Recognizing Full

Every night I sit down to dinner with my plate before me and I eat. If I liked the meal, I will get seconds. And I realize that I’ve trained myself to think I need more food than I really need–that I don’t even recognize what full feels like.

Every day I live my life the best I can; I play with my children, I clean the house, and I try my hardest to show my husband how much I love him. But every day I have thoughts that swim in my mind, showing me a future that’s a little better. The future when we’re out of debt, the future when the kids are a little older and slightly less crazy, the future when somehow Matt’s work/life balance is more manageable. And I realize that I’ve trained myself to think that the next stage will be a little better…I will feel full.

I fight this feeling because I know that I have everything I need right now to feel full. I’ve just stuffed my face so long with good things that I’ve stretched out my stomach, wanting to put one more bite in that will leave me feeling satisfied. Satisfaction is here. I have enough. I am full.

Linking up with the Gypsy Mama for her 5 Minute Friday where we write for 5 minutes straight without editing. I have to admit–I really want to cheat this week and edit this post, but I’ll stick to the rules.

Grateful

“I’m going to visit Ms. Wendy this weekend,” I told him as we sat on his bed, straightening up his room a little.

And he looked at me, eyes wide and then downturned. “But I’m going to miss you!” he cried, tears instantly streaming down his face.

I hugged him tight reminding him that our time away would not be long.

“I know,” he interrupted, having already calculated the time. “It’s two days. But I’m going to miss you.”

“I’ll miss you, too,” I said and kissed his head.

And I felt grateful, so grateful for this little boy who lives with his heart wide open, who’s not afraid to show every emotion he’s feeling (regardless of whether or not I want to see every emotion he’s feeling).

And I’m grateful for his daddy who will watch three little ones without protest, knowing I need this time away, knowing how important it is to me.

And I’m grateful for a Nana and Pop Pop who will make one day pass quicker with Chick-Fil-A and cow costumes and sleeping bags.

I have so much for which to be grateful.

And today, I’m especially grateful for a friendship, a friendship which spans both joy and sorrow. A friendship which no distance can sever.

For what are you grateful? Linking up with the Gypsy Mama for her 5 Minute Friday before I head out for the weekend.

Holden Caulfield and Me

It’s funny how a seemingly insignificant event can trigger memories that just won’t leave, memories that come back to visit over the course of weeks, perhaps months, with no particular reason why. For me, it all started with lemon pepper shrimp.

We first visited P.F. Chang’s when a cousin sent my mom coupons in the mail. One visit, and we were in love. Over the course of our marriage, Matt and I counted this restaurant as one of our favorites, and since it is located in front of the mall and movie theater, half of our dinner and a movie choice was always easy to make.

But while it was our favorite, we didn’t frequent the restaurant regularly. For a long stretch, date nights were rare, going out to eat an occasional treat, so when we did walk past the giant horse statues and pull open the large doors of P.F.Chang’s, I knew before we sat down what I would order for my meal: Lemon Pepper Shrimp

Who knew when I would get to come back, so why would I risk ordering a dish that I didn’t love, a dish that might sour my experience? I rarely deviated from my plan. In the spirit of compromise, I would agree to another dish if Matt and I wanted to share an entree, but nothing ever tasted as good as that shrimp.

And then we visited a few weeks ago. The hostess placed a menu in front of me with which I was not familiar. The layout was different. The prices were higher. And the shrimp was missing. I thought, perhaps, I overlooked my dish in the midst of new menu items and different fonts, but after inquiring, my fear was confirmed–no lemon pepper shrimp. In fact, all of the lemon dishes had been removed.

As ridiculous as it sounds, I sighed and hung my head low as I held onto that menu, searching for another dish that I’d even want to try. And a sadness crept into my belly.

I thought about that first dinner with a table full of food, sharing with my parents and sister, tasting a bite of Matt’s food, and the smiles and laughter on all of our faces. I thought about the celebratory meal Matt and I shared in our power suits, enjoying an early dinner on our way back from successful Air Force interviews. And I thought about our meal at the corner table with a new baby boy asleep in his car seat. I looked over the menu, the new look, and I thought to myself this isn’t the same place as it was then.

And then I thought of Holden Caulfield and the book I’ve read at least three or four times. Over the years, I’ve found so many truths from that depressed, rebellious boy in The Catcher in the Rye:

The best thing, though, in that museum was that everything always stayed right where it was. Nobody’d move. You could go there a hundred thousand times, and that Eskimo would still be just finished catching those two fish, the birds would still be on their way south, the deers would still be drinking out of that water hole, with their pretty antlers and their pretty, skinny legs, and that squaw with the naked bosom would still be weaving that same blanket. Nobody’d be different. The only thing that would be different would be you. (Salinger, 121)

I understand him. I understand the comfort he found from that museum. And I understand that perhaps I disliked the Laser Show this year, not so much because they took out Lee Greenwood’s “God Bless the USA,” but because it was different. After 25 years of nothing major being different except for me, the show had changed.

And after ten years of enjoying lemon pepper shrimp, I had to find a new favorite. But I really don’t want to. Perhaps I don’t like change–sure, I’ve moved across the country for a drastic career change and had my share of adventure–but there’s comfort in having those places in which to return that will always look the same, smell the same, taste the same. There’s comfort in knowing that I won’t be disappointed.

Maybe that’s why a different menu brought to mind so many memories. Maybe that’s why a different menu brought a tinge of sadness. I don’t want to be disappointed. I want comfort. (And, truthfully, I just really wanted that shrimp)

Graceful Arms

I was drawn to the look on her face, the wide-eyed sense of awe she displayed as she looked down at the newborn in her lap. Her little body took on the stillness of a statue, yet she emanated a softness from her limbs, two limbs which carefully framed this new life lying across her legs. I couldn’t stop looking at her face, the creamy porcelain skin and gentle smile framed by a bob of strawberry-blonde hair.

As her older brother came near, she whispered protectively, “You can’t touch her face,” and her arms gracefully outlined the baby as a ballerina who curves her arms in the gentlest of form, cushioning the baby’s head with tender, extended fingertips that didn’t quite touch this infant’s skin. It was as if the space between her arms and the baby’s body was filled with fluffy clouds and pillows, this special barrier enough to protect from the two-year-old now climbing on the couch to take a peek.

I wanted to capture this beautiful image forever but fought the impulse to use my phone as a camera, lest the moment be ruined by calling attention to it. So instead, I marveled at the instinct of my not-quite four-year-old and how a new life pulled a tenderness, a stillness, an impulse for reverence from her spirit. And I breathed in the fragility of life, this precious new life and the one not much older who recognized it.

Five days later, I watched a friend weary from grief hold her son while she sang praises to the God who took her husband home. And again, I was reminded of this fragility each of our bodies carries. Our bodies, these weak, imperfect vessels, not promised a tomorrow. Our hearts, not immune to the deep ache of suffering, left feeling raw and bruised so many times along the journey.

I sat in the car on our drive home, and I felt this ache in my own heart, a pain that I knew wouldn’t dull quickly, thoughts of my friends filling my mind. But I looked out the window over the rail on the interstate at the mountains of Tennessee, these rolling hills, and I was reminded that the strong arms that reached down and made these were also gentle enough to hold them.

Throughout the last few days I had seen how Wendy was held. Friends who had accompanied her every step of this difficult journey, friends who made meals or sat around her kitchen table, friends who offered bedrooms to her family or coordinated the cleaning of her house, friends who extended their graceful arms and cradled her head.

I felt graceful arms days later in a gentle breeze against a hot, dry Georgia afternoon, lifting up our heads, tousling our hair as we listened to the preacher pray in front of the casket. These gentle arms that understood the fragility of all our lives, offering a small blessing in the midst of our grief.

That night as I looked out on the green hills from the window of our van, I felt a profound tiredness. When we pulled into our driveway after midnight, we made our way into the house from the dark and thanked Matt’s parents for watching the kids. We spoke little as we made our way up the stairs and quickly dressed for bed. And that night as we lay under the covers, we held each other a little tighter than normal, resting in each others’ arms, knowing that we could never take these fragile lives for granted.

For those who had been following or are interested in Wendy’s journey, click here to read her final post. Her raw honesty is so beautiful and touching. Thank you for your prayers these last few days. I will update my sidebar (finally) in the next couple of days, and Wendy’s post will appear there, as well.

Neighbors in My Jerusalem

I’ve lived in my neighborhood for almost five years. I know the names of my neighbors who live next to me and across the street. I know the first and last names of the homeowners association board members, and I know the first names of a handful of others. Some I recognize from repeated sightings at the neighborhood pool. But I’ve never had a neighbor over for dinner, nor have I been invited over to dinner at a neighbor’s house. On a few occasions, I have brought meals to those who were sick or just moved in, but the relationships ended there.

I remember living in New Jersey as a young child, sitting around the table with my mom at one of the neighbor’s across the street. I watched as the man brought his coffee cup to his lips, and I was intrigued by his pinky that he kept curling under. I eventually realized that he was missing part of that finger. Jim and Diane lived next door, and when I watch old home videos of Christmas, they are there. Jim was loud on the videos, fitting right in with family. Diane sat laughing at the goofiness. After seeing my mom push the stroller with my sister while I walked next to her in the cold one time too many, they donated an old Volkswagen bug to my family–the car that caused a few fights as my dad tried to teach my mom to drive a stick.

And there were other neighbors, neighbor kids whom my mom babysat, and neighbors who took me for a ride in the little box that attached to their motorcycle. And there were neighbors who were always ready to share cake and coffee.

I don’t know what made that neighborhood in New Jersey so different, but I don’t ever remember my family having those kinds of relationships again when we moved to Georgia nor have Matt and I formed those kind of friendships in any of our homes. Maybe life got busier for everyone. Maybe the newer houses without front porches and with attached garages encouraged people to drive in their homes and not come out. Whatever the reason, even though I was only a young girl at the time, I miss having those kind of neighbors.

“But you will receive power when the Holy Spirit comes on you; and you will be my witnesses in Jerusalem, and in all Judea and Samaria, and to the ends of the earth” (Acts 1:8, New International Version, 2011)

This Sunday our pastor explained that Jerusalem was the disciples’ neighborhood. Judea was the surrounding area, like people in our own area code. Samaria was an area full of people with whom they wouldn’t normally associate, people who made them uncomfortable. And, of course, the ends of the earth included lands they had never seen.

I know more about the little boy we sponsor in the Philippines than my next-door neighbor. I’ve done more to help people in remote African villages than those who are unemployed in my own neighborhood. But perhaps God would like to use me in my Jerusalem. Perhaps there is a little girl who needs to form the memory of sitting around a neighbor’s kitchen table while her mom enjoys a nice cup of coffee.

It doesn’t seem too hard…and while I don’t make coffee, I can bake a darned good cake. Maybe I’ll start there.

Linking up today with Michelle and Jen. Do you have childhood memories of your neighbors? Do you really know your neighbors now? How have you reached out to those in your neighborhood?

Contrary to Popular Belief

Today I’m linking up with The Gypsy Mama for her ‘Five Minute Friday’–a chance to write for five minutes without editing or changing around my words. I’ll just write, and you should, too! Come play along!

The topic: Every day

GO:

Doctors will tell you that kids need a schedule. I know all about schedules–they’re how I survive. I cleaned better when I had a schedule, and I get more accomplished when every slot in my schedule is filled with a task or meeting that needs to be completed. But the last few weeks, I’ve proven the doctors wrong.

Contrary to popular belief, kids do not need a schedule, at least my kids.

Every day since summer started, I’ve heard a little boy crack open his door and sneak downstairs to catch a few minutes of Jake and the Never Land Pirates. Every day I’ve hit snooze on my alarm, got to reading my Bible a little later, writing blog posts and sometimes not finishing in one sitting, and so I’ve let my little man sneak down those stairs while I scurry to throw on a pair of shorts.

Every day we’ve eaten breakfast at an hour that would better serve brunch. Every day three little kids round the table in mis-matched outfits or wrinkled pajamas from the night before.

Every day we’ve thrown our schedule out the window. Shall we go to the gym? Sure! or maybe not today.

Every day is a surprise; every day is full of laughter; and these every days are perfect.

And I say schedules are very overrated.

STOP:

I could’ve kept going with that one! What about you? Do you typically operate better with a schedule as I, or are you a fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants kind of person? Have you ever found freedom or enjoyment in trying to operate the opposite of how you’re hard-wired?

The Stirring

I remember sitting in Spanish III, listening to the Army representative describe the most wonderful program I could imagine. They would take me to a school in Colorado, I believe, and I would learn another language. That would be my job–to become fluent–and every day under their instruction I would get closer and closer to that goal.

Looking around that room, I knew I wasn’t the only one who was excited. We all leaned forward in our chairs, smiles stretched across our faces; learning another language was exciting for this group of over-achievers.

Until someone asked the rather important question:

“But would we have to join the Army?”

“Yes, you would have to fulfill a commitment to the Army,” the young man explained.

We all groaned audibly, flung ourselves back in our seats, and the young man smiled, a smile showing his disappointment that the program he had described so beautifully, grabbing our interest, would not become a reality for anybody.

We weren’t going to join the Army; we were going to college.

Of course, no one ever really explained what joining the Army or any branch of the military would entail. In the community where I grew up, the military was reserved more for those who couldn’t get into college or for those rare few who participated in ROTC in high school.

I remember when the Marine ROTC program came to our school; I, actually, contemplated taking the classes, but I always found another course that I had to take instead, a reason ROTC wouldn’t work in my schedule.

So I never understood that the Army or any other branch of service was more was than the horrors of Basic Training I had seen in movies. I didn’t understand that not everyone would have to fire an M-16 at the enemy. I didn’t understand that I could still go to college and actually get money for college if I did ROTC at my university.

I was ignorant.

I did talk to a recruiter once, but I had no intention of joining the Army. I grabbed every bumper sticker and pamphlet from his table, put them all in a bag with the giant letters across it spelling ‘Army,’ and I convinced my friends I was going to join. My boyfriend whispered in fear, “If you join the Army, I’m going to have to break up with you,” and I remember thinking to myself You are so stupid. If I want to join the Army, I will whether or not you break up with me.

Of course, I was the stupid one as I continued to date him for another year and a half.

And I was the stupid one for having not sought out that hidden interest until a college degree had been under my belt for a few years.

But on days like the other day, as we celebrate as a community,

driving our old cars,

waving our American flags,

and remembering why we have gathered,

I find that familiar stirring again.

I don’t pray for my children to inherit the stirring, but if they have it, I will support them. And I will make sure that they understand.

Many, even within our own country, would like us to think that America is nothing special; we’re the same as any other country. I couldn’t disagree more. We have our periods in history that I wish we could go back and erase, but when I listen to the news and hear of the atrocities committed elsewhere, remember the reasons our young country was founded and the principles for which young men and woman continue to die in order to protect, I think we’re pretty darned special.

Special enough to catch the ears of some spoiled juniors in a Spanish III class.

Was joining the military presented as a realistic option to you growing up? Would you encourage your own children to join?

What They See

Sitting on the bleachers during a hot Saturday afternoon as the sun beams straight down on my head, or watching a group of five year olds from that same spot on a Wednesday evening as the sun hides her rays and permits a light breeze to tip-toe an appearance every now and again, I feel a dormant part of me wake up. I’m surprised at the butterflies dancing in the pit of my stomach, and I look down at the ragged nails giving up my secret to anyone who would happen to see.

I watch.

And I listen.

I watch the life-lessons that play out before me as little boys chase after a ball that’s rolled into the fence. Fair and unfair, good calls and bad; the ways games play out mirrors the ups and downs of life.

I listen to the cheers from parents celebrating a good hit, cries to Run! as growing feet round the bases. And I hear the shouts of disbelief exclaiming What are you doing?! to the six-year-old who sincerely does not know what he’s doing because, after all, he is only six.

I watch a coach who lets his frustration get the best of him, huffing and puffing, stamping his feet, yelling at a kid for a much longer time than it took to make the mistake. And I look as another coach brings one of his players aside at the end of the inning, teaching him what he did wrong and should do differently the next time.

I watch the faces who see the tantrums thrown by grown men when their little boys miss a play versus the self-control of their own father as he encourages number 21 with Good cut! even though number 21 plays for the other team. And I hope that even in their young age they notice the difference in character.

Because they do watch, and they do listen. I hope they see that hard work and discipline matter and that, more often than not, these qualities are rewarded, but they’re not always rewarded. I hope they hear how to model good sportsmanship with their words and see that how they play the game really is more important than who won the game. And I hope that they learn that now is the time to act like a child and not when they have one of their own. Because their children may learn more by what they see during Little League than by all the words their parents uttered at home.

Watching T-ball from the perspective of a parent, I was surprised to learn that I am not immune to the crazy feelings that can start to stir within during the course of a competitive game. However, I find it so important to quell those feelings and provide my children with a better example. How do you model good sportsmanship for the children around you? What other life-lessons have you learned from a sport?

Rest

For anyone who reads my blog, figuring out those areas of my life with which I struggle probably isn’t too difficult. The longer I have been a Christian, the more I realize how far I am from perfect, and the longer I’ve been a wife, the more I wonder how Matt still wants (or at least commits) to being married to me.

And while I try to work on these many areas of my life that need improving, there is one area in which the guilt I feel for not already doing better gnaws away at me daily. I don’t even have to write it–you know. I want my children to have a better mother.

I pray daily, multiple times a day, for wisdom, patience, and whatever other attribute is needed to successfully raise these precious lives. And I’ll be honest–the last few weeks I confronted God with my frustration: Why don’t I feel like you’re answering my prayers? Why is parenting so hard for me? Why do I actually have to work to enjoy it instead of just enjoying it?!

I’ve already written about the first epiphany I had; I dumped my cleaning schedule. I feel the answer to my prayers is much in the same light as this first epiphany–I need to dump some more. And I need to rest.

There is no reason that I should walk around daily carrying a ball of stress within me. I’m not the CEO of a company, nor do I have major deadlines to meet. I’m a wife and mom, and I like to blog. I enjoy exercising. I try to cook from scratch, and I do my best to provide a healthy environment in which my family lives. All of these passions take time and energy, but they shouldn’t cause stress (or, at least, daily stress).

I had contemplated a few more things that I could do to achieve this rest, but I had to sort through my thoughts. I wanted to make sure fatigue wasn’t causing me to become lazy or apathetic. But I’m sure now.

The next thing I’m dumping, at least for now, is ‘Journeys.’ Let’s be honest; I didn’t have a line of bloggers waiting to link up with me, and that was never the reason I started ‘Journeys’ in the first place. I know if nothing else, God taught me, and I grew through the experience of deliberately writing on what He was showing me every week. And for months, I didn’t have trouble thinking of a topic.

As of late, however, this writing has felt burdensome, and not in a good way. Previously, I dreaded Thursday nights because, typically, the writing was painful for me. Now, however, I just dread having one more thing to do.

I never want my blog to feel that way, especially over a self-imposed goal. I still plan to write regularly, but I want to write with less of an agenda. I want to write because I enjoy writing, not because I have to write.

I may still place the ‘Journeys’ button at the bottom of a piece if I feel God has taken me along a certain path, but I am not going to sponsor a regular Friday link up right now. I may come back to it later, but for now, I want to rest.

I want to rest with my children over this summer break, and I’m going to continue dumping those tasks that are distracting me from focusing on them. I need to simplify, and as much as I hate to confront the facts, simplifying might mean taking a look at my blog habits, as well. I’d love to write as a career someday, and I’ll still work to hone my skill, but today writing is not my career.

I left a career I loved because I felt there is no job more important than that of a parent. My title now is ‘Mommy,’ and these crazy kids need to be my focus. And you guys know they are crazy.

Thank you for walking along with me on my all my journeys. I hope you will continue to do so. Just know that during the summer I have no intention of waking up at five a.m. so that I can tell you about them.

A big ‘thank you’ to Michelle and Kendal for consistently linking up on Fridays for ‘Journeys.’ I hope my readers will continue to stop by their sites, as well!

Delusions of Grandeur

I have a little problem. I know this characteristic is not the most admirable quality about me, but I will own it. The truth is that when I see a business, class, volunteer organization–it really doesn’t matter what–I visualize how I would bring success to that organization as its leader.

I mentally plan the spreadsheets and memos that I would need to create, and I rehearse the speeches that I would give to my employees at our monthly meetings. I wrack my brain for ideas to get more volunteers, and I brainstorm creative fundraising solutions. I watch myself teaching expectant mothers how to breathe through their contractions and encourage them that they can do childbirth without drugs, if they so choose. I hear myself telling a joint session of Congress not to waste my time with a budget that doesn’t contain serious cuts from both parties, and I smile when I scan the history books in my brain that record my presidency as one of real change and progress due to my tough attitude and fearless use of the ‘veto.’

Yes, I have serious delusions of grandeur. I don’t know from where they come–maybe all those years that my grandparents told me I could be anything that I wanted to be, even the president.

My delusions also contribute to another problem. I tend to create more work for myself in this quest to lead and improve in those areas where I actually have a sphere of influence. It’s for this reason that I actually planned activities for our monthly ‘Wingman’ meetings in the Air Force rather than just reading off the prepared slides. It’s for this reason that I spent hours upon hours grading portfolio projects instead of minutes running multiple-choice answer sheets through the Scantron machine. And it’s for this reason that I have once again taken on more work than I probably should.

So, today, fellow blog readers, I’d like to announce my candidacy in the 2012 presidential election!

White House — photo courtesy of photobucket.com

Oh, wait. I’m not old enough to run for president, yet. I’ll try this one again later.

So, today, fellow blog readers, I’d like to introduce you to the new secretary of her homeowner’s association. Yep, that’s me, and tonight’s my first meeting.

Seriously, why do I do this to myself?!

Do you ever take on more than you should because you feel you are needed or can do the job better?