My friend Amy and I had a perfectly wretched year. Truly. So when she suggested we celebrate our October birthdays by getting away together, I jumped on it. I am fortunate to have a husband who gave the idea his whole-hearted support. (And if he wasn't whole-heartedly supporting it, he kept that to himself, because he's like that!) He even helped us book our trip. What followed was a wonderful, refreshing, restoring time together. And hopefully a few blog posts. This is the first...
Amy was perfectly content to go wherever on our trip. I suggested warm, because I now live in someplace that gets cold, and this is the beginning of the get cold season. Coincidentally, I had airline miles that needed to be used or they would expire. So my job was to figure out where we could go for 80,000 miles. Tropical. On the timetable we had available. The search quickly narrowed to Ft. Lauderdale airport. Routes from St. Louis would fly through Houston. Perfect. That narrowed down, the search was on for hotel/resort. My only real requirements were: on the beach. with a pool. period. We wound up booking at the "Pink Shell Spa and Resort" in Ft. Myers, just a couple car hours from Ft. Lauderdale, on the Gulf Coast. Car rental also courtesy of airline miles.
I met up with Amy at the airport in Houston, and we boarded our morning flight to Florida, scheduled for 2 pm arrival. We'd be at the hotel by 5 pm. Yay! We hadn't been in our seats long (Amy aisle, me in middle), when the passenger arrived for the seat across the aisle. I'm pretty sure he was flying with 3 friends (maybe 4), unless they had somehow just met and hit it off in the airport. When he walked down the aisle I gave Amy a look. Kind of a smirk, with my eyes saying "look at this guy." Obviously middle-aged, he was wearing tight leather pants. Amy looked at him, then looked at me and smiled, with perhaps a bit of a giggle.
Once the plane was loaded, but before we pushed back, he stood up and said, "excuse me. I have to stretch." He proceeded to do the splits in the aisle. All the way down. Not what I expected when he said he needed to stretch. I was expecting more of a back stretch. If I had been drinking some water, I think I would have spit it out. Amy was cracking up too, but she was facing me. I looked at her and rolled my eyes like "get a load of that," then looked up and he was looking right at me. Oops. It was all I could do to keep from busting out in laughter. At least two more times during our flight he stood up, excused himself, and did the splits in the aisle. All without splitting those tight leather pants. (I think they must have had some spandex in them).
About halfway into the flight the captain got on the intercom and told us we were making great time and should arrive in Ft. Lauderdale about 20 minutes early. Even better! About 20 minutes later he told us there was a bit of a problem and would be a delay, but we should still arrive on time. Probably about 20 minutes and one leather-pants guy stretch later, he said, "You might notice we've been circling. There's been a fire at the Ft. Lauderdale airport on the runway, and they are clearing it. It should be just a little while until we're cleared for landing. And don't worry, there's plenty of fuel on the plane...enough to circle for about 2 hours" A groan went up from all aboard.
More circling and another, "Don't worry, we have plenty of fuel" happened. And then the pilot announced that the airport was now closed to traffic and it would be at least 2 more hours until we could land. Oy. And all the other planes in the air had already diverted to Miami, the closest airport, which was now full. Double Oy. Then he said "We are going to be diverting to Ft. Myers airport." While everyone else was groaning, we let out a little whoop! since Ft. Myers was our final destination. What luck, we would save the 2 hour drive!
Leather pants guy said to one of his Mates, "Good thing we flew today and not tomorrow, or we would miss our boat." They were heading out of Ft. Lauderdale on a cruise. Amy and I are both convinced that they were an aging 80's rock band and would be the entertainment on that cruise. (So convinced in fact, we spent some time that night Googling 80s rock bands to see if we could find a picture of them.) They had to be a has-been 80s rock group, or they wouldn't have been flying in coach.
When the plane landed and the pilot said we could wait on the plane, or wait at the gate in the airport, we quickly grabbed our belongings. We told LPG that this was where we were headed anyway, and he proceeded to jokingly blame us for the runway fire. Sure wish I would have had the guts to ask him who he was, but he gave us quite a laugh for the rest of our trip.
So we landed in our ultimate destination (yay!), saved ourselves the 2 hour wait (at least) at the airport until we could head over to Ft. Lauderdale (yay!) and the 2 hour drive back to Ft. Myers (yay!), but unfortunately, our free-rental car didn't transfer to the new airport. (boo!) Fortunately, we weren't in a rush and Ft. Lauderdale wasn't our final destination. As we headed to our rental car another girl was heading the same way. She was on her way to a wedding. The bachelorette party was at 6. I'm sure she was going to be late. Bummer. We, on the other hand, stopped along the way for a bite to eat, got stuck in a bit of traffic on the way to the hotel, and were still checked in before 5 pm, in time to see our first of 4 beach sunsets! Beautiful!
Leather Pants Guy might still have been doing splits in the airport.
Sunday, November 8, 2015
Tuesday, October 27, 2015
When a Costume Is More Than a Costume
Since it's Halloween week I started posting some pics of former Halloweens on my facebook page and it brought back such memories. The first costume I made for Matt 
Maybe that's why his favorite fruit to this day is a banana.
Matt has been pretty easy to costume. He's been a monkey, a frog, that Plunger Headed Hero, Larry Boy (fans of the VeggieTales should know who I mean), and several Star Wars permutations: a Storm Trouper, Darth Vader, Luke Skywalker and Anakin. Sometimes creating the costume was a challenge (I used a pattern for the monkey and the frog, but Larry Boy was originally a pattern for a pumpkin, and the Anakin pattern was for a pirate). One year he was Spiderman. I bought a pair of spiderman pajamas. I felt like a cheater since I hadn't made the costume. But I did make coverings for his shoes and web-slingers for his arms, so it wasn't a total cheat. And a mask. Once he was Super Mario. There were 3 Super Marios at the Fall Festival that year, but our homemade costume was definitely the best.
Since she was able to talk, Brianna has always been more of a challenge. She was a ladybug (I used a turtle pattern to make the shell.) I still had that costume in the closet when we moved from Texas when she was going in to 6th grade. So cute! She was Bob the Tomato to Matt's Larry Boy.
And her "cheat year" she was a giraffe. I saw a really cute giraffe jacket at the store and I couldn't pass it up. I did make her some kind of lower-half outfit out of brown velour though, so again, not a total cheat. (Of course, I think it was 100 degrees that night in southeast Texas).
Then things started getting complicated. I feel like every single Halloween costume after that involved tears, many of them were mine, as costumes just didn't measure up. First was the year she told me she wanted to be a Disney Princess. Which one, I wanted to know? "That one" was, I think, the best she gave me. Wanting her Halloween to be perfect, and knowing I couldn't compete with Disney, I bought the costume, straight out. Snow White. Oh my gosh was she cute. Except, Snow White was not "that one." Looking back now, I think she might have meant Cinderella, but I'm still not sure. The best part of that night was after it was over and we were back home. Matt had been Darth that year, with a borrowed "helmet," and when we got home at the end of the night, she put it on with her Snow White costume. She was perfectly content to be Darth White.
She's been Cleopatra and Princess Leia. (she rocked the Princess Leia costume by the way, and I think that year we might have escaped tears)
One year she wanted to be Ariel (the Little Mermaid). I slaved on that fishy costume, and she loved it...right until the time came to go to the Fall Festival. Then suddenly she would only hide behind me. I figured once she was around her friends she would go and play, but nope, she hid behind me all night, and no one saw the cute costume, with the "shell" bag for collecting treats. So here she is.
Another year she wanted to be Hannah Montana, rock star. She loved Hannah's long, straight, blond hair. But the "mermaid wig" had been such a disaster, I didn't know how we would do it. She said we could just straighten her hair and then spray it blond. Nice thought, but for two things. We started early and we straightened it...yay, even if it would never be "long." I'm pretty sure it took more than an hour to straighten her curly locks. But then we sprayed it. First of all, blond spray on dark hair doesn't really turn it blond. Nope. Second, those sprays are moist. Think with me...what happens when you spray moisture on curly hair that's been straightened? If you guessed "curls" or "frizz" you would get a prize. Oh the tears...
By now I had pretty much given up on costumes that could never make her happy. It seems she always wanted to be something she wasn't. And she thought she'd get her perfect image from that costume. But the costume never measured up....And funny, the mask I was trying to wear didn't measure up for me, either.
You see, way back more than 20 years ago, I had the vision of being a perfect mom. And among the things a perfect mom does is make her children's Halloween costumes. (or at least a perfect mom who sews). Even before we had kids I found myself longing for the day when I was a mom and could make my kids' costumes. (It was one of the hazards of working in a fabric store...I saw all those perfect moms doing just that). It's hard when your standard of perfection is not what it should be. In fact, perfect mom-dom has nothing to do with Halloween costumes. And to be honest, there is no such thing as perfection in a mom's world.
Being a mom means loving your kids absolutely. Unconditionally. It means selfless giving too them, but also disciplining them. It means your heart will be broken...and so will theirs. It means you'll have epic fails, and occasional successes. You'll have to change plans at the last second. You'll have to watch your kids fail sometimes...and be there to scoop them up off the ground. It means you'll be jealous of those parents who appear to be doing it better...and all the while they are jealous of you. Sometimes they'll say "Thank you," but a lot of times they won't. Sometimes they'll say "I love you", but sometimes they'll shout "I hate you." (When they are teenagers, a lot of times they'll shout "I hate you"...if they are talking to you at all...) It's simultaneously less than I expected and more than I could have dreamed. But it's definitely not a costume you can put on. You wear it all day, every day. For 18 years (who am I kidding...I'm pretty sure once you put it on you can never take it off).
I am a mom...it's who I am. No costume disaster can diminish that. No epic fails can take that away. God will continue to use me to love and nurture my children despite my failures, because he's the one who made me a mother. "He who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus" (Philippians 1:6)
I haven't told you about the last costume I made for my daughter. She was a witch...a cute witch...a beautiful witch. And her costume was fantastic, if I do say so myself. That was the year my daughter opened the bag of dum-dums I intended to give out as treats. And ate every last one of them. I found the wrappers stuffed in the couch. And I said she couldn't go trick or treating because she'd already had all her treats. We compromised. She went out, early, in our neighborhood. Then she brought back the treats, put them in our treat bowl, and we handed them out to the next kids that came along. I'd call that a Halloween success!
Maybe that's why his favorite fruit to this day is a banana.
Matt has been pretty easy to costume. He's been a monkey, a frog, that Plunger Headed Hero, Larry Boy (fans of the VeggieTales should know who I mean), and several Star Wars permutations: a Storm Trouper, Darth Vader, Luke Skywalker and Anakin. Sometimes creating the costume was a challenge (I used a pattern for the monkey and the frog, but Larry Boy was originally a pattern for a pumpkin, and the Anakin pattern was for a pirate). One year he was Spiderman. I bought a pair of spiderman pajamas. I felt like a cheater since I hadn't made the costume. But I did make coverings for his shoes and web-slingers for his arms, so it wasn't a total cheat. And a mask. Once he was Super Mario. There were 3 Super Marios at the Fall Festival that year, but our homemade costume was definitely the best.
Since she was able to talk, Brianna has always been more of a challenge. She was a ladybug (I used a turtle pattern to make the shell.) I still had that costume in the closet when we moved from Texas when she was going in to 6th grade. So cute! She was Bob the Tomato to Matt's Larry Boy.
And her "cheat year" she was a giraffe. I saw a really cute giraffe jacket at the store and I couldn't pass it up. I did make her some kind of lower-half outfit out of brown velour though, so again, not a total cheat. (Of course, I think it was 100 degrees that night in southeast Texas).
Then things started getting complicated. I feel like every single Halloween costume after that involved tears, many of them were mine, as costumes just didn't measure up. First was the year she told me she wanted to be a Disney Princess. Which one, I wanted to know? "That one" was, I think, the best she gave me. Wanting her Halloween to be perfect, and knowing I couldn't compete with Disney, I bought the costume, straight out. Snow White. Oh my gosh was she cute. Except, Snow White was not "that one." Looking back now, I think she might have meant Cinderella, but I'm still not sure. The best part of that night was after it was over and we were back home. Matt had been Darth that year, with a borrowed "helmet," and when we got home at the end of the night, she put it on with her Snow White costume. She was perfectly content to be Darth White.
She's been Cleopatra and Princess Leia. (she rocked the Princess Leia costume by the way, and I think that year we might have escaped tears)
One year she wanted to be Ariel (the Little Mermaid). I slaved on that fishy costume, and she loved it...right until the time came to go to the Fall Festival. Then suddenly she would only hide behind me. I figured once she was around her friends she would go and play, but nope, she hid behind me all night, and no one saw the cute costume, with the "shell" bag for collecting treats. So here she is.
Another year she wanted to be Hannah Montana, rock star. She loved Hannah's long, straight, blond hair. But the "mermaid wig" had been such a disaster, I didn't know how we would do it. She said we could just straighten her hair and then spray it blond. Nice thought, but for two things. We started early and we straightened it...yay, even if it would never be "long." I'm pretty sure it took more than an hour to straighten her curly locks. But then we sprayed it. First of all, blond spray on dark hair doesn't really turn it blond. Nope. Second, those sprays are moist. Think with me...what happens when you spray moisture on curly hair that's been straightened? If you guessed "curls" or "frizz" you would get a prize. Oh the tears...
By now I had pretty much given up on costumes that could never make her happy. It seems she always wanted to be something she wasn't. And she thought she'd get her perfect image from that costume. But the costume never measured up....And funny, the mask I was trying to wear didn't measure up for me, either.
You see, way back more than 20 years ago, I had the vision of being a perfect mom. And among the things a perfect mom does is make her children's Halloween costumes. (or at least a perfect mom who sews). Even before we had kids I found myself longing for the day when I was a mom and could make my kids' costumes. (It was one of the hazards of working in a fabric store...I saw all those perfect moms doing just that). It's hard when your standard of perfection is not what it should be. In fact, perfect mom-dom has nothing to do with Halloween costumes. And to be honest, there is no such thing as perfection in a mom's world.
Being a mom means loving your kids absolutely. Unconditionally. It means selfless giving too them, but also disciplining them. It means your heart will be broken...and so will theirs. It means you'll have epic fails, and occasional successes. You'll have to change plans at the last second. You'll have to watch your kids fail sometimes...and be there to scoop them up off the ground. It means you'll be jealous of those parents who appear to be doing it better...and all the while they are jealous of you. Sometimes they'll say "Thank you," but a lot of times they won't. Sometimes they'll say "I love you", but sometimes they'll shout "I hate you." (When they are teenagers, a lot of times they'll shout "I hate you"...if they are talking to you at all...) It's simultaneously less than I expected and more than I could have dreamed. But it's definitely not a costume you can put on. You wear it all day, every day. For 18 years (who am I kidding...I'm pretty sure once you put it on you can never take it off).
I am a mom...it's who I am. No costume disaster can diminish that. No epic fails can take that away. God will continue to use me to love and nurture my children despite my failures, because he's the one who made me a mother. "He who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus" (Philippians 1:6)
I haven't told you about the last costume I made for my daughter. She was a witch...a cute witch...a beautiful witch. And her costume was fantastic, if I do say so myself. That was the year my daughter opened the bag of dum-dums I intended to give out as treats. And ate every last one of them. I found the wrappers stuffed in the couch. And I said she couldn't go trick or treating because she'd already had all her treats. We compromised. She went out, early, in our neighborhood. Then she brought back the treats, put them in our treat bowl, and we handed them out to the next kids that came along. I'd call that a Halloween success!
Saturday, October 24, 2015
Dogs and Cats
I took my loveable German Shepherd, Lyric, on a walk this morning, as I do every day. It's good for her, and good for me. It's our routine. Twice a day we go around the block that is our neighborhood, rain or shine or blizzard cold. Except Sundays, when I take a Sabbath rest and skip the morning constitutional. Now that school is in session and the weather is cooler, we go around 8:30 am. And usually our evening walk is right after dinner. Lyric knows that when I get out my socks and tennis shoes it's time to go. (Seriously, the only time I wear tennis shoes is for these walks, so if she sees me in them she goes nuts!) If I don't get around to it soon enough she comes and head butts my leg, c'mon mom!
So we headed out this morning and weren't very far along when from behind me I heard a woman shout "Rascal, NO!" followed by a lot of barking. I turned to see Rascal charging at us, and Lyric looked and started pulling too. Despite Rascal's bark, we were not afraid, since Rascal probably weighed all of 5 pounds. Our 40-pound (as our daughter calls her) "fun-sized" Shepherd could have eaten Rascal for lunch, but she really only wanted to play. Clearly Rascal's owner was not in the mood for play and called for him to stop, NOW!, so we continued walking, all the while looking back to see if he had.
When we finally faced forward again we found, not 10 feet in front of us, a hissing, back-arched cat. Giving me whiplash, Lyric now pulled the other way, angling for the cat. Clearly the cat was not amused. She tried to hold her ground while I tried to hold mine, on a leash. Finally the cat gave us a wide berth and walked away. And Lyric sulked, thinking I'd cheated her out of more fun.
Sometimes things that interrupt your routine are just that: opportunities for fun. Taking a break from your plan for the evening in order to spend a couple hours braiding your daughter's hair. Not being able to concentrate on the reading you wanted to do because your son is alternately playing drums and guitar in your basement and he fancies heavy metal grunge, which to your brain is like fingernails on a chalkboard, only louder. But you're so happy to hear him doing the thing he loves. Things that make your daily walk a little bit interesting.
But sometimes the dog isn't a pipsqueak pup but a teeth-barred wolf, famished and stalking. And you turn and see from the other direction a prowling lion staring you down. And you're stuck in the middle and frankly don't know what to do. (I know, I know...wolves and lions don't occupy the same habitat...just work with me here). Sometimes your enemies are bigger than you, and you can't whistle a happy tune or find any lyrics to sing, and it's all you can do to hold your ground, and you really, really just want to make it out alive. But we are besieged on all fronts. Helpless. Hopeless.
"When he (Jesus) saw the crowds, he had compassion on them, because they were harassed and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd." (Matt 9:36) "I am the good shepherd. The good shepherd lays down his life for the sheep. The hired hand is not the shepherd who owns the sheep. So when he sees the wolf coming, he abandons the sheep and runs away. Then the wolf attacks the flock and scatters it. The man runs away because he is a hired hand and cares nothing for the sheep. I am the good shepherd; I know my sheep and my sheep know me." (John 10: 11-14) Be self-controlled and alert. Your enemy the devil prowls around like a roaring lion, looking for someone to devour. Resist him, standing firm in the faith..." (1 Peter 5:8-9)
Do you know what I'm talking about? Are you there now? We made it through our walk by taking another step, and another. And I think that's how we'll make it through this chapter of life as well. We take another step and another step and another step. We hold tight to our Shepherd, who has compassion on us. And holding fast to God, we trust Him and take another step.
So we headed out this morning and weren't very far along when from behind me I heard a woman shout "Rascal, NO!" followed by a lot of barking. I turned to see Rascal charging at us, and Lyric looked and started pulling too. Despite Rascal's bark, we were not afraid, since Rascal probably weighed all of 5 pounds. Our 40-pound (as our daughter calls her) "fun-sized" Shepherd could have eaten Rascal for lunch, but she really only wanted to play. Clearly Rascal's owner was not in the mood for play and called for him to stop, NOW!, so we continued walking, all the while looking back to see if he had.
When we finally faced forward again we found, not 10 feet in front of us, a hissing, back-arched cat. Giving me whiplash, Lyric now pulled the other way, angling for the cat. Clearly the cat was not amused. She tried to hold her ground while I tried to hold mine, on a leash. Finally the cat gave us a wide berth and walked away. And Lyric sulked, thinking I'd cheated her out of more fun.
Sometimes things that interrupt your routine are just that: opportunities for fun. Taking a break from your plan for the evening in order to spend a couple hours braiding your daughter's hair. Not being able to concentrate on the reading you wanted to do because your son is alternately playing drums and guitar in your basement and he fancies heavy metal grunge, which to your brain is like fingernails on a chalkboard, only louder. But you're so happy to hear him doing the thing he loves. Things that make your daily walk a little bit interesting.
But sometimes the dog isn't a pipsqueak pup but a teeth-barred wolf, famished and stalking. And you turn and see from the other direction a prowling lion staring you down. And you're stuck in the middle and frankly don't know what to do. (I know, I know...wolves and lions don't occupy the same habitat...just work with me here). Sometimes your enemies are bigger than you, and you can't whistle a happy tune or find any lyrics to sing, and it's all you can do to hold your ground, and you really, really just want to make it out alive. But we are besieged on all fronts. Helpless. Hopeless.
"When he (Jesus) saw the crowds, he had compassion on them, because they were harassed and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd." (Matt 9:36) "I am the good shepherd. The good shepherd lays down his life for the sheep. The hired hand is not the shepherd who owns the sheep. So when he sees the wolf coming, he abandons the sheep and runs away. Then the wolf attacks the flock and scatters it. The man runs away because he is a hired hand and cares nothing for the sheep. I am the good shepherd; I know my sheep and my sheep know me." (John 10: 11-14) Be self-controlled and alert. Your enemy the devil prowls around like a roaring lion, looking for someone to devour. Resist him, standing firm in the faith..." (1 Peter 5:8-9)
Do you know what I'm talking about? Are you there now? We made it through our walk by taking another step, and another. And I think that's how we'll make it through this chapter of life as well. We take another step and another step and another step. We hold tight to our Shepherd, who has compassion on us. And holding fast to God, we trust Him and take another step.
Wednesday, April 8, 2015
License to Parent
Twice a judge has banged his gavel on his bench and declared that I have a license to parent. Well not a license so much, but a certificate. A decree. He called it adoption, but we'll call it a license. And licensed, I thought I was prepared. I knew what I was doing. I was ready for the open highway. And even as I type this I hear a news story about a newly licensed teen who hit the accelerator instead of the break and went crashing into a building and took out three gas meters. And those early days of parenting I think I took out a few gas meters myself. Parenting infants and toddlers is hard. There's the newness of everything, the sleep deprivation, the pee and the poop and the volcanic spit-up. Getting them to try new things, and getting them to fall asleep in their own beds. First time left in childcare, and first day of kindergarten. All can be challenges for the young parent.
But now I'm the parent of two teens. And I realize that was nothing. Like riding a bicycle. And now I'm driving a commercial vehicle...an 18-wheeler. And I still only have my bicycle license. And the semi is careening out of control...and wait...I'm not driving it at all, it's coming down the highway in the wrong direction barreling straight at me, and I'm not sure I can get out of the way on time to avoid a collision. And I'm in a smart car...and the 18-wheeler is going to take me out. Because we all know smart cars aren't designed to take that kind of impact no matter how smart they are. And my teen doesn't believe I'm smart at all...I'm the stupidest creature that ever did live. And then I'm back in the big truck and yanking the wheel and blaring the horn, and hitting the air brakes, and I hear the hissing, and I come to a stop, but not without losing half of my load on the highway, and apparently the truck was filled with a load of fertilizer and there is sh-- all over the highway, and now what do I do?
Yup...that's my parenting experience. And every morning I have to get up and take the wheel again, because I've got the license, and that's how I earn my living. And I find myself really disliking those other drivers who seem to have their 18-wheelers under control. Mostly I guess I'm just jealous of them, because I want to be driving their trucks. But I've got my own truck. Or smart car. Whatever. And I'm hoping one day to graduate to a nice recreational vehicle, where I can tool around the country and stop where I want and enjoy the view. But for now...get out of my way, I'm driving the truck.
But now I'm the parent of two teens. And I realize that was nothing. Like riding a bicycle. And now I'm driving a commercial vehicle...an 18-wheeler. And I still only have my bicycle license. And the semi is careening out of control...and wait...I'm not driving it at all, it's coming down the highway in the wrong direction barreling straight at me, and I'm not sure I can get out of the way on time to avoid a collision. And I'm in a smart car...and the 18-wheeler is going to take me out. Because we all know smart cars aren't designed to take that kind of impact no matter how smart they are. And my teen doesn't believe I'm smart at all...I'm the stupidest creature that ever did live. And then I'm back in the big truck and yanking the wheel and blaring the horn, and hitting the air brakes, and I hear the hissing, and I come to a stop, but not without losing half of my load on the highway, and apparently the truck was filled with a load of fertilizer and there is sh-- all over the highway, and now what do I do?
Yup...that's my parenting experience. And every morning I have to get up and take the wheel again, because I've got the license, and that's how I earn my living. And I find myself really disliking those other drivers who seem to have their 18-wheelers under control. Mostly I guess I'm just jealous of them, because I want to be driving their trucks. But I've got my own truck. Or smart car. Whatever. And I'm hoping one day to graduate to a nice recreational vehicle, where I can tool around the country and stop where I want and enjoy the view. But for now...get out of my way, I'm driving the truck.
Thursday, March 12, 2015
Perennating...
I found a new word in the dictionary last night. But more on that in a minute.
Wow, it's been a long time since I last wrote...so long in fact that I've started a whole new chapter, where we move again, this time to St. Louis, and start life over. Again. With moody teenagers. And it's not easy.
I shared a link a few weeks ago on my facebook page about "the Silent Years." (If I was savvy enough to figure it out, or even find it again, I'd share it again here.) In it, the author talked about the teenage years, when parents inexplicably (or maybe not) disappear from facebook. And I totally get it. When you have young kids, you share their every little cute saying, action, and thought. And you share the poopy ones, too, because they're funny, at least in hindsight. And they're not on facebook, so how will those cute little ones know that you're telling all their stories anyhow?
But suddenly they're teens. And nothing is private anymore (except everything they do, because they tell you nothing)...And there's no way you could post on facebook without them somehow finding out. And they still haven't forgiven you about lying about Santa and the Tooth Fairy, so you know they'll never forgive you about telling one of their secrets online...and you don't really know what they would consider a secret.
And besides, what do you tell? I mean, sure, you can post about their time on the Dean's List, and the winning play they made in the varsity game, and all those great, positive things, right? But what if they're barely scraping by, and the only Dean's list they make is one you don't want to be on, and they're not starters on the team, (or maybe don't make it at all), and nothing is coming up roses (except maybe whatever that is growing in the pile of dirty clothes in their room)? What then? These are things you just don't write about. Thus, the silent years.
Well, that's where we're at. And life's not pretty. And no one wants to read a blog that's depressing. And really no one wants to admit that they're living that life, at least not in something as public as a blog. And we're just trying to keep our heads above the rising tide.
Which leads me to the word I found in the dictionary last night. No, I don't just sit down and read the dictionary. Although maybe I should. And I really enjoy the physical dictionary versus the dot.com world. So here's what happened:
I was writing the dedication for my book (Mirror, Mirror...due out this spring...how's that for slipping that in to the conversation), and I had written about people I was struggling through life with. And Mark said I shouldn't use the word struggle. He suggested "journey", but I found that kind of boring, and didn't really capture what I meant. So I looked on dictionary.com for a synonym to journey and found "peregrinate." And I was like, "what the heck does that mean?" So I got out my huge Random House dictionary and looked it up. And it means journey...which was still not what I meant, even if the word was fancier.
But as I was looking up that word, first my eye landed on this one: perennate. And this is a word that exactly describes what I'm trying to say: to survive from season to season for an indefinite number of years. (and doesn't it almost sound like "parent"...and isn't that what parenting is all about?)
And I'm so thankful for the people God has given me to perennate with (which btw comes up underlined in red in spell-check)...the friends who are with me season after season. Together we have raised toddlers, muddled through middle school, sent a child to college, and navigated life-changes and moves. We've re-written friendships through long distance phone conversations, texts, and the occasional 1000-mile journey. Between us we've survived divorce, the death of a parent, and even the death of a child. I'm grateful for the friends who've helped me survive, and thankful that I have been allowed the privilege of being there for them, too. And I'm sure we will perennate a while longer, through all the bumps and twists and turns of the teenage years. And beyond.
So, here's to the next chapter...won't you join me in it...
Wow, it's been a long time since I last wrote...so long in fact that I've started a whole new chapter, where we move again, this time to St. Louis, and start life over. Again. With moody teenagers. And it's not easy.
I shared a link a few weeks ago on my facebook page about "the Silent Years." (If I was savvy enough to figure it out, or even find it again, I'd share it again here.) In it, the author talked about the teenage years, when parents inexplicably (or maybe not) disappear from facebook. And I totally get it. When you have young kids, you share their every little cute saying, action, and thought. And you share the poopy ones, too, because they're funny, at least in hindsight. And they're not on facebook, so how will those cute little ones know that you're telling all their stories anyhow?
But suddenly they're teens. And nothing is private anymore (except everything they do, because they tell you nothing)...And there's no way you could post on facebook without them somehow finding out. And they still haven't forgiven you about lying about Santa and the Tooth Fairy, so you know they'll never forgive you about telling one of their secrets online...and you don't really know what they would consider a secret.
And besides, what do you tell? I mean, sure, you can post about their time on the Dean's List, and the winning play they made in the varsity game, and all those great, positive things, right? But what if they're barely scraping by, and the only Dean's list they make is one you don't want to be on, and they're not starters on the team, (or maybe don't make it at all), and nothing is coming up roses (except maybe whatever that is growing in the pile of dirty clothes in their room)? What then? These are things you just don't write about. Thus, the silent years.
Well, that's where we're at. And life's not pretty. And no one wants to read a blog that's depressing. And really no one wants to admit that they're living that life, at least not in something as public as a blog. And we're just trying to keep our heads above the rising tide.
Which leads me to the word I found in the dictionary last night. No, I don't just sit down and read the dictionary. Although maybe I should. And I really enjoy the physical dictionary versus the dot.com world. So here's what happened:
I was writing the dedication for my book (Mirror, Mirror...due out this spring...how's that for slipping that in to the conversation), and I had written about people I was struggling through life with. And Mark said I shouldn't use the word struggle. He suggested "journey", but I found that kind of boring, and didn't really capture what I meant. So I looked on dictionary.com for a synonym to journey and found "peregrinate." And I was like, "what the heck does that mean?" So I got out my huge Random House dictionary and looked it up. And it means journey...which was still not what I meant, even if the word was fancier.
But as I was looking up that word, first my eye landed on this one: perennate. And this is a word that exactly describes what I'm trying to say: to survive from season to season for an indefinite number of years. (and doesn't it almost sound like "parent"...and isn't that what parenting is all about?)
And I'm so thankful for the people God has given me to perennate with (which btw comes up underlined in red in spell-check)...the friends who are with me season after season. Together we have raised toddlers, muddled through middle school, sent a child to college, and navigated life-changes and moves. We've re-written friendships through long distance phone conversations, texts, and the occasional 1000-mile journey. Between us we've survived divorce, the death of a parent, and even the death of a child. I'm grateful for the friends who've helped me survive, and thankful that I have been allowed the privilege of being there for them, too. And I'm sure we will perennate a while longer, through all the bumps and twists and turns of the teenage years. And beyond.
So, here's to the next chapter...won't you join me in it...
Wednesday, June 4, 2014
Lightning Speed
Wow, has this last week been a whirlwind. 8 days ago Mark accepted a call to be Director of Worship at Christ Memorial Lutheran Church in St. Louis, Missouri. And we frantically began to clean, spruce up, and pack. Mark mostly got the "sprucing up" part, and I got the cleaning and packing. And packing and cleaning. And more cleaning. And a little more packing.
And between Tuesday and Friday we got the house ready to put on the market. Which included spending about 6 hours on Thursday cleaning the grout on our tile floor. And had me vowing never to get a tile floor again. About half of our house is tile. I had a homemade solution that really does a good job of cleaning the grout, but not without some elbow grease. And a little gadget slightly larger than an electric toothbrush. And me, sitting or kneeling on the floor, and having to go to the sink about every 4 or 5 tiles to rinse out the sponge. Pretty much like doing 6 hours of the thigh master. And then being crestfallen when I finished and saw there was a pasty coating across the floor, which didn't come off on the first, second, or even third steaming. I was disheartened.
There was also about 4 hours on Friday morning scrubbing shower and tub. And more thigh master.
And there were windows to clean. And clean again. I hate streaks. Our living room is basically 2 sliding glass doors and a big plate glass window. They give a spectacular view of our pool and yard, which I love. but did I mention streaks?
Brianna helped (a lot) by cleaning and packing her room, packing up a bunch of pictures, and pitching in when the grout cleaning looked like fun. (That ended about 20 minutes later when it no longer looked like fun). Matt mostly hung out in his room on the computer, trying to pretend like we weren't moving, and trying not to be spotted lest we give him a job to do.
By Friday afternoon we were out of time, and said, "it'll have to be good enough." Our realtor had arrived as well as the professional photographer. We headed out to the movies and dinner, and they took some amazing pictures. You may have seen them on facebook. We couldn't believe our house looked like that.
And by 9 pm Friday, we were live...our house was listed.
Saturday the calls started coming, as Mark headed to work, Lyric went into her kennel, and the kids and I did what we could to get out of the house. Not the easiest thing when it's 107 degrees outside. We had 4 showings on Saturday. We had 5 more on Sunday, and more trips around town. By Sunday evening, I was exhausted. And pretty ready to be done.
Sunday evening our realtor texted us. We had an offer. She set up an appointment Monday at 1 pm to present it to us. By the time she arrived we had two offers, both pretty similar. We countered both, and waited for a response. By Tuesday we had our response. One buyer had removed the offer, not due to the counter, but to some unforeseen circumstances. So we were down to one offer, which we accepted, at full asking, but with some closing costs. And with a contingency, which makes us a little nervous, but we know God's got it all.
So now we are in the inspection period. Hopefully all will go smoothly. Not much is within our control.
Over and over in the last few days we have heard, "God is really showing you he wants you to move." And while I do believe that God has told us to move to St. Louis, I think the lightning speed of everything isn't necessarily confirmation of that. More, I see it as an example of God's graciousness and love. He could just as easily have allowed us to sweat out this moving thing, not sent us a buyer so quickly, and had another plan for things we needed to learn about trust during this move. (He still may, if the buyer's house sale falls through). Several people I know have been moved by God to a different location and not had their house sell right away. It in no way was confirmation that God didn't want them to go. Instead, he was saying "Trust me."
We have indeed heard God's voice telling us the way we should go...the lightning speed of the home sale (so far) is just an added bonus.
"Whether you turn to the right or to the left, your ears will hear a voice behind you, saying, 'This is the way; walk in it.'" (Isaiah 30:21)
And between Tuesday and Friday we got the house ready to put on the market. Which included spending about 6 hours on Thursday cleaning the grout on our tile floor. And had me vowing never to get a tile floor again. About half of our house is tile. I had a homemade solution that really does a good job of cleaning the grout, but not without some elbow grease. And a little gadget slightly larger than an electric toothbrush. And me, sitting or kneeling on the floor, and having to go to the sink about every 4 or 5 tiles to rinse out the sponge. Pretty much like doing 6 hours of the thigh master. And then being crestfallen when I finished and saw there was a pasty coating across the floor, which didn't come off on the first, second, or even third steaming. I was disheartened.
There was also about 4 hours on Friday morning scrubbing shower and tub. And more thigh master.
And there were windows to clean. And clean again. I hate streaks. Our living room is basically 2 sliding glass doors and a big plate glass window. They give a spectacular view of our pool and yard, which I love. but did I mention streaks?
Brianna helped (a lot) by cleaning and packing her room, packing up a bunch of pictures, and pitching in when the grout cleaning looked like fun. (That ended about 20 minutes later when it no longer looked like fun). Matt mostly hung out in his room on the computer, trying to pretend like we weren't moving, and trying not to be spotted lest we give him a job to do.
By Friday afternoon we were out of time, and said, "it'll have to be good enough." Our realtor had arrived as well as the professional photographer. We headed out to the movies and dinner, and they took some amazing pictures. You may have seen them on facebook. We couldn't believe our house looked like that.
And by 9 pm Friday, we were live...our house was listed.
Saturday the calls started coming, as Mark headed to work, Lyric went into her kennel, and the kids and I did what we could to get out of the house. Not the easiest thing when it's 107 degrees outside. We had 4 showings on Saturday. We had 5 more on Sunday, and more trips around town. By Sunday evening, I was exhausted. And pretty ready to be done.
Sunday evening our realtor texted us. We had an offer. She set up an appointment Monday at 1 pm to present it to us. By the time she arrived we had two offers, both pretty similar. We countered both, and waited for a response. By Tuesday we had our response. One buyer had removed the offer, not due to the counter, but to some unforeseen circumstances. So we were down to one offer, which we accepted, at full asking, but with some closing costs. And with a contingency, which makes us a little nervous, but we know God's got it all.
So now we are in the inspection period. Hopefully all will go smoothly. Not much is within our control.
Over and over in the last few days we have heard, "God is really showing you he wants you to move." And while I do believe that God has told us to move to St. Louis, I think the lightning speed of everything isn't necessarily confirmation of that. More, I see it as an example of God's graciousness and love. He could just as easily have allowed us to sweat out this moving thing, not sent us a buyer so quickly, and had another plan for things we needed to learn about trust during this move. (He still may, if the buyer's house sale falls through). Several people I know have been moved by God to a different location and not had their house sell right away. It in no way was confirmation that God didn't want them to go. Instead, he was saying "Trust me."
We have indeed heard God's voice telling us the way we should go...the lightning speed of the home sale (so far) is just an added bonus.
"Whether you turn to the right or to the left, your ears will hear a voice behind you, saying, 'This is the way; walk in it.'" (Isaiah 30:21)
Monday, March 17, 2014
Vision
6 years ago, I think to the week, I was having some vision problems. I had gotten new contacts, but they didn't fit my eyes properly. Intense pain and scratched corneas ensued, and a couple weeks without contacts...just when Mark and I were headed to the Virgin Islands for an anniversary trip (and to check another National Park off our list). This is about as close as I've come to a natural disaster (unless of course you count the big LA earthquake, or hurricanes Rita or Ike)...and I was NOT happy. I HATE my glasses. The way I look in glasses, the way I see in glasses, the inconvenience of glasses, everything. The new contacts arrived the day after we left for our trip. So we took the trip and I wore the glasses. (But took them off whenever we took photos). And I had a great time, despite the big chip on my shoulder.
Less than a week after returning, I headed on my first mission trip to Africa, an eye care mission trip. I decided with all the trouble I had just had, that I ought to wear the glasses to Africa too. I certainly didn't want to experience any more of these difficulties in a foreign land, and since I'd had the contacts less than a week, I wasn't sure if my eye problem would occur again. So, off I went to Africa, again with the glasses I hated.
And God used the whole glasses thing as a huge teaching opportunity for me, a lesson I would not have experienced if I had been wearing my contacts. Especially about being thankful for things that I just took for granted for 35 years, like my glasses. And I also had a good laugh about the man who got glasses correcting his 20/200 vision (the same as mine...it means you cannot read the big E), and asked me, "should I wear these when I drive?" Think about that the next time you go driving in Kenya.
Anyway, I was thinking about that experience again the last couple of days for a few reasons. First, several friends posted on facebook recently about an object lesson at church. I said I loved a good object lesson, until I was the object, and then I object. And I remembered this particular lesson, in which I was the object, and I was objecting, until God opened my eyes to the lesson he had for me. And then I was thankful.
Oddly enough, the object lesson my friends were posting about had to do with specks and logs in the eye...
The second reason I was thinking about it, is because I'm having eye issues again. A week of irritation that I attributed to a very high pollen count, a couple days without wearing my problems, er contacts, and I thought the problems were over. But today while I was driving Brianna to school the problem came back and then some. Finally decided to see the eye doc. Anyway, the doc was out, so I had a sub (whom I loved, and wished he was my doctor). He said there was no debris in my eye (no logs or specks), gave me some drops, and 2 options. (Actually, they're not options, as I don't get to choose between the chicken and the beef). In scenario A my eyes are irritated, and with the drops they'll be better when I go back to see my doctor tomorrow. In scenario B it's something else, and it won't go away on it's own...whatever that means, which I'm not dwelling on for now. Either way, I see the doc tomorrow. I'm hoping for scenario A, since I don't like the way "won't go away on it's own" sounds.
Meanwhile, I'm waiting to see how God is going to use this as an object lesson. Besides, I've got these $600 glasses that I got in September to only wear at night when I took my contacts out...it's about time they see the light of day.
Less than a week after returning, I headed on my first mission trip to Africa, an eye care mission trip. I decided with all the trouble I had just had, that I ought to wear the glasses to Africa too. I certainly didn't want to experience any more of these difficulties in a foreign land, and since I'd had the contacts less than a week, I wasn't sure if my eye problem would occur again. So, off I went to Africa, again with the glasses I hated.
And God used the whole glasses thing as a huge teaching opportunity for me, a lesson I would not have experienced if I had been wearing my contacts. Especially about being thankful for things that I just took for granted for 35 years, like my glasses. And I also had a good laugh about the man who got glasses correcting his 20/200 vision (the same as mine...it means you cannot read the big E), and asked me, "should I wear these when I drive?" Think about that the next time you go driving in Kenya.
Anyway, I was thinking about that experience again the last couple of days for a few reasons. First, several friends posted on facebook recently about an object lesson at church. I said I loved a good object lesson, until I was the object, and then I object. And I remembered this particular lesson, in which I was the object, and I was objecting, until God opened my eyes to the lesson he had for me. And then I was thankful.
Oddly enough, the object lesson my friends were posting about had to do with specks and logs in the eye...
The second reason I was thinking about it, is because I'm having eye issues again. A week of irritation that I attributed to a very high pollen count, a couple days without wearing my problems, er contacts, and I thought the problems were over. But today while I was driving Brianna to school the problem came back and then some. Finally decided to see the eye doc. Anyway, the doc was out, so I had a sub (whom I loved, and wished he was my doctor). He said there was no debris in my eye (no logs or specks), gave me some drops, and 2 options. (Actually, they're not options, as I don't get to choose between the chicken and the beef). In scenario A my eyes are irritated, and with the drops they'll be better when I go back to see my doctor tomorrow. In scenario B it's something else, and it won't go away on it's own...whatever that means, which I'm not dwelling on for now. Either way, I see the doc tomorrow. I'm hoping for scenario A, since I don't like the way "won't go away on it's own" sounds.
Meanwhile, I'm waiting to see how God is going to use this as an object lesson. Besides, I've got these $600 glasses that I got in September to only wear at night when I took my contacts out...it's about time they see the light of day.
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