This Year I Am Thankful...

...that I have in-laws to celebrate Thanksgiving with because that means I have my amazing husband. Having him is worth the occasional trip to Kentucky ;-)

...for my freedom and all those who have fought for it and those who are continually fighting for it.

...that my 2 1/2 year old still takes naps.

...for friends who truly know me and STILL truly love me.

...that I am wealthy enough to own a copy of the Scriptures, educated enough to read it and free enough to say that I believe it.

...that God has used my husband's musical and teaching talents and my encouragement and ideas to create a job for him in a year that many jobs disappeared.

...that Oprah is quitting her show. 2011 is not soon enough, but I'm still grateful. Unless she goes into politics, ministry or education (Oprah University? ick!) In that case I will delay my gratitude. Ha!

...for finding an honest dentist. Seriously!

...that my preschooler is smart and funny.

...for my God and King and the fact that He will one day return.

...for my husband, his love, his honesty, his friendship, his leadership, his music, his grace, his love for our child and for the peace that fills our home!


"In everything gives thanks; for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you."
I Thessalonians 5:18

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Forgiveness

I know a person, whom I will call X. X doesn't read this blog, so if you are reading don't wonder if you are X. You are not. You don't even know X.

I have known X for a very long time. I love X and hold X close to my heart. I know that X loves me too. I know X very, very well, but X doesn't really know me. X thinks X knows me, but I often hear X's opinion of me and it is not accurate according to myself or anyone I ask. X evens tells stories involving me and X always has me doing or saying or thinking something I did not do or say or think.

Although it may appear X pursues me as a friend, I have tested my theory that X doesn't want an actual, healthy friendship with me. I have, in fact, confirmed many times over the course of our relationship that X only wants a dumping ground. When X approaches me I'm beginning to hear the sound a dump truck makes as it backs up to the dump... beeep - beeep - beeep!

I've tried every tactic I can imagine to avoid being used as a dump. But, to know X is to wear wade boots. For some reason in the moment I always think I can wade in and pull X out of the swamp. I know X built the swamp and X isn't leaving. I know.

So I pray for X. X prays for me, too. That's fine.

Next thing I know X is, yet again, giving a particularly inaccurate portrayal of me. I brush it off and later, when the moment has passed, I think of X's character flaws and how sadistically satisfying it would be to say in one grand speech, "It is not I who is despicable, but you!"

I renounce my sinful nature at once. It is I who is despicable. I, too, am covered in the blood of Christ. If I were so perfect I could approach God without it. I cannot.


I read this in a book once and copied it down. I still have the page I originally wrote it on and have warn that page out over the past few years. I wish I could give credit to the author, but I simply don't remember the book. (If you know where it is from, please let me know, so I can give the author credit.)

Fill in the blank on your own...

Forgiveness
"I forgive __________ for ___________ . I admit that what was done was wrong. I do not expect _________ to make up for what he/she has done. I will not define __________ by what he/she has done. Instead, I will define him/her as someone who needs just as much grace in life as I do. I will not manipulate _________ with what he/she has done. I will not allow what has happened to stop my personal growth."


"He who covers a transgression seeks love,
But he who repeats a matter separates friends."
~Proverbs 17:9

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Back in the Zone

I recently began research for my second novel. I love the entire writing process! It absolutely thrills me to watch, listen, feel these characters come to life in my imagination.

I was putting off writing anything this consuming again until my child was old enough to leave me alone for a few minutes at a time. My imagination could not wait.

The good news is: apparently I can help color Bob from VeggiTales and develop story lines in my head at the same time. I lay the crayon down and scribble phrases without missing a beat. Little notebook, you are now my best friend!

Last night as I fell asleep I whispered to my husband, "My brain got a work-out today... and I liked it!"


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Either Cheap or Disappearing

I just received the latest issue of Reader's Digest in the mail. Inside I found a message to the reader that they are cutting back from 12 issues to 10 per year. I can log on to view special digital editions, of course.

I don't want to log on. That's why I subscribe. I like actual paper magazines.

I know technology is amazing. I know I sound three times my age. I know nothing lasts forever. It's just that nothing lasts five minutes now.

Seriously! After a few machine washes according to the label any item of clothing I buy of any brand at any store it looks how my clothes used to look after a year. (Yes, I tried the $14 per bottle detergent that promises blah, blah, blah.) This new level of crappy clothing is a recent phenomenon.

I know it's consumerism gone crazy. Materialism is when a person wants a new cell phone because something cooler just came out. Consumerism is when they have to get a new phone because the one they bought a year and two days ago is already dead - and there is no such thing as repair. My Grandma had the same telephone in her house my entire childhood that she had when my Mom was a child.

We're filling our soil with "hecho en chino". It's taking the fun out of getting anything new because I know that it will look, feel or be old very quickly.

I feel like everything is getting cheap or disappearing.

It makes me want to buy land, dig a well and sharpen iron hand tools to plant a garden. It's not just me. I recently read that an Amish newspaper had an article about all the letters they get from people asking how to become Amish. They said since the economy slumped, and especially during the gas crisis, they are flooded with sincere inquiries into joining their way of life. The newspaper explained that it is nearly impossible for non-Amish born people to become Amish. Their way of life is an outflow of their simplicity-based, self-denial-infused, non-individualistic attitude. This is not something a person in modern culture can easily grasp much less commit their life to.

Most of us cannot put down our shopping bags long enough to learn how to sew. I've never been into shopping and I can leave technology and media behind easily, but I do love some conveniences.

I love antihistamines during the springtime. I love water heaters and disposable diapers and electric lights. I love having dinner ready in 15 minutes from foods frozen at the peak of freshness. I love knowing an ambulance could be here in minutes if my child were hurt. I love driving my car with the windows down and U2 pumping through the speakers.

And, I also understand even these things could disappear in an instant. So, I'll just enjoy my simple, debt-free life with small conveniences and comforts while I can.

And, in the not too distant future, when the printing presses roll to a stop and I receive the last paper magazine in the mail, I'll put it in an air-tight container and save it for my grandchildren. I imagine them eyes wide in amazement as they get to flip real pages. In truth, they will probably not be able to see it because their Twitter implants have skewed their vision!

...I'm off to sharpen my plow.



"That which has been is what will be,
That which is done is what will be done,
And there is nothing new under the sun."
~ Ecclesiastes 1:9

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Two & a Half Next Week

This evening...
Baby: (something muffled)
Mom: I'm sorry, what?
Baby: Ssshhhhh! Mom, I'm praying!

Later on this evening...
Baby: Mom, do my United SKates.
Mom: Oh, your United STates map.
Baby: Ask 'where is it?'
Mom: Okay, where is New Hampshire?
Baby: There it is!
Mom: Good Girl! Where is Alaska?
Baby: There it is!
Mom: Well, what year did it become a state?
Baby: (blink, blink)
Mom: Was it 1959?
Baby: Yes, absolutely!


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Dust

I am filled with love for my Lord.

I've typed and deleted a paragraph twice now. Seems I can't articulate the one thing that has never changed since the day I poured my heart out to my Maker and said "Here's my life. You can have it if you want it."

He wanted it.

I've not taken my eyes off Him since.

Still in awe.

It seems I can chatter about nonsense, complain about inconveniences, muse about irony and boast about my sweet family, but my words will never do when I want to express my love for the Lord.

Maybe that's because I can't get over His love for me.




"For He Himself knows our frame;
He is mindful that we are but dust."
~ Psalm 103:14


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Highly Sensitive Person (HSP)

In 1991 a secular psychologist named Dr. Elaine Aron coined the term Highly Sensitive Person (HSP) to put a positive spin on the trait scientifically referred to as Sensory-Processing Sensitivity (SPS). Apparently this was long misunderstood as shyness, but having high sensitivity to sensory input herself, Dr. Aron devoted her research to shed light on the trait. Her findings confirmed this gift of advanced mental processing does not have to be an impairment. SPS can be completely misunderstood by even those who possess this physiological ability. Upon reading even the basics about Sensory-Processing Sensitivity, a person who is highly sensitive instantly has the answer to a question they've faced daily - what is wrong with me?

Like most of the 15% of the population estimated to have SPS, until I stumbled upon this nearly 20 year old research, I thought something was wrong with me. Last night after honestly confirming 26 of the 27 questions on the self-test I knew God sent me an answer to prayer by being able to define how I perceived things that made me feel so different.

Sensory-Processing Sensitivity is a heightened awareness of everything. Some people with SPS are only highly sensitive in one area - say smell. Perfume causing a headache is an example. But, most highly sensitive people are gifted to be able to detect sensory input (sights, smells, sounds, touch, feelings, etc.) all at once on a large scale and analyze instantly what they are encountering. It's not better senses, many people with SPS wear glasses. It is unclear if the heightened ability is en route to the brain or in the brain itself.

So what's it like to walk into a room filled with people and smell all the perfume and food, hear four conversations at once and the background music, detect the relationships and moods of people and notice visually the colors, bright lights, decor and clutter? It may sound like spy training from a movie, but it is actually overwhelming.

Very overwhelming. Who wants that much information instantly? Just imagining it makes me want to back out slowly!

Often, I do!

If you know me personally, you've probably invited me somewhere and I looked like I was having a good time, then left abruptly. Well, I went home and sat in the silence for hours to recuperate from what 85% of people find fun. Or if I made it through a social or action-packed event then never went again, I probably decided the feeling of being overwhelmed was not worth it. This is where SPS sounds like, and can feel like, a disability. How can something be a gift if I feel like a caged animal and everyone else seems oblivious?

Because with the woes of heightened sensitivity comes heightened awareness. It brings gifts of caution, wisdom, conscientiousness and a deep sense of understanding.

And, for me, stronger faith.

They say there are 15 people like me in every 100. Same ratio in social animals, too. Wonder why? Because our Designer is amazing! See, that ratio usually means there is one person in every group who is more aware of danger, more likely to analyze risk, more likely to detect a need and invent a remedy. Just knowing that makes me want stay a few more minutes at the party!



"I am fearfully and wonderfully made;
Wonderful are Your works,
And my soul knows it very well."
~ Psalm 139:14

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So Far I've Learned That...

...if you want everything simple to become difficult, have a baby.

...if you want everything normal to become dangerous, have a toddler.

...if you want everything ordinary to become fascinating, have a preschooler.


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Post-Conversation Autopsies

I feel the need to rehash most conversations to myself long after they are over. I always have, but I’m just beginning to wonder why.

In my rehashing, I recount not just words, but the jest of every sentence. I sequence each gesture and inject my perception of probable motives. I include so much commentary on the thoughts and feelings behind each word that my playback always takes longer than the actual event. This is most often in my head, for I am a true introvert, but I do sometimes find myself subjecting others to this creative play-by-play.

Its one thing to bore myself with such mental chatter, but why waste breath prattling on for someone else? Am I just making conversation with the only thing I can think of – a previous conversation? No. Am I relaying news and events that are actually important in my life? No. Am I looking for validation that I said the right thing or that I was right or that I was funny or smart? Ding-ding-ding! We have a winner!

That's why. I need outside validation when I’m not paying attention to what I say in the moment.

I’ve been blessed to know people who have excellent, honest control of their oral communication. I both love and hate having a conversation with them. They choose their words and topics carefully. They’re alert to non-constructive, non-productive and unclear oral utterances and have a preplanned, graceful way of changing the subject or ending the conversation completely if need be. They say what they mean, mean what they say and immediately ask for clarification if they don’t understand.

They seem like such good grown-ups!

Maybe I should take a cue from my response to such greatness and emulate good communication. Listen well. Speak slowly, clearly and deliberately. Know the topic and admit when I don’t. Less silly jesting, sound effects and pot shots. (People rarely laugh.) Do not complain. Know what will be a complaint before the words leave my tongue.

Perhaps using my brain more than my mouth would render post-conversation autopsies unnecessary. Its a long shot, but I’m ready to try!




"But no one can tame the tongue; it is a restless evil and full of deadly poison."
~ James 3:8 (Read the whole chapter.)


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Life After Birth

Immediately after my baby was born, I died. At least, that’s what it felt like. Not in heart, for my perfect, healthy, beautiful baby brought the gift of inexpressible awe and joy into my soul. My body, however, told my brain that I was a goner. I couldn’t move how I used to move. I couldn’t think straight. My eyes would read a sentence over and over and I’d still have no idea what it said.

Several weeks after giving birth, my body was healing, but my cognitive skills, some motor skills, and my basic sense of consciousness remained as foggy as those first few drugged moments of motherhood.

One night my offspring, the little reward I’d done nothing to deserve, lay sleeping sweetly in her bouncy seat while we were on tour with my husband. He was playing a show while she and I were cozy and quiet, far from the crowds… and the lights …and the fun. I cried as I wrote in my journal about my life being over. Permanently gone. The tear-stained pages bore witness to what doctors call postpartum depression, but I call the Birth of a Mother.

It is a painful reality that sets in when a carefree woman grows into a selfless person who lives to serve another. I was learning to patiently give and give of my existence to a person of equal weight in soul, but incapable of expressing appreciation. Proof my life had changed forever – a thing only beautiful upon hindsight.

Of course I had the normal postpartum depression all women get: the week or two where every hormone leaving the body is filtered by the emotions. The septic stew of chemical messengers was mistranslated so badly in my body it provided my husband with the ghastly spectacle of a one-woman three-ring circus.

But that’s not what I’m talking about here. I’m referring to the realization that the work God had for me to do – the elusive “God’s Plan” that every Christian young person desperately seeks – was the type of work that left me in no way resembling myself.

And then one day…

I’m not sure when the fog lifted, or if that is even the kind of thing that has a precise origin. But, one day I was painting. My baby was napping and my house was clean and my husband was at work and I was painting. Granted it was a portrait of the green stuffed elephant my daughter loved to chew on, but I could feel the color return to my vision. When the painting was finished, I called a friend. Then wrote. And later I learned that if I had people over at Baby's bedtime I could have conversations with grown-ups. Then, I painted again.

The fog does clear. So, my dear friends who are new mommies, or about to be mommies: there is life after baby’s birth. I might be the only woman to ever have a hard time at the beginning of my motherhood, but I doubt it. No matter your fog – it will clear.



"My flesh and my heart may fail,
But God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever."
~ Psalm 73:26

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I Understand

I understand her.
People listen to her, but don't understand. They look at me and say, "I don't know how you understand her."
I just do.

I understood her before anyone else realized she was putting forth expression.
I used to interpret for people out of amazement that I could.
She is becoming aware of privacy and her need for it.
I need it too.

Now she speaks with not only that sweet, inflectional voice, but also with her eyes. Her pauses. Her posture. Her tiny hand reaching for mine.

I understand, so I interpret less - only if I know she wants the other person to understand. She's reached a place where she cares who knows what.
And that I definitely understand!


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Do Trees Make The Wind Blow?

The trees in this area are currently ablaze in all their deciduous glory. I can't help but to stare up at the reds and oranges, maroons and crisp yellows set dynamically against the clear blue sky.

Something else has caught my attention and, unfortunately, I must depart the wonder of this pumpkin-scented autumn to question the mountains of mulch.

Every tree in my pristine suburbia is laced at the ground with a fluffy bed of cypress mulch. The dark brown circles each tree in a shadowy circumference like the dot of an exclamation point. It's not just the delicate, non-native trees that are blanketed in the smelly shreds of former forest flesh. It is also the mighty oaks, hickories and maples indigenous to the naturally beautiful terrain. Nature now pushed behind the boundaries of this plastic paradise.

How did this happen? Has this practice been d.i.y.ed into normalcy?

Cypress mulch is stinky, using it depletes natural cypress forests turning them into wastelands and it is usually covered in non-native fungi that spot the leaves of the very trees it supposedly protects. Then, mulch-lovers have to re-pile again next season.

I'm not an activist, nor do I have a personal vendetta against mulch. It's just that when I was a kid trees simply grew out of the ground. I just wondered if they still can.


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In Honor of Tomorrow's In-Store Appearance...

About 5 years ago I was delivering pizza to a house that either part of or the whole house was a recording studio and music industry offices. I had two hot bags full of pizzas in my hands and a couple of two-liters in a grocery bag hanging on my arm. Their were several people in the entryway trying to figure out who signs the credit card?, where is our assistant?, where do we put this food?, etc.

Being who I am, I often make suggestions when I can tell people don't know what to do. So as the weight of the order pulled my tiny (at the time) frame down I handed the bag of two-liters to the man standing nearest me and said, "Why don't you take that... and I'll set the pizza on this table for you guys?" As the baseball-cap-clad man reached his muscle-defined arm out to take the bag of drinks, I noticed a familiar tattoo on his arm. I felt the instant flush as every red blood cell in my body rushed to my face. I realized I had just told Keith Urban what to do. Though he looked a little perplexed, he did exactly what I asked and held the bag of drinks as a man came to sign for the order. It is probably rare for him to go unrecognized, even for a moment.

After I set out the steaming pizzas, I thanked my helper who seemed to be waiting for an oh-my-gosh-you're-Keith-Urban. I did not oblige. I've delivered pizzas many times to music stars in this area, so I don't know why this encounter took me by surprise, but it did!

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Recession Friendly

I held a lot of random mall jobs when I was between high school and adult life. (I graduated high school at 17 and I consider adult life when I bought my first house at 21 and had a mortgage.) My retail career path followed the well-trodden course of working where my friends worked. This meant a new store every few weeks. Always the trainee, I listened to lecture after lecture from my 19 year old superiors about greeting customers, sizing up customers, trailing suspicious customers and ignoring others.

Now as a real adult (I think) and paying customer, I watch the shop clerk's reaction when I walk into a store to see what they think of my shopping potential. If I'm dressed trendy they suggest whatever has 'just come in' and offer to get a fitting room started. If I have the baby with me they ignore me. If I am wearing a baggie sweatshirt and go straight for the accessories, they follow me. If I'm dressed in normal mom-clothes, they ignore me.

Until a few months ago...

I've been overwhelmingly greeted with smiles lately. The retail clerks actually look me in the eye, an act not taught in my retail days of the late 90's. Its not my attire that elicits this response. I believe its the recession. Sales clerks are warmer and sweeter than a Cracker Barrel apple pie and I like it.

A shoe salesman held a pair of boots for my husband for a week and called twice to make sure he didn't want them before putting them back on the rack. I've been greeted from three directions upon entering a bookstore. And at my local bulls-eye-covered big box store I'm assisted in every aisle whether I need it or not.

I hope the recession goes away for my friends who are hurt by it, but I hope the recession friendliness sticks around a while.

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10 Ways To Live In The Moment - Part 2

10 Ways To Live In The Moment
1. Reality Check. God gives us guidelines for how to think. Its located in the Bible in Philippians 4:8 and no matter what version I check, it always begins with "whatever things are true". So many of my bad days, hours, moments are caused by dwelling on things that are simply not true.

2. Play. Whether its with a child or like a child, playing lightens any moment.

3. Surprise. I love to place a surprise for someone where they will find it and just wait. This works for spouses, children, pets, coworkers, anyone.

4. Remember. Not a distant reminisce, just thinking of people in my life who truly love me right now.

5. Dance. I'm a dancer. A graceful, beautiful dancer, only my body doesn't know it. That's fine. Getting off my rear and moving it brings life to any moment for me.

6. Listen. I try to pick out three noises inside, then three noises outside. Try it.

7. Get Out! My day, my mood, my problems dwarf when I step outside. Granted I live on top of a hill and can cast my view in any direction to distant rolling hills, beautiful no matter the season. What was I worried about???

8. Acknowledge. Once in a while I have the presence of mind to realize I've been in the same room with someone and haven't even acknowledged them. Time to affirm someone.

9. Escape. That may seem like the opposite of living in the moment, but sometimes I have to completely escape to live through a moment. I was once on an airplane and the door opened slightly while at cruising altitude. I thought of everything I could except what was going on in the moment until we landed!

10. Read Scripture. I know its ancient and that may not seem to be a way to live in the moment, but it is filled with hope. Not the good wishes kind of hope like 'I hope it doesn't rain today', but hope for a future with the Creator who made me. It tells me He knows me and planned my existence. It tells me He rescued me and I have nothing to fear. It tells me He conquered death and tells me about the amazing future I have waiting for me when this life is over. That is hope!

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10 Ways To Live In The Moment - Part 1

I'm naturally an optimist. I can quickly find silver linings, easily pick up the pieces and I usually do stop and smell the roses. But, sometimes I'll have one of 'those' days and to snap out of it I'll ask myself, "What can I do to live in the moment?"

So, I'm making a list of "10 Ways To Live In The Moment". But, before I do that, here are some easier-to-make pessimistic lists:

"10 Ways To Live In The Past"
(I'm not interested in such a list, but I'm sure each line would begin with either "Why did I..." or "Why didn't I...".)

"10 Ways To Live In The Future"
think about: bills
death
layoffs
congressional decisions
wrinkles
car repairs
contagious diseases
my child's education
energy prices
unforeseen medical expenses

And the always delightful list:
"10 Ways I Could Suddenly Die Today"
car accident
tornado
heart attack
house fire
armed intruder
freak blow-dryer accident
choke on food
choke on a Chap Stick lid that I should not be holding between my teeth while applying Chap Stick
choke while swallowing a large pill
and, of course, airplane debris falling on me from 35,000 feet above

So, how to live in the moment? Check back for Part 2!

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Rebuilding the Ancient Ruins

Many nights while I give my tiny daughter her bath my husband sits near and plays softly on the guitar. Skillful and excellent the wordless tunes drift sweetly into my soul. My day melts into an evening of peace. He chooses each chord before it is played and I think of his love and how carefully he led our courtship.

I could easily get lost in the melodies, but I keep an ever-watchful eye on my precious treasure as she plays with her tub toys. Knowing the weight of the responsibility before me doesn't keep my spirit from floating adrift along a beautiful coast. I watch as the ancient ruins along the shore are being rebuilt. It is the work of the Lord in my life. His craftsman is my husband and the mortar is the soft, sweet music I've heard these five years. If you know him, its not what you've heard from his stage. Its better. It rebuilds ancient ruins.


"Then they will rebuild the ancient ruins,
They will raise up the former devastations;
And they will repair the ruined cities,
The desolations of many generations."
Isaiah 61:4

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Redemption

Imagine a cute little squirrel with big, round eyes and a fluffy tail. She's a girl squirrel, so give her pretty eyelashes, too. Now watch the squirrel hop into a barrel of acorns. She eats and eats until the proverbial barrel is empty. There she sits sad and remorseful at the bottom of her empty barrel. What does she do, but look up from the darkness to the light of the bright, blue sky.

Yep, I'm the squirrel and my redemption story is a classic tale. God allowed me in my gluttonous zeal to consume every last ounce of self-fulfillment until the barrel of my life was empty. Then, in His kindness, God did not give me anymore ME. Instead He gave me mercy. He called me and I looked up to the Light.

I surrendered and He redeemed me!

Are you depleted yet?

"If we confess our sins, He is faithful and righteous to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness." 1 John 1:9

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Moving Wasn't Normal Then

I love to make lists. I find lists fun to make and comforting when completed. I was thinking today of all the moving my family did while I was growing up. Sometimes we lived in a town for a year and a half, sometimes six weeks. Realizing that I attended 12 different schools before college, not including two years of homeschooling, I thought making a list of my moving adventures would be a challenge.

Let's see...
Born in St. Joseph, Missouri then...
Tuscon, Arizona...
Cypress, California...
Tuscon, Arizona...
Maryville, Missouri (a farmhouse near there anyway)...
Phoenix, Arizona...
Tuscon, Arizona... (two houses)
Topeka, Kansas... (two houses)
Maryville, Missouri...
St. Joseph, Missouri...
Port Neches, Texas...
Clovis, New Mexico...
Lafayette, Louisiana... (two houses)
Paducah, Kentucky...
Houma, Louisiana...
Hendersonville, Tennessee...

Then, I chose to spend a year as an exchange student to Australia. After two more long-term stays in Australia, I've made 12 moves as an adult, but in the same general area, so that's not as fun to list.

The best part of moving as a kid was by far setting up my new room. The best part about moving as an adult is by far setting up my new place. I love where I'm at now and prefer to never move again. Maybe I'll just rearrange the furniture when the newness wears off!

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I Am Not Sure Why I Have A Blog

I've clicked on the links to so many of my friends' blogs over the years and checked out a picture of their baby or wedding or band or mission trip, but read little else and forgot the link.

I've tried Face Book and hated it for enough reasons to warrant a separate article.

I love to write when I believe no one will read it. I always keep journals. (A journal is a bound book of paper made from a tree. I'll explain what a letter is at another time.)

So, I'm not sure why I have a blog. That's what I typed in when it ask for my title. Now, I'll go journal about how I wasted an hour setting up a blog. Good Night.

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