It always bothers me (and I'm sure I'll rant about it sometime around the next tragic news story or devastating natural disaster) when people get angry with God. I've come to find that as a society we rarely speak of God, until suddenly something goes terribly wrong. Part of what we hear is "I'm praying for you"... "My thoughts and prayers are with the victims and their families." That's nice. It's a nice gesture. Are they actually praying, I don't know. To be totally honest, I used to say it all the time and hardly ever actually prayed. But it's a nice way to say, in so many words, that we care. But then so many people respond to these things questioning God, His existence, His motives. "Why?" "Why would God do this?" "Why would God let this happen?" "If God exists, where was He?"
The first thing that bothers me about this is the lack of responsibility we as humans take for our actions. Like all parents, God gave us life (and free will). He gave us some rules and guidelines to show us the right way, but it's totally up to us to follow them. It is totally our decision to do what is right, so why do we blame Him when one of us chooses wrong. The beauty of God is always in the aftermath. Devastation reaps kindness, generosity, love... God is present in these things.
From the time David started moving independently, I would tell him that he was "a nice boy". At a year old, he understood that concept. If he was doing something wrong I'd ask him "are you acting like a nice boy?" And he'd stop what he was doing. So I taught him to pray. Our prayers started with just thanking God... "Thank you, God, for Mommy, Daddy, David, Fiona, Mom Mom...." every once in a while he throws a random character in there... I always love listening to his prayers.
A while ago Dave asked David if he wanted another brother or sister. Once David clarified that Daddy meant an additional sibling and not a replacement for his sister, he was on board. We were expecting, but we weren't free and clear so we made no official announcement. David asked "But how do we get one?" Before my husband could speak, I shoved his foot in his mouth prematurely and replied "You have to pray to God." And so we started asking God for things during our prayers. "Thank you, God, for.... and God? Can we have a new baby?" David stopped for a second and then said, "But Mommy, if we get a new baby...we only have two carseats." So I said, "Well, we'll have to pray for that too then." So David added, "God, can we have a new baby AND a new carseat?"
So funny. So smart. So innocent and trusting. To believe me that there is a God simply because I said so. To believe me that simply asking God for a baby would create one. It's such a beautiful thing, it's a beautiful thing and a privilege to watch the manifestation of a relationship between your child and God.
Well today, David challenges me. Today marks the first time David was angry with God.
I bought David dwarf African frogs for Christmas; there were two...Bert and Ernie. About 3 weeks ago, I noticed that Ernie was mangled and clearly dead. (Good one, Bert.) I did not tell David; I figured I'd wait and see if he even noticed. Today he noticed. He was looking in the thingy and he said "Aw, my frog is dead" (The remains are no longer there, so I could not believe he understood that the frog had died.) I asked "How do you know?" He said "Because he's not there. Did God take him?" So I figured: I'm going with this, "Yes, Ernie must be with God now in Heaven." David asked "Is he at Church, can we go get him?" "No, David, we'll just have to pray for him tonight and maybe we can get a new frog." David started crying and said "But I want my frog." The first time David is affected by death; it was so sad. His little boo boo lip came out. And I said, "but aren't you glad that God gave him to us in the first place?" Then David said "Mom, we need to get our swords and chop him (meaning God) and get my frog and our Christmas tree back, because I really liked that tree." (Naturally, when we threw the tree over the fence into the woods behind our house after New Year's, David was traumatized and I told him we had to give it back to God.... so every once in a while, he asks for the tree.)
I have learned not to be angry with God, but it wasn't taught to me, it was a gradual understanding. And now, my son has his list of things that make him angry with God... the Christmas tree and the frog. How do I explain to a three year old to be grateful to God for perishable things? What do I tell him about death?
I wasn't religious about feeding the frogs, perhaps it's my fault...maybe Bert ate Ernie. Do I take responsibility and teach him how to be responsible? Or maybe I had nothing to do with it, and Bert just got angry with Ernie. I'm not teaching him about evil things yet... he's not ready for that.
But can I teach him not to be angry with God? Can I instill gratitude in him?
Monday, July 29, 2013
Monday, June 3, 2013
It's not about you.
So I'm a huge fan of Oprah. I know that some people can't stand her, but here's what I love about her: despite her success and huge financial gain in this life... she constantly humbles herself to others. She seeks advice. She's always digging deeper. I love her new series Lifeclass and Masterclass; I DVR every episode and every once in a while I'll check back and find something that suits my mood. The other day I watched her Lifeclass with Rick Warren, author of The Purpose Driven Life . Every time I have lunch with Oprah I'm inspired.
I never really liked to read as a kid, but as I got older I found that I actually loved it. I mostly choose not to read because it becomes like an addiction. But I do believe that books find me. I've always believed that. So it wasn't so coincidental that in starting to pack a couple of weeks ago I noticed that Dave had The Purpose Driven Life in his bookshelf (It was a gift from his aunt, I noticed that the spine was still in perfect condition). So when I looked through my DVR last week in search of inspiration, of course I chose to watch this particular episode of Lifeclass.
I wasn't going to read it right away because I have to be in the right frame of mind; I have to know the time is right. Well after yesterday's rant I figured, now is a good time to search for peace. That's what I'm really looking for right now: Peace. I went to church yesterday and was moved, but it wasn't totally satisfactory. Then I went in search of an Italian hoagie, which was satisfying, but still not what I needed. I also purchased a six pack of malt liquor... I couldn't bring myself to drink more than two, I've gotten into trouble with that before and trouble is definitely NOT what I need right now. So... today, I started reading The Purpose Driven Life.
It says to read with friends, so if anyone's interested, want to read it with me? It's a 40-day "commitment". It has short chapters and you're urged to limit your reading to only one chapter a day.
The question to consider today (from chapter one) is "In spite of all the advertising around me, how can I remind myself that life is really about living for God, not myself?" In all honesty, it's very hard for me to think about living totally and completely for God... immediately I think about nuns and priests... I'm not perfect, and although I don't want to say "I can't do it", I definitely don't want to say "I won't do it". But I know I've come closer to the concept because motherhood was the splash of cold water on my face.
The first chapter starts with "It's not about you." Love it already. In my early twenties, I used to say "this is my world, you're just living in it." But I remember very distinctly the exact moment in time that all of that changed:
I was 34 weeks pregnant when I woke up in the middle of the night with a very sharp pain in my back. Having experienced the pain of a kidney infection, I knew that that was the spot, that that was the pain, I figured it was for sure a kidney infection. My doctor told me to come into the hospital right away (It was early Saturday morning). It wasn't a kidney infection, but six days later the pain was just as strong as it had been when I went into the hospital and yet there were no signs of any problems.
Because there was no knowing when I'd be out of the hospital, I told Dave to go to work and carry on with his daily life. Thursday night I went to the bathroom and something was just different. I told my nurse that I thought my water had broken. She said that it was probably just hormones. After the shift change, I told my new nurse that I thought my water had broken the night before. Sure enough, it had. It was about 5:30 in the morning. I called Dave and said, "The baby's coming! Take your time, it'll be awhile."
I wasn't scared. I was calm. I was awaiting this beautiful experience. I couldn't wait to hold my child who I had dreamed about for the longest time. A few minutes after hanging up with Dave, the nurse came running into the room. Behind her was the resident doctor, and about ten others. They weren't panicked but they had an urgency about them. It was like controlled chaos. I thought they had the wrong room. I was so confused... I felt fine! I didn't know what was happening.
The nurse told me that the baby was in distress and that they had to take me in for an emergency C-section. My heart started pounding; I was getting upset. My family wasn't there, my doctor wasn't there. I had never considered that we might lose the baby... and I never considered that I'd be there alone. All these thoughts were going through my head when all of a sudden my nurse demanded my attention. Calmly, but with a sense of urgency, she said, "Honey, you need to breathe; this baby needs oxygen."
I realized that in all of the things that I had done in my life, every achievement and every experience meant nothing if I failed this child in this moment; I knew that I was the only chance he had at surviving. I understood in that moment the magnitude of my role as a mother. "Life or death" was real. Choosing to calm down came over me like a business decision. I started to breathe as deeply as I could. And the first thing I thought to tell myself was "This world is not about you anymore...It's time to breathe."
Life never meant so much to me. To know that the very oxygen I was inhaling was life for someone else. I know what living for someone else means, but am I living for God? Who is living for God? I need to talk to them. I feel like living for God is a choice and if you're living for God you must know it. Lately I feel like I doubt myself so much, but maybe that's part of the journey. Maybe that's a sign that I'm on my way. Maybe just knowing "It's not about you" is a good start.
I never really liked to read as a kid, but as I got older I found that I actually loved it. I mostly choose not to read because it becomes like an addiction. But I do believe that books find me. I've always believed that. So it wasn't so coincidental that in starting to pack a couple of weeks ago I noticed that Dave had The Purpose Driven Life in his bookshelf (It was a gift from his aunt, I noticed that the spine was still in perfect condition). So when I looked through my DVR last week in search of inspiration, of course I chose to watch this particular episode of Lifeclass.
I wasn't going to read it right away because I have to be in the right frame of mind; I have to know the time is right. Well after yesterday's rant I figured, now is a good time to search for peace. That's what I'm really looking for right now: Peace. I went to church yesterday and was moved, but it wasn't totally satisfactory. Then I went in search of an Italian hoagie, which was satisfying, but still not what I needed. I also purchased a six pack of malt liquor... I couldn't bring myself to drink more than two, I've gotten into trouble with that before and trouble is definitely NOT what I need right now. So... today, I started reading The Purpose Driven Life.
It says to read with friends, so if anyone's interested, want to read it with me? It's a 40-day "commitment". It has short chapters and you're urged to limit your reading to only one chapter a day.
The question to consider today (from chapter one) is "In spite of all the advertising around me, how can I remind myself that life is really about living for God, not myself?" In all honesty, it's very hard for me to think about living totally and completely for God... immediately I think about nuns and priests... I'm not perfect, and although I don't want to say "I can't do it", I definitely don't want to say "I won't do it". But I know I've come closer to the concept because motherhood was the splash of cold water on my face.
The first chapter starts with "It's not about you." Love it already. In my early twenties, I used to say "this is my world, you're just living in it." But I remember very distinctly the exact moment in time that all of that changed:
I was 34 weeks pregnant when I woke up in the middle of the night with a very sharp pain in my back. Having experienced the pain of a kidney infection, I knew that that was the spot, that that was the pain, I figured it was for sure a kidney infection. My doctor told me to come into the hospital right away (It was early Saturday morning). It wasn't a kidney infection, but six days later the pain was just as strong as it had been when I went into the hospital and yet there were no signs of any problems.
Because there was no knowing when I'd be out of the hospital, I told Dave to go to work and carry on with his daily life. Thursday night I went to the bathroom and something was just different. I told my nurse that I thought my water had broken. She said that it was probably just hormones. After the shift change, I told my new nurse that I thought my water had broken the night before. Sure enough, it had. It was about 5:30 in the morning. I called Dave and said, "The baby's coming! Take your time, it'll be awhile."
I wasn't scared. I was calm. I was awaiting this beautiful experience. I couldn't wait to hold my child who I had dreamed about for the longest time. A few minutes after hanging up with Dave, the nurse came running into the room. Behind her was the resident doctor, and about ten others. They weren't panicked but they had an urgency about them. It was like controlled chaos. I thought they had the wrong room. I was so confused... I felt fine! I didn't know what was happening.
The nurse told me that the baby was in distress and that they had to take me in for an emergency C-section. My heart started pounding; I was getting upset. My family wasn't there, my doctor wasn't there. I had never considered that we might lose the baby... and I never considered that I'd be there alone. All these thoughts were going through my head when all of a sudden my nurse demanded my attention. Calmly, but with a sense of urgency, she said, "Honey, you need to breathe; this baby needs oxygen."
I realized that in all of the things that I had done in my life, every achievement and every experience meant nothing if I failed this child in this moment; I knew that I was the only chance he had at surviving. I understood in that moment the magnitude of my role as a mother. "Life or death" was real. Choosing to calm down came over me like a business decision. I started to breathe as deeply as I could. And the first thing I thought to tell myself was "This world is not about you anymore...It's time to breathe."
Life never meant so much to me. To know that the very oxygen I was inhaling was life for someone else. I know what living for someone else means, but am I living for God? Who is living for God? I need to talk to them. I feel like living for God is a choice and if you're living for God you must know it. Lately I feel like I doubt myself so much, but maybe that's part of the journey. Maybe that's a sign that I'm on my way. Maybe just knowing "It's not about you" is a good start.
Sunday, June 2, 2013
Mary was a carpenter's wife.
I am depressed and frustrated today. We have been trying to sell our house for well over a year. A couple of times we "were getting an offer" but it never worked out. About a month ago we sold our house and had an agreement on the BEST HOUSE! But a couple weeks later our buyers backed out and then our sellers backed out and now we're back to square one.
It's so hard to show this house. It's hard to keep the house together for showings. It's hard getting the kids out of the house. It's hard.
We've put a lot of work into this house. It's a great house. I get a lot of compliments on how it's decorated, so I think I've done a good job with it. I know that everyone has different style and tastes, but it's mostly neutral. The best feedback I got from one realtor was "great use of the space"... THANK YOU! I've been trying to have a place for everything and make the house as functional as possible for a long time. It's a good house; it's just not a good house for me. It's too far from my friends and family; my life of course is with my husband and my children, but everything I need to conduct life... is 25 minutes away.
It always amazed me how some people could move across country, or to another continent. I know 25 minutes to some people is like rubbing elbows, but not for me. It's hard. What has me so frustrated is that time and time again I get feedback about the "work that needs to be done" or that "they're worried their furniture won't fit". Today I got "the house needs some tender loving care." Now you may or may not have gotten this: I am OCD.... you will not get more tender loving care than you will from someone with OCD. And I have to wonder where these people will move? I'd love to see the model home that they are buying in this area in this price range. What is wrong with people!?!?!?!
The house we were going to move into needed work... every wall had to be ripped down, every pipe needed to be replaced. There was no kitchen and no functional bathroom. All the landscaping around the house had to be regraded to stop water from coming into the house. The main joists of the house had to be replaced. There was NO AIR CONDITIONING. So when people tell me that my house needs work I want to punch them in their faces.
I'm trying to pray for "serenity to accept the things I cannot change..." but it's so incredibly difficult. Because the problem to me is that no one wants to work anymore. No one wants to earn anything, they just deserve anything they want. I CAN NOT STAND THE AIRE OF ENTITLEMENT IN THIS GENERATION!!!!
I come from a working class family. When we move from one house to another we rip up carpets, knock down walls, refinish floors and replace toilets. We build our homes. There's pride to be had, people! There is glory in work. There is victory in sweat. That's what creates character, both in your home and in your spirit. You want a new construction home in your price range, you'll get a contractor's grade piece of shit that will fall apart sooner than later because the builder ran out of funds and short-changed all your finishes. Good luck with that. There is quality in hard work. It's depressing that no one has any skills anymore. It's depressing that a degree and a college education is robbing our children of SKILL! We have been blessed with so many gifts, gifts that people are unaware they have because they don't want to work.
I'm really fortunate that my husband has a great full-time "corporate" job working in construction management, but what I love most about him is that he works on the side as a carpenter. I was at a baby shower for Dave's friend from work. Dave had recently done work at her house and her mother's house. When I came in, I was introduced as "the carpenter's wife". I was so proud and I said "Mary was a carpenter's wife." I had never though about it until the words were spilling out of my mouth, but no matter how people look at it: Mary was a carpenter's wife. We all come from a family of carpenters... so reach into your soul and find your roots in work... you'll be amazed at what you can do.
It's so hard to show this house. It's hard to keep the house together for showings. It's hard getting the kids out of the house. It's hard.
We've put a lot of work into this house. It's a great house. I get a lot of compliments on how it's decorated, so I think I've done a good job with it. I know that everyone has different style and tastes, but it's mostly neutral. The best feedback I got from one realtor was "great use of the space"... THANK YOU! I've been trying to have a place for everything and make the house as functional as possible for a long time. It's a good house; it's just not a good house for me. It's too far from my friends and family; my life of course is with my husband and my children, but everything I need to conduct life... is 25 minutes away.
It always amazed me how some people could move across country, or to another continent. I know 25 minutes to some people is like rubbing elbows, but not for me. It's hard. What has me so frustrated is that time and time again I get feedback about the "work that needs to be done" or that "they're worried their furniture won't fit". Today I got "the house needs some tender loving care." Now you may or may not have gotten this: I am OCD.... you will not get more tender loving care than you will from someone with OCD. And I have to wonder where these people will move? I'd love to see the model home that they are buying in this area in this price range. What is wrong with people!?!?!?!
The house we were going to move into needed work... every wall had to be ripped down, every pipe needed to be replaced. There was no kitchen and no functional bathroom. All the landscaping around the house had to be regraded to stop water from coming into the house. The main joists of the house had to be replaced. There was NO AIR CONDITIONING. So when people tell me that my house needs work I want to punch them in their faces.
I'm trying to pray for "serenity to accept the things I cannot change..." but it's so incredibly difficult. Because the problem to me is that no one wants to work anymore. No one wants to earn anything, they just deserve anything they want. I CAN NOT STAND THE AIRE OF ENTITLEMENT IN THIS GENERATION!!!!
I come from a working class family. When we move from one house to another we rip up carpets, knock down walls, refinish floors and replace toilets. We build our homes. There's pride to be had, people! There is glory in work. There is victory in sweat. That's what creates character, both in your home and in your spirit. You want a new construction home in your price range, you'll get a contractor's grade piece of shit that will fall apart sooner than later because the builder ran out of funds and short-changed all your finishes. Good luck with that. There is quality in hard work. It's depressing that no one has any skills anymore. It's depressing that a degree and a college education is robbing our children of SKILL! We have been blessed with so many gifts, gifts that people are unaware they have because they don't want to work.
I'm really fortunate that my husband has a great full-time "corporate" job working in construction management, but what I love most about him is that he works on the side as a carpenter. I was at a baby shower for Dave's friend from work. Dave had recently done work at her house and her mother's house. When I came in, I was introduced as "the carpenter's wife". I was so proud and I said "Mary was a carpenter's wife." I had never though about it until the words were spilling out of my mouth, but no matter how people look at it: Mary was a carpenter's wife. We all come from a family of carpenters... so reach into your soul and find your roots in work... you'll be amazed at what you can do.
Thursday, May 23, 2013
he's Home
My husband and I are having a major difference of perspective today. Well, duh, every day, but today it's bothering me. We were recalling a very distinctive night in our lives when I realized that he has been harboring this awful cloud that is raining on the beautiful parade. Now that I know the way he feels about it, it's ruined. What was a beautiful memory for me has become a source of contention and the beauty is tarnished. So I've thought about another night, one that I won't recall with him because it was the night that I unexpectedly was caught off guard and in hindsight, it was the night I fell in love with him. And I'll be damned if I let him ruin that.
Dave and I met when I dated his best friend in high school. I was 16, he was 20. Seven years later, my best friend ended up marrying my ex-boyfriend (Dave's best friend). They were engaged on Friday, December 28, 2007. I had just gotten through the worst Christmas Eve and the most memorable Christmas ever. The night Sandra and Bob got engaged they asked everyone from the bridal party to meet up at a bar. I wasn't friends with Sandra's group of girlfriends, so I walked into the bar by myself. I was wearing a black off the shoulder top, dark skinny jeans, and black patent leather heels.
When I walked in I said hello to everyone in front of me and I could see Dave out of the corner of my eye. He was wearing this awful maroon V-neck sweater, jeans that were too baggy, and these awful timberland-looking things. The first person I got into a conversation with didn't really have much to talk about so I cut him short and said "Oh, I should probably go over and say hello to Dave." Dave was always "the nice guy". He was reserved, always respectful; he always had a girlfriend. In fact, he had recently gone through an awful break-up and his ex-girlfriend was there.
Dave and I got into conversation; we were talking about simple things like work, where we were living... it was a simple conversation but it was easy... and comfortable. His ex-girlfriend (who had cheated on him with her current boyfriend) saw that we were having a good time and approached Dave and asked "are you ready to get going soon?" He looked at her sternly, as if she had just lost her mind, and said "no." He moved around her making his way to the bar and asked me if I wanted a drink. That was the first moment I saw him as more than a casual conversation. I was used to hanging around the guys who would have gone home with the easy lay, so he was different. There was a mature, no-nonsense way about him. It was what I had been looking for.
That night after the bar we went to the Llanerch Diner. If you asked him he'd still be able to tell you what I ordered. I was drunk, so he drove my car and I stayed at his house that night. We had such a great night and despite his effort, we did not sleep together. He says that's when he knew he'd found his wife. The next morning we were sitting on the back porch. Again, I was used to the guys who would have gotten up, gotten a shower and asked if I needed a ride home on their way to the gym. But he made no mention of me leaving and he was in no rush to go anywhere. I don't know if he'd even remember this part, but he was sitting on the sofa. I knew I had to get going, so I sat next to him and without hesitation he put his hand on my thigh, as if we had been together forever. It was so comfortable and unexpected and appreciated. It was bold and declarative, but it was effortless and he thought nothing of it. It was as if this electric connection suddenly went straight from his hand through my leg to my heart.
I didn't want to, but I left and I called Sandra almost as soon as I got in the car. She told me that when Dave saw me through the window at the bar the night prior, he told everyone "There's my girl." He could have told me he loved me that night and I don't think it would have meant as much. For the longest time I felt so alone. I was in a place in my life where I was successful and surrounded by beautiful things, but I was in desperate search of home. When she told me he'd said that, I knew I had found it. I knew that everything I felt the night before wasn't too good to be true. It was real.
We spent the rest of the weekend together, nine days later we told each other we loved each other, a few months after that we were engaged and a little over a year of dating we were married. I'm a really strong believer in God, in soul mates, in fate, in my husband. I don't know if he found me or if I found him, but as much as he drives me crazy sometimes, he's my Home.
Dave and I met when I dated his best friend in high school. I was 16, he was 20. Seven years later, my best friend ended up marrying my ex-boyfriend (Dave's best friend). They were engaged on Friday, December 28, 2007. I had just gotten through the worst Christmas Eve and the most memorable Christmas ever. The night Sandra and Bob got engaged they asked everyone from the bridal party to meet up at a bar. I wasn't friends with Sandra's group of girlfriends, so I walked into the bar by myself. I was wearing a black off the shoulder top, dark skinny jeans, and black patent leather heels.
When I walked in I said hello to everyone in front of me and I could see Dave out of the corner of my eye. He was wearing this awful maroon V-neck sweater, jeans that were too baggy, and these awful timberland-looking things. The first person I got into a conversation with didn't really have much to talk about so I cut him short and said "Oh, I should probably go over and say hello to Dave." Dave was always "the nice guy". He was reserved, always respectful; he always had a girlfriend. In fact, he had recently gone through an awful break-up and his ex-girlfriend was there.
Dave and I got into conversation; we were talking about simple things like work, where we were living... it was a simple conversation but it was easy... and comfortable. His ex-girlfriend (who had cheated on him with her current boyfriend) saw that we were having a good time and approached Dave and asked "are you ready to get going soon?" He looked at her sternly, as if she had just lost her mind, and said "no." He moved around her making his way to the bar and asked me if I wanted a drink. That was the first moment I saw him as more than a casual conversation. I was used to hanging around the guys who would have gone home with the easy lay, so he was different. There was a mature, no-nonsense way about him. It was what I had been looking for.
That night after the bar we went to the Llanerch Diner. If you asked him he'd still be able to tell you what I ordered. I was drunk, so he drove my car and I stayed at his house that night. We had such a great night and despite his effort, we did not sleep together. He says that's when he knew he'd found his wife. The next morning we were sitting on the back porch. Again, I was used to the guys who would have gotten up, gotten a shower and asked if I needed a ride home on their way to the gym. But he made no mention of me leaving and he was in no rush to go anywhere. I don't know if he'd even remember this part, but he was sitting on the sofa. I knew I had to get going, so I sat next to him and without hesitation he put his hand on my thigh, as if we had been together forever. It was so comfortable and unexpected and appreciated. It was bold and declarative, but it was effortless and he thought nothing of it. It was as if this electric connection suddenly went straight from his hand through my leg to my heart.
I didn't want to, but I left and I called Sandra almost as soon as I got in the car. She told me that when Dave saw me through the window at the bar the night prior, he told everyone "There's my girl." He could have told me he loved me that night and I don't think it would have meant as much. For the longest time I felt so alone. I was in a place in my life where I was successful and surrounded by beautiful things, but I was in desperate search of home. When she told me he'd said that, I knew I had found it. I knew that everything I felt the night before wasn't too good to be true. It was real.
We spent the rest of the weekend together, nine days later we told each other we loved each other, a few months after that we were engaged and a little over a year of dating we were married. I'm a really strong believer in God, in soul mates, in fate, in my husband. I don't know if he found me or if I found him, but as much as he drives me crazy sometimes, he's my Home.
Monday, May 20, 2013
There's beauty in this....
It's funny when you're in a moment and you think you'll remember it the rest of your life. Then life happens and when you look back, you only remember bits and pieces. When I think about college, I remember most distinctly the worst moment of my life, a few life lessons I extracted from the chaos of it all, and the way I felt... like I was at the top. Even when I was at my worst, I felt like I had reached the pinnacle of my life, perhaps because as philosophical as I had become, I finally started learning... I took a lesson from everything. My eyes were opened in high school and opened wider in college and just knowing that every day is an opportunity to widen them yet again is enough to keep me faithful. It's humility.... I was humbled in college. The most humbling moments would come when I had children... and probably every day after that.
When I was younger, I looked at humility as a weakness. To be humbled was to be defeated.
Now, I pity those who refuse to be humbled... to be humbled is such a gift.
I've said it before and I'm sure I'll say it again, but motherhood didn't come as easy as I had expected and planned. That humbled me. I've learned that certain things help center me... my faith in God and contributing to the Church, music, makeup, nail polish, shopping, creating art, sewing, writing...these things center me. In high school we were given a project called the "Soundtrack of my Life" to write down a list of songs that would walk someone through our life. I carried that with me through college and today... when I'm overwhelmed and contemplative.
My children are both sleeping. It was a long morning, Fiona was particularly difficult which exhausts me. So I'm exhausted, but bound and determined to finish the laundry. David's sock drawer hasn't been full in about three months because I just can't keep up with the laundry; of course the OCD in me says that socks have to be soaked together and separate and who has time for that!? Well, today I had time and now that they're sleeping I have a chance to actually fold them. I decided to put music on (which I never do anymore unless it's "Stuart the Snake" or "Leo the Lion"). John Mayer came on, one of my college faves... and in the Soundtrack of my Life, it brought me to college, when I felt invincible. And even feeling slightly defeated today... I feel like this pile of socks is the mountain on which I can scream "I'm king of the world!"
And I just know.... there's beauty in this....
When I was younger, I looked at humility as a weakness. To be humbled was to be defeated.
Now, I pity those who refuse to be humbled... to be humbled is such a gift.
I've said it before and I'm sure I'll say it again, but motherhood didn't come as easy as I had expected and planned. That humbled me. I've learned that certain things help center me... my faith in God and contributing to the Church, music, makeup, nail polish, shopping, creating art, sewing, writing...these things center me. In high school we were given a project called the "Soundtrack of my Life" to write down a list of songs that would walk someone through our life. I carried that with me through college and today... when I'm overwhelmed and contemplative.
My children are both sleeping. It was a long morning, Fiona was particularly difficult which exhausts me. So I'm exhausted, but bound and determined to finish the laundry. David's sock drawer hasn't been full in about three months because I just can't keep up with the laundry; of course the OCD in me says that socks have to be soaked together and separate and who has time for that!? Well, today I had time and now that they're sleeping I have a chance to actually fold them. I decided to put music on (which I never do anymore unless it's "Stuart the Snake" or "Leo the Lion"). John Mayer came on, one of my college faves... and in the Soundtrack of my Life, it brought me to college, when I felt invincible. And even feeling slightly defeated today... I feel like this pile of socks is the mountain on which I can scream "I'm king of the world!"
And I just know.... there's beauty in this....
Thursday, January 10, 2013
Taking back power
I heard or read recently that "words have power." It stuck with me because I have a terrible mouth and my son is at the age when he will use the language he hears and he's smart enough to use it in its proper context. The first time you hear a child curse, it may make you chuckle, but when a child uses foul language regularly, it becomes ugly and it tarnishes their beauty and their innocence. I want my children to love themselves, be happy in who they are and become; I want them to do, speak, and act in a way to please themselves to enrich their spirits and their lives before they concern themselves with how others perceive them. And so, I have to watch my language.
My parents went through the same thing. I remember, as a small child, hearing my parents curse and then I remember never hearing them curse. Growing up, I never heard my parents curse. When I heard it from others, it was abrasive and sometimes scary. When I started working out of college, I took as position in logisitcs: moving freight on the railways and over the road. I'd have to call the trucking agencies and as a woman in a man's field, it was practically a requirement to use foul language. They didn't hear you or care if you didn't use the F-word: it had power. When I used it they knew I was in charge and if I wasn't using it I wasn't talking to them because I found a new carrier and I had taken my business elsewhere.
Power is in my blood. I am from a family of very strong women and very strong personalities. I'm very close to all the women in my family; we're like sisters, my aunts and I. My grandfather was the head of the family, but as they say "behind every good man is his wife." And she, Nanny, was the matriarch, she was the boss. She was a lady: and the best kind. She was Carol Brady in a real-world, don't-cross-me kind of way. She was a lady, she meant business; SHE headed the women and to us she could have ruled the world. My grandmother was on her own pedestal; she was bigger than we were, she was greater than we were and we loved her for it.
One day in casual conversation she dropped an F-bomb. Up until that moment, we'd never heard her speak that way. Once she said it though, it was like the story was exponentially greater than it was without it. The f-bomb knocked down a wall and we felt closer to her. We felt like she'd let us in, we had grown to her approval and she was welcoming us inside her elite world. We looked up to her and I love her for dropping the F-bomb.
Unfortunately, though, that day marked the end of our dynasty. The f-word spread like wildfire among us and to use it was just as well as using the word "the". We didn't flinch when we used it; we didn't flinch when we'd heard others use it. Sometimes it works to my advantage, just like with Nanny, it brings people in, it helps them relax, they feel more comfortable. But sometimes, it works to my disadvantage, and sometimes I'll say it without even thinking and I cringe as it's fresh off my tongue and it lingers; in those moments I wish I could rewind and start over, but time isn't always on our side. Using foul language has become common, and so have we. It's amazing how much power one word can have.
I want my children to feel safe. I want them to feel confident without resorting to using foul language. I want to have the power, because I want them to have the power to rise against a jaded machine. Hold steadfast the innate power of your person, because words do have power, but the power must first be given.
I am praying for grace and mindfulness. I'm praying to be aware of my actions and my words. Amen.
My parents went through the same thing. I remember, as a small child, hearing my parents curse and then I remember never hearing them curse. Growing up, I never heard my parents curse. When I heard it from others, it was abrasive and sometimes scary. When I started working out of college, I took as position in logisitcs: moving freight on the railways and over the road. I'd have to call the trucking agencies and as a woman in a man's field, it was practically a requirement to use foul language. They didn't hear you or care if you didn't use the F-word: it had power. When I used it they knew I was in charge and if I wasn't using it I wasn't talking to them because I found a new carrier and I had taken my business elsewhere.
Power is in my blood. I am from a family of very strong women and very strong personalities. I'm very close to all the women in my family; we're like sisters, my aunts and I. My grandfather was the head of the family, but as they say "behind every good man is his wife." And she, Nanny, was the matriarch, she was the boss. She was a lady: and the best kind. She was Carol Brady in a real-world, don't-cross-me kind of way. She was a lady, she meant business; SHE headed the women and to us she could have ruled the world. My grandmother was on her own pedestal; she was bigger than we were, she was greater than we were and we loved her for it.
One day in casual conversation she dropped an F-bomb. Up until that moment, we'd never heard her speak that way. Once she said it though, it was like the story was exponentially greater than it was without it. The f-bomb knocked down a wall and we felt closer to her. We felt like she'd let us in, we had grown to her approval and she was welcoming us inside her elite world. We looked up to her and I love her for dropping the F-bomb.
Unfortunately, though, that day marked the end of our dynasty. The f-word spread like wildfire among us and to use it was just as well as using the word "the". We didn't flinch when we used it; we didn't flinch when we'd heard others use it. Sometimes it works to my advantage, just like with Nanny, it brings people in, it helps them relax, they feel more comfortable. But sometimes, it works to my disadvantage, and sometimes I'll say it without even thinking and I cringe as it's fresh off my tongue and it lingers; in those moments I wish I could rewind and start over, but time isn't always on our side. Using foul language has become common, and so have we. It's amazing how much power one word can have.
I want my children to feel safe. I want them to feel confident without resorting to using foul language. I want to have the power, because I want them to have the power to rise against a jaded machine. Hold steadfast the innate power of your person, because words do have power, but the power must first be given.
I am praying for grace and mindfulness. I'm praying to be aware of my actions and my words. Amen.
OK! I'll blog.
I'm being moved to blog. I've been hesitant to blog without reservation. I have all these thoughts going through my mind and for the longest time I thought: no one will care. But as it stands right now, I'm the only one who even reads this, and I care. If I don't get these thoughts out, it'll drive me crazy. Then I thought, well I'll journal. My Aunt Denise gave me a journal for my seventh birthday. I was in second grade. I began to journal almost every night. I continued journaling all through high school and college. After college, I was busy with work and life and I didn't have time for it anymore. So now that I'm going crazy with all these thoughts, I figured I'd start journaling again. But I'm a much faster typist and I tend to forget my point when I'm writing by hand. And so, despite my reservations about sharing my thoughts and my fear of being faced with judgement and rejection, I'll blog. I'll blog because in all the big questions I've asked myself lately: "am I woman enough?" "what does God want me to do?" I think I have to start with brainstorming. So, Blog, it's me: Jaclyn.
On the Oprah show (I don't remember specifics) there was a woman, a young mother, who found out she had cancer and started video taping herself for her children. I always think about that: if I'm ever not here. I wonder "will they remember me?" It's devastating to think my children wouldn't; it's devastating to think that there are lessons I've learned and things I'd want them to know and in case I'm ever not able, or in case I forget, I'd like to think they might stumble upon this.
When I met my husband, I knew I was going to be with him. That was the day I went out and bought my first journal out of college. I started writing to him. I told him about it later, and I told him where it was in case he ever wondered what I was thinking. Fortunately, or maybe unfortunately, he never really has to guess what I'm thinking.
When I found out I was pregnant with each of my children, I did the same. I started a journal for each of them. Often times, I think about what I want to write, I'll even edit it in my head in the car ride home from somewhere. Yet to sit down in my bedroom and write it out, executing what I really want to do and tell them all the things I would have liked to know about myself as a child, it rarely happens. They deserve better.
"They deserve better" has been the commonality in most of my thoughts from the day I gave birth to my first child. At first it was a guilty "they deserve better", a self-deprecating "they deserve better". Now I feel healthier, now it's a self-help approach: how do I fulfill all the dreams I have for them, knowing that it will enrich my life as well? The laundry may not get done. My hair may not get dried. But I will blog, for me. I will blog for them. And in all the moments I begin to doubt myself I hope I find this. And in case they ever doubt themselves, or me, or life in general, and in case I'm not there to tell them or in case I forget: I hope they stumble upon this.
In this moment, I ask God for guidance and courage. Amen.
On the Oprah show (I don't remember specifics) there was a woman, a young mother, who found out she had cancer and started video taping herself for her children. I always think about that: if I'm ever not here. I wonder "will they remember me?" It's devastating to think my children wouldn't; it's devastating to think that there are lessons I've learned and things I'd want them to know and in case I'm ever not able, or in case I forget, I'd like to think they might stumble upon this.
When I met my husband, I knew I was going to be with him. That was the day I went out and bought my first journal out of college. I started writing to him. I told him about it later, and I told him where it was in case he ever wondered what I was thinking. Fortunately, or maybe unfortunately, he never really has to guess what I'm thinking.
When I found out I was pregnant with each of my children, I did the same. I started a journal for each of them. Often times, I think about what I want to write, I'll even edit it in my head in the car ride home from somewhere. Yet to sit down in my bedroom and write it out, executing what I really want to do and tell them all the things I would have liked to know about myself as a child, it rarely happens. They deserve better.
"They deserve better" has been the commonality in most of my thoughts from the day I gave birth to my first child. At first it was a guilty "they deserve better", a self-deprecating "they deserve better". Now I feel healthier, now it's a self-help approach: how do I fulfill all the dreams I have for them, knowing that it will enrich my life as well? The laundry may not get done. My hair may not get dried. But I will blog, for me. I will blog for them. And in all the moments I begin to doubt myself I hope I find this. And in case they ever doubt themselves, or me, or life in general, and in case I'm not there to tell them or in case I forget: I hope they stumble upon this.
In this moment, I ask God for guidance and courage. Amen.
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