My parents are hopeless at trivia from the 1970's. It always seemed odd to me because, after all, they were alive during that period of time. As a kid, I always thought, "Weren't you paying attention? You're an adult, after all." I remember sitting on the floor between my Dad's knees and feet. Listening and trying to keep up with the laughter and banter above me while my parent's played trivia games. How could they not remember?
They had babies. That's how.
Years from now my kids will be playing a trivia game (we will each be in separate rooms and will have plugged a chip into our brain-held gaming device) and they will wonder why I don't know anything from 2005...on.
And I will tell them it is because in the winter of 2011 we moved to a new house where I couldn't no longer watch the Today Show without them seeing it as well.
And it will be noted that we saw one movie (on dvd) between May of 2011 and January of 2012.
And I will mentioned that one of them woke each night anywhere between 2am and 4am. Instead of coming to get me for whatever was needed, she would simply sit up in bed and shout or cry or scream, until one of arrived to help her.
And it will be noted that another one was a floppy fish of a baby who couldn't figure out how to sleep longer than 5 hours at a stretch.
Monday, January 30, 2012
Thursday, January 26, 2012
Following. Leading.
It never occurred to me that I wouldn't be their first pastor. Or that their heart would be still attached to someone else. I didn't realize that my giddy excitement over a new position meant grief and change for them.
Or rather, I knew it academically, I just didn't know what it would feel like when confronted by it.
I first felt this blow to my ego when I was a youth director. A young 6th grade girl looked me straight in the eyes while saying to her friends, "Oh, I wish Phil was still here." Then she turned and walked away. I spent a good part of my pastoral energy on trying to be more loved than Phil and trying to be impressive enough that people would stop talking about Phil. I wasn't satisfied with my work until I heard some evidence or opinion that let me know I had surpassed this poor man in reputation.
(that young girl is now married and pregnant and friends with me on FB. I came to love her, and she, me. I never shared with her how bloody snotty she was that first night at youth group.)
Next came Internship. Here I was dealt a double blow as I met congregational love for the previous TWO interns along with the supervisor's attachment to his previous interns. There was added baggage of me knowing both the interns. I quickly out shone one of the interns and never came close to the other. She was good at things I would never be comfortable with and I gained an acceptance of this. I was, perhaps, maturing as well.
Then came my first call. Where you would have thought I followed Jesus himself. No, seriously some days I thought I might have. My predecessor goes down in the church's history book as the first healthy pastor in over two decades. After a string of down right crazy and unhealthy pastors, this one was not only healthy she was passionate, gifted, caring and mature. She also had a baby while there. Having a baby makes you REALLY popular with the congregation.
She was also friends with most of my colleagues. I couldn't escape her fan club anywhere I went in town. And she could sing. (I can't sing. It is forever a bruise on my ego.)
All of this ate at me. She became a mythical figure in my mind. On bad days she was this figure I would never live up to, so I tried to read between the notes and newsletter articles to find her mistakes. Hoping a glimpse of her stumbling would ease my panic over this call. On my better days I gave thanks for the notes she left, stood in awe over the work she had done among the congregation and was grateful to have followed such a healthy pastor.
There were more bad days than good ones in my first call. Even now, seven years past, my time there feels twice as long as it really was.
Then one day, she returned to town. Mythical no more, there she was, sitting across from me at a conference table during the conference text study. In the days and weeks to follow I would learn why she was so loved. Her grounded kindness put everyone at ease. She chose her words slowly and thoughtfully. She was strong and passionate and a fierce advocate for those God had given her to care for. She was funny and didn't take herself too seriously. She had impeccable and appropriate boundaries.
While I fretted her return to the town we lived in. I am forever grateful to God that I met her. This person whom I feared and ruminated over, became a friend, a mentor, a colleague.
She shaped my ministry in profound ways. Both by her own being and also by the things I learned about myself as I fretted over her mythical presence.
The congregation nearly broke me. Or it did break me, in all the right ways. Left enough cracks so that God could work on me. Teaching me a thing or two about the size of love. That adoration isn't the goal of ministry. That there is enough love to go around. That I really needed to get over myself...
Or rather, I knew it academically, I just didn't know what it would feel like when confronted by it.
I first felt this blow to my ego when I was a youth director. A young 6th grade girl looked me straight in the eyes while saying to her friends, "Oh, I wish Phil was still here." Then she turned and walked away. I spent a good part of my pastoral energy on trying to be more loved than Phil and trying to be impressive enough that people would stop talking about Phil. I wasn't satisfied with my work until I heard some evidence or opinion that let me know I had surpassed this poor man in reputation.
(that young girl is now married and pregnant and friends with me on FB. I came to love her, and she, me. I never shared with her how bloody snotty she was that first night at youth group.)
Next came Internship. Here I was dealt a double blow as I met congregational love for the previous TWO interns along with the supervisor's attachment to his previous interns. There was added baggage of me knowing both the interns. I quickly out shone one of the interns and never came close to the other. She was good at things I would never be comfortable with and I gained an acceptance of this. I was, perhaps, maturing as well.
Then came my first call. Where you would have thought I followed Jesus himself. No, seriously some days I thought I might have. My predecessor goes down in the church's history book as the first healthy pastor in over two decades. After a string of down right crazy and unhealthy pastors, this one was not only healthy she was passionate, gifted, caring and mature. She also had a baby while there. Having a baby makes you REALLY popular with the congregation.
She was also friends with most of my colleagues. I couldn't escape her fan club anywhere I went in town. And she could sing. (I can't sing. It is forever a bruise on my ego.)
All of this ate at me. She became a mythical figure in my mind. On bad days she was this figure I would never live up to, so I tried to read between the notes and newsletter articles to find her mistakes. Hoping a glimpse of her stumbling would ease my panic over this call. On my better days I gave thanks for the notes she left, stood in awe over the work she had done among the congregation and was grateful to have followed such a healthy pastor.
There were more bad days than good ones in my first call. Even now, seven years past, my time there feels twice as long as it really was.
Then one day, she returned to town. Mythical no more, there she was, sitting across from me at a conference table during the conference text study. In the days and weeks to follow I would learn why she was so loved. Her grounded kindness put everyone at ease. She chose her words slowly and thoughtfully. She was strong and passionate and a fierce advocate for those God had given her to care for. She was funny and didn't take herself too seriously. She had impeccable and appropriate boundaries.
While I fretted her return to the town we lived in. I am forever grateful to God that I met her. This person whom I feared and ruminated over, became a friend, a mentor, a colleague.
She shaped my ministry in profound ways. Both by her own being and also by the things I learned about myself as I fretted over her mythical presence.
The congregation nearly broke me. Or it did break me, in all the right ways. Left enough cracks so that God could work on me. Teaching me a thing or two about the size of love. That adoration isn't the goal of ministry. That there is enough love to go around. That I really needed to get over myself...
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
10 Years of Puppy Love
The answer was "of course," and just a few months later we began looking for the perfect puppy to come live with us. We found a litter born in January, not too horribly far from our home. It was across the border back in Minnesota, north of us a hour or so.
One night after school and work we drove over to meet the breeders, the mother and the litter of pups. It was a large victorian styled house and the dogs were all in the large, unfinished basement. The family who breed the dogs weren't professional breeders--they just loved their dog and thought it might be fun for their family to try. The human family had a number of kids, all of whom were asleep when we arrived.
My husband and I sat on the concrete floor, giddy over all the cuteness the came pouncing up to us. Some puppies slept, some ignored us, other gave us a greeting but then bounded off to do other things. The runt of the litter crawled up in my husband's lap and then bounced around on him for quite sometime. Our memory is that she stayed with us while most of the rest of them fell asleep (it was nearing 8 or 9pm). I don't remember anything else except looking back at house and feeling such joy upon finding this puppy.
A few weeks later we would pick her up outside a hockey arena in northern Minnesota. I had cashed in a number of savings bonds that my Great Grandmother had given me as payment for this new family member and I had the checkbook in my pocket as we stood in the frigid weather exchanging paperwork. The children of the family had named each of the puppies. The daughter, who was about 4 or 5, looked up at me as she told me our puppy's name--Annabelle. Something about the little girl and the way she handed me the puppy, made me decide to keep the name. I liked it and at the time had no consideration of the fact I might like the name, or a variation of it, for a human baby in years to come.
I changed the spelling to Annebelle--with an 'e.' I don't know why exactly. It felt more Scandinavian or more likely I just wanted to be...unique? I liked the idea of correcting her spelling at obedience classes. ??? In any case she has paperwork to prove her uniqueness and my nutso-ness.
This all took place ten years ago. The photo above shows her age, but her day to day health does not. Like all of us, she had a rough go of it in her teen years and even into her early adulthood. It is a darn good thing for her we never intended to hunt with her. She spent years in obedience training and did exceptional, except for the fact she won't sit or lay down in wet grass. She also has bouts of hives and allergic reactions to weeds, grasses and perhaps some foods. Don't get anyone started on her obsessive tenancies in ball retrieval. She loves a good snowfall. A light snow ball to the face is among her greatest joys. She's sweet and well behaved. She doesn't really snuggle or want to be around us---unless we have food or a ball, but due to loving Grandparents and a Dad who remembers to play and feed her each day, these last few years have been good ones for her. The click of her toenails on our floors is part of our family's soundtrack.
Happy Birthday, Annebelle. We love you!
Monday, January 23, 2012
Well, that could have been awkward.
I pump milk for LP four times a day. I have the pump set up near the computer so I can watch tv shows or catch up on facebook fun. I sit just to the right, facing a patio sliding door. Often I enjoy the trees and snow falling as I sit there. More often, the blinds are closed.
Today, while vacuuming I pulled the cord on the blinds too hard and it came crashing to the floor. While it is an easy fix to get it back up, but I didn't get to it right away.
I stopped pumping in the mid-morning a month or so ago.
As with most houses a person comes around to read the electric meter. They walk on foot and often need to come very far into people's yards.
These are not random facts. They tie together seamlessly this way...
I am giving sincere thanks that today was not the day I caused permanent damage to a young man by pumping in front of my computer when the blinds are up/broken. (his vision and his mental state were all in jeopardy, although it might be good birth control from our young men.)
Fact number #142,000 we are learning about our new house--the meter reader has to get right up on the back deck to read our meter. Windows surrounding him. I'm going to go mark the calendar for March right now.
(he did get to see my cleaning outfit--green pj bottoms with white polka dots and a over-sized pregnancy t shirt. The black socks and black dress clogs finished off the look.)
Today, while vacuuming I pulled the cord on the blinds too hard and it came crashing to the floor. While it is an easy fix to get it back up, but I didn't get to it right away.
I stopped pumping in the mid-morning a month or so ago.
As with most houses a person comes around to read the electric meter. They walk on foot and often need to come very far into people's yards.
These are not random facts. They tie together seamlessly this way...
I am giving sincere thanks that today was not the day I caused permanent damage to a young man by pumping in front of my computer when the blinds are up/broken. (his vision and his mental state were all in jeopardy, although it might be good birth control from our young men.)
Fact number #142,000 we are learning about our new house--the meter reader has to get right up on the back deck to read our meter. Windows surrounding him. I'm going to go mark the calendar for March right now.
(he did get to see my cleaning outfit--green pj bottoms with white polka dots and a over-sized pregnancy t shirt. The black socks and black dress clogs finished off the look.)
Friday, January 20, 2012
Six Things
LP is six months old today. In celebration of his short life here are six things about him.
1. We still call him Little Pooky.
2. He cut two teeth-together-the week following Christmas.
3. LP's defining characteristic is his smile.
4. He thinks I am the most hilarious person on earth. (Is that about him, or me?)
5. He has the most marvelous, soft, hair--it sticks straight up on his head.
6. He would eat 2 ounces of milk every hour if I allowed such a system to be in place. Can we say future grazer?
A longer post to come next week. Happy 1/2 Birthday, my dear son!
Thursday, January 19, 2012
My Milk was Stored in Someone Else's Freezer.
The title isn't meant to be a test of how risque your mind is. Although it does have a euphemistic air to it, doesn't it?
No, this is a list of all those things that parenting make you say...that never in your wildest mind thought would come out of your mouth.
"Sweetheart, your underwear doesn't need to match your sippy cup." (from a FB friend's status.)
"EG stop spinning and falling down on your brother."
"BB, wipe your bottom in the bathroom."
"Let's not eat the food off the car floor."
"Yes, today you need to wear shoes to school."
"I don't think your teacher sleeps in her car."
"No you can't drive yourself to school."
"Take your hands out of your pants before we go into the store."
"The green doesn't taste better than yellow." (buggers)
"No, I haven't peed my pants in a few years..."
You've got good ones, too. I know it.
No, this is a list of all those things that parenting make you say...that never in your wildest mind thought would come out of your mouth.
"Sweetheart, your underwear doesn't need to match your sippy cup." (from a FB friend's status.)
"EG stop spinning and falling down on your brother."
"BB, wipe your bottom in the bathroom."
"Let's not eat the food off the car floor."
"Yes, today you need to wear shoes to school."
"I don't think your teacher sleeps in her car."
"No you can't drive yourself to school."
"Take your hands out of your pants before we go into the store."
"The green doesn't taste better than yellow." (buggers)
"No, I haven't peed my pants in a few years..."
You've got good ones, too. I know it.
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Sparkle and Pop
It has me thinking about how things fit. It's not just clothing that we need to try on and wear for a while to see if it works. I often feel I'm wearing an attitude or opinion that doesn't fit. Many a day, my mood feels too tight.
One scan across the boxes of clothing and I wonder, "Why do I own that?" or "How did this piece get in here?"
I have a similar feeling about parts of my life. "How'd we end up here, again?," "Where did that come from?," Who are these people?"
Many months ago I mentally compared the town we live in to a pair of ill fitting jeans.
You know the pair. Functional, sure. If your only goal is not to be naked, (and some days it is) they work just fine. They have a few qualities that attracted you to them (or keep you satisfied). Until you try to sit in them. Or climb stairs. Or reach up to grab something on a high shelf. You are reminded once again, "Oh, yeah...these don't fit." For me that feeling of ill fitting clothing can ruin a whole day--or at least serve as a awful distraction.
This place is like that for me. A conversation is too forced., the opinions around me too tight and the overall culture too stale and I remember; "Oh, yeah I don't fit here."
But the best stylists can make an outfit work with accessories. When it comes to fashion, accessories is where I always fall short. I can pick gorgeous clothing and stunning shoes, but I can never get the rest right.** But in life...in life, it is my "accessories" that make this ill fitting place work.
The sparkle and 'pop' of my friends is why I keep getting dressed each day. Their presence, and help, makes me forget the rest of my wardrobe issues. The stability and consistency of my husband and kids is like those staple earnings you are always complimented on but never think about as you put them on. Ever thankful for their presence. Irreplaceable if lost. Always startled by their beauty when you stop to look at them again.
I'm so thankful for the people that add sparkle and stability to my days. I guess I am also thankful I'm not naked.
You are too.
** "I can pick gorgeous clothing and stunning shoes, but I can never get the rest right." I said I CAN--I did not say that I HAVE in nearly 7 years.
Monday, January 16, 2012
Holiday
I know it is Monday. I know I am trying to write five days a week. But everyone else in my house has a holiday, so I am taking one, too.
Thursday, January 12, 2012
Slow day at Fleet Farm--1993
I began opening boxes today. I was chugging along until I opened the 'memory box.' I was putting a journal back and a list fell out. Apparently it was a slow day at the Fleet Farm cash register, lane 8. July 29, 1993--just a month short of my 21st birthday. (seven years to the date before I would be married.) It would have been the summer before my junior year in college.
A list of things I, apparently, wanted to do in my life. Thankfully, I put no goal date on my list.
handwriting class
vocb improve
play golf
tennis lessons
chess
drive boat
know how to change tires, oil
have financial understanding
write a book-short story
cook 1 thing really well
have understanding of wine
get job
have dog
garden, plant, have flowers in home
be in a play
feel comfortable on horse-jump with a horse
get job
learn Spanish better
finish a triathlon
live in a house with others
write resume
volunteer
improve GPA
art design lessons
have an article published
have children
husband
travel-British Columbia, Scotland, England, Norway/Sweden, see every state, Mexico?
have traditions-style i.e. tea at 4pm with scones
get job
read Bible
Collect-children's books for the illustrations, tea cups
nationals XC
Masters
Ph.D
Leave mark on world around me. Add to people and their lives. Do onto others as I wish them to do on to me.
I retyped this as it was written. I am not sure when I crossed out some of the ideas. (They aren't crossed off because I accomplished them.) Some made me laugh out loud. Some made me cry. Mostly they made me even more aware of the need for empathy.
A list of things I, apparently, wanted to do in my life. Thankfully, I put no goal date on my list.
vocb improve
play golf
tennis lessons
drive boat
know how to change tires, oil
have financial understanding
write a book-short story
cook 1 thing really well
have understanding of wine
get job
have dog
garden, plant, have flowers in home
be in a play
get job
learn Spanish better
finish a triathlon
live in a house with others
write resume
volunteer
improve GPA
art design lessons
have an article published
have children
husband
travel-British Columbia, Scotland, England, Norway/Sweden, see every state, Mexico?
have traditions-style i.e. tea at 4pm with scones
get job
read Bible
Collect-children's books for the illustrations, tea cups
nationals XC
Masters
Ph.D
Leave mark on world around me. Add to people and their lives. Do onto others as I wish them to do on to me.
I retyped this as it was written. I am not sure when I crossed out some of the ideas. (They aren't crossed off because I accomplished them.) Some made me laugh out loud. Some made me cry. Mostly they made me even more aware of the need for empathy.
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
Empathy Training
There is an article being posted and shared on Facebook right now. It is from the Momastery blog. Her entry titled, Don't Carpe diem struck a cord with many a parent. A seminary classmate of mine re-posted in her wall, stating that even though she didn't have kids the thoughts were appreciated for many areas of life.
I started thinking how true this was. The author's description of parenting as a comparison to climbing a mountain is so spot on, I want to cry at its clarity and insight. The main event in the blog entry is an older woman's insistence to seize and appreciate each day with your kids--that she loved every minute of her time with her kids.
Such euphoric thoughts are simply not possible. And if that is too strong of a sentence, maybe it is only because the feeling of warm baby spit up running down the inside of your shirt, while the other children fight over who gets to stand in front of the mirror to brush their teeth (One naked. One wearing only a shirt and shoes.), is too distant of a memory for you.
Then I started working again. I went to work and ran across someone at a different stage in life. Younger. Learning. Just figuring out the answers to questions I have long forgotten. I should note that pastors are odd people. We just are. We dedicate our lives to a ministry and way of life that is increasingly out of step with the rest of the world. Or the world is out of touch with us. Anyway, many pastors have difficultly not getting bogged down in esoteric goobling gush. And he's fresh out of seminary--the hive and very definition of esoteric.
Every time he and I talk, I catch myself wanting to tell him the answers to his questions. To share the lessons my first parishioners taught me, the ways in which supply preaching changed me, the way it actually feels to sit in a pew and how messy congregational life is as a leader and as an adult participant. I stop myself from letting him in on the secret that seminary is vitally important, but most of what he learned--all the fun new words and ways to critique churches--won't matter as much as his tone when talking to the secretary on any given Tuesday.
But I feel this way only because I lived through seminary and internship and am ten years past this stage. I've asked alot of questions and made peace with the fact some answers never come. Similarly, I listen to his 20 something commentary--the bravado and defensiveness of an adult who, while doing the adult stuff, still feels like they are playing dress up in their parent's clothes--through ears that have been there. And, thankfully made it safely to my (late) 30's.
He needs my empathy. What he's doing is important to him. His questions and commentary comes out of genuine interest and active pursuit. One day he'll forgot why the questions were so important. Until then he doesn't need me to define how he is doing or to tell him what will really matter in his ministry.
He needs me ask him what he's studying. To inquire about his classes. Then he needs me--and my ego--to shrug off the fact I rarely even know what he's talking about and be glad he's caring enough to ask the question.
I started thinking how true this was. The author's description of parenting as a comparison to climbing a mountain is so spot on, I want to cry at its clarity and insight. The main event in the blog entry is an older woman's insistence to seize and appreciate each day with your kids--that she loved every minute of her time with her kids.
Such euphoric thoughts are simply not possible. And if that is too strong of a sentence, maybe it is only because the feeling of warm baby spit up running down the inside of your shirt, while the other children fight over who gets to stand in front of the mirror to brush their teeth (One naked. One wearing only a shirt and shoes.), is too distant of a memory for you.
Then I started working again. I went to work and ran across someone at a different stage in life. Younger. Learning. Just figuring out the answers to questions I have long forgotten. I should note that pastors are odd people. We just are. We dedicate our lives to a ministry and way of life that is increasingly out of step with the rest of the world. Or the world is out of touch with us. Anyway, many pastors have difficultly not getting bogged down in esoteric goobling gush. And he's fresh out of seminary--the hive and very definition of esoteric.
Every time he and I talk, I catch myself wanting to tell him the answers to his questions. To share the lessons my first parishioners taught me, the ways in which supply preaching changed me, the way it actually feels to sit in a pew and how messy congregational life is as a leader and as an adult participant. I stop myself from letting him in on the secret that seminary is vitally important, but most of what he learned--all the fun new words and ways to critique churches--won't matter as much as his tone when talking to the secretary on any given Tuesday.
But I feel this way only because I lived through seminary and internship and am ten years past this stage. I've asked alot of questions and made peace with the fact some answers never come. Similarly, I listen to his 20 something commentary--the bravado and defensiveness of an adult who, while doing the adult stuff, still feels like they are playing dress up in their parent's clothes--through ears that have been there. And, thankfully made it safely to my (late) 30's.
He needs my empathy. What he's doing is important to him. His questions and commentary comes out of genuine interest and active pursuit. One day he'll forgot why the questions were so important. Until then he doesn't need me to define how he is doing or to tell him what will really matter in his ministry.
He needs me ask him what he's studying. To inquire about his classes. Then he needs me--and my ego--to shrug off the fact I rarely even know what he's talking about and be glad he's caring enough to ask the question.
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
What I Want to Be Doing...
Here is what I should be working on. Opening boxes. Finding places for the lost articles of clothes. Re-shelving books. Creating basic order in our home.
Here is what I want to be working on...
Melted Crayons art for LP's room.
I also want to create my own version of these maps.
(both can be found on Etsy.)
I am mentally creating a wall grouping made out of maps and collages from the places we have lived. I got a number of scrapbook type stickers and embellishments for a few of the states. As I began one of the collages this afternoon, I realized I probably have some great postcards and other genuine items from two of the states (WV and ID)...which means, I have to go to the basement.
And dig through some of these...
Monday, January 09, 2012
What's the opposite
What's the opposite of resolute?
faltering, hesitant, indecisive, irresolute, undetermined, unresolved, vacillating, wavering, weak-kneed
These are all suggestions.
Seeing as I wrote out my resolutions for the new year while snacking on pretzels, stopped a woman at the grocery store to ask where she got her hair cut, and bought a scone to go with my coffee this morning on the way to work, the new year resolutions are off to rocking start.
Here's to Monday and trying it all over again.
faltering, hesitant, indecisive, irresolute, undetermined, unresolved, vacillating, wavering, weak-kneed
These are all suggestions.
Seeing as I wrote out my resolutions for the new year while snacking on pretzels, stopped a woman at the grocery store to ask where she got her hair cut, and bought a scone to go with my coffee this morning on the way to work, the new year resolutions are off to rocking start.
Here's to Monday and trying it all over again.
Friday, January 06, 2012
Resolute
Resolute: marked by firm determination
Well, maybe. How about, going to give it my best shot? Not quite the same ring, but it's a start. This particular list also has the added pressure of being "things I want to have done/in place by the time I am 40."
1. I have decided to grow my hair out for locks of love. It is something I have meant to do for a number of years. I have also always wanted to have long hair. This is almost an anti-goal as it only means I need to stop getting my hair cut--easy enough, right? right.
2. Learn to knit something besides baby hats. And, make a few baby hats to have on hand to give away.
3. Make peace with former athlete and become more active. I won't be the woman I was, but I don't have to completely ignore her either. Try the couch to 5k series.
(subtle subtext to number 3: lose weight, gain muscle.)
A few things to help on that goal.
*I can eat all the cookies, cakes and goodies that I make in my house. Unless it is a super fun party and the host worked hard and it would be rude to not partake.
*I will each lunch mostly at my house. (again I say mostly, because I just can't cut it out completely--but I can limit it to once a week or biweekly.)
*Stop eating in front of tvs and computer screens.
*make exercise social. Invite people for walks, not just coffee.
4. Work on monthly sermons more that two days ahead of time.
5. Write every day. Blog and elsewhere.
General attitudinal challenges:
Find ways to show what I care about. Be honest and more confident in my own voice.
Know thyself, and listen.
Practice grace--even with my kids and family.
That's it. That's enough.
*I did this at the nudging of the blog Hollywood Housewife. She's right. Writing it down does give it a bit more power and potential influence.
Well, maybe. How about, going to give it my best shot? Not quite the same ring, but it's a start. This particular list also has the added pressure of being "things I want to have done/in place by the time I am 40."
1. I have decided to grow my hair out for locks of love. It is something I have meant to do for a number of years. I have also always wanted to have long hair. This is almost an anti-goal as it only means I need to stop getting my hair cut--easy enough, right? right.
2. Learn to knit something besides baby hats. And, make a few baby hats to have on hand to give away.
3. Make peace with former athlete and become more active. I won't be the woman I was, but I don't have to completely ignore her either. Try the couch to 5k series.
(subtle subtext to number 3: lose weight, gain muscle.)
A few things to help on that goal.
*I can eat all the cookies, cakes and goodies that I make in my house. Unless it is a super fun party and the host worked hard and it would be rude to not partake.
*I will each lunch mostly at my house. (again I say mostly, because I just can't cut it out completely--but I can limit it to once a week or biweekly.)
*Stop eating in front of tvs and computer screens.
*make exercise social. Invite people for walks, not just coffee.
4. Work on monthly sermons more that two days ahead of time.
5. Write every day. Blog and elsewhere.
General attitudinal challenges:
Find ways to show what I care about. Be honest and more confident in my own voice.
Know thyself, and listen.
Practice grace--even with my kids and family.
That's it. That's enough.
*I did this at the nudging of the blog Hollywood Housewife. She's right. Writing it down does give it a bit more power and potential influence.
Thursday, January 05, 2012
The Christmas Tree
Eleven years of marriage has meant countless hours of compromise. Hundreds of conversations about our families of origin. We have many differences that have weighed down negotiations. But the Christmas tree came as a shock to both of us this year.
We have spent nearly every Christmas at my parent's home. Our previous house wasn't the best space for a tree. This means "how do you decorate a Christmas tree" has never been a topic of conversation. Until this year. In our NEW home. With 39 years of my expectation hanging on each and every branch.
Every Christmas for around 30 years, I received a silver bell engraved with the year on it from my Grandparents. And every year I heard how beautiful my Christmas tree would look one day when I was an adult. White lights and silver bells will be enough of a tree. It will be stunning.
The neatly wrapped bell box was always under the tree. It never held a candle to the Barbie boxes or the Benetton sweaters...or the year we got the Coke Cola rugby jerseys, but it was there, future tradition growing with each passing year. A constant. Similar to the love it was given with.
I grew up in a multi-tree family. (Christmas trees are a sub genre to the Christmas crazy, aren't they.) We had three trees. The main tree which held white crocheted snow flakes which my other Grandma made for my mom. A themed tree of birds and nature type ornaments. Both of these trees held white (tiny) lights. Then there was the kid's tree in the basement family room. It held colored lights, paper chains, and every ornament we made plus the miscellaneous ones that didn't match the upstairs tree.
My husband grew up with a tree that held large colored lights and a variety of ornaments.
You see the dilemma. It should not be inferred that because I took up a paragraph talking about my trees to my husband's sentence, that his opinion on Christmas trees would be equally as sparse.
Seeing as we moved nine days before Christmas, many people wouldn't have even bothered with a tree, but we were hosting Christmas at our house and wanted it to look festive. (yes. hosting. at our house.) I am grateful my husband tore himself away from the boxes and ran around town one night to find the tree. He also got lights from Target's remaining light selection.
Big white lights. And in the end, not enough of them. You see how quickly my gratefulness turns to (judgmental) commentary. (just a suspicion, but I'm not sure this helped my case.)
The whole brouhaha started when I made a move to ban any of the kid's homemade ornaments from the tree. He balked and fast. The kid's each have a small table top tree in their room. I was wondering out loud if I wanted the glass balls up on their trees this year (would they break, etc.), when my husband stopped me and used words like " it's a family tree, isn't it" and "your own personal tree."
Ah, yes...Jesus was born for such a conversation.
Thankfully our eleven years of negotiating much larger issues came in handy and the Great Tree Debate was settled. (for THIS year.) I am sure next year I can better communicate the years of childhood dreams and expectations that ring with each bell. (on a tree with small white lights and maybe. MAYBE a few other ornaments.)
Every Christmas for around 30 years, I received a silver bell engraved with the year on it from my Grandparents. And every year I heard how beautiful my Christmas tree would look one day when I was an adult. White lights and silver bells will be enough of a tree. It will be stunning.
The neatly wrapped bell box was always under the tree. It never held a candle to the Barbie boxes or the Benetton sweaters...or the year we got the Coke Cola rugby jerseys, but it was there, future tradition growing with each passing year. A constant. Similar to the love it was given with.
My husband grew up with a tree that held large colored lights and a variety of ornaments.
You see the dilemma. It should not be inferred that because I took up a paragraph talking about my trees to my husband's sentence, that his opinion on Christmas trees would be equally as sparse.
Seeing as we moved nine days before Christmas, many people wouldn't have even bothered with a tree, but we were hosting Christmas at our house and wanted it to look festive. (yes. hosting. at our house.) I am grateful my husband tore himself away from the boxes and ran around town one night to find the tree. He also got lights from Target's remaining light selection.
Big white lights. And in the end, not enough of them. You see how quickly my gratefulness turns to (judgmental) commentary. (just a suspicion, but I'm not sure this helped my case.)
The whole brouhaha started when I made a move to ban any of the kid's homemade ornaments from the tree. He balked and fast. The kid's each have a small table top tree in their room. I was wondering out loud if I wanted the glass balls up on their trees this year (would they break, etc.), when my husband stopped me and used words like " it's a family tree, isn't it" and "your own personal tree."
Ah, yes...Jesus was born for such a conversation.
Thankfully our eleven years of negotiating much larger issues came in handy and the Great Tree Debate was settled. (for THIS year.) I am sure next year I can better communicate the years of childhood dreams and expectations that ring with each bell. (on a tree with small white lights and maybe. MAYBE a few other ornaments.)
Wednesday, January 04, 2012
The Home that Is
I am just back from the school my kids attend. The silence (well, near) of my house is such a joyful and renewing sound. LP is fussing a bit as he struggles to understand that it is nap time. The dog has pranced around the yard and has returned to her warm spot in the living room. She lays in the sunshine, and as the day goes on she'll move with the sun in the multi-windowed room.
There are boxes in the basement yet to be unpacked. There are boxes of electronics to my right. Cords and remotes. A tv screen and a printer yet to be hooked up. On the couch is a pile of papers which no one knows quite what to do with. In the living room LP's various play seats and play mats are scattered around. Only one piece of art has been hung on the wall. The Christmas decorations have been taken down in various spots, but not being fully packed away, leaving piles of garland, ornaments and decorations on various tables.
It is complete chaos. It is not how I want it to be. It is not how it will always be. But this is how it is today. It feels like home.
Just a few months ago, I renewed my obsessive search for a new home. I began to look at the homes listed on my local realtor's webpage and one day a white colonial from the late 70's showed up in our price range. It is in the neighborhood that we had narrowed our search to and many parts of its description fit our criteria. For no real reason outside of "why not" we scheduled a showing. Our house had not sold. We had only recently re-listed it as "FSBO." There were many other areas of our life we could (should) have been attending to, but I couldn't (wouldn't) let this part go.
We toured the home. Both of us stated that it was nearly perfect for our price and requirements and went back to our lives.
A few more weeks past and with just one showing our house sold. We immediately took a second look at this home and the proverbial "ball" was officially in motion.
It has everything our other house didn't. A large yard. A bedroom for everyone. Walls between rooms. Stainless steal appliances. grin. (If I ever hear someone say how immensely important these are to the purchase of a home again, I may scream right then and there. If you hang out with me, you have been forewarned.) Closet space. Room for toilet paper under the bathroom cabinets. A garage large enough for two cars. Flat streets to learn to ride bikes on. Large older trees.
It also has character. Or flaws, depending on how you frame the world.
This is perhaps what I love most about it. The fact it isn't all shiny and new. It isn't falling apart or in need of work. But the walls have held many a frame and there have been some projects that went better than others. Previous owners have added layers of improvements, along with changes that make us scratch our heads.
It feels like a home. It doesn't completely feel like our home, but it will. Someday soon I'll get the photos and art hung. I'll dig out the various projects I have been meaning to do and I can just feel my creative energies begin to take flight.
It came with no magical properties. Our lives weren't radically changed just by casting off the old house and donning a new one. The kids still run around crazy before school--forgetting they need socks and shoes (every day, people...every. day.) We are still late for worship on Sunday mornings. LP still doesn't sleep through the night. I haven't lost any weight or picked up a weight for that matter. My husband still obsesses about odd things.
There is still work to do. But now, I guess I feel like this Work in Progress has a space in which to do her work more effectively. Still work, but at least now I feel at home while I have at it.
There are boxes in the basement yet to be unpacked. There are boxes of electronics to my right. Cords and remotes. A tv screen and a printer yet to be hooked up. On the couch is a pile of papers which no one knows quite what to do with. In the living room LP's various play seats and play mats are scattered around. Only one piece of art has been hung on the wall. The Christmas decorations have been taken down in various spots, but not being fully packed away, leaving piles of garland, ornaments and decorations on various tables.
It is complete chaos. It is not how I want it to be. It is not how it will always be. But this is how it is today. It feels like home.
Just a few months ago, I renewed my obsessive search for a new home. I began to look at the homes listed on my local realtor's webpage and one day a white colonial from the late 70's showed up in our price range. It is in the neighborhood that we had narrowed our search to and many parts of its description fit our criteria. For no real reason outside of "why not" we scheduled a showing. Our house had not sold. We had only recently re-listed it as "FSBO." There were many other areas of our life we could (should) have been attending to, but I couldn't (wouldn't) let this part go.
We toured the home. Both of us stated that it was nearly perfect for our price and requirements and went back to our lives.
A few more weeks past and with just one showing our house sold. We immediately took a second look at this home and the proverbial "ball" was officially in motion.
It has everything our other house didn't. A large yard. A bedroom for everyone. Walls between rooms. Stainless steal appliances. grin. (If I ever hear someone say how immensely important these are to the purchase of a home again, I may scream right then and there. If you hang out with me, you have been forewarned.) Closet space. Room for toilet paper under the bathroom cabinets. A garage large enough for two cars. Flat streets to learn to ride bikes on. Large older trees.
It also has character. Or flaws, depending on how you frame the world.
This is perhaps what I love most about it. The fact it isn't all shiny and new. It isn't falling apart or in need of work. But the walls have held many a frame and there have been some projects that went better than others. Previous owners have added layers of improvements, along with changes that make us scratch our heads.
It feels like a home. It doesn't completely feel like our home, but it will. Someday soon I'll get the photos and art hung. I'll dig out the various projects I have been meaning to do and I can just feel my creative energies begin to take flight.
It came with no magical properties. Our lives weren't radically changed just by casting off the old house and donning a new one. The kids still run around crazy before school--forgetting they need socks and shoes (every day, people...every. day.) We are still late for worship on Sunday mornings. LP still doesn't sleep through the night. I haven't lost any weight or picked up a weight for that matter. My husband still obsesses about odd things.
There is still work to do. But now, I guess I feel like this Work in Progress has a space in which to do her work more effectively. Still work, but at least now I feel at home while I have at it.
Tuesday, January 03, 2012
The House that Was
Seven years ago we bought our first home. Together, we had lived in two other spaces. One a graduate school apartment nearing the size of a VW, and the other a mid-century ranch parsonage.
We didn't move to our current town with great joy or even excitement. Looking back, we don't really know why we moved. The whirling events of that time in our life is a topic for another day. I bring it up only to punctuate my apathy towards the house we would buy and move into.
The house was the best option we could find. (and after 7 years in this community, I am pleased we purchased where and what we did.) When we purchased it, we only knew it had a foundation. In a very quick fashion we choose the materials for this home being built for us. It was exciting and overwhelming at the same time. When we finally moved it was to a small apartment where we and our boxes hung out for a few weeks before actually moving into the new home, in a new subdivision., in the middle of corn fields.
It was a 1,200 sq ft shot gun style ranch home. It looked exactly like every other vinyl clan house on the street. Inside the only color we originally picked came from the blue counter tops I choose--most everything else was beige, in an attempt to please the next buyer. (Even our paint selection signaled our hesitance to put down roots in this place.)
We moved out last month. It was a whirl wind move that didn't allow for any emotional reflection or final teary eyed walk throughs. We were in hot mess-moving panic for 48 hours (straight). When I think back over the house itself, very little emotion comes to me. The only real character in the house comes from the yard. The only place in the house that signals we--in all our unique glory--were there was in the planting of trees and flowers. We planted more trees than the yard could hold. Hydrangeas from our wedding were planted along side the house. Hostas from my husband's childhood home were all around the house. We amended the hell out of that clay soil. While we eventually changed flooring and painted walls, our real effort was concentrated on the yard. This tiny postage stamp of grass was our refuge and entertainment on many a weekend. In another 5 years (or less) the owners will need to clear out some of what we (over) planted. But while we lived there it was pure joy to watch the trees bud and the flowers color the yard.
I'll always have mixed feelings about this house--the one I was never sure I wanted to move to. It is the place I brought all three of my babies home to. Where they learned to crawl and walk and run. It was host to nine birthday parties, three baptisms, a brunch, a few informal gatherings and one Christmas. It is also the site of many heart breaking moments in my life.
It is the kitchen where I had my final phone conversation with my Grandfather. A phone call where I was encouraging him on in his health setback, while his voice was preparing me for what he knew was inevitable.
It is the den where I first read the email sharing the news that my Godmother had pancreatic cancer.
It is the living room that stood as a metaphor for my life as I slowly let the kids take it over.
It is the space that never quite allowed me to live the life I had hoped I would have as an adult.
It was the home that should have worked but never quite fit me. But something about that uncomfortableness pushed me forward. It was from within those walls that I found the strength to join new groups, to actively pursue friendships and fully jump into this new town.
And the sunshine streaming in the kitchen windows may never be replicated.
We got everything we could out of our time there...we lived there until we just couldn't any more. You can tell that each of us are more than ok moving on from this house. We don't really talk about it. No one asks to drive by. The kids do talk fondly of the person who bought it from us. I can tell they hope she'll take good care of it and that the home will be good to her. I hope so, too.
Tomorrow I'll reflect on the home that is. (surprise, surprise it has no magical properties that instantly transformed our lives....)
We didn't move to our current town with great joy or even excitement. Looking back, we don't really know why we moved. The whirling events of that time in our life is a topic for another day. I bring it up only to punctuate my apathy towards the house we would buy and move into.
The house was the best option we could find. (and after 7 years in this community, I am pleased we purchased where and what we did.) When we purchased it, we only knew it had a foundation. In a very quick fashion we choose the materials for this home being built for us. It was exciting and overwhelming at the same time. When we finally moved it was to a small apartment where we and our boxes hung out for a few weeks before actually moving into the new home, in a new subdivision., in the middle of corn fields.
It was a 1,200 sq ft shot gun style ranch home. It looked exactly like every other vinyl clan house on the street. Inside the only color we originally picked came from the blue counter tops I choose--most everything else was beige, in an attempt to please the next buyer. (Even our paint selection signaled our hesitance to put down roots in this place.)
We moved out last month. It was a whirl wind move that didn't allow for any emotional reflection or final teary eyed walk throughs. We were in hot mess-moving panic for 48 hours (straight). When I think back over the house itself, very little emotion comes to me. The only real character in the house comes from the yard. The only place in the house that signals we--in all our unique glory--were there was in the planting of trees and flowers. We planted more trees than the yard could hold. Hydrangeas from our wedding were planted along side the house. Hostas from my husband's childhood home were all around the house. We amended the hell out of that clay soil. While we eventually changed flooring and painted walls, our real effort was concentrated on the yard. This tiny postage stamp of grass was our refuge and entertainment on many a weekend. In another 5 years (or less) the owners will need to clear out some of what we (over) planted. But while we lived there it was pure joy to watch the trees bud and the flowers color the yard.
I'll always have mixed feelings about this house--the one I was never sure I wanted to move to. It is the place I brought all three of my babies home to. Where they learned to crawl and walk and run. It was host to nine birthday parties, three baptisms, a brunch, a few informal gatherings and one Christmas. It is also the site of many heart breaking moments in my life.
It is the kitchen where I had my final phone conversation with my Grandfather. A phone call where I was encouraging him on in his health setback, while his voice was preparing me for what he knew was inevitable.
It is the den where I first read the email sharing the news that my Godmother had pancreatic cancer.
It is the living room that stood as a metaphor for my life as I slowly let the kids take it over.
It is the space that never quite allowed me to live the life I had hoped I would have as an adult.
It was the home that should have worked but never quite fit me. But something about that uncomfortableness pushed me forward. It was from within those walls that I found the strength to join new groups, to actively pursue friendships and fully jump into this new town.
And the sunshine streaming in the kitchen windows may never be replicated.
We got everything we could out of our time there...we lived there until we just couldn't any more. You can tell that each of us are more than ok moving on from this house. We don't really talk about it. No one asks to drive by. The kids do talk fondly of the person who bought it from us. I can tell they hope she'll take good care of it and that the home will be good to her. I hope so, too.
Tomorrow I'll reflect on the home that is. (surprise, surprise it has no magical properties that instantly transformed our lives....)
Monday, January 02, 2012
Starting out 2012
We ended 2011 by closing a long chapter in this blog's table of contents:
We sold our house. Move date was December 16. A very inconvenient date, but we, along with every one of our friends and a few hired movers, made it work.
A few photos from our life during the first week in the new house...
(this photo pretty much sums it up...)
Maps for Santa--so he could get from the fireplace to the tree. Multiple rooms confused the kids, they wanted to be sure Santa didn't get turned around in the new house.
Here's to hoping the blog makes a comeback in 2012. I'll give it my best try...
Monday, September 05, 2011
Pastor Anderson
A fancy, gourmet meal is memorable. It makes for a good story and a few nice photographs. The guests are fed, nourished but everyone knows this type of meals can't be repeated day in and day out. It is the basic, daily meal that sustains us for life. At the end of our week or month, we might only remember one or two special meals, but we are alive at the end of that time because of the daily sustenance of quality-albeit, basic-food.
Our faith life is sustained, enriched and encouraged in a similar way through preaching and worship. We might remember the fantastic worship services or the 'best sermon ever,' but that isn't what keeps our faith alive. It's the daily sustenance of quality food. Everyone might have their idea of what quality theological food looks (tastes) like. For me it is the Gospel preached -the honesty of the cross brought into my daily life. I like to see the humanity of the one preaching.
Even if it means the one preaching is actually human.
My faith life has been sustained by many a meal, and by countless people who have joined me at the table, but for most of my formative years there was one person standing in the pulpit--feeding me.
He died recently.
The last meal I shared with him was in my sister's basement less than a year ago. Crackers and cheese, salad and ham after he presided at the baptism of my nephew. Shortly after this, he would share news of his lung cancer with his congregation and retire from ministry.
I knew I needed to write him a letter. There was much I should say. But somehow corresponding with someone when you've never done so before seemed odd. I imagine he was at peace with the fact he was dying. I wasn't; and to write the letter meant it was going to happen. I'm tired of people dying in their 60's--my parents age--and to acknowledge the mortality of one more person dying before I think they should, was too much for my to do list. So I put it off.
I'm not overwhelmed with remorse or regret that the letter never got written. He and I didn't have an overly emotional, mentor relationship. We didn't talk often and I didn't go to him for advice or pastoral direction-either personally or professionally. I just know enormous parts of my life would have been different if he hadn't been my pastor.
During confirmation he and the associate pastor both started to plant the seeds of ordained ministry in my mind and being. When I chose a major in college, he would highlight how well it would complement ministry. When I spoke in the congregation in advocacy of my work with HFHI, he complimented my public presence and passion...noting both would serve me well in ministry.
When I finally gave in to the call he had seen years before, it was the years of sermons and classes that served as the foundation for my theological work. Many a class would seem to be restating knowledge I already had ...I came to see how steeped in Lutheran theology I had been. During internship I came to see how my pastoral identity had been shaped by him (both in the ways I would emulate and the ways in which I deviated.) When I began to preach I gave thanks for the countless sermons that had fed me over the years. He didn't preach fancy sermons or put on a huge show, but the ingredients were of high quality, put together with serious thought and great love.
It might be an unrelated coincidence, but I write sermons like he did too--at the, seemingly, last minute. Late Saturday night, the Holy Spirit must be the strongest. Some times as I would be pulling out my hair trying to think of how to get into a sermon, I would picture him sitting at Perkins late at night, sucking down coffee (smoking) and creating his sermon--this image validated my tenancy towards thisprocrastination style.
I never wrote the letter, but I trust he knew he had a hand in shaping my life. I'll leave it to God to let him know, while I will never forget his influence. Carrying on with his ministry as my guide, might be a better tribute than my letter ever would have been.
He had been my only true pastor. He was friend and pastor to my parents. He was the father of my brother's best friend. He presided at our wedding. He said a prayer at my ordination. He baptized my nephew.
He fed many--may the nourishment continue.
Our faith life is sustained, enriched and encouraged in a similar way through preaching and worship. We might remember the fantastic worship services or the 'best sermon ever,' but that isn't what keeps our faith alive. It's the daily sustenance of quality food. Everyone might have their idea of what quality theological food looks (tastes) like. For me it is the Gospel preached -the honesty of the cross brought into my daily life. I like to see the humanity of the one preaching.
Even if it means the one preaching is actually human.
My faith life has been sustained by many a meal, and by countless people who have joined me at the table, but for most of my formative years there was one person standing in the pulpit--feeding me.
He died recently.
The last meal I shared with him was in my sister's basement less than a year ago. Crackers and cheese, salad and ham after he presided at the baptism of my nephew. Shortly after this, he would share news of his lung cancer with his congregation and retire from ministry.
I knew I needed to write him a letter. There was much I should say. But somehow corresponding with someone when you've never done so before seemed odd. I imagine he was at peace with the fact he was dying. I wasn't; and to write the letter meant it was going to happen. I'm tired of people dying in their 60's--my parents age--and to acknowledge the mortality of one more person dying before I think they should, was too much for my to do list. So I put it off.
I'm not overwhelmed with remorse or regret that the letter never got written. He and I didn't have an overly emotional, mentor relationship. We didn't talk often and I didn't go to him for advice or pastoral direction-either personally or professionally. I just know enormous parts of my life would have been different if he hadn't been my pastor.
During confirmation he and the associate pastor both started to plant the seeds of ordained ministry in my mind and being. When I chose a major in college, he would highlight how well it would complement ministry. When I spoke in the congregation in advocacy of my work with HFHI, he complimented my public presence and passion...noting both would serve me well in ministry.
When I finally gave in to the call he had seen years before, it was the years of sermons and classes that served as the foundation for my theological work. Many a class would seem to be restating knowledge I already had ...I came to see how steeped in Lutheran theology I had been. During internship I came to see how my pastoral identity had been shaped by him (both in the ways I would emulate and the ways in which I deviated.) When I began to preach I gave thanks for the countless sermons that had fed me over the years. He didn't preach fancy sermons or put on a huge show, but the ingredients were of high quality, put together with serious thought and great love.
It might be an unrelated coincidence, but I write sermons like he did too--at the, seemingly, last minute. Late Saturday night, the Holy Spirit must be the strongest. Some times as I would be pulling out my hair trying to think of how to get into a sermon, I would picture him sitting at Perkins late at night, sucking down coffee (smoking) and creating his sermon--this image validated my tenancy towards this
I never wrote the letter, but I trust he knew he had a hand in shaping my life. I'll leave it to God to let him know, while I will never forget his influence. Carrying on with his ministry as my guide, might be a better tribute than my letter ever would have been.
He had been my only true pastor. He was friend and pastor to my parents. He was the father of my brother's best friend. He presided at our wedding. He said a prayer at my ordination. He baptized my nephew.
He fed many--may the nourishment continue.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Books.
I just finished the book, What Alice Forgot by Liane Moriarty. While it falls under the category of 'light read', it is longer and more thoughtful/thought provoking than many of my 'chic lit' reads. It is basically a story of a woman who hits her head and gets amnesia. She wakes up remembering nothing from the last 10 years of her life. She was 29, newly married and had no kids. Now she is 39 with three kids and the brink of a divorce.
I was a nice story and managed to enliven some brainwaves and spur introspective thought, as LP and I read at 3am a few days ago. What would my 20 something self think, if she woke up in my life today? I came to the conclusion that my 10 year old self would think my 20 year old self was pretty cool. But this past decade...no lying, it has been one you'd have to live through to understand. (and even then, thinking about it would keep up at night...or, maybe that was LP.)
Next up is Jodi Picoult's latest novel: Sing You Home.
I was a nice story and managed to enliven some brainwaves and spur introspective thought, as LP and I read at 3am a few days ago. What would my 20 something self think, if she woke up in my life today? I came to the conclusion that my 10 year old self would think my 20 year old self was pretty cool. But this past decade...no lying, it has been one you'd have to live through to understand. (and even then, thinking about it would keep up at night...or, maybe that was LP.)
Next up is Jodi Picoult's latest novel: Sing You Home.
Monday, August 29, 2011
Second Ring
During the first two pregnancies, when my wedding ring no longer fit, I just stopped wearing a ring. This third time, I ended up taking it off fairly early in the pregnancy. (my fingers started out a bit larger than they had been...)
One day BB, EG and I were browsing through a local department store when we passed the costume jewelry section. I stopped to try on one of the rings...just for fun. BB took one look at all the shiny goodness before him and he hatched a plan to make one of them his--well, sort of his. BB decided he would pick out a ring for me to wear since I "wasn't wearing Daddy's."
There were three trays full of "gem"stone rings. Many were made to look like traditional wedding/engagement sets, others were pure fiction. Still others were basic cocktail style rings. He had me try on each and every ring. With each one he would take my hand and move it closer to his face. He'd inspect the ring. Look back at the tray and contemplate which would be best. (All the while EG was trying to take a ride up the escalator by herself. She had no interest in this process.)
He has pretty gaudy taste. (in my opinion.) In the end, I narrowed down the field to three rings and let him choose.
This is the ring I wore for a few months during my pregnancy. I have to admit it is a pretty fun ring to wear.
Now, five weeks after giving birth, the ring is too large. (plus the mammoth 'diamond' is a bit dangerous around a baby) But sadly, my real engagement ring and wedding band remains too tight for me to comfortably wear. (along with my pants, shirts and a whole lotta my shoes.)
When I was first given the real ring, twelve years ago, I remember standing out on the end of my parents' property and staring in wonder at my new gift. I had just said 'yes' to my husband's marriage proposal. Then I promptly began to jump around and shake my hand to see how easily the ring might come off. It stayed put. (but with lots of room for movement. sigh)
And, I look forward to the day I put it back on...
One day BB, EG and I were browsing through a local department store when we passed the costume jewelry section. I stopped to try on one of the rings...just for fun. BB took one look at all the shiny goodness before him and he hatched a plan to make one of them his--well, sort of his. BB decided he would pick out a ring for me to wear since I "wasn't wearing Daddy's."
There were three trays full of "gem"stone rings. Many were made to look like traditional wedding/engagement sets, others were pure fiction. Still others were basic cocktail style rings. He had me try on each and every ring. With each one he would take my hand and move it closer to his face. He'd inspect the ring. Look back at the tray and contemplate which would be best. (All the while EG was trying to take a ride up the escalator by herself. She had no interest in this process.)
He has pretty gaudy taste. (in my opinion.) In the end, I narrowed down the field to three rings and let him choose.
Now, five weeks after giving birth, the ring is too large. (plus the mammoth 'diamond' is a bit dangerous around a baby) But sadly, my real engagement ring and wedding band remains too tight for me to comfortably wear. (along with my pants, shirts and a whole lotta my shoes.)
When I was first given the real ring, twelve years ago, I remember standing out on the end of my parents' property and staring in wonder at my new gift. I had just said 'yes' to my husband's marriage proposal. Then I promptly began to jump around and shake my hand to see how easily the ring might come off. It stayed put. (but with lots of room for movement. sigh)
And, I look forward to the day I put it back on...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)