Last night I took a bath with God. Seriously.
It was one of those days where you get to the end of yourself. I made the mistake of starting to think about the holidays and that sent me on a downward spiral of overwhelm and guilt. Plus, having had a cold for almost two weeks was perching me dangerously close to the edge.
It all started with getting the mail and finding almost 50 catalogs to greet me. Their glossy pages were filled with alluring images of well-dressed people, fantastic homes and glorious meals of happy times. My holidays never feel like that. I usually am ridiculously tired from not sleeping well and getting up at 4 a.m. to polish silver. A friend and I have this joke about how women are the "magic makers" of the holidays -- preparing all the meals, the home, the gifts, the experience, the everything. But seldom do we have enough energy left over to enjoy the magic for ourselves.
In the last few months, I have been part of a very encouraging group of women of faith who meet regularly to talk about the Bible and it's promises. We like to discuss the hard stuff like how do you make your marriage work? or what do you do when it feels like God is on vacation? I'm not saying we all have it figured out, but it's relieving to come up with some faith answers for the journey.
After discussing some pretty hard topics one day, one of our leaders said to me "You just need to hang out with Christ and let him love on you for awhile. Ask Him to lavish you with His adoration and grace and see what happens."
The idea of inviting Christ to hang out with me had never really crossed my mind. I certainly pray, read my Bible, go to church, journal about my faith -- but asking Him over for dinner and a movie didn't ever come up as an option.
So that is what I thought of when I had my bad day. I wanted to climb in the bath tub and soak away all the fears, worries and frustrations that seemed to hang on me like a big heavy coat. I thought, "God can you get in the bath tub with me?" I know that seems odd and you probably think I'm weird for saying it out loud. I really wanted to be held and loved and adored in the promises that I know are true. I wanted God to hold me and soothe me and tell me everything was going to be okay.
So I did. When I got out of the bath, I felt like a small child who had just slipped on her footed pjs and was wrapped up in her favorite blanket. That day I understood that it's okay to invite God into every aspect of our lives, whether it's for pizza or wherever you need Him. He's not just available on Sundays in stained glass churches. He's even available in bathtubs.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Mommy Dangerous
I love the Patagonia catalog.
Not for the clothes, those are nice yes. But for the amazingly dangerous things that people do in between the pages of the stuff to buy. Women scaling mountains in Third world countries, men surfing in ridiculous places. The photography is usually stunning, the stories equally. The last issue featured two women that were skiing in Pakistan to evaluate the effects of global change on the planet.
Secretly I want to be them. Women unafraid to hike, ski and camp in a strange place. To be confident in my own abilities and strengths to know that I could survive in most any weather conditions, most anywhere on the planet. In a sense, to be a female Daniel Boone.
But that desire stops in my head -- I am only a vicarious danger woman. I like the idea of doing things that are really risky like mountain climbing, biking, trekking to beautiful summits. But in practice, not so much. In truth, I am a big fat weenie. The Patagonia catalog and others like it become my fantasy life. I love reading about women and men doing amazing things that are both mentally and physically daunting.
In my perpetual safety belt, helmet wearing, side curtain airbag state, my life is one constant "ranger danger" event. Always on the look out for safety recalls, safer cars, safer toys, the dangers of this, the toxicity of that. When I got married and had a child, risk became something I only read about in parenting magazines.
Recently, I thought maybe I could satisfy my desire by going on a mission trip to a Third World country -- that would be risky and an adventure, combined with doing good works. A safe risk if you will.
I thought about this as I drove by a woman in crutches standing by the side of the road wearing a hospital gown. She obviously was waiting for a ride that had not come. I thought, maybe I should stop -- but then just kept driving on to finish my tasks. About a half hour later, I was coming back by the same spot and remembered the woman. She was still there.
I pulled up and asked if she needed a ride. Her voice cracked as she humbly said no but asked if she could make a call on my cell phone. She was freezing and had no purse, no shoes. I told her I would pull around and she can warm up and make the call. She made her calls and no one answered. She told me she didn't want to ask me to drive her home because it was so far. However, it happened to be the exact same town I live in about a mile from my home. (God is so funny that way!) I ended up taking her to her ride and she was flooded with relief and gratefullness.
I tell you this story not to share how great I am. After I dropped my new friend off, I felt as if I had gone on a mission trip. So often, I like to make things so much bigger and grander than they need to me. It taught me that a mission trip can be found in Cary, NC just as much as it can be found in Costa Rica. People need help everywhere.
I have decided to live more dangerously without going anywhere. But it had to start with opening my eyes to opportunities right in front of me. Every day could be my personal mission trip to help others without Patagonia clothes, scaling mountains or even visiting a Third World country.
Not for the clothes, those are nice yes. But for the amazingly dangerous things that people do in between the pages of the stuff to buy. Women scaling mountains in Third world countries, men surfing in ridiculous places. The photography is usually stunning, the stories equally. The last issue featured two women that were skiing in Pakistan to evaluate the effects of global change on the planet.
Secretly I want to be them. Women unafraid to hike, ski and camp in a strange place. To be confident in my own abilities and strengths to know that I could survive in most any weather conditions, most anywhere on the planet. In a sense, to be a female Daniel Boone.
But that desire stops in my head -- I am only a vicarious danger woman. I like the idea of doing things that are really risky like mountain climbing, biking, trekking to beautiful summits. But in practice, not so much. In truth, I am a big fat weenie. The Patagonia catalog and others like it become my fantasy life. I love reading about women and men doing amazing things that are both mentally and physically daunting.
In my perpetual safety belt, helmet wearing, side curtain airbag state, my life is one constant "ranger danger" event. Always on the look out for safety recalls, safer cars, safer toys, the dangers of this, the toxicity of that. When I got married and had a child, risk became something I only read about in parenting magazines.
Recently, I thought maybe I could satisfy my desire by going on a mission trip to a Third World country -- that would be risky and an adventure, combined with doing good works. A safe risk if you will.
I thought about this as I drove by a woman in crutches standing by the side of the road wearing a hospital gown. She obviously was waiting for a ride that had not come. I thought, maybe I should stop -- but then just kept driving on to finish my tasks. About a half hour later, I was coming back by the same spot and remembered the woman. She was still there.
I pulled up and asked if she needed a ride. Her voice cracked as she humbly said no but asked if she could make a call on my cell phone. She was freezing and had no purse, no shoes. I told her I would pull around and she can warm up and make the call. She made her calls and no one answered. She told me she didn't want to ask me to drive her home because it was so far. However, it happened to be the exact same town I live in about a mile from my home. (God is so funny that way!) I ended up taking her to her ride and she was flooded with relief and gratefullness.
I tell you this story not to share how great I am. After I dropped my new friend off, I felt as if I had gone on a mission trip. So often, I like to make things so much bigger and grander than they need to me. It taught me that a mission trip can be found in Cary, NC just as much as it can be found in Costa Rica. People need help everywhere.
I have decided to live more dangerously without going anywhere. But it had to start with opening my eyes to opportunities right in front of me. Every day could be my personal mission trip to help others without Patagonia clothes, scaling mountains or even visiting a Third World country.
Monday, October 13, 2008
Mom the Hockey Dork
With kid hockey season in full swing, my Saturday and Sunday mornings now start with an adrenaline rush and the brain tug moment of "what time was practice today?"
The thing I have come to learn about youth hockey is that the time set for practice is always a moving target. A fluid, ethereal spot in my day that may change by rink, by time and even by the night before.
So here I am Saturday morning, sleepy, hair askew and wheeling the biggest bag of equipment ever imagined. A bag so big I could probably pack two seven-year old boys and all their equipment too. Yet my son is proud that he has this big statement of a bag, nevermind I'm dragging it behind him.
It's a gorgeous fall day, a warmish Indian Summer spectacular, and I breathe deeply knowing only too soon we will find ourselves inside the sweatiest, feet-smelling changing room. The locker room, about the size of an airport Starbucks, has 16 kids and mostly dads, all with that same ridiculous monster bag. To say I am overwhelmed -- you betcha.
They all know what they are doing. The moms even know what they are doing -- wielding huge handfuls of tape to their son's gear, smartly lacing up skates and pads and other acoutrements. At age seven, I was working on my Barbie townhome, organizing tea parties and feeding my Baby Alive pretend food. I wasn't putting on Shock Jock sport cups with coordinating Under Armour athletic pants.
So here I am, feeling like the biggest dork among a sea of cool, in-crowd hockey knowers. All this stuff feels completely unnatural to me and if I could talk my son into another sport, I would do it in a heart beat. But I know I am projecting my own insecurities on a boy who doesn't even notice.
As we wait for our turn on the big white sheet of ice, we watch the Junior Hurricanes play. Kids flush in talent and amazingly only ten or eleven years old -- they are stunning to watch. I am humbled by my son's face as he see these "kid heroes" come off the ice. I see him stand taller watching them come by. His face is serious with a look of resolve and pride -- knowing if he works hard enough, he could be just like them.
Hockey is not for the faint at heart -- it is risk, adventure and power rolled up on a frozen oval. I have no idea if my son will continue to love it as much as he does now. He is undertaking something where I have nothing to teach him. But in hockey, we both are learning how to be passionate about the sport together. Yes -- passion is a life lesson that is of beautiful value whether you are seven or 70. Even a dorky mom gets that.
The thing I have come to learn about youth hockey is that the time set for practice is always a moving target. A fluid, ethereal spot in my day that may change by rink, by time and even by the night before.
So here I am Saturday morning, sleepy, hair askew and wheeling the biggest bag of equipment ever imagined. A bag so big I could probably pack two seven-year old boys and all their equipment too. Yet my son is proud that he has this big statement of a bag, nevermind I'm dragging it behind him.
It's a gorgeous fall day, a warmish Indian Summer spectacular, and I breathe deeply knowing only too soon we will find ourselves inside the sweatiest, feet-smelling changing room. The locker room, about the size of an airport Starbucks, has 16 kids and mostly dads, all with that same ridiculous monster bag. To say I am overwhelmed -- you betcha.
They all know what they are doing. The moms even know what they are doing -- wielding huge handfuls of tape to their son's gear, smartly lacing up skates and pads and other acoutrements. At age seven, I was working on my Barbie townhome, organizing tea parties and feeding my Baby Alive pretend food. I wasn't putting on Shock Jock sport cups with coordinating Under Armour athletic pants.
So here I am, feeling like the biggest dork among a sea of cool, in-crowd hockey knowers. All this stuff feels completely unnatural to me and if I could talk my son into another sport, I would do it in a heart beat. But I know I am projecting my own insecurities on a boy who doesn't even notice.
As we wait for our turn on the big white sheet of ice, we watch the Junior Hurricanes play. Kids flush in talent and amazingly only ten or eleven years old -- they are stunning to watch. I am humbled by my son's face as he see these "kid heroes" come off the ice. I see him stand taller watching them come by. His face is serious with a look of resolve and pride -- knowing if he works hard enough, he could be just like them.
Hockey is not for the faint at heart -- it is risk, adventure and power rolled up on a frozen oval. I have no idea if my son will continue to love it as much as he does now. He is undertaking something where I have nothing to teach him. But in hockey, we both are learning how to be passionate about the sport together. Yes -- passion is a life lesson that is of beautiful value whether you are seven or 70. Even a dorky mom gets that.
Monday, September 22, 2008
Yo Yo Ma and Me
Last week I was lucky enough to see Yo-Yo Ma perform (world class cellist for those that don't know.)
Now before you roll your eyes and peg me as an elitest snob, I confess that I am an amateur classical music lover at best. I am a Saturday morning sipping coffee sort of classical music person. It relaxes me and it seems like the right thing to do on a quiet morning.
As a kid, after spending weekend visits with my dad, we would commute to the hospital where he worked about 20 minutes away. My dad's ritual was to drive and bask in the beautiful music during road time. As a sleepy child, I thought this had to be the best possible way to start the day -- riding with my dad and listening to grand sounding music from faraway places.
Each time I listen to classical music, I am transported again. When you are listening, really listening to it, you can't help but watch how your breath slows. My mind soon begins to wander off to distant places, thoughts and ideas, carried on big curvy bends of music. It's like taking a vacation and yet going no where.
Afterthe Yo Yo Ma experience, a friend and I were discussing what we think about during the performance. Each of us had different answers about the places our minds took us, but we all agreed it was a wonderful journey.
Listening to Yo Yo Ma, I couldn't help but think about my childhood pastor, Rev. Stephen Wardwell. He was a huge classical music fan and his house was right across the street from mine. As a child with nothing but time on her hands, I would visit often to see what was going on at his house. Usually he was working or studying or gardening, but always there was classical music. I can remember him introducing me to all his favorite pieces and famous musicians, including Yo Yo Ma.
He even let me make a cassette copy of his complete works of Dvorak one day. I can remember leaving his home and thinking I was probably the most cultured 9 year old kid on the planet. I had my own copy of Dvorak's music.
Classical music gives me an appreciation for things I cannot understand. How do people make this music? How do people like Yo-Yo Ma get this talented? Why does music speak to my soul in ways that the written word can never venture?
I guess that's what makes it so beautiful and vapor-like. It begins in a dream for the composer and ends in a dream for the listener.
Now before you roll your eyes and peg me as an elitest snob, I confess that I am an amateur classical music lover at best. I am a Saturday morning sipping coffee sort of classical music person. It relaxes me and it seems like the right thing to do on a quiet morning.
As a kid, after spending weekend visits with my dad, we would commute to the hospital where he worked about 20 minutes away. My dad's ritual was to drive and bask in the beautiful music during road time. As a sleepy child, I thought this had to be the best possible way to start the day -- riding with my dad and listening to grand sounding music from faraway places.
Each time I listen to classical music, I am transported again. When you are listening, really listening to it, you can't help but watch how your breath slows. My mind soon begins to wander off to distant places, thoughts and ideas, carried on big curvy bends of music. It's like taking a vacation and yet going no where.
Afterthe Yo Yo Ma experience, a friend and I were discussing what we think about during the performance. Each of us had different answers about the places our minds took us, but we all agreed it was a wonderful journey.
Listening to Yo Yo Ma, I couldn't help but think about my childhood pastor, Rev. Stephen Wardwell. He was a huge classical music fan and his house was right across the street from mine. As a child with nothing but time on her hands, I would visit often to see what was going on at his house. Usually he was working or studying or gardening, but always there was classical music. I can remember him introducing me to all his favorite pieces and famous musicians, including Yo Yo Ma.
He even let me make a cassette copy of his complete works of Dvorak one day. I can remember leaving his home and thinking I was probably the most cultured 9 year old kid on the planet. I had my own copy of Dvorak's music.
Classical music gives me an appreciation for things I cannot understand. How do people make this music? How do people like Yo-Yo Ma get this talented? Why does music speak to my soul in ways that the written word can never venture?
I guess that's what makes it so beautiful and vapor-like. It begins in a dream for the composer and ends in a dream for the listener.
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
The Reluctant Hockey Mom
I'm trying to channel Sarah Palin.
Not necessarily the high power, VP candidate, political Sarah. More of the effervescent hockey mom Sarah Palin. In recent days, she glowingly declares she's a proud "hockey mom" among all the campaign rhetoric. I wish I could muster just a tiny bit of her enthusiasm -- at least for hockey that is.
This past weekend kicked off our six month journey in "Mighty Mite" hockey house leagues for seven and eight year olds. Let me repeat for effect, six months. As I peeled my son out of bed for early morning practices on both Saturday and Sunday, I couldn't help but ask myself "whose idea was this?"
He's seven. I know at some point we thought it would be brilliant fun to be decking ourselves out in ridiculous amounts of gear with razor sharp skates and zooming around with long sticks. To add more fuel to my doubts, my son declared on the way to the first practice "I don't think I want to do this next year." Great.
To make matters worse, I was walking in with another mom and son that I mistakenly assumed were in my camp. I smiled to her and said "remind me again why we are doing this?" She gave me a look like I had three heads as if to say, "lady, you better get with the program!" and then calmly said "because we love hockey of course!"
Despite my son's earlier statement, he tumbled off the ice changed. He was sweaty and stinky, but grinning ear to ear. Each time he sets foot on the ice, he comes off blooming with confidence and joy. And despite my grumblings, I know that this moment is worth it.
Not necessarily the high power, VP candidate, political Sarah. More of the effervescent hockey mom Sarah Palin. In recent days, she glowingly declares she's a proud "hockey mom" among all the campaign rhetoric. I wish I could muster just a tiny bit of her enthusiasm -- at least for hockey that is.
This past weekend kicked off our six month journey in "Mighty Mite" hockey house leagues for seven and eight year olds. Let me repeat for effect, six months. As I peeled my son out of bed for early morning practices on both Saturday and Sunday, I couldn't help but ask myself "whose idea was this?"
He's seven. I know at some point we thought it would be brilliant fun to be decking ourselves out in ridiculous amounts of gear with razor sharp skates and zooming around with long sticks. To add more fuel to my doubts, my son declared on the way to the first practice "I don't think I want to do this next year." Great.
To make matters worse, I was walking in with another mom and son that I mistakenly assumed were in my camp. I smiled to her and said "remind me again why we are doing this?" She gave me a look like I had three heads as if to say, "lady, you better get with the program!" and then calmly said "because we love hockey of course!"
Despite my son's earlier statement, he tumbled off the ice changed. He was sweaty and stinky, but grinning ear to ear. Each time he sets foot on the ice, he comes off blooming with confidence and joy. And despite my grumblings, I know that this moment is worth it.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
The Summer of Flip
Summer 2008 will forever be known as "the summer of flip."
Out of no where, my shy, quiet 7 year old son learned how to do a flip into the pool.
Now I know kids flip all the time and I myself in a younger form was actually quite good at flips into the pool. I love to admire other kids antics with their athletic moves of forward and backward flips in the community pool. The flip is about more with my son.
This flip notion is but a new characteristic I see bubbling up in him. I see this wellspring of confidence, a more outgoing personality, a boy finding his own and the thrill of performing a flip, along with the delight of growing up.
I hate it. I want to find out who taught him that flip and shake him (or her.) I want to say in a mean mom voice "that is much too dangerous for a 7 year old to be doing." (Maybe add a pointer finger shaking, with hand on hip for effect.)
Each time he does it, I quickly hold my breath and wait for his small head to surface. He comes up sputtering with a giant Chiclet-gum smile, contrasted against his tanned brown body.
All the while, I can't stop wondering where this fresh confidence comes from. Is it from all those hikes and talks we had this summer? Is it all those Sundays in kid's church finally coming together for him? Is it from spending time with the older and more boisterous neighbor kids?
It could be all of that and none of that. Most likely I know the answer. He's growing up. And he knows it too. His jubilant smile shows me he is shocked and thrilled by what he can do. All I can do is cheer him on.
Out of no where, my shy, quiet 7 year old son learned how to do a flip into the pool.
Now I know kids flip all the time and I myself in a younger form was actually quite good at flips into the pool. I love to admire other kids antics with their athletic moves of forward and backward flips in the community pool. The flip is about more with my son.
This flip notion is but a new characteristic I see bubbling up in him. I see this wellspring of confidence, a more outgoing personality, a boy finding his own and the thrill of performing a flip, along with the delight of growing up.
I hate it. I want to find out who taught him that flip and shake him (or her.) I want to say in a mean mom voice "that is much too dangerous for a 7 year old to be doing." (Maybe add a pointer finger shaking, with hand on hip for effect.)
Each time he does it, I quickly hold my breath and wait for his small head to surface. He comes up sputtering with a giant Chiclet-gum smile, contrasted against his tanned brown body.
All the while, I can't stop wondering where this fresh confidence comes from. Is it from all those hikes and talks we had this summer? Is it all those Sundays in kid's church finally coming together for him? Is it from spending time with the older and more boisterous neighbor kids?
It could be all of that and none of that. Most likely I know the answer. He's growing up. And he knows it too. His jubilant smile shows me he is shocked and thrilled by what he can do. All I can do is cheer him on.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Final Summer Wonderings
Summer is drawing to a close and lately I have been doing quite a bit of wondering. I have just returned from as close as I could possibly ever get to a modern day Walden experience. You remember that book by Henry David Thoreau where he goes into the woods and doesn't do much more than think and write. Well, that was sort of me.
Spending the last 30 days with my family in one of the most remote parts of Western North Carolina in a log cabin on steroids, I had a chance to do a lot of thinking. Not thinking about "what is the meaning of life?" sort of stuff. But thinking about what fresh wild blackberries that I picked this morning tasted like. Or contemplating the aqua blue of thousands of what looked Blue Morpho butterflies in a mountain meadow. But the best thought I had was how delicious it is to do cannonballs off of a dock into a freshwater mountain lake.
It was funny to me that when I had a chance to completely unplug from e-mail, internet, cell phones and modern day obligations, my thoughts were not of deeply spiritual things, but of things sweet and simple.
I think this was because prior to Walden, I had met my limit. Caring for my mom after two consecutive hip replacement surgeries and 3 dislocations in 30 days was emotionally and physically draining. Hosting a family reunion for 40 of my family members was a huge milestone, but I felt overwhelmed by trying to balance the needs with everyone and those of my own. And to add to all of it, this summer I lost one of my dearest friends to melanoma cancer of the liver. Watching her slip away a little more each week and then finally leaving us, left me flooded with grief.
So when I went away to be like Henry, my goal was to treasure it up. To find out what it would be like to completely focus on myself, my son and my husband. To really listen, to do things slowly. To read without watching the clock, to eat and cook with pleasure, to not know what day it was or have any agenda. I have to say it was wonderful. It was exactly what I needed. And when I came back I was ready to let the world flow back in because I had a chance to sort it out.
If I had to sum up "what I learned on summer vacation" I would say in one word "savor." To savor what is before me whether it's fresh tomatoes, holding hands or a good laugh. Because if I can learn to savor the little beautiful things in life, maybe that can carry me through the hard times.
Spending the last 30 days with my family in one of the most remote parts of Western North Carolina in a log cabin on steroids, I had a chance to do a lot of thinking. Not thinking about "what is the meaning of life?" sort of stuff. But thinking about what fresh wild blackberries that I picked this morning tasted like. Or contemplating the aqua blue of thousands of what looked Blue Morpho butterflies in a mountain meadow. But the best thought I had was how delicious it is to do cannonballs off of a dock into a freshwater mountain lake.
It was funny to me that when I had a chance to completely unplug from e-mail, internet, cell phones and modern day obligations, my thoughts were not of deeply spiritual things, but of things sweet and simple.
I think this was because prior to Walden, I had met my limit. Caring for my mom after two consecutive hip replacement surgeries and 3 dislocations in 30 days was emotionally and physically draining. Hosting a family reunion for 40 of my family members was a huge milestone, but I felt overwhelmed by trying to balance the needs with everyone and those of my own. And to add to all of it, this summer I lost one of my dearest friends to melanoma cancer of the liver. Watching her slip away a little more each week and then finally leaving us, left me flooded with grief.
So when I went away to be like Henry, my goal was to treasure it up. To find out what it would be like to completely focus on myself, my son and my husband. To really listen, to do things slowly. To read without watching the clock, to eat and cook with pleasure, to not know what day it was or have any agenda. I have to say it was wonderful. It was exactly what I needed. And when I came back I was ready to let the world flow back in because I had a chance to sort it out.
If I had to sum up "what I learned on summer vacation" I would say in one word "savor." To savor what is before me whether it's fresh tomatoes, holding hands or a good laugh. Because if I can learn to savor the little beautiful things in life, maybe that can carry me through the hard times.
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