So, I was recently reading about Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego (which I usually say like a-bend-ago..."i drove around a bend awhile ago.") These three guys are in the book of Daniel, along with King Nebuchadnezzar. The king builds this giant gold statue (90 feet high!) and wants everyone to worship it. Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego quietly opt NOT to worship this statue because they worship another God. And, of course, somebody has to go and tattle tale, telling the king that they’re not following his rules. Ticked off, the king orders them thrown into a fiery blaze—so hot, in fact, that the soldiers who were doing the king’s dirty job (throwing them into the fire) burned to death.
Crazily enough though, the king could see them walking around in the fire unharmed. What the heck? And even more crazy, there was a fourth person in there with them who the king said looked "like a son of the gods."
Nebuchadnezzar went to the door of the roaring furnace and called in, "Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego, servants of the High God, come out here!"
Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego walked out of the fire.
All the important people, the government leaders and king's counselors, gathered around to examine them and discovered that the fire hadn't so much as touched the three men—not a hair singed, not a scorch mark on their clothes, not even the smell of fire on them!
(Daniel 3:26-27)
Now, I’ve heard this story multiple times, most while I was little and in Sunday School. And really, this is not exactly a kid-friendly story. Three guys being thrown into a fire? And the same with Jonah. Being swallowed by a whale?! What about Noah and the flood? SCARY! But anyways, all the times I’ve heard the story of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego, I never stopped to consider the significance of God being in the fire with them. The sticking point has always been that they managed to come out alive—not even just alive but without even smelling like fire? And that is, indeed, worth a sticking point—God saved them. But so is the fact that He was there with them. (Maybe I’m slow on the uptake and everyone has already thought of this and spent time thinking about this. If so, read no more.)
God could easily have saved them and not necessarily been present. Chances are Nebuchadnezzar would still have been freaked out. He would have still presumed that that there was something behind this God that they followed. The three amigos had, after all, told him beforehand that their God would save them. (I’m sure 'ole Neb laughed in their faces at that point.) So, I just don’t really think God needed to be seen walking around with them in the fire to get His point across. And really, I probably wouldn't have needed convincing either. I get it--something very powerful saved them. So, God didn't need to be present to save them or to prove that He was powerful, but I think His presence does send another message. He’s with us, not on the sidelines, but in the game! Not just in church, but in the office. Not far away, but right beside us. Not just watching the fiery blaze from a safe distance with the other onlookers. But IN the thick of it WITH us.
Monday, June 08, 2009
Friday, June 05, 2009
Turtle time
Last night, I ran around the lake. If I pass people along the way going the opposite direction, chances are good, I’ll run into them on the other side of the lake at some point. So, you give that knowing hi-again, we’ve-already-seen-each-other wave and slight nod. It’s not often that I keep running into the same people going the same direction as me. But I did last night.
A dad and son. Dad on a bike. Son in one of those enclosed bike trailers being pulled by his dad’s bike. The first time I saw them, they had pulled off the path, gotten out of--or off--their respective modes of transportation and were crouched down looking at something in the grass. The dad was pointing, and the son with his way-too-big-helmet had his hands on his knees, seriously investigating. I smiled at the dad and kept going. Not long after, they passed me. The son in the trailer bump, bump, BUMPing along.
I continued on my merry way, lost in thought. Next thing I knew, dad and son were in front of me again. On the side of the path they had stopped and this time were looking at a large turtle that was chillin’ on the shoreline. I nodded to the dad and kept running.
Shortly after, they passed me again. One more time. They were again stopped. Hunched over. This time looking at another turtle, a smaller one, and I happened to be in between songs as I passed them. So I heard the dad telling his son that the turtle’s head was inside the shell. For the third time, I smiled at the dad as I ran by. Shortly after, they passed me for the last time. I didn’t see them again.
But, I got to thinking about what a cool dad he must be. I wondered if I’d be patient enough to continue stopping the bike ride, unzipping the bike trailer, unbuckling my child, pulling him or her out, so he or she could investigate. We’re always in such a hurry. But I imagine that seeing those turtles and learning about them was probably going to be the highlight of the little boy’s week. They’d get home and dad would encourage son to tell mom what they saw on their bike ride. A TURTLE!
If God were the dad pulling me with His bike, I think I might be the fussy child who doesn’t want to get out. I’d rather just sit and keep going to get to whatever destination I think I need to get to. And get there quickly! In doing this, I’d surely miss out. I think there are times in life where God is asking us to get out. To hunch over and look...there are things we need to see, to learn about, to hear about, people we need to meet and get to know before we keep going. Because then later, just like the boy probably told his mom about the turtles, we can share our experiences (and what we've learned from them) with others. But so often, I’m obstinate: No, thanks. Just get me to where I want to go.
In conversing with a friend last night, I realized that although neither one of us really wanted to get out of the bike trailer, we did and we’re now looking at turtles (funnily enough...like the slowest things EVER), and we’re looking at them together as God teaches us through each other and strengthens our friendship. And I’m pretty grateful I’m not missing out on that (even if I didn't want to get out in the first place!). Pretty soon we’ll hop back in the trailer and God’ll pedal us to the next turtle.
A dad and son. Dad on a bike. Son in one of those enclosed bike trailers being pulled by his dad’s bike. The first time I saw them, they had pulled off the path, gotten out of--or off--their respective modes of transportation and were crouched down looking at something in the grass. The dad was pointing, and the son with his way-too-big-helmet had his hands on his knees, seriously investigating. I smiled at the dad and kept going. Not long after, they passed me. The son in the trailer bump, bump, BUMPing along.
I continued on my merry way, lost in thought. Next thing I knew, dad and son were in front of me again. On the side of the path they had stopped and this time were looking at a large turtle that was chillin’ on the shoreline. I nodded to the dad and kept running.
Shortly after, they passed me again. One more time. They were again stopped. Hunched over. This time looking at another turtle, a smaller one, and I happened to be in between songs as I passed them. So I heard the dad telling his son that the turtle’s head was inside the shell. For the third time, I smiled at the dad as I ran by. Shortly after, they passed me for the last time. I didn’t see them again.
But, I got to thinking about what a cool dad he must be. I wondered if I’d be patient enough to continue stopping the bike ride, unzipping the bike trailer, unbuckling my child, pulling him or her out, so he or she could investigate. We’re always in such a hurry. But I imagine that seeing those turtles and learning about them was probably going to be the highlight of the little boy’s week. They’d get home and dad would encourage son to tell mom what they saw on their bike ride. A TURTLE!
If God were the dad pulling me with His bike, I think I might be the fussy child who doesn’t want to get out. I’d rather just sit and keep going to get to whatever destination I think I need to get to. And get there quickly! In doing this, I’d surely miss out. I think there are times in life where God is asking us to get out. To hunch over and look...there are things we need to see, to learn about, to hear about, people we need to meet and get to know before we keep going. Because then later, just like the boy probably told his mom about the turtles, we can share our experiences (and what we've learned from them) with others. But so often, I’m obstinate: No, thanks. Just get me to where I want to go.
In conversing with a friend last night, I realized that although neither one of us really wanted to get out of the bike trailer, we did and we’re now looking at turtles (funnily enough...like the slowest things EVER), and we’re looking at them together as God teaches us through each other and strengthens our friendship. And I’m pretty grateful I’m not missing out on that (even if I didn't want to get out in the first place!). Pretty soon we’ll hop back in the trailer and God’ll pedal us to the next turtle.
Wednesday, June 03, 2009
LOL
What can leave your muscles relaxed for up to 45 minutes, fight disease, temporarily relieve pain and make you pee your pants?
Laughter.
It’s true.
Last night, around my kitchen table with my bro and two friends, I laughed so hard that my stomach hurt, my face hurt, and I nearly peed my pants (which I have done before...although it’s been about 20 years). It was great. I could barely breathe, and as they laughed harder, I only laughed harder, too. You know how that goes...pretty soon you’re not even laughing at what you were originally laughing at but rather the laughter of the other people.
So, I know--have known--that laughter is good for you for lots of reasons. Releases endorphins, decreases stress, etc. etc. But, something I hadn’t really thought of before is that for those really-great-stomach-hurting-nearly-peeing-in-pants laughs, you NEED other people. I do often chuckle to myself or at myself, but the hardest laughs are always in the company of others who are often laughing with you. I hated my logic class, but i think if you break it down...if for-real laughing is good for you, and for-real laughing only happens with others, then being with others is good for you. Actually no, this doesn’t work logically, but if I add the word “may” it does. Being with others MAY be good for you.
In church on Sunday, the message was about relationships. How we, especially here in the United States, tend to live alone. We’re inward, busy with our own schedules. We hide our troubles. We don’t take the time to listen to others, let alone support them in any real way. We decide to fly solo. Independence is a good thing. Pastor went on to talk about all the reasons why this is bad. He didn’t mention though that when you go it alone, there is no for-real laughing. I believe this, too, is another reason to do life together.
We all need for-real laughter and for-real laughter needs others. Just make sure those others won’t care if you do really pee your pants.
Laughter.
It’s true.
Last night, around my kitchen table with my bro and two friends, I laughed so hard that my stomach hurt, my face hurt, and I nearly peed my pants (which I have done before...although it’s been about 20 years). It was great. I could barely breathe, and as they laughed harder, I only laughed harder, too. You know how that goes...pretty soon you’re not even laughing at what you were originally laughing at but rather the laughter of the other people.
So, I know--have known--that laughter is good for you for lots of reasons. Releases endorphins, decreases stress, etc. etc. But, something I hadn’t really thought of before is that for those really-great-stomach-hurting-nearly-peeing-in-pants laughs, you NEED other people. I do often chuckle to myself or at myself, but the hardest laughs are always in the company of others who are often laughing with you. I hated my logic class, but i think if you break it down...if for-real laughing is good for you, and for-real laughing only happens with others, then being with others is good for you. Actually no, this doesn’t work logically, but if I add the word “may” it does. Being with others MAY be good for you.
In church on Sunday, the message was about relationships. How we, especially here in the United States, tend to live alone. We’re inward, busy with our own schedules. We hide our troubles. We don’t take the time to listen to others, let alone support them in any real way. We decide to fly solo. Independence is a good thing. Pastor went on to talk about all the reasons why this is bad. He didn’t mention though that when you go it alone, there is no for-real laughing. I believe this, too, is another reason to do life together.
We all need for-real laughter and for-real laughter needs others. Just make sure those others won’t care if you do really pee your pants.
Saturday, May 30, 2009
I know He knows
I know this, but I sometimes forget and someone reminded me yesterday:
God knows my desires because He MADE them. He gave them to me!
Which, then, is kind of funny when I think about the fact that I’m telling Him about my desires on a regular basis when I pray. God, did you know that I really want this? And for this person, I’d ask that you think about this. And thank you, crazily enough, you provided something and it was just what I needed. Ha! Imagine that!
Yesterday I blogged about a dear friend, who I said just “knows.” I don’t always have to explain myself, because she gets it. She knows! Well, God is this too. He knows, and even if our desires or our “needs” are not met today or tomorrow or in the way we think they should be, there is such great comfort in simply knowing that He knows.
I have a tendency to get anxious. To get ants in my pants, and when I remember that He knows my desires because he created them…I can feel myself settle, calm, sigh. Oh yeah. Ok. He knows. Thinking about this got me humming the song “He Knows my Name,” which has always brought me to tears or close to tears. So, for me, and a few other very special people in my life who are anxious for various reasons…words for this Saturday...
I have a Maker
He formed my heart
Before even time began
My life was in his hands
I have a Father
He calls me His own
He'll never leave me
No matter where I go
He knows my name
He knows my every thought
He sees each tear that falls
And He hears me when I call
God knows my desires because He MADE them. He gave them to me!
Which, then, is kind of funny when I think about the fact that I’m telling Him about my desires on a regular basis when I pray. God, did you know that I really want this? And for this person, I’d ask that you think about this. And thank you, crazily enough, you provided something and it was just what I needed. Ha! Imagine that!
Yesterday I blogged about a dear friend, who I said just “knows.” I don’t always have to explain myself, because she gets it. She knows! Well, God is this too. He knows, and even if our desires or our “needs” are not met today or tomorrow or in the way we think they should be, there is such great comfort in simply knowing that He knows.
I have a tendency to get anxious. To get ants in my pants, and when I remember that He knows my desires because he created them…I can feel myself settle, calm, sigh. Oh yeah. Ok. He knows. Thinking about this got me humming the song “He Knows my Name,” which has always brought me to tears or close to tears. So, for me, and a few other very special people in my life who are anxious for various reasons…words for this Saturday...
I have a Maker
He formed my heart
Before even time began
My life was in his hands
I have a Father
He calls me His own
He'll never leave me
No matter where I go
He knows my name
He knows my every thought
He sees each tear that falls
And He hears me when I call
Friday, May 29, 2009
Absorption
I sat outside with a friend last night, drinking a gin and tonic, she a glass of white wine, celebrating her 28th birthday. It was a quiet, no-frills night, as far as birthday nights go. I didn’t sing her happy birthday, and the waitress didn’t even card us, which would have been the “it’s her birthday” moment. In fact, at one point, we got asked by a group of girls if we wouldn’t mind moving so they could use our table because it was their friend’s birthday and they needed more chairs. We politely gathered our stuff and moved. I did have half a mind to go back over to the table and say, hey, just heads up, it’s MY friend’s birthday too.
Despite it’s low-keyness, or maybe because of its low-keyness, the night was good. Good because it was the perfect, no-mosquito, early Minnesota summer night and good because being in each other’s presence is just comfortable and peaceful and knowing. She knows that I know certain things, and I know that she knows certain things—like the meaning of anxiety, singleness, and writer’s block.
I got to thinking on my way home last night how each year our hearts absorb more. They take in experiences and relationships, both good and painful. Sometimes they’re strengthened and fortified. Other times they’re cut and bruised and take time to heal and scar over. But no matter what, stuff (at times called s***) didn’t just come and go. It was absorbed and became part of us, changing us, making us what we are. And true friends are those who absorb with you. They’re there pre- and post-absorption with the same love, just different hearts right along with you.
So, dear friend, happy birthday. Thanks for knowing, and for absorbing with me. I love you!
Despite it’s low-keyness, or maybe because of its low-keyness, the night was good. Good because it was the perfect, no-mosquito, early Minnesota summer night and good because being in each other’s presence is just comfortable and peaceful and knowing. She knows that I know certain things, and I know that she knows certain things—like the meaning of anxiety, singleness, and writer’s block.
I got to thinking on my way home last night how each year our hearts absorb more. They take in experiences and relationships, both good and painful. Sometimes they’re strengthened and fortified. Other times they’re cut and bruised and take time to heal and scar over. But no matter what, stuff (at times called s***) didn’t just come and go. It was absorbed and became part of us, changing us, making us what we are. And true friends are those who absorb with you. They’re there pre- and post-absorption with the same love, just different hearts right along with you.
So, dear friend, happy birthday. Thanks for knowing, and for absorbing with me. I love you!
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Really really
If I had a word of the month, this month’s word would be "really."
Emphasis: REA-lly?
The reason I love "really" right now is because it’s both an incredulous question and a knowing answer. It actually answers itself.
Really? Really.
Really?
Did she just do that?
Did he just text that?
Did that just happen?
Am I to understand that?
Is that woman driving a pink Beetle with the license plate "SEXYGRL"?
Is that neighbor making a “flower” bed for their dandelions and other assorted weeds?
Really!
Yes, she just did that.
Yup, he did in fact press "send" on that lamest of all texts.
Si, senorita. That happened.
Yes, understand it as such, hard as it is to believe.
Mmhmm. She is driving a pink Beetle with the license plate "SEXYGRL."
And yes, they like dandelions.
Am I really blogging about really? I really am.
Emphasis: REA-lly?
The reason I love "really" right now is because it’s both an incredulous question and a knowing answer. It actually answers itself.
Really? Really.
Really?
Did she just do that?
Did he just text that?
Did that just happen?
Am I to understand that?
Is that woman driving a pink Beetle with the license plate "SEXYGRL"?
Is that neighbor making a “flower” bed for their dandelions and other assorted weeds?
Really!
Yes, she just did that.
Yup, he did in fact press "send" on that lamest of all texts.
Si, senorita. That happened.
Yes, understand it as such, hard as it is to believe.
Mmhmm. She is driving a pink Beetle with the license plate "SEXYGRL."
And yes, they like dandelions.
Am I really blogging about really? I really am.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Love, how many times
Interesting.
So, over the weekend, in doing research for my paper, I was typing into google "How many times is..." And you know how the most common, most recent searches automatically pop up in a little pull down box, so that if, by chance, you happen to be searching for what everybody else is searching for, you can easily click on that, and forget having to type in the rest. Well, if you type in "How many times is...", do you know that three of the top 5 searches are variations of "How many times is love in the Bible?" I guess people want to know. Millions and millions of people. And, of course, now you’re probably thinking, ok, hj, tell me...how many times is it? I can’t really tell you though because it depends on the Bible translation as well as the inclusion of "loved" and "loves," but definitely upwards of 500. (Note: one of the other top searches was "How many times is Grey Goose distilled?" Really? That many people want to know? Well, it’s three times!)
This got me thinking about why people want to know how many times exactly love is in the Bible? Do they want reassurance that God loves them? Do they sigh in disgust when they realize that yes, they should actually love their lame or rude neighbor? Or maybe they’re just giving a presentation and they want to sound smart and rattle off how many times love is in the Bible?
The number of times that love is in the Bible I suppose does show that love is a critical, if not THE critical component of Christianity. Both God’s love for us, and as Christians being called to love each other. Whether it’s 496 or 623 times, I’m not sure really matters. Especially because some of those are actually warnings against loving the wrong things.
1 John 3:16
"We know love by this, that He laid down His life for us..."
We know it not by how many times love pops up in our Google searches, or how much we see, feel, hear, or know love on earth. But rather, we know because He died for us. And I don't really think there's a number big enough for that kind of crazy love.
So, over the weekend, in doing research for my paper, I was typing into google "How many times is..." And you know how the most common, most recent searches automatically pop up in a little pull down box, so that if, by chance, you happen to be searching for what everybody else is searching for, you can easily click on that, and forget having to type in the rest. Well, if you type in "How many times is...", do you know that three of the top 5 searches are variations of "How many times is love in the Bible?" I guess people want to know. Millions and millions of people. And, of course, now you’re probably thinking, ok, hj, tell me...how many times is it? I can’t really tell you though because it depends on the Bible translation as well as the inclusion of "loved" and "loves," but definitely upwards of 500. (Note: one of the other top searches was "How many times is Grey Goose distilled?" Really? That many people want to know? Well, it’s three times!)
This got me thinking about why people want to know how many times exactly love is in the Bible? Do they want reassurance that God loves them? Do they sigh in disgust when they realize that yes, they should actually love their lame or rude neighbor? Or maybe they’re just giving a presentation and they want to sound smart and rattle off how many times love is in the Bible?
The number of times that love is in the Bible I suppose does show that love is a critical, if not THE critical component of Christianity. Both God’s love for us, and as Christians being called to love each other. Whether it’s 496 or 623 times, I’m not sure really matters. Especially because some of those are actually warnings against loving the wrong things.
1 John 3:16
"We know love by this, that He laid down His life for us..."
We know it not by how many times love pops up in our Google searches, or how much we see, feel, hear, or know love on earth. But rather, we know because He died for us. And I don't really think there's a number big enough for that kind of crazy love.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Draw near
I don’t know what to tell you.
Well, I can’t really say.
That’s tough. I’m not sure.
I can’t answer for you.
These answers are not helpful. Or maybe they are. I’ve recently heard them, and part of me wants to snap back “Wrong answer! Just TELL me! Help!” But I got to thinking that they kind of force me to go to the person I probably should have gone to in the first place—God. And honestly, I’ve gone to Him, but I haven’t really waited patiently for an answer of any sort. Or direction. I want to know NOW. So I try to take matters into my own hands. He’s probably laughing at me as I go from friend to friend to mom asking for help. “Keep tryin’, hj, they’re not going to deliver,” He smirks. And what’s funny is that if I actually got an answer from someone, I’d have to still go to someone else. I mean, obviously, you need a second opinion.
I’m working on—trying to work on—my final paper for class. So I’m spending an inordinate amount of time on Hebrews 10: 19-25. I’m parsing it down to every last syllable—well, not syllable, but word. I got hung up on verse 22: “let us draw near with a sincere heart.” Doesn’t the phrase “drawing near” make you think of a warm fire (or a Christmas carol)? The phrase “drawing near” makes you want to draw near! But when I’m impatient, I draw far from God and seek my own answers. My heart is far from sincere because maybe I ask for His help, but I don’t wait for it. I go try to find my own answers.
A warm fire just begs for time. For lounging. For chillin’. For taking a load off. I want to draw near to Him with a sincere heart and just lounge in that warmth. I’ll probably get an answer of some sort then.
Well, I can’t really say.
That’s tough. I’m not sure.
I can’t answer for you.
These answers are not helpful. Or maybe they are. I’ve recently heard them, and part of me wants to snap back “Wrong answer! Just TELL me! Help!” But I got to thinking that they kind of force me to go to the person I probably should have gone to in the first place—God. And honestly, I’ve gone to Him, but I haven’t really waited patiently for an answer of any sort. Or direction. I want to know NOW. So I try to take matters into my own hands. He’s probably laughing at me as I go from friend to friend to mom asking for help. “Keep tryin’, hj, they’re not going to deliver,” He smirks. And what’s funny is that if I actually got an answer from someone, I’d have to still go to someone else. I mean, obviously, you need a second opinion.
I’m working on—trying to work on—my final paper for class. So I’m spending an inordinate amount of time on Hebrews 10: 19-25. I’m parsing it down to every last syllable—well, not syllable, but word. I got hung up on verse 22: “let us draw near with a sincere heart.” Doesn’t the phrase “drawing near” make you think of a warm fire (or a Christmas carol)? The phrase “drawing near” makes you want to draw near! But when I’m impatient, I draw far from God and seek my own answers. My heart is far from sincere because maybe I ask for His help, but I don’t wait for it. I go try to find my own answers.
A warm fire just begs for time. For lounging. For chillin’. For taking a load off. I want to draw near to Him with a sincere heart and just lounge in that warmth. I’ll probably get an answer of some sort then.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Spontaneity to Thursday's regularity
So, last night at the Twins game, I had a yummy ice cream (choc/van twist) cone. It was great, but not as great as TCBY (The Country’s Best Yogurt), and because of that it got me craving TCBY. As the lunch hour approached today, I got a hairbrained idea. Why not be super wild and crazy?! For lunch, don’t eat the can of soup that’s been in my drawer for months at my desk. Instead, why not hop in the car, drive a ridiculous distance to get some TCBY?! It’s neither practical nor the best use of time, which made it sound super great!
I did. I grabbed my keys, hopped in my car, rolled the window down, and drove to one of the nearest TCBYs. It was connected to a Subway, which had a line out the door. But no one was at the TCBY counter. I walked up to that counter, picked out what I wanted and waited. No one helped me. So, I decided to go wait in the looooong Subway line. I finally get up to that counter and ask if I could please just have a cup of yogurt. Sure, she says, and together we walk over to the other counter. Excitedly, I ask for a cup of chocolate and vanilla twisted. My mouth is watering and I’m patting myself on the back for being so spontaneous! What a terrific idea, hj! Well, she says, they’re not serving vanilla today. Um. What? doesn’t every place serve vanilla every day? Alright. Well, I'll just do plain chocolate then. She turns to do that, pulls the lever...no chocolate. She turns back to me...sorry, they’re out at the moment. So, I can either get strawberry (they were serving only two flavors unlike Cali's great Golden Spoon which never failed me with "cake batter") or wait a few minutes for them to refill the chocolate. At this point, why not wait a few more minutes? I tell her I’ll wait and thank her for filling it for me. She goes in back only to come out a minute or two later. They’re out of chocolate completely.
Come again? What?!
But I didn’t eat my can of soup like I always do. I didn’t sit in front of my desk like I always do. I didn’t worry about using unnecessary gas. And I was even going to get the “regular” size not just “small”! I waited in the loooong Subway line? And now I got nothin’?! (I didn’t want strawberry). I turned and chuckled. That’s SO what I get for being so spontaneous on a regular Thursday.
To lick my wounds, as I wouldn’t be licking any yogurt, I drove to the nearest park and grabbed my blanket. I laid out in the middle of dandelions enjoying the sunshine, cool breeze, and the smell of flowers for about 15 minutes. And that short break was pretty darn close to being as good as the country’s best (or lamest) yogurt.
I strongly encourage spontaneity on a regular Thursday.
I did. I grabbed my keys, hopped in my car, rolled the window down, and drove to one of the nearest TCBYs. It was connected to a Subway, which had a line out the door. But no one was at the TCBY counter. I walked up to that counter, picked out what I wanted and waited. No one helped me. So, I decided to go wait in the looooong Subway line. I finally get up to that counter and ask if I could please just have a cup of yogurt. Sure, she says, and together we walk over to the other counter. Excitedly, I ask for a cup of chocolate and vanilla twisted. My mouth is watering and I’m patting myself on the back for being so spontaneous! What a terrific idea, hj! Well, she says, they’re not serving vanilla today. Um. What? doesn’t every place serve vanilla every day? Alright. Well, I'll just do plain chocolate then. She turns to do that, pulls the lever...no chocolate. She turns back to me...sorry, they’re out at the moment. So, I can either get strawberry (they were serving only two flavors unlike Cali's great Golden Spoon which never failed me with "cake batter") or wait a few minutes for them to refill the chocolate. At this point, why not wait a few more minutes? I tell her I’ll wait and thank her for filling it for me. She goes in back only to come out a minute or two later. They’re out of chocolate completely.
Come again? What?!
But I didn’t eat my can of soup like I always do. I didn’t sit in front of my desk like I always do. I didn’t worry about using unnecessary gas. And I was even going to get the “regular” size not just “small”! I waited in the loooong Subway line? And now I got nothin’?! (I didn’t want strawberry). I turned and chuckled. That’s SO what I get for being so spontaneous on a regular Thursday.
To lick my wounds, as I wouldn’t be licking any yogurt, I drove to the nearest park and grabbed my blanket. I laid out in the middle of dandelions enjoying the sunshine, cool breeze, and the smell of flowers for about 15 minutes. And that short break was pretty darn close to being as good as the country’s best (or lamest) yogurt.
I strongly encourage spontaneity on a regular Thursday.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
A watched fern doesn't grow
I have ferns coming up, and they’re fun to watch because they start out curled and then slowly uncurl as they get bigger. I was cleaning out the dead leaves and grass around the ferns over the weekend. I looked at them closely and recalled the film strips I was shown way back in kindergarten and first grade—the ones where they videotaped a plant and then fast-forwarded the clip so you could see the growth. My mind wandered to how I could do that with my digital camera...If I could do that. But no matter how long I stared at them, I didn’t actually see them grow while I sat out there. They did probably grow an eensy-teensy bit in that short hour that I sat by them though.
This morning I walked out to my car, and the ferns practically doubled in size over night. Maybe it’s the spring rain we got last night. I don’t know, but I was amazed!
My life feels like my ferns sometimes. I stare at it so closely and feel like I can’t see God moving. Where is He? What is He doing? And then I wake up one morning and unexpectedly see change, growth, challenge, opportunity...something. And I think...Wow. How did that happen?
I often get bogged down in details (which are not all bad!). Whether it be in editing work projects or refining relationships.( In meetings, I’m the one who rains on the brainstomers’ ideas...yeah, that’s all fine and good, but how exactly are we going to pull that idea from your brain and actually make it happen in terms of money, people power, resources, etc.? I want a minute, detailed breakdown, please.)
In a conversation with my momma recently, she told me that I was thinking short-term. I was being near-sighted. I needed to think bigger. Go longer. In essence, go for touchdown. Not short pass. It's so difficult for me to do that sometimes though.
I found some verses in Ecclesiastes (11:4-6, The Message translation) that act as a great reminder that we probably shouldn’t focus so hard on the details of our earthly lives, but rather think big-picture...think God, think heavenly. And chances are, if I do that, I’ll walk out every morning and be surprised by the growth in my own life, just like the growth in my ferns.
“Don't sit there watching the wind. Do your own work.
Don't stare at the clouds. Get on with your life.
Just as you'll never understand
the mystery of life forming in a pregnant woman,
So you'll never understand
the mystery at work in all that God does.
Go to work in the morning
and stick to it until evening without watching the clock.
You never know from moment to moment
how your work will turn out in the end.”
This morning I walked out to my car, and the ferns practically doubled in size over night. Maybe it’s the spring rain we got last night. I don’t know, but I was amazed!
My life feels like my ferns sometimes. I stare at it so closely and feel like I can’t see God moving. Where is He? What is He doing? And then I wake up one morning and unexpectedly see change, growth, challenge, opportunity...something. And I think...Wow. How did that happen?
I often get bogged down in details (which are not all bad!). Whether it be in editing work projects or refining relationships.( In meetings, I’m the one who rains on the brainstomers’ ideas...yeah, that’s all fine and good, but how exactly are we going to pull that idea from your brain and actually make it happen in terms of money, people power, resources, etc.? I want a minute, detailed breakdown, please.)
In a conversation with my momma recently, she told me that I was thinking short-term. I was being near-sighted. I needed to think bigger. Go longer. In essence, go for touchdown. Not short pass. It's so difficult for me to do that sometimes though.
I found some verses in Ecclesiastes (11:4-6, The Message translation) that act as a great reminder that we probably shouldn’t focus so hard on the details of our earthly lives, but rather think big-picture...think God, think heavenly. And chances are, if I do that, I’ll walk out every morning and be surprised by the growth in my own life, just like the growth in my ferns.
“Don't sit there watching the wind. Do your own work.
Don't stare at the clouds. Get on with your life.
Just as you'll never understand
the mystery of life forming in a pregnant woman,
So you'll never understand
the mystery at work in all that God does.
Go to work in the morning
and stick to it until evening without watching the clock.
You never know from moment to moment
how your work will turn out in the end.”
Monday, May 11, 2009
I know right
At three years old, I laid in bed one night practicing how to emphasize different syllables. I wanted—needed—a drink of water. So, to make sure mom and dad were clear on just how badly I needed this water, I began...
I want a drink of water.
i WANT a drink of water.
i want A drink of water.
i want a DRINK of water.
i want a drink OF water.
i want a drink of WAter.
i want a drink of waTER.
It didn’t work. Mom and dad just lied in bed in the next room laughing at their daughter, who, clearly, at a very young age was living in a world of words.
I should have known I’d be an English major, constantly wondering about words and what they could mean if used—emphasized—in different ways.
I recently got the text message: “I know right.”
I DO know, actually. What I know is that this person was not telling me that he, in fact, knew right, and I knew wrong. This was not a declaration, but rather a rhetorical question. One in which “right” is said with an inflection that makes it a question. I know, right? Like, can you believe that? I’m for real. Rather than proclaiming superiority, he was actually trying to build camaraderie—we’re in this together, thinking this is crazy. And even if he had added the question mark at the end, it still wouldn't have worked. I may have thought he was asking me if HE knew right? You talkin' to ME? I know right?
I chuckled to myself thinking about the importance of stressing the appropriate syllable. Saying what you mean isn’t always going to cut it, especially with texting. You better stress what you mean or know what be stressin’! To which you say, I know right.
I want a drink of water.
i WANT a drink of water.
i want A drink of water.
i want a DRINK of water.
i want a drink OF water.
i want a drink of WAter.
i want a drink of waTER.
It didn’t work. Mom and dad just lied in bed in the next room laughing at their daughter, who, clearly, at a very young age was living in a world of words.
I should have known I’d be an English major, constantly wondering about words and what they could mean if used—emphasized—in different ways.
I recently got the text message: “I know right.”
I DO know, actually. What I know is that this person was not telling me that he, in fact, knew right, and I knew wrong. This was not a declaration, but rather a rhetorical question. One in which “right” is said with an inflection that makes it a question. I know, right? Like, can you believe that? I’m for real. Rather than proclaiming superiority, he was actually trying to build camaraderie—we’re in this together, thinking this is crazy. And even if he had added the question mark at the end, it still wouldn't have worked. I may have thought he was asking me if HE knew right? You talkin' to ME? I know right?
I chuckled to myself thinking about the importance of stressing the appropriate syllable. Saying what you mean isn’t always going to cut it, especially with texting. You better stress what you mean or know what be stressin’! To which you say, I know right.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
More and more each day
Sometimes I talk with one hand over my mouth.
I am my mom.
Sometimes I look over my grocery receipt as I push my cart out the store…to make sure they didn’t make a mistake.
I am my mom.
When I wear my hair curly,
I am my mom.
I sit Indian-style at the kitchen table.
I am my mom.
I cross my arms while shopping.
I am my mom.
I live by lists and organization.
I am my mom.
I cook and bake and show love and appreciation through food.
I am my mom.
I love coupons.
I am my mom.
My handwriting is near typewriter quality.
I am my mom.
More and more each day, I am my mom. There is no one I’d rather be. God has blessed me.
I love you, momma.
I am my mom.
Sometimes I look over my grocery receipt as I push my cart out the store…to make sure they didn’t make a mistake.
I am my mom.
When I wear my hair curly,
I am my mom.
I sit Indian-style at the kitchen table.
I am my mom.
I cross my arms while shopping.
I am my mom.
I live by lists and organization.
I am my mom.
I cook and bake and show love and appreciation through food.
I am my mom.
I love coupons.
I am my mom.
My handwriting is near typewriter quality.
I am my mom.
More and more each day, I am my mom. There is no one I’d rather be. God has blessed me.
I love you, momma.
Friday, May 08, 2009
We beat you
When it comes to grocery store lines, I’m generally fairly patient. I will let a mother with three crabby kids in front of me. Or the person who has 9 items, as opposed to my 10. Or if my cart meets another cart at the same register entrance at the exact same time, I will let the other cart first. It’s OK. I don’t mind.
But yesterday I was reminded of the time it wasn’t ok. My friend sent me a grocery store receipt from Henry’s (in Cali), and at the top wrote “WE BEAT YOU!” and here’s why:
On my recent trip to Cali, my friend and I hit up the grocery to pick up a few last-minute items for that night’s dinner. When we headed up to the register to check out, we discovered the lines were horrendously long. And it wasn’t even like people were buying lots of stuff. It was just lots of people buying a few things, like us. Standing in front of us was a guy who reminded me a little of Vin Diesel. You probably wouldn’t want to be in an alley with him. Or actually maybe you would because he’d kick the crap out of any bad people. He had bulging muscles showing through his tight black t-shirt and a shaved head. We made eye contact and kind of gave that shrug and nod that says, “wow, this line kinda sucks.” Well, suddenly the next lane over opened up. And Vin Diesel half turned and looked at us to see if we were going to move. Again, there was just a little nod which conveyed the fact that we were going to stay put and he could move to the newly opened lane and we wouldn't think he was rude for trying to cut in front of us.
So, time continues to pass as me and my friend wait in our line and Vin waits in his. I kept watching to see who was in the lead. We beat him to the register, but only narrowly. He was very close behind us. As my friend paid, I finished bagging and looked over at Vin in the next lane and out of nowhere...I have NO idea where this came from...it was like an out-of-body experience, I lifted up one of our bags and loudly proclaimed to Vin: “We Beat You!” My friend looked at me like I had lost my mind—and I think I had. Vin didn’t hear me, so rather than just letting it be, I proceeded to lift our bag higher and say louder “WE BEAT YOU!” And at this point, others turn to look, too, to see...was I yelling at them? Had I had beat them? Vin heard, but there was no facial expression as he tried to figure out if I had really just said that to him.
My friend grabbed my elbow and forcefully directed me toward the door—both of us laughing. HJ had returned at this point, and I was asking my friend why I had done that and proclaiming that we really needed to get out of there fast! So, we get to the door only to discover, it’s only the “entrance.” We can't get out! We turn and realize that in order to get to the exit, we have to walk past Vin, who is still at the register, finishing paying.
Sheepishly, very sheepishly, we quickly walk past Vin, who is now smirking. He nods, and says “karma.”
Maybe it was me finally releasing some of the pent-up tension from having lived in California...the land of insane traffic and long lines and people EVERYWHERE. I don’t know. But we beat him.
But yesterday I was reminded of the time it wasn’t ok. My friend sent me a grocery store receipt from Henry’s (in Cali), and at the top wrote “WE BEAT YOU!” and here’s why:
On my recent trip to Cali, my friend and I hit up the grocery to pick up a few last-minute items for that night’s dinner. When we headed up to the register to check out, we discovered the lines were horrendously long. And it wasn’t even like people were buying lots of stuff. It was just lots of people buying a few things, like us. Standing in front of us was a guy who reminded me a little of Vin Diesel. You probably wouldn’t want to be in an alley with him. Or actually maybe you would because he’d kick the crap out of any bad people. He had bulging muscles showing through his tight black t-shirt and a shaved head. We made eye contact and kind of gave that shrug and nod that says, “wow, this line kinda sucks.” Well, suddenly the next lane over opened up. And Vin Diesel half turned and looked at us to see if we were going to move. Again, there was just a little nod which conveyed the fact that we were going to stay put and he could move to the newly opened lane and we wouldn't think he was rude for trying to cut in front of us.
So, time continues to pass as me and my friend wait in our line and Vin waits in his. I kept watching to see who was in the lead. We beat him to the register, but only narrowly. He was very close behind us. As my friend paid, I finished bagging and looked over at Vin in the next lane and out of nowhere...I have NO idea where this came from...it was like an out-of-body experience, I lifted up one of our bags and loudly proclaimed to Vin: “We Beat You!” My friend looked at me like I had lost my mind—and I think I had. Vin didn’t hear me, so rather than just letting it be, I proceeded to lift our bag higher and say louder “WE BEAT YOU!” And at this point, others turn to look, too, to see...was I yelling at them? Had I had beat them? Vin heard, but there was no facial expression as he tried to figure out if I had really just said that to him.
My friend grabbed my elbow and forcefully directed me toward the door—both of us laughing. HJ had returned at this point, and I was asking my friend why I had done that and proclaiming that we really needed to get out of there fast! So, we get to the door only to discover, it’s only the “entrance.” We can't get out! We turn and realize that in order to get to the exit, we have to walk past Vin, who is still at the register, finishing paying.
Sheepishly, very sheepishly, we quickly walk past Vin, who is now smirking. He nods, and says “karma.”
Maybe it was me finally releasing some of the pent-up tension from having lived in California...the land of insane traffic and long lines and people EVERYWHERE. I don’t know. But we beat him.
Thursday, May 07, 2009
The bests
So, I just finished deadline—meaning I sent off a magazine, 38 pages of my writing and editing to the printer where 60,000 copies of it will be made and then sent to people around the world. This is the best feeling and the worst feeling. The best because it’s been an incredibly long couple of weeks at work and I’m happy to be done, but the worst because I can’t change anything else anymore. No more adding commas, or checking spellings, or reworking headlines. It’s done, and that is a very scary thing.
This got me thinking about bests/worsts, and how if you want the best, chances are you have to go through the worst. Or at least be willing to go through the worst.
Today is an absolutely amazing May day in Minnesota. The flowers are blooming—you can smell ‘em. The grass is green. The sun is shining. It’s 78 degrees. But it’s only this amazing because we went through six months of winter hell. Having lived in Cali, I know how to take good weather for granted. There were days when 78 and sunny annoyed me! I like that in Minnesota, the bad-weather days make the good-weather days GOOD.
And I’ve loved deeply. A person reached the corners of my heart; he shined light on all my shadows. And because of that, when it ended, I hurt deeply. The tears stung. Then, they stung some more. But given another chance, I’d take the stinging because his light was so warm and bright.
Anyways, I get nervous. I get nervous when I send that magazine to the printer, and I get nervous to let my guard down, to let someone in, to hurt again, but then I remember God’s bests, and it’s all good.
This got me thinking about bests/worsts, and how if you want the best, chances are you have to go through the worst. Or at least be willing to go through the worst.
Today is an absolutely amazing May day in Minnesota. The flowers are blooming—you can smell ‘em. The grass is green. The sun is shining. It’s 78 degrees. But it’s only this amazing because we went through six months of winter hell. Having lived in Cali, I know how to take good weather for granted. There were days when 78 and sunny annoyed me! I like that in Minnesota, the bad-weather days make the good-weather days GOOD.
And I’ve loved deeply. A person reached the corners of my heart; he shined light on all my shadows. And because of that, when it ended, I hurt deeply. The tears stung. Then, they stung some more. But given another chance, I’d take the stinging because his light was so warm and bright.
Anyways, I get nervous. I get nervous when I send that magazine to the printer, and I get nervous to let my guard down, to let someone in, to hurt again, but then I remember God’s bests, and it’s all good.
Saturday, April 25, 2009
My, how time flies
Something I love and hate…how time flies when you’re having fun. Lazy days on the beach with my dear friends in Cali. Laughs over good drinks with best girlfriends. Funny phone conversations. And then suddenly you look at the clock and realize a gi-normous amount of time went by and it felt like a total of three seconds. But you know darn well you had a good time…as opposed to like those last 20 minutes in class where time seems to have frozen, or that last hour of work on a Friday, or waiting in the doctor’s office.
I’ve been digging into 2 Peter today for class. One of my favorite things about reading the Bible is that I’ll just be putzing along, do do do, reading, do do do, and then a verse stops me. Wait…what did he just say? And even though I’ve read it before, it hasn’t hit me before. Today that happened with 2 Peter 3:8-9. “Remember…with the Lord a day is like a thousand years, and a thousand years are like a day. The Lord is not slow in keeping His promises, as some understand his slowness.”
I got to thinking about how sometimes we think God is moving at a snail’s pace, not doing something in our life that we want Him to be doing. But I think He actually loves us so much, and so enjoys our company, that His time is flying! What seems like for.ev.er. to us is two seconds to Him. And then when I realize that’s He’s enjoying my company, I wonder why I’m so busy wishing time would go quicker, when I could be laughing with Him, and soaking in all of His blessings right now. Tomorrow's will come in due time.
I’ve been digging into 2 Peter today for class. One of my favorite things about reading the Bible is that I’ll just be putzing along, do do do, reading, do do do, and then a verse stops me. Wait…what did he just say? And even though I’ve read it before, it hasn’t hit me before. Today that happened with 2 Peter 3:8-9. “Remember…with the Lord a day is like a thousand years, and a thousand years are like a day. The Lord is not slow in keeping His promises, as some understand his slowness.”
I got to thinking about how sometimes we think God is moving at a snail’s pace, not doing something in our life that we want Him to be doing. But I think He actually loves us so much, and so enjoys our company, that His time is flying! What seems like for.ev.er. to us is two seconds to Him. And then when I realize that’s He’s enjoying my company, I wonder why I’m so busy wishing time would go quicker, when I could be laughing with Him, and soaking in all of His blessings right now. Tomorrow's will come in due time.
Friday, April 17, 2009
His colorful blossoms
Gasp.
Buds! They’re on the trees. There’s no turning back now, fellow Minnesotans. We are in spring, at long last. Alleluia! 'Bout dang time.
Last night, I discovered that I have bulbs coming up in my yard, but I don’t know what they are. I moved into my place in October, so I only know my home during the fall and winter. Spring is new territory. I started pondering what color exactly the bushes would turn out to be. What about the blossoms on the trees? Is anything planted in the corner? If I put juice in my hummingbird feeder, will I get hummingbirds? All these questions! And it’s fun thinking about the surprise of it all.
Last night in doing homework (which included digging up [garden pun intended] some passages from Old Testament wisdom literature), I came across the oft-quoted Lamentations 3:22-23.
Because of the Lord's great love we are not consumed,
for his compassions never fail.
They are new every morning;
great is your faithfulness.
His mercies, His blessings, His gifts are new each morning. We have no idea what they will be! Just like my bulbs. I was challenging myself to think about my days like that—in terms of opportunities and potential, rather than routines. What cool thing will He do today? How will He surprise me? What colors will His blossoms be?
Buds! They’re on the trees. There’s no turning back now, fellow Minnesotans. We are in spring, at long last. Alleluia! 'Bout dang time.
Last night, I discovered that I have bulbs coming up in my yard, but I don’t know what they are. I moved into my place in October, so I only know my home during the fall and winter. Spring is new territory. I started pondering what color exactly the bushes would turn out to be. What about the blossoms on the trees? Is anything planted in the corner? If I put juice in my hummingbird feeder, will I get hummingbirds? All these questions! And it’s fun thinking about the surprise of it all.
Last night in doing homework (which included digging up [garden pun intended] some passages from Old Testament wisdom literature), I came across the oft-quoted Lamentations 3:22-23.
Because of the Lord's great love we are not consumed,
for his compassions never fail.
They are new every morning;
great is your faithfulness.
His mercies, His blessings, His gifts are new each morning. We have no idea what they will be! Just like my bulbs. I was challenging myself to think about my days like that—in terms of opportunities and potential, rather than routines. What cool thing will He do today? How will He surprise me? What colors will His blossoms be?
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Itsy-bitsy spider
One night when I was still living at mom and dad’s, as I was crawling into bed, I saw a spider on the wall my bed was up against. I’m not incredibly fearful of spiders. I don’t like ‘em, but I’ve lived alone long enough to know that I must rely on myself to kill ‘em (and when you were once greeted by a large rat in your grill...well...spiders just ain’t that bad. I’ll save that story for another time). So, I grabbed a nearby shoe and went at it. Well, I hit it, but not hard enough, or good enough, because it didn’t get smooshed on the wall. Instead it fell into the dark valley between my wall and my bed. Crap! Now what?!? I did get up and moved my bed, but couldn’t find it. So, I snuggled under the covers, but had an incredibly hard time falling asleep thinking about this maybe-hurt-but-not-dead spider underneath me. My fears eventually gave way to Zzzzzs though, and I peacefully woke up the next morning and went into the bathroom to brush my teeth. As I flipped the light on and put the toothbrush into my mouth, looking into the mirror...there, in my hair...was the spider. IN MY HAIR! That means inches from my mouth! It was dead because its legs were all curled up. (which is interesting, why do their legs curl up when you kill them?) In very girlish fashion, I shrieked and leaned over the sink, shaking my head vigorously back and forth to make it fall out. SICK!
This morning, my alarm went off. I pressed snooze. Alarm went off again. I rolled over. Turned it off. Stretched. Pulled my hooded sweatshirt hood a little tighter around my face and peeked over at the window. Yep. Blue skies again! Sweet. Yawned, and then...suddenly saw directly above me a spider. RIGHT ABOVE MY HEAD. You have never seen a person hop out of bed on a Wednesday morning so quickly! I grabbed my slipper, hopped back up on the bed and had to do a little jump (making the headboard hit the wall...oops, sorry neighbor), get the spider to fall down onto my bed, then shoo it over onto the floor and finally kill it. Gross.
Then I go downstairs to start my coffee only to discover another spider, same kind, chillin’ like a villain in the 9x13 pan I have out to make dessert for friends tonight! Sick! So, killed that sucker and washed the pan (don’t worry MG girls!).
But it’s not even like I have a warm place for them to stay. My furnace is dead. So leave me alone! Go next door! Go be swallowed in someone else’s sleep. Quit trying to be my friend! You're not invited to dinner.
This morning, my alarm went off. I pressed snooze. Alarm went off again. I rolled over. Turned it off. Stretched. Pulled my hooded sweatshirt hood a little tighter around my face and peeked over at the window. Yep. Blue skies again! Sweet. Yawned, and then...suddenly saw directly above me a spider. RIGHT ABOVE MY HEAD. You have never seen a person hop out of bed on a Wednesday morning so quickly! I grabbed my slipper, hopped back up on the bed and had to do a little jump (making the headboard hit the wall...oops, sorry neighbor), get the spider to fall down onto my bed, then shoo it over onto the floor and finally kill it. Gross.
Then I go downstairs to start my coffee only to discover another spider, same kind, chillin’ like a villain in the 9x13 pan I have out to make dessert for friends tonight! Sick! So, killed that sucker and washed the pan (don’t worry MG girls!).
But it’s not even like I have a warm place for them to stay. My furnace is dead. So leave me alone! Go next door! Go be swallowed in someone else’s sleep. Quit trying to be my friend! You're not invited to dinner.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Mixes to sigh to
Here was the difference between my college roommate and me.
My mixed CDs were organized by genre. There was a "chill" mix. A "running" mix. A "Friday night" mix. So each one kind of had the same general music. This makes sense to me. I also dated my mixes...because for some reason, knowing the month and year they were made is important.
Hers were mixes, in every sense of the word, and she didn’t try to hide it. The titles of hers were "Complete Randomness" (so true). "Ya’ll Fixin’ for Some Good Music" (this was created for a spring road trip one year to my old stomping grounds in Tennessee, and again, so true). One was called the "Mix-a-Long."
I recently read a book that quoted C.S. Lewis in his book The Four Loves. He talks about how certain friends bring out very good and very specific qualities in you. So, for example, one friend may be able to draw out your sense of humor like no one else. Or perhaps you never laugh as deeply and as truly as you do when you hear one particular friend’s stories. I liked thinking about how this plays out in my own life.
Our mixed CDs were indicative of the differences between my dear roommate and me. And as much as I think my neatly organized and greatly put-together mixes were/are, there was always something so refreshing about hers. Throw caution to the wind! Who cares if anything works well together... if the end of one song will naturally flow into the beginning of the next. It doesn’t matter. They’re just fun to sing to! To rock out to! It’s just a mixed CD!
This morning on the way to work, I popped in "Complete Randomness." First it was R. Kelly’s Remix Ignition. Then I moved on to Ani DiFranco’s As Is. Dispatch’s The General. And 2Pac’s Me and my Girlfriend. I smiled because, well, how can you not when you’re singing "it’s the freakin’ weekend baby, ‘bout to have me some fun...?" And how can YOU not smile thinking about me singing 2Pac?! As I sang along, I could feel that specific sense of ease that she—and her mixes—was able to pull out of me. The sense of ease that told me to take a deep breath because it’ll be OK.
She helped drive me across the country when I moved to Cali. I remember waking up in a hotel in Vegas in tears, unable to breathe. What was I doing? I couldn’t move the West Coast alone?! We needed to turn around. I couldn’t do it. She took me in her arms, stroked my hair, made me laugh, and said, yes, I could. We would continue our drive, and everything was going to be alright. She didn’t throw one of her mixed CDs in at that moment, but she may as well have.
That friend was able to pull out from me big, deep, everything-will-be-alright sighs, because sometimes I forgot (forget) to breathe.
My mixed CDs were organized by genre. There was a "chill" mix. A "running" mix. A "Friday night" mix. So each one kind of had the same general music. This makes sense to me. I also dated my mixes...because for some reason, knowing the month and year they were made is important.
Hers were mixes, in every sense of the word, and she didn’t try to hide it. The titles of hers were "Complete Randomness" (so true). "Ya’ll Fixin’ for Some Good Music" (this was created for a spring road trip one year to my old stomping grounds in Tennessee, and again, so true). One was called the "Mix-a-Long."
I recently read a book that quoted C.S. Lewis in his book The Four Loves. He talks about how certain friends bring out very good and very specific qualities in you. So, for example, one friend may be able to draw out your sense of humor like no one else. Or perhaps you never laugh as deeply and as truly as you do when you hear one particular friend’s stories. I liked thinking about how this plays out in my own life.
Our mixed CDs were indicative of the differences between my dear roommate and me. And as much as I think my neatly organized and greatly put-together mixes were/are, there was always something so refreshing about hers. Throw caution to the wind! Who cares if anything works well together... if the end of one song will naturally flow into the beginning of the next. It doesn’t matter. They’re just fun to sing to! To rock out to! It’s just a mixed CD!
This morning on the way to work, I popped in "Complete Randomness." First it was R. Kelly’s Remix Ignition. Then I moved on to Ani DiFranco’s As Is. Dispatch’s The General. And 2Pac’s Me and my Girlfriend. I smiled because, well, how can you not when you’re singing "it’s the freakin’ weekend baby, ‘bout to have me some fun...?" And how can YOU not smile thinking about me singing 2Pac?! As I sang along, I could feel that specific sense of ease that she—and her mixes—was able to pull out of me. The sense of ease that told me to take a deep breath because it’ll be OK.
She helped drive me across the country when I moved to Cali. I remember waking up in a hotel in Vegas in tears, unable to breathe. What was I doing? I couldn’t move the West Coast alone?! We needed to turn around. I couldn’t do it. She took me in her arms, stroked my hair, made me laugh, and said, yes, I could. We would continue our drive, and everything was going to be alright. She didn’t throw one of her mixed CDs in at that moment, but she may as well have.
That friend was able to pull out from me big, deep, everything-will-be-alright sighs, because sometimes I forgot (forget) to breathe.
Wednesday, April 08, 2009
Seders gone by
For the first five years of my schooling, I went to a small parochial school, and we celebrated Holy Week—from Palm Sunday on through Good Friday. I very distinctly remember the days that we got to eat a Seder meal (much like the Last Supper of Jesus and His disciples) because we had to dress up “like Jesus.” Wearing my bathrobe and my flip flops to school seemed so cool and weird! And perhaps even stranger…my dad was on staff at the church that the school was connected to. So, he actually wore HIS bathrobe and flip flips too! No other kids were quite so lucky as to see their father in his pjs at school!
That day though also made me fearful and apprehensive. It was the day that horseradish would be put on my plate. It represented “bitter herbs” which were supposed to remind us of the bitterness of slavery that the Jews had to undergo. Whatever horseradish was, I knew at the time that it couldn’t be good. I watched a fellow classmate try some, start laughing, have it come out of his nose, and then promptly start crying. That was enough for me. I didn’t want any bitter herbs. And yet we didn’t have a choice! It was put on our plate. I just prayed it wouldn’t touch the sweet apple/cinnamon mixture next to it.
A few years ago in California, I hosted my very own seder with three dear friends. We researched how to make and serve the traditional seder elements. We had some gross grape wine, lamb, homemade unleavened bread, “haroseth” (that sweet apple/cinnamon/nut mixture). We sat cross-legged around my coffee table, while one of my friends walked us through the rituals, prayers, specific drinks of wine. It was great fun and added a little more meaning to our Easter season as we thought about the ancient Passover.
Tonight I will eat another seder, at church with mom and dad (He and I won’t be wearing our pjs. Although he did don a robe in public again on Saturday, dressing up like Jesus for the church’s annual community easter event for kids. In fact, one father told his little girl that I was "Jesus' daughter" as I face-painted her cheek. Another little girl wanted to know why my dad was hiding in a cave. Some things never change.) The seder will remind us of the Jewish trials so many years ago, but then ultimately the freedom we have today in Christ.
Bring on that horseradish!
That day though also made me fearful and apprehensive. It was the day that horseradish would be put on my plate. It represented “bitter herbs” which were supposed to remind us of the bitterness of slavery that the Jews had to undergo. Whatever horseradish was, I knew at the time that it couldn’t be good. I watched a fellow classmate try some, start laughing, have it come out of his nose, and then promptly start crying. That was enough for me. I didn’t want any bitter herbs. And yet we didn’t have a choice! It was put on our plate. I just prayed it wouldn’t touch the sweet apple/cinnamon mixture next to it.
A few years ago in California, I hosted my very own seder with three dear friends. We researched how to make and serve the traditional seder elements. We had some gross grape wine, lamb, homemade unleavened bread, “haroseth” (that sweet apple/cinnamon/nut mixture). We sat cross-legged around my coffee table, while one of my friends walked us through the rituals, prayers, specific drinks of wine. It was great fun and added a little more meaning to our Easter season as we thought about the ancient Passover.
Tonight I will eat another seder, at church with mom and dad (He and I won’t be wearing our pjs. Although he did don a robe in public again on Saturday, dressing up like Jesus for the church’s annual community easter event for kids. In fact, one father told his little girl that I was "Jesus' daughter" as I face-painted her cheek. Another little girl wanted to know why my dad was hiding in a cave. Some things never change.) The seder will remind us of the Jewish trials so many years ago, but then ultimately the freedom we have today in Christ.
Bring on that horseradish!
Monday, April 06, 2009
Me, me, me
As I ate dinner tonight, while staring at Sunday’s crossword puzzle wondering what a four-letter word meaning “polite interruption” could be, the news was on in the background. ABC’s Charlie Gibson was doing a short commercial, promoting his nightly news. As the commercial ended, Gibson said “What people care about most is: How does this affect ME?” He went on to say that the oh-so-smart ABC knows this and will deliver.
What? Did he really just say that? I stopped looking at the crossword puzzle. I’m not a dummy. I was a journalism major. I know the media is always trying to tap into people’s fears and emotions. But for some reason, the comment that people only care about themselves was so coarse and blatant, I cringed. And he wasn't even saying that this was a sad state of affairs. In fact, it was like he had discovered the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Ah ha! SELFISHNESS!
Perhaps I was offended because I had just heard that 150 people died in an Italian earthquake, that a St. Thomas freshman in St. Paul has been missing since yesterday. That a 16-year-old was raped by a third-level sex offender who was just released from jail a couple weeks ago. And all we care about is ourselves? Tomorrow, the news will tell you 1. if you live on a fault line and 2. If you do, how concerned you should be about an earthquake in your area. And then it will tell you what your freshman son or daughter should do to avoid being abducted. It will also provide a map of where all the sex offenders in your county live.
It will quickly turn away from the victims or the real news to focus on YOU, because that is, after all, what we want, right? I know our human tendency is to think only about ourselves, but I don’t believe that’s what we’re called to do. Maybe it's not easy or natural or even normal, but can we at least try?
I wonder what would happen if the news ended every single piece with information on how we could help, support, give back.
Charlie should try it.
What? Did he really just say that? I stopped looking at the crossword puzzle. I’m not a dummy. I was a journalism major. I know the media is always trying to tap into people’s fears and emotions. But for some reason, the comment that people only care about themselves was so coarse and blatant, I cringed. And he wasn't even saying that this was a sad state of affairs. In fact, it was like he had discovered the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Ah ha! SELFISHNESS!
Perhaps I was offended because I had just heard that 150 people died in an Italian earthquake, that a St. Thomas freshman in St. Paul has been missing since yesterday. That a 16-year-old was raped by a third-level sex offender who was just released from jail a couple weeks ago. And all we care about is ourselves? Tomorrow, the news will tell you 1. if you live on a fault line and 2. If you do, how concerned you should be about an earthquake in your area. And then it will tell you what your freshman son or daughter should do to avoid being abducted. It will also provide a map of where all the sex offenders in your county live.
It will quickly turn away from the victims or the real news to focus on YOU, because that is, after all, what we want, right? I know our human tendency is to think only about ourselves, but I don’t believe that’s what we’re called to do. Maybe it's not easy or natural or even normal, but can we at least try?
I wonder what would happen if the news ended every single piece with information on how we could help, support, give back.
Charlie should try it.
Saturday, April 04, 2009
Can you believe this?
Who knew? I can face paint.
This morning, I spent three hours at church painting bright-colored crosses, flowers, eggs, chicks, and rabbits on hands, cheeks, and for one boy—his forehead. He was adamant about having a brown basket of eggs prominently displayed on his forehead.
Here’s the thing though…I can face paint, but I’m not sure I can face paint very well. And yet, the best part was that I’d finish and place the small mirror into the child’s sweaty palms. They’d move their head around until suddenly…oh…there it is….they saw their cheek and my masterpiece. And even when the colors bled too much or the little shake in my hand made the rainbow arch crooked, a huge grin spread across his or her face. They thought it was pretty cool. And they would look up at their mom and dad or grandma and grandpa, as if to ask, do you see this on my FACE?! Can you believe this?! I watched them hop down from the chair and run off to a friend or a sibling and point to their water-based tattoo excitedly.
It’s the Easter spirit. We are so far from perfect, like my artwork, and the Lenten season reminds us of this. But Jesus died and then rose again for us, and His disciples (and me) could barely believe it “because of joy and amazement,” (Luke 24:41). So, let’s hop off our chairs!
This morning, I spent three hours at church painting bright-colored crosses, flowers, eggs, chicks, and rabbits on hands, cheeks, and for one boy—his forehead. He was adamant about having a brown basket of eggs prominently displayed on his forehead.
Here’s the thing though…I can face paint, but I’m not sure I can face paint very well. And yet, the best part was that I’d finish and place the small mirror into the child’s sweaty palms. They’d move their head around until suddenly…oh…there it is….they saw their cheek and my masterpiece. And even when the colors bled too much or the little shake in my hand made the rainbow arch crooked, a huge grin spread across his or her face. They thought it was pretty cool. And they would look up at their mom and dad or grandma and grandpa, as if to ask, do you see this on my FACE?! Can you believe this?! I watched them hop down from the chair and run off to a friend or a sibling and point to their water-based tattoo excitedly.
It’s the Easter spirit. We are so far from perfect, like my artwork, and the Lenten season reminds us of this. But Jesus died and then rose again for us, and His disciples (and me) could barely believe it “because of joy and amazement,” (Luke 24:41). So, let’s hop off our chairs!
Friday, April 03, 2009
The B-word
I’m sad to be missing a friend’s baby shower tomorrow. I don’t know if they will be playing any games, but I will say that if they do, I will NOT miss that part.
I’m not a huge shower game-er. Game-er period. I hate ice-breakers. Can’t we start up conversations without the use of cheesy games or questions? If I have to do an ice-breaker, then please break some ice into a glass of a special beverage for me too. I swear if you come to my baby shower, there will not be any games.
I’ve hula hooped at a shower before. Thrown a “dirty” diaper (one holding a little snickers bar) into a trash can. Molded a piece of bubble gum into a baby. Guessed tummy sizes. And then there’s the game where you receive points for not doing or saying certain things. Like crossing your legs. If someone sees you crossing your legs, you lose a point! Or you're not allowed to say certain words like "baby" or "girl."
A friend who hasn’t played as many shower games as me, went to a recent baby shower. As she walked in, she was told not to use the B-word. Using the B-word would result in her losing points, and then not winning the prize. The B-word? She wasn’t sure what this meant or was referring to. The B-word? She quietly asked the host, partly covering her mouth ... “we can’t say B*TCHES?”
Oh, this makes me laugh on this Friday morning. Yes. I will play that game at my shower!
I’m not a huge shower game-er. Game-er period. I hate ice-breakers. Can’t we start up conversations without the use of cheesy games or questions? If I have to do an ice-breaker, then please break some ice into a glass of a special beverage for me too. I swear if you come to my baby shower, there will not be any games.
I’ve hula hooped at a shower before. Thrown a “dirty” diaper (one holding a little snickers bar) into a trash can. Molded a piece of bubble gum into a baby. Guessed tummy sizes. And then there’s the game where you receive points for not doing or saying certain things. Like crossing your legs. If someone sees you crossing your legs, you lose a point! Or you're not allowed to say certain words like "baby" or "girl."
A friend who hasn’t played as many shower games as me, went to a recent baby shower. As she walked in, she was told not to use the B-word. Using the B-word would result in her losing points, and then not winning the prize. The B-word? She wasn’t sure what this meant or was referring to. The B-word? She quietly asked the host, partly covering her mouth ... “we can’t say B*TCHES?”
Oh, this makes me laugh on this Friday morning. Yes. I will play that game at my shower!
Thursday, April 02, 2009
Still listening
I’ve recently become enamored with Pandora—the internet radio site, where you can just type in some of your favorite artists and Pandora (mysterious genius behind a curtain somewhere) supplies a continuous flow of music that you will most likely enjoy. And he or she is probably right about 95% of the time! I do like almost all of the songs provided.
I currently have two “stations.” A Brett Dennan one, playing nonstop chill stuff from The Weepies, Joshua Radin, Jack Johnson, Iron and Wine, Ray LaMontagne and Mason Jennings to name a few. And then I have an Otis Redding one, with Etta James, Ella Fitzgerald, Marvin Gaye, Louis Armstrong, et. al.
One of my favorite things though about Pandora is that it’ll periodically stop and ask if you’re still listening. You then have to click the little button, “Yes, I’m still listening.” Sometimes I have a meeting and I leave Pandora on. I come back to find her asking me if I’m still listening, and I feel bad. Like I have to explain to her, sorry, I just met some friends over lunch and then had a meeting, but I’m back now. Thanks for waiting so patiently.
This morning as I journaled, I felt like I needed to tell God, “Yes, I’m still listening.” It’s just been such a busy week, what with vacations and school and long workdays. He’s kind of like Pandora I guess. Truly a mysterious genius supplying a steady flow of very cool things. And thankfully, He doesn't wait on me to tell Him that I’m still listening.
I currently have two “stations.” A Brett Dennan one, playing nonstop chill stuff from The Weepies, Joshua Radin, Jack Johnson, Iron and Wine, Ray LaMontagne and Mason Jennings to name a few. And then I have an Otis Redding one, with Etta James, Ella Fitzgerald, Marvin Gaye, Louis Armstrong, et. al.
One of my favorite things though about Pandora is that it’ll periodically stop and ask if you’re still listening. You then have to click the little button, “Yes, I’m still listening.” Sometimes I have a meeting and I leave Pandora on. I come back to find her asking me if I’m still listening, and I feel bad. Like I have to explain to her, sorry, I just met some friends over lunch and then had a meeting, but I’m back now. Thanks for waiting so patiently.
This morning as I journaled, I felt like I needed to tell God, “Yes, I’m still listening.” It’s just been such a busy week, what with vacations and school and long workdays. He’s kind of like Pandora I guess. Truly a mysterious genius supplying a steady flow of very cool things. And thankfully, He doesn't wait on me to tell Him that I’m still listening.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Chariots of fire
I remember one summer’s church camp theme—Hebrews 12:1-2. "Let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us. Let us fix our eyes on Jesus."
I think the reason I remember this is because of the T-shirts we all got. They had this verse on them along with a silhouetted runner. At the time, this verse brought to mind me, running in slow motion with a big grin on my face to the tune of Chariots of Fire, my blonde hair flowing, and some sweet new kicks on. Woohoo! Me and my junior high friends are running the race for Jesus! And every time I hear that verse I think of that T-shirt and that camp theme.
But last night I had to read through Hebrews for class. That verse hit me differently, and it’s because in the chapter before, the writer talks about the races run by Abraham, Isaac, Joseph, Moses, Rahab, and many others. They didn’t have new kicks on and their races were not won on some smooth new track. To say they encountered some hardship during their runs is an understatement. The writer mentions others who faced "jeers and flogging," "were chained and put in prison," "stoned," "sawed in two," and "put to death by sword."
So you read all about them and THEN you hear "let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us"? Suddenly my grin begins to fade ever so slightly, I slow down, Chariots of Fire decreases in volume. My new kicks get dirty.
In high school basketball tryouts, the coach had us do backwards ladders. The person to complete them first could be done for the day and head home. It was a race. Well, shortly after starting, I fell. I mean c’mon...BACKWARDS ladders? I fell right on my wrist and sprained it. Because I was just so good (or coach felt sorry for me), I still made the team, but ended up sitting on the bench for the majority of the season. That race held pain, disappointment, and frustration. I did not have big grin on my face.
Anyways, I got to thinking about how Hebrews 12:1-2 is not about smooth-sailing to the finish line. The race of life is sometimes marked with huge difficulties. But even so, there are some really great things about God’s race. For one, we don’t have to run with anything on our backs. "Throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles." (verse 1) Granted we sometimes forget this and think it might be a good idea to pick up that backpack of selfishness, greed, jealousy, addiction, whatever.
Second, we have a set course. The race has been "marked for us" by God. If life were a 5K, this would be one of the one’s with super clear directions on how to sign-up, well-organized registration tables the morning of, and ample food and giveaways at the end. Don’t you hate the runs where you can’t find the table with the first letter of your last name to get your number? Or after you’ve paid $35, you get to the end, and guess what? They’ve run out of T-shirts. Too bad so sad. Knowing that my race is marked brings back my grin and gives me the energy to keep going. It helps me "not grow weary or lose heart." Turn up the Chariots of Fire.
I think the reason I remember this is because of the T-shirts we all got. They had this verse on them along with a silhouetted runner. At the time, this verse brought to mind me, running in slow motion with a big grin on my face to the tune of Chariots of Fire, my blonde hair flowing, and some sweet new kicks on. Woohoo! Me and my junior high friends are running the race for Jesus! And every time I hear that verse I think of that T-shirt and that camp theme.
But last night I had to read through Hebrews for class. That verse hit me differently, and it’s because in the chapter before, the writer talks about the races run by Abraham, Isaac, Joseph, Moses, Rahab, and many others. They didn’t have new kicks on and their races were not won on some smooth new track. To say they encountered some hardship during their runs is an understatement. The writer mentions others who faced "jeers and flogging," "were chained and put in prison," "stoned," "sawed in two," and "put to death by sword."
So you read all about them and THEN you hear "let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us"? Suddenly my grin begins to fade ever so slightly, I slow down, Chariots of Fire decreases in volume. My new kicks get dirty.
In high school basketball tryouts, the coach had us do backwards ladders. The person to complete them first could be done for the day and head home. It was a race. Well, shortly after starting, I fell. I mean c’mon...BACKWARDS ladders? I fell right on my wrist and sprained it. Because I was just so good (or coach felt sorry for me), I still made the team, but ended up sitting on the bench for the majority of the season. That race held pain, disappointment, and frustration. I did not have big grin on my face.
Anyways, I got to thinking about how Hebrews 12:1-2 is not about smooth-sailing to the finish line. The race of life is sometimes marked with huge difficulties. But even so, there are some really great things about God’s race. For one, we don’t have to run with anything on our backs. "Throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles." (verse 1) Granted we sometimes forget this and think it might be a good idea to pick up that backpack of selfishness, greed, jealousy, addiction, whatever.
Second, we have a set course. The race has been "marked for us" by God. If life were a 5K, this would be one of the one’s with super clear directions on how to sign-up, well-organized registration tables the morning of, and ample food and giveaways at the end. Don’t you hate the runs where you can’t find the table with the first letter of your last name to get your number? Or after you’ve paid $35, you get to the end, and guess what? They’ve run out of T-shirts. Too bad so sad. Knowing that my race is marked brings back my grin and gives me the energy to keep going. It helps me "not grow weary or lose heart." Turn up the Chariots of Fire.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Just make a vision board.
Are you kidding me? At the risk of offending some people, this idea is ridiculous.
I generally don’t watch TV, but with company in town a couple months ago, I was subjected to the very first (and for me, the ONLY) episode of the most recent Bachelor. They did brief little snip-its of each potential girl. One had vision boards—essentially pieces of posterboard, like I used to use for school projects—on which she pasted cut-out magazine phrases and pictures. Like "Happiness" "Love" "Fitness" and a big, fat diamond ring cut most likely from a jewelry ad. She then quickly explained to the millions of people tuning in, along with the bachelor (who I hope didn’t select her) that a vision board is a representation of the things you want and long for, and essentially, because you went through the trouble of making said vision board, the items and things on said vision board will actually come into your real line of vision! Ta Dah! Diamond ring right in your living room. I don’t know for sure because I haven’t read the book, but supposedly this vision board idea comes from the popular book The Secret.
I’m being obnoxious, I know. But, it just doesn’t work that way! If it did, wouldn’t we all have our houses stocked with posterboard and glue sticks and subscribe to every magazine under the sun? I’d go to Jo-Ann’s right now with my 40% off coupon and get me a new scissors!
In a conversation with friends last night, we got to talking about these vision boards. This in turn got me thinking about our wants—longings that are so strong and deep. Sometimes so strong they have the power to create in us bad attitudes, lethargy, hopelessness, when they are not fulfilled. They can shadow joy and laughter and happiness in other things. We want so badly that we will even create vision boards (I wonder if there’s a Wiki-how on vision board making).
I’ve often wondered about David writing some of the Psalms. That dude is intense! He often challenges me in my seeking and desiring for God. He writes about heavenly things like we write about earthly things (or cut and paste about earthly things). Do we want God as much as we want those things on our vision boards? Do I really long for God?
Psalm 63 shows that intensity I’m talking about. David says, "in my heart, I long for you, as I would long for a stream in a scorching desert." Now, granted, he supposedly wrote this while he was in a desert, which most assuredly gave him some inspiration. Inspiration I may not have as I sit here at my desk with a bottle of water and some peppermint tea and animal crackers. But... still. And what’s interesting is that David’s longing doesn’t result in bad attitudes and hopelessness. But rather he talks of "joyful praises" and "excitement" and "happy songs." It's because you don't even need a vision board with God. Long for Him, and He fulfills.
In my heart, I long for you, as I would long for a stream in a scorching desert.
I have seen your power and your glory in the place of worship.
Your love means more than life to me, and I praise you.
As long as I live, I will pray to you.
I will sing joyful praises and be filled with excitement like a guest at a banquet.
I think about you before I go to sleep, and my thoughts turn to you during the night.
You have helped me, and I sing happy songs in the shadow of your wings.
I stay close to you, and your powerful arm supports me.
Psalm 63:1-9
I generally don’t watch TV, but with company in town a couple months ago, I was subjected to the very first (and for me, the ONLY) episode of the most recent Bachelor. They did brief little snip-its of each potential girl. One had vision boards—essentially pieces of posterboard, like I used to use for school projects—on which she pasted cut-out magazine phrases and pictures. Like "Happiness" "Love" "Fitness" and a big, fat diamond ring cut most likely from a jewelry ad. She then quickly explained to the millions of people tuning in, along with the bachelor (who I hope didn’t select her) that a vision board is a representation of the things you want and long for, and essentially, because you went through the trouble of making said vision board, the items and things on said vision board will actually come into your real line of vision! Ta Dah! Diamond ring right in your living room. I don’t know for sure because I haven’t read the book, but supposedly this vision board idea comes from the popular book The Secret.
I’m being obnoxious, I know. But, it just doesn’t work that way! If it did, wouldn’t we all have our houses stocked with posterboard and glue sticks and subscribe to every magazine under the sun? I’d go to Jo-Ann’s right now with my 40% off coupon and get me a new scissors!
In a conversation with friends last night, we got to talking about these vision boards. This in turn got me thinking about our wants—longings that are so strong and deep. Sometimes so strong they have the power to create in us bad attitudes, lethargy, hopelessness, when they are not fulfilled. They can shadow joy and laughter and happiness in other things. We want so badly that we will even create vision boards (I wonder if there’s a Wiki-how on vision board making).
I’ve often wondered about David writing some of the Psalms. That dude is intense! He often challenges me in my seeking and desiring for God. He writes about heavenly things like we write about earthly things (or cut and paste about earthly things). Do we want God as much as we want those things on our vision boards? Do I really long for God?
Psalm 63 shows that intensity I’m talking about. David says, "in my heart, I long for you, as I would long for a stream in a scorching desert." Now, granted, he supposedly wrote this while he was in a desert, which most assuredly gave him some inspiration. Inspiration I may not have as I sit here at my desk with a bottle of water and some peppermint tea and animal crackers. But... still. And what’s interesting is that David’s longing doesn’t result in bad attitudes and hopelessness. But rather he talks of "joyful praises" and "excitement" and "happy songs." It's because you don't even need a vision board with God. Long for Him, and He fulfills.
In my heart, I long for you, as I would long for a stream in a scorching desert.
I have seen your power and your glory in the place of worship.
Your love means more than life to me, and I praise you.
As long as I live, I will pray to you.
I will sing joyful praises and be filled with excitement like a guest at a banquet.
I think about you before I go to sleep, and my thoughts turn to you during the night.
You have helped me, and I sing happy songs in the shadow of your wings.
I stay close to you, and your powerful arm supports me.
Psalm 63:1-9
Monday, March 16, 2009
Chirp chirp
“Is that a robin?” asked my friend anxiously yesterday morning, as she looked out my front window, jumping onto the couch to get a better view.
“Where?” I asked.
“Over there,” she pointed. “On the roof?”
Why, yes. Yes it is.
“I have to call my dad,” she said, going for her cell phone.
It seems she and him had a little competition going...who would spot the first robin?
This discovery is not taken lightly here in Minnesota. The orange-bellied bird is an harbinger of spring. Robin sighting = melting snow = ice scraper removed from car = mittens packed away = windows open = Minnesotans becoming human once more.
Come to find out though that robins actually don’t go very far in the winter. I hadn’t really put much thought into it, but I think I assumed they were like geese (those nasty, hissing, poop-making creatures). That they flew away during the hellish winter and then came back right about now. But nope. They’re around. They just don’t go about hopping from yard to yard. Rather, they congregate, sticking close together, not traveling too far from homes.
Like us! I mean, I saw all these strangers hopping about from yard to yard yesterday. Turns out, they’re my neighbors!
“Where?” I asked.
“Over there,” she pointed. “On the roof?”
Why, yes. Yes it is.
“I have to call my dad,” she said, going for her cell phone.
It seems she and him had a little competition going...who would spot the first robin?
This discovery is not taken lightly here in Minnesota. The orange-bellied bird is an harbinger of spring. Robin sighting = melting snow = ice scraper removed from car = mittens packed away = windows open = Minnesotans becoming human once more.
Come to find out though that robins actually don’t go very far in the winter. I hadn’t really put much thought into it, but I think I assumed they were like geese (those nasty, hissing, poop-making creatures). That they flew away during the hellish winter and then came back right about now. But nope. They’re around. They just don’t go about hopping from yard to yard. Rather, they congregate, sticking close together, not traveling too far from homes.
Like us! I mean, I saw all these strangers hopping about from yard to yard yesterday. Turns out, they’re my neighbors!
Friday, March 13, 2009
A pray-er's prayer
I’ve had a hard time praying the past couple weeks. It’s not that I doubt God’s presence, but I think it’s that I doubt how to pray or what to pray about or for in prayers of petition. I have no problem praying for forgiveness for X, Y and Z; nor do I have problems giving thanks for everything under the sun from coffee to friends. But when it comes to asking for something, I have a tendency to quantify.
How many minutes spent in prayer.
How many people are praying for the same thing.
How frequently I pray.
As if I spent a trillion minutes in prayer about something, it would be answered. Or if 100 people are praying for something, surely it’ll happen. Or if I pray 10 times a day for the same thing...
I play little mind games with myself, knowing full well, they won't "work" but I do 'em anyways. Maybe if I pray like THAT, or if I say THIS instead of that, or if I focus on THAT instead of THIS...
And then when something happens so against whatever it was I was praying for—as it did a couple weeks ago—I’m taken aback. I cry out, God, didn’t you hear me all those times? Didn’t you hear the other hundreds of people praying?
Not to discount the power of lots of people praying, but God hears the prayer of one little ole’ person as well as the prayer of thousands. He hears my two-second prayer as well as my two-hour prayer. He knows what I want even if I were to never ask for it in prayer. The power is in Him. Not me.
I remember reading Philip Yancey’s on prayer, creatively called Prayer. It’s great, and I highly recommend, but at the end, I said, well, Phil doesn’t know either. Prayer isn’t an exact science, and thus, unlike I had hoped, he doesn’t have all the answers. So just because X number of people are praying for Y to happen, doesn’t mean Y will happen. And just because A is super faithful and persistent about praying for B means that B will happen. But that doesn’t discount what we DO know.
That His ears are attentive to our prayer (1 Peter 3:12), that prayer is powerful and effective (James 5:16), and that we are to be faithful in prayer (Romans 12:12).
How many minutes spent in prayer.
How many people are praying for the same thing.
How frequently I pray.
As if I spent a trillion minutes in prayer about something, it would be answered. Or if 100 people are praying for something, surely it’ll happen. Or if I pray 10 times a day for the same thing...
I play little mind games with myself, knowing full well, they won't "work" but I do 'em anyways. Maybe if I pray like THAT, or if I say THIS instead of that, or if I focus on THAT instead of THIS...
And then when something happens so against whatever it was I was praying for—as it did a couple weeks ago—I’m taken aback. I cry out, God, didn’t you hear me all those times? Didn’t you hear the other hundreds of people praying?
Not to discount the power of lots of people praying, but God hears the prayer of one little ole’ person as well as the prayer of thousands. He hears my two-second prayer as well as my two-hour prayer. He knows what I want even if I were to never ask for it in prayer. The power is in Him. Not me.
I remember reading Philip Yancey’s on prayer, creatively called Prayer. It’s great, and I highly recommend, but at the end, I said, well, Phil doesn’t know either. Prayer isn’t an exact science, and thus, unlike I had hoped, he doesn’t have all the answers. So just because X number of people are praying for Y to happen, doesn’t mean Y will happen. And just because A is super faithful and persistent about praying for B means that B will happen. But that doesn’t discount what we DO know.
That His ears are attentive to our prayer (1 Peter 3:12), that prayer is powerful and effective (James 5:16), and that we are to be faithful in prayer (Romans 12:12).
Monday, March 09, 2009
Para-what?
If you had to act out "para-skiing" in a game of charades, would you know how?
I wouldn’t--and didn’t Friday night.
And perhaps that’s because I’m not even sure what the heck para-skiing is! I’m not alone. I see that someone posted a bunch of photos on Flickr and then sent out the question...Help: do you call this para-skiing?
I almost yelled that same question across the lake the other day. As I was running, I watched a person on skis, be pulled across the flat, icy surface by a massive parachute, a cross between a kite and a sail (ski-sailing perhaps?). When he or she pulled the parachute’s lines, he/she’d turn. It looked like fun, except I’d be concerned the wind would pick up and suddenly I’d be picked up.
Well, I have since learned that para-skiing came about in Switzerland in the 1960s. It actually came from rescue missions in the Alps. People would jump out of planes with parachutes, land and then ski to wherever it was they were going. Now, there are para-skiing competitions. You ski off a cliff, let the wind catch the parachute and then you’re airborne for awhile before landing back on solid ground. Supposedly though this is technically not para-skiing (even though everyone calls it that), but ski-paragliding. The layperson—me and many others—gets them confused all the time. The non-airborne person on the lake I run around is para-skiing.
Whatever though, I’d like to see you para-ski or ski-paraglide in a game of charades.
I wouldn’t--and didn’t Friday night.
And perhaps that’s because I’m not even sure what the heck para-skiing is! I’m not alone. I see that someone posted a bunch of photos on Flickr and then sent out the question...Help: do you call this para-skiing?
I almost yelled that same question across the lake the other day. As I was running, I watched a person on skis, be pulled across the flat, icy surface by a massive parachute, a cross between a kite and a sail (ski-sailing perhaps?). When he or she pulled the parachute’s lines, he/she’d turn. It looked like fun, except I’d be concerned the wind would pick up and suddenly I’d be picked up.
Well, I have since learned that para-skiing came about in Switzerland in the 1960s. It actually came from rescue missions in the Alps. People would jump out of planes with parachutes, land and then ski to wherever it was they were going. Now, there are para-skiing competitions. You ski off a cliff, let the wind catch the parachute and then you’re airborne for awhile before landing back on solid ground. Supposedly though this is technically not para-skiing (even though everyone calls it that), but ski-paragliding. The layperson—me and many others—gets them confused all the time. The non-airborne person on the lake I run around is para-skiing.
Whatever though, I’d like to see you para-ski or ski-paraglide in a game of charades.
Wednesday, March 04, 2009
New hubcaps and attitudes
I recently lost a hubcap, and nearly a tooth, going over a nasty pothole a couple weeks ago. My poor car looked so ghetto driving around hubcap-less. And what’s worse is that another one of my hubcaps was cracked and half gone too. I didn’t actually avoid parking spots, but I was cognizant of the fact that if I parked on the left side of people, drivers could see my hubcap issues. And they’d...think less of me? Think I don’t have money to repair? Who cares! I don’t even know, but I somehow felt like it was a strike against me.
And you must know, I’m vain about other things, but when it comes to my car, I really, generally, could care less (don’t believe me? ask my brother--he’s appalled at my vehicle choice). I’ve been driving a 98 black Chevy Prism since I was a sophomore in college. She’s got 112,000 miles on her and for the most part, has given me very few problems. So, why get a new car? No point. I don’t really know why I even thought about other people noticing my missing hubcap(s).
Even more funny, as I pulled one of the remaining in-tact hubcaps off as dad was replacing them for me, I saw the twist tie that a rather resourceful friend of mine in California had used to hold that particular hubcap on when it fell off a couple years ago. I heard it fall off and was able to go back and pick it up. An inside spoke had cracked through and needed a little reinforcement. With a twist tie. Genius, really.
My attitude has mirrored my hubcaps of late. The long, dark, winter months have taken their toll, creating huge pot holes in my plans and routines. Cold temps have cracked good moods and I think last week’s little “thundersnow” officially made my hubcap-of-an-attitude fall off into the ditch. I’ve been looking for it ever since! Thankfully resourceful friends and family with fun twist ties—coffee dates, breakfasts at cozy places, and movies—have kept me going.
My new hubcaps are the cheapest ones available, but I still feel pretty spiffy sportin’ them around. And today’s temps are not exactly hot, but they’re warmer, causing a new spiffiness in my attitude. I didn’t even need gloves when I ran an errand over lunch!
Soon, very soon, I will drive around with new hubcaps and my windows rolled down!
And you must know, I’m vain about other things, but when it comes to my car, I really, generally, could care less (don’t believe me? ask my brother--he’s appalled at my vehicle choice). I’ve been driving a 98 black Chevy Prism since I was a sophomore in college. She’s got 112,000 miles on her and for the most part, has given me very few problems. So, why get a new car? No point. I don’t really know why I even thought about other people noticing my missing hubcap(s).
Even more funny, as I pulled one of the remaining in-tact hubcaps off as dad was replacing them for me, I saw the twist tie that a rather resourceful friend of mine in California had used to hold that particular hubcap on when it fell off a couple years ago. I heard it fall off and was able to go back and pick it up. An inside spoke had cracked through and needed a little reinforcement. With a twist tie. Genius, really.
My attitude has mirrored my hubcaps of late. The long, dark, winter months have taken their toll, creating huge pot holes in my plans and routines. Cold temps have cracked good moods and I think last week’s little “thundersnow” officially made my hubcap-of-an-attitude fall off into the ditch. I’ve been looking for it ever since! Thankfully resourceful friends and family with fun twist ties—coffee dates, breakfasts at cozy places, and movies—have kept me going.
My new hubcaps are the cheapest ones available, but I still feel pretty spiffy sportin’ them around. And today’s temps are not exactly hot, but they’re warmer, causing a new spiffiness in my attitude. I didn’t even need gloves when I ran an errand over lunch!
Soon, very soon, I will drive around with new hubcaps and my windows rolled down!
Sunday, March 01, 2009
Eat some sun
Just to spite the current 2-degree temps and 6 inches of suffocating snow, I think I should make pancakes today.
It is, after all, Maslenitsa—a weeklong Russian celebration that bids farewell to winter and gleefully welcomes in spring. The word “maslenitsa” comes from the Russian word meaning “butter.” It is believed that eating hot, round, buttery pancakes (bearing strong resemblance—err…sort of—to the sun) allows one to take in the warmth of the sun. Eating of pancakes was/is a way to encourage the sun to hurry up and thaw the earth. I found some traditional schedules of events for the celebration, which draws from both pagan and orthodox church customs. Here’s what I learned.
Monday is for welcoming the celebration. Start baking those pancakes and make a doll out of straw. Stick that doll at the top of a snow hill. I’m sure your front yard will work.
Tuesday is for playing. Start eating those pancakes. And supposedly on this day men are allowed to kiss any woman they pass. Um, what?
Wednesday is for feasting. Keep eating those pancakes.
Thursday is for merry-making, not to be confused with Tuesday’s playing. Fun outdoor games abound.
Friday is mother-in-law day. Son-in-laws invite their mom-in-laws over for their pancakes. (hope they have a good recipe)
Saturday is sister-in-law day. Female relatives gather for more pancake-eating and gift-giving.
Sunday is for forgiveness. Ask God and those around you for forgiveness. And I guess you are to burn the straw doll that you made on Monday. The doll symbolizes winter, and so burning it shows your efforts to send off winter until next year. I wonder if my neighborhood association would mind a little bonfire in my front yard?
Please, if you live in Minnesota, eat some pancakes this week!!
It is, after all, Maslenitsa—a weeklong Russian celebration that bids farewell to winter and gleefully welcomes in spring. The word “maslenitsa” comes from the Russian word meaning “butter.” It is believed that eating hot, round, buttery pancakes (bearing strong resemblance—err…sort of—to the sun) allows one to take in the warmth of the sun. Eating of pancakes was/is a way to encourage the sun to hurry up and thaw the earth. I found some traditional schedules of events for the celebration, which draws from both pagan and orthodox church customs. Here’s what I learned.
Monday is for welcoming the celebration. Start baking those pancakes and make a doll out of straw. Stick that doll at the top of a snow hill. I’m sure your front yard will work.
Tuesday is for playing. Start eating those pancakes. And supposedly on this day men are allowed to kiss any woman they pass. Um, what?
Wednesday is for feasting. Keep eating those pancakes.
Thursday is for merry-making, not to be confused with Tuesday’s playing. Fun outdoor games abound.
Friday is mother-in-law day. Son-in-laws invite their mom-in-laws over for their pancakes. (hope they have a good recipe)
Saturday is sister-in-law day. Female relatives gather for more pancake-eating and gift-giving.
Sunday is for forgiveness. Ask God and those around you for forgiveness. And I guess you are to burn the straw doll that you made on Monday. The doll symbolizes winter, and so burning it shows your efforts to send off winter until next year. I wonder if my neighborhood association would mind a little bonfire in my front yard?
Please, if you live in Minnesota, eat some pancakes this week!!
Friday, February 27, 2009
Real rest
Why yes, by golly, I think we have. “We” being Christians, and “have” referring to turning conversion into the cure-all. I think a lot of evangelical Christians and churches promote an idea of conversion that is rosy and bright. Become a Christian—your problems will be solved. Become a Christian—your marriage will get better. Find God—your money troubles will lessen.
Maybe. But maybe not. One need only walk into a church and see all the pain and heartache and trouble and poor decisions lurking just beneath the surface—or the pew—and realize that conversion is so not a cure-all. Christianity was never supposed to be though.
“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you REST. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find REST for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light,” Matthew 11:28-30.
He said He’d give us rest, not that He’d take the problems away! I was thinking about this as I read a blog update this morning from some dear friends who are struggling, struggling, struggling through an exhausting, never-ending, tough time. And I caught myself thinking, God, why don’t you hurry up and do something?! Funny...He is! I think He has been. No, He hasn’t made their troubles disappear, but He’s given them the strength to get up every morning and face the day—with smiles and hope to boot!
Christianity doesn’t mean VIP-no-problemo life. It means real life, but with real REST.
Maybe. But maybe not. One need only walk into a church and see all the pain and heartache and trouble and poor decisions lurking just beneath the surface—or the pew—and realize that conversion is so not a cure-all. Christianity was never supposed to be though.
“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you REST. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find REST for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light,” Matthew 11:28-30.
He said He’d give us rest, not that He’d take the problems away! I was thinking about this as I read a blog update this morning from some dear friends who are struggling, struggling, struggling through an exhausting, never-ending, tough time. And I caught myself thinking, God, why don’t you hurry up and do something?! Funny...He is! I think He has been. No, He hasn’t made their troubles disappear, but He’s given them the strength to get up every morning and face the day—with smiles and hope to boot!
Christianity doesn’t mean VIP-no-problemo life. It means real life, but with real REST.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Stupid tongue
When I was young, I was always picked as team captain by my basketball and soccer coaches. I remember a coach once saying that I was least likely to lose my cool. (I coo’ I coo’) For the most part, I think that characteristic has carried on into adulthood. Although I have many other faults and less-than-admirable traits, losing my cool or my tongue is not one of them. Usually.
But yesterday it happened. I said something to someone I love tremendously, and as soon as it came out, actually even as I was saying it, I wished I could 1. take it back 2. crawl under a rock and 3. immediately apologize.
I did none of those things. Instead, I just continued on the disastrous path of mean words in a very uncompassionate manner. The victim of my attack quickly retreated, and I in my crabbiness and pride stood firm in not apologizing. I quietly brooded and slowly my wrongness got louder and LoUdeR and LOUDER until I had to tell it to stop! OK, enough already. I’ll go apologize. And I did. And although I felt somewhat better, and the person forgave me, I had a really difficult time forgiving myself. I crawled in bed last night still feeling bad. My crabbiness at that point was completely gone, taken over by feelings of remorse.
I’m not a huge fan of Proverbs. Maybe that’ll change once I take a class about the book, but for right now, I find it so repetitive! But it does have much to say about wise people holding their tongue. The verse I’m thinking of is Proverbs 11:12 “A man who lacks judgment derides his neighbor, but a man of understanding holds his tongue.”
Agreed.
But I think a wise woman removes that hold to apologize for stupid tongue.
But yesterday it happened. I said something to someone I love tremendously, and as soon as it came out, actually even as I was saying it, I wished I could 1. take it back 2. crawl under a rock and 3. immediately apologize.
I did none of those things. Instead, I just continued on the disastrous path of mean words in a very uncompassionate manner. The victim of my attack quickly retreated, and I in my crabbiness and pride stood firm in not apologizing. I quietly brooded and slowly my wrongness got louder and LoUdeR and LOUDER until I had to tell it to stop! OK, enough already. I’ll go apologize. And I did. And although I felt somewhat better, and the person forgave me, I had a really difficult time forgiving myself. I crawled in bed last night still feeling bad. My crabbiness at that point was completely gone, taken over by feelings of remorse.
I’m not a huge fan of Proverbs. Maybe that’ll change once I take a class about the book, but for right now, I find it so repetitive! But it does have much to say about wise people holding their tongue. The verse I’m thinking of is Proverbs 11:12 “A man who lacks judgment derides his neighbor, but a man of understanding holds his tongue.”
Agreed.
But I think a wise woman removes that hold to apologize for stupid tongue.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
True value
Some of you may recall my neighbor in California—old man Grif. I’ve written about him a few times.
For Christmas he sent me four coins. On them are various presidential first ladies. The coins are carefully wrapped and came with a white glove—if I ever decide to handle them. In an accompanying letter he wrote: Hope you like the coins. They are bronze and limited addition struck from the same die as the gold ones. Use the glove. In a few years they will be valuable. This was only one little part of a four-page, hand-written letter. He told me about his recent surgery, how rent has gone up and no one is living in my old apartment. How he’s fed up with Publisher’s Clearinghouse. That he liked the T-shirt I sent him—it fits. He also asked how I was doing. How my family was. How school and work were, and if I was liking my new place. Also in the package were newspaper clippings of San Diego’s weather (he likes to rub that in) and four gaudy 2009 calendars he received free with the purchase of other coins and won’t use. (one was a Ronald Reagan calendar—12 months of Ronald Reagan)
Today I got another envelope from him. He clipped out a newspaper article about the stimulus package’s affect on first-time homebuyers. He thought of me and wanted to make sure I knew about the tax credits I was eligible for.
I’ve just finished writing him a long letter, and I was thinking about the coins (as well as how much longer it takes to write a letter than send an email). See, what I don’t understand about coins is that sure, they may gain value, but do you ever really take them in and get cash for them? Some people must. But how long must one wait until they gain value? And where would I even go to find out if these presidential first lady coins are worth a lot more in five years? Let’s say I find out that they are. I would most likely decide to hold on to them for another five years because they’d be that much more valuable. And on and on and on. Until some day my kids are cleaning out the attic wondering why their mom has these coins with a little white glove. Do people who collect coins ever actually cash in on the worth? Or is the real benefit just knowing that you’re sitting on (I think Grif actually kept some under his mattress, so he’s sleeping on) coins with lots of value?
To me, the value is right now. And it’s not in the actual coin, but rather in the giving. It’s in Grif purchasing coins he hopes will bring me value. It’s in his four-page letter. And in his newspaper clippings about tax credits. I'm cashing in right now!
For Christmas he sent me four coins. On them are various presidential first ladies. The coins are carefully wrapped and came with a white glove—if I ever decide to handle them. In an accompanying letter he wrote: Hope you like the coins. They are bronze and limited addition struck from the same die as the gold ones. Use the glove. In a few years they will be valuable. This was only one little part of a four-page, hand-written letter. He told me about his recent surgery, how rent has gone up and no one is living in my old apartment. How he’s fed up with Publisher’s Clearinghouse. That he liked the T-shirt I sent him—it fits. He also asked how I was doing. How my family was. How school and work were, and if I was liking my new place. Also in the package were newspaper clippings of San Diego’s weather (he likes to rub that in) and four gaudy 2009 calendars he received free with the purchase of other coins and won’t use. (one was a Ronald Reagan calendar—12 months of Ronald Reagan)
Today I got another envelope from him. He clipped out a newspaper article about the stimulus package’s affect on first-time homebuyers. He thought of me and wanted to make sure I knew about the tax credits I was eligible for.
I’ve just finished writing him a long letter, and I was thinking about the coins (as well as how much longer it takes to write a letter than send an email). See, what I don’t understand about coins is that sure, they may gain value, but do you ever really take them in and get cash for them? Some people must. But how long must one wait until they gain value? And where would I even go to find out if these presidential first lady coins are worth a lot more in five years? Let’s say I find out that they are. I would most likely decide to hold on to them for another five years because they’d be that much more valuable. And on and on and on. Until some day my kids are cleaning out the attic wondering why their mom has these coins with a little white glove. Do people who collect coins ever actually cash in on the worth? Or is the real benefit just knowing that you’re sitting on (I think Grif actually kept some under his mattress, so he’s sleeping on) coins with lots of value?
To me, the value is right now. And it’s not in the actual coin, but rather in the giving. It’s in Grif purchasing coins he hopes will bring me value. It’s in his four-page letter. And in his newspaper clippings about tax credits. I'm cashing in right now!
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
My office-eating secrets
I am incredibly grossed out by office refrigerators. I mean...other people’s leftovers left over in the fridge for months? Yuck!
I want to be green and use a real spoon for my oatmeal in the morning, but I don’t like using the general, everyone-can-use, office spoons. You don’t know how well others have washed the utensils (IF they washed them). So, I’ve actually stolen one and keep it in my drawer. It’s MY oatmeal spoon. (you should try it. Nobody notices.)
I don’t like putting my soup into a microwave that still smells like the food of the person who used it before me. I may love the person AND the food, but...
I’m so thankful I’m in an office that eats EVERYTHING. There’s never any old, crusty food sitting out.
I don’t understand how a person can drink the rest of the coffee, but then leave the coffee pot ON so that the little coffee that remains burns and smells.
Sometimes my lunch is a piece of fruit and a whole sleeve of soda crackers. I love soda crackers. Some people call them saltines, which makes more sense. Where does the soda come from? And the beauty of this lunch? No microwave or spoon necessary.
My aunt gave me a special soup mug that has a cover with little holes. Now I NEVER contribute to the gross, caked-on food on the top of the office microwave. Even if it sounds like I am (you know when your soup gets hot and pops and then everyone looks to make sure you're going to clean up after yourself).
One microwave across the hall heats my soup up in 2 minutes and 22 seconds. The microwave closer to me actually requires TWO 2 minutes and 22 seconds heating sessions.
I used to buy the most amazing croutons from the most amazing market in Cali. I would actually apologize to my coworkers for how loud they were when I chewed them. Everyone could hear. I miss those croutons. And I miss those coworkers.
My days are actually mapped out by my eating habits. Four hours until lunch...2 hours until afternoon snack...
I want to be green and use a real spoon for my oatmeal in the morning, but I don’t like using the general, everyone-can-use, office spoons. You don’t know how well others have washed the utensils (IF they washed them). So, I’ve actually stolen one and keep it in my drawer. It’s MY oatmeal spoon. (you should try it. Nobody notices.)
I don’t like putting my soup into a microwave that still smells like the food of the person who used it before me. I may love the person AND the food, but...
I’m so thankful I’m in an office that eats EVERYTHING. There’s never any old, crusty food sitting out.
I don’t understand how a person can drink the rest of the coffee, but then leave the coffee pot ON so that the little coffee that remains burns and smells.
Sometimes my lunch is a piece of fruit and a whole sleeve of soda crackers. I love soda crackers. Some people call them saltines, which makes more sense. Where does the soda come from? And the beauty of this lunch? No microwave or spoon necessary.
My aunt gave me a special soup mug that has a cover with little holes. Now I NEVER contribute to the gross, caked-on food on the top of the office microwave. Even if it sounds like I am (you know when your soup gets hot and pops and then everyone looks to make sure you're going to clean up after yourself).
One microwave across the hall heats my soup up in 2 minutes and 22 seconds. The microwave closer to me actually requires TWO 2 minutes and 22 seconds heating sessions.
I used to buy the most amazing croutons from the most amazing market in Cali. I would actually apologize to my coworkers for how loud they were when I chewed them. Everyone could hear. I miss those croutons. And I miss those coworkers.
My days are actually mapped out by my eating habits. Four hours until lunch...2 hours until afternoon snack...
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Eyes on you
“Do you see the person who assaulted you in this room?” the lawyer asked the young woman on the stand in the small, quiet court room. In front of her, to her right, at a large table, sat the defendant, but she had not once glanced in his direction during the hours of her testimony.
“Yes,” she answered the lawyer.
“Can you point this person out to the jury?” the lawyer continued.
“Yes,” she answered again. There was a pause. Slowly she turned to her right. Another pause. And then she looked the defendant straight in the eye. She raised her arm and said determinedly, “He’s sitting right there, at that table.”
It felt as though everyone in the court room silently gasped. As though looking him in the eye was the ultimate conviction.
For class, I sat in on an attempted murder trial yesterday, and was fascinated by the procedure and moved by the fact that the victim and the defendant were sitting within feet of each other. Mere feet! After such horrible things had occurred between them (to be fair, sentences have yet to be made).
The victim had been kidnapped and raped, and during the ordeal, was told by her assailant numerous times, as they walked along streets and in and out of a few public places, that she was making eye contact with too many people. He feared her eyes would reveal what was going on. That she, in fact, was in grave danger. And he's probably right. They would have!
The eye is so revealing and so crazy. I mean even Darwin was a little hung up on it, admitting that the eye was the one thing he had a hard time jiving with his evolution theory. He said that “the eye with all its inimitable contrivances for adjusting the focus to different distances, for admitting different amounts of light, and for the correction of spherical and chromatic aberration, could have been formed by natural selection, seems, I freely confess, absurd in the highest degree.”
For real though Darwin! I hear ya. I mean the blinking, the pupil, the iris, eyelashes?! Tear ducts? What the heck! I was thinking that its amazing-ness lies both in what it’s able to take in, but also give out. Eyes have the ability to see light, shapes, texture, etc. And at the same time, have the ability to emit love, understanding, humor, or in the case of the victim yesterday—hatred and accusation. But either way, the eye provides meaning to what it takes in and gives out.
Psalm 33:18 says, “But the eyes of the Lord are on those who fear him, on those whose hope is in his unfailing love...”
I’m sure God is raising His eyebrows at me a lot, but I’m so thankful He’s looking at me. In His eyes, there is meaning to my life.
“Yes,” she answered the lawyer.
“Can you point this person out to the jury?” the lawyer continued.
“Yes,” she answered again. There was a pause. Slowly she turned to her right. Another pause. And then she looked the defendant straight in the eye. She raised her arm and said determinedly, “He’s sitting right there, at that table.”
It felt as though everyone in the court room silently gasped. As though looking him in the eye was the ultimate conviction.
For class, I sat in on an attempted murder trial yesterday, and was fascinated by the procedure and moved by the fact that the victim and the defendant were sitting within feet of each other. Mere feet! After such horrible things had occurred between them (to be fair, sentences have yet to be made).
The victim had been kidnapped and raped, and during the ordeal, was told by her assailant numerous times, as they walked along streets and in and out of a few public places, that she was making eye contact with too many people. He feared her eyes would reveal what was going on. That she, in fact, was in grave danger. And he's probably right. They would have!
The eye is so revealing and so crazy. I mean even Darwin was a little hung up on it, admitting that the eye was the one thing he had a hard time jiving with his evolution theory. He said that “the eye with all its inimitable contrivances for adjusting the focus to different distances, for admitting different amounts of light, and for the correction of spherical and chromatic aberration, could have been formed by natural selection, seems, I freely confess, absurd in the highest degree.”
For real though Darwin! I hear ya. I mean the blinking, the pupil, the iris, eyelashes?! Tear ducts? What the heck! I was thinking that its amazing-ness lies both in what it’s able to take in, but also give out. Eyes have the ability to see light, shapes, texture, etc. And at the same time, have the ability to emit love, understanding, humor, or in the case of the victim yesterday—hatred and accusation. But either way, the eye provides meaning to what it takes in and gives out.
Psalm 33:18 says, “But the eyes of the Lord are on those who fear him, on those whose hope is in his unfailing love...”
I’m sure God is raising His eyebrows at me a lot, but I’m so thankful He’s looking at me. In His eyes, there is meaning to my life.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
The new bank in town
It’s called the Recycle Bank.
Now let me first tell you that I cut out coupons. I will never be able to live down the one morning when I missed the bus to my downtown job at the time because I was going through my coupons. See...I needed to make a run to Target that day, and I decided to quick check my coupons to see if I could use any. But as I began sifting through them, I discovered many had expired. So my OCD kicked in, and I had to go through the entire stack of coupons, ridding it of any expired coupons before I could walk away. Unfortunately, my bus stop that morning also expired. So, ironically, I ended up having to spend extra money to drive and park downtown that day. Thanks a lot, coupons! (mom thinks this is the funniest thing ever, but only because she knows she’s the exact same way...and it ain’t right!)
It’s like a game to see just how much money I can save with coupons. You can’t be sucked in by some coupons because they’re for the more expensive brands, and you’ll actually spend more money if you use the coupon (as opposed to buying the cheaper generic brand without a coupon). Anyways, I recently saved $6 during a Wal-Mart run and $7 at a Cub run. So...hey...that’s $13 which is...well, $13 dollars! I’m really thankful the receipts tell you how much you save, otherwise, I’d waste some time calculating it out myself.
But anyways, RecycleBank. It’s the new thing in town in good ole’ MG. In the past, if you wanted to recycle where I live, you had to sort your recyclable items and then place them in a plastic blue bin and place this bin out every Wednesday morning. As a good citizen, this I did. Well, now, we no longer have this bin, but a fancy-schmancy gray and blue covered bin that’s actually larger than my garbage bin. No need to sort our items anymore. Now, we just throw everything in that one bin and put it out every other Wednesday. The first few weeks have been a little rough. Confused neighbors—is this still the old-bin week? The new-bin week? Can the old bin actually be recycled in the new bin? Is this the start of the every-other week schedule? I’m guessing we actually made the recyclers second-guess themselves as they drove through our neighborhood and saw something different at the end of every driveway: wait, are we doing this right? But I think we got it now.
I haven’t told you the best part though. I set up an online account through RecylceBank; they weigh your recyclables; and then you get money based on the weight. So every other week I get an update emailed to me about how much my recycling weighed and how much money I made. So, today, I got an email. Instead of “You’ve got Mail!” it said, “You’ve got Points!” I received 85 redeemable points.
Now, humorously, I’ve started to wonder how one can make the most of this. I mean, after all, there’s something a little unfair to the single female who doesn’t go through 10 gallons of milk every two weeks or drink lots and lots of beer/pop for tons of cans. Clearly, the family of five has the advantage in this case. So, I started wondering if I could bring home some recyclable items from the office to throw in my bin. Or perhaps, my neighbor wouldn’t mind if I took one or two of their spaghetti jars (although they do weigh a bit more, but I mean, there's two of them and only one of me!). And now, when I go to the grocery store, I’m going to purposely buy food items packaged in glass that can be recycled, just so I can get a few more RecycleBank points. Next time I go to mom and dad’s, I could pretend like I didn’t get the Sunday paper that week for some reason. Could I take theirs? Cha-ching! At least 8 more points!!
When will I make my first withdrawal from this bank I wonder? And what will I buy? I should see what I got some coupons for.
Now let me first tell you that I cut out coupons. I will never be able to live down the one morning when I missed the bus to my downtown job at the time because I was going through my coupons. See...I needed to make a run to Target that day, and I decided to quick check my coupons to see if I could use any. But as I began sifting through them, I discovered many had expired. So my OCD kicked in, and I had to go through the entire stack of coupons, ridding it of any expired coupons before I could walk away. Unfortunately, my bus stop that morning also expired. So, ironically, I ended up having to spend extra money to drive and park downtown that day. Thanks a lot, coupons! (mom thinks this is the funniest thing ever, but only because she knows she’s the exact same way...and it ain’t right!)
It’s like a game to see just how much money I can save with coupons. You can’t be sucked in by some coupons because they’re for the more expensive brands, and you’ll actually spend more money if you use the coupon (as opposed to buying the cheaper generic brand without a coupon). Anyways, I recently saved $6 during a Wal-Mart run and $7 at a Cub run. So...hey...that’s $13 which is...well, $13 dollars! I’m really thankful the receipts tell you how much you save, otherwise, I’d waste some time calculating it out myself.
But anyways, RecycleBank. It’s the new thing in town in good ole’ MG. In the past, if you wanted to recycle where I live, you had to sort your recyclable items and then place them in a plastic blue bin and place this bin out every Wednesday morning. As a good citizen, this I did. Well, now, we no longer have this bin, but a fancy-schmancy gray and blue covered bin that’s actually larger than my garbage bin. No need to sort our items anymore. Now, we just throw everything in that one bin and put it out every other Wednesday. The first few weeks have been a little rough. Confused neighbors—is this still the old-bin week? The new-bin week? Can the old bin actually be recycled in the new bin? Is this the start of the every-other week schedule? I’m guessing we actually made the recyclers second-guess themselves as they drove through our neighborhood and saw something different at the end of every driveway: wait, are we doing this right? But I think we got it now.
I haven’t told you the best part though. I set up an online account through RecylceBank; they weigh your recyclables; and then you get money based on the weight. So every other week I get an update emailed to me about how much my recycling weighed and how much money I made. So, today, I got an email. Instead of “You’ve got Mail!” it said, “You’ve got Points!” I received 85 redeemable points.
Now, humorously, I’ve started to wonder how one can make the most of this. I mean, after all, there’s something a little unfair to the single female who doesn’t go through 10 gallons of milk every two weeks or drink lots and lots of beer/pop for tons of cans. Clearly, the family of five has the advantage in this case. So, I started wondering if I could bring home some recyclable items from the office to throw in my bin. Or perhaps, my neighbor wouldn’t mind if I took one or two of their spaghetti jars (although they do weigh a bit more, but I mean, there's two of them and only one of me!). And now, when I go to the grocery store, I’m going to purposely buy food items packaged in glass that can be recycled, just so I can get a few more RecycleBank points. Next time I go to mom and dad’s, I could pretend like I didn’t get the Sunday paper that week for some reason. Could I take theirs? Cha-ching! At least 8 more points!!
When will I make my first withdrawal from this bank I wonder? And what will I buy? I should see what I got some coupons for.
Monday, February 09, 2009
Got style?
In a thrift shop in Chicago were four male mannequins outfitted in completely different styles. My girlfriend and I looked at each other. “Who would you go for?” I then proceeded to tell her that obviously her guy was mannequin #2, wearing the argyle cardigan. She told me that I was obviously #4 (I just remember there were hole-y jeans involved). We laughed because we were so right.
Yesterday, I was at a bridal shop with four friends, one of whom is getting married. We were there to see “the dress.” Mission accomplished—and purchased. But what I found incredibly humorous was that we could all easily describe each other’s dresses. Who would be the halter top. Who would have the bows (not me). Who would have the sparkles (also not me). Who would have the sweetheart cut. Who would so NOT have such and such. One year for Christmas, we each unknowingly gave each other our appropriate shirts. I, of course, got a long underwear shirt. Someone got a pink shirt. Someone else got a cardigan. We get each other's styles.
So this just got me thinking about how awesome it is to have people in your life who don’t just recognize that you—and your likes and dislikes—are somehow different than them. Friends come to understand your differences, and in doing so, turn them into your style.
I got style. And I’m so thankful.
Yesterday, I was at a bridal shop with four friends, one of whom is getting married. We were there to see “the dress.” Mission accomplished—and purchased. But what I found incredibly humorous was that we could all easily describe each other’s dresses. Who would be the halter top. Who would have the bows (not me). Who would have the sparkles (also not me). Who would have the sweetheart cut. Who would so NOT have such and such. One year for Christmas, we each unknowingly gave each other our appropriate shirts. I, of course, got a long underwear shirt. Someone got a pink shirt. Someone else got a cardigan. We get each other's styles.
So this just got me thinking about how awesome it is to have people in your life who don’t just recognize that you—and your likes and dislikes—are somehow different than them. Friends come to understand your differences, and in doing so, turn them into your style.
I got style. And I’m so thankful.
Tuesday, February 03, 2009
Sticker suggestion
I saw a bumper sticker yesterday that, I admit, I took some offense to.
I don’t have a problem with Jesus;
I just can’t stand His followers.
And me being a follower of Jesus in the car next to him, wondered how anyone could put a statement of blatant dislike on their car. I hate Republicans, Democrats, Christians, Atheists, Animal-killers. Whatever. I mean, isn’t road rage bad enough as it is without extra name-calling and finger-pointing? I found myself wondering if I should stay behind him, like you’re supposed to do with drunk drivers…much safer behind.
First, I will say that I obviously know what this guy is talking about. Because, quite frankly, I have problems with a lot of people who say they follow Jesus. I get it. I understand. But, don’t be mean, because here’s the thing…following is never perfect. It’s like a copy of the real thing—it’s never as good.
I’ve followed some of my mom’s recipes. I’ve followed them to a T, or so I thought—until I pulled it out of the oven only to discover that it looked very unlike momma’s. Playing HORSE out in the driveway as a kid always used to bother me a little bit because the person after me could never stand exactly where I had stood, let alone shoot exactly like I had. You’re supposed to follow the person before you, but it was never perfect. And most recently I’ve been trying to follow some Amy Butler sewing patterns (don’t even get me started on how ridiculously, unnecessarily wordy her patterns are!). I’m trying my darndest to follow them, but I’ve made some mistakes (no help from Amy) and have needed my stitch-ripper pretty handy.
So, to the guy in the van with the mean sticker. Maybe it’s not that you can’t stand followers of Jesus. Maybe it’s that you can’t stand the fact that many of them think their following is perfect, when it’s not. Because I can’t stand that either, and sometimes I’m even guilty of this thinking.
I’d suggest:
I don’t have a problem with Jesus;
I just sometimes get somewhat frustrated with those who think that they’re following him perfectly.
Something along those lines may be a little less road-ragey.
I don’t have a problem with Jesus;
I just can’t stand His followers.
And me being a follower of Jesus in the car next to him, wondered how anyone could put a statement of blatant dislike on their car. I hate Republicans, Democrats, Christians, Atheists, Animal-killers. Whatever. I mean, isn’t road rage bad enough as it is without extra name-calling and finger-pointing? I found myself wondering if I should stay behind him, like you’re supposed to do with drunk drivers…much safer behind.
First, I will say that I obviously know what this guy is talking about. Because, quite frankly, I have problems with a lot of people who say they follow Jesus. I get it. I understand. But, don’t be mean, because here’s the thing…following is never perfect. It’s like a copy of the real thing—it’s never as good.
I’ve followed some of my mom’s recipes. I’ve followed them to a T, or so I thought—until I pulled it out of the oven only to discover that it looked very unlike momma’s. Playing HORSE out in the driveway as a kid always used to bother me a little bit because the person after me could never stand exactly where I had stood, let alone shoot exactly like I had. You’re supposed to follow the person before you, but it was never perfect. And most recently I’ve been trying to follow some Amy Butler sewing patterns (don’t even get me started on how ridiculously, unnecessarily wordy her patterns are!). I’m trying my darndest to follow them, but I’ve made some mistakes (no help from Amy) and have needed my stitch-ripper pretty handy.
So, to the guy in the van with the mean sticker. Maybe it’s not that you can’t stand followers of Jesus. Maybe it’s that you can’t stand the fact that many of them think their following is perfect, when it’s not. Because I can’t stand that either, and sometimes I’m even guilty of this thinking.
I’d suggest:
I don’t have a problem with Jesus;
I just sometimes get somewhat frustrated with those who think that they’re following him perfectly.
Something along those lines may be a little less road-ragey.
Friday, January 30, 2009
500 miles
I love the song “500 Miles” by the Proclaimers.
“And I would walk 500 miles,
And I would walk 500 more
Just to be the man (“mon”) who walked 1,000 miles to fall down at your dooooooor…”
It just never gets old. So, when it came on the radio this morning on my way to work, up went the volume.
Someone super special once created a scavenger hunt for me. At the end of the thoughtful, riddled hunt—taped to the bottom of a bleacher seat in a park—was the Proclaimers’ CD Sunshine on Leith, which includes “500 Miles.” Knowing I loved that song, this person told me they’d walk 500 miles for me. And then 500 more. And you gotta believe 'em. I mean, they probably walked half that in creating the scavenger hunt! (every other song on that CD is awful! I didn’t fully comprehend “one-hit wonder” until this CD)
But every time I hear the song and sing it and dance to it, I’m reminded of this incredibly nice gesture that this person did for me. And nice things make you smile. So do Fridays. So, go walk 500 miles for someone!
*I’m aware that the official song title is “I’m Gonna Be (500 miles),” but I think parentheses in song titles is lame. So I say “500 Miles.”
“And I would walk 500 miles,
And I would walk 500 more
Just to be the man (“mon”) who walked 1,000 miles to fall down at your dooooooor…”
It just never gets old. So, when it came on the radio this morning on my way to work, up went the volume.
Someone super special once created a scavenger hunt for me. At the end of the thoughtful, riddled hunt—taped to the bottom of a bleacher seat in a park—was the Proclaimers’ CD Sunshine on Leith, which includes “500 Miles.” Knowing I loved that song, this person told me they’d walk 500 miles for me. And then 500 more. And you gotta believe 'em. I mean, they probably walked half that in creating the scavenger hunt! (every other song on that CD is awful! I didn’t fully comprehend “one-hit wonder” until this CD)
But every time I hear the song and sing it and dance to it, I’m reminded of this incredibly nice gesture that this person did for me. And nice things make you smile. So do Fridays. So, go walk 500 miles for someone!
*I’m aware that the official song title is “I’m Gonna Be (500 miles),” but I think parentheses in song titles is lame. So I say “500 Miles.”
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Stayin' warm?
“Stayin’ warm?”
This is a common pleasantry among Minnesotans during the winter months. It’s like, “Hey, how’s it going?” or “What’s up?”
“Stayin’ warm?”
You expect either a sarcastic “No. Hardly.” Or “Tryin’.” I mean really, how does one stay warm when it's 10 degrees below zero? I don’t care if you are wearing 10 pounds of clothing or have your space heater on high (or allowing your bed to smell like corn because you’re using the cornbag that your mom sewed for you to keep your feet from freezing).
I just ran into a coworker I haven’t seen in awhile in the bathroom. We said hello, and then next thing I know, I’m asking the impersonal “Stayin’ warm?”
“Um, tryin’” she said, as she washed her hands, and I walked out.
My verse for the week is 1 Thessalonians 5:18-19. “Give thanks in all circumstances, for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus. Do not put out the Spirit’s fire.”
Staying warm in Minnesota is not possible right now. In fact, I just went out to eat with a friend and we sat in the “fireplace room,” You’d think it’d be warm, right? No. We were by the window and felt the draft from the -30 windchills outside. We were cold. But anyways, what is possible, is staying warm in Christ—difficult in many situations, but possible.
I constantly let the fire fade. Usually it’s snuffed out by the fact that I’m tired, too busy, feeling sorry for myself because I’m single, or somehow don’t reach the world’s expectations. Rather than giving thanks in all circumstances, I wallow in many of them that I think are less-than-ideal, and slowly, the Spirit’s fire flickers and loses heat.
But I love fire. It never fails—every time I go camping, I’m called a pyromaniac by my fellow campers. And it may be because I’m also always cold. Even in the summer, I’m not “stayin’ warm.” I take after my momma. So I like the heat. Always amazing to me is that you can crawl out of the tent in the morning and often still feel the heat from last night’s fire or at least still see some of the orange embers. No one was there roasting marshmallows or hot dogs all night long, but it kept going. And then we add some more wood, and voila, good to go for breakfast. We have flames again!
Christ’s fire in us will never completely go out, but if we want to get warm, we need to feed it a little. Add some wood to those embers. Give thanks a little. Serve others (instead of myself) a little. Smile a little. Even if we’re single. Even if the economy sucks, and pay increases—or jobs—are non-existent. Even if we’re not getting what we think we deserve. And I can tell you from experience, when I do this, I feel the heat.
So, I was thinking, next time I hear “Stayin’ warm?” I’m going to recite my verse (in my head, that is), and say “yup.” Then, maybe they'll ask how.
This is a common pleasantry among Minnesotans during the winter months. It’s like, “Hey, how’s it going?” or “What’s up?”
“Stayin’ warm?”
You expect either a sarcastic “No. Hardly.” Or “Tryin’.” I mean really, how does one stay warm when it's 10 degrees below zero? I don’t care if you are wearing 10 pounds of clothing or have your space heater on high (or allowing your bed to smell like corn because you’re using the cornbag that your mom sewed for you to keep your feet from freezing).
I just ran into a coworker I haven’t seen in awhile in the bathroom. We said hello, and then next thing I know, I’m asking the impersonal “Stayin’ warm?”
“Um, tryin’” she said, as she washed her hands, and I walked out.
My verse for the week is 1 Thessalonians 5:18-19. “Give thanks in all circumstances, for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus. Do not put out the Spirit’s fire.”
Staying warm in Minnesota is not possible right now. In fact, I just went out to eat with a friend and we sat in the “fireplace room,” You’d think it’d be warm, right? No. We were by the window and felt the draft from the -30 windchills outside. We were cold. But anyways, what is possible, is staying warm in Christ—difficult in many situations, but possible.
I constantly let the fire fade. Usually it’s snuffed out by the fact that I’m tired, too busy, feeling sorry for myself because I’m single, or somehow don’t reach the world’s expectations. Rather than giving thanks in all circumstances, I wallow in many of them that I think are less-than-ideal, and slowly, the Spirit’s fire flickers and loses heat.
But I love fire. It never fails—every time I go camping, I’m called a pyromaniac by my fellow campers. And it may be because I’m also always cold. Even in the summer, I’m not “stayin’ warm.” I take after my momma. So I like the heat. Always amazing to me is that you can crawl out of the tent in the morning and often still feel the heat from last night’s fire or at least still see some of the orange embers. No one was there roasting marshmallows or hot dogs all night long, but it kept going. And then we add some more wood, and voila, good to go for breakfast. We have flames again!
Christ’s fire in us will never completely go out, but if we want to get warm, we need to feed it a little. Add some wood to those embers. Give thanks a little. Serve others (instead of myself) a little. Smile a little. Even if we’re single. Even if the economy sucks, and pay increases—or jobs—are non-existent. Even if we’re not getting what we think we deserve. And I can tell you from experience, when I do this, I feel the heat.
So, I was thinking, next time I hear “Stayin’ warm?” I’m going to recite my verse (in my head, that is), and say “yup.” Then, maybe they'll ask how.
Friday, January 23, 2009
Throw the confetti
Bright-colored confetti decorated my neighborhood this morning. Neon blue, orange, yellow, pink 8 ½ x 11 pieces of paper flew all over the place creating a happy, polka-dot celebration amidst the drab, dirty white snow as I pulled out of my driveway.
It’s trash day, and it was windy, so I’m guessing the trash people lost some control and as they tried to get the trash into the truck...swoooooosh...this confetti got loose. And rather than try to run down all the devious sheets of paper excited to be out of their brown, trashbin prison, the trash people just said, "screw it," and kept going.
As I turned out of my neighborhood and a bright orange—seemingly empty—sheet of paper passed my windshield, I thought it’d be fun if they had a purposeful note on them in big black letters: "SMILE: IT’S FRIDAY!" Because it is. It’s Friday. And you should smile. Throw the confetti.
It’s trash day, and it was windy, so I’m guessing the trash people lost some control and as they tried to get the trash into the truck...swoooooosh...this confetti got loose. And rather than try to run down all the devious sheets of paper excited to be out of their brown, trashbin prison, the trash people just said, "screw it," and kept going.
As I turned out of my neighborhood and a bright orange—seemingly empty—sheet of paper passed my windshield, I thought it’d be fun if they had a purposeful note on them in big black letters: "SMILE: IT’S FRIDAY!" Because it is. It’s Friday. And you should smile. Throw the confetti.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Following the leader
I’m not a very good disciple.
The term “disciple” (discipleship, discipling) is big in church world. And having used to edit a Christian magazine, my green pen passed that word hundreds of times (sometimes stopping at "discipling" because it just doesn’t look right! Christians made it up, along with “megachurch”). It's so familiar to my eyes and ears, that I haven’t thought much about what the word means except that Jesus had 12 disciples and they were men who followed Him. And if someone asked me are you a disciple—a follower—of Jesus?, I’d say “yup.”
Me wanting to be a better disciple, means becoming a better person, becoming more like Jesus. But I’ve just realized what a selfish way of thinking this is—or at least phrasing it as such. Notice the emphasis on me? On how I think it means that I become a better person? But the word disciple means learning from another smarter, following someone wiser, being trained and taught from someone more experienced.
I’ve interviewed lots of pastors about their discipleship ministries, and I guess, my initial thought has usually been something along the lines of, oh, that’s cool, those people are becoming smarter, more spiritual, better. And maybe in a way, that is in fact (hopefully) happening, but really the ministry should be humbling. And although it may be empowering, it should also be taking away some of the power. In becoming disciples, we admit that we actually do not know what we’re doing sometimes (all of the time). As disciples of Christ, we must rely on Him to take the lead. We merely follow—so hard to do sometimes, especially in our egocentric society.
In Matthew chapter 8, Jesus is in a boat with his disciples. Suddenly a storm sneaks up on them and the disciples get freaked out. So they go wake Jesus who was just trying to squeeze in a nap. Uh, Jesus, we were just wonderin’ if you could give us a hand because pretty sure we’re gonna all die real soon if you don’t do something about those waves. So Jesus calms the storm, and I just smile at the fact that He calls them disciples and then simultaneously says “you of little faith.”
Ever watched little children play sports? The little girl running to first base strains her neck looking down to watch her brand new shoes sparkle in the dust. Aren’t they just beee-uuu-teee-ful with their crisp, white laces?! Meanwhile the first-base girl catches the ball for third out. And the little boy running to catch the football misses it because he’s too busy looking over his shoulder to see just how fast he’s going (you know when they actually try to see the soles of their shoes as their knees kick up behind them) and how much ahead of his opponent he is.
I think me being a disciple may sometimes look like one of them. And it reminds me that in focusing on me, I’ll miss the goal.
The term “disciple” (discipleship, discipling) is big in church world. And having used to edit a Christian magazine, my green pen passed that word hundreds of times (sometimes stopping at "discipling" because it just doesn’t look right! Christians made it up, along with “megachurch”). It's so familiar to my eyes and ears, that I haven’t thought much about what the word means except that Jesus had 12 disciples and they were men who followed Him. And if someone asked me are you a disciple—a follower—of Jesus?, I’d say “yup.”
Me wanting to be a better disciple, means becoming a better person, becoming more like Jesus. But I’ve just realized what a selfish way of thinking this is—or at least phrasing it as such. Notice the emphasis on me? On how I think it means that I become a better person? But the word disciple means learning from another smarter, following someone wiser, being trained and taught from someone more experienced.
I’ve interviewed lots of pastors about their discipleship ministries, and I guess, my initial thought has usually been something along the lines of, oh, that’s cool, those people are becoming smarter, more spiritual, better. And maybe in a way, that is in fact (hopefully) happening, but really the ministry should be humbling. And although it may be empowering, it should also be taking away some of the power. In becoming disciples, we admit that we actually do not know what we’re doing sometimes (all of the time). As disciples of Christ, we must rely on Him to take the lead. We merely follow—so hard to do sometimes, especially in our egocentric society.
In Matthew chapter 8, Jesus is in a boat with his disciples. Suddenly a storm sneaks up on them and the disciples get freaked out. So they go wake Jesus who was just trying to squeeze in a nap. Uh, Jesus, we were just wonderin’ if you could give us a hand because pretty sure we’re gonna all die real soon if you don’t do something about those waves. So Jesus calms the storm, and I just smile at the fact that He calls them disciples and then simultaneously says “you of little faith.”
Ever watched little children play sports? The little girl running to first base strains her neck looking down to watch her brand new shoes sparkle in the dust. Aren’t they just beee-uuu-teee-ful with their crisp, white laces?! Meanwhile the first-base girl catches the ball for third out. And the little boy running to catch the football misses it because he’s too busy looking over his shoulder to see just how fast he’s going (you know when they actually try to see the soles of their shoes as their knees kick up behind them) and how much ahead of his opponent he is.
I think me being a disciple may sometimes look like one of them. And it reminds me that in focusing on me, I’ll miss the goal.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Adapted
It doesn’t seem all that weird to me that the meteorologist on the local news is hammering a nail into a piece of wood with a banana to demonstrate how cold it is.
I don’t really care if I look like I’m waiting for Noah to pick me up with my boots and rolled-up jeans. As along as I keep my pants from getting wet and salty…
My lunch breaks include a trip to my car, just to let her run for five minutes, so that she’ll start again when I want to go home.
I don’t think it’s all that crazy that I may have to wait a day or two to get into my mailbox because it’s frozen shut.
I try for three or four minutes to get into a car that I think is mine before I realize that it’s actually a blue corolla not a black prism…I just can’t tell because all cars are dirty gray from snow and salt.
I don’t wear mittens when it’s 17 degrees out because that is warm! I mean it’s 40 degrees warmer than it could be!
Shoveling is sometimes calculated into my day’s exercise.
I don’t care if my scarf doesn’t match my coat and my coat doesn’t match my boots and my boots are just ugly. Whatever’s warmest.
I don two pairs of tights when I wear a skirt to work. That’s normal.
I decide nonchalantly that I guess I’ll go to the next gas station to fill my car up since this one’s gas lines are frozen. No biggy.
Note: I’m not complaining about Minnesota’s winter, having chosen to move from San Diego. I’m just sayin’…I’ve adapted.
I don’t really care if I look like I’m waiting for Noah to pick me up with my boots and rolled-up jeans. As along as I keep my pants from getting wet and salty…
My lunch breaks include a trip to my car, just to let her run for five minutes, so that she’ll start again when I want to go home.
I don’t think it’s all that crazy that I may have to wait a day or two to get into my mailbox because it’s frozen shut.
I try for three or four minutes to get into a car that I think is mine before I realize that it’s actually a blue corolla not a black prism…I just can’t tell because all cars are dirty gray from snow and salt.
I don’t wear mittens when it’s 17 degrees out because that is warm! I mean it’s 40 degrees warmer than it could be!
Shoveling is sometimes calculated into my day’s exercise.
I don’t care if my scarf doesn’t match my coat and my coat doesn’t match my boots and my boots are just ugly. Whatever’s warmest.
I don two pairs of tights when I wear a skirt to work. That’s normal.
I decide nonchalantly that I guess I’ll go to the next gas station to fill my car up since this one’s gas lines are frozen. No biggy.
Note: I’m not complaining about Minnesota’s winter, having chosen to move from San Diego. I’m just sayin’…I’ve adapted.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Hittin' the trail
I played "Oregon Trail" on my way to work this morning.
Instead of wading across a river with my horse-drawn wagon, praying me and my family and all my belongings wouldn’t drown, I drove over ice-covered bridges very very slowly hoping I wouldn’t slide into the river below.
Instead of dead cattle along the sides of the path, there were pieces of cars. Bumpers, hubcaps, shards of glass from windows, strewn throughout the shoulders. Almost like tumbleweeds in some strange winter desert. My office was the mirage. In some cases there were whole cars, including their drivers, stuck in the ditch.
No. Natives didn’t attack, but other drivers did. Not with arrows but spinouts.
And no, I didn’t battle influenza or snake bites, but after an hour and 30 minutes I fought the need to go to the bathroom. Real bad.
I didn’t fear twisters, but heat stroke inside my car (wearing three layers to combat the -30 windchills outside! I thought my scarf might suffocate me at about the hour, forty minute-mark.)
I’m happy to report that I won the game. I managed to make it to Oregon—err, work—in not months, weeks or days, but only one hour and 45 minutes! Me and my wagon arrived safely.
But more snow is on the way, and the frigid temps are to continue. So tomorrow I'll hit "play again."
Instead of wading across a river with my horse-drawn wagon, praying me and my family and all my belongings wouldn’t drown, I drove over ice-covered bridges very very slowly hoping I wouldn’t slide into the river below.
Instead of dead cattle along the sides of the path, there were pieces of cars. Bumpers, hubcaps, shards of glass from windows, strewn throughout the shoulders. Almost like tumbleweeds in some strange winter desert. My office was the mirage. In some cases there were whole cars, including their drivers, stuck in the ditch.
No. Natives didn’t attack, but other drivers did. Not with arrows but spinouts.
And no, I didn’t battle influenza or snake bites, but after an hour and 30 minutes I fought the need to go to the bathroom. Real bad.
I didn’t fear twisters, but heat stroke inside my car (wearing three layers to combat the -30 windchills outside! I thought my scarf might suffocate me at about the hour, forty minute-mark.)
I’m happy to report that I won the game. I managed to make it to Oregon—err, work—in not months, weeks or days, but only one hour and 45 minutes! Me and my wagon arrived safely.
But more snow is on the way, and the frigid temps are to continue. So tomorrow I'll hit "play again."
Monday, January 12, 2009
Ain't judgin'
Thanks to class discussion last week, I’ve been thinking about judgments—particularly those I make of myself.
I am so quick to conclude that I am better than others, or at the very least not quite as wrong. I pride myself on doing the right thing or not being as bad as others. I mean, my gosh, thinking mean thoughts about someone is not nearly as bad as murdering them. I’m actually quite good. If I were Catholic, I may even have problems going to confession every week. What would I say?! That I accidentally let a “what the hell?” slip from my mouth? That I didn’t recycle the spaghetti sauce jar? That I told the little machine I wanted my gas receipt and then I didn't take it? Sorry!
At the same time—which is somehow strangely possible—I am quick to judge myself too harshly. How could God possibly love me? I don’t think my life has been really all that earth-shatteringly exceptional considering the superbly influential lives of millions of others on this planet. I quickly think I’m not pretty enough. Smart enough. Important enough. Etc. etc. etc.
I don’t like thinking that my judgment is skewed, but it so is. And I’d argue that yours is too. We tend to be off the charts in one direction or the other, which probably means we shouldn't be the judges.
We are told that the Lord is our judge (Isaiah 43:22). He will judge the world in righteousness, he will govern the peoples with justice (Psalm 9:8). As judge He tells us that we are sinners, and I feel as though He's gently slapped me on the hand (and rightly so) for thinking I’m not so bad. At the same time, He tells us that in His eyes, we are cooler than cool and more beautiful than any airbrushed model and that He loves us, and I feel Him gently take my hand.
I am so quick to conclude that I am better than others, or at the very least not quite as wrong. I pride myself on doing the right thing or not being as bad as others. I mean, my gosh, thinking mean thoughts about someone is not nearly as bad as murdering them. I’m actually quite good. If I were Catholic, I may even have problems going to confession every week. What would I say?! That I accidentally let a “what the hell?” slip from my mouth? That I didn’t recycle the spaghetti sauce jar? That I told the little machine I wanted my gas receipt and then I didn't take it? Sorry!
At the same time—which is somehow strangely possible—I am quick to judge myself too harshly. How could God possibly love me? I don’t think my life has been really all that earth-shatteringly exceptional considering the superbly influential lives of millions of others on this planet. I quickly think I’m not pretty enough. Smart enough. Important enough. Etc. etc. etc.
I don’t like thinking that my judgment is skewed, but it so is. And I’d argue that yours is too. We tend to be off the charts in one direction or the other, which probably means we shouldn't be the judges.
We are told that the Lord is our judge (Isaiah 43:22). He will judge the world in righteousness, he will govern the peoples with justice (Psalm 9:8). As judge He tells us that we are sinners, and I feel as though He's gently slapped me on the hand (and rightly so) for thinking I’m not so bad. At the same time, He tells us that in His eyes, we are cooler than cool and more beautiful than any airbrushed model and that He loves us, and I feel Him gently take my hand.
Thursday, January 08, 2009
That's why
On the way to work this morning, I was singing along to Coldplay’s song "Viva La Vida." I’ve had the album for quite some time, but I caught myself mumbling.
“I hear Jerusalem bells a ringing...
Roman Catholic choirs are singing...
La la la mm hmm...missionaries...la...la...hmmm...
For some reason I can’t explain...hmmm...mmm.”
I can sing along, sort of. But if pressed, I cannot tell you all the words.
I started back to class on Tuesday, and I was recently joking with some friends about my particular schooling. I’m in seminary. And I can tell you from experience that this is not the “coolest” thing to say at the bar.
What do you do?
Oh, work fulltime as an editor. Go to grad school at night.
Where are you going to school?
my school.
Oh, what are you studying?
At this point, a friend might budge in and say, “She’s going to seminary. She’s a seminarian.” Sem.In.Ar.I.An.
And then the looks of slight disdain. First by the inquirer who’s now wondering if I’m wanting to become a nun. And second by me wondering why my friend couldn’t just leave it at “grad school.”
Yes. Yes. I’m in seminary, ok? I’m a seminarian.
The next inevitable question is why.
I was thinking this morning that there are aspects of my faith that feel like some of my singing. I can mumble along, but if pressed, I’m stuck.
When I got to work this morning, I looked up the lyrics to Viva La Vida. In addition to learning some of the phrases, I discovered that some of the words I was so sure of weren’t exactly right. Like “Roman Catholic choirs are singing.” Nope. It’s actually Roman CALVARY. (I know a few of my blog readers probably caught this earlier!)
Anyways, I’ve made some pretty big decisions based on my faith, and sometimes I have felt like I was mumbling through them. I knew what I was doing or saying and maybe even why, but the understanding...the comprehension got fuzzy. Answers felt trite. It feels good to look up the lyrics behind Christianity. I know I’ll always mumble and will probably forget some of the lyrics I learn, but that’s why seminary, that’s why it’s back to class on Tuesday nights. So I can sing.
Ok? to the guy at the bar. That’s why!
“I hear Jerusalem bells a ringing...
Roman Catholic choirs are singing...
La la la mm hmm...missionaries...la...la...hmmm...
For some reason I can’t explain...hmmm...mmm.”
I can sing along, sort of. But if pressed, I cannot tell you all the words.
I started back to class on Tuesday, and I was recently joking with some friends about my particular schooling. I’m in seminary. And I can tell you from experience that this is not the “coolest” thing to say at the bar.
What do you do?
Oh, work fulltime as an editor. Go to grad school at night.
Where are you going to school?
my school.
Oh, what are you studying?
At this point, a friend might budge in and say, “She’s going to seminary. She’s a seminarian.” Sem.In.Ar.I.An.
And then the looks of slight disdain. First by the inquirer who’s now wondering if I’m wanting to become a nun. And second by me wondering why my friend couldn’t just leave it at “grad school.”
Yes. Yes. I’m in seminary, ok? I’m a seminarian.
The next inevitable question is why.
I was thinking this morning that there are aspects of my faith that feel like some of my singing. I can mumble along, but if pressed, I’m stuck.
When I got to work this morning, I looked up the lyrics to Viva La Vida. In addition to learning some of the phrases, I discovered that some of the words I was so sure of weren’t exactly right. Like “Roman Catholic choirs are singing.” Nope. It’s actually Roman CALVARY. (I know a few of my blog readers probably caught this earlier!)
Anyways, I’ve made some pretty big decisions based on my faith, and sometimes I have felt like I was mumbling through them. I knew what I was doing or saying and maybe even why, but the understanding...the comprehension got fuzzy. Answers felt trite. It feels good to look up the lyrics behind Christianity. I know I’ll always mumble and will probably forget some of the lyrics I learn, but that’s why seminary, that’s why it’s back to class on Tuesday nights. So I can sing.
Ok? to the guy at the bar. That’s why!
Tuesday, January 06, 2009
Up or down
When and how did up and down come to an agreement?
The phrases "something's going down" and "something's up" now mean the same thing.
Like, you and a buddy are wondering what's wrong with a friend. If something is bothering him or her. Someone says, "something's definitely up." The other nods in agreement. "Yup. something's going down."
And then someone asks me to a movie, or coffee, or something. I can say, "I'm up for that" or "I'm down for that." Either way, I mean the same thing.
How do these things happen? I'd love to be the person to begin a similar trend. To be the person who says, Ok, now I'm going to start using "down" as if it's "up." Can I just make up my own? If you hear me saying, "Something's around..." that means "Something's up." You down with that?
The phrases "something's going down" and "something's up" now mean the same thing.
Like, you and a buddy are wondering what's wrong with a friend. If something is bothering him or her. Someone says, "something's definitely up." The other nods in agreement. "Yup. something's going down."
And then someone asks me to a movie, or coffee, or something. I can say, "I'm up for that" or "I'm down for that." Either way, I mean the same thing.
How do these things happen? I'd love to be the person to begin a similar trend. To be the person who says, Ok, now I'm going to start using "down" as if it's "up." Can I just make up my own? If you hear me saying, "Something's around..." that means "Something's up." You down with that?
Monday, January 05, 2009
There is irish cream ahead
I smoked a cigar last night. It was great for this sore throat I’m battling, I assure you. It was an irish cream-flavored one from Stogies on Grand, and I smoked it with some friends who are in town from California. True friends vacation from California to Minnesota in January to spend time with you!
But this whole smoking of the cigars thing was quite a process last night. And already in my pjs, a part of me wanted to forego what had at one time seemed like a really fun activity. With temps dipping below zero, we had to bundle up just to step out onto my porch. Boots, hat, coat, mittens (not my famed smoker gloves which would leave my fingertips frozen)... Then, I also brought out little tea light candles to help us light the cigars. But trying to handle the little suckers with massive mittens was not the easiest thing. Awkwardly I managed to get a hold of the cigar while my friend held the little candle, and just as I leaned in and sucked to light the cigar with the flame, the wind (with chills around -15 degrees) blew the candle out. Ok. Mittens came off. I caught my breath as the wind whipped my face. I had to reopen the matchbox, relight the match, relight the candle. Try again. And ...suck, suck, candle out again. Ugh! Mittens off again. Relight. Try again. Oh, sweet, warm fleece blanket just sitting on the other side of the window...This is so not worth it I thought, as the wind made my eyes water.
And then...finally...We got it. The cigar end turned a warm orange. But then trying to hold a cigar with mittens? Not easy. And you can just forget about looking cool while smoking a cigar in that kind of weather. But alas, we had our stogies lit, and we laughed as the smoke swirled around us and we enjoyed each other’s company and were grateful for the opportunity to be together. Ok, I thought. I’m glad I got bundled up. I licked my lips. They tingled in the coldness, and I tasted the sweet irish cream flavor.
Some of my friends are already off to a less-than-stellar 2009. The year ahead seems like quite the process...it’s already requiring so much effort, so much bundling up, and things aren’t going so easily. The flame keeps getting blown out. But, it’s there. That irish cream flavor is there. Don’t go inside yet!
But this whole smoking of the cigars thing was quite a process last night. And already in my pjs, a part of me wanted to forego what had at one time seemed like a really fun activity. With temps dipping below zero, we had to bundle up just to step out onto my porch. Boots, hat, coat, mittens (not my famed smoker gloves which would leave my fingertips frozen)... Then, I also brought out little tea light candles to help us light the cigars. But trying to handle the little suckers with massive mittens was not the easiest thing. Awkwardly I managed to get a hold of the cigar while my friend held the little candle, and just as I leaned in and sucked to light the cigar with the flame, the wind (with chills around -15 degrees) blew the candle out. Ok. Mittens came off. I caught my breath as the wind whipped my face. I had to reopen the matchbox, relight the match, relight the candle. Try again. And ...suck, suck, candle out again. Ugh! Mittens off again. Relight. Try again. Oh, sweet, warm fleece blanket just sitting on the other side of the window...This is so not worth it I thought, as the wind made my eyes water.
And then...finally...We got it. The cigar end turned a warm orange. But then trying to hold a cigar with mittens? Not easy. And you can just forget about looking cool while smoking a cigar in that kind of weather. But alas, we had our stogies lit, and we laughed as the smoke swirled around us and we enjoyed each other’s company and were grateful for the opportunity to be together. Ok, I thought. I’m glad I got bundled up. I licked my lips. They tingled in the coldness, and I tasted the sweet irish cream flavor.
Some of my friends are already off to a less-than-stellar 2009. The year ahead seems like quite the process...it’s already requiring so much effort, so much bundling up, and things aren’t going so easily. The flame keeps getting blown out. But, it’s there. That irish cream flavor is there. Don’t go inside yet!
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