Last fall, Jennifer and I decided we wanted to train to run the OKC Memorial Marathon. We put our schedule on the fridge and marked off our days as we trained. We made it about 9 weeks before we both just got so busy we couldn't keep up any longer. The holidays came, and Oklahoma saw a lot of snow and training became less and less important.
I never registered for the marathon, because it costs a lot of money. That was probably my first mistake--because it made letting my slacking become less of a big deal.
Jennifer signed up to do the relay with her siblings. I didn't really have anything like that available to me as an option, so I had just put it in the back of my head as something I'd work harder to do next year. I kept casually running in my free time, about 2 or 3 miles. Not really trying, just running without a goal of any kind.
Then I had my jaw surgery. I was on a liquid diet for 2 weeks, followed by soft foods for the following 4. It was after the first week of not being allowed to eat anything I realized that I really wanted to run. I had to wait until I could get some sort of nourishment in me before I could, so when I got the chance I headed out to the track to see if I could make it a couple miles.
I did.
And I was hooked.
I made out a schedule of how I would spend my days training. I set an ultimate 5K time goal, and a plan to work my time down to it. And with the end in mind, I have been able to come back into running stronger than I've been in years.
So this morning was the marathon.
I knew I wasn't running in it, but when I woke up this morning for church, something wasn't right. I didn't want to go (which is really rare for me lately, because I LOVE my church).
I didn't want to go because I felt like there was something else I needed to be doing.
So I put on my sunblock and shoes and drove out to the lake. I took a deep breath and started my watch and I took off.
I knew there wasn't going to be a reward, or a finish line, or a bunch of very convenient drink stations. But there was me, the sunshine, the water, and the 9 mile path ahead. There was motivation to run.
Even though I didn't pay to run for victims of the bombing, I ran for them.
And I ran for Rosemary
and Aunt Kim
and Mr. Porecca
and Katie Kirkpatrick.
I ran because I can, and sometimes I just have to remember what working hard feels like.
To teach me something about pain.
To remind me that if I stop, I can't finish.
I press on toward the goal to win the prize in which God has called me heavenward in Christ, Jesus.
Sure, there wasn't a reward at the end of my run. But the reminder that once I've finished pounding out the steps, wishing it was over; I have rest for my weary legs.
This morning was Marathon Sunday.
You draw the parallels. I know you can find them.
Monday, April 30, 2007
Monday, April 23, 2007
May 3, 2005
I wasn't really sure who to write this to. But I had to write something. Let something out, because sometimes you just need somebody to talk to. And there's not really anybody sometimes.
And there's this song that we sang senior year. Half-time, I mean. It was
I love you, Lord, and I lift my voice to worship you
O my soul, rejoice!
Take joy, my king, in what you hear.
May it be a sweet sweet sound in your ear.
My prayer, dear Lord, is that I may be a brighter light so they see you in me.
When I grow weak to the Devil's charms, shelter me in the strength of your arms.
I'm coming, God, when your trumpet calls, to live with you where no
tears will fall.
Until that day, keep my eyes on Thee, so with the angels I'll sing eternally.
In Jesus' precious name, Amen!
And I was thinking about Katie. Because she sang it, too. And then I
thought about the words. And how easy it is to sing notes, and
harmonies.
But what I guess I didn't realize is that God heard her.
He heard her say "I'm coming, God, to live with you"
and he called her.
How unprepared can I be? I sang that song for a whole year, and thought I was praying to God the whole time, but I can't imagine myself still singing that prayer if he actually called.
Do you think she knew what she was asking?
Do you think that's why she was such a bright light even when we were all in pain for her? Because she knew that it wasn't just a song?
And she knew that God was going to really actually hold her to the words of her prayer--and she was ready for it?
She's obviously singing with the angels, and there's clearly no tears where she is. But then why is praying that prayer and meaning it so scary to me?
Am I not trusting in God enough?
How can I let go of things I have here so I won't be so scared of saying prayers like that
and actually meaning them?
Saying "just give it to God" is much much easier said than done.
At what point are you actually putting your life into God's hands, in contrast to just letting go of responsibilities and being a chump?
Because I feel like I need to make sure that things I do are for the
glory of God, but how do you justify it?
What's even the difference between justifying actions, and squeezing God into your decisions? I can't stop making decisions about school and jobs just because "if God wants it to happen, it will happen anyway." That's not what he wants, is it?
So when I pray for God to guide me, and for my decisions and actions to be to his Glory--how do I know what to decide?
I don't know about you, but I've never seen any writing on a wall or had prophetic dreams.
I don't know if God wants me to stay here or move away.
I know that God is in charge.
And I know that he will provide.
But there are times when his idea of providing are completely different than mine, and it makes me afraid to even let him.
Everything I'm supposed to do is easier said than done.
So any advice on how to do it anyway?
Especially when the idea of his plan doesn't always seem like it's the greatest?
And that's where I am. And I'm feeling sortof stuck.
Before I started this blog, I wrote an e-mail to Patrick Mead because I had a lot on my mind and I had no one to talk to. Every once in a while I get to thinking about Katie Kirkpatrick. I'm sure anyone who knew her can relate to that. She just doesn't ever leave. The impact she made in 21 short years was deeper than many together can make in an entire string of lifetimes.
I was reminded of this e-mail today, and I wanted to share it. Because sometimes I just don't feel ready to answer God when he calls. And it's a reminder to me that if I ask for it, I'd better be ready for him to answer. Because he surely will.
And there's this song that we sang senior year. Half-time, I mean. It was
I love you, Lord, and I lift my voice to worship you
O my soul, rejoice!
Take joy, my king, in what you hear.
May it be a sweet sweet sound in your ear.
My prayer, dear Lord, is that I may be a brighter light so they see you in me.
When I grow weak to the Devil's charms, shelter me in the strength of your arms.
I'm coming, God, when your trumpet calls, to live with you where no
tears will fall.
Until that day, keep my eyes on Thee, so with the angels I'll sing eternally.
In Jesus' precious name, Amen!
And I was thinking about Katie. Because she sang it, too. And then I
thought about the words. And how easy it is to sing notes, and
harmonies.
But what I guess I didn't realize is that God heard her.
He heard her say "I'm coming, God, to live with you"
and he called her.
How unprepared can I be? I sang that song for a whole year, and thought I was praying to God the whole time, but I can't imagine myself still singing that prayer if he actually called.
Do you think she knew what she was asking?
Do you think that's why she was such a bright light even when we were all in pain for her? Because she knew that it wasn't just a song?
And she knew that God was going to really actually hold her to the words of her prayer--and she was ready for it?
She's obviously singing with the angels, and there's clearly no tears where she is. But then why is praying that prayer and meaning it so scary to me?
Am I not trusting in God enough?
How can I let go of things I have here so I won't be so scared of saying prayers like that
and actually meaning them?
Saying "just give it to God" is much much easier said than done.
At what point are you actually putting your life into God's hands, in contrast to just letting go of responsibilities and being a chump?
Because I feel like I need to make sure that things I do are for the
glory of God, but how do you justify it?
What's even the difference between justifying actions, and squeezing God into your decisions? I can't stop making decisions about school and jobs just because "if God wants it to happen, it will happen anyway." That's not what he wants, is it?
So when I pray for God to guide me, and for my decisions and actions to be to his Glory--how do I know what to decide?
I don't know about you, but I've never seen any writing on a wall or had prophetic dreams.
I don't know if God wants me to stay here or move away.
I know that God is in charge.
And I know that he will provide.
But there are times when his idea of providing are completely different than mine, and it makes me afraid to even let him.
Everything I'm supposed to do is easier said than done.
So any advice on how to do it anyway?
Especially when the idea of his plan doesn't always seem like it's the greatest?
And that's where I am. And I'm feeling sortof stuck.
Before I started this blog, I wrote an e-mail to Patrick Mead because I had a lot on my mind and I had no one to talk to. Every once in a while I get to thinking about Katie Kirkpatrick. I'm sure anyone who knew her can relate to that. She just doesn't ever leave. The impact she made in 21 short years was deeper than many together can make in an entire string of lifetimes.
I was reminded of this e-mail today, and I wanted to share it. Because sometimes I just don't feel ready to answer God when he calls. And it's a reminder to me that if I ask for it, I'd better be ready for him to answer. Because he surely will.
Saturday, March 31, 2007
Oklahoma, OK.
Well, almost exactly a year ago I had come back home to Michigan from a spring break trip to Tulsa and The Alamo. Before I left I was working at Barnes and Noble and taking physics classes at Wayne State. I had also started subbing in Livonia, and had been frantically applying all over the Metro-Detroit area for open teaching jobs. While I was in Edmond for a short visit, I was hanging out with Becca and Eric Sharp and Becca mentioned that they were looking for summer care for Connor, Autumn and Dillon. She asked if I might be interested. To be honest, I was very interested because I was feeling rather slumpish up in Michigan. She and Eric talked about it and started crunching numbers and she said that she would get back to me.
I had been back home for a couple days and Becca called me and said that they weren't able to pay me what they had hoped to, but I could live with them and eat their food and maybe it might even out some. I said I'd do it, and that became the moment: the point of no return.
I immediately (rather than doing my homework, like a good girl) started researching jobs in Edmond Schools. I made sure all of my applications online were complete.
By April 21st (after I finished acing my physics final--2 weeks early) I had my car packed up, had a date set to meet with my best friend for lunch to say goodbye, and my map. I got in my car and started driving. That was it. I was leaving Michigan. My parents had been in Oklahoma for spring break with my brother. My dad wanted me to wait until they got back before I left. I didn't, and the truth is I wouldn't have left if they'd gotten home first. I would have let myself get talked into staying. So we made plans to meet at a hotel in Effingham, Illinois. Once I left that hotel the next morning, that was it. The first time I was leaving home, first time without my parents, first time out on my own. It was empowering, frightening, exciting, and so new.
Now to make some friends. . .
I kindof put myself out there and met a few people. I'm not terribly outgoing but I had people pretty persistently persuing (woo, look at that alliteration!) relationships with me. I was finding myself surrounded by many peers who I could laugh and hang out with. Oklahoma wasn't so bad after all.
Yeah, that was the honeymoon. About a month later, when I realized I didn't get to watch every Pistons game and that grass in Oklahoma isn't soft or green in the summer, and that I hadn't found a church I liked, and that my parents weren't around, and that I missed my brother--the Oklahoma wasn't holding a candle to Michigan. Everything I saw was not as good as Michigan.
Most readers of this blog have followed my journey from Michigan to Oklahoma, and it's no secret that I hold a grudge against the state of Oklahoma for not being Michigan. I don't need to go into much more detail about that. But as the one year anniversary of my move from the shoulder to the armpit, it's interesting to look back on everything.
A lot has changed. I have changed. My relationships have changed. I've gained some new ones, I've loosened some old ties, I've found a place for myself in a place that I don't really see myself belonging. I have realized that the Herron's are famous in this state. I've realized that I will probably never meet a boy who hasn't already had a crush on at least one of my sisters before even knowing I existed. I have realized that so many things are uncertain, and sometimes I have to force myself into commitments or I won't make them. As much as I want to leave, I know that I can stay here and be happy if I need to. I've got a good support system. I've got Jennifer--and she understands (and lets me sleep on the sofa bed with her even though both of our beds are perfectly empty and inviting). I've got soccer on Saturdays. I've got Becca and Eric any time I need them. I've got Niki and Matt if I feel like I need to get out of this place. I've got my church--where I'm not just a face. I've got the best group of 6th grade kids you could ever imagine (give or take one or two). I'm doing pretty alright. I'm doing pretty great. It's been a year, and I couldn't tell you where it has gone. I'm in Oklahoma. And I'm okay.
I had been back home for a couple days and Becca called me and said that they weren't able to pay me what they had hoped to, but I could live with them and eat their food and maybe it might even out some. I said I'd do it, and that became the moment: the point of no return.
I immediately (rather than doing my homework, like a good girl) started researching jobs in Edmond Schools. I made sure all of my applications online were complete.
By April 21st (after I finished acing my physics final--2 weeks early) I had my car packed up, had a date set to meet with my best friend for lunch to say goodbye, and my map. I got in my car and started driving. That was it. I was leaving Michigan. My parents had been in Oklahoma for spring break with my brother. My dad wanted me to wait until they got back before I left. I didn't, and the truth is I wouldn't have left if they'd gotten home first. I would have let myself get talked into staying. So we made plans to meet at a hotel in Effingham, Illinois. Once I left that hotel the next morning, that was it. The first time I was leaving home, first time without my parents, first time out on my own. It was empowering, frightening, exciting, and so new.
Now to make some friends. . .
I kindof put myself out there and met a few people. I'm not terribly outgoing but I had people pretty persistently persuing (woo, look at that alliteration!) relationships with me. I was finding myself surrounded by many peers who I could laugh and hang out with. Oklahoma wasn't so bad after all.
Yeah, that was the honeymoon. About a month later, when I realized I didn't get to watch every Pistons game and that grass in Oklahoma isn't soft or green in the summer, and that I hadn't found a church I liked, and that my parents weren't around, and that I missed my brother--the Oklahoma wasn't holding a candle to Michigan. Everything I saw was not as good as Michigan.
Most readers of this blog have followed my journey from Michigan to Oklahoma, and it's no secret that I hold a grudge against the state of Oklahoma for not being Michigan. I don't need to go into much more detail about that. But as the one year anniversary of my move from the shoulder to the armpit, it's interesting to look back on everything.
A lot has changed. I have changed. My relationships have changed. I've gained some new ones, I've loosened some old ties, I've found a place for myself in a place that I don't really see myself belonging. I have realized that the Herron's are famous in this state. I've realized that I will probably never meet a boy who hasn't already had a crush on at least one of my sisters before even knowing I existed. I have realized that so many things are uncertain, and sometimes I have to force myself into commitments or I won't make them. As much as I want to leave, I know that I can stay here and be happy if I need to. I've got a good support system. I've got Jennifer--and she understands (and lets me sleep on the sofa bed with her even though both of our beds are perfectly empty and inviting). I've got soccer on Saturdays. I've got Becca and Eric any time I need them. I've got Niki and Matt if I feel like I need to get out of this place. I've got my church--where I'm not just a face. I've got the best group of 6th grade kids you could ever imagine (give or take one or two). I'm doing pretty alright. I'm doing pretty great. It's been a year, and I couldn't tell you where it has gone. I'm in Oklahoma. And I'm okay.
Saturday, March 24, 2007
It's Not You, It's Me.
Someone once told me that if he could describe me in two words they would probably be "relentlessly cheerful."
I suppose I could credit this to my childhood hero of Maria from The Sound of Music. Or maybe to my abnormal super power of not being capable of staying angry. Perhaps I eat entirely too much ice cream--which is difficult to be glum while consuming. Whatever the reason may be, people who meet me line up left and right to jump on the bandwagon of affectionately coining me as cheery.
I can honestly say I don't see much of a problem with this. I really honestly am cheery freakishly often. I don't think this stems from an abundant happiness, however, but rather a lack of being able to feel much else. Or at least the inability to recognize the other feelings, and then the defectiveness of owning them once I figure out what they are.
If you have ever read anything in this entire blog, you already know that I am constantly trying to reason through ways to be closer to God. You will also know that I really struggle with reading my Bible. I think I have a better than average understanding of the connection between spending time with God and feeling close to him. There is an obvious link between knowing God and knowing his word. I know this full well--and I am pretty sure I could preach some effective sermons on the topic, assuming the church wasn't struck down for having a woman in the pulpit. I know this stuff. Inside and out.
But today, in a calm empty day of an uneventful Spring break, I sat down and let myself be totally honest. I lit some candles (ambience, if you will), got out my prayer journal (neglected for almost a month now), and I started reading. There were six entries. I had just stopped writing in it because I just decided I didn't want to take that time and sit and think and pray. I just simply didn't want to.
Did I have other things I would have rather been doing? No.
Did I run out of time? No.
I just didn't want to sit and spend time with God.
I went to the store and bought some pens. The pens where the ink is liquid inside, and you can see it swishing around. I love those pens. I am not a doodler--but if I see one of those pens, I will find any excuse I can to find something to write with it. I bought those pens and put them next to my prayer journal.
I went running. I ate some yogurt. I drank a bunch of water. I walked in and out of the room as the journal and pens sat on the table. I did a couple Sudoku puzzles (which I don't even like to do). I played around on a yoga ball. I checked my e-mail a couple hundred times. I lit some candles. I blew them out. I lit them a few more times, and played around in the wax. I sat on the couch and stared at my journal. I watched the pens--waiting to be used. I finally picked my journal up and started to write.
I didn't really have a prayer. I mean, I need $900 by tuesday and I don't know where I'm going to get it from. I am going to have a giant gap in my teeth for two weeks and I'm afraid people are going to laugh at me. I'm in love with a boy who not only lives far away, but is in love with someone else. I miss my family. I want to adopt every shelter dog in the world. And I'm trying desperately to form new relationships at a new church.
But I didn't have a prayer. I didn't even bring any of that up. I forced myself to sit down and just spend time with God. It was very glaringly obvious to me that I had to force myself to sit down and talk to God. Not just force myself--but bribe myself. With wonderful new pens.
I know that spending daily time with God will bring me closer to him. I was in a youth group, I went to youth rallies. Not a new concept. But here is where I started wondering if I can want and crave to come and meet with God just by forcing myself to do it daily. How does that not make it something I resent?
I know full well that the reason I've been feeling incomplete lately is because I haven't been spending time with God. But what I wanted was to stop knowing why, and start doing my part to fix it.
The worst part about the whole entire thing is that I'm so distant from God, and I'm not even squeezing in the sinful desires of the flesh. I'm not even getting a good sinful helping out of it. I'm not skipping God so I can go live it up pagan style; I'm just skipping God.
How do you think God feels about the fact that before I can willingly come to him, I have to force myself to? Does that feel as awful as it sounds? How does God deal with constantly being not loved? Does he ever get lonely? Does he ever feel used? So I'm supposed to pray for God to help me feel closer to him? So I don't have to feel so bad? What's in it for him?
I am pretty sure God wants me to be honest with him. And I'm pretty sure that me being so distressed is probably making him sad. And every alter call at any youth rally will tell you that God just wants to comfort me and hold me and love me--despite all of this. But frankly, I don't really feel comforted. I already know it's going to be okay. And I already know that in a few hours I'll be back to my normal cheerful self. But siting and telling all of this to God, I did not feel any comfort. All I felt was sad.
I was spending time with God, and all I felt was sad. I was perfectly happy running, blowing out my candles, eating my yogurt, having a quiet day. I was my normal cheerful self until I sat down to spend time with God and then all I felt was sadness.
Everything I've ever been taught about God tells me that this is okay. But what am I supposed to do with it? Chalk it up to some quality time spent with God? I'm not gonna lie--if spending time with God is going to make me so sad, why would I keep it up to try to even make it a habit?
Maybe I felt sorry. Maybe I felt guilty. But without resolve I ended my prayer with an apology. Maybe God was going to have to feel unwanted for a little while longer--until I genuinely let him close enough to change me.
Please don't let me hurt you. . .you're God. You're tough. Don't feel bad. Because we'll work this out. We can fix this.
I know it.
I suppose I could credit this to my childhood hero of Maria from The Sound of Music. Or maybe to my abnormal super power of not being capable of staying angry. Perhaps I eat entirely too much ice cream--which is difficult to be glum while consuming. Whatever the reason may be, people who meet me line up left and right to jump on the bandwagon of affectionately coining me as cheery.
I can honestly say I don't see much of a problem with this. I really honestly am cheery freakishly often. I don't think this stems from an abundant happiness, however, but rather a lack of being able to feel much else. Or at least the inability to recognize the other feelings, and then the defectiveness of owning them once I figure out what they are.
If you have ever read anything in this entire blog, you already know that I am constantly trying to reason through ways to be closer to God. You will also know that I really struggle with reading my Bible. I think I have a better than average understanding of the connection between spending time with God and feeling close to him. There is an obvious link between knowing God and knowing his word. I know this full well--and I am pretty sure I could preach some effective sermons on the topic, assuming the church wasn't struck down for having a woman in the pulpit. I know this stuff. Inside and out.
But today, in a calm empty day of an uneventful Spring break, I sat down and let myself be totally honest. I lit some candles (ambience, if you will), got out my prayer journal (neglected for almost a month now), and I started reading. There were six entries. I had just stopped writing in it because I just decided I didn't want to take that time and sit and think and pray. I just simply didn't want to.
Did I have other things I would have rather been doing? No.
Did I run out of time? No.
I just didn't want to sit and spend time with God.
I went to the store and bought some pens. The pens where the ink is liquid inside, and you can see it swishing around. I love those pens. I am not a doodler--but if I see one of those pens, I will find any excuse I can to find something to write with it. I bought those pens and put them next to my prayer journal.
I went running. I ate some yogurt. I drank a bunch of water. I walked in and out of the room as the journal and pens sat on the table. I did a couple Sudoku puzzles (which I don't even like to do). I played around on a yoga ball. I checked my e-mail a couple hundred times. I lit some candles. I blew them out. I lit them a few more times, and played around in the wax. I sat on the couch and stared at my journal. I watched the pens--waiting to be used. I finally picked my journal up and started to write.
I didn't really have a prayer. I mean, I need $900 by tuesday and I don't know where I'm going to get it from. I am going to have a giant gap in my teeth for two weeks and I'm afraid people are going to laugh at me. I'm in love with a boy who not only lives far away, but is in love with someone else. I miss my family. I want to adopt every shelter dog in the world. And I'm trying desperately to form new relationships at a new church.
But I didn't have a prayer. I didn't even bring any of that up. I forced myself to sit down and just spend time with God. It was very glaringly obvious to me that I had to force myself to sit down and talk to God. Not just force myself--but bribe myself. With wonderful new pens.
I know that spending daily time with God will bring me closer to him. I was in a youth group, I went to youth rallies. Not a new concept. But here is where I started wondering if I can want and crave to come and meet with God just by forcing myself to do it daily. How does that not make it something I resent?
I know full well that the reason I've been feeling incomplete lately is because I haven't been spending time with God. But what I wanted was to stop knowing why, and start doing my part to fix it.
The worst part about the whole entire thing is that I'm so distant from God, and I'm not even squeezing in the sinful desires of the flesh. I'm not even getting a good sinful helping out of it. I'm not skipping God so I can go live it up pagan style; I'm just skipping God.
How do you think God feels about the fact that before I can willingly come to him, I have to force myself to? Does that feel as awful as it sounds? How does God deal with constantly being not loved? Does he ever get lonely? Does he ever feel used? So I'm supposed to pray for God to help me feel closer to him? So I don't have to feel so bad? What's in it for him?
I am pretty sure God wants me to be honest with him. And I'm pretty sure that me being so distressed is probably making him sad. And every alter call at any youth rally will tell you that God just wants to comfort me and hold me and love me--despite all of this. But frankly, I don't really feel comforted. I already know it's going to be okay. And I already know that in a few hours I'll be back to my normal cheerful self. But siting and telling all of this to God, I did not feel any comfort. All I felt was sad.
I was spending time with God, and all I felt was sad. I was perfectly happy running, blowing out my candles, eating my yogurt, having a quiet day. I was my normal cheerful self until I sat down to spend time with God and then all I felt was sadness.
Everything I've ever been taught about God tells me that this is okay. But what am I supposed to do with it? Chalk it up to some quality time spent with God? I'm not gonna lie--if spending time with God is going to make me so sad, why would I keep it up to try to even make it a habit?
Maybe I felt sorry. Maybe I felt guilty. But without resolve I ended my prayer with an apology. Maybe God was going to have to feel unwanted for a little while longer--until I genuinely let him close enough to change me.
Please don't let me hurt you. . .you're God. You're tough. Don't feel bad. Because we'll work this out. We can fix this.
I know it.
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
Working it Out
In my family there are 4 children. I was thinking this morning about how well my parents tried to always keep things even and fair between all of us. They did a really good job.
When we were younger, my dad used to tantalize us with the reward of getting to make muffins. Looking back on it now, I realize that it was probably that he wanted muffins and to not have to make them so he would put the spin on it so we would rather die than not be able to make muffins. Anyway, he would take us to Kroger and we'd race to the muffin mix aisle and stare at the endless boxes of JIFFY muffin mix. We would each get to pick a flavor (apple cinnamon was my usual choice) and we'd go back home. This where it got tricky, however. 4 boxes of muffin mix would make a ridiculous amount of muffins--that wasn't responsible. So we'd get to make 2 boxes. It was usually a vote--decided by the two of us who had to sit in the back seats during the trip to the store. But so as not to be exclusive, whoever got to pick the flavor got to crack the egg. The ones who didn't get to crack the eggs got to stir and put the mix in the paper cups. Everybody got to do something, and we all reaped the benefits.
We had a conversion van--2 captain chairs and a back seat bench. With 4 kids, my parents early on devised a rule that you have assigned seats for the month. So calling seats as you leave the church building and racing to get to the van first to claim your throne became just a way to stay in shape--rather than a guarantee to not have to sit in the back. February was the worst month to have the captain chair--because you only got it for 28 days--29 if you were lucky. And long family vacations you wanted to time out just right so you could be in the back when the bed got put down. I realized pretty quickly on those 3 hour rides to grandma's house stuck in the back seat that the only one of my siblings I never got to sit by was the smallest one. This realization usually occured as Kali would lean her head against the window and put her stinky stinky feet across the seat in my direction. Despite the annoyingly fair arrangement of the deal, there was always something to complain about.
Isn't that how it is? I wonder what I'm going to do when I have my own kids. I, personally, am rather attached to the phrase "well, life's not fair. . ." Would I have accepted that when I was younger? Probably not. Maybe it was because my parents worked hard to make life as fair for us as they could. Maybe it's because nobody likes to get the short straw. But there's always a short straw, and somebody has to draw it. Karma? I hardly think so.
How do you get over the fact that you don't deserve everything you get?
Does it really always even out the fact that you get things you don't deserve?
When we were younger, my dad used to tantalize us with the reward of getting to make muffins. Looking back on it now, I realize that it was probably that he wanted muffins and to not have to make them so he would put the spin on it so we would rather die than not be able to make muffins. Anyway, he would take us to Kroger and we'd race to the muffin mix aisle and stare at the endless boxes of JIFFY muffin mix. We would each get to pick a flavor (apple cinnamon was my usual choice) and we'd go back home. This where it got tricky, however. 4 boxes of muffin mix would make a ridiculous amount of muffins--that wasn't responsible. So we'd get to make 2 boxes. It was usually a vote--decided by the two of us who had to sit in the back seats during the trip to the store. But so as not to be exclusive, whoever got to pick the flavor got to crack the egg. The ones who didn't get to crack the eggs got to stir and put the mix in the paper cups. Everybody got to do something, and we all reaped the benefits.
We had a conversion van--2 captain chairs and a back seat bench. With 4 kids, my parents early on devised a rule that you have assigned seats for the month. So calling seats as you leave the church building and racing to get to the van first to claim your throne became just a way to stay in shape--rather than a guarantee to not have to sit in the back. February was the worst month to have the captain chair--because you only got it for 28 days--29 if you were lucky. And long family vacations you wanted to time out just right so you could be in the back when the bed got put down. I realized pretty quickly on those 3 hour rides to grandma's house stuck in the back seat that the only one of my siblings I never got to sit by was the smallest one. This realization usually occured as Kali would lean her head against the window and put her stinky stinky feet across the seat in my direction. Despite the annoyingly fair arrangement of the deal, there was always something to complain about.
Isn't that how it is? I wonder what I'm going to do when I have my own kids. I, personally, am rather attached to the phrase "well, life's not fair. . ." Would I have accepted that when I was younger? Probably not. Maybe it was because my parents worked hard to make life as fair for us as they could. Maybe it's because nobody likes to get the short straw. But there's always a short straw, and somebody has to draw it. Karma? I hardly think so.
How do you get over the fact that you don't deserve everything you get?
Does it really always even out the fact that you get things you don't deserve?
Sunday, February 25, 2007
I Have Hidden Your Word in My Heart--and I Misplaced It.
I like to think that I love God.
I know I love God, but I'm not gonna lie--I struggle with making daily scripture somethin meanigful to encorporate daily into my life. I get bored, or I will read a whole section without actually noticing what it is about. At first, I fell into the trap that I would miraculously find some daily inspiration. But let's be honest--that doesn't happen every single time we crack the Bible and read it. Then I started thinking that if I only could make a habit of reading scripture daily that just that time set aside would help change and mold me to be more like God. So I'd read--just anything--and hope that eventually I would find myself walking closer to God. Next, I picked a Bible study to help me have a focus. I pray, I read, but I don't change. I thought that spending a lot of time with God would help me be more like him. It happens with people, why not with God?
I'm a lot like David. Which--if you know anything about me, you know that I am not a fan of David. Maybe I'm not a fan because I'm a lot like him. I hate how he's supposed to be this role model because God chose him, but he doesn't make very good choices. I hate how even while he's making stupid choices, he's still Psalming it up to God--praising him, asking for his help, and complainig about his enemies. He is a man who, by his choices, you wouldn't be able to tell that he was a follower of God; but in secret he is continually in communication with God.
I am a lot like David.
God chose David, despite all of his running, selfishness, distraction, and inability to see his own fault. So what makes David a man after God's own heart?
I can't help but notice the overwhelming love David had for the "law of the LORD." He wrote entire Psalms about it. Check out Psalm 1, 19, and 119. He loved God's law. There's no denying, David had an undeniable crush on the law of the LORD. I think the thing that sets me apart from David--what makes him a man after God's own heart, and me just a distracted Christian who tries and quits--is this love of law that I seem to lack.
What does loving law say about David? Think about it: why do our parents make rules? Sometimes it's because they know things about life that we don't. They protect us, and they care for us. Could loving God's law possibly mean that David took solace in the fact that God knew how to order life better than he did? If I could somehow learn to love God's law more, perhaps it would help me give up the thoughts that I can have control. If I love God's law more maybe I'll be able to respect his timing, his decisions, and his will more.
I'm going out on a limb and saying that God's law is the Torah. Isn't that what Torah means? So now, I'm not just loving rules--I need to love God's word. I need to delight daily in it. I need to let it make me giddy. Just like David. Dance around playing my little lyre (where can I get me one of them?) and repeat scripture all day long.
Sound a little sarcastic? Probably because I struggle with making scripture interesting. I would LOVE to love to read the Bible. I would love to know God's Law inside and out. Dance around and sing psalms joyfully to God. But how does wanting to love scripture make reading it more interesting? If I'm going to take my daily Bible reading seriously, what has to change?
Someone oh-so-cheesily once said, "We don't read the Bible to master it. We read it to have it master us."
Loving God's law challenges me to believe that God knows more about me than I know about myself. And I know myself pretty well. So by reading the Bible I will not only learn who God is, but I will learn the divinity of his plan. I will learn who I am, and where I fit into his plan.
I can't read the Bible for daily motivation or hoping that the answer to my dilemma will be in the scripture of the day. I can't read the Bible for advice, I have to read it as a call to action.
If scripture tells me God's plan for me, I have to not just hear what he says but put it into practice. God's will for my life is his ultimate plan which is revealed in my actions coming from my hearing of his law. Transitive property anyone? My life is laid out in God's law.
Loving God's law was the center of David's existance. Something about David--despite all of his straying, running, hiding, and falling--was after God's own heart.
I like to think I love God. I like to think, also, that despite all of my running, hiding, falling, and quitting that something about me is after God's own heart. The thing that sets David apart from me is his love of God's law. Now to move past the struggles of reading God's word to master it, and just read it to love it.
I'll let you know.
I know I love God, but I'm not gonna lie--I struggle with making daily scripture somethin meanigful to encorporate daily into my life. I get bored, or I will read a whole section without actually noticing what it is about. At first, I fell into the trap that I would miraculously find some daily inspiration. But let's be honest--that doesn't happen every single time we crack the Bible and read it. Then I started thinking that if I only could make a habit of reading scripture daily that just that time set aside would help change and mold me to be more like God. So I'd read--just anything--and hope that eventually I would find myself walking closer to God. Next, I picked a Bible study to help me have a focus. I pray, I read, but I don't change. I thought that spending a lot of time with God would help me be more like him. It happens with people, why not with God?
I'm a lot like David. Which--if you know anything about me, you know that I am not a fan of David. Maybe I'm not a fan because I'm a lot like him. I hate how he's supposed to be this role model because God chose him, but he doesn't make very good choices. I hate how even while he's making stupid choices, he's still Psalming it up to God--praising him, asking for his help, and complainig about his enemies. He is a man who, by his choices, you wouldn't be able to tell that he was a follower of God; but in secret he is continually in communication with God.
I am a lot like David.
God chose David, despite all of his running, selfishness, distraction, and inability to see his own fault. So what makes David a man after God's own heart?
I can't help but notice the overwhelming love David had for the "law of the LORD." He wrote entire Psalms about it. Check out Psalm 1, 19, and 119. He loved God's law. There's no denying, David had an undeniable crush on the law of the LORD. I think the thing that sets me apart from David--what makes him a man after God's own heart, and me just a distracted Christian who tries and quits--is this love of law that I seem to lack.
What does loving law say about David? Think about it: why do our parents make rules? Sometimes it's because they know things about life that we don't. They protect us, and they care for us. Could loving God's law possibly mean that David took solace in the fact that God knew how to order life better than he did? If I could somehow learn to love God's law more, perhaps it would help me give up the thoughts that I can have control. If I love God's law more maybe I'll be able to respect his timing, his decisions, and his will more.
I'm going out on a limb and saying that God's law is the Torah. Isn't that what Torah means? So now, I'm not just loving rules--I need to love God's word. I need to delight daily in it. I need to let it make me giddy. Just like David. Dance around playing my little lyre (where can I get me one of them?) and repeat scripture all day long.
Sound a little sarcastic? Probably because I struggle with making scripture interesting. I would LOVE to love to read the Bible. I would love to know God's Law inside and out. Dance around and sing psalms joyfully to God. But how does wanting to love scripture make reading it more interesting? If I'm going to take my daily Bible reading seriously, what has to change?
Someone oh-so-cheesily once said, "We don't read the Bible to master it. We read it to have it master us."
Loving God's law challenges me to believe that God knows more about me than I know about myself. And I know myself pretty well. So by reading the Bible I will not only learn who God is, but I will learn the divinity of his plan. I will learn who I am, and where I fit into his plan.
I can't read the Bible for daily motivation or hoping that the answer to my dilemma will be in the scripture of the day. I can't read the Bible for advice, I have to read it as a call to action.
If scripture tells me God's plan for me, I have to not just hear what he says but put it into practice. God's will for my life is his ultimate plan which is revealed in my actions coming from my hearing of his law. Transitive property anyone? My life is laid out in God's law.
Loving God's law was the center of David's existance. Something about David--despite all of his straying, running, hiding, and falling--was after God's own heart.
I like to think I love God. I like to think, also, that despite all of my running, hiding, falling, and quitting that something about me is after God's own heart. The thing that sets David apart from me is his love of God's law. Now to move past the struggles of reading God's word to master it, and just read it to love it.
I'll let you know.
Sunday, February 11, 2007
Home, Home on the Range
Last night, something in the air made me particularly homesick. We'd had a soccer game earlier that night and I was angry about it and I just wanted to talk to somebody. . .but there wasn't anybody. I think this was the top of the hill, and my little snowball started rolling.
I lay in my bed wondering what actual friends I've made since I've moved down here. I've met people, I've hung out with people, but I'm not sure if I've found someone I can just call anytime and say whatever I need to say.
I moved down here because I needed peers. I needed a change because in Michigan, I had friends but they were all several years older than me, and all married--some with children. I needed people in my same stage of life. Oklahoma (for whatever reason) has them. And two nights ago I was reflecting on what it was about peers that I really needed.
I needed to move down here. God provided me with a job, a house, and the security of a familiar town. But last night I realized that I just wanted to be home.
I want to see my parents every day, and my brother, and my dog. The familiar sight of my street as I'm coming home from wherever I've been just gets me all excited inside. I want grey skies 3/4 of the time, and green grass all the time. And I want a brown February that's too cold for comfort. I want to feel like I'm in a place I can consider my home.
I still feel like I'm living in a dorm room--I've got my TV in here, the bathroom in here, my music in here, I have roommates. I spend most of my time in my room. If I was at home, I'd wander from family room, to living room, to game room. Watching TV's, reading books, sneaking fruit roll-ups from the pantry when mom isn't looking. When I'm at home, there are neighbors coming in and out. I can walk down the street into a neighbor's house and sit down with their dog and watch tv. I don't have that here. And I can't get over it.
I still can't get over the bad attitude I have about nothing about the churches being remotely familiar. Last night--dreading Sunday morning service, I lay in my bed and cried. I was so homesick, I couldn't do anything else.
I woke up this morning on my own. I looked at the clock, and my alarm hadn't gone off. I quickly showered and changed. I was mad that I overslept because I was planning on going to class at church this morning, and I missed it. But I was glad I hadn't missed church altogether. I know that God is going to help me get over this, but it's not going to happen if I just stop going to church altogether. So my roommate and I left and made it in time for service. Then it happened:
The preacher gets up and announces that he's going to introduce today's guest speaker. Today's guest speaker, who was one of his professors at Abeline. Today's guest speaker who was in town for a week teaching a Bible course and headed out of town today. Today's guest speaker who currently teaches Bible classes at Rochester College, up near Detroit Michigan. (My ears perk up.) Today's guest speaker: Dr. David Fleer.
I was so happy I almost started crying. Dr. Fleer had preached at Livonia for about 6 months when I was in high school while our church was looking for a new preacher. Dr. Fleer delivers some of the most entertaining, yet poingnant seromons and lectures I've ever heard. I love Dr. Fleer because you can see the sparkle in his bright blue eyes from the back of a dimly lit auditorium as he's preaching and whatever he says you can't help but hold on to. Finally--for the first time in the 9 months I've lived down here, something was familiar.
God moves in mysterious ways. I'm not so sure he's trying to tell me anything right now about where I am being the right place. But I know I've comitted at least the next 2 years to living down here. And it's going to be hard. But God keeps me remembering that he will take care of me. And that even when I'm down, he will take the time to remind me that he knows. He understands. And he's working, and moving, and will do what it takes to keep me on track. To keep me from giving up. Or shutting down. Or quitting. I like to quit. He listens, and when I'm homesick, he'll send a day that smells like Michigan--just so I can be reminded that it's okay for home to be somewhere else right now. He'll send a message to remind me that even though I'm far from comfort, he came with me.
I've said it before: I will probably never be able to call Oklahoma "home." But at least, now, I know that it can feel like home if I'm open enough to let it.
I lay in my bed wondering what actual friends I've made since I've moved down here. I've met people, I've hung out with people, but I'm not sure if I've found someone I can just call anytime and say whatever I need to say.
I moved down here because I needed peers. I needed a change because in Michigan, I had friends but they were all several years older than me, and all married--some with children. I needed people in my same stage of life. Oklahoma (for whatever reason) has them. And two nights ago I was reflecting on what it was about peers that I really needed.
I needed to move down here. God provided me with a job, a house, and the security of a familiar town. But last night I realized that I just wanted to be home.
I want to see my parents every day, and my brother, and my dog. The familiar sight of my street as I'm coming home from wherever I've been just gets me all excited inside. I want grey skies 3/4 of the time, and green grass all the time. And I want a brown February that's too cold for comfort. I want to feel like I'm in a place I can consider my home.
I still feel like I'm living in a dorm room--I've got my TV in here, the bathroom in here, my music in here, I have roommates. I spend most of my time in my room. If I was at home, I'd wander from family room, to living room, to game room. Watching TV's, reading books, sneaking fruit roll-ups from the pantry when mom isn't looking. When I'm at home, there are neighbors coming in and out. I can walk down the street into a neighbor's house and sit down with their dog and watch tv. I don't have that here. And I can't get over it.
I still can't get over the bad attitude I have about nothing about the churches being remotely familiar. Last night--dreading Sunday morning service, I lay in my bed and cried. I was so homesick, I couldn't do anything else.
I woke up this morning on my own. I looked at the clock, and my alarm hadn't gone off. I quickly showered and changed. I was mad that I overslept because I was planning on going to class at church this morning, and I missed it. But I was glad I hadn't missed church altogether. I know that God is going to help me get over this, but it's not going to happen if I just stop going to church altogether. So my roommate and I left and made it in time for service. Then it happened:
The preacher gets up and announces that he's going to introduce today's guest speaker. Today's guest speaker, who was one of his professors at Abeline. Today's guest speaker who was in town for a week teaching a Bible course and headed out of town today. Today's guest speaker who currently teaches Bible classes at Rochester College, up near Detroit Michigan. (My ears perk up.) Today's guest speaker: Dr. David Fleer.
I was so happy I almost started crying. Dr. Fleer had preached at Livonia for about 6 months when I was in high school while our church was looking for a new preacher. Dr. Fleer delivers some of the most entertaining, yet poingnant seromons and lectures I've ever heard. I love Dr. Fleer because you can see the sparkle in his bright blue eyes from the back of a dimly lit auditorium as he's preaching and whatever he says you can't help but hold on to. Finally--for the first time in the 9 months I've lived down here, something was familiar.
God moves in mysterious ways. I'm not so sure he's trying to tell me anything right now about where I am being the right place. But I know I've comitted at least the next 2 years to living down here. And it's going to be hard. But God keeps me remembering that he will take care of me. And that even when I'm down, he will take the time to remind me that he knows. He understands. And he's working, and moving, and will do what it takes to keep me on track. To keep me from giving up. Or shutting down. Or quitting. I like to quit. He listens, and when I'm homesick, he'll send a day that smells like Michigan--just so I can be reminded that it's okay for home to be somewhere else right now. He'll send a message to remind me that even though I'm far from comfort, he came with me.
I've said it before: I will probably never be able to call Oklahoma "home." But at least, now, I know that it can feel like home if I'm open enough to let it.
Saturday, February 03, 2007
Living in my Memories
These are just some things I like to remember.
When we were little, we used to eat Cheerios and Rice Krispies for breakfast. My dad used to let us put a spoonful of sugar in our cereal. My favorite part was drinking the milk afterward and having that grainy sugar left in the bowl. My dad used to tell us that Rice Krispies were the only cereal that talked. We'd get really close to the bowl and listen.
My mom worked from like 4am until dinnertime when we were little. My dad would pick us up from the babysitter's house and we'd go to the park. I can't honestly recall if this was just a one time occasion or if it happened more often. We would play on the swings. A white car pulled up the curb and my dad would say "that car looks really familiar. I wonder who it could be?" We would run over and it was mom! She still had on her uniform and she would come join us. The ice cream truck came--we were never allowed to get ice cream truck ice cream because it was so expensive. But this time we got to. I picked the red white and blue sno-cone. And I dropped it in the sand. My dad got really mad.
Niki and I used to fight over which one of us got to play with Kali. I don't think it ever occured to us that we could all three play at the same time. I always wanted to play church. We'd pull out the saltine crackers and medecine cups of water and try to break off the smallest piece of cracker humanly possible. It seemed like that's what the point of the cracker was--to take the smallest piece possible. I would lead singing. My favorite song was "Oh Jordan's Stormy Banks." I had the whole thing memorized--which was probably good, because I used to think that the top line of the music went with the first two verses and the bottom line went with the last two.
One Christmas, we were all at Uncle Dick and Aunt Fran's house. I was probably in kindergarten, mostly because that's how old I was when my mom made the dress I have on in all the pictures. All the cousins wanted to watch E.T. and I was scared to death of him. I thought he was so scary to look at, I sat in my cousin Geoff's lap and he covered my eyes for every scene with E.T. and I watched all the other ones. Later that evening, we went into the basement and opened presents. My grandma had gotten everybody Lee Press-On nails. Mine were red, and amazing. Niki, and a few other cousins got ones that had a snakeskin pattern on them. I traded half my nails with Niki because I felt bad that she had to get the ugly ones.
I remember the exact moment in my life that I first realized that my name was not spelled as it should be to pronounce. I was in 2nd grade, and for attendance we had these little tags that if we were in school we had to pull them off the hook and put it in the basket. That way the teachers knew who was absent by whose tag was still left hanging. I'd been reading for the past couple years, but I was just starting to get really good at it. I'd started reading Nancy Drew and The Boxcar Children. One day I went to pull my tag down and I realized that it read 'Kari.' That did not spell "Kaudi." It finally occured to me why I had to explain my name to teachers. I was devastated. I went home and begged my mom to let me change the spelling of my name. She informed me (at times like this, I think it's okay for moms to lie) that children can't change their names until they are in 3rd grade.
I had worn my dad down. We were getting a dog. He wanted a Sheltie, and had somehow convinced me that this was the best dog one could possibly own. I was sold and excited. Mom wasn't so much. We went to this old couple's house and there were three puppies. I saw the one I wanted--his name was Brutus. He was $275. That was expensive--even my 8 year old self knew that. We met the daddy dog of the puppies, his name was Skippy. His hair was gray. We went to another house, but those dogs there just weren't the same. Not to mention they were WAY more expensive. So we went back and got little "Brutus." We put him in our recycle bin that we had brought from home and went to some pet store. My mom didn't want a dog. She didn't want the hair, and didn't want to do all the work. She went in to the store--I remember thinking that it was our way of making up to her that we got a dog she didn't want. We were in the van, while she was in the store, trying to think of names for our new puppy. My dad, for some reason, had something against the name "Brutus" and couldn't wait to change the name. His only idea was Alex--for Alex Keaton from Family Ties. My dad secretly looked up to him for being a republican with hippie parents. He's been a Michael J. Fox fan ever since. My dad decided that we should let mom name the dog, to make her feel better about it. She named him Zach. He was the best dog ever.
I had a really good friend my freshman year of college. We had nothing in common. He listened to country music and drove a big red suburban. He took good notes in psychology, however, and I was really dumb in the subject. He somehow convinced me that it was a good idea to go roller blading with him and it soon became a nightly event. We would go almost every night at 10 and we'd get in his truck and drive to the parking lot behind the Rochester Hills public library and roller blade all through the downtown area. It was great fun--my first college friend and we knew almost everything about each other. It was very comforting. When it got too icy to roller blade, we would still go on our nightly adventures. We went to Meijer and bought some vanilla ice cream (the best flavor, clearly) and went underneath this bridge downtown and we sat and ate our ice cream. We shared a pair of mittens and took our shoes off and put our feet in the freezing Clinton River. I haven't had a friend like that since him. Sometimes I don't think I ever will.
I left Michigan, on my own withouth my family, for the first time in April. I had my car packed up with everything I needed that would fit and I was moveing to Oklahoma. I waited until my parents were gone for spring break before I left--because I knew if I waited until they were back I wouldn't have left. We met in Effingham, Illinois as they were driving back up to Michigan. When I left that morning, I was the fursthest from home I'd ever been, with no plans of going back anytime soon. I was driving through Missouri, listening to a CD of my friend Eric's favorite songs that he'd made for me. The song went,
a song for when you go
to keep you company
a song for when you go
far away from me
a song for when you go to California
west of the city lights, across America
a song for when you go out on the interstate
under the power lines
I knew I wasn't going to California, but the truth was that I realized that I was gone. It was the strangest feeling. And I missed my friend. And I knew it wasn't going to be the same anymore. But that feeling of fear, expectation, lonliness, hope, and freedom is one that I will never forget.
I wish I had more pictures of my mom but she always would rather take them.
When we were little, we used to eat Cheerios and Rice Krispies for breakfast. My dad used to let us put a spoonful of sugar in our cereal. My favorite part was drinking the milk afterward and having that grainy sugar left in the bowl. My dad used to tell us that Rice Krispies were the only cereal that talked. We'd get really close to the bowl and listen.
My mom worked from like 4am until dinnertime when we were little. My dad would pick us up from the babysitter's house and we'd go to the park. I can't honestly recall if this was just a one time occasion or if it happened more often. We would play on the swings. A white car pulled up the curb and my dad would say "that car looks really familiar. I wonder who it could be?" We would run over and it was mom! She still had on her uniform and she would come join us. The ice cream truck came--we were never allowed to get ice cream truck ice cream because it was so expensive. But this time we got to. I picked the red white and blue sno-cone. And I dropped it in the sand. My dad got really mad.
Niki and I used to fight over which one of us got to play with Kali. I don't think it ever occured to us that we could all three play at the same time. I always wanted to play church. We'd pull out the saltine crackers and medecine cups of water and try to break off the smallest piece of cracker humanly possible. It seemed like that's what the point of the cracker was--to take the smallest piece possible. I would lead singing. My favorite song was "Oh Jordan's Stormy Banks." I had the whole thing memorized--which was probably good, because I used to think that the top line of the music went with the first two verses and the bottom line went with the last two.
One Christmas, we were all at Uncle Dick and Aunt Fran's house. I was probably in kindergarten, mostly because that's how old I was when my mom made the dress I have on in all the pictures. All the cousins wanted to watch E.T. and I was scared to death of him. I thought he was so scary to look at, I sat in my cousin Geoff's lap and he covered my eyes for every scene with E.T. and I watched all the other ones. Later that evening, we went into the basement and opened presents. My grandma had gotten everybody Lee Press-On nails. Mine were red, and amazing. Niki, and a few other cousins got ones that had a snakeskin pattern on them. I traded half my nails with Niki because I felt bad that she had to get the ugly ones.
I remember the exact moment in my life that I first realized that my name was not spelled as it should be to pronounce. I was in 2nd grade, and for attendance we had these little tags that if we were in school we had to pull them off the hook and put it in the basket. That way the teachers knew who was absent by whose tag was still left hanging. I'd been reading for the past couple years, but I was just starting to get really good at it. I'd started reading Nancy Drew and The Boxcar Children. One day I went to pull my tag down and I realized that it read 'Kari.' That did not spell "Kaudi." It finally occured to me why I had to explain my name to teachers. I was devastated. I went home and begged my mom to let me change the spelling of my name. She informed me (at times like this, I think it's okay for moms to lie) that children can't change their names until they are in 3rd grade.
I had worn my dad down. We were getting a dog. He wanted a Sheltie, and had somehow convinced me that this was the best dog one could possibly own. I was sold and excited. Mom wasn't so much. We went to this old couple's house and there were three puppies. I saw the one I wanted--his name was Brutus. He was $275. That was expensive--even my 8 year old self knew that. We met the daddy dog of the puppies, his name was Skippy. His hair was gray. We went to another house, but those dogs there just weren't the same. Not to mention they were WAY more expensive. So we went back and got little "Brutus." We put him in our recycle bin that we had brought from home and went to some pet store. My mom didn't want a dog. She didn't want the hair, and didn't want to do all the work. She went in to the store--I remember thinking that it was our way of making up to her that we got a dog she didn't want. We were in the van, while she was in the store, trying to think of names for our new puppy. My dad, for some reason, had something against the name "Brutus" and couldn't wait to change the name. His only idea was Alex--for Alex Keaton from Family Ties. My dad secretly looked up to him for being a republican with hippie parents. He's been a Michael J. Fox fan ever since. My dad decided that we should let mom name the dog, to make her feel better about it. She named him Zach. He was the best dog ever.
I had a really good friend my freshman year of college. We had nothing in common. He listened to country music and drove a big red suburban. He took good notes in psychology, however, and I was really dumb in the subject. He somehow convinced me that it was a good idea to go roller blading with him and it soon became a nightly event. We would go almost every night at 10 and we'd get in his truck and drive to the parking lot behind the Rochester Hills public library and roller blade all through the downtown area. It was great fun--my first college friend and we knew almost everything about each other. It was very comforting. When it got too icy to roller blade, we would still go on our nightly adventures. We went to Meijer and bought some vanilla ice cream (the best flavor, clearly) and went underneath this bridge downtown and we sat and ate our ice cream. We shared a pair of mittens and took our shoes off and put our feet in the freezing Clinton River. I haven't had a friend like that since him. Sometimes I don't think I ever will.
I left Michigan, on my own withouth my family, for the first time in April. I had my car packed up with everything I needed that would fit and I was moveing to Oklahoma. I waited until my parents were gone for spring break before I left--because I knew if I waited until they were back I wouldn't have left. We met in Effingham, Illinois as they were driving back up to Michigan. When I left that morning, I was the fursthest from home I'd ever been, with no plans of going back anytime soon. I was driving through Missouri, listening to a CD of my friend Eric's favorite songs that he'd made for me. The song went,
a song for when you go
to keep you company
a song for when you go
far away from me
a song for when you go to California
west of the city lights, across America
a song for when you go out on the interstate
under the power lines
I knew I wasn't going to California, but the truth was that I realized that I was gone. It was the strangest feeling. And I missed my friend. And I knew it wasn't going to be the same anymore. But that feeling of fear, expectation, lonliness, hope, and freedom is one that I will never forget.
I wish I had more pictures of my mom but she always would rather take them.
Thursday, January 25, 2007
Everybody Read This NOW
my wonderful and very smart friend, Kara, wrote this in her Xanga, and it's brilliant.
http://www.xanga.com/sweetlittlegal/565447612/people-judge-me.html
http://www.xanga.com/sweetlittlegal/565447612/people-judge-me.html
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
I'm It!
I never was a very fast runner. Either that, or I just really never had anything to run away from (er. . .from which to run away?). So I have been tagged by my first youth minister (sounds better than "old youth minister") to share 5 things you may not know about me.
1. I was expected to be little Seve Herron (named for Spanish golfer Seve Ballesteros) until I entered the world and to everyone's surprise I was a girl, according to my dad. My dad says I have a swing that people can't take lessons to mimic. I attribute it to my almost namesake.
2. I am so afraid of moths that if I see one flying around the room I will do everything in my power to ensure there is no possible way it could go into my ear short of actually leaving the room. In other words, I shrug my shoulders up, put my hands by my ears, and watch its every move.
3. My dentist has lectured me on more than one occasion about how I brush my teeth too often.
4. One summer I ate nothing but red-white-and-blue pops--some days eating as many as 5. I was very picky about it, too. I would ONLY eat the America's Choice brand (Farmer Jack store brand).
5. I have dedicated a very large portion of my summers in the past (and will continue in the future) to learning how to ride my bike with no hands. I've only succeeded once for a stretch longer than a quarter mile, but the bike was really well balanced and I later learned that it woldn't have tipped if I had two legs on one side of me. So I still am trying to learn, but my average is 4 pedals before I crash, tip over, or grab the handle bars.
Okay--I didn't say they'd be interesting.
I tag:
Kara
Kali
Sandy
Blake and
Niki (except you can't read hers unless you have a myspace)
1. I was expected to be little Seve Herron (named for Spanish golfer Seve Ballesteros) until I entered the world and to everyone's surprise I was a girl, according to my dad. My dad says I have a swing that people can't take lessons to mimic. I attribute it to my almost namesake.
2. I am so afraid of moths that if I see one flying around the room I will do everything in my power to ensure there is no possible way it could go into my ear short of actually leaving the room. In other words, I shrug my shoulders up, put my hands by my ears, and watch its every move.
3. My dentist has lectured me on more than one occasion about how I brush my teeth too often.
4. One summer I ate nothing but red-white-and-blue pops--some days eating as many as 5. I was very picky about it, too. I would ONLY eat the America's Choice brand (Farmer Jack store brand).
5. I have dedicated a very large portion of my summers in the past (and will continue in the future) to learning how to ride my bike with no hands. I've only succeeded once for a stretch longer than a quarter mile, but the bike was really well balanced and I later learned that it woldn't have tipped if I had two legs on one side of me. So I still am trying to learn, but my average is 4 pedals before I crash, tip over, or grab the handle bars.
Okay--I didn't say they'd be interesting.
I tag:
Kara
Kali
Sandy
Blake and
Niki (except you can't read hers unless you have a myspace)
Saturday, January 20, 2007
Fill Me Up
This was going to be a different post. But it's not. It's this one.
I don't know what it feels like to be hungry for food.
I do, however, know what it feels like to be full of food.
It's no secret that I thoroughly enjoy to taste food. I relish in the opportunity to try new and delicious new concoctions, and savor old favorites.
My favorite food group: without question the grain group. Pasta, pancakes, panera. . .you name it.
Dear God in Heaven, give us this day our daily bread.
And I promise I thank him daily for it.
Here's the trap I daily fall in:
We pray for God to give us our daily bread. But he already has. We've grown up proclaiming "man shall not live by bread alone, but by every wo-or-rd that proceeds from the mouth of God. (singing alelulia)" Boys even get to proclaim it twice as much, as the girls just sing alelulia over and over. But unevenness aside: we know. We know that praying for our daily bread has nothing to do with the food we eat, but rather the Word of the Lord. And God has already given that to us. We don't need to even go out and find it daily--it's all in one place.
My problem is that I'm already full. I don't want any more bread. I'm stuffed, I'm busting at the seams, if I stuff anything else inside I'll explode (or at least I feel like I will, and I have no desire to actually find out if physics will be defied on account of a little more stuffing).
I'm so full of Dostoevsky, SVU, grading papers, violin, Guster, and (of course) bread, that I don't want any more. I do what every nutritionist, WeighDown Workshop leader, doctor, and mother tells you to do: stop when you're full.
I stop without even receiving my real daily bread. And it leaves me hungry. And I don't understand hunger so I interpret it as boredom. And in my boredom I teach myself how to knit, and watch entire seasons of Everybody Loves Raymond, and have a 65% win rate after 300 games of Free Cell. I write songs, and I invent new pancake recepies that taste like flan. I read 900 page books and see how many songs I can hold a wall-sit through. I clip my toenails, I vacuum my carpet, I play with my fake uzzi, I make dramatic picture documentaries of my car's emergency mirror replacement surgery for Facebook. Today I even pulled out all of my Rasheed Wallace basketball cards and sorted them in order of my favorite picture.
It all left me too full to eat any more bread.
I say a prayer every night to God and I always say "I love you, God." But sometimes I wonder if I shouldn't also be praying to my books or pizza and proclaiming my love to them, too.
I always wanted to love God more than I love myself. Well, that's easy if you don't think you're all that great. But what about loving God more than I love Raymond? I'm pretty sure I do--but shouldn't actions speak louder than words?
Soooo, with that in mind, all I can do is ask for forgiveness, thank God for my daily bread, and eat it FIRST. Before I even have the chance to fill up on any of that other stuff, I have to eat the real stuff first.
fill me up, bread of Heaven, fill me
enlighten me, Bright and Morning Star
build me up, Master Builder, build me
empower me, Mighty Great I AM
and heal me up, Great Physician, heal me
inhabit me, Gentle Comforter
and use me up, Holy Master, use me
empower me, Mighty Great I AM
AMEN
I don't know what it feels like to be hungry for food.
I do, however, know what it feels like to be full of food.
It's no secret that I thoroughly enjoy to taste food. I relish in the opportunity to try new and delicious new concoctions, and savor old favorites.
My favorite food group: without question the grain group. Pasta, pancakes, panera. . .you name it.
Dear God in Heaven, give us this day our daily bread.
And I promise I thank him daily for it.
Here's the trap I daily fall in:
We pray for God to give us our daily bread. But he already has. We've grown up proclaiming "man shall not live by bread alone, but by every wo-or-rd that proceeds from the mouth of God. (singing alelulia)" Boys even get to proclaim it twice as much, as the girls just sing alelulia over and over. But unevenness aside: we know. We know that praying for our daily bread has nothing to do with the food we eat, but rather the Word of the Lord. And God has already given that to us. We don't need to even go out and find it daily--it's all in one place.
My problem is that I'm already full. I don't want any more bread. I'm stuffed, I'm busting at the seams, if I stuff anything else inside I'll explode (or at least I feel like I will, and I have no desire to actually find out if physics will be defied on account of a little more stuffing).
I'm so full of Dostoevsky, SVU, grading papers, violin, Guster, and (of course) bread, that I don't want any more. I do what every nutritionist, WeighDown Workshop leader, doctor, and mother tells you to do: stop when you're full.
I stop without even receiving my real daily bread. And it leaves me hungry. And I don't understand hunger so I interpret it as boredom. And in my boredom I teach myself how to knit, and watch entire seasons of Everybody Loves Raymond, and have a 65% win rate after 300 games of Free Cell. I write songs, and I invent new pancake recepies that taste like flan. I read 900 page books and see how many songs I can hold a wall-sit through. I clip my toenails, I vacuum my carpet, I play with my fake uzzi, I make dramatic picture documentaries of my car's emergency mirror replacement surgery for Facebook. Today I even pulled out all of my Rasheed Wallace basketball cards and sorted them in order of my favorite picture.
It all left me too full to eat any more bread.
I say a prayer every night to God and I always say "I love you, God." But sometimes I wonder if I shouldn't also be praying to my books or pizza and proclaiming my love to them, too.
I always wanted to love God more than I love myself. Well, that's easy if you don't think you're all that great. But what about loving God more than I love Raymond? I'm pretty sure I do--but shouldn't actions speak louder than words?
Soooo, with that in mind, all I can do is ask for forgiveness, thank God for my daily bread, and eat it FIRST. Before I even have the chance to fill up on any of that other stuff, I have to eat the real stuff first.
fill me up, bread of Heaven, fill me
enlighten me, Bright and Morning Star
build me up, Master Builder, build me
empower me, Mighty Great I AM
and heal me up, Great Physician, heal me
inhabit me, Gentle Comforter
and use me up, Holy Master, use me
empower me, Mighty Great I AM
AMEN
Monday, January 15, 2007
Strangers with Kari
This post is inspired by Patrick Mead's most recent post at his website.
Last night, nearly 1500 churches in Oklahoma closed their doors due to the weather. Something in me really wanted to go to church today. I was really annoyed that churches were closing because of snow and ice. Maybe it comes from my continued grudge I have with Oklahoma for not being Michigan. Maybe it comes from the fact that I'm learning to be hungry for God's word, rather than cookies. Maybe Satan was giving me yet another excuse to not go to church by making it even easier than just sleeping through it.
Whatever it was, I wanted to go to church today to worship God with Christians there for the same reason.
My roommate, Jennifer, wanted to go to church today also. Whatever her reasons were, I was glad that the two of us were going to find one and go together.
We watched the names of closed churches scroll by on the news. All Sunday services cancelled. Then we started noticing a couple of them having an 11am service, or a 2pm service only. We started watching to see if we could find one near where we live in Edmond. We looked at Baptist, Methodist, even a Korean church. Why not? Churches of Christ were closing their doors. People gathering to worship God was what we were looking for. Much to our dismay, the open churches were quite a distance. We noticed that North MacArthur Church of Christ was not on the list. I've worshiped there a couple times before, which is why I thought to look for it. It's about 15 miles from where we live. We decided that we were going to call them and if their doors were open we would drive out.
How does this relate to Patrick's post?
His post talked about how his son drove to church in icy weather not because of a conviction to be at church, but because of the community at his church that he couldn't bear not being part of.
Community.
Did North MacArthur have a community that Jen and I couldn't bear not being a part of? No. We didn't know those people.
So why did we brave the dangerous roads and falling sleet to drive out there?
I can't speak for Jennifer, but I have lately been church hopping.
I'd only been going to Memorial Road because I made some friends who all went there. There wasn't anything about this church I liked, though. From the start.
At first I stayed because I felt convicted because Screwtape said that a good way to keep us from God is to keep us shopping for the church that suits us. But after reading Patrick's post today, I figured out why I was willing to risk my safety to find a place to worship.
I wanted Community.
I wanted any kind of community I could get.
And when I'm at a church of over 3000 people, even though I have 5 or 10 friends, there is no community to me. I think I finally cracked and even started church hopping in the first place because I just longed for the community I'd been lacking for nearly the last 8 months.
I needed it so badly.
Some people from Memorial Road were having house church today, because church was closed. That would have been easy. But I didn't want easy. I wanted community. And I wanted to rise up and go to worship God in fellowship. Whether or not I knew the people didn't matter. They didn't close their doors, and that was welcoming enough for me.
Maybe I'll find a church down here that I'll go to because I can't bear to be apart from the family. I haven't yet, but it doesn't mean I can't build and form relationships.
I want to be part of a church, not just a member.
It's hard because I already grew up with the most perfect church at Livonia I could have ever asked for. But until I move back up there, I've got to be ready to serve here.
Last night, nearly 1500 churches in Oklahoma closed their doors due to the weather. Something in me really wanted to go to church today. I was really annoyed that churches were closing because of snow and ice. Maybe it comes from my continued grudge I have with Oklahoma for not being Michigan. Maybe it comes from the fact that I'm learning to be hungry for God's word, rather than cookies. Maybe Satan was giving me yet another excuse to not go to church by making it even easier than just sleeping through it.
Whatever it was, I wanted to go to church today to worship God with Christians there for the same reason.
My roommate, Jennifer, wanted to go to church today also. Whatever her reasons were, I was glad that the two of us were going to find one and go together.
We watched the names of closed churches scroll by on the news. All Sunday services cancelled. Then we started noticing a couple of them having an 11am service, or a 2pm service only. We started watching to see if we could find one near where we live in Edmond. We looked at Baptist, Methodist, even a Korean church. Why not? Churches of Christ were closing their doors. People gathering to worship God was what we were looking for. Much to our dismay, the open churches were quite a distance. We noticed that North MacArthur Church of Christ was not on the list. I've worshiped there a couple times before, which is why I thought to look for it. It's about 15 miles from where we live. We decided that we were going to call them and if their doors were open we would drive out.
How does this relate to Patrick's post?
His post talked about how his son drove to church in icy weather not because of a conviction to be at church, but because of the community at his church that he couldn't bear not being part of.
Community.
Did North MacArthur have a community that Jen and I couldn't bear not being a part of? No. We didn't know those people.
So why did we brave the dangerous roads and falling sleet to drive out there?
I can't speak for Jennifer, but I have lately been church hopping.
I'd only been going to Memorial Road because I made some friends who all went there. There wasn't anything about this church I liked, though. From the start.
At first I stayed because I felt convicted because Screwtape said that a good way to keep us from God is to keep us shopping for the church that suits us. But after reading Patrick's post today, I figured out why I was willing to risk my safety to find a place to worship.
I wanted Community.
I wanted any kind of community I could get.
And when I'm at a church of over 3000 people, even though I have 5 or 10 friends, there is no community to me. I think I finally cracked and even started church hopping in the first place because I just longed for the community I'd been lacking for nearly the last 8 months.
I needed it so badly.
Some people from Memorial Road were having house church today, because church was closed. That would have been easy. But I didn't want easy. I wanted community. And I wanted to rise up and go to worship God in fellowship. Whether or not I knew the people didn't matter. They didn't close their doors, and that was welcoming enough for me.
Maybe I'll find a church down here that I'll go to because I can't bear to be apart from the family. I haven't yet, but it doesn't mean I can't build and form relationships.
I want to be part of a church, not just a member.
It's hard because I already grew up with the most perfect church at Livonia I could have ever asked for. But until I move back up there, I've got to be ready to serve here.
Friday, January 12, 2007
I Feel So
Sometimes I forget that I feel things.
Maybe it's because you can't tell I do by looking at me.
But I do.
I feel happy.
I feel blessed.
I feel under rested.
I feel ugly.
I feel proud.
I feel forgotten.
I feel vandalized.
I feel tricked.
I feel loved.
I feel stalked.
I feel bloated.
I feel calm.
I feel like only my dad knows how special I really am.
I feel like if I wait long enough, things will end up perfectly.
I feel impatient.
I feel like I have a lot left to learn.
I feel inadequate.
I feel dishonest.
I feel wooed.
I feel swept away.
I feel rich.
I feel annoyed.
I feel bitter.
I feel resolved.
I feel jealous.
I feel like I want to avoid entangling aliances. Or jobs. Or commitments.
I feel like running and never stopping.
I apologize to anyone who tries to figure me out and only gets my enthusiasm.
I don't wear my emotions on my sleeve.
But I really am not a robot. I promise.
Maybe it's because you can't tell I do by looking at me.
But I do.
I feel happy.
I feel blessed.
I feel under rested.
I feel ugly.
I feel proud.
I feel forgotten.
I feel vandalized.
I feel tricked.
I feel loved.
I feel stalked.
I feel bloated.
I feel calm.
I feel like only my dad knows how special I really am.
I feel like if I wait long enough, things will end up perfectly.
I feel impatient.
I feel like I have a lot left to learn.
I feel inadequate.
I feel dishonest.
I feel wooed.
I feel swept away.
I feel rich.
I feel annoyed.
I feel bitter.
I feel resolved.
I feel jealous.
I feel like I want to avoid entangling aliances. Or jobs. Or commitments.
I feel like running and never stopping.
I apologize to anyone who tries to figure me out and only gets my enthusiasm.
I don't wear my emotions on my sleeve.
But I really am not a robot. I promise.
Tuesday, January 09, 2007
Potentially Walking in a Winter Wonderland, Maybe, In a Couple of Days. Perhaps.
It's no secret that there are many things that bug me about Oklahoma. But one of the biggest things is how freaked out everybody gets about the weather. If there is a slight rainstorm on the south east corner of the state, all television programs (no matter what they are--inclusing NBA Finals, MLB Post Season, Days Of Our Lives etc.) will be interrupted no fewer than every 4 minutes to inform people in the Oklahoma City Metro that there is some rain falling on a zoomed in area of the map of some city in Oklahoma that not even native Oklahomans have ever heard of.
If there's the chance there might be lightening or Thunder, don't even dream about getting a whole picture on the television, because they will put the tv show up in the corner and make the entire screen a doppler photo of the storm and its movement.
This is from a state that is supposed to be one of the tornado magnets of the country. You would think with a history of frequent tornadoes, the state would be like "oh, it's just a little thunder." But instead, they go the other way.
I guess we "only have until Friday" to prepare for a possible weekend winter storm. They would have given us longer, but it's "moving rather quickly." Are they serious? It's Tuesday night. They wish they could have given us more notice for 1/2 inch of expected ice 3 days away? They were even nice enough to show a map of Oklahoma with three colored bands sweeping across it. The green meant "heavy freezing rain," the red meant "light freezing rain," and the other part meant just "really cold" I guess. So make sure this weekend you're "not driving anywhere in the section that's RED."
Now, I'm not downplaying the danger of driving on ice. That's perfectly legitimate--especially in a state that doesn't have the resources to handle it. Which, for the record, I find very odd because everyone I've talked to talks about how Oklahoma might not get snow for winter, but there is the constant need to scrape and/or chip ice off the car windows. Anyway, sure--driving on ice is dangerous. Be careful! I do think, however it is silly to wish we had more than 4 days warning for a possible winter storm that might hit 2/3 of the state by this weekend.
If this storm still looks probable in 2 days, I'm willing to bet that by Thursday night all school closings will be announced for Friday.
Is there such a thing as a weather hypochondriac? Because the state of Oklahoma should test the sugar pills to cure it.
If there's the chance there might be lightening or Thunder, don't even dream about getting a whole picture on the television, because they will put the tv show up in the corner and make the entire screen a doppler photo of the storm and its movement.
This is from a state that is supposed to be one of the tornado magnets of the country. You would think with a history of frequent tornadoes, the state would be like "oh, it's just a little thunder." But instead, they go the other way.
I guess we "only have until Friday" to prepare for a possible weekend winter storm. They would have given us longer, but it's "moving rather quickly." Are they serious? It's Tuesday night. They wish they could have given us more notice for 1/2 inch of expected ice 3 days away? They were even nice enough to show a map of Oklahoma with three colored bands sweeping across it. The green meant "heavy freezing rain," the red meant "light freezing rain," and the other part meant just "really cold" I guess. So make sure this weekend you're "not driving anywhere in the section that's RED."
Now, I'm not downplaying the danger of driving on ice. That's perfectly legitimate--especially in a state that doesn't have the resources to handle it. Which, for the record, I find very odd because everyone I've talked to talks about how Oklahoma might not get snow for winter, but there is the constant need to scrape and/or chip ice off the car windows. Anyway, sure--driving on ice is dangerous. Be careful! I do think, however it is silly to wish we had more than 4 days warning for a possible winter storm that might hit 2/3 of the state by this weekend.
If this storm still looks probable in 2 days, I'm willing to bet that by Thursday night all school closings will be announced for Friday.
Is there such a thing as a weather hypochondriac? Because the state of Oklahoma should test the sugar pills to cure it.
Wednesday, January 03, 2007
This Stupid, Stupid Wind.
Sometimes bad days just happen.
Everybody says that bad days happen when bad attitudes are present, but I don't think that's always true. Sometimes bad days just happen--and no amount of positiveness can make them better. No amount of theraputic running, guitar playing, reading, eating (which I didn't do, thank goodness), or crying can make them less bad. Bad days come every once in a while, and we just have to stand back and take them.
I woke up this morning with every positive intention to have a wonderful Wednesday.
I did ten jumping jacks to get me moving, and went to the corner to do my little morning Bible study. I reflected a little, prayed for a good day, prayed to teach well, make good choices, and to be blessed. Feeling good, I started to get ready for my day.
I decided that I should stop dressing so casually for school. I own dress clothes and shoes--I should show my kids (and myself) enough respect to dress nicely. I even put on pearls.
Then, I washed my face. This is where it all started to go wrong.
My face has been peeling lately--I'm not sure why. I've been moisturizing it like crazy morning and night, and it's just been pink and sore and peeling. I washed it, put on moisturizer, and it was worse than it had been all last week. My eyelids were peeling, my chin was flaking, my cheeks were red. I knew if I even tried to put on makeup, it would just look like I had flakes of makeup all over my face. So I hid my peely eyelids with my glasses, and I left my face as it was (and if you've ever seen my face before I put on makeup, it's not a pretty sight. I've got what you call "really bad acne.").
It's okay, though. I look nice, I'm ready for school.
I open the door to go start my car, but it's not too cold outside, so there's no need this particular morning. I enjoy my bowl of Grape Nuts, brush and floss my teeth, grab my bag, and head out the door. I walk up to my car and I notice something funny.
My rear view mirror on the driver's side is hanging by its wires, and the red casing is smashed off and missing. Somebody hit my car, broke my mirror off, and then left it.
I sigh, get in my car, and think to myself, "this isn't so bad. I made it from Detroit to Oklahoma City without a hitch. Praise God for keeping me safe." You think I'm being cheesy--but I really did. I called my dad and asked him if insurance would cover something like this and he said he'd call and they'd get hold of me. I very carefully (because I use that mirror a LOT) drive to school.
I got to school 40 minutes early, so I can get all my ducks in a row. It's hard coming back from a 2 week vacation where school is the last thing on my mind. I set up for the day, and start to relax. My face looks pretty awful, and my allergies are making my eyes look really glassy, but kids don't notice those things, do they?
The day went by very quickly. I was very thankful for that--because I just felt so tired.
After school, my basketball girls usually hang out in my room until practice at 4:15. Today was no different. I started organizing my next two weeks--making copies and lesson plans--and one of the girls says, "can I use your phone to call my mom and tell her about late practice today?"
Late practice? What? Well, aparently, practice wasn't going to start today until 5:15 and would go until 6:45. Why didn't anyone tell me? When am I supposed to get my run in? I didn't plan for dinner, I still needed to take pictures of my car before it got dark. . .wasn't going to happen.
I made the most of the time (all 3 hours of it) and got all my copies made and lesson plans done through next Friday. That felt good.
I thought practice would NEVER end, but as all things do, it did. I got in my car to drive home. It's already too late for church, so I decide I'm going to run.
I get out of my car and look around the street to see if I can find the remains of my mirror casing. As I'm picking up the shattered pieces of my car, I start to feel really hurt. It hurt my feelings that somebody broke my car. I took it really personally.
And then Kali calls. I remember that she asked me if I could feed the dog she's dog sitting tomorrow night, but I can't. So I tell her it's going to be impossible between school, practice, and the Pistons' game tomorrow night. She asked why I couldn't do it after I got back from the game, and I said because it was 1) going to be too late, and 2) out of my way. I asked her why she couldn't do it--after all, she had taken on the responsibility. She said she was going to be spending the night in Lawton. I told her what I thought about that: basically you shouldn't make other plans if you've committed to doing something. She said "well, maybe I can find somebody else." I said, again, "Kali, it's your responsibility. You're getting paid to do this. "
(In case you don't know me very well--one of my biggest pet peeves is when people shirk their responsibilities.) "Don't commit to things you can't follow through."
I'm getting kind of upset, but then she takes the cake. "Well, I'm sorry for ever even asking you"
A guilt trip? You're trying to send me on a guilt trip for not taking over your responsibilities while you go off and do something else? No way. If I could have done it, I would have. No questions asked. But I couldn't. So she's trying to make me feel bad for not biding my time to her schedule?
Well, it worked. I was miserable. I was angry, I was frustrated, and I was tired.
I went for a run, and it all started to fall down. I ran harder and harder, and with each step I delivered more and more deliberately. And the more I pushed myself, the harder and faster the wind blew. . .in my face. Angrier than ever, I pounded through it, thinking about my skin, my car, 3 extra hours at school, shattered pieces of my car lying in the street, my sister's selfish behaviour, and this stupid wind. This stupid stupid wind.
Sometimes bad days just happen. They just start to spiral, and the only place to go is to sleep.
I have one continuous comforting promise, however:
God is in control.
That means I'm not.
Bad days will come and go, but God doesn't leave.
And I'm okay with that.
Everybody says that bad days happen when bad attitudes are present, but I don't think that's always true. Sometimes bad days just happen--and no amount of positiveness can make them better. No amount of theraputic running, guitar playing, reading, eating (which I didn't do, thank goodness), or crying can make them less bad. Bad days come every once in a while, and we just have to stand back and take them.
I woke up this morning with every positive intention to have a wonderful Wednesday.
I did ten jumping jacks to get me moving, and went to the corner to do my little morning Bible study. I reflected a little, prayed for a good day, prayed to teach well, make good choices, and to be blessed. Feeling good, I started to get ready for my day.
I decided that I should stop dressing so casually for school. I own dress clothes and shoes--I should show my kids (and myself) enough respect to dress nicely. I even put on pearls.
Then, I washed my face. This is where it all started to go wrong.
My face has been peeling lately--I'm not sure why. I've been moisturizing it like crazy morning and night, and it's just been pink and sore and peeling. I washed it, put on moisturizer, and it was worse than it had been all last week. My eyelids were peeling, my chin was flaking, my cheeks were red. I knew if I even tried to put on makeup, it would just look like I had flakes of makeup all over my face. So I hid my peely eyelids with my glasses, and I left my face as it was (and if you've ever seen my face before I put on makeup, it's not a pretty sight. I've got what you call "really bad acne.").
It's okay, though. I look nice, I'm ready for school.
I open the door to go start my car, but it's not too cold outside, so there's no need this particular morning. I enjoy my bowl of Grape Nuts, brush and floss my teeth, grab my bag, and head out the door. I walk up to my car and I notice something funny.
My rear view mirror on the driver's side is hanging by its wires, and the red casing is smashed off and missing. Somebody hit my car, broke my mirror off, and then left it.
I sigh, get in my car, and think to myself, "this isn't so bad. I made it from Detroit to Oklahoma City without a hitch. Praise God for keeping me safe." You think I'm being cheesy--but I really did. I called my dad and asked him if insurance would cover something like this and he said he'd call and they'd get hold of me. I very carefully (because I use that mirror a LOT) drive to school.
I got to school 40 minutes early, so I can get all my ducks in a row. It's hard coming back from a 2 week vacation where school is the last thing on my mind. I set up for the day, and start to relax. My face looks pretty awful, and my allergies are making my eyes look really glassy, but kids don't notice those things, do they?
The day went by very quickly. I was very thankful for that--because I just felt so tired.
After school, my basketball girls usually hang out in my room until practice at 4:15. Today was no different. I started organizing my next two weeks--making copies and lesson plans--and one of the girls says, "can I use your phone to call my mom and tell her about late practice today?"
Late practice? What? Well, aparently, practice wasn't going to start today until 5:15 and would go until 6:45. Why didn't anyone tell me? When am I supposed to get my run in? I didn't plan for dinner, I still needed to take pictures of my car before it got dark. . .wasn't going to happen.
I made the most of the time (all 3 hours of it) and got all my copies made and lesson plans done through next Friday. That felt good.
I thought practice would NEVER end, but as all things do, it did. I got in my car to drive home. It's already too late for church, so I decide I'm going to run.
I get out of my car and look around the street to see if I can find the remains of my mirror casing. As I'm picking up the shattered pieces of my car, I start to feel really hurt. It hurt my feelings that somebody broke my car. I took it really personally.
And then Kali calls. I remember that she asked me if I could feed the dog she's dog sitting tomorrow night, but I can't. So I tell her it's going to be impossible between school, practice, and the Pistons' game tomorrow night. She asked why I couldn't do it after I got back from the game, and I said because it was 1) going to be too late, and 2) out of my way. I asked her why she couldn't do it--after all, she had taken on the responsibility. She said she was going to be spending the night in Lawton. I told her what I thought about that: basically you shouldn't make other plans if you've committed to doing something. She said "well, maybe I can find somebody else." I said, again, "Kali, it's your responsibility. You're getting paid to do this. "
(In case you don't know me very well--one of my biggest pet peeves is when people shirk their responsibilities.) "Don't commit to things you can't follow through."
I'm getting kind of upset, but then she takes the cake. "Well, I'm sorry for ever even asking you"
A guilt trip? You're trying to send me on a guilt trip for not taking over your responsibilities while you go off and do something else? No way. If I could have done it, I would have. No questions asked. But I couldn't. So she's trying to make me feel bad for not biding my time to her schedule?
Well, it worked. I was miserable. I was angry, I was frustrated, and I was tired.
I went for a run, and it all started to fall down. I ran harder and harder, and with each step I delivered more and more deliberately. And the more I pushed myself, the harder and faster the wind blew. . .in my face. Angrier than ever, I pounded through it, thinking about my skin, my car, 3 extra hours at school, shattered pieces of my car lying in the street, my sister's selfish behaviour, and this stupid wind. This stupid stupid wind.
Sometimes bad days just happen. They just start to spiral, and the only place to go is to sleep.
I have one continuous comforting promise, however:
God is in control.
That means I'm not.
Bad days will come and go, but God doesn't leave.
And I'm okay with that.
Monday, December 25, 2006
It's a True Story!
Imagine, if you will, a dark morning. Tongo (the dog) is running around the house looking for an open door and a fresh face to lick. Mom is downstairs, getting the downstairs presentable for whomever decides to wake up next. The sun has barely risen.
Dad wakes up to Tongo's jingling dog tags, and decides it's time to get up. He stumbles around in the dark, looking for his clothes. Tongo is sitting on the bed, doing anything but minding her own business.
Mom opens the bedroom door to see my dad standing in his underwear, stumbling into a pair of pants; Tongo sitting on the bed; the lights are out.
Dad glances to the door and sees mom standing there and quickly explains, "I thought you were asleep. . .I didn't want to turn on the light. . .I thought the dog was off her leash."
My mom just stands there, on the verge of laughing, and my dad adds very defensively, "It's a true story!"
What we're wondering, now, as we laugh at this is: What does he think the fake story was?
Dad wakes up to Tongo's jingling dog tags, and decides it's time to get up. He stumbles around in the dark, looking for his clothes. Tongo is sitting on the bed, doing anything but minding her own business.
Mom opens the bedroom door to see my dad standing in his underwear, stumbling into a pair of pants; Tongo sitting on the bed; the lights are out.
Dad glances to the door and sees mom standing there and quickly explains, "I thought you were asleep. . .I didn't want to turn on the light. . .I thought the dog was off her leash."
My mom just stands there, on the verge of laughing, and my dad adds very defensively, "It's a true story!"
What we're wondering, now, as we laugh at this is: What does he think the fake story was?
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
Thirteen Going on Thirty
I heard about this great new thing today.
I guess it's some really great way to cut down on stress.
You know, take your mind off all your problems.
Aparently it makes them much smaller.
Okay, you dragged it out of me, I'll tell you:
You get this razor blade, and you run it back and forth across your wrists.
Ends stress just like that! It's a miracle.
Well, when you put it that way, sign me up!
Where do I get my razor?
It really ends my stress?
That's amazing!
How does it work?
Oh, I turn all of my stress into something physical so I can shift my focus from internal things I can't control to something external that I can control. Brilliant!
Who actually believes that?
Who actually believes that self mutilation is a really good idea?
Who actually believes that gaining control over one aspect of your life will negate all of the things you can't control?
7th grade girls. That's who.
7th grade girls in upper-middle class suburbia do.
7th grade girls who have their closest friends introducing them to "new ideas."
13 year old girls.
Thirteen.
A little girl today found a razor blade in her friend's purse and little pink lines on her wrists.
"Promise you won't tell anyone!"
Run like the wind and tell the first adult you see, sweet girl. Your friend is in trouble!
What do you do?
What do you do when the life of a thirteen year old girl is so stressful she has to externalize her pain?
What do you accomplish by suspending her?
What do you accomplish by kicking her off the basketball team?
She thought she had stress before. . .
When does she get better?
Does the cutting continue?
She's out of school.
She's off the team.
She's embarassed because everybody *thinks* they know what's goin on.
How will she deal with all of that without her friends to help keep her in check?
How will we get past judging her, and help her heal?
How can we make her know we're holding her accountable because we love her, not because she messed up?
Did she mess up? Sure. But we can't fix the past--all we can do is change the future.
Back to my original questions:
Who actually believes that?
Who actually believes that self mutilation is a really good idea?
Who actually believes that gaining control over one aspect of your life will negate all of the things you can't control?
We all do, my friends.
Where is your line drawn for self mutilation?
Is it food?
Is it pornography?
Is it overworking yourself?
Is it drinking?
Lack of sleep?
This little girl had little pink lines on her wrists--easily hidden behind long sleeves.
How do you hide yours?
All of us try to take control of something. Don't lie. You know you do.
You take control of something because you can't control anything else.
Solution?
I'll give you a hint--it doesn't involve razor blades.
Maybe there are things we need to take control over.
How about making them things that lead us to the faith we need to actually really (not just say it and not do it) give our lives (wholly and completely) over to God.
How about taking control over waking up early every morning and reading your Bible?
Even if it's just random verses.
How about taking control over our bedtime routine and actually getting down beside our beds and praying to God?
7th grade girls are very impressionable.
They pick their friends, and they start to rub off on one another.
They start to act like each other.
All of us are the same way--whether or not we'd like to admit it.
We assimilate to the company we keep. The movies we watch (how many people started saying "gosh" and "sweet" after Napoleon Dynamite came out?).
You spend enough time with someone, you are going to be changed.
Who is changing your 7th grade girls?
Who is changing you?
I guess it's some really great way to cut down on stress.
You know, take your mind off all your problems.
Aparently it makes them much smaller.
Okay, you dragged it out of me, I'll tell you:
You get this razor blade, and you run it back and forth across your wrists.
Ends stress just like that! It's a miracle.
Well, when you put it that way, sign me up!
Where do I get my razor?
It really ends my stress?
That's amazing!
How does it work?
Oh, I turn all of my stress into something physical so I can shift my focus from internal things I can't control to something external that I can control. Brilliant!
Who actually believes that?
Who actually believes that self mutilation is a really good idea?
Who actually believes that gaining control over one aspect of your life will negate all of the things you can't control?
7th grade girls. That's who.
7th grade girls in upper-middle class suburbia do.
7th grade girls who have their closest friends introducing them to "new ideas."
13 year old girls.
Thirteen.
A little girl today found a razor blade in her friend's purse and little pink lines on her wrists.
"Promise you won't tell anyone!"
Run like the wind and tell the first adult you see, sweet girl. Your friend is in trouble!
What do you do?
What do you do when the life of a thirteen year old girl is so stressful she has to externalize her pain?
What do you accomplish by suspending her?
What do you accomplish by kicking her off the basketball team?
She thought she had stress before. . .
When does she get better?
Does the cutting continue?
She's out of school.
She's off the team.
She's embarassed because everybody *thinks* they know what's goin on.
How will she deal with all of that without her friends to help keep her in check?
How will we get past judging her, and help her heal?
How can we make her know we're holding her accountable because we love her, not because she messed up?
Did she mess up? Sure. But we can't fix the past--all we can do is change the future.
Back to my original questions:
Who actually believes that?
Who actually believes that self mutilation is a really good idea?
Who actually believes that gaining control over one aspect of your life will negate all of the things you can't control?
We all do, my friends.
Where is your line drawn for self mutilation?
Is it food?
Is it pornography?
Is it overworking yourself?
Is it drinking?
Lack of sleep?
This little girl had little pink lines on her wrists--easily hidden behind long sleeves.
How do you hide yours?
All of us try to take control of something. Don't lie. You know you do.
You take control of something because you can't control anything else.
Solution?
I'll give you a hint--it doesn't involve razor blades.
Maybe there are things we need to take control over.
How about making them things that lead us to the faith we need to actually really (not just say it and not do it) give our lives (wholly and completely) over to God.
How about taking control over waking up early every morning and reading your Bible?
Even if it's just random verses.
How about taking control over our bedtime routine and actually getting down beside our beds and praying to God?
7th grade girls are very impressionable.
They pick their friends, and they start to rub off on one another.
They start to act like each other.
All of us are the same way--whether or not we'd like to admit it.
We assimilate to the company we keep. The movies we watch (how many people started saying "gosh" and "sweet" after Napoleon Dynamite came out?).
You spend enough time with someone, you are going to be changed.
Who is changing your 7th grade girls?
Who is changing you?
Monday, December 11, 2006
On Being a Big Sister
Saturday morning, I wake up at 5:30 to my phone ringing. It's Kali, so I answer it.
"Kari?" she asks very slowly. "Can you come pick me up? [pause] I got in an accident."
Now, being the calm, logical, levelheaded person I am I quickly ask, "where are you?"
"I'm out by the airport--by North Pole City."
Slightly alarmed that she would have to be at work so early on a Saturday morning, I ask, "What are you doing out there?"
"I was coming back from Lawton."
Most likely without masking the shock in my voice I ask, "what were you doing in Lawton?"
"I was at a Christmas party and it was late, so I went to sleep instead of driving home tired. I woke up early because I knew I had to work today."
"Good decision." I say. "Are the police there? Have you gotten all the paperwork filled out?"
"I'm sitting in the police car right now."
"Was anybody else involved?"
"No, I just hit the median when a car cut me off."
"Are you OK?"
"Yeah, just have an airbag burn. I'm alright."
We talk for a couple seconds longer and I head out the door to pick her up. I call my parents and ask if they'd heard from her yet, and let them know I was on my way to pick her up.
Why recount this conversation word-for-word, you ask? I'd like you to look over it again. And see how many questions it took me to ask "Are you OK?" The first words that should have come out of my mouth, and they were close to the last. This has been really bugging me for the past couple days. Why was I so concerned about what my sister had been doing, rather than if she was okay?
These 5am phone calls are what being a big sister is all about. If your little sister is in trouble, you drop what you're doing and you get her out of it. I've been a big sister for 21 years.
This was my first big sister phone call.
This was my chance to be there, as the big sister, and it took me half a conversation to even ask if she was okay.
I've always prided myself in my ability to put my emotions aside in an emergency and assess the situation calmly. One of my patients codes, I follow the necessary procedure. A kid cuts his hand and is bleeding profusely, I follow necessary procedure. Like a robot.
My sister calls and needs me to come get her--aparently I follow necessary procedure.
I'm a pretty protective person. But sometimes I let it come out as judgement. I take it personally when people I love make bad choices, and I proceed to try to fix the situation.
If I can fix it, maybe I'm doing my job as a big sister.
Maybe part of me was thinking my sister made a dumb choice, so before I'd go get her I needed to know how dumb it was. That way, as the big sister I could think about how to fix it on the ride there. Maybe when I found out it wasn't anything I could have fixed, I felt like I had to do something else to make up for it.
I still feel like I have to do something to make up for it.
Being a big sister is hard for me for some reason. I think it means that I have to be okay with being looked up to. And I think it means that I have to be comfortable with not having all the answers. I think it means I am required to be there, and shouldn't expect anything in return.
"Kari?" she asks very slowly. "Can you come pick me up? [pause] I got in an accident."
Now, being the calm, logical, levelheaded person I am I quickly ask, "where are you?"
"I'm out by the airport--by North Pole City."
Slightly alarmed that she would have to be at work so early on a Saturday morning, I ask, "What are you doing out there?"
"I was coming back from Lawton."
Most likely without masking the shock in my voice I ask, "what were you doing in Lawton?"
"I was at a Christmas party and it was late, so I went to sleep instead of driving home tired. I woke up early because I knew I had to work today."
"Good decision." I say. "Are the police there? Have you gotten all the paperwork filled out?"
"I'm sitting in the police car right now."
"Was anybody else involved?"
"No, I just hit the median when a car cut me off."
"Are you OK?"
"Yeah, just have an airbag burn. I'm alright."
We talk for a couple seconds longer and I head out the door to pick her up. I call my parents and ask if they'd heard from her yet, and let them know I was on my way to pick her up.
Why recount this conversation word-for-word, you ask? I'd like you to look over it again. And see how many questions it took me to ask "Are you OK?" The first words that should have come out of my mouth, and they were close to the last. This has been really bugging me for the past couple days. Why was I so concerned about what my sister had been doing, rather than if she was okay?
These 5am phone calls are what being a big sister is all about. If your little sister is in trouble, you drop what you're doing and you get her out of it. I've been a big sister for 21 years.
This was my first big sister phone call.
This was my chance to be there, as the big sister, and it took me half a conversation to even ask if she was okay.
I've always prided myself in my ability to put my emotions aside in an emergency and assess the situation calmly. One of my patients codes, I follow the necessary procedure. A kid cuts his hand and is bleeding profusely, I follow necessary procedure. Like a robot.
My sister calls and needs me to come get her--aparently I follow necessary procedure.
I'm a pretty protective person. But sometimes I let it come out as judgement. I take it personally when people I love make bad choices, and I proceed to try to fix the situation.
If I can fix it, maybe I'm doing my job as a big sister.
Maybe part of me was thinking my sister made a dumb choice, so before I'd go get her I needed to know how dumb it was. That way, as the big sister I could think about how to fix it on the ride there. Maybe when I found out it wasn't anything I could have fixed, I felt like I had to do something else to make up for it.
I still feel like I have to do something to make up for it.
Being a big sister is hard for me for some reason. I think it means that I have to be okay with being looked up to. And I think it means that I have to be comfortable with not having all the answers. I think it means I am required to be there, and shouldn't expect anything in return.
Thursday, November 16, 2006
Am I Captivating?
I'm reading the book Captivating by John and Stasi Eldridge. I'm only about 1/4 of the way through it, so I could very well have this figured out by the time I finish it, but here's what I've learned:
I've learned that I'm uncomfortable admitting that I want people to see me as captivating. For some reason I didn't think it was okay to want people to look at me and say "wow, she's amazing!" I want the attention, but only secretly. And I've learned that it's okay to want to be wanted. And to need to be needed. It doesn't make me vain, or selfish, or self-absorbed. Aparently it's part of what it means to be a girl.
I'm always fascinated by the whole "God made me in his image" thing. I love to read through the Psalms and see this anger, joy, sorrow, love, and even jealousy that God has given us. And I love to see how he has them too. I love the thought that as the creator, God formed us in him image and we are constantly a people creating our own art. We are like God in so many ways.
What I never thought to look at has been pointed out to me in Captivating when it talks about how God is a God who wants to be saught after. He wants us to seek him, to know him, and to delight in him. It's okay for me to feel like this because it's more than likely that part of God directly in me. God made me like him, which is why (even though I constantly fight it) I want to be saught after. And it's why I want to be delighted in and celebrated. It's why I want to be known and understood.
And I fight it so much. I am so uncomfortable with being celebrated, even though somewhere inside I want to be delightful. I fight tooth and nail the fact that I want somebody to love me and need me, but somewhere I know I want to be (and will be) the perfect wife to someone.
Why am I fighting who I am as a woman made in God's image?
Why is it so hard to give in to this part of my nature God has programmed in?
How do I hold onto humility and selflessness while asking the question "am I captivating?"
Where is that happy medium between secretly wanting to be desired, and overtly making sure people think I'm desireable?
God's will and Satan's tricks look so similar sometimes.
I've learned that I'm uncomfortable admitting that I want people to see me as captivating. For some reason I didn't think it was okay to want people to look at me and say "wow, she's amazing!" I want the attention, but only secretly. And I've learned that it's okay to want to be wanted. And to need to be needed. It doesn't make me vain, or selfish, or self-absorbed. Aparently it's part of what it means to be a girl.
I'm always fascinated by the whole "God made me in his image" thing. I love to read through the Psalms and see this anger, joy, sorrow, love, and even jealousy that God has given us. And I love to see how he has them too. I love the thought that as the creator, God formed us in him image and we are constantly a people creating our own art. We are like God in so many ways.
What I never thought to look at has been pointed out to me in Captivating when it talks about how God is a God who wants to be saught after. He wants us to seek him, to know him, and to delight in him. It's okay for me to feel like this because it's more than likely that part of God directly in me. God made me like him, which is why (even though I constantly fight it) I want to be saught after. And it's why I want to be delighted in and celebrated. It's why I want to be known and understood.
And I fight it so much. I am so uncomfortable with being celebrated, even though somewhere inside I want to be delightful. I fight tooth and nail the fact that I want somebody to love me and need me, but somewhere I know I want to be (and will be) the perfect wife to someone.
Why am I fighting who I am as a woman made in God's image?
Why is it so hard to give in to this part of my nature God has programmed in?
How do I hold onto humility and selflessness while asking the question "am I captivating?"
Where is that happy medium between secretly wanting to be desired, and overtly making sure people think I'm desireable?
God's will and Satan's tricks look so similar sometimes.
Saturday, November 04, 2006
How I Like to Remember It.
Friday night, we'd all go to bed. All of our friends had their Christmas trees up and brightly lit, but our living room widow had just our window clings and some colored light bulbs. There was snow on the ground, and Santa was due any day now but the Herron family had no tree. "It's not time yet," my dad would say whenever we'd ask. "We won't find the perfect tree if we go before it's time."
Then, there would come that Saturday morning. We'd get up and eat breakfast and my dad would announce, "last night, I looked out the window, and the stars were lined up just right. Our Christmas tree is ready for us." And we'd bundle up in our long-johns and snowpants, hats, coats and gloves and pile into the car. Dad would take his saw, mom would help us buckle up in our chubby bundle of winter clothes, and we'd drive to the Christmas tree farm.
It was well over a 30 minute drive, but we'd get there and march out to the tractor that would pull us deep into the endless rows of trees. "Douglas Fir!" the driver would call out as most of the families on the wagon would pile off for the giant soft needles of their soon-to-be Christmas trees. Our family did not move. We knew to wait for the call, "Spruce!" There it was! This was our stop! Now to find the tree that was waiting for our family.
We'd run through the rows and rows of trees, looking for our tree. Too tall. Too fat. That one has a hole in the side. That's a two-trunker. We'd split up--mom would take half and dad would take the other half. We'd mark a tree here or there and bring the whole family together to look at it.
Then, like some sort of miracle, all of us would find it at the same time. Mom would circle around it. Niki, Kali, Drew and I would yell "we found it! We found it!" Dad would hold his hand up to make sure it was the right height. We'd check the shape. Lay down on the ground and check the trunk. The branches looked as if they could hold our assortment of hand-made and store-bought ornaments. "This one's the one," my mom would announce, and my dad would nod in agreement and get down on the ground with his saw.
Gleefully, my siblings and I would call out, "tiiiimmmbeerrrrrr!" as the tree would fall to the ground. Dad would grab the trunk and we'd all pile at the top and carry it to the aisle to wait for the tractor.
Getting the tree tied up was always fun. We'd look around at the other trees and I'd be so proud that we found the perfect one, and all the other families had to settle for second best. Into the trunk the tree would go, and we'd all pile back into the car for the long drive home.
We always had perfect Christmases, and we always had the perfect tree. Sometimes it would reveal itself the night before Christmas, other times it would come as early as the first week of December. But we always found it. Every single time. My dad would wait for the stars to line up juuuuust right, and when that perfect moment came, we were up and running.
Patience is a virtue. But when the waiting is over, run as fast as you can for the prize. It will always be the most perfect then that it ever will be.
Then, there would come that Saturday morning. We'd get up and eat breakfast and my dad would announce, "last night, I looked out the window, and the stars were lined up just right. Our Christmas tree is ready for us." And we'd bundle up in our long-johns and snowpants, hats, coats and gloves and pile into the car. Dad would take his saw, mom would help us buckle up in our chubby bundle of winter clothes, and we'd drive to the Christmas tree farm.
It was well over a 30 minute drive, but we'd get there and march out to the tractor that would pull us deep into the endless rows of trees. "Douglas Fir!" the driver would call out as most of the families on the wagon would pile off for the giant soft needles of their soon-to-be Christmas trees. Our family did not move. We knew to wait for the call, "Spruce!" There it was! This was our stop! Now to find the tree that was waiting for our family.
We'd run through the rows and rows of trees, looking for our tree. Too tall. Too fat. That one has a hole in the side. That's a two-trunker. We'd split up--mom would take half and dad would take the other half. We'd mark a tree here or there and bring the whole family together to look at it.
Then, like some sort of miracle, all of us would find it at the same time. Mom would circle around it. Niki, Kali, Drew and I would yell "we found it! We found it!" Dad would hold his hand up to make sure it was the right height. We'd check the shape. Lay down on the ground and check the trunk. The branches looked as if they could hold our assortment of hand-made and store-bought ornaments. "This one's the one," my mom would announce, and my dad would nod in agreement and get down on the ground with his saw.
Gleefully, my siblings and I would call out, "tiiiimmmbeerrrrrr!" as the tree would fall to the ground. Dad would grab the trunk and we'd all pile at the top and carry it to the aisle to wait for the tractor.
Getting the tree tied up was always fun. We'd look around at the other trees and I'd be so proud that we found the perfect one, and all the other families had to settle for second best. Into the trunk the tree would go, and we'd all pile back into the car for the long drive home.
We always had perfect Christmases, and we always had the perfect tree. Sometimes it would reveal itself the night before Christmas, other times it would come as early as the first week of December. But we always found it. Every single time. My dad would wait for the stars to line up juuuuust right, and when that perfect moment came, we were up and running.
Patience is a virtue. But when the waiting is over, run as fast as you can for the prize. It will always be the most perfect then that it ever will be.
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