to a walk, suddenly very grateful for my legs, for my amazing ability to be able to run.

We choose every day, in every moment, how we will see the world. We determine by that perception our place in it. We decide whether to be worried over impending catastrophe or grateful for current miracles. We shape our own existence by our perspective, by our willingness to see the possibilities in our lives. We choose to be the victim, the survivor, or the hero of our own life story.

We choose.

Beauty in the Midst

I don't live in a very beautiful town. There are pockets of loveliness and a growing number of people expressing the desire for a more beautiful city and working towards that goal, but due to the transient nature of where I live there doesn't seem to be much of a sense of ownership and pride in the maintenance of our bit of earth here. There is an abundance of litter, unkempt yards, abandoned lots and dilapidated properties. Overall, the beauty of God's creations have been overrun by man's relative neglect.

Several weeks ago I went for a run along a fairly busy, main road of town. As I ran, I saw mile after mile of debris, rusted cars, and crumbling fences. Trash cluttered the sidewalk and surrounding areas. I passed a little stream choked with litter where a small family of frogs was trying to eke out their earthly existence. I was increasingly discouraged, not only by the lack of overall concern for beauty, but more so for what it represented about our society in general - an acceptance for filth and disarray in our lives.

As I pounded along the pavement, I was suddenly and quite literally stopped in my tracks. In the midst of the filth was one property, one vestige of hope. It was a modest home, not unique in scale or grandeur, but it surpassed its surroundings soundly in beauty. The bushes were all trimmed neatly, the home was in pristine repair, flowers carefully plotted and planted, immaculate in every regard. Surrounding this lovely oasis was a low iron fence, carefully plotted and designed to secure and complement the property. Within the careful protection of this fence was a place of beauty, order and peace.

As I stood, stunned by the contrast this little piece of land presented, I was instantly filled with hope. Hope that in the midst of an increasingly evil world, beauty could still be preserved. Hope that goodness springs possible through considerable effort - careful tending, pruning, weeding and planting. Hope that with the creation of a carefully crafted, graceful fence, refinement can remain in full view while still protected from the filth surrounding it on every side. Hope that beauty can not only be found, but created, cultivated, captured and shared. Hope that there is yet hope for us all.