The Gift of Attending - Revisited

Sitting in a meeting today we were talking about spiritual gifts and I was reminded of this story I wrote a long time ago...still one of my favorites.  Thought I would share...

A little girl stood in line patiently waiting. The line was full of children and went as far as the eye could see. They were all waiting for the same thing. Today was gift day. Today was the day that The Father gave out the gifts. There was a hush of excitement in the air as the line slowly moved forward.

As the girl got closer to the front of the line she was able to see what the fuss was all about. The Father was standing in front of a huge assortment of boxes. They were all different sizes and colors. As each child stepped to the front of the line…He tenderly looked them in the eye, called them by name and then turned around and chose a box. He reached inside and pulled something out. She couldn’t make it out exactly but she watched Him tenderly rub it into the child’s forehead. Then He hugged the child and turned to the next.

As she moved even closer her heart started to beat out of her chest. “I wonder what I will get?” she thought. “What will the Father choose for me?”

Finally after what seemed like forever she was at the front of the line.

The Father looked her in the eye for what seemed like a long time. She felt the warmth of His love for her invade her being. She felt as if she had been wrapped up in Him. “Malaina,” He said softly. “My precious Malaina, I have a gift for you.”

He turned around and surveyed the boxes. She watched waiting for Him to reach into one of the larger ones. She had seen a lot of children get those gifts. But He didn’t. He pushed aside some of the front boxes and found a tiny little box in the back. He reached inside and when He pulled out His hand she could see a little drop of red on his fingertip.

She closed her eyes and waited for His touch on her forehead. But instead she felt His hand on her chest…right where her heart was and as He touched her she felt a pain – deep within her that was gone as quick as it had come.
“I..I..I don’t understand,” she stammered out. “Father, what did you give me? Why did it hurt? Where did you put it?”

“My child. You have a precious gift. You have a gift that I don’t give to many. You have the gift of attending. You will have the ability to see others needs and meet them.  You will have the capacity to love with a great love. You will be able to see others pain and walk alongside them in it. You will be able to encourage and love them on a deep level. Not many get this gift and at times it will be painful. The gift was placed within your heart…at the core of who you are…and that was the pain you felt. This gift may at times seem like a burden. It might feel like you are alone and that you are the only one who has this gift. Don’t let that discourage you. You are strong and I have given you this gift to bless others.”
Realizing that she was holding up the line and that others were waiting, she accepted her hug and went on.

As she grew – she did feel different. She questioned her gift. Why did she have to be different? Why did it have to hurt? Why did she have to feel things so deeply?

One day she was tired. Tired of the gift. Tired of trying to hide it. Tired of feeling different and alone. She went back to the Father. She found Him curled up on the couch waiting for her. She snuggled up next to Him and looked into His eyes.

“Father, I don’t mean to be ungrateful…but I was wondering if I could change gifts. This one is hard. This one is lonely. I feel as if I am the only one in the world who has this gift and I am tired of being different. I want to be just like everyone else. Please- can you take it away and give me something easier?”

“My child, I have chosen you to have this gift for a reason. I want to show you that reason now…and after I am finished if you still want me to take it away I will. I love you and want you to be happy.”

He reached behind the couch and pulled a book off of the shelf. It was a scrapbook. As she turned the pages she saw pictures of people she had met in her life. Some were friends. Some were people she met in passing. Next to the pictures were stories. As she read the stories – the tears started to fall down her face. She was able to see where she fit in the stories. For the first time she was able to see how a shoulder to cry on or a word of the Father’s truth spoken through her fit in the journey of others.

The funny thing was…she was not the main character in any of the stories. She was just there in small ways. She realized that it did not matter if she was important. She just longed to see where she fit. Because she had always felt like she did not fit anywhere.

She looked up at the Father again.

“My child, your gift is rare. And to you it feels different and maybe not as good as the other gifts. I understand that you long to be more like everyone else. But you are special and precious to me…and I chose you to carry this gift. You have a very important role…although it seems small and insignificant. I know it feels like no one else has this gift but here is something you may not have realized. I have this gift as well. And any time you feel alone just curl up here with me and I will listen to you and hold you and speak truth and love to you. I promise.”

The girl looked up at the Father – her Father. She could see His eyes were full of compassion and love. She could see down into the depths of His being and for the first time saw that He was right. She was not alone. She was not the only one. Her Father had the same gift. For the first time instead of feeling different – she felt special.

“Thank you for this gift, Father. I am sorry I did not treat it like it was precious. I see now that it is. I understand it will be hard but I would like to keep it please. I would not trade it for anything.”

The Father smiled, kissed her on the forehead and watched her skip away- her gift- no longer hidden but shining out for everyone to see.

Practicing for what exactly???

So I have a confession to make.

Sometimes I find myself driving down the road and I pass by an "incident" of some kind.  Not a major incident, but just something unusual.  Yesterday, it was 2 vans parked on the side of the road.  A woman was leaning in the driver side door holding a toddler.  It looked like some sort of kid exchange in the middle of a rural area of South Elgin.

So I drive by this scene and I find myself practicing reciting the details of what I have just seen.  The woman had blond hair, kind of heavy.  Child was in a cow patterned jacket.  Van was blue or maybe green.  Just in case I ever get questioned in any sort of investigation.

Okay this means one of three things. 
1.  I watch too many crime shows
2.  I have WAY too much imagination
3.  I am a complete dork

I have no idea why I do this.  Am I practicing for some major crime?  Do I want to be in the witness protection program?  Am I just bored?

I don't know....maybe it is the writer in me wanting to file it away in the back of my mind for future reference.

Or maybe I am just a dork.

Mass Produced Authenticity

A friend of mine just posted a link on Facebook to an article about the design craze called “authenticity”.  Basically the point of this article is that for a while it was a craze to get a “one of a kind” item and fill your house with “authentic” pieces so that now companies are mass producing “authentic” design items and it loses its kick.

This made me think about authenticity in general.  This is definitely a buzz word that a lot of people have latched on to.  I think as a society, it is becoming more acceptable to be different and honest.  Look at the success of television shows like Glee – making heroes out of the misfits in society. 

I am definitely drawn to real authenticity.  I like being around people who are flawed and aware of it.  Not afraid to talk about their struggles and issues.  But what I have noticed recently is a new trend towards “manufactured authenticity”.  People who can talk the talk and know all the right words to say to appear authentic…but it is really just a thin veneer that when examined closely is easily recognizable as a façade.

I have to admit, I can do this myself.  I know all of the right words to say.  I can weave a good “story” about my life when asked, all the while hiding the truth about who I am.  I can seem authentic while hiding the parts of myself that I don’t want people to know.

For me, the only thing I can do is continually ask myself if I am really being authentic.  Am I walking the walk?  Do my life and choices match up with my words?  Am I really letting people know the real me or am I keeping a part of it shut off from the world?

I can’t force others to be authentic…truly authentic…but I think true, honest and real authenticity can shine the light on the façade that others are putting on.   Sometimes the shiny, newness of the fake gives it away- like looking at a real antique table next to a Pottery Barn replica.  The shininess of the fake is the telltale sign that something is not quite right.

I am going to have to mull this over some more….but those are my thoughts of the morning.

Running into Walls

So my friend just recently reminded me of a dream she had once when my son was younger.  Andy was constantly running for the bathroom.  It became a huge joke amongst the adults because he would run into things, trip and fall…it was dangerous. So one day my friend had a dream that Andy died because he ran into the wall on his way to the bathroom.

It is not as morbid as it sounds…it was highly hilarious at the time and we could all picture it.  Andy -not calculating the distance around the corner just right and slamming into the wall.  It happened almost daily.

The interesting thing is that this could actually be a metaphor for Andy’s life.  The poor kid keeps finding himself running into walls.  Not literal ones (although my new garage door does attest to the fact that sometimes that is still true) but figurative ones.

Life is just hard for this poor kid.  He has always been socially awkward – being brainy and way smarter than everyone else.  But now he is all too aware that he is different.  He finds himself struggling to be “normal” and fit in with everyone else.  He feels like he just gets the momentum going and then he slams into some unforeseen wall and falls down.

What I would love to convey to him in words that would sink in to his heart is that EVERYONE feels this way.  I don’t care how popular, beautiful, smart, funny, or social you are.  Everyone has times when they feel like they don’t fit in.  And I would venture to guess that this is heightened during the high school and college years. Whoever it was that said high school is the best years of your life was just a liar.

Last year Andy asked me to watch a movie with him.  He had been watching this movie over and over again (something he definitely gets from me).  Something about it resonated deep within him and he was watching it over and over again to understand why it spoke to him.  The movie was “Pink Floyd’s The Wall”.  Which was very literally about a man who felt socially awkward and like he didn’t fit in.  It was about isolation and building walls to protect yourself from the pain of the world. 

I watched this movie with him and was amazed at how much he realized about himself.  How he got some measure of comfort from sharing this movie with me and with his friends.  He was very literally reaching out in the way that he knew how – through art and music – and telling everyone how he felt.  We had a fantastic conversation about this movie but it didn’t change how he felt.  It didn’t help make him understand that others feel this same way.  That he was not the only one.

Unfortunately, there is nothing that I can say to get him to understand this.  And nothing that I can do to prevent him from feeling this way …although the mother/fixer in me so wishes this were so.  I would give anything to spare my kids from pain.

I wish life were easier.  Although having gone through my share of pain and awkwardness, I know that there is often a reason and a lesson that is worth learning the hard way.  It would just be nice if some of the walls could be knocked down before we slam into them.  I am just saying…

The Truth About Me

So I was walking down the hallway today when a coworker stopped me.

“I hear you like crossword puzzles,” he says.

“I do?” I say with a very confused look on my face.

“Try this one and tell me if you think it is too hard,” he says shoving a piece of paper into my hands.

I have to say this was very confusing to me on many levels.  First of all, I am not sure who started the rumor that I like crossword puzzles.  A few years ago, Molly and I were completely addicted to the People Magazine crossword puzzles because they were all about pop culture.  I think for about a month, we did every People magazine crossword puzzle that existed.  Then we ran out of them…and I haven’t done one since.

Secondly, I am not sure if this was a challenge, a compliment or a friendly gesture.  I now feel obligated to try the crossword puzzle (which is incredibly hard by the way!) and feel like I will be judged based on my inability to complete it.

SO let me just tell you a little known truth about me. 

I am not incredibly good at stuff that requires a lot of intellect. 

I know…this comes as a shock to all of you who think I am brilliant.  But intellectual things kind of stump me.

For example, I love to read.  I read a lot and I read fast.  (So fast in fact that in the required Speed Reading class I had to take in high school I surpassed the reading goal that we were supposed to accomplish by the end of the semester on Day 1…they didn’t have anything to teach me.) But I don’t read things that are too heavy or require a lot of thought.  Poetry and Shakespeare is confusing to me.  I love Romeo and Juliet and have seen/read it over twenty times.  Just recently I was watching a movie adaptation and understood a MAJOR plot point that explained the entire movie…for the very first time.  I completely missed it the first 19 times.

I love to write…but notice that my strength is straight forward, to the point writing.  Not a lot of frou frou adjectives, bogged down descriptions, heavy metaphors and foreshadowing.  BECAUSE I DON’T GET THAT STUFF (at least on first pass through).

Really.  Politics…don’t get it.  Financial stuff like mortgages, retirement accounts….don’t get it.

I can fake it pretty good though. 

It is not that I am not smart…I really am.  I just don’t like to spend time trying to understand things that I don’t care about.  I don’t care to hold every piece of trivia in my brain so that I will be good at Trivial Pursuit the one time every five years I play the game.  I don’t care about politics so I don’t try to understand them except the one time every four years I vote (ok…I can hear the audible gasp now…yes I don’t vote either).

When I read a book, I want to understand what it is about…not try to figure out every little word, the hidden meaning and the context.  I want to be swept away in the story.

So, there you go.  That is the truth about me.  I will now go and try to figure out what a 12 letter word for “marsupial warfare” is.

16

My daughter turns sixteen years old tomorrow.  Sixteen years…that flitted by so quickly it is hard to believe.  She went from being the tiny shy little blond girl who was always burying her head in my shoulder to this tall, confident gorgeous girl who lights up every room she enters. 

I can’t believe she will be sixteen tomorrow.  Sixteen is a huge milestone.  You are more adult than kid…driving a car, making huge decisions about careers, college and life partners.

I was thinking the other day how much I enjoy my daughter and our relationship.  I think there is a fine balance you walk with your kids as they grow up and at some point you have to make a decision.  Do I want to be their friend or their parent?  I think it is like a pendulum swinging and it is easy to go too far one way or the other.

If you are too consumed with being the parent – sometimes you don’t allow your kids to make their own choices.  There are so many rules and restrictions in place that when your child graduates college and goes out into the real world – it can paralyze them.  I have seen this many times when either the child rebels like crazy or curls up into a little ball of fear.

If you are too consumed with being your child’s friend, it can be just as damaging.  These are the parents who are hosting the drinking parties, giving their kids drugs or taking them to clubs at an early age.  Kids can grow up not knowing any authority or not knowing when to be responsible because they don’t have any good role models. OR as a divorced parent, it can be too easy to make your child your world and talk to them about things you really should not talk with them about – whether that is financial stresses, dating issues, etc. 

I haven’t done a lot of things right in this world.  I will be the first to admit that.  But one thing I think I have gotten 80% right – is my relationship with my daughter.  We have fun together, I love hanging out with her and her friends.  She makes me laugh more than anyone I know.  She knows her responsibilities and she balances them well.  I allow her to make mistakes and decisions and she is respectful most of the time in thinking through her decisions.  As she has grown older, I have given her more freedom.  She chooses good friends and I trust her to make good choices.  She knows she can talk to me about anything but I don’t force her to share everything. 

We are mostly friends but at no time do I forget that I am her parent.  Sometimes I have to lay down the law or tell her things she doesn’t like.  She sometimes takes this well and other times doesn’t.  But that is how I know that we have a good relationship.  She is not always happy with me and I am not always happy with her – but our relationship is real and she is not afraid I am going to punish her for being mad at me.  I am not afraid she is not going to like me if I tell her no. 

I believe that teenagers need parents.  They need authority and security as much as they need the freedom to make their own bad decisions.  After all that is how you learn and grow. 

So today I am thinking about my daughter and how grateful I am for her.  And I am excited and scared to see what her sixteenth year brings. Because I know that she is going to do some pretty amazing things.

Survival

I am completely fascinated with books, movies and television shows about surviving. I am not sure where it started…possibly with the movie Swiss Family Robinson – which I remember loving as a very small child. Something about that really cool treehouse with running water always drew me in.

I continued to seek out books about surviving…"Baby Island", "Hatchet", "Alive"…you name it and I read it. As you can imagine, the reality show "Survivor" was custom made for me.

I am completely convinced that if I ever get in a plane crash in the middle of the ocean, I will be able to make fire, build a shelter and find food. I might even make a friend out of a volleyball.

This week, having discovered a new show on my Netflix called "Dual Survival", I have been wondering why I am so drawn to these shows. And the conclusion I have come to is that it is not about fear. I am not one of those people who actually think any of this will happen to me. I don’t carry a pocket knife and emergency kit with me wherever I go "just in case". I don’t scan the plane for emergency exits and plot my path in case the little masks drop down.

I think it is more about the adventure and self-reliance that hooks me. This came to me in a flash this week watching "Dual Survival". The entire premise involves two survivalists who are put into a survival scenario that people could find themselves in. They have to find their way out of the situation (think run out of gas in the middle of the desert, go on a hike in caves and get lost, etc).

There is a segment on the show that is called "The Art of Self-Reliance". It shows some little tip on how to do something (find water, make fire, find edible plants…). But the name really struck me. I think I am drawn in by the idea of relying on myself to survive and find rescue. Not sitting around feeling like a victim, but putting my knowledge and brain to work to get myself out of a situation – however unexpected.

There is something deeply messed up about that. Where did I ever get the idea that I needed to prepare myself to rely only on my own wits to survive? That I might need to fend for myself and get myself out of bad situations without relying on other people?

I have no answers for this…I just find it very interesting and have been thinking about it this week. Perhaps I need to focus more on the adventure piece than the survival piece. I am just saying…

Writing prompts and practice

Just playing with writing prompts again. Today it was start with these words..."Her laugh broke the silence".

Her laugh broke the silence.  Quickly she clamped her hand over her mouth, her eyes wide and apologetic.  Ducking her head, she ignores the glared of those around her.  She nervously straightened her black skirt and kept her eyes down until everyone faced the front again.

She hadn’t meant to laugh out loud or be disrespectful.  She had simply been remembering the last time she had seen Heidi. 

They had been walking down the hallway at school on the last day of senior year, chatting and laughing as always.  The girl in front of them tripped over the door jam and slammed into the wall.  Two seconds later Heidi tripped on the same door jam and fell down laughing. 

“I was just making fun of that girl in my head for tripping and then I tripped!” she choked out, tears streaming down her face.  They stood there laughing their heads off while the rest of the students filed past to their seats.  It took them a full 10 minutes to stop laughing.  That was so much like Heidi.  Clutzy and silly and not caring what anyone thought of her. 

The music swelled around her and brought her back to the present.  It was hard to believe that only three days ago they had been laughing so hard.  She would give anything to go back to that moment now, to warn her, to stop this.

Her eyes welled up with tears.  She grabbed for the box of Kleenex at the end of the row and blew her nose quietly.  She slowly stood to her feet with the rest of the crowd and slowly followed the casket up the aisle.

The Most Segregated Hour of the Week

I am sure you have heard this before…that Sunday morning is the most segregated hour of the week.  Everyone has their own “church” and separates from the rest of the world to go to their own place.  I think this has gotten better over the last few years although I am sure it is still a problem but can I pose another thought?

I think for some people – Sunday morning can be the loneliest hour of the week.  Not only have I personally experienced this – but I work with a certain segment of the population that would say the same.  Now before anyone gets all bent out of shape – I will say – this might be only my experience and might be a product of the fact that I go to a mega church.  I will hold out hope that this is different in smaller churches.

Let me give you a snapshot of yesterday. 

I walked into my large church (at which I work and know HUNDREDS of people…quite literally) and saw not one person I knew.  I sat in the coffee shop for a while reading a book…then proceeded to go sit in a section where I have heard people are friendly.  One person I work with commented on my new hairstyle from across the aisle.  I waved and said hi.

The section stayed mostly empty until about 5-10 minutes after the service started.  It was pretty full and I had to get up several times to let people in…families with small kids, couples…

Church ended and I walked down to the lobby – waited for my daughter for at least 10 minutes, walked out and left.

This is how it is most weeks.  I have sat in many different places, tried to start conversations with people but what I have noticed is that most people come with their own “group” whether that be their small group or just their family and are catching up with them before and after the service or they are coming late and leaving early.  

I have talked to several other single people and what I am finding is that most of them are having the same experience.  Walking in to a large building, trying to find someone to talk to or sit with and failing, walking out alone…it makes it very challenging to want to come to church. 

Then what I hear from my single friends as well is that church is so focused on families and marriages that they feel even more excluded.  That they are somehow not as “normal” or “fulfilled” as other people.  That somehow they are not as welcome.

This makes me sad.  It makes me sad that a place that is supposed to feel like a respite after a long week, a place that is supposed to feel like a community can be so isolating.

I don’t think anyone has any intentions of having church feel exclusionary.  I think if asked…most –if not all- people who attend our church would want people to feel welcome.  But for some reason, they are not realizing that it is their problem to solve.

Yes, it is my responsibility to try to meet people.  I completely agree with that.  But I have lost track of how many times I have tried to strike up a conversation.  How many times I have tried to join a small group, start a small group or invite myself to a small group – only to be ignored. 

And I have heard this from others as well.

I know it can be different.  I have experienced it.  I have been to a place where everyone talks to everyone.  Where first time visitors are invited to join an existing group or lunch invitation.  Where everyone is looking out for that person who looks new so they can be friendly and welcoming. 

I know it can happen…but not unless it becomes everyone’s problem to solve. 

Teenage Drama

One of my favorite things is talking with my daughter’s friends about the drama in their lives.  I think it is because I was such an angst ridden teenager. 

The teenage years were challenging for me.  I was a very insecure, awkward girl who was suddenly moved across the country to a “foreign” land and thrust into the most elite public school in our area.  I couldn’t figure out how to fit in – no matter how hard I tried – so I eventually kind of gave up.  We didn’t have the money to buy the “right” clothes (it was all about the Guess jeans at that time) and I didn’t want to start drinking or doing drugs to fit in either. 

I was horribly shy and so meeting new people was challenging.  I kept to myself which probably came across as aloof or stuck up- when really I was just lonely and desperate for friends. 

Eventually (junior year) I found my way to a good group of friends in high school – almost none of whom attended my school.  I had the typical crushes on boys who didn’t like me back – thought my world was going to end numerous times. 

I would not do my teenage years over again for any amount of money. 

I think the reason I like to hear about teenage drama now is because there is a level of perspective that comes with age.  I can sympathize with girls being mean to each other and boys not asking you to homecoming – because that wound is still scarred over inside my heart and I can tap into it easily.  But I also know that the teen years are incredibly hard.  I don’t believe they are the best years of your life – they are the time when you grow into who you really are. 

If you can survive your teen years, you can become who you were meant to be. 

Life is going to be full of drama – no matter what.  And there will be hard things that you feel like you will never be able to get through.  But you know what – you will.  You will get through one day at a time and then you will look back and marvel that you were ever able to. 

And the next year will bring new joys and new challenges – new relationships and new heartache.  That is just how life is.

And that is what makes it an adventure. 

So having a house full of teenagers and listening to them open up about their struggles and joys is one of the best parts of my life right now.  I will be sad when it ends.

Why don't you write a book?

Funny, I get that a lot – and have for years.  I take it as a huge compliment and definitely appreciate the sentiment – but it makes me laugh because I seriously have no idea what I would write a book about.

I really just have random little bits to say.  I write whatever is swimming around in my head…and then I move on….and I have no idea how that can be a book.

I took a fiction class this past winter and it was so fascinating to me to hang out with a bunch of writers who really knew what they wanted to say.  We had to write a short story or chapter for everyone to workshop and everyone talked about the story that they had in their head.  One girl even said she had so many ideas – that if she ever wrote them down the book would be volumes long. 

And I just sat there and laughed…because I was perfectly comfortable with my short story.  I would have no idea how to write a book….even the dreams I dream at night start off fantastically and then kind of peter out….like I don’t even know where I want to take it in my subconscious.

I have random short stories, vignettes and diatribes in my head I could put on paper.  But who would buy that?  I think in order to write a book you have to have something to say or contribute to the world - some organizing principle to hang it all together.

Now up until this point in my life, I haven’t figured out what that would be.  But I am not ruling it out.  Perhaps someday I will figure it out.  But for now,  I like to play with little short things.  So thanks again for the words of kindness.  If I ever figure out what my book is going to be about, I promise to let you know!

I used to think...

Writing prompt of the day: I used to think____

I used to think that good things happened to good people.  That is how all of my favorite movies ended.  Even if the protagonist went through hard times…it always worked out in the end.  The things that seemed bad either were magically fixed or ended up being really good things.  If you were a good person, you had a good outcome and if you were the villain or a bad person – it all came back around to you in the end.

But life doesn’t really work out that way, much to my disappointment.  And we are not guaranteed that life will turn out okay.  Being a good person doesn’t mean that you will not struggle – financially, relationally, physically.  As a matter of fact, the Bible tells us that we in fact WILL have trouble.  The world is full of brokenness and that all we are guaranteed is that we will experience that brokenness while we are here.

I am not a huge fan of this.  I like the movie version better.  When scrawny kids can karate chop the bully and all is right with the world.  When an entire village donates money to save your business right before the police show up to take it all away.  When you are walking dejectedly down the road heartbroken and your best friend/love of your life runs up and sweeps you off your feet.

That is a much easier thing for me to handle.  I can hang in there indefinitely if I think the happy ending is right around the corner.  The harder part comes in when it is not necessarily ever going to be there.

Living in the reality of this world can seriously bum me out if I let it.  But as hokey as it sounds, cultivating gratefulness really does help.  Who knew Oprah could be right about the stupid Gratitude journal? 

Somehow it is hard to be depressed about your life when you are cataloguing the things that bring you joy.

The sunny, warm day

The gorgeous fall leaves

Hot coffee on a cool morning

Teenage girl giggly drama

Hugs from friends just because

Movie Night with a good bottle of wine

These are just a few things from this past weekend that I am grateful for…the full list doesn’t even begin to fit.

So although life doesn’t turn out the way you think it will, or hope it will or wanted it to….does that really matter?  Yes it hurts and it is hard…but there is so much to be grateful for…it seems wise to focus on those things rather than on what is hard or difficult or unfair.

At least that is what I am choosing to do today.  Remind me again tomorrow.

We are not trying to be mean, we just don't want you to be yourself

I heard this quote on the radio this morning.  It is from that new show with Zooey Deschanel called New Girl (which is very funny).  And it struck a chord with me. 

Not many people would say it this way, but I think they are thinking this deep inside.  Often in an attempt to be “helpful” – people try to change others into what they want them to be.  If you would just dress differently, act differently, talk differently…show up in the world just a little differently – then I would be much more comfortable with you.

Don’t get me wrong – I think we all have things to work on and ways to grow – and many times a word from a friend can push us along the path of growth.  But sometimes it is just nice to be able to be yourself and have people love you anyway – not trying to change you into something else. 

We spend way too much time trying to quell the voices in our heads telling us we need to be just like some celebrity or magazine model or popular friend.  Do we really need affirmation that we need to be different rather than just friends accepting us and loving us for who we are?

Am I wrong here?  Feel free to tell me your thoughts on this….am I the only one who feels this way?

Competition.

The American dream somehow glorifies competition.  We should all be trying to be the best, the smartest, the richest, the most beautiful.

But competition is my enemy.  I get sucked into way too easily and I think most people do.  The trick is how you handle it.

It is way too easy to start comparing myself to everyone else.  “They” have more money, more opportunity, more friends, more fun….more everything.  And then I want to try to compete and there is just no way I possibly can.

The problem with comparing myself to everyone else is that I will never measure up.  Because the voices in my head lie.  They play the victim…poor me…I don’t have any money.  I am not pretty enough, young enough, fun enough.  Poor me….no one loves me…pretty soon I am Eeyore throwing my own pity party in my head.

This weekend has been a lesson on many levels in competition.  It always seems to be that way, doesn’t it?  When it rains…it pours.

But I refuse to allow myself to play the competition game and throw the resulting pity party.  Because it is a futile effort.   I know that happiness and fulfillment don’t come from the things that the world tells me I need to have (material or otherwise).  And when I am not so busy looking at the things I don’t have – I am very happy.  It is the window shopping that gets me into trouble. 

So maybe I will stay away from the temptation to browse around the things I don’t have and more wisely invest in the things I do have. 

Just a thought…

Last Excerpt from Memoir Class

I don't remember this prompt - but this is all about my son - who I absolutely adore.  We tease him about this all of the time - and he is good natured about it.  He frequently feels "different" because he doesn't quite fit right in the world - but don't we all?

My son is incredibly brilliant.  I know most parents think this about their children, but I swear this is different.  He is technically a genius – his IQ is 165.  I only know this because the school tested him when he begged them to teach him Algebra when he was in kindergarten.  He had already mastered long division.

People think having a smart kid is the ideal, but what they don’t realize is that with all that intellect filling up his brain, my son lacks common sense.  Things that most people take for granted are incredibly difficult for my son to figure out.  Perhaps it is because he is too busy thinking smart thoughts to bother with them.

This manifested itself at an early age.  He would be so involved in building a mecca out of Legos or constructing a roller coaster with his Knex – that he would forget to go to the bathroom.  This resulted in many accidents.  It got to the point where he would be running for the bathroom at the last minute and everyone would dive out of the way lest they get sprayed.

As he got older, there were more things to do.  His mind needed to be constantly active.  We would take a five minute drive in the car and he would need to bring a book to read or a video game.  When he got his driver’s license, he got lost constantly because he had never paid attention to where he was going.  A trip to the store could take three hours and an entire tank of gas.

Excerpts from Memoir Class - Part 4

We had to write about one of our favorite pictures - again five minutes.  This one was written right after the September 11 piece so it was a little bit of a hard gear shift...

Andy lay on his back on the pink quilted blanket, his pudgy hands clutching the picture book.  His five year old face was scrunched up as he earnestly read the words out loud.  Beside him, Molly stared at the pictures in the books, too young to decipher anything but bright vivid colors.  For her, it was not about the story, but about being with her big brother.

He lay his blond head against her matching smaller one, giggling and laughing at the story- making all of the right voices at the proper time – a feat that was difficult for much older children but he did it with ease. 

Will all of the brother/sister moments be as precious as this one snapshot in time?  An innocent time before fights, hurt feelings and indifference enter the relationship?  When gender differences don’t matter?  When it is simply about enjoying each other’s company?

Molly reaches for her bottle and snuggles closer to her big brother.  She is six months old but he is already her hero – a place he will occupy for the rest of her life.  Precisely because of these precious, early moments of togetherness – of cuddling and giggling and sharing something they both love. 

Excerpts from Memoir Class - Part 3

Pretty obvious prompt - where were you on September 11? Again I only had 5 minutes so it ends abruptly.

It was a typical suburban mother morning.  I had gotten my son on his early morning bus and driven my daughter’s carpool to school.   I was bustling about the house doing the usual things when the phone rang.  “Something big just happened,” my husband said.  “A plane just crashed into the World Trade Center.”

I remember thinking it was odd that he would call.  I didn’t quite understand what he was saying.  “Ok, thanks for telling me,” I said.

I immediately went to our computer and tried to get on CNN.  The circuits were jammed and I kept watching the little hourglass swirling around aimlessly.  Randomly, just 10 days before I had declared our house a “no television zone” for the month of September.  The reasons why I did this are unclear to me now, but in that moment I felt it would be a betrayal to turn on the tv.

I kept watching the hourglass spin as I tried other news sites to no avail.  Realizing that my husband must be right – this was a big deal, I ran upstairs and flipped on Good Morning America. 

About a minute later the second plane hit.

Not long after that the tower fell.

I am not sure I even comprehended what that meant at the time – I just knew it was horrible and scary and sad.  I wanted to drive to my children’s schools and bring them home – a place that I considered safe. 

I sat in front of the news channel until noon – when I had to go to my daughter’s school to work “desk duty”.  This was supposed to add security to the school – monitoring outsiders and visitors from wandering about.  Considering the terrorist acts of the morning, this job seemed all the more ironic.  What security was I, a suburban mother, able to offer these children?

Excerpts from Memoir Class - Part 2

Another 5 minute prompt - no idea what we were supposed to write about but this is what came out - I think I was working on descriptions-I am not good at details.

You know the song “I wish we all could be California girls”.  Well, I am a California girl.  Never mind that I was technically born in Oregon and moved to Wisconsin at age 13.  At heart, I belong in California.

I spend the ages of 1-13 in the heart of Northern California.  Home of the redwood trees, the Pacific Ocean and the mission hills.  I have no idea if I have romanticized my time there but my memories tell me that I always loved it.

Yearly visits to Half Moon Bay for the annual pumpkin festival, waiting in a line of cars spiraling out of the valley for hours just to crawl among the pumpkins attempting to find the perfect fit.  Weekend visits to the Redwood forests to walk and hike among the towering trees.  Craning your neck so far back it hurt – trying to see the top of the 100 foot trees -straining to wrap your arms around the trunks wider than the car.

Summers filled with camping trips that included early morning clamming parties.  I never could quite dig fast enough at the bubbling sand to catch the fleeing clams – but I was good at pointing them out to my dad.  Wading in the tide pools, finding smelly starfish, shells and other creatures I just had to bring home with me despite my mother’s protests – only to be thrown away when I lost interest shortly thereafter.  The fun was in the finding- not the keeping.

Excerpts from Memoir Class

So I took a Memoir Writing Class this past Spring.  The class was horrible but at the end of each class we did a 10 minute writing prompt that sometimes resulted in surprising stories.  This one made me laugh because it allowed me to get in my 12 year old head and make the class laugh.  It was written in 5 minutes and I am resisting the urge to edit it…we had to remember people from our childhood and then pick one and start the story with “The last time I talked to _____.”  So here you go.

The last time I talked to Mike was the day we moved away.  His mother made him say goodbye to me.  It was awkward.

She told him to give me a hug – which he did.  Ironically it was our first hug.  She didn’t know that we had secretly been “going together” for over a year.  How could she?  We almost never spoke.

Our families were friends you see and Mike and I always liked to play hide and seek in the backyard with the other kids.  I had always had a crush on him, who wouldn’t with his blue eyes, blond hair and athletic soccer build.  All the girls at church did. 

Imagine my surprise when one night, in front of his younger brother Jeff, Mike asked me to “go with him”.  I was so surprised I didn’t know what to say.

“Call me tomorrow,” I choked out.

“I’m not allowed to talk on the phone,” he said.

He did call me the next day and I agreed to go out with him. 

And I don’t think I ever talked to him again.

Our families stopped hanging out suddenly – no idea why.  And I was so embarrassed to see him at church, I frequently stayed home “pretending” to be sick.

A year passed – sometime in there Mike won me a stuffed animal at Great America, and gave it to my mom because I wasn’t there.  I regret that to this day.

Then we moved away – and Mike and I never broke up.  But he did hug me.  Just that one time in front of our moms – awkward and shy and forced. 

That was the last time I talked to Mike.

The Dreaded Phone

I remember a day in the dark ages of my childhood where I loved to talk on the phone.  I had a special phone (looked vintage but was modern) and would talk for hours – until late into the night to lots of friends.  I even had one friend who I would regularly “watch” horror movies with while on the phone – he at his house tuned in to Friday the 13^th part 18 while I was at my house watching the same thing …the extra-long phone cord stretched through the kitchen and into the living room.

But I don’t call people anymore….almost never.  Now this is partially because of the wonderful invention of text messaging.  It is so much less threatening for me to send a text and get a response.  I can send texts while I am in a meeting at work, while at the movies or late at night.  As a lover of the written word this was the perfect discovery for me…I wish I had invented it.

But another more vulnerable reason why I don’t call people is due to years of built up rejection in my past that culminated in one very bizarre incident that happened almost seven years ago.  It is so funny how if you dig through the rubble of your past you can figure out the trigger that made you the way you are today.

The incident is so strange that to write about it seems silly.  You will wonder why I ever allowed this to happen in the first place.  How could I not have seen that this is crazy at the time?  That is another post…

I had a very good friend, probably one of the few best friends I have ever had.  I thought we were very close, but in hindsight I realized that the relationship was mostly about me listening to her and being there for her (another hallmark of my relationships I can get into at another time).  My friend moved away and we spent a lot of time on the phone. 

One weekend, something happened in my friend’s life and she was very upset.  I called her and left a message letting her know I was available if she wanted to talk.  She never called me back.  Two other times during the weekend I left her a message – just letting her know I was praying for her and thinking of her.  She sent me a text message very suddenly on Sunday saying one word…”Stop”.  

Very long story but apparently she had decided that she didn’t want to talk to anyone that weekend (not letting me know this of course) and was mad at me that I had crossed the boundary that she had made in her mind by calling her and leaving a message.  For the next several months, I didn’t call my friend…I let her call me. 

Right about this time, a lot of really hard things started happening in my life.  Crazy stuff like we had three suicides happen in our ministry in the same month.  Stuff that made me need to talk about me and have someone to lean on. 

I found someone else to talk to.

My friend told me she needed some space and that we could schedule a time to talk in a month – schedule it on the calendar because she needed to not worry that I was going to call her when she didn’t have “energy” to engage with me.

That was the end of our friendship.  I was able to be a grown up in the situation and let her know that the way she was engaging with me was not healthy or loving and if she would like to engage with me differently – I would love to continue our friendship but I was not going to allow her to treat me that way anymore.

But that incident marked the last time I would call people just to chat or to catch up.  I stopped calling because I had been told that I was bothering people, interrupting their lives. 

And I believed it – maybe not consciously but deep down in the little girl parts of my soul.

Now since then I have had one particular friend who continues to remind me that real friendship is allowing people to interrupt your life to talk.  Real friendship is there for the other person when they are going through hard times – to listen.  Real friendship is a two way street – not all one sided.

She tells me this.  I believe her. 

But I still don’t call people. 

So I am working on this.  I am working on picking up the phone and calling someone if I think of them and want to say hi.   It doesn’t happen very often…so if you get a phone call from me – you will be one of the lucky few.

The Beating Heart (Revisited)

Written in 2005 - still one of my favorite pieces. 

The Beating Heart

Ruth sat very still in the chair, contemplating what she was about to do. Was she sure she really was ready to do this? It would be so much easier to continue doing life the way that she had been. She enjoyed being in control. She wouldn’t get hurt that way. Sure, it might get lonely, but that was endurable.

No.

She had lived alone for too long. It was time to trust. It was time to really live.

She carefully reached down to her chest and pulled.

Ouch.

That hurt more than she thought it would.

But she was determined and pulled harder and harder until at last she was holding her heart cradled in her hands. It pulsed and throbbed.

She stood up very slowly and gingerly began to walk across the room, taking care not to trip or bump into anything. After all, this was her heart, the core of her being and she didn’t want anything to happen to it.

In the corner was Tani, a girl that she had been getting to know in the past few weeks. She decided that she was ready to share her heart with Tani.

Ruth walked up and told Tani that she had a gift for her. When Tani looked up, Ruth held out her cupped hands with her beating heart.

Tani looked confused.

“This is the gift?” she said. “What am I supposed to do with that?”

Ruth was crushed. She stood stock still for a few more minutes as Tani went back to what she had been doing. She didn’t even look up again.

Ruth went and sat down with her legs crossed on the opposite side of the room. Her heart had begun to bleed, oozing all down her arms and dripping onto her legs. At first she just let it bleed but after a while she recovered her strength enough to find a towel to wrap it in. She rocked back and forth, holding her heart.

Had she been wrong to offer Tani her heart? Was there something wrong with it? Was it ugly, deformed, too big, too small? If it had been different would Tani have taken it and loved it?

No.

Ruth knew that just because one person rejected her heart that did not mean that it had no value. “This is not truth,” she repeated over and over to herself.

While she was rocking and repeating her mantra, she was suddenly startled by a hand on her shoulder. She looked up to see Ella, a girl she barely knew.

“Excuse me,” said Ella. “What do you have there?” she gestured toward Ruth’s heart.

Ruth blinked back tears.

“It is my heart. I tried to give it to someone and they didn’t want it.”

”Can I have it?” said Ella kindly. “I promise I will take good care of it.”

”Are you sure?” Ruth said disbelievingly. “Why would you want to have it? I hardly know you.”

”I have been watching you. You are trustworthy. I want to be your friend.”

Ruth smiled and very carefully held out her heart. It was a little worse for wear. There were some rips in it and the towel that surrounded it was all bloody. But Ella didn’t seem to notice. She held it reverently.

And Ruth was happy. For the first time, someone cared for her. Someone understood the importance of being entrusted with her heart. She felt special. She felt loved.

Time went by. And it seemed as if the reverence in which Ella had held her heart was starting to fade. Sometimes she seemed as if it was a burden to be carrying Ruth’s heart around with her. She stopped cradling it in her arms and stuck it in her back pocket. Ruth didn’t like her heart being carried in such a careless manner. But she felt like she did not have a right to complain. After all, Ella had offered to take her gift.

One day, Ella suddenly decided to change her outfit. This new skirt had no back pocket. She stood for a moment holding Ruth’s heart in her hands. It was beating quieter now. It barely pulsed. It really didn’t look like much. What would it matter if she just threw it away?

She looked furtively over her shoulder and when she was sure no one was watching, she chucked the heart in the trash.

Then she left the room without looking back.

Ruth saw her walk away.

She noticed that she was not holding anything. And she wondered what had happened to her heart. Then she saw the shiny trash can and she knew.

Had she done something to make Ella throw it away? Was her heart so disposable that it could be tossed in the trash without a word of explanation?

There was an excruciating pain in her chest that brought her to her knees. For a while all she could do was lie there breathing heavily. The pain cut into the core of her being and she lay on the floor all through the dark night struggling for breath.

But then the morning came. And with it came hope.

She pulled herself to her knees and crawled towards the trashcan. It took her a long time and she had to stop and rest several times.

But finally she made it and looked inside. There was her heart, nestled among old banana peels and coffee grounds. It was bruised and bloody and she had a sneaking suspicion that it was dead.

But she took it out and washed it off. She wrapped it carefully in bandages and sat down on the ground again. She sat there for a long time.

While she sat there, many people came up to her to check and see if she was okay. They sometimes stayed a while, not even talking sometimes, just being with her in her pain. Sometimes she told them the story of how she had first been rejected and then thrown away. Sometimes she cried. Sometimes the pain was so bad that she couldn’t feel at all.

All of the people who came and sat with Ruth encouraged her to try again.

“Not everyone is like Tani and Ella,” they said. “Yes, it will always be risky and it will sometimes hurt. But you need to keep trying.”

Ruth listened and accepted their hugs and thought a lot.

As she had been listening she noticed that her heart had started getting a little pinker and had barely started to beat again.

After some more time had passed she held it up to the light to see it more closely.

As she examined it she saw some scar tissue down towards the left.

“That was the rip from Tani,” she thought. And up on the top there were 4 huge gashes left by the ordeal with Ella. But the scar tissue seemed to have healed up and Ruth was glad that it was there to remind her of where she had been.

And her heart seemed to be beating stronger now than it had before.

“Maybe it is time now,” she thought. “Maybe I can handle trying again.”

She thought of all of the people who had been sitting with her the past few weeks. And as she did there were three faces that stayed in her mind. She scanned the room and saw them sitting at a table together.

Ruth began to take the bandages off of her heart. When it lay there exposed, she took a deep breath and stood up. And as she did, she felt a peace wash over her.

“Yes, this is scary. But this is right. This is how it is supposed to be,” she thought.

And she crossed the room to her friends with her heart in her outstretched hands.