I suppose it's apparent at this point, if you've read some of my older postings, that my family is quite dysfunctional. I say that with all honesty because I truly think every family is. If a family were to exist that was NOT dysfunctional, would that not be so far from normal as to qualify as dysfunctional after all?
I have a fun little way of describing my family. You have to start by closing your eyes and picturing My Big Fat Greek Wedding because, we're loud, obnoxious and shamelessly embarrassing. Now, I'm not done! You have to add a bit of The Royal Tennenbaums. All Fowlers are quite dramatic, extremely competitive, emotional and true geniuses (but only in our own minds) For example, me hacking away at this blog, pouring my thougths out for no one in particular. Is anyone reading this? Now, to top it all off you must include the odd dynamic we have of all trying to look perfectly happy, united, umm... and black. Therein lies the Cosby Show connection. Yes, yes... we all believe in some deep secret connection to Africa, hidden somewhere by racist relatives. It's the only way to describe your hair, our awesome big butts... and our jive...
So, as you can see, my family is quite complex and Multi-facetted. Add those three families together and you make it up to our count. Let's see there were 2 Portokalos children, 5 Huxtables and 3 Tennenbaums. Add 2 parents My mom would be a Portakalos, my dad a mix of all 3 fathers. There you have it, a family of 12. A complete mess of love and hate, joy and pain.
Way, way back I wrote about confronting my father on his anger. Kelly added a comment recently that had me thinking. That was 3 years ago and things have changed. Most of it you can see in my big ol' update from the beginning of the month, regarding my family over all.
But my father, I think he deserves honorable mention. That day I confronted him about Selah, something changed him. My dad crawls into a shell when confronted. And he isn't confronted often. I really believe he was unaware of his anger and just didn't get the effects of it. But since that time I've seen him struggle to restrain himself. He's screwed up a few times. He's also made me so proud when I've seen him walk away instead of rage, or tell the parents of a child if they needed discipline (instead of assume responsibility for it when it wasn't his).
I'm the big warrior in the family, if you haven't seen that already. I confront on everything, refusing to give up on our potential to grow. That's how I am in life. I don't pretend things are OK. I refuse to even keep rugs. No fake fronts to brush things under. What you see is what you get. No secrets here. So here I am the one, the only one, who has confronted him time and again, challenging who he is and begging him to be better. Writing him letters of painful memories, begging him to recognise the consequences of anger and abuse. I've long felt that he deserved to be honored for the changes he has made.
I know he feels that we all go to out mother for everything, that we love her more, that he's not important. He tried so hard to be fun and cool, not knowing how else to pursue relationships. He's too afraid of the 'deep'.
Well, me... not so much. I'm all about 'deep' and about sharing it. His 60th birthday was this weekend and I wrote him a long sappy letter.
Yes, I still have boundaries. My father never has and never will be left alone with my children. It's just as unfair to him as it would be to them. We will always be there, to be sure that nothing gets out of hand to scar innocent little hearts that see Pappaw as a hero. That's the way it should be, and I'm protecting him as much as them. They deserve a magical relationship. Yes, something could happen. Yes he could lose it. He could hurt my child's heart or at worst yank an arm and make it sore. Yes that sounds like a crazy risk. But I'll be there to call him on it however I have to. And my children are confident and strong. We can handle the risk. If at any point I don't feel that it's safe, I have no problem pulling the plug.
So, Kelly, here's how I feel about my dad now. Not a direct answer, but maybe helpful. The letter I gave my Dad. Grab a cup of coffee, it's long...
Dad,
It’s amazing how uncreative I am when it comes to getting gifts for you. Completely incompetent. Mom is easy, books and girly stuff. Simple as pie. So then I thought…pie. Always pie for dad. Gooseberry pie, licorice or dark chocolate. Chocolate covered orange peels. All so boring and redundant. Why is it the only thing we can come up with for you are these few things to eat? And, in the end would you rather have the boring collection of ties for gifts?
So while this is an inexpensive gift, it doesn’t come cheaply. I’ve written you letters in the past that have been full of raw pain and disappointment. I remember the first time I wrote was to get permission to go to Magic Mountain with some silly boy when I was 14. A letter full of reasons why I was so mature and worthy of trust. You listened and allowed it. Ironically quite a miserable day and I still feel ashamed at times for breaking that little boy’s heart. I wrote to you when I slit my wrist, just after turning 15. That letter was thrown out before I ever let anyone see it. But most of the letters I wrote were full of hurts and painful memories, begging for validation.
In the past few years I’ve written you a few letters or been more bold in actually sitting and confronting the issues, now as a woman and a mother fighting for the hearts of her children. I’ve seen you differently over the past years, as you’ve sometimes cowered at my boldness yet other times looked me in the eye with tears and open brokenness. I see now what I couldn’t see through the anger and confusion of youth.
In this letter I again want to share my heart with you. Dredge up old memories, some painful and raw, but the purpose here is not the same. This is meant to be quite a different letter.
My earliest memories are all muddled together and I’m not sure which comes first.
I remember music. Stretched out on the floor on Sunday afternoons in a sun puddle from a nearby window, I soaked up the warmth and the sound of your guitar and voice at the same time. ‘Puff The Magic Dragon’ and ‘Where Have All The Flowers Gone’ shaped my soul and my love for music. It drew me to a man whose heart beats to music. You taught me to soak in the music. Thank you!
Up the ladder I went at just 4 years old, driven and brave. Still, I can close my eyes and remember the confidence of knowing my dad was there in the deep end. Waiting to catch me as I went off the high dive. Four years old, unafraid. I dove right in. I believed you would catch me. I trusted. And I’m still always the one to dive right into things. Fearless. Thank you.
Marshmallows. I still love them, just for the memory. So many people see camping with young children as such a daunting task. Not you. I have countless memories of adventures in the woods. I was Pocahontas. I could take on the world. I could learn to put up the tents right there with the boys. I could learn to leave a trail with stacking stones. That’s the kind of girl who can grow up and live out of a tent in South America for a month with out batting an eye I could glory in adventure. I could be a part of God’s gorgeous nature. Thank you.
Many times I’ve seen men crumble in defeat and fear over the loss of a job. Not many men have to bear it for so long and with such intensity. And twice. I know you felt it. I can not imagine the pressure of providing for 10 mouths when there was nothing. The attack on the spirit of man created from his core to provide. You kept sending the . resumes, even after a year. You held, determined to see it through. You didn’t buckle or break. Thank you.
I remember the confusion and fear when we all could have died in the van accident in New Mexico. You weren’t there. The next day we rode the train to Los Angeles and there you were, finally. We all got in the car and you drove us through the city showing us beauty, making it all ok. Then for some reason a few weeks later I was allowed to ride back with you on the train to get the van. I felt like a princess. I think some of the other kids went too, but all I remember is you and me. I know that I got to ride in the front seat of the van back to Los Angeles. The weather was wretched in New Mexico, yet as we approached the border of California a miracle happened. I remember it as vivid as it was yesterday. Just as we got to the state line. There, running as far as I could see in either direction, parallel with the sign that welcomed us to California. The shadow of the clouds on the earth broke in a perfect line and there was only sunshine ahead. Sunshine and hope. A precious memory..
And it was all sunshine for awhile, until that company fell through, too. In that time I learned determination. I saw you take jobs I never knew you could do. Construction, painting, anything. I remember the awe of being able to ‘go out’ to Taco Bender and get a burrito because I was out working with you one day. Not even a McDonald’s visit in as long as I could remember. Who could afford to feed us all eating out, WITH a job even! It’s the best burrito I ever ate in my life. I still think about it. A special alone time with my dad.
Sacrifice came as things got worse. I remember Thursday morning as the food ministry, helping other needy families to the best of what was there first then taking home what we could. I remember being heartbroken when there was nothing left to do. I remember the look of defeat the day you came home with bandages on your arm and $20 to buy groceries. It’s the only time I remember you showing it so clearly. It shook me. That’s when I started leaving what little babysitting money I made on your dresser, or hiding it in mom’s purse. I could sacrifice for my family like my father. Again, humbly. Thank you.
And the night you came home to find me with bloody wrists. Tired of being torn between my age and my responsibility. Tired of being just one of ten, yet feeling like the only one of ten trying to do something about it. I was fine. I had ‘changed my mind’ and cleaned it up, not knowing that the neighbor was at the door and was going to tell you. You dragged me down stairs and yelled at me till 3am. Of all ironic things. You grounded me for the first time in my life! Crazy way to react to your 15 year old trying to end their life. But you know what’s crazier still? It gave me hope. From a man who didn’t show much emotion other than happy at church dad or extreme anger dad, I saw fear for me, I saw care for me. I saw you ready to as a warrior for me. I was more than just one of ten. It was almost instantly healing. I was ready to stand back up and fight some more. Thank you.
There’s so much more. I’m cutting myself off at the early years, only because I’ve sent you so many accusations from those same years. You are so much a part of who I am. In your mistakes and your triumphs you’ve taught me. I once heard someone say that true forgiveness is when you can look back over the pain and feel thankful for it. Thankful for the experiences that made you who you are. And, most important of all, not wanting to ever go back and change a thing. Like all parents, you’re flawed. It’s God’s plan. Dad I love the things I’ve learned from you. The good and the bad. All of it molded together to make me the woman God’s created me to be. And I couldn’t be without it, or without you.
So for your sixty years of life, I am ever thankful. I am thankful for amazing changes I’ve seen in your heart over the past few years. You blow me away. I love you. Thank you for the music, the fearlessness, the adventure, the determination, the hope, the sunshine, the time, the sacrifice, the warrior, and most of all the love and memories that sometimes I couldn’t understand.
Happy birthday, Dad.
I love you forever,
Showing posts with label introspections. Show all posts
Showing posts with label introspections. Show all posts
Sunday, January 20, 2008
Saturday, January 19, 2008
Strep Throat Brings Beauty Full Circle
Hmm.... my dear husband is a wise man. To think if he hadn't insisted on my trip to the doctor, who would know that I had strep throat? I've never had it before and I will NEVER again look at someone who says "I had strep last week.' and assume it's no worse than a little cold.
And I'm convinced that there is a distinct purpose to my being sick and no coincidence that it's something quite contagious. I won't leave the house and I've stayed away from my own children. No martyr will risk someone else. I'm so predictable. God's such a genius when it comes to handling us. Due to the diagnosis I obeyed the husband's, ahem... I meant Doctor's order to stay in my room. I chose to read 'the book' I've been avoiding, like I said, for 3 years. Almost to the day, I suppose.
Three years ago I had a tiny little three week old Jacob. Travis was doing anything he could to find extra work and odd jobs, since he had lost his job. I was in constant pain both from my unexpected c-section and the car accident that had injured my back to cause the need for said c-section. Our relationship with his family was strained and painful. We felt very alone, yet were daily working out completely relinquishing our control and trusting God. Such a hard time, but I would go back and change it for anything.
My mother gave me the book Captivating by John and Stasi Eldredge in a stack of books since I had asked her for something to read. Twice I tried to get through the first chapter only to crumble in tears and agony, my heart unable to take on the challenge to even consider such a possibility. Me... captivating...
You see, my husband was in a bitter battle over addiction to pornography. (go ahead and click the link. You KNOW I didn't put porn there!) The battle had been raging for years, but I had only known about it for a year at this point. I was so proud of him for his honesty, and the fact that he was stronger and winning! Yet, it was a bitter time in the struggle. And as much as I knew the truth that it had nothing to do with me, it wreaked havoc in the mirror and what I saw there. So, basically not a time that I really could imagine myself anything remotely resembling anything...captivating.
So there the book sat. I've let several people borrow it over the past 3 years, actually. I always tell them it's a great book and it will change their lives. I knew that from others, so I wasn't lying. I just couldn't ever find the energy to allow it back into my heart. I had to survive.
Well, to be honest I have another friend I want to lend the book to. This woman is precious. But she's broken and aching. She's so special to me and I know that God wants her heart. He had mine, and he hadn't complained much about the scars yet. I guess this time I felt like I should read the book before I give it out again. Which, to be honest, is why the book is still on the shelf when I meant to give it to her two months ago.
Finally under quarantine threats of idle hands, off the shelf it came. I mean, I was going to be miserable while sick, and I was acutely aware that I will be miserable wreck when I read this book. There goes Talitha. The unconventional multi-tasker takes on the two at once. ( and you thought I'd be knitting a sweater while I was sick) Why be miserable twice?
To be honest, I'm not going to write a full review. The book floored me. I cried in anguish, I reveled in peace. I ached in mourning. I sat in awe as it began to dawn on me. I blushed as I realized the truth. My heart raced as the truth set me free. My heart grew into something I've never known. No longer a cliche, the truth is about each of us.
I am beautiful, lovely to the core. I am cherished and precious. I'm a warrior, and a princess. My heart is of immeasurable value. No one has to tell me. I don't have to prove it or fake it.
I just AM captivating.
I can't imagine ever feeling the same again about myself. For the love of God, go! Get the book!
And I'm convinced that there is a distinct purpose to my being sick and no coincidence that it's something quite contagious. I won't leave the house and I've stayed away from my own children. No martyr will risk someone else. I'm so predictable. God's such a genius when it comes to handling us. Due to the diagnosis I obeyed the husband's, ahem... I meant Doctor's order to stay in my room. I chose to read 'the book' I've been avoiding, like I said, for 3 years. Almost to the day, I suppose.
Three years ago I had a tiny little three week old Jacob. Travis was doing anything he could to find extra work and odd jobs, since he had lost his job. I was in constant pain both from my unexpected c-section and the car accident that had injured my back to cause the need for said c-section. Our relationship with his family was strained and painful. We felt very alone, yet were daily working out completely relinquishing our control and trusting God. Such a hard time, but I would go back and change it for anything.
My mother gave me the book Captivating by John and Stasi Eldredge in a stack of books since I had asked her for something to read. Twice I tried to get through the first chapter only to crumble in tears and agony, my heart unable to take on the challenge to even consider such a possibility. Me... captivating...
You see, my husband was in a bitter battle over addiction to pornography. (go ahead and click the link. You KNOW I didn't put porn there!) The battle had been raging for years, but I had only known about it for a year at this point. I was so proud of him for his honesty, and the fact that he was stronger and winning! Yet, it was a bitter time in the struggle. And as much as I knew the truth that it had nothing to do with me, it wreaked havoc in the mirror and what I saw there. So, basically not a time that I really could imagine myself anything remotely resembling anything...captivating.
So there the book sat. I've let several people borrow it over the past 3 years, actually. I always tell them it's a great book and it will change their lives. I knew that from others, so I wasn't lying. I just couldn't ever find the energy to allow it back into my heart. I had to survive.
Well, to be honest I have another friend I want to lend the book to. This woman is precious. But she's broken and aching. She's so special to me and I know that God wants her heart. He had mine, and he hadn't complained much about the scars yet. I guess this time I felt like I should read the book before I give it out again. Which, to be honest, is why the book is still on the shelf when I meant to give it to her two months ago.
Finally under quarantine threats of idle hands, off the shelf it came. I mean, I was going to be miserable while sick, and I was acutely aware that I will be miserable wreck when I read this book. There goes Talitha. The unconventional multi-tasker takes on the two at once. ( and you thought I'd be knitting a sweater while I was sick) Why be miserable twice?
To be honest, I'm not going to write a full review. The book floored me. I cried in anguish, I reveled in peace. I ached in mourning. I sat in awe as it began to dawn on me. I blushed as I realized the truth. My heart raced as the truth set me free. My heart grew into something I've never known. No longer a cliche, the truth is about each of us.
I am beautiful, lovely to the core. I am cherished and precious. I'm a warrior, and a princess. My heart is of immeasurable value. No one has to tell me. I don't have to prove it or fake it.
I just AM captivating.
I can't imagine ever feeling the same again about myself. For the love of God, go! Get the book!
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Thanks and Full of it...
I'm having a sad morning. This year so far has been full of surprises. So much amazing blessing yet plenty of the bittersweet and painful to keep us running for our Father's arms. While I spend most of my time amazed at all of our blessings, this morning I'm mourning some of the painful changes. I'm changing my focus. Thursday is thanksgiving. It's so easy to get caught up in the hoopla and commercialization of the holiday. Do you remember what it's about? Have you ever sat at the table with just five kernels of corn on your plate and wondered how they survived? Men, women, families watching each other slowly starve until they die. Willing to sacrifice all for the dream of freedom. Stepping out in faith and trusting God to carry them no matter what the cost, unaware of the depths of sacrifice he would take them to. It's not a story in a history book. It was real. It was tangible truth to those that watched it happen.And it's still happening. Everywhere. Families are watching their loved ones fly off into the sky not knowing if they will survive the war. Every moment spent wondering if they are safe. Every day watching the driveway for some mysterious car drive up with an officer in a cold military suit at your door to tell you the news.I don't care if this war is right or wrong. That's completely irrelevant to the families who are offering up their fathers, sons, husbands, lovers, soul mates and dearest friends in our defence. Each one is precious to someone. We go on and on pontificating about the validity of the war, while they take one day at a time just praying for the one they are without to survive. We're so self centered and pathetic.Anyway. That was a rant. Be thankful. Be humbled by the reality that most of us are completely oblivious to when we roll our eyes and say "yeah, whatever' every time our troops are mentioned. Who cares if you have the right kind of mashed potatoes on Thursday, really..
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I'm thankful for the little arms that wake me in the morning anxious for discovery of a new day, and the way they've changed how I see the world. I 'm thankful for the honor of a real man who's heart is irrevocably entwined in mine. I'm thankful that we have enough to live in comfort and hope, yet just little enough to keep our trust and hope in the right place. I'm thankful for the friends who speak into my life and don't give up on me, regardless of my downfalls. I'm thankful for every person I see, knowing that their life has a purpose, too. I'm thankful and honored that chose me, and blessed me by making me, ME.
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I'm thankful for the little arms that wake me in the morning anxious for discovery of a new day, and the way they've changed how I see the world. I 'm thankful for the honor of a real man who's heart is irrevocably entwined in mine. I'm thankful that we have enough to live in comfort and hope, yet just little enough to keep our trust and hope in the right place. I'm thankful for the friends who speak into my life and don't give up on me, regardless of my downfalls. I'm thankful for every person I see, knowing that their life has a purpose, too. I'm thankful and honored that chose me, and blessed me by making me, ME.
Sunday, October 14, 2007
Who Was She, Really? This woman of Proverbs 31
So, I've been thinking about this lately. A friend told me that she went to a marriage enrichment class with her husband and they spent some time on Prov 31. She was singled out and asked "What stands out to you about her?" Her answer was that she was a business woman, and that she obviously had servants. To her dismay she was confronted after the class for being disruptive to what they were 'trying to teach'. That the verses are about being a good wife and mother and THAT is what she should have seen out of these verses. She was told to go home and rethink her 'career' and how she parents her children.
So here's my first problem. I've never found a good way to describe it until now, but Travis found a book that really makes it clear to me. The bottom line is that I think people have the whole Bible wrong. It's treated as a recipe book or a magic formula that if we could just figure out the write combination we will be perfect Christians. If we keep analysing and marking our 'good deeds' on a list we'll make the grade. I don't think it works that way at all.
The Bible is a novel full of passion, pain, sacrifice, love, bondage and freedom. It was written to draw our hearts and make us fall in love with our Creator. Yes, there are obviously some clear Do's and Don'ts. I'm currently mourning a precious friendship lost due to a stand I was forced to make based on God's obvious will. But adhering to the rules should be a desire that comes as a SIDE EFFECT of the love affair of our soul with the one who Created it.
So having said that, I find the issue of the Proverbs 31 woman to be quite the opposite of other Biblical excerpts. Typically, I find that people will pick apart every word of every verse, tracing them back to the original Greek or Hebrew to unlock some mysterious intent. Not so with her. The description of Miss 31 begins in verse 10 and extends to the end of the chapter in verse 31. It's long and detailed. But every teaching I've heard focuses on less than half of the proverb. The parts where her husband praises her, her children rise and call her blessed. Charm is deceptive, to be sure, but that's just one verse out of twenty-two. These are the rewards and results of who she was. And who she was was more than these 22 verses tell us. That's what I want to find. Her heart.
So in these verses it is quite clear that she was, in fact, a business woman with servants. I don't intend to have servants. I wouldn't want them. I think I would panic if someone wanted to fold my laundry. Wait, I think I HAVE before more than once when it was offered. Sigh... I'm quite the mess.... So she spends every minute doing something productive. She doesn't wast her time, blah , blah...
OK, here is what I see. Miss 31 had a passion for life and everything in it. She was creative and loved beauty and found a way to express it in a way that would bless her family financially. She was wise, shrewd, bold, confident, creative in her art and in what she feeds her family ( I like that one). She was giving and had a heart for the poor and needy. She was passionate. Not many women back then had scarlet and purple clothing but she loved the beauty of color. She had no fear of the future but 'laughed at the days to come' as if to say bring it on! It talks about her husband being respected, but not necessarily because of her. I wonder if their marriage was so full of love that it was written all over their faces and their passion became an honor to him.
To be honest, I know that I can't live up to a list like that. If that's what was required, I wouldn't even try. I don't think it's healthy to use it as a checklist to work off of. What I do see is that this is the most clearly described woman of the Bible. This nameless woman who seems able to do anything and conquer all odds. My question is how did she get there?
This is what I believe. God called David a man after his own heart. I see these verses as the praise of a woman that God was well pleased with as well, so I will compare the two.
David was a mess. He was a murder, and adulterer, a liar. He wrote just as many Psalms of Angst and pain as he did of praise and awe. He groveled in ashes and was told to stop and be happy. He danced unabashed and was told to keep still. He was full of passion, yet made painful mistakes. Every time he fell flat on his face before his Creator. He poured out his pain as guiltless as his joys, knowing that his God was big enough to handle it all. And that he wanted it all.
Provers 31 is an epilogue. It comes after everything is said and done. Often to tell what does/will happen in the future. If we were to write an epilogue for King David it would be full of all of his victories and Triumphs. It would praise and honor him with every word. But there was more to him that that, to be sure. He was desperately human and flawed. Yet he never ceased to humbled himself and above all he NEVER EVER hardened his heart.
Miss 31 was what happened after. She was the reward to a son who heeded his father's word. That's what the Proverbs are all about, teachings to a son. She is the prize. And I'm OK with that. I would be honored and I WANT to be a reward to my husband and children. But I know that she had a life between the lines of this epilogue. She was passionate, full of trials and passion. I know that she was desperately flawed like me, and she struggled. But I believe she held her heart open to her God at all times.
So in my journey, I plan to work diligently with my budget, to be honorable with my business, to bless my husband and to raise my children as well as I can in my imperfection. I'll blog about my shopping. My findings. But I will be blatantly honest with my pain and struggles. As soon as something comes to mind I want to grab it and deal with it. That's what this is really about. Because I know that the bottom line is that Miss Proverbs 31 had an amazing heart. I'm doing the best I can to find my Creator in all of my trials and joys because ny heart wants to be like hers
So here's my first problem. I've never found a good way to describe it until now, but Travis found a book that really makes it clear to me. The bottom line is that I think people have the whole Bible wrong. It's treated as a recipe book or a magic formula that if we could just figure out the write combination we will be perfect Christians. If we keep analysing and marking our 'good deeds' on a list we'll make the grade. I don't think it works that way at all.
The Bible is a novel full of passion, pain, sacrifice, love, bondage and freedom. It was written to draw our hearts and make us fall in love with our Creator. Yes, there are obviously some clear Do's and Don'ts. I'm currently mourning a precious friendship lost due to a stand I was forced to make based on God's obvious will. But adhering to the rules should be a desire that comes as a SIDE EFFECT of the love affair of our soul with the one who Created it.
So having said that, I find the issue of the Proverbs 31 woman to be quite the opposite of other Biblical excerpts. Typically, I find that people will pick apart every word of every verse, tracing them back to the original Greek or Hebrew to unlock some mysterious intent. Not so with her. The description of Miss 31 begins in verse 10 and extends to the end of the chapter in verse 31. It's long and detailed. But every teaching I've heard focuses on less than half of the proverb. The parts where her husband praises her, her children rise and call her blessed. Charm is deceptive, to be sure, but that's just one verse out of twenty-two. These are the rewards and results of who she was. And who she was was more than these 22 verses tell us. That's what I want to find. Her heart.
So in these verses it is quite clear that she was, in fact, a business woman with servants. I don't intend to have servants. I wouldn't want them. I think I would panic if someone wanted to fold my laundry. Wait, I think I HAVE before more than once when it was offered. Sigh... I'm quite the mess.... So she spends every minute doing something productive. She doesn't wast her time, blah , blah...
OK, here is what I see. Miss 31 had a passion for life and everything in it. She was creative and loved beauty and found a way to express it in a way that would bless her family financially. She was wise, shrewd, bold, confident, creative in her art and in what she feeds her family ( I like that one). She was giving and had a heart for the poor and needy. She was passionate. Not many women back then had scarlet and purple clothing but she loved the beauty of color. She had no fear of the future but 'laughed at the days to come' as if to say bring it on! It talks about her husband being respected, but not necessarily because of her. I wonder if their marriage was so full of love that it was written all over their faces and their passion became an honor to him.
To be honest, I know that I can't live up to a list like that. If that's what was required, I wouldn't even try. I don't think it's healthy to use it as a checklist to work off of. What I do see is that this is the most clearly described woman of the Bible. This nameless woman who seems able to do anything and conquer all odds. My question is how did she get there?
This is what I believe. God called David a man after his own heart. I see these verses as the praise of a woman that God was well pleased with as well, so I will compare the two.
David was a mess. He was a murder, and adulterer, a liar. He wrote just as many Psalms of Angst and pain as he did of praise and awe. He groveled in ashes and was told to stop and be happy. He danced unabashed and was told to keep still. He was full of passion, yet made painful mistakes. Every time he fell flat on his face before his Creator. He poured out his pain as guiltless as his joys, knowing that his God was big enough to handle it all. And that he wanted it all.
Provers 31 is an epilogue. It comes after everything is said and done. Often to tell what does/will happen in the future. If we were to write an epilogue for King David it would be full of all of his victories and Triumphs. It would praise and honor him with every word. But there was more to him that that, to be sure. He was desperately human and flawed. Yet he never ceased to humbled himself and above all he NEVER EVER hardened his heart.
Miss 31 was what happened after. She was the reward to a son who heeded his father's word. That's what the Proverbs are all about, teachings to a son. She is the prize. And I'm OK with that. I would be honored and I WANT to be a reward to my husband and children. But I know that she had a life between the lines of this epilogue. She was passionate, full of trials and passion. I know that she was desperately flawed like me, and she struggled. But I believe she held her heart open to her God at all times.
So in my journey, I plan to work diligently with my budget, to be honorable with my business, to bless my husband and to raise my children as well as I can in my imperfection. I'll blog about my shopping. My findings. But I will be blatantly honest with my pain and struggles. As soon as something comes to mind I want to grab it and deal with it. That's what this is really about. Because I know that the bottom line is that Miss Proverbs 31 had an amazing heart. I'm doing the best I can to find my Creator in all of my trials and joys because ny heart wants to be like hers
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
Dear Ms. Anonymous
So, there are 2 comments on my angry post "Stunted Growth" and I've been thinking about them. I thought I'd write out my thought since that's what I like to do.
First thought. I feel anonymous posting is rude and somewhat weak. It's like a drive by shooting. I actually posted an 'accidental' anonymous post on a friend's blog and sent her a message immediately to let her know that it was me. I had thought I was logged in. I hate the feeling of not knowing who this person is. Anyway, that's just my gutt feeling on anonymous. What was posted I am perfectly fine with responding to. There are many good points where I think I was misunderstood. I'm happy to have the opportunity to comment on that.
Second, I want to say that the reason that I chose to blog about it was because I had just had my eyes opened as to how this person had affected me. I felt that blogging was better than the potential of telling someone personally and turning it into gossip. My blog doesn't respond back and ask for more details. It doesn't give me any pity. It doesn't tell me that person sucks and I have the right to be this way. It just lets me get it out so that I can breath again and deal with it later.
So, first post was "Wow, this makes me so sad. So much bitterness is not good for the spirit or soul." Well, yeah it is sad and quite bitter. I realize that. Everyone feels sadness and bitterness and deals with it in different ways that may or may not be good for the soul. I've found my whole life that writing things out in all the passion that I feel is the healthiest way for me to purge. And it's also the best way for me to take a break from it and go back and study my feeling and decide how I need to learn, forgive, etc.... So yes it's not good for the soul, but all souls have it. I chose not to hide my realness, and I've made it public in the off chance that my working through things may help someone else in some way. Trust me, I'm not done with the topic. I know that I've got some work to do with it.
The second comment was quite long and I'm going to break it up a bit:
I find it hard to believe that one person can have so much control over your life. This control is only there because you let it be. She didn't have control over my life. She affected me. I spent years enabling her and now I have to deal with the affect in my own life of that energy that was spent, Just like anyone else who spends so much time with someone who has any disorder. She's sick. I took responsibility in ways that weren't my job because I wanted to help.
No one stopped you from your dreams except you. No one caused you to lose your passion except you. You need to stop giving one person so much control over your life and thoughts, of course except God. I'm sorry, that's a very humanistic statement. Yes, I chose to stop writing. It was an unconscious decision that I made at some point in the past and I discovered it the day that I blogged about it. So obviously the feelings were brought up fresh. The idea that I have the power over myself, my dreams and passions is false to me. Those are given and taken by God. He guides our paths.
"It almost seems like you put this person as a god in your life and let them dictate who you are and what you do." Not hardly. More like a crutch. I was trying to be loving and kind for years and it didn't help her. Like all addicts, tough love would have been the way to go.
I read your other blogs about being a Proverbs 31 woman. Would a 31 woman post this venom about someone else? I would have to answer that with a resounding ABSOLUTELY. I think the proverbs 31 woman was far from perfect and if she discovered bitterness deep in herself she would never be satisfied with just leaving it, throwing some 'Christian-ese' statements at it to make it go away. I think she would pick it apart and examine herself until she was free and Gad ha worked all that he could in it. My view of the the Proverbs 31 woman is quite different from the conventional housewife, helpmate. She was passionate and fearless. She was driven to take on whatever God gave her. Currently, God uncovered this bitterness in my heart and I am working on it as I think she would.
So, give me some time and I'll work this all out as God leads me. I'm not perfect. Just purging to be the best I can. Thanks for you comments. In the future please use your name.
First thought. I feel anonymous posting is rude and somewhat weak. It's like a drive by shooting. I actually posted an 'accidental' anonymous post on a friend's blog and sent her a message immediately to let her know that it was me. I had thought I was logged in. I hate the feeling of not knowing who this person is. Anyway, that's just my gutt feeling on anonymous. What was posted I am perfectly fine with responding to. There are many good points where I think I was misunderstood. I'm happy to have the opportunity to comment on that.
Second, I want to say that the reason that I chose to blog about it was because I had just had my eyes opened as to how this person had affected me. I felt that blogging was better than the potential of telling someone personally and turning it into gossip. My blog doesn't respond back and ask for more details. It doesn't give me any pity. It doesn't tell me that person sucks and I have the right to be this way. It just lets me get it out so that I can breath again and deal with it later.
So, first post was "Wow, this makes me so sad. So much bitterness is not good for the spirit or soul." Well, yeah it is sad and quite bitter. I realize that. Everyone feels sadness and bitterness and deals with it in different ways that may or may not be good for the soul. I've found my whole life that writing things out in all the passion that I feel is the healthiest way for me to purge. And it's also the best way for me to take a break from it and go back and study my feeling and decide how I need to learn, forgive, etc.... So yes it's not good for the soul, but all souls have it. I chose not to hide my realness, and I've made it public in the off chance that my working through things may help someone else in some way. Trust me, I'm not done with the topic. I know that I've got some work to do with it.
The second comment was quite long and I'm going to break it up a bit:
I find it hard to believe that one person can have so much control over your life. This control is only there because you let it be. She didn't have control over my life. She affected me. I spent years enabling her and now I have to deal with the affect in my own life of that energy that was spent, Just like anyone else who spends so much time with someone who has any disorder. She's sick. I took responsibility in ways that weren't my job because I wanted to help.
No one stopped you from your dreams except you. No one caused you to lose your passion except you. You need to stop giving one person so much control over your life and thoughts, of course except God. I'm sorry, that's a very humanistic statement. Yes, I chose to stop writing. It was an unconscious decision that I made at some point in the past and I discovered it the day that I blogged about it. So obviously the feelings were brought up fresh. The idea that I have the power over myself, my dreams and passions is false to me. Those are given and taken by God. He guides our paths.
"It almost seems like you put this person as a god in your life and let them dictate who you are and what you do." Not hardly. More like a crutch. I was trying to be loving and kind for years and it didn't help her. Like all addicts, tough love would have been the way to go.
I read your other blogs about being a Proverbs 31 woman. Would a 31 woman post this venom about someone else? I would have to answer that with a resounding ABSOLUTELY. I think the proverbs 31 woman was far from perfect and if she discovered bitterness deep in herself she would never be satisfied with just leaving it, throwing some 'Christian-ese' statements at it to make it go away. I think she would pick it apart and examine herself until she was free and Gad ha worked all that he could in it. My view of the the Proverbs 31 woman is quite different from the conventional housewife, helpmate. She was passionate and fearless. She was driven to take on whatever God gave her. Currently, God uncovered this bitterness in my heart and I am working on it as I think she would.
So, give me some time and I'll work this all out as God leads me. I'm not perfect. Just purging to be the best I can. Thanks for you comments. In the future please use your name.
Sunday, September 16, 2007
Sweet Sixteen
We moved to Georgia four days before my sixteenth birthday. I had spent a total of hours since my 1oth birthday picturing a spectacular 16th bash, with me as the star of the night. You don't get that kind of attention often, being one of 10 children.
I woke that morning to my mother standing in my new room with a Sam's Club bucket of Gummy Worms, singing "Nobody loves me. Everybody hates me. I guess I'll go eat worms." Looking back, I wish I could have been more lighthearted and enjoyed the joke. It was a rare occasion that she came up with something so clever. As it was, I was devastated and shamed by the mocking of my shallow teenage angst. The day went on with unpacking, feeding kids and changing diapers.
Then there was the traditional birthday dinner. Now that was a big deal. The one time a year you were guaranteed to have mom and dad to yourself was your birthday dinner. We were allowed any meal we wanted from a real restaurant! All of us understood, of course that we were never to ask for anything more expensive than Applebee's. I never even had the nerve to ask for that before. In California I professed an insane attachment to a local Mexican restaurant , knowing that all three of us could most likely eat for under $10 total.
But being new to the area, I panicked. I had no idea what to do. I was miserable and pouting, completely PMSing and in an area where I had no idea which restaurant would most protect my parents wallets. I felt sick not knowing how to protect them. I begged Dad to take me anywhere. Just chose for me. I couldn't do it. I didn't know how.
That presented it's own problems. You see, my father isn't particularly extravagant unless it comes to special occasions with his children. I know in his heart he would have given anything to have had the money to give us every luxury. Everyone has a love language and his is unquestionably the giving of gifts. Anytime he was able to give us anything extra, even a $.05 Fire Ball, my favorite because it was cheapest of course, his eyes took on a shine, his head lifted a little higher and his chest swelled with bride. I know without a shadow of a doubt that my father loves to shower his children with gifts, he just wasn't able to very often.
He came home from work talking about all of these nice restaurants. Places I'd never seen anywhere but on TV. Restaurants where Japanese chefs throw food back and forth, or pasta is made to your order. My panic deepened as I saw the bill getting higher and higher. Once he decided he that he was going to spend there was no stopping him, regardless of whether it could be afforded or not.
So in my parental inversion I attempted to save my father from himself. I changed at least 6 times and finally decided that if I wore a tshirt and jeans, he wouldn't be able to take us somewhere like that. I mean, how many times had I seen people on TV get kicked out of fancy restaurants for being improperly dressed? He would take us somewhere nice, a step up from McDonald's. I was sure of it.
Yeah, not so much. We grove around for what felt like forever. He was in his Super-dad mood. The one that came up so infrequently you were afraid to breath too loudly for fear it would burst like the bubble that some how rests on a blade of grass without popping. You know it can only last so long, so you hold your breath... The irony is that I feel responsible for the Super-dad. I see this giddy, vulnerable little boy in his eyes and I simply can't bear to hurt his tender feelings. It always gets me. I can't take away his joy in giving, even when it's clear there's no money for it, or time, or whatever the sacrifice may be. He thrives on it. I play along. He deserves the joy. He needs to feel prosperous. It's who he is.
We finally pulled into the parking lot of a place called Dave and Busters, just in time for me to reach the point of complete hypoglycemic breakdown. I was shaking and emotional, as I always get at that point. I should have eaten a snack. I should have spoken up and said "let's just try this place close by." But I was silent. I wanted the bubble to last.
So, hungry and near tears due to low blood sugar, I follow my cheerful parents into the Dave and Busters where we are to dine. I felt immediately out of place standing next to all of the businessmen with their cocktails and cigarettes. Choosing from the menu was a nightmare. I'm already incredibly indecisive about choosing food somewhere new. What if I hate it and the money is wasted? Then there is the cost. I found the cheapest item on the menu in under 10 seconds, but I had to be trickier than that. If I chose the true cheapest then Dad would know I was worried, but something 75 cents more? Now that wouldn't be so obvious, and water to drink please. I prefer it, really I do.
After dinner there were the games. Ugh. He wanted so much for me to enjoy, and I couldn't disappoint. I wanted to have fun, I just couldn't. He spent just enough for us to play a few games. It's like Chuck E Cheese. You get tickets for prizes. I purposely went for games I thought would not give tickets. I didn't want him to decided we needed lots of tickets for some cheap ball or toy. We ended up with 10 tickets, I think.
So with our few little tickets we approached the prize counter. You'd thing we were homeless or something, the way Mr. Counter Clerk looked the 3 of us with our 10 measly tickets. His disdain couldn't be more obvious. We didn't come for more tickets. We didn't WANT more tickets. I just needed something small to put in my memory box with all of the other napkins and trinkets from past birthdays. We were able to get 3 logo's buttons and a forest green balloon that wasn't blown up. I was so relieved when we were done and could head home.
On the way home we stopped at the grocery store for milk or something. I don't remember what. I worked up the nerve to ask for an 88cent box of Lil Debbie Christmas Tree Cakes. No one had made me a cake, so I thought it would be fun to have one. When we got home, I stuck a candle in the middle of one and looked at it for awhile. I waited, thinking that someone would come up and have a little traditional celebration with me, even if it weren't a real cake. They all Sat in the living room watching TV.
So, in a clever little display of teenage drama I walked down into the middle of the room. I did the unthinkable. I stood square in front of the TV, blocking the family view of America's Funniest Home Videos and I sang my own birthday song.
"Happy Birthday to me.
I'm turning 16.
I'm going to eat a Christmas tree,
'Cause nobody made a cake for me."
Yeah, pathetic and cheesy but it felt great. Perfect way to end the day after waking up to the worm serenade, right?
Ok, so why the heck are you still reading this pathetic story? Go do something. I just hit a stopsign on memory lane. I think I'm going to take a detour for a few days. This blog is sounding too depressing and that's not really me.
I woke that morning to my mother standing in my new room with a Sam's Club bucket of Gummy Worms, singing "Nobody loves me. Everybody hates me. I guess I'll go eat worms." Looking back, I wish I could have been more lighthearted and enjoyed the joke. It was a rare occasion that she came up with something so clever. As it was, I was devastated and shamed by the mocking of my shallow teenage angst. The day went on with unpacking, feeding kids and changing diapers.
Then there was the traditional birthday dinner. Now that was a big deal. The one time a year you were guaranteed to have mom and dad to yourself was your birthday dinner. We were allowed any meal we wanted from a real restaurant! All of us understood, of course that we were never to ask for anything more expensive than Applebee's. I never even had the nerve to ask for that before. In California I professed an insane attachment to a local Mexican restaurant , knowing that all three of us could most likely eat for under $10 total.
But being new to the area, I panicked. I had no idea what to do. I was miserable and pouting, completely PMSing and in an area where I had no idea which restaurant would most protect my parents wallets. I felt sick not knowing how to protect them. I begged Dad to take me anywhere. Just chose for me. I couldn't do it. I didn't know how.
That presented it's own problems. You see, my father isn't particularly extravagant unless it comes to special occasions with his children. I know in his heart he would have given anything to have had the money to give us every luxury. Everyone has a love language and his is unquestionably the giving of gifts. Anytime he was able to give us anything extra, even a $.05 Fire Ball, my favorite because it was cheapest of course, his eyes took on a shine, his head lifted a little higher and his chest swelled with bride. I know without a shadow of a doubt that my father loves to shower his children with gifts, he just wasn't able to very often.
He came home from work talking about all of these nice restaurants. Places I'd never seen anywhere but on TV. Restaurants where Japanese chefs throw food back and forth, or pasta is made to your order. My panic deepened as I saw the bill getting higher and higher. Once he decided he that he was going to spend there was no stopping him, regardless of whether it could be afforded or not.
So in my parental inversion I attempted to save my father from himself. I changed at least 6 times and finally decided that if I wore a tshirt and jeans, he wouldn't be able to take us somewhere like that. I mean, how many times had I seen people on TV get kicked out of fancy restaurants for being improperly dressed? He would take us somewhere nice, a step up from McDonald's. I was sure of it.
Yeah, not so much. We grove around for what felt like forever. He was in his Super-dad mood. The one that came up so infrequently you were afraid to breath too loudly for fear it would burst like the bubble that some how rests on a blade of grass without popping. You know it can only last so long, so you hold your breath... The irony is that I feel responsible for the Super-dad. I see this giddy, vulnerable little boy in his eyes and I simply can't bear to hurt his tender feelings. It always gets me. I can't take away his joy in giving, even when it's clear there's no money for it, or time, or whatever the sacrifice may be. He thrives on it. I play along. He deserves the joy. He needs to feel prosperous. It's who he is.
We finally pulled into the parking lot of a place called Dave and Busters, just in time for me to reach the point of complete hypoglycemic breakdown. I was shaking and emotional, as I always get at that point. I should have eaten a snack. I should have spoken up and said "let's just try this place close by." But I was silent. I wanted the bubble to last.
So, hungry and near tears due to low blood sugar, I follow my cheerful parents into the Dave and Busters where we are to dine. I felt immediately out of place standing next to all of the businessmen with their cocktails and cigarettes. Choosing from the menu was a nightmare. I'm already incredibly indecisive about choosing food somewhere new. What if I hate it and the money is wasted? Then there is the cost. I found the cheapest item on the menu in under 10 seconds, but I had to be trickier than that. If I chose the true cheapest then Dad would know I was worried, but something 75 cents more? Now that wouldn't be so obvious, and water to drink please. I prefer it, really I do.
After dinner there were the games. Ugh. He wanted so much for me to enjoy, and I couldn't disappoint. I wanted to have fun, I just couldn't. He spent just enough for us to play a few games. It's like Chuck E Cheese. You get tickets for prizes. I purposely went for games I thought would not give tickets. I didn't want him to decided we needed lots of tickets for some cheap ball or toy. We ended up with 10 tickets, I think.
So with our few little tickets we approached the prize counter. You'd thing we were homeless or something, the way Mr. Counter Clerk looked the 3 of us with our 10 measly tickets. His disdain couldn't be more obvious. We didn't come for more tickets. We didn't WANT more tickets. I just needed something small to put in my memory box with all of the other napkins and trinkets from past birthdays. We were able to get 3 logo's buttons and a forest green balloon that wasn't blown up. I was so relieved when we were done and could head home.
On the way home we stopped at the grocery store for milk or something. I don't remember what. I worked up the nerve to ask for an 88cent box of Lil Debbie Christmas Tree Cakes. No one had made me a cake, so I thought it would be fun to have one. When we got home, I stuck a candle in the middle of one and looked at it for awhile. I waited, thinking that someone would come up and have a little traditional celebration with me, even if it weren't a real cake. They all Sat in the living room watching TV.
So, in a clever little display of teenage drama I walked down into the middle of the room. I did the unthinkable. I stood square in front of the TV, blocking the family view of America's Funniest Home Videos and I sang my own birthday song.
"Happy Birthday to me.
I'm turning 16.
I'm going to eat a Christmas tree,
'Cause nobody made a cake for me."
Yeah, pathetic and cheesy but it felt great. Perfect way to end the day after waking up to the worm serenade, right?
Ok, so why the heck are you still reading this pathetic story? Go do something. I just hit a stopsign on memory lane. I think I'm going to take a detour for a few days. This blog is sounding too depressing and that's not really me.
Thursday, September 6, 2007
Little House ... in the Ghetto
I'm turning 30 in a few months (gasp!!!) Contrary to everything I've ever heard of women dreading the 30-line, I'm very excited and looking forward to it! I just feel like life is better and so much more peaceful. I'm more excited about enjoying my 30's with my husband and children, than I was about turning 20! I'm on this 'Turning 31' kick, which I know is another year yet, but I'm working on myself . I'm basing it on the idea that I'm turning 31 NEXT year, so I'm focusing on personal growth using Proverbs 31 as a guide. I want to find the woman God wants me to be, in the little things. Those little things are proving very impactful.
So, my first step was being content. I prayed for a feeling of peace and contentment with where I am at. I'm tired of the constant urge to compare myself to others. Here's what happened that week (2 weeks ago)
The House. Three and a half years ago with only one child in tow, Travis and I decided to buy a house that was basically unliveable in Atlanta. We had plans already to do major amounts of work, but they came to a screaching halt 10 months later when I was in a severe car accident, Jacob was born and Travis lost his job. That was in interesting Christmas. So basically for many little reasons since then, Lucas being another, construction has proceeded at a snail's pace, if that.
I get so fed up with this tiny shoebox house that I want to burn it down sometimes. I think that's the only way my husband would leave it, and in the long run he is right. It's not easy having 3 kids in one bedroom, or floors that give you splinters constantly. And walls that have been 1/2 finished for 3years, 2 months and some-odd days... I get so overwhelmed and irritated that I panic over this stupid house. One day I was walking around trying to 'clean the house' which never looks clean to me with the paint splatters on the floor and such, and the verse "He who is faithful with little I will make master over much." It just started going through my head and I started dwelling on that. I figured it was better than wondering if a strategically placed mirror across the street would flash light into a Marta Bus drivers eyes causing them to run into the house. They would have to pay for the repairs, right? I've always felt a little chastised by that verse. Honestly I don't feel like I'm truly 'faithful' in anything other than the 'go forth and multiply. We seem to be doing well on that count. I get angry at my children and I yell too much. Sometimes I realize that I've spanked for something that would have done better with a time out, or I've put someone in time out and not followed through with making them stay. I' m constantly behind on housework, sewing, organizing. Whatever it is, you can be sure I'm behind.Anyway, the faithful part. I went to our one bathroom and was, well, going... and I looked around the room. Travis took a week off in February to redo the bathroom. With all of my hints and begging, I don't think it will be done before next February. I thought, "God! This house is so little!" And then it ran through my head again... "faithful in little".
Something switched in my head, or my heart, or both I guess. Here I've been pressuring Travis to get this room done, and the floors, and the kitchen, and build on. Do I deserve to be 'master' over it? Have I been faithful with this house as it is, being content in what I have? No, I have not. I have moments where I like the house, but I insist on constant change. I haven't just let it be and rested in what God has already blessed us with. I felt humbled immediately.
That was about a month ago, and the last month has been so different. I feel different. I don't care if my kids are on one room. I don't feel so embarrassed when people come by. We have what we have. And we are so incredibly blessed!
Ironically, Travis has just decided to relent and allow for hiring help instead of doing all of our construction and projects himself. Two months ago I would have been in a frenzy and already picking out every detail that I wanted done. I kinda feel like... "Let me know when you're ready and what I need to do. " I don't have to control it anymore, or push to get it done faster. I love my house.
So, my first step was being content. I prayed for a feeling of peace and contentment with where I am at. I'm tired of the constant urge to compare myself to others. Here's what happened that week (2 weeks ago)
The House. Three and a half years ago with only one child in tow, Travis and I decided to buy a house that was basically unliveable in Atlanta. We had plans already to do major amounts of work, but they came to a screaching halt 10 months later when I was in a severe car accident, Jacob was born and Travis lost his job. That was in interesting Christmas. So basically for many little reasons since then, Lucas being another, construction has proceeded at a snail's pace, if that.
I get so fed up with this tiny shoebox house that I want to burn it down sometimes. I think that's the only way my husband would leave it, and in the long run he is right. It's not easy having 3 kids in one bedroom, or floors that give you splinters constantly. And walls that have been 1/2 finished for 3years, 2 months and some-odd days... I get so overwhelmed and irritated that I panic over this stupid house. One day I was walking around trying to 'clean the house' which never looks clean to me with the paint splatters on the floor and such, and the verse "He who is faithful with little I will make master over much." It just started going through my head and I started dwelling on that. I figured it was better than wondering if a strategically placed mirror across the street would flash light into a Marta Bus drivers eyes causing them to run into the house. They would have to pay for the repairs, right? I've always felt a little chastised by that verse. Honestly I don't feel like I'm truly 'faithful' in anything other than the 'go forth and multiply. We seem to be doing well on that count. I get angry at my children and I yell too much. Sometimes I realize that I've spanked for something that would have done better with a time out, or I've put someone in time out and not followed through with making them stay. I' m constantly behind on housework, sewing, organizing. Whatever it is, you can be sure I'm behind.Anyway, the faithful part. I went to our one bathroom and was, well, going... and I looked around the room. Travis took a week off in February to redo the bathroom. With all of my hints and begging, I don't think it will be done before next February. I thought, "God! This house is so little!" And then it ran through my head again... "faithful in little".
Something switched in my head, or my heart, or both I guess. Here I've been pressuring Travis to get this room done, and the floors, and the kitchen, and build on. Do I deserve to be 'master' over it? Have I been faithful with this house as it is, being content in what I have? No, I have not. I have moments where I like the house, but I insist on constant change. I haven't just let it be and rested in what God has already blessed us with. I felt humbled immediately.
That was about a month ago, and the last month has been so different. I feel different. I don't care if my kids are on one room. I don't feel so embarrassed when people come by. We have what we have. And we are so incredibly blessed!
Ironically, Travis has just decided to relent and allow for hiring help instead of doing all of our construction and projects himself. Two months ago I would have been in a frenzy and already picking out every detail that I wanted done. I kinda feel like... "Let me know when you're ready and what I need to do. " I don't have to control it anymore, or push to get it done faster. I love my house.
Monday, August 27, 2007
If It Ain't Got That Swing
If you want to make me a happy woman, take me dancing. Especially swing or salsa. It doesn't matter that I'm really not any good at it. I imagine that I look like one of the ridiculous hippos on Fantasia, floundering around with an unlucky alligator at my mercy. Don't roll your eyes. That's not an "I'm so fat, woe is me." remark. But it is what it is. I'm a fluffy girl. Yes, I am currently in a body image crisis. That's a different story and the Fantasia mental picture is unaffected.
I guess I was like any other little girl. I was exceptionally amazing, and destined to dance with Mikhail Baryshnikov. I dreamed about dancing. I lived for my ballet class and the highlight of my life was being casted in the Christmas production. At 9 years old I regularly snuck and watched Michael Jackson videos to try to memorize the choreography. I was certain that I was going to be a real dancer someday.
I couldn't wait till to be old enough to begin pointe class. My best friend Abby was a year older and she already had hers. I held my breath for a year dreaming of the day I would don the coveted toe shoes and float around like a swan. I was so close I could almost feel the blisters and the cotton balls between my toes.
Then the move happened. We were off to California and dance was left behind. In my innocent little 11 year old mind I assumed that this was my big break. Los Angeles! Real dancers! The classes simply had to be better, didn't they? Would someone famous be my instructor?
I waited patiently. Maybe mom and dad were going to put us in dance in the fall. It was February. Fall would be better.
Fall came and went. I asked and hinted as much as I could get away with. It just wasn't to be. And then there's the irony of Becky K. Bubbly Becky we called her. The ultimate Valley Girl. Cheerleader and dancer extraordinaire. Her Mom took her to classes and tryouts and I heard about them every week when they hosted the youth group in their home. Not to mention the honer of seeing her routines whenever she had something fabulous to show off. Becky was sweet. We weren't close, but we were friends and I never mentioned how painfully jealous I was. Because watching her made me realize that it was all a joke. I wasn't ever any good. And the dance classes I took were not even serious. I had no idea what real dancing was about and the obvious had never occurred to me. I would never have a slim dancer's body. Professional dancers would be starving themselves already if they weighed what I did at 13. It was a useless whim and I was embarrassed to even assume that I had any right to be called a dancer. But I got to watch her be one. Oh, and drive by Michael Jackson's ranch any time I went to visit my friend Tori in her mansion. I often wondered if the llamas in his yard danced better than me.
Time blurs reality, and our memories are prejudice and selective. I haven't thought about it in years, but all of this came back to me a few days ago when I caught up with someone from the good ol' dance days in Virginia. I'd forgotten about all of the bitterness and anger I had about it. All the hurt that comes when reality hits and a little girls dream dies. I've been mulling over all those memories, which I'm sure are skewed a bit. Our memories always are.
I realize now that my parents were getting those classes for us almost free. And a homeschooling mom of 10 has enough on her plate. I survived without dancing. Actually, we started taking Spanish classes with Mrs. Forehand. I may not have learned much Spanish with her, but I did learn to love it and that's what drew me to South America. How would that have happened if dance was in the way?
In reality, the dream didn't die completely. In college I started going swing dancing. In Bolivia I took some Flamenco classes. I've still got that big old skirt. I sure wish I'd kept the shoes! When I returned from Bolivia I went swing and salsa dancing pretty often. It makes my heart so happy to dance, still.
I hoped and hoped I would marry a man who would dance with me. Well, that and drink coffee. I always imagined morning talks over a cup of coffee and evenings out with our dance shoes on. Well, it's been almost 7 years. About twice a year we go to a wedding and Travis will dance with me. I go home wishing we had a wedding to go to every weekend.
My church had a fundraiser last night. A 1920's East Coast Swing style Prom. A chance to dance with childcare included in the price! You know I almost skipped it over not having anything to wear. Yesterday afternoon I got ambitious and bought 3 yards of fabric for $3 at Walmart and made a dress, just in time to throw it over my head and buckle on my Mary Janes from college. I threw my hair in a bun with finger waves in my bangs and off we went.
So, all this introspective blubbering is about last night. Last night I had a chance to dance. My husband danced with me and I think he actually enjoyed it for once. My feet are paying for it today, but my heart is full of life. And I want more.
I guess I was like any other little girl. I was exceptionally amazing, and destined to dance with Mikhail Baryshnikov. I dreamed about dancing. I lived for my ballet class and the highlight of my life was being casted in the Christmas production. At 9 years old I regularly snuck and watched Michael Jackson videos to try to memorize the choreography. I was certain that I was going to be a real dancer someday.
I couldn't wait till to be old enough to begin pointe class. My best friend Abby was a year older and she already had hers. I held my breath for a year dreaming of the day I would don the coveted toe shoes and float around like a swan. I was so close I could almost feel the blisters and the cotton balls between my toes.
Then the move happened. We were off to California and dance was left behind. In my innocent little 11 year old mind I assumed that this was my big break. Los Angeles! Real dancers! The classes simply had to be better, didn't they? Would someone famous be my instructor?
I waited patiently. Maybe mom and dad were going to put us in dance in the fall. It was February. Fall would be better.
Fall came and went. I asked and hinted as much as I could get away with. It just wasn't to be. And then there's the irony of Becky K. Bubbly Becky we called her. The ultimate Valley Girl. Cheerleader and dancer extraordinaire. Her Mom took her to classes and tryouts and I heard about them every week when they hosted the youth group in their home. Not to mention the honer of seeing her routines whenever she had something fabulous to show off. Becky was sweet. We weren't close, but we were friends and I never mentioned how painfully jealous I was. Because watching her made me realize that it was all a joke. I wasn't ever any good. And the dance classes I took were not even serious. I had no idea what real dancing was about and the obvious had never occurred to me. I would never have a slim dancer's body. Professional dancers would be starving themselves already if they weighed what I did at 13. It was a useless whim and I was embarrassed to even assume that I had any right to be called a dancer. But I got to watch her be one. Oh, and drive by Michael Jackson's ranch any time I went to visit my friend Tori in her mansion. I often wondered if the llamas in his yard danced better than me.
Time blurs reality, and our memories are prejudice and selective. I haven't thought about it in years, but all of this came back to me a few days ago when I caught up with someone from the good ol' dance days in Virginia. I'd forgotten about all of the bitterness and anger I had about it. All the hurt that comes when reality hits and a little girls dream dies. I've been mulling over all those memories, which I'm sure are skewed a bit. Our memories always are.
I realize now that my parents were getting those classes for us almost free. And a homeschooling mom of 10 has enough on her plate. I survived without dancing. Actually, we started taking Spanish classes with Mrs. Forehand. I may not have learned much Spanish with her, but I did learn to love it and that's what drew me to South America. How would that have happened if dance was in the way?
In reality, the dream didn't die completely. In college I started going swing dancing. In Bolivia I took some Flamenco classes. I've still got that big old skirt. I sure wish I'd kept the shoes! When I returned from Bolivia I went swing and salsa dancing pretty often. It makes my heart so happy to dance, still.
I hoped and hoped I would marry a man who would dance with me. Well, that and drink coffee. I always imagined morning talks over a cup of coffee and evenings out with our dance shoes on. Well, it's been almost 7 years. About twice a year we go to a wedding and Travis will dance with me. I go home wishing we had a wedding to go to every weekend.
My church had a fundraiser last night. A 1920's East Coast Swing style Prom. A chance to dance with childcare included in the price! You know I almost skipped it over not having anything to wear. Yesterday afternoon I got ambitious and bought 3 yards of fabric for $3 at Walmart and made a dress, just in time to throw it over my head and buckle on my Mary Janes from college. I threw my hair in a bun with finger waves in my bangs and off we went.
So, all this introspective blubbering is about last night. Last night I had a chance to dance. My husband danced with me and I think he actually enjoyed it for once. My feet are paying for it today, but my heart is full of life. And I want more.
Wednesday, August 8, 2007
From February- When I first wrote about it
Friday, February 16, 2007
RE SOLVE
..>
RE SOLVE
It hit me. Resolutions... what are they really? We treat them like a wishlist for santa. Well, those of us that "do" santa that is Is it any wonder that they are recuring every year? That we easily push them aside to try again next time?
But what would happen if we actually gave the word the respect and thought that it warants. Re-solve. re-solution. Have you solved anything lately, or taken the time to create an actual SOLUTION for the issue?
Well, I've thought about it and I'm ready to solve. We're going to do things differently. It's gonna be great.
We have made a decision to detoxify our lives in every way. We want to get back to a minimalistic, basic lifestyle with a focus on God. We've made a plan and resolution for this year that EVERYTHING we do must be purposeful, working towards peace, health (emotionally, spiritually and physically), and security for us and our children. If anything works against it in any way at all, we have to reevaluate the action, relationship, item, event, etc. or rethink the purpose and realign what we're doing so there is integrity and wholeness.
In the last two months we have made a lot of changes. We are going through everything we own and questioning our need for it. It's amazing how much stuff we can accumulate in the hopes of "one day". One day we'll rebuild this. This over here I'll paint. I want to knock the top off of that one and make it an end table. Nevermind. I have 3 sweet lil' projects now and I'll take them over the junk any day.
Events in the last year have changed what we thought we knew of people. While forgiving is obtainable I find that going back to those relationships is as impossible as going back to last summer, or restoring a child's innocence. It just can't be done. And I'm Ok with that. I still love. I still care. But trust is a gift that must be earned. I'll keep that to myself, thank you.
Ultimately, I'm just done expecting things to change without making a change. Somewhere I heard "The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over yet expecting different results." I can't remember where I heard it, but it branded my mind and the way I've seen things for the past year.
So here we are... doing things new. Ask me how it went next year.
RE SOLVE
..>
RE SOLVE
It hit me. Resolutions... what are they really? We treat them like a wishlist for santa. Well, those of us that "do" santa that is Is it any wonder that they are recuring every year? That we easily push them aside to try again next time?
But what would happen if we actually gave the word the respect and thought that it warants. Re-solve. re-solution. Have you solved anything lately, or taken the time to create an actual SOLUTION for the issue?
Well, I've thought about it and I'm ready to solve. We're going to do things differently. It's gonna be great.
We have made a decision to detoxify our lives in every way. We want to get back to a minimalistic, basic lifestyle with a focus on God. We've made a plan and resolution for this year that EVERYTHING we do must be purposeful, working towards peace, health (emotionally, spiritually and physically), and security for us and our children. If anything works against it in any way at all, we have to reevaluate the action, relationship, item, event, etc. or rethink the purpose and realign what we're doing so there is integrity and wholeness.
In the last two months we have made a lot of changes. We are going through everything we own and questioning our need for it. It's amazing how much stuff we can accumulate in the hopes of "one day". One day we'll rebuild this. This over here I'll paint. I want to knock the top off of that one and make it an end table. Nevermind. I have 3 sweet lil' projects now and I'll take them over the junk any day.
Events in the last year have changed what we thought we knew of people. While forgiving is obtainable I find that going back to those relationships is as impossible as going back to last summer, or restoring a child's innocence. It just can't be done. And I'm Ok with that. I still love. I still care. But trust is a gift that must be earned. I'll keep that to myself, thank you.
Ultimately, I'm just done expecting things to change without making a change. Somewhere I heard "The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over yet expecting different results." I can't remember where I heard it, but it branded my mind and the way I've seen things for the past year.
So here we are... doing things new. Ask me how it went next year.
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