I wrote yesterday about "hitting the ground running" after "carbo loading" on words. Well, I don't know that I actually "carbo loaded" on words, but I was able to take in a few more writing pieces than usual, savoring some articles from The New Yorker.
Dammit, they have the best profile pieces; I could chew on them for days.
But even as I felt somewhat verbally rejuvenated, my words became flatfooted in the face of my first writing project this morning: a to-do list of responsibilities for today.
I stared at the sheet, squirming, literally squirming, away from it. I didn't want to write it, I didn't want to make a to-do list. I wanted to be off like a shot, running with the wind, writing brilliantly, acting creatively, and accomplishing a whole, whole bunch of stuff today.
Make a list? Psh. Sooo not cool.
But the fact that I was squirming made me pause. What gives? I wondered.
What's keeping me from putting my thoughts in order? From prioritizing tasks? Why can't I just write down what I need to do today?
My heart was actually racing and my stomach was clenching while I was not-writing the list.
I put down my pen and pushed the paper aside, realizing that something more important than a list or tasks to accomplish was going on. I was obviously having heart trouble. And by that I don't mean heart trouble as in cardiac arrest, but heart trouble as in my internal vision and focus were off.
I was grasping at the wrong things.Let me explain.
I'll put pictures of my house up eventually so you'll understand what I'm talking about, but it's safe to say that my and The Hubby's house is um...a work in progress. Each room is pretty much half-baked, with enough accessories and furniture to make them livable, but not really enough to call them finished. No curtains, scanty lighting, and few pictures. The walls are quiet, with almost zero ornamentation. We sleep on a bed covered by The Hubby's bachelor comforter. It's clean, but that's about all it has going for it. That and the rip on the bed skirt.
There is no homey wreath on our front door; there is my old car still stuck on our driveway. Only yesterday did I manage to weed the 20 year old flower bed and put $6 worth of cheap mulch over it. At least it's not fuzzy with Bermuda grass anymore.
So where I'm going with this is the fact that every fiber in my being wants to overhaul our joint checking account to buy a bunch of crap that will make the house look better...supposedly. I want to make it such-and-such a way because obviously by doing that, our lives will be sooo much better.
Never mind that it would be mean pushing aside work projects I've committed to do; never mind that we really can't afford to overhaul our checking account right now; never mind that we're actually in a pretty comfortable house; never mind that it's clean and functional.
It's just what I WANT to do.
Make a list? Prioritize projects? What?
My heart was grasping at changing my external environment and not paying attention to my heart.
My heart's cry is for nice things and nice environments and a nice house. And there's nothing wrong with wanting lovely things. But it's the tenacious grasping which often distracts me from the very thing I mentioned yesterday:"The work the Lord has given me to do." See, when I focus on what the Lord has given me to do-- serve Him, love my husband, family, and those I come in contact with, steward my gifts and resources--then there's always enough time to do those things. But when I turn into a tornado, grasping at whatever is in my path, then I become frantic, anxious, and depressed.
Like I was in front of to-do list.
Squirmy.
I come back to something I've been learning since my husband and I got married.When we started working on our house, the verse that continually came to my mind was from Psalm127:1: "Unless the Lord builds the house, they labor in vain that build it." I loved that whenever I was feeling lost or irritable or insecure about what our house looked like or what state it was in (a la peeling, wet wallpaper, scarred walls, and half-finished paint jobs). It reminded me that we had a Chief Overseer, one who directed our paths, and as long as we consulted and followed His blueprint for lives, then we didn't have anything to worry about when it came to our physical dwelling.
It was when we went off on our own distracted tangents that we were headed for confusion and frustration.
I think the same lesson goes for daily to-do lists. When I am feeling distracted and squirmy, it probably means that I'm trying to take matters into my own hands, trying to satisfy a roaring material desire that's cropped up for whatever reason: discontent, insecurity, dissatisfaction, boredom.
But it's when I sit back, breathe a little, and pray, that I can call upon the Lord, ask His forgiveness for wanting to run away from His blueprints, and ask for His guidance and help. "Lord, help me to do the work You've given me to do."
It's then that I'm reminded that there's always enough time to do God's will--whether it's writing, loving my family, cleaning the house, or pulling more Bermuda grass. If not today, then another day.
So I sit down and make my list of what I know I must do today. The rest--the wants, the raging desires--I write them down too, kind of like a prayer, admitting to God what's on my heart. And if there's time and money and resources to do them today or this week, that's wonderful. But if not, I know they're safe and sound in the hands of God and He will provide for what is best for me.
I have my list, but hopefully it's my heart that's in order.
Thursday, June 27, 2013
Wednesday, June 26, 2013
Good Carbs
As I write this, I'm sitting at Panera, eating one of those divine peach and pecan muffins and having a third cup of coffee. The other patrons are nice, the guy in front of me kindly moving his plate so that his back now faces me, rather than appeaing to be some creepy stalker type. Ah, civilization.
I have over an hour until my next appointment and I'm going to enjoy it.
After a crazy (and by that I mean slightly mental day) of fighting the words, today is going to be a carbo loading day. And by that I mean reading.
As I wrote yesterday, working on two blogs and three other articles, I wondered where my words had gone. Where the juice was.
Then it occurred to me that I hadn't been reading very much.
The feeling was repeated when my husband and I went for a run later in the evening. It was Southern summer hot and the air was nearly swimmable. As we ran, my lungs gave out and my knees felt weak. We walked nearly half of the time.
What the? I seethed through my teeth.
As I thought about the possible causes of my lack of stamina, I realized I'd eaten virtually no carbs the last two days. Veggies, meat, and a few light desserts, but nothing sustainable for a run.
So we came home and carbo loaded on pasta and fruit, vowing to not let our tanks get so low again.
It's the same principle for writing. Without good carbs, without good fuel and inspiration for creativity, it's easy to get empty pretty quickly. So I'm taking the time fuel for a while today so I can hit the ground running tomorrow..
I have over an hour until my next appointment and I'm going to enjoy it.
After a crazy (and by that I mean slightly mental day) of fighting the words, today is going to be a carbo loading day. And by that I mean reading.
As I wrote yesterday, working on two blogs and three other articles, I wondered where my words had gone. Where the juice was.
Then it occurred to me that I hadn't been reading very much.
The feeling was repeated when my husband and I went for a run later in the evening. It was Southern summer hot and the air was nearly swimmable. As we ran, my lungs gave out and my knees felt weak. We walked nearly half of the time.
What the? I seethed through my teeth.
As I thought about the possible causes of my lack of stamina, I realized I'd eaten virtually no carbs the last two days. Veggies, meat, and a few light desserts, but nothing sustainable for a run.
So we came home and carbo loaded on pasta and fruit, vowing to not let our tanks get so low again.
It's the same principle for writing. Without good carbs, without good fuel and inspiration for creativity, it's easy to get empty pretty quickly. So I'm taking the time fuel for a while today so I can hit the ground running tomorrow..
Tuesday, June 25, 2013
What I'm Supposed to Do
I grew up in a home where a strong sense of what one was "supposed to do" was upheld as a basic requirement for existence.
One was "supposed to" take showers every morning and every night.
One was "supposed to" take vitamins every day.
One was "supposed to" say "Yes sir", "Yes ma'am", and always have a good attitude.
One was "supposed to" go to Church every Sunday, have quiet time every day, drink 4 glasses of milk and eat a variety of foods from the food groups.
A lot of supposed tos.
I think a lot of those "supposed tos" came from my mother's training as an elementary school teacher. I'm always amazed at the absolute certainty that school teachers, especially elementary school teachers possess. They project the message that, "Obviously, the world works like this" and it's pretty much their job to enforce it within the next generation. And they do.
It's good to have rules, norms, and expectations. It gives us guidelines for how to behave and generally live. But also, as I get older, the concept of certainty gets a little weaker. It's one thing to be taught norms and expectations as a child, it's quite another to experience all the exceptions to the rules as an adult.
I struggle with that a lot as I juggle marriage, home, work, family, friendships, church, and other responsibilities. I find myself asking, "What am I supposed to do?" and I find there is no elementary school answer.
Do I take every opportunity that comes my way? Do I turn them down? How do I know which decisions are the right ones, when they all seem to offer good opportunities and great benefits?
And how long am I supposed to be chasing my tail?
While I was wrestling with the knowing, the supposed-to-ing of it all, I came across a prayer in Lauren Winner's fantastic book Girl Meets God, about her conversion from Judaism to Christianity. In her own hyper-anxiety and questions about life and faith, she remembers a prayer said in her church that brought her back to basics: "And now, Father, send us out to do the work you have given us to do."
She was talking about prayer, saying how we need to ask God's help to do the very thing we know we need to do but so often don't feel like doing. Oftentimes, we know what we're supposed to be doing, but our feelings, our spirits resist. And this is why, then, we pray for God's help.
Since reading that, it has become a frequent prayer for me: "Oh God, help me to do the work YOU have for me to do; not simply that which I feel or deem to be important, but what You want. Teach my heart, my mind, my eyes to value the things you value, and to do what it is You've created me to do."
I pray that prayer, most of the time without lightening strikes or neon signs...okay, always without those things. But I'm trusting that in the process of praying that prayer, God is shaping my heart to love what He loves, and to pay attention to the work He's created me to do.
For me, that means writing, even when I don't feel like it. Taking care of our home, even when...argh! I really don't feel like it. Loving and looking after The Hubby even after we've had a tiff, making time for prayer and reading of Scripture.
It's not a legalistic thing; I don't think that things bring me a jot or tittle closer to Heaven. Hopefully though, what they do do, is bring me closer to God, make me more familiar with Him. These things, these things He loves, also make me the person He created me to be.
One was "supposed to" take showers every morning and every night.
One was "supposed to" take vitamins every day.
One was "supposed to" say "Yes sir", "Yes ma'am", and always have a good attitude.
One was "supposed to" go to Church every Sunday, have quiet time every day, drink 4 glasses of milk and eat a variety of foods from the food groups.
A lot of supposed tos.
I think a lot of those "supposed tos" came from my mother's training as an elementary school teacher. I'm always amazed at the absolute certainty that school teachers, especially elementary school teachers possess. They project the message that, "Obviously, the world works like this" and it's pretty much their job to enforce it within the next generation. And they do.
It's good to have rules, norms, and expectations. It gives us guidelines for how to behave and generally live. But also, as I get older, the concept of certainty gets a little weaker. It's one thing to be taught norms and expectations as a child, it's quite another to experience all the exceptions to the rules as an adult.
I struggle with that a lot as I juggle marriage, home, work, family, friendships, church, and other responsibilities. I find myself asking, "What am I supposed to do?" and I find there is no elementary school answer.
Do I take every opportunity that comes my way? Do I turn them down? How do I know which decisions are the right ones, when they all seem to offer good opportunities and great benefits?
And how long am I supposed to be chasing my tail?
While I was wrestling with the knowing, the supposed-to-ing of it all, I came across a prayer in Lauren Winner's fantastic book Girl Meets God, about her conversion from Judaism to Christianity. In her own hyper-anxiety and questions about life and faith, she remembers a prayer said in her church that brought her back to basics: "And now, Father, send us out to do the work you have given us to do."She was talking about prayer, saying how we need to ask God's help to do the very thing we know we need to do but so often don't feel like doing. Oftentimes, we know what we're supposed to be doing, but our feelings, our spirits resist. And this is why, then, we pray for God's help.
Since reading that, it has become a frequent prayer for me: "Oh God, help me to do the work YOU have for me to do; not simply that which I feel or deem to be important, but what You want. Teach my heart, my mind, my eyes to value the things you value, and to do what it is You've created me to do."
I pray that prayer, most of the time without lightening strikes or neon signs...okay, always without those things. But I'm trusting that in the process of praying that prayer, God is shaping my heart to love what He loves, and to pay attention to the work He's created me to do.
For me, that means writing, even when I don't feel like it. Taking care of our home, even when...argh! I really don't feel like it. Loving and looking after The Hubby even after we've had a tiff, making time for prayer and reading of Scripture.
It's not a legalistic thing; I don't think that things bring me a jot or tittle closer to Heaven. Hopefully though, what they do do, is bring me closer to God, make me more familiar with Him. These things, these things He loves, also make me the person He created me to be.
Monday, June 24, 2013
Sweet Nothings
Some weekends are full of nothings, and others are full of such craziness we wonder whether we had a weekend at all.
This weekend was mostly made up of taking care of things around the house. And yet that in itself was a respite from other, usual grinds, some usual have-tos of work and even family obligations. For us, that's accomplishing a lot.
The Hubby recently received a doctor's orders to rest more often to reduce his stress. This is a good word, but it's also kind of a joke when you've been raised to believe your worth is measured in so many coffee spoons of productivity. So we're trying it out, trying to be more deliberate in our time and rest; making sure we're doing what we love, what we want, what we envision.
So to begin his rest, the Hubby worked on the ski boat all day Saturday. And yes, to him that qualified as rest.
He tinkered and puttered and sweated. He huffed over fixing a soft spot on the boat's floor. He grunted over vacuuming the seats and pulling out last year's junk of old water bottles, sunscreen, and old food to throw away. He organized the skis and life jackets. He fixed the trailer's old flat tire and haggled over pricing with the tire guys.
He must have been out there, oh, say six hours? Just puttering, just plunking away at it all.
I occasionally checked on him, bringing water and juice and asking how things were going. He lit up like a birthday cake as he told me what he had fixed and what he had figured out. The old-man's stress of work and responsibility pulled up like a shade, revealing what looked like the face of a 17 year-old boy doing what he loved, loved, loved-- getting a boat ready to take out on the high seas of Percy Priest and Center Hill Lake.
While I watched him, it was if working on the boat was kind of like his personal metaphor for all masculine adventures and desires--the thing to conquer and a story to bring home.
At the end of the afternoon, as we walked inside to get ready for supper, he looked over his shoulder at me.
"Um, thanks," he said softly.
I had been painting and gleefully hanging up pictures inside all day. I hadn't helped him other than to bring out a water bottle.
"What for?" I asked.
"For...for letting me do that," he said. "To just spend time on something that wasn't that important."
I knew what he meant; that tinkering on the boat didn't put money in the bank or food on the table. It wasn't "important" in that sense. But if that's the only definition we have of "important", then we're screwed up.
"It was important," I countered. "Because it was important to you. And you love it."
And that's reason enough.
C.S. Lewis once described friendship as unnecessary, "like philosophy, like art." They're things that aren't essential to survival. But what these things do accomplish, Lewis said, is give us meaning. They are things that remind us who we are, what we love, what we live for.
The Hubby doesn't "live for" the boat, but I know it kind of reminds him what he does live for-- adventure, companionship, nature, challenges.
It was a reminder that sometimes the seemingly "sweet nothings" we do are so much more than just a break or an "unimportant" hobby. I don't know, but it seems like they more often remind us of what actually is worthwhile and worthy of our time and helps us be who we really want to be.
I look at the peaceful face of the man who's worked on a boat, and I can't think of anything more important than that.
This weekend was mostly made up of taking care of things around the house. And yet that in itself was a respite from other, usual grinds, some usual have-tos of work and even family obligations. For us, that's accomplishing a lot.
The Hubby recently received a doctor's orders to rest more often to reduce his stress. This is a good word, but it's also kind of a joke when you've been raised to believe your worth is measured in so many coffee spoons of productivity. So we're trying it out, trying to be more deliberate in our time and rest; making sure we're doing what we love, what we want, what we envision.
So to begin his rest, the Hubby worked on the ski boat all day Saturday. And yes, to him that qualified as rest.
He tinkered and puttered and sweated. He huffed over fixing a soft spot on the boat's floor. He grunted over vacuuming the seats and pulling out last year's junk of old water bottles, sunscreen, and old food to throw away. He organized the skis and life jackets. He fixed the trailer's old flat tire and haggled over pricing with the tire guys.
He must have been out there, oh, say six hours? Just puttering, just plunking away at it all.
I occasionally checked on him, bringing water and juice and asking how things were going. He lit up like a birthday cake as he told me what he had fixed and what he had figured out. The old-man's stress of work and responsibility pulled up like a shade, revealing what looked like the face of a 17 year-old boy doing what he loved, loved, loved-- getting a boat ready to take out on the high seas of Percy Priest and Center Hill Lake.
While I watched him, it was if working on the boat was kind of like his personal metaphor for all masculine adventures and desires--the thing to conquer and a story to bring home.
At the end of the afternoon, as we walked inside to get ready for supper, he looked over his shoulder at me.
"Um, thanks," he said softly.
I had been painting and gleefully hanging up pictures inside all day. I hadn't helped him other than to bring out a water bottle.
"What for?" I asked.
"For...for letting me do that," he said. "To just spend time on something that wasn't that important."
I knew what he meant; that tinkering on the boat didn't put money in the bank or food on the table. It wasn't "important" in that sense. But if that's the only definition we have of "important", then we're screwed up.
"It was important," I countered. "Because it was important to you. And you love it."
And that's reason enough.
C.S. Lewis once described friendship as unnecessary, "like philosophy, like art." They're things that aren't essential to survival. But what these things do accomplish, Lewis said, is give us meaning. They are things that remind us who we are, what we love, what we live for.
The Hubby doesn't "live for" the boat, but I know it kind of reminds him what he does live for-- adventure, companionship, nature, challenges.
It was a reminder that sometimes the seemingly "sweet nothings" we do are so much more than just a break or an "unimportant" hobby. I don't know, but it seems like they more often remind us of what actually is worthwhile and worthy of our time and helps us be who we really want to be.
I look at the peaceful face of the man who's worked on a boat, and I can't think of anything more important than that.
Friday, June 21, 2013
Hope Floats
I spent some time with a dear friend yesterday, just floating.
It was so summery, like a cliche, or a Target ad.
Us on our swimming pool floaties (the grown-up kind, not the waste-huggers), gnoshing on pool-side food like berries and marshmallows on kabobs, pasta salad, almonds, crackers, cheese. Oh, and beer. Girly, light, hoppy, summer beers.
We traveled the world while we worked on our tans, verbally traversing Plato, theology, literature, Jesus, academia, family, photography, writing, bad dates, best friends, best worst-mistakes and boys. We meandered and laughed, ranted and splashed. All the while floating, letting the water buoy us in our convictions.
We're a bit different, she and I. She a first-born, and her far-flung arms and long-legged beauty and perfect teeth, joyously rioting in all things experiential, sensory, and emotional. Me and my curvy calves and flat feet, hard-headed slow intellectual processing, and "of-courseness" about things, the surety that comes with being the youngest child.
And yet while we talked, there was no such thing as the of-courseness; there was only the experience, only the sharing, only the time spent floating, suspended in the present.
It's a beautiful way to spend a summer day. A moment of hope, of contentment, made sure by the substance of friendship.
It was so summery, like a cliche, or a Target ad.
Us on our swimming pool floaties (the grown-up kind, not the waste-huggers), gnoshing on pool-side food like berries and marshmallows on kabobs, pasta salad, almonds, crackers, cheese. Oh, and beer. Girly, light, hoppy, summer beers.
We traveled the world while we worked on our tans, verbally traversing Plato, theology, literature, Jesus, academia, family, photography, writing, bad dates, best friends, best worst-mistakes and boys. We meandered and laughed, ranted and splashed. All the while floating, letting the water buoy us in our convictions.
We're a bit different, she and I. She a first-born, and her far-flung arms and long-legged beauty and perfect teeth, joyously rioting in all things experiential, sensory, and emotional. Me and my curvy calves and flat feet, hard-headed slow intellectual processing, and "of-courseness" about things, the surety that comes with being the youngest child.
And yet while we talked, there was no such thing as the of-courseness; there was only the experience, only the sharing, only the time spent floating, suspended in the present.
It's a beautiful way to spend a summer day. A moment of hope, of contentment, made sure by the substance of friendship.
Wednesday, June 19, 2013
Baggage Claim: The Traveler's Perspective
I'm a terrible traveler.
I mean, really, really bad.
You know how Sheldon Cooper (a la The Big Bang Theory) gets when his schedule is out of whack? I too am all but obsessing over my bathroom schedule, breakfast routine, and whether I should just give up any hope of control and play bongos for the rest of my life.
So when I travel, I can especially be a little crazy.
This past weekend my husband and I had a wonderful trip to The Beautiful City for a press trip (unnamed for editorial reasons). We were treated to a beautiful room, amazing food, and even a sumptuous spa treatment for an entire weekend.
My complaint?
There was no reading chair for my morning coffee, not enough filtered water to make said coffee, no coffee pot conducive to making MY favorite drip coffee (it was one of those instant thing-a-ma-jigs), and the bed made my back stiff.
And the TV was too high.
And there was no patio or balcony to pad around like there is at our home.
Man, I sounded like a 2-year old.
The room was NOT conducive to my normal routine nor my normal state of comfort, which I have established in my own home. So essentially I was blaming the new experience for being new.
Huh.
Okay, sure, sure, eccentricities and particularities aside, hotels are in the biz of comfort and hospitality. To some extent, if I have a complaint, I'm supposed to make one. And I did, graciously-- that was my job, after all, this weekend, to tell them what I thought. But there's another mentality here for me that runs a whole lot deeper, my traveler's baggage claim, if you will.
I dislike new experiences that require failure, different perspective, and a shifted mentality in order to be appreciated.
I love comfort. I love predictability, schedule, and routine, because thereby I can believe in an imaginary life that progresses along a logical, linear projectory with few pits stops and zero turn-arounds.
Like I said, "imaginary".
As a result of my traveler's discomfort this weekend, I squabbled with my husband, pouted for an entire evening, and hardly slept the second night we were there.
Sweet.
But then something happened.
The next morning, we took some time to figure out what was bothering me so much. Once we got some perspective and shared some belly laughs over my extreme OCD, we relaxed and refocused. We took time to stroll through and experienced a few new restaurants, shops, and parts of town that we heard were interesting. We went in with an open mind, looking to understand and appreciate people and places that weren't part of our normal repertoire of experience. And we had a blast.
We actually came home with ideas of art and architectural trappings that we thought we could use in our [still-developing] house. We tasted some new foods we'd like to try cooking at home.
And best of all, our own house looked a little sweeter when we returned home. I was inspired about new home projects, new writing ideas, and the new people I'd met. Some of the responsibilities Nathan had been shouldering at work and home seemed to shrink a little and he felt better about them, just by getting away for a little while.
When I don't travel, I hate to travel because it means change and adjustment; but when I do travel, I love it, even though it might be after the fact. I love what it does to me; suddenly I'm not [quite] the same comfortable, controlling, OCD person I was (I said "quite"), who was trying to hold her own personal known universe together. Instead, my little universe is expanded in an act of spiritual evolution, bursting beyond my well-established predictable boundaries and into the realm of imagination and experience.
I still pack granola bars, extra bottled water, and my favorite brand of coffee with me when I leave the house. I still love my reading chair, and would gladly strap it to the car whenever we go out of town. But if I forget them, if I can't carry it, that's okay (and seriously, I don't do that--it's just a metaphorical desire). It's my perspective that I want to carry with me, and then release, when I travel, waiting for it to grow, and yes, to change.
Tuesday, June 18, 2013
The Cave, the Handstand, and the Point of View
I'm captivated by the image of walking on a handstand, seeing the world upside down, and thereby maybe seeing it the way it really is.
It's a struggle, you know, to realize that Jesus' Gospel is completely antithetical to, completely upside down of, humanistic views of success and affluence. It's upside down, to be sure, from us, but it's not we who are right-side up.
The Cave- Mumford and Sons
It's empty in the valley of your heart
The sun, it rises slowly as you walk
Away from all the fears
And all the faults you've left behind
The harvest left no food for you to eat
You cannibal, you meat-eater, you see
But I have seen the same
I know the shame in your defeat
But I will hold on hope
And I won't let you choke
On the noose around your neck
And I'll find strength in pain
And I will change my ways
Know my name as it's called again
Because I have other things to fill my time
You take what is yours and I'll take mine
Now let me at the truth
Which will refresh my broken mind
So tie me to a post and block my ears
I can see widows and orphans through my tears
I know my call despite my faults
And despite my growing fears
But I will hold on hope
And I won't let you choke
On the noose around your neck
And I'll find strength in pain
And I will change my ways
I'll know my name as it's called again
So come out of your cave walking on your hands
And see the world hanging upside down
You can understand dependence
When you know the maker's hand
So make your siren's call
And sing all you want
I will not hear what you have to say
Because I need freedom now
And I need to know how
To live my life as it's meant to be
And I will hold on hope
And I won't let you choke
On the noose around your neck
And I'll find strength in pain
And I will change my ways
I'll know my name as it's called again
Monday, June 17, 2013
Crayon Rosaries
“Help" is a prayer that is always answered. It doesn't matter how you pray--with your head bowed in silence, or crying out in grief, or dancing. Churches are good for prayer, but so are garages and cars and mountains and showers and dance floors." -Anne Lamott
My husband and I found this graffiti on our weekend trip to Chattanooga. Okay, it's graffiti. Okay, not great art at that. But I liked it. It resembles so many of my own prayers...then again I wonder what kind of other prayer there really is.
Like Simon and Garfunkle said, even crayons, spray paint, can be a kind of rosary.
Thursday, June 13, 2013
When Life Happens
"So what was the worst first date you ever had?" asked my friend Aaron.
My husband and I were having dinner with him and his fiancee Agapi the weekend before they left for their wedding in New York. As we exchanged experiences about blind dates and bad pick up lines, we spent the better part of an hour laughing.
"Man, I used to write down some of these stories," I said, as we all caught our breath. "I had a blog in college where I wrote a lot of them down and a bunch of other stuff, too."
"What happened to it?" asked Agapi.
"Um, Life happened," I shrugged. They laughed.
Yet, after dinner, I went away with my own answer accusing me: "Life happened." What did that even mean? That I'm a lazy writer? Was "Life" my excuse for not doing something I actually loved?
When my husband and I started dating (six years ago now), I was in the thick of a full-time job and part-time Master's program. My family also lived in town, so I was very involved in their lives and them in mine. Add a dating relationship in there, and as wonderful as each of these things were, my emotions, and time, were maxed out, leaving very little energy for the writing and creative outlets I loved.
No doubt it would have done me good to carve out more time for them, but at the ripe old age of 24 I was still learning a lot about who I really was as a person. Besides that, my job paid my bills, my Masters program needed to be completed in order for me to teach, my family needed me, and I was in love with an amazing guy.
And there are only 24 hours in a day.
So the blog, the creative writing, quietly went away.
I often felt conflicted about this, wondering if I was doing something wrong by not allowing more time for those things.
Have you ever felt this? Where something you loved to do somehow got obscured by the thing called Life--maybe a new job, a new relationship, perhaps family circumstances--something that demanded time and energy that you had formerly put into that other thing?
In some cases it can be a really good thing. For instance, it's probably a good thing that my work, family, and a husband needed me enough so that I no longer spent my Saturdays sleeping until noon, watching romantic comedies all day, and sobbing over not having a date for the weekend.
But sometimes that "thing" we brushed off--well, perhaps it meant more to us than we realized. Maybe, we need to take a little time to rediscover what it was that created that certain spark in our lives.
And that's really the reason I started blogging again. It wasn't until really last year, after nearly five years of insanity--a graduation, a job switch, and a wedding--that I was able to start recovering some of my creative outlets. Now I'm in a slower time, where the creative times come easier, and I'm doing all I can to use it, because I realize how much it means to me.
I have friends who preach the Gospel of Undeterred Artistic Consistency, where the artist always, always, ALWAYS creates, no matter the circumstances. I wish I could be like that, but frankly I cannot.
What did I find I could do was to slowly find times where I could read, write, process, and think, even if it was only 15 minutes in the morning, or maybe an hour on the weekend. I found the time eventually, and when more time opened up, I was ready. And here I am blogging.
If you're in a period of creative dryness now, it may be a time to just rest, or even like a I did, put down your roots to see where there is water. Maybe a little bit over here for 10 minutes, maybe a little inspiration over here for an hour.
Life happens, to be sure. But that doesn't have to be the final answer.
My husband and I were having dinner with him and his fiancee Agapi the weekend before they left for their wedding in New York. As we exchanged experiences about blind dates and bad pick up lines, we spent the better part of an hour laughing.
"Man, I used to write down some of these stories," I said, as we all caught our breath. "I had a blog in college where I wrote a lot of them down and a bunch of other stuff, too."
"What happened to it?" asked Agapi.
"Um, Life happened," I shrugged. They laughed.
Yet, after dinner, I went away with my own answer accusing me: "Life happened." What did that even mean? That I'm a lazy writer? Was "Life" my excuse for not doing something I actually loved?
When my husband and I started dating (six years ago now), I was in the thick of a full-time job and part-time Master's program. My family also lived in town, so I was very involved in their lives and them in mine. Add a dating relationship in there, and as wonderful as each of these things were, my emotions, and time, were maxed out, leaving very little energy for the writing and creative outlets I loved.
No doubt it would have done me good to carve out more time for them, but at the ripe old age of 24 I was still learning a lot about who I really was as a person. Besides that, my job paid my bills, my Masters program needed to be completed in order for me to teach, my family needed me, and I was in love with an amazing guy.
And there are only 24 hours in a day.
So the blog, the creative writing, quietly went away.
I often felt conflicted about this, wondering if I was doing something wrong by not allowing more time for those things.
Have you ever felt this? Where something you loved to do somehow got obscured by the thing called Life--maybe a new job, a new relationship, perhaps family circumstances--something that demanded time and energy that you had formerly put into that other thing?
In some cases it can be a really good thing. For instance, it's probably a good thing that my work, family, and a husband needed me enough so that I no longer spent my Saturdays sleeping until noon, watching romantic comedies all day, and sobbing over not having a date for the weekend.
But sometimes that "thing" we brushed off--well, perhaps it meant more to us than we realized. Maybe, we need to take a little time to rediscover what it was that created that certain spark in our lives.
And that's really the reason I started blogging again. It wasn't until really last year, after nearly five years of insanity--a graduation, a job switch, and a wedding--that I was able to start recovering some of my creative outlets. Now I'm in a slower time, where the creative times come easier, and I'm doing all I can to use it, because I realize how much it means to me.
I have friends who preach the Gospel of Undeterred Artistic Consistency, where the artist always, always, ALWAYS creates, no matter the circumstances. I wish I could be like that, but frankly I cannot.
What did I find I could do was to slowly find times where I could read, write, process, and think, even if it was only 15 minutes in the morning, or maybe an hour on the weekend. I found the time eventually, and when more time opened up, I was ready. And here I am blogging.
If you're in a period of creative dryness now, it may be a time to just rest, or even like a I did, put down your roots to see where there is water. Maybe a little bit over here for 10 minutes, maybe a little inspiration over here for an hour.
Life happens, to be sure. But that doesn't have to be the final answer.
Wednesday, June 12, 2013
What if God Doesn't Want Me to be Cool?
I was thinking about that this morning as I was reading Romans 12. Actually, I've been thinking about it all summer since school got out.
I started my teaching career for a couple of reasons, reasons I'll write about another time. But mainly because I felt confirmed when I made the choice. I was caught between two job options, and by a pure leap of faith I turned-down the better-paying option and ventured over to what I had always wanted to do-- teach. Oddly, as soon as I made the decision, I received an email immediately from the other company, saying that they withdrew their offer to me and were giving it to someone else.
So, teaching it was.
I quickly discovered how hard teaching was. Despite my career choice epiphany, the grunt work of dealing with the 18-year old freshman mindset quickly depleted the blessed euphoria I'd initially felt.
On top of that, I quickly realized that teaching does not fall in the general "cool" category of jobs.
Especially when people smirk and ask me about my level of pay.
Especially when new acquaintances throw up their hands and say, "Ooh, I can't talk to you. Better watch my grammar!"
Especially when friends I grew up with are doing really amazing stuff like making movies, creating art, writing, and generally changing the world while I'm off spell-checking my syllabus.
Oftentimes I'd much rather discuss my writing and photography projects with people. At least that makes me sound kind of interesting. Kind of.
It was the question importance, that brought me to prayer about the meaning of my work, talents, and interests. Is my teaching, even though it's not cool, really valuable? Does my writing, even it's a personal blog, mean anything? I asked God.
This morning I picked up where I had left off (ahem, several days before) in reading Romans, and this is what I came across:
In this way we are like the various parts of the human body. Each part gets its meaning from the body as a whole, not the other way around. The body we're talking about is Christ's body of chosen people....So since we find ourselves fashioned into all these excellently formed and marvelously functioning parts in Christ's body, let's just go ahead and be what we were made to be, without enviously or pridefully comparing ourselves with each other, or trying to be something we aren't.
If you preach, just preach God's Message, nothing else; if you help, just help, don't take over; if you teach, stick to your teaching; if you're put in charge, don't manipulate; if you're called to give aid to people in distress, keep your eyes open and be quick to respond; if you work with the disadvantaged, don't let yourself get irritated with them or depressed by them. Keep a smile on your face.-Romans 12:4a,5, 6-8 (The Message).
I didn't see "cool" or "culturally interesting" anywhere in that list. I do see a call to faithfulness and even a beautiful contentment, even a generous permission to embrace one's identity and gifts.
As a culture, we hear the message "be who you are!" a lot, but we're also really good about editing the uncool and icky people and parts we don't like.
The Gospel calls us to be who we are and actually means it.
It's all about the spectacles, right? Ultimately, it's about viewing our lives through the eternal perspective versus a temporal, contemporary, one.
One last thing. Most of us are familiar with the NKJV translation of Romans 12:2: "Do not be conformed to this world (age), but be transformed by the renewing of your mind", but check out this rendering in The Message:
Don't become so well adjusted to your culture that you fit into it without even thinking. Instead, fix your attention on God. You'll be changed from the inside out. Readily recognize what he wants from you, and quickly respond to it. Unlike the culture around you, always dragging your down to its level of immaturity, God brings the best out of you, develops well-formed maturity in you.
Maybe the work you do IS viewed culturally cool or desirable, or maybe like me you wonder some days. I suspect most of us have our doubts at times. But it is in this place I can turn back to Paul's words and be reminded of where my real identity lies.
Now, about that syllabus...
Tuesday, June 11, 2013
Don't Blame Me for Being Single and Childless
"I can't believe it!" I huffed to my husband, who was, as usual, working on something in the garage.
"Yeah?" he inquired kindly, unruffled, as usual, by my passionate outbursts.
"Well, Sarah is dating a jerk--again-- and I can't believe it!" I fumed. "She should totally know better, but don't worry," I bristled self-righteously, "I told her what I thought she should do, and she thought I had good ideas."
"Huh," shrugged my husband. "That is tough. I'm sorry to hear that."
I studied him. He had returned to his gadget, apparently unperturbed at what I thought was an unbelievable leap of logic on the part of my friend. My mind was buzzing with ways to fix her decision and bring her back in line.
This particular friend is two years older than me and single. I'm a newly wed of a year and a half, ripe with all kinds of relational and marital wisdom with the kind of a confidence that only the young and the stupid can project.
Seeing my self importance reflected back to me in the face of my husband's calm patience, I reconsidered my reaction. Yes, my friend Sarah is in a bit of a tough place right now, but I wasn't much better just a few years ago.
My husband's reaction reminded me how quickly I could judge someone, blame someone, even, for not being in the same spot in life that I was.
When I was single, I remember married friends sympathetically trying to set me up with dates, or even better, occasionally suggesting that I was just "too independent" for settling down. (Hint, hint: Maybe I'm my own worst problem).
Raised in conservative circles, I was blamed when some friendships went south over misinterpreted romantic overtures. No one patted my shoulder and told me it was just part of the learning curve; no one told me that this was just part of this time in my life.Instead I often felt blamed for "not knowing better" when in reality there was no way that I could.
Now here I was, haranguing a beloved friend for dating a few jerks.
Jerk. You'd think I'd know by now to show a little compassion.
Now that I'm married, I get comments from friends about my life and how it'll change "after I have kids" (they all said what would change after I get married, so logically the next guilt trip has to do with children I don't even have yet)--how my sleep patterns will change, my free time will change, what I cook will change, etc.
"Yeah, you spend money on that now!" they say in response to something I bought. "But wait until you have kids, you won't have money for that then!"
My husband and I are [trying to/learning to] laugh about it. We won't shoulder the burden of experiences we don't have yet. Sue us: we're childless. Meanwhile, we'll listen and take notes; smile and nod a lot.
But it's giving me a lot of pause in considering how I give credit, not only my own position in life, but also where others are at. Whether it's the frustrated mom who's in over her head with the kiddos, or a single friend who's wading through the sea of jerks until she finds a good man, or those like me who are new marrieds, trying to find their balance.
This is the essence of compassion, right? Empathy? Feeling what someone else feels, seeing what they see, regardless of where you are?
I'm learning that it's all about the spectacles.
"Yeah?" he inquired kindly, unruffled, as usual, by my passionate outbursts.
"Well, Sarah is dating a jerk--again-- and I can't believe it!" I fumed. "She should totally know better, but don't worry," I bristled self-righteously, "I told her what I thought she should do, and she thought I had good ideas."
"Huh," shrugged my husband. "That is tough. I'm sorry to hear that."
I studied him. He had returned to his gadget, apparently unperturbed at what I thought was an unbelievable leap of logic on the part of my friend. My mind was buzzing with ways to fix her decision and bring her back in line.
This particular friend is two years older than me and single. I'm a newly wed of a year and a half, ripe with all kinds of relational and marital wisdom with the kind of a confidence that only the young and the stupid can project.
Seeing my self importance reflected back to me in the face of my husband's calm patience, I reconsidered my reaction. Yes, my friend Sarah is in a bit of a tough place right now, but I wasn't much better just a few years ago.
My husband's reaction reminded me how quickly I could judge someone, blame someone, even, for not being in the same spot in life that I was.
When I was single, I remember married friends sympathetically trying to set me up with dates, or even better, occasionally suggesting that I was just "too independent" for settling down. (Hint, hint: Maybe I'm my own worst problem).
Raised in conservative circles, I was blamed when some friendships went south over misinterpreted romantic overtures. No one patted my shoulder and told me it was just part of the learning curve; no one told me that this was just part of this time in my life.Instead I often felt blamed for "not knowing better" when in reality there was no way that I could.
Now here I was, haranguing a beloved friend for dating a few jerks.
Jerk. You'd think I'd know by now to show a little compassion.
Now that I'm married, I get comments from friends about my life and how it'll change "after I have kids" (they all said what would change after I get married, so logically the next guilt trip has to do with children I don't even have yet)--how my sleep patterns will change, my free time will change, what I cook will change, etc.
"Yeah, you spend money on that now!" they say in response to something I bought. "But wait until you have kids, you won't have money for that then!"
My husband and I are [trying to/learning to] laugh about it. We won't shoulder the burden of experiences we don't have yet. Sue us: we're childless. Meanwhile, we'll listen and take notes; smile and nod a lot.
But it's giving me a lot of pause in considering how I give credit, not only my own position in life, but also where others are at. Whether it's the frustrated mom who's in over her head with the kiddos, or a single friend who's wading through the sea of jerks until she finds a good man, or those like me who are new marrieds, trying to find their balance.
This is the essence of compassion, right? Empathy? Feeling what someone else feels, seeing what they see, regardless of where you are?
I'm learning that it's all about the spectacles.
Monday, June 10, 2013
I'd Like to Thank Everyone Who Had Food Allergies Before We Did
I might have freaked out a little. A very little bit.
And the funny part was, I didn't expect to. Not that anyone ever really plans these things, but most of us know our triggers, and I didn't know this one.
It started a couple of years ago. I knew my husband had some food sensitivities, but in my world of healthy-as-a-horse I figured it was due to poor nutrition or other bachelor-related illnesses. I figured I'd it right up with my home-cooked goodness of fresh fruits and vegetables, lots of whole grains, and all-natural ingredients.
Funny thing, though, it didn't work. Not really.
I mean, sure, a few things got better--he slept better, for one thing; quite a difference from his single days of missed meals and over-work. But after we married it seemed like no matter what we cooked or ate, no matter how wholesome and nutritious, he continued to feel exhausted and constantly "gross"--as if nothing would digest correctly. Not the kind of thing you want to see, especially as an over-achieving newly-wed who's anxious to please.
After meal upon farmers-market meal, nutritional supplements upon herbal supplements, and a few half-hearted squabbles over "what to have for dinner tonight", my husband agreed to start tracking what he ate and the results.
Red flag results: Sugar.
He learned that whenever he ate sugar he almost instantly became weak, exhausted, and irritable.He also frequently became dizzy and his vision blurred.
Frightened, we wondered if there might a border-line diabetes or blood-sugar issue, and he quickly rescheduled his annual physical to get his blood testing done. Meanwhile, he avoided any and all representatives of sugar.
Not that we ate that much sugar anyway, but it still bothered me. I shouldered the responsibility of finishing the all-natural popsicles in the freezer while he munched on corn chips, and I cleaned out the home-made ice cream cartons while he sipped on a glass of 100% fruit juice.He drank coffee while the rest of my family shared my birthday cake with me.
I tried not to consider that there would be fewer birthday cakes in our future, or fun ice cream date nights, or other special desserts. I brushed it off. Why was it bothering me, anyway? It was fine, really, I told myself. We can all stand to eat a little lighter on the sugar, even if it is "all-natural."
We were slowly descending into a rhythm of sugar-lessness, when he experienced another week of dizzying nausea and stomach cramps. There seemed no explanation for it. As we mulled over our eating habits for the last week, another red flag emerged: Wheat.
Whole-wheat fajita wraps one night, met with whole-wheat pasta and whole-wheat garlic bread the next, resulting in abdominal pains and mental exhaustion. He was down for the count for nearly 24 hours as he struggled to relax.
We decided the best thing to do would be to stick with lighter, goof-proof meals until his visit with the doctor--meaning lean meats, salads, and fruits. Fine, I could do that.
Dutifully I went to the grocery store the next day, choosing nut and brown rice products over our usual whole-grain/wheat ones. Again, I brushed away the implications of what a new menu lifestyle could mean for the long term.
It wasn't until the end of the week, a Friday, that it hit home.
"Ready to order pizza?" I asked him, never thinking for a moment he would turn down our weekly tradition of ordering our favorite deep dish pizza. I mean, he was planning to eat less wheat, not forego all wheat. Besides, pizza never seemed to bother him.
I was met with an apologetic look.
"Um, do you want pizza?" he asked quietly, helpfully. "I don't think I...I can't have any."
That blew my lid.
"What?" I asked. "Seriously? We do this every week, and you've never said it's bothered you before."
"I don't know that," he replied. "I think this is really what I need to do."
"Fine," I said, returning to the computer, ever the helpful and loving wife. "I'll just...figure something out. There's plenty for you to eat in the fridge."
I knew it wasn't his fault. I knew he wasn't trying to be difficult. But it still hurt.
Why?
Because food is one of those things that I've always seen at the heart of my relationships-- not the foundation of them, you understand, but a really, really great complement to them. A symbol of comfort, fun, and connection. And it's really hard to have comfort, fun, and connection, when it's refused on the awkward grounds of not being gluten-free.
I stomped off to an appointment that evening, seething over the memories we had always shared getting our weekly pizza, stopping somewhere for frozen yogurt on Sunday, getting a micro-brewed beer during the week--memories that might not be possible now with food allergies.
Now we were destined to make memories of making everyone around us feel weird by asking, "Does this have sugar in it? Is that made with wheat?" and other conversation-killers.
But as I prayed for patience and thought about it, I began to laugh a little. We had so many friends who struggled with allergies, my own mother professing a reaction to certain kinds of breads, that honestly, if anything, we weren't so much being oddballs as possibly joining a club.
As I had strolled through Krogers the day before, easily picking and choosing wheat-alternative products, I realized that we were certainly not the only family who needed help, whose bodies required something different. It was thanks to the growing awareness of health and food allergies that I could simply and quickly find food replacements, causing little difficulty to myself other than a few more minutes of planning and shopping down a different aisle of the store.
I came home and talked with my husband, apologizing for my earlier reaction. It was as we talked though that I realized what my real problem was-- feeling a loss of control, a feeling that my efforts weren't good enough. It was also fear--fear that we might lose connections that we had over shared foods and experiences.
Maybe just fearing a loss of convenience. A loss of routine. A loss of control.
Funny, right? But real. And we are addressing it. It might be that instead of connecting over a hot, greasy take-out pizza, we'll learn new ways of cooking up our own. Luckily I married a man who loves to cook, so what am I complaining about? Really.
We still have lots to learn from the doctor to see what we need to do, but we started making a few plans, sharing a few adjustments we knew we could make.What a lesson to learn, but one that I'm realizing colors most of married life. Real love is stepping into what the other person needs, not simply what we assume that we should give them.
I'm extremely grateful for the friends and family that have shown us great ways of navigating food allergies. Looks like I'll be learning more from them in days to come. Bring on the recipes!
And the funny part was, I didn't expect to. Not that anyone ever really plans these things, but most of us know our triggers, and I didn't know this one.
It started a couple of years ago. I knew my husband had some food sensitivities, but in my world of healthy-as-a-horse I figured it was due to poor nutrition or other bachelor-related illnesses. I figured I'd it right up with my home-cooked goodness of fresh fruits and vegetables, lots of whole grains, and all-natural ingredients.
Funny thing, though, it didn't work. Not really.
I mean, sure, a few things got better--he slept better, for one thing; quite a difference from his single days of missed meals and over-work. But after we married it seemed like no matter what we cooked or ate, no matter how wholesome and nutritious, he continued to feel exhausted and constantly "gross"--as if nothing would digest correctly. Not the kind of thing you want to see, especially as an over-achieving newly-wed who's anxious to please.
After meal upon farmers-market meal, nutritional supplements upon herbal supplements, and a few half-hearted squabbles over "what to have for dinner tonight", my husband agreed to start tracking what he ate and the results.
Red flag results: Sugar.
He learned that whenever he ate sugar he almost instantly became weak, exhausted, and irritable.He also frequently became dizzy and his vision blurred.
Frightened, we wondered if there might a border-line diabetes or blood-sugar issue, and he quickly rescheduled his annual physical to get his blood testing done. Meanwhile, he avoided any and all representatives of sugar.
Not that we ate that much sugar anyway, but it still bothered me. I shouldered the responsibility of finishing the all-natural popsicles in the freezer while he munched on corn chips, and I cleaned out the home-made ice cream cartons while he sipped on a glass of 100% fruit juice.He drank coffee while the rest of my family shared my birthday cake with me.
I tried not to consider that there would be fewer birthday cakes in our future, or fun ice cream date nights, or other special desserts. I brushed it off. Why was it bothering me, anyway? It was fine, really, I told myself. We can all stand to eat a little lighter on the sugar, even if it is "all-natural."
We were slowly descending into a rhythm of sugar-lessness, when he experienced another week of dizzying nausea and stomach cramps. There seemed no explanation for it. As we mulled over our eating habits for the last week, another red flag emerged: Wheat.
Whole-wheat fajita wraps one night, met with whole-wheat pasta and whole-wheat garlic bread the next, resulting in abdominal pains and mental exhaustion. He was down for the count for nearly 24 hours as he struggled to relax.
We decided the best thing to do would be to stick with lighter, goof-proof meals until his visit with the doctor--meaning lean meats, salads, and fruits. Fine, I could do that.
Dutifully I went to the grocery store the next day, choosing nut and brown rice products over our usual whole-grain/wheat ones. Again, I brushed away the implications of what a new menu lifestyle could mean for the long term.
It wasn't until the end of the week, a Friday, that it hit home.
"Ready to order pizza?" I asked him, never thinking for a moment he would turn down our weekly tradition of ordering our favorite deep dish pizza. I mean, he was planning to eat less wheat, not forego all wheat. Besides, pizza never seemed to bother him.
I was met with an apologetic look.
"Um, do you want pizza?" he asked quietly, helpfully. "I don't think I...I can't have any."
That blew my lid.
"What?" I asked. "Seriously? We do this every week, and you've never said it's bothered you before."
"I don't know that," he replied. "I think this is really what I need to do."
"Fine," I said, returning to the computer, ever the helpful and loving wife. "I'll just...figure something out. There's plenty for you to eat in the fridge."
I knew it wasn't his fault. I knew he wasn't trying to be difficult. But it still hurt.
Why?
Because food is one of those things that I've always seen at the heart of my relationships-- not the foundation of them, you understand, but a really, really great complement to them. A symbol of comfort, fun, and connection. And it's really hard to have comfort, fun, and connection, when it's refused on the awkward grounds of not being gluten-free.
I stomped off to an appointment that evening, seething over the memories we had always shared getting our weekly pizza, stopping somewhere for frozen yogurt on Sunday, getting a micro-brewed beer during the week--memories that might not be possible now with food allergies.
Now we were destined to make memories of making everyone around us feel weird by asking, "Does this have sugar in it? Is that made with wheat?" and other conversation-killers.
But as I prayed for patience and thought about it, I began to laugh a little. We had so many friends who struggled with allergies, my own mother professing a reaction to certain kinds of breads, that honestly, if anything, we weren't so much being oddballs as possibly joining a club.
As I had strolled through Krogers the day before, easily picking and choosing wheat-alternative products, I realized that we were certainly not the only family who needed help, whose bodies required something different. It was thanks to the growing awareness of health and food allergies that I could simply and quickly find food replacements, causing little difficulty to myself other than a few more minutes of planning and shopping down a different aisle of the store.
I came home and talked with my husband, apologizing for my earlier reaction. It was as we talked though that I realized what my real problem was-- feeling a loss of control, a feeling that my efforts weren't good enough. It was also fear--fear that we might lose connections that we had over shared foods and experiences.
Maybe just fearing a loss of convenience. A loss of routine. A loss of control.
Funny, right? But real. And we are addressing it. It might be that instead of connecting over a hot, greasy take-out pizza, we'll learn new ways of cooking up our own. Luckily I married a man who loves to cook, so what am I complaining about? Really.
We still have lots to learn from the doctor to see what we need to do, but we started making a few plans, sharing a few adjustments we knew we could make.What a lesson to learn, but one that I'm realizing colors most of married life. Real love is stepping into what the other person needs, not simply what we assume that we should give them.
I'm extremely grateful for the friends and family that have shown us great ways of navigating food allergies. Looks like I'll be learning more from them in days to come. Bring on the recipes!
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)